Burn Me Like the Sun

I finally stopped my harried half-walk, half-run once I reached the end of the unfamiliar corridor and slumped against the wall, sliding down until my bum touched the cold floor. I didn’t care that my dress rode up as my back rubbed against the wall, and I didn’t care that goosebumps sprouted along my thighs the second my colorless skin touched the freezing hardwood underneath me. I was exhausted, completely so, and ready for either a gallon of black tea or a twelve-hour-long nap. Maybe even both, after I’d put some thought to it.

I threw my head back and faced the ceiling, going over every single step to the perfect cup of hand-steeped tea with my eyes anchored shut (or at least as close to perfection considering my cramped kitchen). Just as I imagined scooping up a spoonful of Earl Grey, the squeak of the heavy door to the men’s washrooms being pushed open down the hall made my heart jump in a fit of anxiety that I had been holding off for the past five minutes ever since I had stranded Louis in the middle of the event hall as he struggled to smooth out his lapels and pick up his jaw from the floor.

I recognized the voice immediately, though it wasn’t too difficult to considering his songs were always on the radio to begin with.

“Blake?”

I groaned quietly, bumping my head against the wall for effect. “Go away, Styles.”

I stole a glance at Harry from under my eyelashes while he wiped his hands on his trousers. His pink lips quirked down at the corners as he stared at the blatant handprints on his tailored slacks. He unbuttoned his jacket with one hand and fished out his mobile, leaning his shoulder against the wall with a hand shoved into his pocket. He lifted his eyes from his mobile, looking at me from across the corridor before he narrowed his eyes.

“Why are you sitting on the floor?”

“Because my feet hurt.” I brought down my chin, aiming a challenging brow at Harry as my eyes flicked open. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand since you wear those goddamn leather shoes like they’re made out of your own skin.”

He stuck his mobile back into his pocket, eyeing me curiously. “This is the first time I’ve seen you all night.”

“Yeah. Alreet. Hiya. Nice to see you. You’re looking quite dapper. Nice party, yeah?” I deadpanned. “So?”

“What happened?” He messed with the pendants that hung against his chest, tangling his necklace around his fingers. “You met Giles, didn’t you?”

I gaped up at him, genuinely surprised, and grabbed a hold of his guess, however simultaneously right and wrong it was. “How’d you know?”

“Gossip Girl.” He pulled his iPhone back out and waved it at me when I gave him a confused look, his dimples finally showing. “Niall.”

I scoffed, leaning my head back against the wall. “What a tit.”

“Not as much as I hear Giles was,” Harry offered, sauntering over to me. I nearly jumped when he plopped himself onto the ground next to me, the sound of his bum hitting the floor echoing all around us. “What happened? Niall said it looked like you were going to throw a punch at Giles.”

“It wasn’t Giles I was angry with,” I said, glancing at Harry. He had his full lips set into a firm line as he watched me carefully, curiously. “In fact, I’m kind of glad I met him.”

“Who was it, then?” he gently pressed. “Vic?”

I shook my head slowly, then reached forward to hug my knees to my chest as a wave of warmth came over me. My muscles ached with a hollow feeling that grappled at my skin and tugged at my bones. I pressed my lips to my knees, glancing at Harry from the corner of my eye.

If I told him what I’d just learned, however embarrassing it was to admit that I’d been used, I could probably either get clues as to why Louis turned out to be such an insufferable prick – as Harry might know, being his best mate and all – or I could send Harry back to repeat my detailed threats without having to see Louis again. I knew I could rely on Harry to be a decent human being (though my threshold was apparently bullshit, all things considered). Coupled with the fact that I felt like I’d burst if I didn’t say anything to Harry with the way he was looking at me, the sweet, annoying, and curious set of dimples he was, I decided I could tell him.

“No,” I breathed. “I was angry with Louis.”

It took a moment for something to register for Harry, but then his face fell as his cheeks turned a splotchy pink. He dragged his palm over his face, groaning into his hand.

“Harry?” I started, already feeling regret start to surge through me.

“What happened?” he asked softly, his voice tight. “What did Giles say?”

