Burn Me Like the Sun

“What time is it?”

Fran looked up at the clock above our sink. “Almost half nine. You think he’s gonna come by tonight?”

I snorted from my spot on the couch, a half-eaten sandwich left on the plate in my lap from dinner. “I wouldn’t put it past him if he decided to just get a new mobile instead. I’m sure he has the money for one, anyway.” I pushed a tomato that had fallen from my sandwich around the plate. “I’m perfectly fine with keeping his mobile. I need a new one, anyway. Catering isn’t exactly, y’know, a considerable career prospect.”

The wedding we worked today was, in a word, hell. Like most weddings that took place during the week, it was completely intense, but for some reason, today was even more insane. I could barely keep up with refilling my tray, and hardly a complete sentence passed between Fran and me, we were so busy. Valenti had trouble with sorting out all the food, and near the end, we almost ran out of some posh scotch that the groom had specifically requested for his side of the family. Margaret even got so stressed that she yelled at one of the school girls that she had hired to help out during the spring and summer. For the record, Margaret yelling at anyone, especially a newbie, was unheard of. In fact, when I heard her usually airy voice barrel down from the back of the prep room to where I was, just outside in the corridor, I thought someone had come at her with a butcher’s knife.

It was easily our worst day ever, but at least Fran and I got to leave with half of a cold, leftover roast.

Fran took a seat next to me a few minutes later, smelling strongly of dish soap and dirty water. The sleeves of her button up were rolled up to her elbows and her hair was piled at the base of her neck, tangled and tousled.

“Are you gonna wash up before he gets here or are you just going to contaminate the couch with the smell of quiche and dirty dishes?” I teased.

Predictably, Fran had made a big deal about making sure the flat was at least half decent and void of work smells for Louis’s grand arrival. She spent the entire half hour right after we got home tidying up the living room and putting away the dirty dishes in the sink. I told her she was just validating the prick’s celebrity status, not that he would even want to come inside in the first place; she told me to shut up. Two hours later and no celebrities in sight, she gave up on tidying up the place and went into a frenzy doing the dishes that she couldn’t squeeze into our laughable dishwasher.

“But you just took a shower. The bathroom probably still smells horrid.”

Fran reached over and ruffled my still wet hair, letting it get in my eyes. When she pulled back her hand and wiped it on her pants, the corner of her mouth picked up in disgust. She always hated the soap I used, but I knew it was partly due to the fact that she was allergic to real cherries.

“Are you gonna finish it?” Fran reached for the plate from my lap, and I shook my head. It was the second sandwich I made from the leftover roast we brought home, and I was unusually stuffed. My stomach still hadn’t quite calmed down since yesterday.

“Do you want a cuppa?” I mumbled, my eyes shifting to the telly. I had popped in the extended version of the third Lord of the Rings film the second we got home; it still hadn’t finished. I looked back at Fran, and she was munching on a bit of roast, my sandwich opened up on the plate.

She shrugged, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “I’m good.”

I had just set the kettle on top of the stove, my fingers still curled around the handle, when the buzzer to our flat screeched, the grinding sound loud enough to wake the dead within a half-kilometer radius. A few drops of water spilled on my pajama pants, an old grey plaid pair that I had stolen from my dad, and I set the kettle back on the electric cooker. My nerves were completely shot by the startling sound, as it had been almost a year since the buzzer was last used. Even then, it was just because Fran had forgot her keys. Honestly, I should have expected the buzzer, but I kind of had my hopes set on not having to meet Louis Tomlinson in person again just so he could act like he was too big for his britches. I would rather lose my obsessive film collection to a fire than have to talk to him if he was going to be acting skittish again.

I walked down the dark corridor past Fran’s bedroom to the front door. The intercom was attached to the wall just next to it, and I reached out and pressed the red button.

“Hiya, who’s this?”

“Louis.” His voice came out distant and distorted, just like his award-winning personality.

“Alreet. Come up. 314.”

