Someone

[001]

Clea's not lonely, is the thing. At least, she doesn't think so. All she knows is that she's so tired all the time – even when it doesn't seem like she is. She's just so done with everything, with life. She's not desperate for a boyfriend because she's content being single – she's got her family and friends and the twat she calls her best friend, but. It's different because sometimes, she finds herself being lonely at different times of the day, not just in the night, when everybody else is complaining about how their beds are too large and too chilly for one person alone.

Clea finds herself being lonely in the morning, when she wakes up for an early morning class, and she hasn't got anyone to text about telling them that she'd dreamed of them. She finds herself being lonely in the afternoon, when the people around her are going to meet up with their significant others and she's headed home alone with her headphones in. She finds herself being lonely when she looks in the mirror and her body is untouched. There are no signs of someone else living, touching, breathing her body.

It makes her sad, in a way, thinking about all the love she's so willing to give, but having no one to give it to.



"Do you know what I've just realised?" is the first thing that Clea's greeted with as she – literally – stumbles out of her bedroom at seven forty a.m., dressed in a white long-sleeved, cotton, button-down blouse, tucked into a black skirt with too zips in the front that's probably way too short for it to be considered "business appropriate" but eh.

Jack's inexplicably sprawled out on the sofa in front of the tele in all his half naked glory, early morning cartoons playing as a sort of background track while he's balancing a ridiculously thick textbook on his bare stomach. (She would mention the eye-appealing six-pack but then Jack's a pork and he'd probably even be able to tell that she was silently appreciating it even though she never mentioned it aloud.)

"Not until you tell me," she replies offhandedly, walking into the kitchen and grabbing the couple Disney-themed mugs ("they were on sale and we're broke uni students so just shhh, they're only mugs") and pouring the freshly made coffee into them. The varying amounts of milk and sugar she then adds into each mug is so normal that it's almost robotic. "What'd you realise, anyway?" She calls back from the kitchen.

"I realised," Jack starts, raising his voice a little as he heaves himself up into an upright sitting position. Clea comes out of the kitchen then, one mug in each hand, "I've realised that – thank you – I literally do not give a shit about accounting."

Clea snorts, shoving his legs a bit so that she's got room to sit her bum down onto the sofa, as well. "I realised that long ago, actually. Why are you even up? 's like, dawn. Thought your classes didn't start till noon today?"

"Got a test today." Jack shrugs. "Well. I've actually got two tests, and then I woke up at like, six a.m. for no fuckin' reason and realised that I've actually also got an accounting test, so."

"So you're doomed, is what you're saying," she finishes with raised eyebrows.

"Pretty much."

Clea chuckles, shaking her head lightly before she's taking a sip from her still-steaming mug. "Good luck to you, my friend. If you don't survive today, it was definitely a pleasure knowing you," she says solemnly.

"Thank you," is his reply, equally as solemn, and then they're both taking sips out of their coffee mugs. It feels so – they're so domesticated – when the fuck did this happen? Jack nods over at her, "Presentation today?"

"Yeah," she sighs, like it's one of the worst things she could ever be put through. It kind of is – especially at eight in the fucking morning.

"'s'it about?"

"Some communication shit thing, fuck knows," Clea waves a dismissive hand over at him.

Jack snorts, rolling his eyes. "Well good luck for it, anyway." Clea grins at him with her mug still raised to her lips. "C'mon," he says then, setting the mug down on the coffee table in front of them.

Clea raises a brow, "To where?"

"Stand," he basically commands. "Wanna see if you look okay."

Clea snorts, "'m going to school, Jack. Don't really give a shit if I don't look okay or not. I mean. You – of all people should know that."

They do live together so if anyone should know about how Clea has literally stopped caring, it should be Jack. He's basically seen the progress from the I'm-so-exctied-I'm-finally-in-uni outfits, to the more recent ones of I-swear-to-God-I'll-go-in-pyjamas-if-I-didn't-just-sleep-in-a-t-shirt-and-knickers. It's not to the extent that she looks like, homeless, or whatever. Somedays she just shows up in running shorts and one of Jack's t-shirts with rubber thongs on her feet because she can and because Jack loves her and she's usually the one who does the laundry, anyway.

