#5sosff

Michael Clifford sits in the basement of his dormitory, a pile of dripping laundry beside him in a plastic basket with one of the handles broken, trying desperately to not fall asleep. It smells like dampness and mold and copious detergent spills.

He runs a hand through his hair and rubs along his neck, checking to see if there’s any excess dye from his escapades earlier with a bottle of purple he'd picked up on a whim last Thursday. There is, of course, and he wipes his palm along his denims.

Except he's forgotten that he's not wearing his black denims because they're all stacked up beside him. He's just wiped a streak of dark purple all down the leg of his last clean pair of pajama bottoms.

"Fuck me," he says, grumbling and rummaging among his laundry things for one of those fucking stain sticks that Calum always bugged him about getting whenever they went to the shops together. His fingers snag it but, as he's trying to extricate it from the tangle of wet, black fabrics, it slips out and rolls under one of the dryers that's still chugging along.

"Oh, fuck me."

He's so exhausted, but Michael knows from past experience that the stain will set if he doesn't treat it soon.

So, he gets down on hands and knees and just as soon as he's gotten his whole arm shoved under the dryer, fingers searching the dusty cement for the stick, and his face pressed up against the glass front of the dryer, there's clattering footsteps coming down the stairs.

"God, you fucking perv!"

What?

It takes him a second to determine that it's him that the shrieking voice is addressing, mostly due to sleep deprivation and the fact that one ear is filled with the tumbling thunder of the machine.

"What?" He didn't say he understood why he was being addressed. Through his one available eye - the one not stuck up against the glass pane showing all the pink lacy things - he can see a flurry of long limbs flying towards him and instinctively throws himself away from the dryer.

A girl stands before him in a floppy set of sweats, arms crossed and arms furious. “You think it’s cool to drool all over a dryer with my knickers in it, huh? Think you’re smart or something, perv?”

Immediately he puts his hands up defensively. “Oh my god, oh my fucking god, no! I dropped something under the dryer and I was just trying to reach it. Jesus!”

Grumbling under her breath, she whips through the laundry room towards the row of dryers and, in one economical movement that defies the laws of physics, manages to pile all five loads of pink lacy things into a basket, and leaves in a hurricane.

                                                          +

When they told him about university, there was a lot more emphasis on the amazing things he would learn and less on the amount of time it would take for him to learn them. A lot more emphasis on renewed perspectives and a lot less on how long it would take sitting at a table in the university library reading things dead people wrote over seventy years ago to actually understand why his perspectives needed renewing in the first place.

They also neglected to mention how much of a maze the university library was and how all of the easily-accessible tables were always taken ridiculously early in the evening.

Michael Clifford sighs as he pushes himself through the gaps between the shelves, turning his body sideways so he can get back to his table as quickly as possible and still have some time to complete his coursework before today turned into tomorrow.

Of course, as he’s making the final turn at an insane angle in a narrow passage that makes it impossible to see around the other side because this is university and why would anything as simple as walking back to his table be easy for chrissakes, he bumps into another body.

Well, bumps really isn’t the right word. Crashes is more accurate. Vaguely, his mind catalogs the sensations as he begins to fall backwards from the collision: long hair whispering along the side of his neck, sharp pain in his chest from the edges of textbooks, the condensation coating the outside of a water bottle soaking into his shirt.

“Shit!” The word explodes from his mouth as he bumpers off the shelves behind him, thankfully not knocking any books off the shelves.

He’s immediately chastised by a harsh whisper.

“Will you keep it down? We’re in a library, genius.”

Snarking back automatically, Michael says, “Oh, really? I thought this was a zoo.”

“Well, it might be,” the girl on the ground replies, giving a pointed look at his hair as she readjusts her glasses.

It’s the pink lacy girl, this time dressed in an entirely different set of baggy sweats, not a speck of pink or lacy anything on her.

Fuck this, fuck his history of religion paper on transcendentalism in 19th century America. What did those dead people know anyway?

“I don’t need to put up with this shit, thanks,” he says as he picks up his books from the floor and heads out the door.

He’s going to go take a nap.

                                                          +

When they told him about the textbooks that he would have, they expressed how miraculous they would be, how every page he turned would bombard his brain with information he couldn’t live without now.

They failed to mention how much each of those pages cost. After his trip to the bookstore at the beginning of term, one would have thought that each book was bound in genuine Italian leather and illuminated in gold leaf by an isolated sect of monks who only work once every eight days and take three month-long holidays each year.

Which is why, two days later when he actually goes about writing the essay on transcendentalism in 19th century America because he really doesn’t want to flunk out of uni and have to head back to the Southern hemisphere, he’s having a mild panic attack.

His book is gone, his history text that cost him more than two weeks’ worth of wages at his part-time job, and in its place is a pro-fem book detailing the struggles of minority women after the end of the Civil Rights Movement.