I buzzed him up and went back to the living room, collapsing on the couch next to Fran. It’d take him a while to get up to our floor since the building only had a service lift in the back that was kept locked up. It was one of the many brilliant reasons why rent was so cheap.

“Is it him or did he send some security bloke?”

“‘S him,” I mumbled, suddenly craving a huge bucket of tea instead of just the one pot I was preparing. I could already feel the irritation Louis had been radiating coming over me, like it was his own personal sonar signal. “Unfortunately.”

“God, Blake. You talk to him once and you change your mind about him? What happened to the ‘I want to meet him again, he’s so fascinating!’ boner you had not twenty-four hours ago?” She tried imitating my thick Geordie accent, but failed horribly.

I groaned, reaching up the massage my forehead. “It’s not that, it’s just—”

Five consecutive knocks stilled my voice, each short and stubborn like Louis’s sentences when he had called that morning.

I threw my head back against the sofa, giving Fran a pleading look. She only shook her head and snuggled deeper into her seat, focusing on a beautifully unshaven Aragorn recruiting the Army of the Dead on the telly.

I pouted a little, poking her leg with my toe. “Don’t you want to meet him?”

She shook her head. “Your mess. Do some cleaning for once, love.”

“You’re such a crap friend,” I grumbled, pushing myself off the sofa. “And I mean that in the most loving way possible.”

She laughed at me, giving me a supportive look over her shoulder as I left the room.

I braced myself at the door, taking my time to pull myself together. I took a couple of deep breaths before reaching for the doorknob, praying that Louis couldn’t hear my dissipated breathing from behind the door.

But when I opened it up, I silently chided myself for not checking through the peep hole to see who was knocking, because standing in front of me was our bald-headed neighbor Mr. Cunningham, dressed in nothing but pajama bottoms identical to mine and a size too small for his bloated waist. A thick sheet of graying chest hair crawled over his shoulders and went to his back, and it took all I had not to literally shudder at the sight.

“What can I do ya for, Cunningham?” I leaned against the wall, my forehead smashed against the back of my hand. “And make it quick, because I’m expecting some piss-poor soul on my doorstop in half a second.”

“That piss-poor soul is actually right here.”

He was just a couple meters to Cunningham’s left. His hand was raking nervously through his hair, which stood on end as though some professional had blow-dried it before he left his house. His bangs could have made the perfect skate ramp, doubly so for me since I would be able to run over his face with something heavy.

Cunningham folded his arms over his chest – thank god – and pointed to Louis with his thumb. “The lad couldn’t find your flat. Management took off the numbers last week, remember?”

I did remember, but only once the words left Cunningham’s yellowing mouth. Out of all the repairs these flats could have used, management decided to replace the damn numbers that we had on our doors for more fancy ones that they had ordered for the walls. I would have foregone the numbers and a month’s worth of heating if it meant I could get a new electric cooker that actually worked half the time.

“Shite. Sorry, mate,” I said, turning my head and giving Louis the best smile I could muster. He only nodded and clapped Cunningham on the back - how he could stomach it, I had no clue, but I would have applauded him then and there if I didn’t run into Cunningham by the postboxes every morning - and thanked him quietly before his feet hit the doorsill.

I opened the door wider, but Louis stood at the entrance, his toes not even an inch from our shag carpet.

“You’re not coming in?”

He shrugged and shoved his hands deep into his jeans, which sunk even lower on his hips from the weight of his hands. “I’ve got someplace to be.” I could see his jaw stiffen under a wave of short stubble.

“Oh.” I tried not to sound disappointed, especially because I really wasn’t, but my voice wouldn’t cooperate. I blamed it on the lack of tea. “Alreet.” I nodded and turned on my heel, leaving the door wide open.

I could faintly hear the sounds of battle over Middle Earth soil as I clambered to the kitchen, shoving open a few drawers until I found Louis’s mobile where I had left it, haphazardly resting on a pile of raggedy dish towels. I slammed the drawer closed and speed-walked back to the door, Louis’s iPhone in hand. I ran my fingers over my hair, which was still a little damp even though I had showered almost an hour ago.