"Well. Yeah, but." Jack shrugs. "You're already kinda dressed up. Would you just. Let me fuss?" He huffs.

She decides to humour him, getting to her feet with no more complaints and letting Jack straighten out her sleeves. His eyes scan her from head to toe, then he nods his approval (because she needed it, apparently). Clea gives him an over exaggerated curtsy, making him scowl, before she's glancing at the wall clock above the tele and letting out an annoyed groan afterwards. "I should get going," she sighs heavily, the most dramatic ever. She's had the same schedule since the new semester started, why is she still not used to having this tutorial at eight a.m.?

"D'you wanna get dinner later?" Jack calls as she walks to her bedroom to get her leather laptop sleeve (the contents of which include a laptop, a card holder with her i.d. and some cash, and a pen. Just one pen. Because Clea is useless and never pays attention in lectures long enough to copy down notes, anyway). "I reckon I'll be done by six, probably."

"Don't think I can," Clea calls back as she's walking back out of her bedroom and towards the front door where their little shoe rack is by the door and her court shoes are there. (Court shoes. Christ. What an adult thing to own.) (Except not really because hers aren't like ones a bitter old woman might use, so there's that.) "Promised Emmi and Kristen I'd bring them to this, – " she waves a hand around, "– acoustic gig thing. 5 Seconds of Summer's back from this twenty year long tour or summat."

Jack snorts, "Fucking hate that band."

"Why?" Clea laughs, brushing her fringe out of her face. "Is there some tragic love story I should know about? Unrequited love? Exploring sexualities? One-night-stand?"

"Piss off," Jack laughs. "Fucking hate them because they're literally our age, or younger, and they're in a world famous band. Fuckin' overachievers. Make me feel like shit, why don't you?"

"I do, though. Everyday."

"Leave, Clea," is all the response that Clea's graced with – the bloke not even bothering to turn to look at her as he focuses back on his open textbook and points his index finger to the door. "I hope you fall off your stupid penny board." (Because their flat is a five-minute penny ride away and despite Clea being in a goddamn skirt, she's still going to go to school via penny, or she'll be late otherwise.)

Clea throws her head back, letting out a delighted laugh as she reaches to pull open the door, picking up her orange board as she goes. Her best mate's pretty great sometimes.



Jack was partially right – about the lads of 5 Seconds of Summer being their age, or younger, because they are. She's nineteen and according to her trustworthy sources (her little sister and cousin), the oldest is twenty, so. Yes. Overachievers. Fuck them. But also, like. Fuck them, because Jesus Christ, they're attractive.

She knew this, of course she did. They're everywhere. Especially since they're from here, their posters and CD adverts and book adverts are literally everywhere. And she'd also been to a gig before, back when they were playing to a crowd of fifty people, at most, and the people who came to see them basically helped with unloading and loading their equipment because it was literally just the four of them. So she's seen them before, pre-puberty, probably, and they looked pretty good then but now. Now – it's like puberty literally hit them like a freight train and she wants to cry because it's not fair, okay. Why does puberty only work miracles on famous people? Why, nature, why?

"Woah," someone to her right says, making her startle slightly as she turns to look at her side. There's this girl with dark hair – that literally looks like she's just come off of a shampoo commercial – who's looking at her. "Did you just come off of work or something?"

Clea's confused for a moment, then she realises that, oh yeah, I'm in office looking clothes. She settles on a light laugh, shaking her head slightly, denying the other girl's question, "Nah. Had a presentation at school – " she raises her laptop sleeve a bit higher, showing it to the girl who nods, letting out a sound of comprehension.

"How was it?"