I stood up straight, dragging my gaze from my knees so I was fully facing Harry. He had his lower lip trapped between his teeth, and his expression was set hard, his eyes sharp and eager.

“You knew,” I croaked, my eyes wide.

He released his lip, which he had pinched so hard it glowed bright red. One look at his fallen expression and I didn’t even need to hear him say it himself. I knew. I just did.

“You fucking knew and you didn’t say anything?” I seethed, staring at my lap out of embarrassment and dragging my fingers through my hair until it nearly stood on end with repulsion just like every other hair on my body.

Harry struggled to speak, his lower lip dancing as he nabbed at random syllables. His brow screwed together as his eyes darted around, and he looked almost relieved that I’d figured out he knew without him saying a word. But when he finally found it in himself to coax an excuse from his throat, I cut him off before he could utter much more than my name.

“No, no, no. Don’t you dare ‘Blake’ me!” I scrambled to my feet, not even bothering to smooth out my dress as it slunk down my thighs.

“Do you honestly think I didn’t consider telling you?” he finally got out incredulously, hoisting himself up by the wall. “Okay, yeah, I’ve known for about a week, but Blake,” he pleaded, reaching for my arm, his eyes wide and sharply green like the skin of a lime, “I swear, I just couldn’t do that to you.”

I shoved his hand away, giving him a livid look. “Don’t even start.”

“Blake, just—For god’s sake, just listen!” Harry begged as I turned for the opposite end of the hallway. I slowly slunk back around, my lips poised to chide him, but I just couldn’t speak, not with him so red in the face and so adamant and so talkative, his usually honey-coated words coming out like spice. “I couldn’t just… just tell you that Louis – someone who is—well, was well onto becoming one of your best mates – was using you just because he wanted to get back at his ex. I couldn’t do that to you, and I couldn’t do that to him, no matter how much of a self-centered douche he’s been this entire time.”

“Oh my god, you’re an idiot,” I moaned. “Save me the speech, okay, because not telling me just cost me all of my dignity, and in front of hundreds of complete strangers, nonetheless.”

“I didn’t know you were going to find out, least of all from our publicist, and especially not now.” Harry groaned, his voice exhausted, and the scratchy, grinding sound hit me square in the chest. “God, I feel horrible. I’m sorry, Blake, alright? And I know, I know that this does nowt,” he agreed, taking notice when I rolled my eyes, “but Louis hasn’t exactly been bragging about it. He knows what he was doing is shitty. I’ve told him myself countless times. But I couldn’t tell you. Not like this, not while you thought he only stuck around because you were friends.”

“Of course!” I laughed humorlessly. “Why else would he have stayed?”

I tried to swallow back a sudden lump in my throat, but it wouldn’t go down. My throat clenched up, and it felt like I was being forced to dry-swallow a pill the size of a bottle cap. It was like I was being dragged down a creek with my mouth wide open, collecting pebbles and letting them drown me in the shoal. Except the pebbles were memories and the water was my budding anxiety.

There were so many times that I thought Louis was going to give up on trying to be mates with me – the first thing that came to mind was obviously the first time we met without him pumped up on laughing gas, when I’d called him a piss-poor soul while he was creeping out of my sight just around the corner in the corridor outside my flat. But he still came in for tea, even with the way I’d treated him on my doorstep, all snappy and snarly like a feral cat. Had he been planning using me since the first time we met? Even before that? I felt nauseous just thinking that there was a chance he’d had a secret agenda the entire time I’d known him.

“Fuck. That came out wrong,” Harry muttered. He reached out and set a hand on my shoulder, but this time I didn’t brush it off. I knew he meant well, despite how much his touch made me want to take a chemical shower. “I couldn’t bear to be the messenger. I told him, now, I told him you’re not the kind of girl you can just fuck around with and then just get away with it. I told him, love.”

“Who else knew?” I asked, wary of his answer. I could barely keep up with Harry’s twisted sympathy, and I couldn’t be arsed to show my face again if the rest of the boys knew that Louis had been using my friendship.

“Just me. Though I don’t know for sure,” he added as his hand dropped back to his side. He reached up and pinched his lower lip as he stared at me, worry making his dimples all but disappear. “I’ve kept my mouth shut with everyone, not just you.”