“Sorry about that. I forgot where I had hidden it.”

“Hidden it?” he asked, taking the iPhone from my hands before I even offered it. His fingers brushed against mine, cool to the touch.

I steeled myself, wary of any accusations he might throw my way. “My flatmate’s kind of nosy.”

“Ah.” He nodded like he understood, and kept his eyes focused on his mobile. “Well. Err. Thanks for... Thanks for letting me drop by. I’m sorry I’m late. I just...” He sighed, finally looking up from his mobile. He slapped it against his palm, the heavy smack jolting me. “I got papped after dinner with Harry, and we had a hell of a time throwing them off, and just—”

“Papped?”

His eyebrows shot up, the wrinkles in his forehead becoming prominent. “Paparazzi,” he explained, quickly looking back down at his mobile.

“Well, that’s kind of your own fault, innit?” I mumbled, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorjamb.

“I...” He started, narrowing his eyes at me. “Sorry?”

“Well,” I said, pushing myself off the doorway with my shoulder. “If you were planning on foregoing the paps, you should’ve gone incognito, right? Or just, I don’t know, you could’ve skipped going out for dinner and ordered takeaway instead. Or did they not teach you that during celebrity bootcamp?”

“Celebrity...” He shook his head, the skin between his brows dimpling with confusion.

Now that I had a better look of the bloke, he looked entirely exhausted. I could clearly see the skin darkening under his eyes, something I only heard of in stories. Never before had I seen someone tired enough, even with the schedules Fran and I kept, to have dark circles under their eyes. It startled me in a way that I never would have anticipated.

“I’m sorry, have I, I don’t know, offended you or something?” He licked his lips, a wave of anger crossing over his face for the briefest of moments. “I just… You know what?”

“Is it true?” My words crossed over with his, and he narrowed his eyes even further. He took a step forward, almost directly under my doorway. He was so close that I could clearly see the stubble that dotted his upper lip, even in the dim light of the corridor behind him.

“What the hell are you on about?” he said gruffly, his voice deeper than I initially thought possible.

I paused, steeling myself yet again, and rethought the words that stood on the edge of my throat, waiting to be spit out. I should have expected this; it was like poking a bear. Sometimes my honesty came too quickly, and sometimes it was too fast for anyone to react to, especially me. But this time I mostly had a hold on my words. I think it had something to do with the seriously dark look Louis was giving me as he waited for my answer.

“Did she cheat on you?”

My words echoed against the walls surrounding us and the air stood still. The only sound other than Louis’s ridiculously loud breathing through his nose was the distant music from The Return of the King.

“You went... You went through my mobile,” he accused, waving his iPhone in the miniscule space between us.

“Well, I mean…” I took a deep breath and a step back, putting a healthier amount of room between us in case Louis suddenly decided to forego the celebrity life and murder me in a choke hold. And with the way his arms pushed against the sleeves of his raglan tee, coupled with the way he was sneering at me, it didn’t seem entirely impossible. “I had to. I didn’t know whose it was.” I ran my bottom lip under my teeth, trying to forgive myself for my quick white lie. “What did you expect me to do, throw it away?” I challenged, tossing out my arm, palm up, for emphasis.

“You’re quite bold,” he said, his voice nothing short of a growl. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Or are you just not used to intrepid women?” I shot back, reaching for the doorknob while he wasn’t looking. Instead, he kept his eyes locked with mine as he flexed his jaw again.

Something passed over his face, and in the time it takes for Valenti to light a cigarette at a stoplight, his stiffened features relaxed and the corner of his mouth picked up. He was trying to hold back a smile!

(Trying being the keyword.)

I could barely hear his accompanying laugh, raspy and short, as the kettle abruptly went off, covering most of the surprisingly deep sound vibrating off his chest. I snapped my head back, my eyes focused on the light coming from the living room. If Fran had gotten up, I would have seen her shadow, but in the ten seconds I let the kettle go on, I didn’t even hear her shout at me to take it off the stove like she usually did.