It’s actually quite intriguing, and he finds himself reading through the introduction before he remembers to look in the inside cover for a name.

Michael Clifford finds what he’s looking for in blocky script written with a hunter green gel pen: Tal Harrison.

To his horror, he searches her name in the student directory and finds that she lives in his hall, on his floor. The other end of the hall, granted, which is like over fifteen doors down, but still. On his floor.

His horror mounts as another realization strikes him. If he has her book, then she must have his.

The thought of more confrontation with the pink lacy girl makes him a touch queasy. Not as queasy as shifting the majority of the food-money in his monthly budget over to paying for another copy of this book, though.

Mustering up his nerve, he takes one last look at her room number before shoving his feet into a pair of slippers and grabbing her textbook. He shuffles down the hallway, counting the doorways under his breath.

He needs to know exactly how far away from him she is so he can forevermore maintain that distance at all costs.

Stopping in thirteen doors later, Michael bites nervously at his lip before bringing his hand up to knock at the door. Three knocks, then a pause.

Which stretches out obscenely long.

He knocks again, three more times. Another pause.

Goddamn, he really needs his book back, especially considering he’s fallen into another fit of procrastination and left off the essay until tonight, even though it’s due tomorrow morning at the beginning of lecture.

Michael is just about to knock again when the door to his left opens up and a head pokes out of the frame.

“They’re never in this early, so I would suggest you stop knocking and leave. Some of us are trying to study, y’know.”

It’s the girl. The pink lacy girl. The girl that has his book.

Tal Harrison.

He starts to talk, to try and defend himself and also to ignore the fact that he failed to correctly count to fifteen, when her eyes widen, gaze dropping down to the cover of the textbook he’s still got in his hand.

“Hey,” she says, “You’re the asshole who took my book in the library! And the asshole perving in the laundry room!”

“Excuse me, I’m the asshole trying to return your book right now, thanks. And I was not perving in the laundry, Christ! I was waiting for a dryer to open up because you had filled up every single one with your shit.”

To his surprise, Tal – he figures he better start actually using her proper name now – colors, cheeks pinking up just a few shades lighter than her pink lacy things.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, ducking her head. “I…mis-prioritised. Left the wash until I ran out of everything.”

“Is that even a word?” The question is out before he can catch it, and his face flushes, realizing exactly how rude he probably sounded, especially after she had apologized.

“Nope.” She pops the p, motioning him over to her doorway. “Here, I must have your book then, right? If you have mine, we must have switched them accidentally.”

Her room is nothing like what he had expected. Although, granted, his only expectations – bare walls with a magenta punching bag in the corner – stemmed from aggressive encounters with a girl who wears loose sweats and pink lacy things.

Instead, there’s only a minimal amount of painted brick walls exposed. The rest are covered with whiteboards, which themselves flash in a rainbow of dry-erase markers detailing out complicated-looking diagrams and equations with too many foreign symbols for him to understand.

There is a neat, patterned bedspread in shades of dark blues and purples as well, along with a full bookcase and well-organized desk crammed into the rest of the space in the small single.

“Here,” Tal says, locating and extracting his history book easily from one of the stacked piles at the corner of her desk. “That’s yours, right?”

He takes it from her absentmindedly, eyes still overwhelmed by the formulas on all the whiteboards. Michael honestly thought Luke was the only one crazy enough to be into all that maths shit.

“Physics.” She plays with the pencil behind her ear and readjusts her glasses. “I’m Physics and Gender Studies. Joint degree.”

“That’s…” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Totally weird, I know, it’s difficult to explain --”

“I was gonna say that it’s really impressive. Like, really impressive.”

She pinks again, looking pleased. “Oh. Oh, thanks. What’s yours? I’m Tal Harrison, by the way.”

Now he’s the embarrassed one. “History, just history. And I’m Michael, Michael Clifford.”

                                                          +

Someone is being killed down the hall. If there’s any way to judge by the noises, Michael would suppose that whatever the method of homicide is, it’s not a clean one.

There’s another piercing scream that cuts through the guitar solo blasted through his ears.

They didn’t mention anything about mass murder in when they told him about living at uni.

Okay, hell, they really didn’t tell him anything actually applicable to life at a university in general, so he’s just going to stop mentioning it at this point.

Five more seconds of shrieking later, and he gets up in a huff, pulling on a jumper over top his boxer shorts and puts on his slippers again. Trekking out into the hall only amplifies the noise as it bounces down the narrow passage and back up.

After some investigation, Michael finds that the sounds take him to the door to the women’s washroom.

Fuck.

One lengthy internal debate later, he tamps down the urge to walk away and turn the volume back up on his headphones. The screaming has intermingled with sobbing now, so he grits his teeth and slowly pushes the door open.

In hindsight, knocking first may have been a good idea.

The door to one of the shower stalls has become inexplicably unlocked and now sways inwards. The contents of a shower caddy are dumped across the floor, shampoo bottles and those weird poofy things that his mom keeps in their bath strewn and rolling around on the slick tile.