“I think Liam knows,” I whispered, staring at Harry’s beaten leather shoes. “He looked so guilty when Giles told me. Or at least like he had an inkling.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him, honestly. He’s quite… Quite…” He sighed and tugged at his navy tie, loosening it as he leaned his shoulder against the wall behind us.

“Shrewd?” I tried, glancing at Harry’s brow as it curled in concentration.

“Yeah. Shrewd, you know. Too smart for his own good.” He sighed again, dragging his fingers through his curly hair, making it more tangled than it already was. “I tried talking Louis out of it, Blake. I really did. He’s fucking stubborn, I’ll give him that much. But it’s not like he’s been planning out every move he’s made. And it’s not like he’s only kept you around to use you. You mean something to him.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, I’m his chance to make Vic jealous.”

Harry shook his head, looking resolved. “No, you’re not. Just, just hear me out. If you knew what Vic did—”

My eyes widened, and I shook my head incredulously, waving my hand at him between us. “But I do, Harry! Of course I know what she did. Alreet? He told me everything himself. God,” I sighed, “I couldn’t even forget his face if I tried.”

“But you never saw what it did to him first hand. I did, okay?” he gently reminded me, pressing his fingers into his chest, gesturing to himself. “I’m his best mate. I live with him. I see him every day. He would have died if his drug of choice was bourbon and not Yorkshire tea.”

“I hope you’re not defending him,” I warned, shoving a finger into his chest. His shoulder reeled back from the force, and he shot me a sad look.

“Of course I’m not. He’s a fucking prick. You could do a whole lot better when it comes to mates.”

“Then why did you let him invite me?” I murmured, my voice as small as I only wished I could be. I just wanted to fold into myself and hide away and escape everything. My chest ached and I shoved down the feeling, swallowing once as I focused on my words. “Why did you egg him on?”

“I didn’t find out Vic was going to be here until after you said yes,” Harry explained. “And even when I did find out, it was too late to uninvite you. And it’s not like I could get you to cancel your plans without making you suspicious.” He scoffed, looking off to the side as he folded his arms over his chest, his jaw set as he muttered acidly, “He called it a ‘happy accident.’” He sighed and shook his head, glancing at me from under his wild curls. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. It’ll just make it harder for you to forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” I gawked. “That’s the last fucking thing on my mind right now, Harry.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then I can only hope forgiving me is near the top of your to-do list instead.” I only scoffed, one of my eyebrows shooting up challengingly. “Look, I mean it,” he said, ducking his head and pushing his curls out of his eyes. “And I’ll keep telling you I’m sorry until you believe me. It was a shitty way for me to handle everything.”

“Oh, god,” I groaned, shaking my head. I gripped my hands into fists at my side and closed my eyes, not able to take the guilt that was eating at Harry’s face, where I’d rather a smile and a cheeky set of dimples. “Just shite. Shite!” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and leaned forward, dropping my chin against my chest. “I’m just so, so fucking tired. I can’t deal with you lot anymore. You’re not worth all this constant stress.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but bit his lip, holding back at the last second. Then he tried again, but didn’t say much. “Don’t say that,” he pleaded sadly. “Blake—”

“Shut up, you asshole,” I snapped. “You’re giving me a headache.” His teeth clashed back together so quickly that I could hear the painful gashing sound of bone against bone. “Honestly, your apologies mean next to nothing to me right now, so just save your breath.”

He gulped hard, shaking his head as he racked his brain for his next words. “Then what can I do to make it better?”

I shrugged once, playing with my fingers, then suggested roughly, “You can start by driving me home.”

“Done,” he shot back, throwing up his hands like it was no big deal, even though I’d heard from Zayn that Harry was planning on meeting up with a girl after the benefit. “As long as you stop looking at me like you’re going to impale me with your heels the second I’m not looking.”

I tried to bite back my smirk, but then I remembered that Harry was just too eager to get back on my good side, which I let myself relish before I remembered why he was scrambling for things to be okay between us again in the first place.