"Eh." Clea shrugs and the girl chuckles lightly. "So. Big fan?" She nods over to where the boys are still settling down.

"Massive." She nods with a grin. "And you?"

"Fan of the music, yeah, but wouldn't go out of my way to get here. Promised my little sister and cousin I'd bring them, though. I like to think 'm a nice person."

"I can tell – " she laughs, gesturing to Clea's outfit and probably also how she most likely looks just about done with this. "And mate. My older sister wouldn't bring me if I was a little kid, so I'd say you're a pretty decent person."

"Hey, thanks, love," Clea laughs lightly. "Makes up for me dressed like a twat?"

"You look hot, honestly," she shrugs carelessly, before she's pausing and frowning at herself. "Sorry. No filter, sometimes. 'm not single, though, in case you get the wrong idea."

Clea chuckles, shaking her head lightly, "Not into chicks, but thanks for clearing it up," she grins.

The girl grins back. "Kinda glad I've got a boyfriend, honestly. If I didn't then I'll probably be pining for one of those four bloody idiots so badly then I'll become a pinecone, or summat."

That didn't even make sense, but Clea doesn't say anything because one: it's kind of a joke that she, herself, would make, and two: everyone is screaming because the boys have started to play the intro to a song. Why are they screaming at an acoustic gig. No. Don't do that. Please.

They're playing an acoustic version of She Looks So Perfect and those boys can honestly proper sing. She already knew that, though, but, like. Some people sound great on records but are shit in real life. They're equally as amazing live and on record, maybe even better live. They harmonise perfectly and they all seem to get so into their parts that it's enthralling to actually watch, even when Clea's one of the handful of people who've opted to stand behind those seated on the floor.

"Hey," the girl nudges her side lightly, voice soft. Clea hums, looking at her and raising a brow. The other girl's got a smirk on her face as she nods over at the boys, "Pretty sure Ashton's looking at you," Clea turns back to see that Ashton (or who she presumes is Ashton because she really could not give a bigger fuck about who is who – she's just there for the massive tunes) is, in fact, looking over in their general direction. Could be staring at someone else, though, so Clea just shrugs lightly.

"I reckon he's got a thing for older ladies. He dated Harry Styles' older sister or something, I think."

Clea frowns, "'m pretty sure he's older than me, babe."

"But you're dressed like you just came from work. Maybe he thinks you're an old fan," she teases light-heartedly.

"Psshtt, sure. Judge a book by its cover, why don't you?" Clea teases back, gently nudging the other girl and earning light laughter before they're both turning their attention back to where the boys are still playing and the crowd's softly singing along. Ashton's still looking over in their direction, though. Like. He'll look down at his cajon, and then at the boys, then at the crowd, then his eyes zero in at where she's standing (Clea's, like, 110% sure that he's not staring at her, though), before they go back to his cajon; then they come back to their direction.

Clea bites back an amused grin. She kind of wants to do something cocky, like blow him a kiss or summat, but then he's probably not staring at her so it'll probably just end up in her embarrassing herself. She pulls out her mobile instead, tapping on the Messages app and pulling up the text thread with Jack.

to Jack Howard
I kinda made friends with this girl at the gig and she's saying that Ashton's looking at me ayyy I'm hot you're not

from Jack Howard
Are you going to get laid

to Jack Howard
Hahahaaaaaa I wish

from Jack Howard
Wink at him or something. Maybe you'll get laid. And if he's not staring at you then it doesn't matter bc you're shameless anyway

Clea snorts quietly in disbelief, rolling her eyes and replying him with a cactus emoji before pocketing her phone. Ashton's still looking over in their direction. He's definitely looking at her now because they're literally having eye contact from, like, halfway across the room – which is pretty impressive. It takes her a second, but she winks at him, then she's biting on her lip and looking away as the beginnings of a grin forms on his lips that he keeps to himself, ducking his head to look at his cajon again.

Jack's right, though. Shameless. Literally no shame, because literally no more dignity and/or care about everything else.