Tal is in there, water turned off with the world’s tiniest towel preventing him from getting an eyeful, body quivering and legs knocking.

She’s staring, petrified at the drain in the center of the shower, shallowly breathing.

He clears his throat. “Um, Tal?”

Head snapping up, her eyes widen. “Michael, thank God. Help me, um, please?”

She gestures down to the drain, motioning to the thing he previously thought was just a clump of hair in stuck in the metal grate.

“Holy hell.”

There’s a big-ass spider down there, sitting on top of the drain. He stares at the big-ass spider. The big-ass spider stares back at him and twitches its legs threateningly.

Tal shifts nervously. “Michael?”

He and the big-ass spider exchange glances once more. The eight beady eyes only serve to harden his resolve. “Okay, you’re gonna have to jump over here. I’m not getting any closer to that.”

“Jump?”

“Yeah,” he says, motioning to the little bench where the plastic shower caddy once sat. “Just, like, step up there and jump across to me and I’ll catch you. No worries.”

She wavers, indecision showing as her eyebrows furrow. “But what if I slip?”

“I’ll catch you.” He sounds much more confident than he actually is. He hasn’t worked out in a few weeks, and he’s pretty sure that chicken-boy Luke could bench more than him at this point.

But, when she does jump, she does slip. Everything slows down to half time, and he can only watch, arms outstretched to catch her, horrified as she throws her hands out to break her fall. The world’s tiniest towel drops to the ground just as she crosses the last bit of the gap between them and lunges into his chest.

Boobs. Boobs pressed against him.

Michael takes a long, hard look at the ceiling tile and contemplates his grandmother’s undergarment choices and the last time he found Calum in their room dancing suggestively around to the newest emasculating pop song.

He tries to ignore the sensation of her wet hair dripping on his collarbone as she shakes, repeating over and over, “Oh my God, oh my God, I touched it with my foot, I touched it, oh my God.”

“Tal,” he starts after she’s beginning to calm down. “Tal, um, I’m going to let go of you now and close my eyes so you can get your towel, okay.”

“Okay.”

She’s not brave enough to get anything else besides her room key and robe, and, honestly, Michael’s not either. So, they end up in his room, her in his borrowed shirt and sleep trousers – the one with the purple stripe down the leg because he didn’t end up getting to it in time after all – perched on the edge of his desk chair while he sits on his bed and makes them a cup of fortifying coffee.

They end up talking until three in the morning, even though they’ve both got early lectures the next day.

                                                          +

Okay, he lied. They did tell him one thing about uni that seems to be marginally true.

There is, often as not, a greater chance of finding really good mates at university. Some of those friendships might happen after traumatic incidents because, hey, sometimes, near-death experiences with spiders in bathrooms really bring people together.

Some of those people might be certain particular girls. Those particular girls might live on his floor.

Those particular girls might be named Tal Harrison and smell nice and are the optimum combination of really fucking smart and really fucking cute.  

Michael Clifford might have a little bit of a crush.

Tal ends up routinely saving him a spot at her reserved table in the library when he wakes up late from his afternoon nap. In return, he supplies the coffee and the occasional apple that he manages to steal from Calum’s hoard of assorted fruit.

“Hey,” she says, grinning. “Make yourself at home.”

Silently, he presents the traditional offering of coffee and fruit and they settle down to their work, her on more physics coursework and him on a mountain of history readings he needed to complete by yesterday.

He can’t keep quiet for long though, as he’s distracted by the question that’s been burning on his mind for weeks. It finally bursts out.

“Why were you so mean to me when we first met?”

She twirls a piece of hair around her finger as she continues to copy down notes from her book. “Well, you were in a compromising position. You were kind of a dick. And kind of cute. So, I got flustered.”

Michael blinks. Cute?

“Also, you really did look like you were perving on my knicks so I was totally justified there.”

“You’re cute.”

Oh God, he said that out loud.

She pulls her head up to look at him for a long moment, before her eyes crinkle up in a smile. “Thanks, Mikey.”

So, when he takes her hand later as he finishes his reading and she works through the rest of her notes, it isn’t weird at all.

Head resting on the space where shoulder broadens into chest, Penn huddles closer into the warm body beside her as her eyelids began to droop.

"Duck or lamb?" she mutters, mind still on the same track it had been five hours ago when she began her journey through revamping the menu at work.

Ashton traces a pattern in the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, letting his hand splay across the back of her skull and cradle her head, before he responds. "If I don't have to look at it alive before I eat it, lamb. Never been much of a duck person. Roasted or alive."

"Okay," she mumbles back. The sitcom on the television is a rerun, one they've seen at least ten times before, but she knows that he still finds the jokes funny from the way his chest shakes with contained laughter.