But instead of letting my smile falter, I stepped forward and patted his cheek twice. “It’s not my heels you should be worried about, mate.” I brushed past him, letting my shoulder graze his as I started for the double doors at the end of the corridor. “They’re not sharp enough to do the damage I’m picturing.”

The ride back to my flat was hardly uneventful. After Harry apologized for what felt like the hundredth time (and I’m sure my calculations weren’t that exorbitant, either), I smacked my hand over his mouth and made some detailed threats that even scared me.

When Harry asked me what I was going to say to Liam, I was at a loss. My first instinct was to shut him off, too, maybe give him the silent treatment for a few days and then call him up so he could explain everything to me. Compared to Harry, who was going to be as dead as a goldfish in a toilet bowl to me the second he dropped me off at my flat, Liam was more like a sick puppy with a stomach ache after stealing a piece of chocolate. He was in the wrong, but not knowingly. But with both of the boys, I still knew it was only a matter of time before I’d inevitably forgive them, however annoyed and frustrated that made me.

But as far as Louis was concerned, he was so dead to me that he could’ve been a vampire nursing an infected zombie bite and he still would’ve been too alive for my taste, as many shits as I gave about him. I was finally getting over the initial shock and betrayal from finding out that my supposed friendship with Louis was entirely a sham. And to add to my reeling emotions, Harry wouldn’t stop arguing the exact opposite, that I meant so much to Louis, no matter how hard I tried to ignore him or how many times I told him to shut his gob.

Sitting in Harry’s Range Rover, fuming to the side with my arms hugging my waist in the freezing passenger seat, I could feel the belated anger crawling around in the pit of my stomach like an angry demon clawing its way out of hell, still drenched in sin. I felt like throwing a punch or ten, and I could just imagine the look of disappointment and annoyance on Fran’s usually pretty, carefree face if she woke up in the morning to find a perfect, fist-shaped hole in the plaster wall and my knuckles in a half-arsed, bloody mess of a bandage.

I barely acknowledged Harry’s goodbye when I slid out of the passenger seat and landed on my bare feet on the cool edge of the footpath, Fran’s pumps hanging from my fingers. I was still rattled by the night’s events, and coupled with rushing hand-in-hand with Harry behind Dadrian’s outstretched arms to his waiting Range Rover at the front entrance under a shower of camera flashes – as the back was crowded with transport vans for everyone that was working the event, from catering to security, including the van in which Dadrian had picked me up – I didn’t even think I’d be able to sleep at all before I had to get up in the morning for my Digital Media lecture with dear old Lassiter, who had buttered up less than a glob of margarine since my mobile’s faux pas the first day of summer term. I settled with thanking Harry quietly before shutting the door and walking up to my flat, being careful not to jingle my keys as I unlocked the door.

But it didn’t matter, because Fran was sitting on the couch, her work trousers unzipped and folded open at her waist and her shirt unbuttoned and splayed open as she attacked a half-pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The telly was on, a rerun of Hollyoaks, the plot of which I could’ve sworn I knew blasting at a hefty volume. Her feet were propped up on the coffee table and her mobile was laying precariously on her thigh, teetering so far over the edge of her bouncing leg that it looked like she was pulling off a magic trick.

“I can see you’ve taken full advantage of the fact that I’ve been gone the whole evening.”

Fran shook her head, her eyes still glazed and focused on the telly. “Nah. Just got home. Ice cream?” she offered, sticking out the carton in my direction.

Any other day, I would’ve coiled at the thought of swapping spit with my best mate, but the vulnerable feeling that had dried up my throat and made my stomach whine at the sight of her melted ice cream made me cave.

I sauntered over to the loveseat and plopped down next to her, taking the ice cream as she kept her eyes glued to the screen. I ate a couple of spoonfuls of her favorite flavor while the episode played out, waiting until Fran was finally bored by an advert to tell her about the night’s events.

But all I could get out was a strangled sob before I crumbled into tears.

I was always an ugly crier. It was part of the reason why I always fought not to tear up, but there was also the fact that I’d see it as a weakness in myself. If other people cried, especially Fran, I didn’t mind. I didn’t judge people by crying. But it was different for me. I’d put myself up on a pedestal so long ago that I was scared to climb back down.