“Em. I was about to have some tea. Don’t imagine you’d like a cup?” When I turned back around to face Louis, he was staring at me, his dumbfounded gaze steady. “It’s just, you look haggard, to be quite honest. Like you could use a cuppa.”

“And you’re telling me that the entire time I’ve been standing here was you not being honest?” His voice was on the edge of teasing, but his face was practically blank. I couldn’t even read him, and I hated it.

I rolled my eyes, if not just to tear my stare away from his. “Would you like some tea or not?”

He shrugged, then reached up to rub his chin. “Don’t imagine that nosy flatmate of yours is inside?”

“Oh.” I laughed, but stopped as soon as I realized that I’d probably scare him off with the noise, especially with my dry throat, which just made me sound less like someone with a baccy addiction and more like a demon that desperately needed to be exorcized. “I was just joking. She’s harmless, I swear.” I mentally smacked myself upside the head after I spoke, my words coming out pleading and promising like a used car salesman. I reached over and pulled the door open further. “Won’t you come in?”

The corner of his mouth picked up again, and it practically drove me mad how his temperament changed so quickly. But then again, so did mine, asking him inside for tea like we were proper mates. Louis shrugged, his hand dropping back to his side. “Sure.”

“Oh, wait.” I pushed the door nearly closed, stopping it short before it hit his feet, which were decked in faded espadrilles, I noticed. “But I thought you had somewhere to be,” I teased, a smile of my own easily matching his.

I was definitely going mad, because not a minute ago I wanted to run over his face with my brother’s skateboard!

“White lie,” he admitted, pushing the door further open, his fingers curving around the edge. “Can I come in still, or are you going to banish me for sticking with informalities when it comes to meeting strangers off the street?”

“From the dentist’s,” I corrected him, pulling the door open all the way. “Though I think you’ll find I’m worse than some random fellow off the street,” I admitted.

He squeezed into the main corridor, which, when I came to think of it, wasn’t designed for two people to stand next to each other. His shirt brushed my arm as I walked around him to close the door, and he cleared his throat as it clicked shut.

“Kitchen?”

“That-a way,” I said, pointing to the open doorway.

I followed him inside the kitchen, but I soon swept past him and reached for the whistling kettle before I could lose my hearing. Fran was probably pissed off by now at the shrill sound, not to mention our neighbors.

“God, what took you so long?”

I could hear Fran pause the film. Louis was already sitting on a stool that we had tucked under one edge of the island, his arms folded and resting on the counter. I could hear him aimlessly tapping the edge of the stool with his toe.

“I guess he’s not shit in bed if it took you five minutes to—Oh!”

Fran had her hand pressed to her chest when she rounded into the kitchen. Her eyes were wider than a fifty pence coin as they honed in on the pop star sitting at the counter, and her eyebrows shot up past her short, blonde bangs.

“Hi,” Louis offered, his smile seemingly insincere.

“Holy fucking shit.” She snapped her hand back to her side and gave me a look. “Blake, please tell me why one fifth of the world’s most famous boy band is gracing our kitchen with his presence?”

“Way to not boost his ego,” I shot back, rolling my eyes as I added a bag of Earl Grey to my mug. “Do you take milk?” I asked Louis.

His head snapped back from the doorway of the living room where Fran was hopefully permanently stuck, as I was not up to having to calm her down. She was already making her way to full-on star stuck mode, which I had the utter misfortune of experiencing a few times while out shopping in the busier parts of London.

Louis’s mouth was open in a perfect O, his forehead wrinkling easily. “What’s that?”

“I’m making Earl Grey,” I repeated. “Do you want milk?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” He nodded, reaching up and settling his chin in the heel of his palm. “Milk first, though.”