Eight minutes later, she's debating the merits of cutting down the appetizers in favor of increasing the dessert offerings while the bloke on the telly is flailing about with what seems to be a large cod in a public park.

"Y'know, I love sleeping over and all, but I think it’s time we make some, er, alternate arrangements." His voice startles her, half hearing it, half feeling it thunder along through his body.

"Hm?" That’s concerning. Penn looks up at Ashton, the light from the television flitting about enough to catch the hazel in his eyes. He's still looking at the screen, mouth still in the remnants of a smile from the punchline.

"Move in with me."

Oh.

Definitely less concerning.

Tipping her head back down, she gives it a thought and snuggles back in towards him.

"Okay. But how about you move in with me instead?"

She can't keep the terrace greenhouse if she moves out of her flat. Plus Ashton's over at hers more than he is at his anyway. And she likes the way all the windows in the kitchen are perfectly placed to frame the sun when it breaks above the skyline.

A rumbling chuckle reverberates, shaking the quilt draped over her shoulders.

"Okay," he says. And then, "I love you," because the novelty of dropping the in with part two months ago still hasn't worn off yet.

"I love you, too."

(In fact, the novelty will probably never wear off.)

  "Y'know, you've got a lot more stuff than I had thought. I'm not so sure that it's all going to fit."

Penn winces as the edge of a stack of textbooks bites her shin where she's squeezing through the doorway with boxes balanced in her arms.

Ashton sighs dramatically, pausing in stretching out clear packing tape to close up loose seams in the boxes designated to go into storage. The tape has determined, however, that its forever-home is not the cardboard, but instead all over Ashton's hands.

"That's it, we're just going to have to downsize. Cardy, Clove, it's time for you to leave the nest. Go on. Be free."

Two sets of reproachful eyes look up at him, affronted by his socked foot nudging at their bellies.

Penn rolls her own eyes at him and pushes open the slider door to trot back over to her flat. Looking back over her shoulder before her feet hit the concrete of the terrace, her face scrunches up in concern.

"Are you going to be okay for a few minutes while I push some boxes around to make room?"

He laughs, flapping fingers covered in tape at her as Luke pops his head out of the bedroom, reassuring her that he's at least got things under control.

"I'll send him over in a bit with more, Penn."

She waves at him briefly in acknowledgement before heading back over, Clove scampering at her heels.

All in all, for all the fussing and complaining going on about who moves where and what part of which lease applies to which person and something about accidental subletting that she thinks they've finally worked out, Penn's happy with the new arrangement.

Ashton is moving in with her, bringing the total amount of occupants in her one bed, one bath flat to a grand total of four, including the dogs. And, Luke is going to move into Ashton's, a more comfortable one person to one room ratio, she has to admit.

After a few years of saving up money by living with his older brothers and spurred by the necessity of a new place due to said older brothers graduating, the newly-vacated flat perfectly fits Luke's bill.

Which is great, because Penn was a little nervy and not quite comfortable with the possibility of sharing the terrace with someone she didn't know, although Ashton assures her that their new neighbor will still probably be at the library more than at home anyway.

In any case, things worked out for the best in the planning and legalities.

In coordinating the actual moving, however, not so much.

She was able to take the day off to help out, and Ash and Luke didn't have classes. However, Louis and Niall found themselves conveniently tied up at the restaurant, Zayn was predictably out of the country, and Calum on an extended family vacation.

Which minimized their small group of potential coerced laborers to Michael, who said he'd stop by if he wasn't busy.

Which hasn’t happened yet.

But, Penn is pleasantly surprised by a knock at the door while she’s shifting around a potted plant in the corner of the living room to make way for Ashton’s growing footwear collection - one pair of nice leather boots and now he’s a shoe connoisseur - and opens it to a shock of lavender hair and long, tanned limbs.

“Hiiiiiiiiiii,” Michael drawls out with a grin, flapping a hand in greeting as he steps through the doorway. “Wasn’t sure where you’d all be, but figured that you might be here. Or someone might be here. Or Ash. Ash is always here.”

The girl behind him - a girl that she's never seen before in her life - snickers openly. “He’s really just saying that. We came here first because it was closer to the stairs. And we brought bagels!”

She proudly displays the baked goods as Penn helps them navigate the sea of Ashton's things until they can reach the kitchen.

Setting the bagels on the scant free counter space, Michael mumbles, "It's like five fucking flights, okay? Would it kill you to petition for an elevator or something? Oh, and Tal wanted to bring a housewarming gift. On my employee discount, of course."

Tal's rebuttal is cut off by the arrival of a set of plastic storage tubs and Ashton, while Penn leans against the cabinets and tries to remember why that name sounds so familiar.

"Mikey! You made it!" Ash spreads his arms wide after setting down the tubs nearly on top of Penn's feet.

Sidestepping a sweaty hug, he replies, "Not for long! Can't stay to help, actually. Sorry about that, Tal -"

"I'll take that hug," she announces, stepping forward into Ashton's still outstretched arms. "Glad to see things all worked out after all."