And it was different if I was crying over a film – that was wholly, completely different, even on another emotional level. Empathy was not the same as inward sympathy. But when something was beating my ass, whether it be work or classes or relationships or even just me taking something too seriously and obsessing about it to the point where I came to hate myself, I always sucked it up and slammed it down before it could well up in the form of ugly, salty tears down my face and a blush that would take hours and a few glasses of water to flush out. I would gasp and cringe and sob and blubber to the point that snot would be streaming down my lips and I’d have trouble breathing. It was bad enough when I’d let myself cry over something stupid, like a fight with my brother or something my mum said, but when I’d finally break open the dam of emotions that I’d built for myself, my crying somehow got worse, and I’d curl up into a ball in the smallest space possible, most oft my cramped closet, and let loose as long as no one was around to see me so vulnerable.

“Blake. Love,” Fran cooed, taking the ice cream from my shaking hands before I could spill it all over the sofa and add to the palette of stains it’d already collected over the years and different owners. She hastily dropped the container on the coffee table and reached for the clicker, shutting off the telly before scooting closer on the settee, her knees bumping mine.

I buried my face in my hands, sniffing back the gallons of bodily fluids that were threatening to escape my mouth and nose.

“He’s a filthy fuckin’ liar,” I mumbled pathetically. I took my hands from my face, and nearly reeled back when they were spotted with wet makeup. I wiped them on my bare knees, but Fran stopped me, shushing me softly before she scrambled to the kitchen and brought back a dish towel.

She handed it to me and I patted my face dry, but not before another round of tears came thundering down. I couldn’t force myself to hold back for fear of drowning my insides.

“There’s only so many people this could be about, so I’m gonna go ahead and guess that your dad finally told you Father Christmas doesn’t exist,” she joked gently, reaching over to brush some of my hair from my face.

I shot her an annoyed look, the same one I reserved for my dad’s own dumb jokes, and went back to staring at my lap.

“Louis’s been using me.” I gasped once and pressed the towel to my face, letting out a strangled groan. My throat felt strained and caved in. “To get back at Vic.”

Fran’s hand stilled at the nape of my neck, where she was still brushing her fingers through my hair. “How?” she prodded gently.

I spent the next ten minutes on a rant about every little thing that I’d ever said or done or heard or experienced with Louis, critiquing even the smallest moments with vigor as Fran sat next to me, her hands working through my short hair.

“I don’t think we were ever mates without him having some sort of bleeding agenda,” I moaned, my face crumpling as I leaned forward, another round of tears wetting my burning cheeks.

Fran scooted closer, though it didn’t seem possible, as she was practically using my leg as an arm rest, and leaned her head on my shoulder, her fingers finally stilling at the nape of my neck and sliding to my shoulder where she left small circles in my freckled skin.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” she muttered.

I instantly stiffened at the pet name, then let out a strangled breath, struggling to suck more air back in as I bobbled my head and raked my fingers through my hair, a stark contrast to the proper massage Fran had been giving me not moments before.

“I was right,” I murmured. “I was totally right. He was a prick. I knew I couldn’t trust him! Why did I do that?” I whimpered softly, gripping my hands into fists and pushing them into the space above my kneecaps. “Fuck. Valenti gets Friend of the Year standing next to that piece of shit.”

“I just… I just can’t believe it. Like, my brain is rejecting the notion of Louis even using you, least of all trying to make his ex jealous. Shit,” she muttered, finally extracting her head from my shoulder. “Did you really think he called all those paparazzi? At Forbidden Planet?”

I blew my nose and wiped off my face, which was red both from the blood rushing to my head and the scratchy scraping of the terrycloth towel against my raw skin. “I don’t know, and I don’t plan on finding out.” I stared at Fran, quirking my eyebrow. Making sure she’d remember me saying this, I patted her hand on my knee and squeezed it once – something I’d never do, even when prompted. “The next time I speak to Louis, we’ll both be in hell: him, for all the shit he’s done, ever; and me, for killing him with my bare hands.”

And for once in my life, I felt like I could follow through with a threat.