“Alreet.” I tried to hide the fact that I was miffed from taking tea orders from him, but then I remembered that I had offered to make him a cup in the first place. Either way, I hoped he hadn’t seen the stink eye that was inevitably etched on my face. It wasn’t like I could hide my facial expressions behind my hair like Fran, whose longer, blonde locks always seemed to be getting in the way.

“You a Geordie?”

I kept my focus on the hot water in my hands, being careful to not splash any of it on my arms. I nodded, placing the kettle back on the stove. “Lived in Newcastle forever. I’m in London for uni, though.”

I could see him nod from the corner of my eye as I plucked the milk carton from the fridge. He brushed his fingers over his hair, tossing a weary glance at Fran, who was still thankfully glued to the entrance.

“Would it be weird if I asked for a picture?”

I nearly dropped the milk in my hand as I poured it into my tea. My eyes bulged, and I rounded on Fran, a despaired look plastered across my face. I didn’t want Louis to think we were a couple of loons, one of us more blunt than a sledgehammer and the other with no sense of timing or manners. But I was kidding myself, really. My motor mouth had already nearly drove Louis to commit murder, and now, right in my kitchen, Fran was asking for a picture with a member of the cheesiest boy band of the 21st century. Any other time, a picture would be trivial to him, but not here, not now, while he was waiting for a random cup of tea in the middle of a run-down flat in north London with a near-complete stranger.

I was starting to regret even inviting him inside in the first place, not that I hadn’t already regretted every bloody minute the second I stepped foot out of the dentist’s office with his mobile clutched in my hand.

“Ah, fuck it,” she said after a brief stretch of silence, batting her hand at him. “Can I have a picture?”

I gulped hard, then made my way to the island in two steps, handing Louis a mug with a tea bag already hanging off the edge and the carton of milk. His cheeks were the lightest shade of pink, and I could practically smell the embarrassment coming off of him, like a fox hound trained to sniff out the awkward in life. I gave Fran a harder, more pointed look before going back to fetch the kettle and a trivet.

“It’s just... my sister. My younger sister. She’s not yet ten, and she adores you lads.” She licked her lips and clasped her hands together before making her way to the island at the same time as me. “Like, adores. She even started a music fanatics club at school because of you lot.”

Remember what I said about Fran being able to convince anyone to do anything? I forgot to mention that honesty (that would be me) usually never stuck its nose into it. Fran didn’t have a younger sister. She did, however, have an older brother, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t have the hots for One Direction.

Louis paused, biting his lip. “She sounds sweet. Quite like one of my own sisters, actually.” His voice became raspy, as though Fran’s proposition ran his throat dry. “Why not?”

I could just imagine her brain lighting up like a cheap fruit machine. She hit the jackpot.

They took the picture quickly. Louis’s smile brought out the wrinkles around his eyes that I hadn’t noticed earlier in the dark. The sight made my stomach bottom out, especially when I thought about how he likely felt about this entire situation - his mobile falling into a fan’s hands, being confronted about his ex by a complete stranger, and getting asked to take a photo in which was quite possibly the worst time and place possible. I felt a bit guilty for even taking his iPhone in the first place, even if I didn’t know for sure if he was a celebrity at the time.

After Fran left us alone, feigning exhaustion and heading for bed (though it was more likely the case that she wanted to post the picture on Twitter), Louis went back to his tea. He took his time prepping it, even though the water was probably lukewarm by now, pouring in a generous amount of milk in first, followed by the kettle. He forwent the spoon I had pulled out for him, instead mixing his tea with the bag, his fingers poised carefully as to not to let the string drop into his mug.

“Why are you here?”

My voice cut through the silence that had settled between us, and Louis started, nearly bumping his mug against his teeth as he raised it to his mouth.

He smacked his lips twice and set his mug back down, wrapping his hands around it. He stared into the cup before looking back up at me, his gaze unwavering like it had been all night. Even under the dull kitchen lights, his eyes were icy and blue, like the color of the ocean in a Disney movie.

“You invited me in for a cuppa.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was, but he said it like it meant nothing, as though I was a friend that had just invited him over so we could chat it up like proper mates.