Ah. Tal.

Tal of the silhouettes.

Mikey's girlfriend, Tal.

Penn takes a closer look, suddenly ridiculously interested in Michael’s choice of women.

Thin and tall turns into a sharply angled, deeply tanned face. That comes along with an easy, laughing smile, a brilliant white standing out from darker-complected skin. Deep brown eyes are divided by a strong nose and framed by dramatically-arching eyebrows settled on a high forehead.

In other words, a face that wouldn't seem out of place on the cover of one of the friendlier-looking fashion magazines, with a body to match.

She shoots Ashton a meaningful glance - one that says introduce me, goddamnit - as she unpacks the bagels from their cardboard carrier.

But Tal beats him to the punch, calling out, “And you must be Penn! It’s so nice to finally meet you in person, I’ve heard quite a bit about you!”

Penn's hit with that gleaming grin and is momentarily stunned by the light bouncing from it, blinking rapidly as she tries to recover.

Tal fills in the awkward silence without skipping a beat.

"Wow, Mike, didn't even mention that you had a girlfriend, did you?" she says as she elbows him in the side.

Penn regains her words as Michael chokes on a bite of bagel that he's stolen over Ashton's protests that those really weren't his anymore.

"No, no, Ashton told me about you. It's very nice to meet you as well." She smiles, rounding the bend in the counter.

They have time for one enthusiastic handshake before Tal catches sight of the clock in the living room - "So cute! Oh, shit!" - and realises that they should have been at the tube station approximately nine minutes ago.

Leaving as they came, Michael's flash of lavender is the last Penn sees before Tal pulls him into the hallway.

Luke steps in just as the main door closes with a stack of milk crates in his arms, saying, "I found these in the back of your closet - are those bagels? I'm starved."

“Yeah,” Ashton replies nonchalantly, taking one dusted with chocolate chips from the plate Penn’s laid a few out on. “Mike just brought them over. Just missed him and Tal.”

Penn jumps nearly out of her skin as Luke slams his hand on the counter.

“Damnit! Every time, I swear to God.”

And then he goes to the fridge and pulls out a water bottle to chug moodily.

Pushing her shoulder into Ash, where he’s polishing off the bottom half of the bagel with ease, she gives him another meaningful glance that translates this time into a whole set of concerned question marks.

He takes the time to lick off the residual chocolate from his index finger before he responds. “It’s this thing between Luke and Michael. Like, Luke said something about not believing Mike would ever get a girl, and so now he takes Tal to meet everyone except for Luke. Luke doesn’t even know what she looks like.”

The plastic of the bottle is dangerously close to implosion in Luke’s fist, so Penn looks at him with great caution, still not sure that this whole thing doesn't qualify as one hugely ridiculous overreaction.

“Smiley. Very smiley.” Penn hopes this'll be enough to save the water bottle.

It crushes under the pressure anyway, but Luke's shoulders slump. "S'okay, really. He'll break, eventually."

Instead of continuing to try and console a mopey man-child twice her size, Penn turns to the plastic tubs Ashton had brought over, grabbing a blueberry bagel at the same time. Looping it on her finger, she nibbles at the edges as she picks out a battered biscuit tin. The paint is red and chipped, the image of gingersnaps on the top mostly worn away, rust collecting at the rim of the lid. It rattles as she shakes it, sounding as if there were a whole hoard of coins or buttons shifting around inside.

And as far as she knows, Ashton's never fixed a button in his life

"What is this?" she asks, gesturing with it towards him. He doesn't see her though, so she takes it upon herself to prise it open. Surprisingly enough, the top pops off without too much effort.

Bottle caps.

Bunches of brightly coloured, strangely marked bottle caps.

Penn sticks her hand in and scoops up a bunch, marvelling at the sheer number of caps as she lets them slip through her fingers and fall back down into the tin.

"Oh, those?" Ashton seems to have finally noticed, turning away from Luke and towards where she's begun to spread a few on the surface of the counter. "Those are all my gramps'. Well, really he’s my great-uncle, but we always just called him Gramps."

Penn's heard of strange collections, and she understands sentimentality quite a bit - she still pays rent on Gran's brownstone and drops by every couple of days to tend the garden - but still, bottle caps?

He goes on to explain, noticing the look on her face. "Gramp always said that anything worth celebrating everything should be done with a cold beer. Obviously he thought that there were a lot of things deserving of beer, and he kept the cap from every one of them. There's even one from the day I was born in there, but I think it's actually from a hard cider instead."

Ashton thumbs the top of a sunny yellow cap with a logo written in illegible, blocky red lettering before setting it back in the pile and digging his fingers down to the bottom of the tin.

"But the main point was to celebrate all the things in life worth being happy about. I keep these to remind me that life has a lot of those moments, some big and a lot small, and sometimes we just forget to recognise them as remarkable, memorable."

She just takes a hold of his hand and doesn’t say a thing.

  (She ends up picking up a few small shadow boxes from an antique shop on High Street the next day and divides up the caps between them.

They hang on the small stretch of wall just above the kitchen table and glint in the first light of the morning sun.)

  Two weeks after the move and she’s still not used to the way he arranges the condiments in the refrigerator.

Reaching for the hot sauce - normally on the top left, underneath the light and right next to the butter - she brings it all the way over to the plate before realising that it’s not hot sauce.

It’s mustard.

She doesn't even like mustard.

Scrubbing at her eyes with curled up fist, still in the throes of 5 a.m. drowsiness, she tosses the bottle behind her where it lands with a clatter in the sink. Ashton can pick it up later when he does the dishes.

Penn bends down towards the fridge again, closing her eyes to guard against the bright white light of the interior, finally plucking the hot sauce from the bottommost right-hand shelf.

Tucking it underneath her arm, she gathers up the plate and forks in on hand, juggles two mugs in the other, and shuffles her way back down the hall to the bedroom.

He's still in the dazy sort of half-sleep, sheets rucked down to his waist, face partially pressed into the downy pillow, so she sets her cargo down on the side table and climbs back in beside him. Penn snuggles into the warmth of his body, lifting up one outstretched arm so she can wriggle underneath it, letting it settle as a comfortable weight across her shoulders.

She takes his stillness as an opportunity to study him with her own eyes at half-mast, but, within five minutes of memorizing how the ringlets of honey-coloured hair curl around the tops of his ears, his nose scrunches up once, twice, before he cracks a hazel eye open.

"Is tha' coffee I smell?" he murmurs, lifting his head off the pillow to scent the air, and she nods as she brings up a hand to push the crumpled waves off his forehead.

"An' eggs. Made s'me eggs, too."

The arm over her shoulder tightens and curls, pulling her in closer until he can tuck her head under his chin. "G'bless. You're th' best thing."

"Mm, I know," she mumbles back as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

His answering smile is the sunrise.

   ("Y'know, th' food's gonna get cold if we wait much longer."

"'M comfy here, though."

"Slaved over that, I did. Over a hot stove. For you."

Because he’s just failed one of his final term papers.

(His professor is a heartless dick who wants to watch the world burn, he just knows it.)

And he’s just waltzed straight into a puddle that’s the size of Loch Ness, and his shoes are drenched.

(They’re the nice suede brogues that he’s saved up ages for because he wanted to look a bit more mature than Vans and a vest top all the time, and now they’re fucking ruined.)

And Penn won’t fucking talk to him anymore.

(It’s not really that she won’t talk. It’s more like she won’t even look at him. She got that funny look on her face, all crumpled and scrunched up, and then didn't even try to make up some excuse about how she had to go out to the grocer or to walk the dogs or some bullshit like that. She’s obviously avoiding him.)

He scuffs the bottom of his shoe along the grit collecting on the edge of the pavement, scrubbing it around a bit, hands in his pockets and his hood pulled up.

It’s not even raining. A gloomy sort of weather hangs above him now, and Ashton’s just sick and tired of things not going his way.

He rounds the corner to where their building is – it’s a bit of a cheery sight, he supposes, because he knows that there’s a warm blanket and a good cup of tea waiting for him back at his flat – and sees Penn there. Just sitting out there on the steps, as easy as you please.

Except it’s not. Easy that is.

To breathe.

Penn’s wearing a dress.

It’s a simple one, as far as Ashton can tell, and it suits her splendidly, the way the little navy floral pattern loops around her curves and gathers under her chest.

It’s also way too indecently short, he thinks a second later, quickly scanning the street around him to see if there’s anybody else about that he should need to offer her his jacket to hide her from.

Ashton chooses to ignore that fact that Penn’s been cooking him breakfast in just her bra top and his boxer shorts for an excessively long time now and instead concentrates on how obscenely long her legs look to be.

And then his heart drops.

She’s dressed up, dolled up, with that stuff around her eyes that makes them pop unnaturally – he doesn’t like it, never has – and lipstick even.

That’s date attire. Even he knows that.

Penn’s dressed up to go out on a date.

Soon, his feet are taking him faster and faster towards her, the kilometres of cement becoming millimetres, and suddenly he’s there, right in front of her.

She looks up, blinking, and his world slows down to half-time.

“H-hello.”

“You, um. You look…nice.”

Frowning a bit, she plucks at the edge of her skirt. “Thanks.”

There's a long pause where he tries to collect his thoughts and bring them away from how strikingly beautiful she looks.

He can do this. He can be smooth and eloquent.

“Ah, um.” Nope, no he can't.

He retracts the hand that somehow had made its way halfway to tucking an errant piece of hair back behind her ear and tries to turn it into a casual pass through his mussed hair instead. He knows it doesn’t come even as close to smooth as he intended.