“No,” I pushed. “Why did you come inside? You don’t even know me. I mean… you were high, for chrissake.” I tossed up my free hand, averting his stare and instead focusing on my own tea. When I looked back up, he was doing the same, brushing a hand through the short hair at the nape of his neck.

“I don’t know how to answer that, B-Blake. That’s your name, right? Blake? Or did I just make an arse of myself and forget my host’s name?”

I batted my hand at Louis, taking the two short steps to the island. I stopped beside him, practically towering over him as he leaned his arms against the counter, his back hunched over. I traced his spine with my eyes as it pushed against the white of his raglan shirt. His sharp shoulder blades reminded me of fidgeting legs under a quilt during the winter.

“I’m sorry about, you know, your girlfriend.” I took another sip, stalling. “You seemed pretty beaten up about it, even though you were flying higher than Big Ben.”

“Shoddy comparison, but I’ll take it,” he mumbled, staring at his tea as though it’d bring him riches and fame. No, wait. What did celebrities wish for? Complete silence? To be left alone? A proper home-cooked meal every night? Knighthood?

My train of thought was interrupted as Louis sat up. He pushed himself off the island and tucked in his chair before heading for the sink. He dumped out the remainder of his tea, which wasn’t even that much, and even rinsed his mug before placing it upside-down at the bottom of the sink. He opened up the cupboard under the counter and found the bin on his first try, tossing out his tea bag. He turned around and leaned back against the counter, his arms folded tightly against his chest. He reached up and brushed his fingers over his bangs, adjusting them back into the shape of a skate ramp on the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, I just...” He sighed, giving me a dismal look. “This is weird, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I was quick to agree, however quiet my voice came out. “I’m sorry for, um, Fran. She’s... she’s very... She’s quite…” I stopped short, hesitant to say anything negative about my best friend, even though she sometimes put my patience through the wringer. I was sure I did the same to her at times.

“‘Slow on the uptake, mate.’”

His Geordie imitation came out flawlessly. I quickly recalled that he had been an actor for some time before he had auditioned for The X Factor. It was one of the many factoids shot at me like bullets yesterday morning over breakfast with Fran.

I smirked, as it was the only thing I could do instead of smack him, lest I be arraigned for assault. I hated it when people tried to mimic me or attempt my Newcastle accent, even if they were as good at it as Louis turned out to be.

“I think I’ll be leaving now,” he muttered. When I looked up, I caught the tail end of a stare he had focused on me. He kept his eyes on his espadrilles and the folded cuffs of his jeans as I rounded the island and dumped the last of my own tea in the sink.

I copied his pose, letting the silence engulf us as I quickly went over my options. Either I could let Louis leave and never speak to him again (very possible), or I could give him my number as a kindness and tell him to ring me up if he was ever in the shitty part of northern London (less likely than me becoming Pope, or, I don’t know, ending up writing film reviews for some internationally-renowned magazine).

“How about I give you me number, yeah? You can, y’know, give me a ring. If you need—I mean...” I slowly backtracked, shaking my head and pushing myself from the counter. “If you want to just shoot the shit or something, I don’t know,” I mumbled. I reached for a pen and the stack of Post-Its by the old, cracked mug that we kept by the microwave. I quickly scrawled down my number, convinced that he wouldn’t be able to read my cramped chicken scratch handwriting unless he bought a magnifying glass. Once again, my body was moving against my brain, disregarding my better judgment. There was probably a war going on between the two and I just missed the memo.

I handed him the Post-It, and he took it, glancing at it for a split second before tucking it into his pocket. He bit his lip before giving me possibly the smallest smile I ever saw. I didn’t bother returning it.

He left only a few seconds later, his eyes boring into the side of my head for a moment as I leaned over the edge of the sink to rinse out my own mug. When I heard the front door shut behind him, I let out a long sigh, suddenly noticing a dull weight that rolled off my back.

I hoped, quite foolishly, that I would never have to see Louis Tomlinson again.