But it’s like she hadn’t even noticed, the way her eyes flit around, as if they’re looking for somebody else.

Somebody who’s not him.

If his heart dropped before, it plummets now into the roiling pit of spite and jealousy eating a hole through his gut.

"Looking for Louis?" he asks, practically spitting out the words. It's like he hears his voice coming back at him through a bad connection, all tinny and twisted and warped in hate. "Hot date? Taking the next step in your relationship together, yeah?"

Now he's gotten her attention. Penn looks at him, brow knitting up in a frown.

"Ash," she says in a soft voice that nearly breaks through his thundercloud. "Ash, it's not him. It's somebody else."

He can't take it, his head spinning with all the vicious possibilities. Niall, then, the scrawny little Irish bloke.

"Well, have a fucking fantastic time, then, with whoever you wanna fuck."

Ashton can't take this anymore, can't watch her do this.

Brushing past her, he takes the steps up to their floor two at a time, slamming himself and his pain inside the walls of his flat.

(In his haste, he doesn't hear her gasp, doesn't see the hurt flare up in her eyes or how she gathers herself and the bouquet up and picks her way down the street, away from their building.)

  His eyes are stuck on one line. He's read it a thousand times with no success.

Just when he thinks he's cracked the code - obviously the daft loon's been prattling on about corrupt systems through the ridiculous shoe factory analogy - and is about to make a note in the margins, the doorbell rings.

Tempted to ignore it, he goes back to his readings, making it three words before it rings again, more insistently.

And then, a third, fourth, and fifth time in rapid succession.

Grumbling, he lifts the book off his chest and moves to get the door.

Opening it, Ashton’s shocked.

It’s Louis, standing there before him, a genial smile on his face and hands shoved into the pockets of a coat already dripping rainwater onto the floor.

“Hello!” he says cheerily, poking his head underneath Ashton’s arm to peer around the room. "Is Penn here, then? I tried her door and nobody answered, so I figured you two would be here then."

He glances at his watch. "I did give you lot enough time, now, didn't I? It was hard to judge, but I figured a few hours would be sufficient."

Ashton clears his throat. "Penn's not here."

"Oh! Well, where is she? Is she out at the shops, then, or something?"

This isn't making any sense.

"She was sitting on the steps at the front of the building," Ashton says slowly, enunciating just in case this Louis bloke is a bit thick after all. "You know, waiting for her date. I figured it was you or that little blonde fellow."

Louis' expression makes the rapid right turn from sunny bemusement to horrified realization.

"Jesus Christ. Oh my God. Holy shit."

Ashton doesn't know how many more deities Louis is going to invoke, but he'd rather he be done sooner rather than later, so he interrupts him, stating bitterly, "Look, mate, she's with your friend, right? It'll be just fucking fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some revising to finish."

Hands wrapped firmly around the handle, he goes to swing the door shut and almost accomplishes the task, but for a Herculean effort from the boy in the hallway.

"You don't understand!" Louis shouts with his foot jammed securely between the frame and the door, effectively blocking it open. "She was meant to be with you! That was the fucking plan! All that, on the stairs, was for you, you bleeding idiot!"

It's a very big voice coming out of a very small body - well, at least a shorter body than his own - and the sudden shock causes him to release his grip on the door. Accordingly, it slams inward against the wall, a very nonplussed Louis attached.

His expression leaves showy anger behind, this time, and leans towards colder fury.

"What did you say to her? If she's not in her flat, not with you, and not at any of the places Niall's been running his arse off to, then you must have fucked up royally. What the fuck did you say to her?"

Ashton throat tightens strangely. All that was for...him?

He's grinning now, and Louis looks ready to physically assault him.

"Christ, concentrate! This is all your fucking fault for fucking this up, so go and bring her back and fix everything, goddamnit!"

"Calm down, mate, I know where she is."

At the very least, he's got an intuitive inkling of where she might be. Someplace that she hasn't ever taken Niall or Louis before.

Taking his keys and a coat off the ring by the door, he brushes Louis back into the hallway. Ashton shuts and locks up his flat, telling the bloke behind him, "I'm going to fix this, okay? I'm going to fix this."

  He trots through the streets in worn boots and the mac over top his denim jacket and worn tee. There's no posturing here now, with her. No need for fancy get-ups.

This is it, this is his moment.

The gate creaks open easily, still open for visitors even in the last few hours of the early evening, and he keeps up a steady pace as he moves down the paved pathway.

She's there, in the cemetery, just like he knew she would be. Leaning on the tombstone, her fingers bracket the etched letters, curving pale parentheses around the dark of the stone.

The bouquet of lily-of-the-valley lays limp by where her heels dig into the soft sod, the tiny cream blooms still holding their perfect delicate bell shape.

As he approaches, he can see her quivering, the thin fabric of the dress plastered to her body, limbs a worryingly pale shade. Unconsciously, he slips off the mac he's wearing, bundles it up into one hand, and walks into the row.

"I didn't--," he begins, worrying the stitching at the edges of the coat in his hand. "I didn't know that, I mean, I thought that you and he were..."

There's no nice way to put it, so the words jam themselves back up into his throat and he wraps the mac around her shoulders.

A single lock of dark hair sticks itself to the plane of her cheekbone like an ugly scar. His fingers reach up and brush it away without a second thought.

She doesn't say anything, just lets her lips seal themselves together as she waits for him.

Ashton clears his throat. "What I said on the steps, I mean - I wasn't thinking straight, I was angry, really angry. And jealous as hell, thinking of you and...and someone who's not me."

Closing her eyes, Penn gives a half-hearted laugh.

"That's so fucking ironic. Do you remember the day I locked myself in the bathroom?"

He nods. He was going to tell her that day, until she told him to leave. And then life got in the way.

(He think maybe he'll tell her today instead.)

She continues, saying, "I was so, so upset that day, so frustrated. It was already a shit day. And then I saw you with that girl, through your window, and I couldn't see you any more without seeing her too."

Ashton can't believe it. "You saw me? And a girl? ...Oh my God. You saw me and Tal. That's Mikey's girlfriend, Penn. I was asking her for advice about things."

"Things?"

He's utterly embarrassed now.

"You."

"Oh." She scrubs at her face with the back of her hand, dragonfly eyes flitting around. "Oh."

"I'm so sorry, Penn. I never mean to hurt you."

The rain has slowed now, turning from a torrent to a drizzle now, and the mist rising up from the ground frosts Penn's eyelashes with a dusting of sparkling crystals.

He's thrown back to the first time they met in the rain, the way her hands splayed across his chest, and Ashton's chest tightens up.

"I think I'm in love with you. I hope you don't mind too much."

He doesn't realise that he's the one who spoke until her eyes flutter shut and her breath mists out in front of her.

And if he was having trouble breathing before, there's nothing in his lungs now as they constrict in his chest with anxiety as he waits for her to say anything, do anything.

Slowly, so slow he can't be sure she's actually moving, Penn picks herself up off where she's leaning on the headstone and pulls her hands out of the sleeves of the mac.

Her hands are bone-cold, but they warm quickly as she reaches forward to where his are dangling by his side. Lacing their fingers together in what feels like a promise, she tilts her head up towards his and whispers with a smile, "I don't mind at all."

Closing the scant distance between them, quivering with months of anticipation trapped under his skin, he catches her mouth with his own, molding their lips together with gentle, coaxing pressure.

Every part of him is brimming with electricity, humming down his veins until he is all caught up in her. They create a world there, the two of them, a sharing of breath, a melding of souls.

He never wants this moment to end.

  It does, though, as all moments do, when Penn's hands return to their icy state, and he reluctantly releases her with a teasing nip at her lower lip.

Later, once they've made the long journey and returned to her flat, towelled themselves off, and curled up on her sofa under a pile of blankets in their skivvies, he kisses her again, just because he can.

And, afterwards, he tells her he's in love with her, just because he can.

With a grin, she tucks her head into his chest and tells him she's in love with him too.

Just because she can.

One jacket and a wallet in his pocket later, and he’s locking up his front door and heading out at a fast jog down the hallway towards the stairs.

But Ashton still finds himself slowing down as he approaches Penn's door, the brass numbers tarnished within the chipped paint covering the wood.

He takes it in, knowing that just inside will be her bicycle, propped up on the back wheel and leaning on the wall, just brushing the curtains that she threw together out of a bunch of old floral patterns she found in a sale bin and whipstitched on her gran's Singer. And, beyond that is the melon-coloured sofa, replete with mismatching cushions and worn patches from the dogs rubbing up against it, the upholstery gone all nubby in places.

Ashton draws back from the image with the horrified realization that he knows, can picture in full vivid detail, the entirety of Penn's flat right down to the light on the left side of her medicine cabinet that flickers whenever you open the door.

It's a scary thought. Because now he understands just how far gone he is.

Shaking his head - he's now eight minutes late and counting - he walks straight into a person as he attempts to pass the door to her flat. Partially because the person in question has just exited the aforementioned flat and had situated themselves directly in the center of the hallway.

"Oof!"

"Shit!"

Nobody falls, but it's a hard, teeth-jarring impact nonetheless.

"You okay there -- wait, Calum?"

It’s undeniably Calum, dark brown eyes crinkling up at the edges in pleasant surprise.

"Ashton? Mate, you're supposed to be revising now, aren't you?"

He’s about to respond when there’s a creak behind them.

To his astonishment, the door, her door Penn’s door, opens suddenly, a dark head popping out with eyes wide in confusion.

"Calum? I heard something thud just now, are you -- oh." Penn's eyes grow even wider at the sight of him standing before her, and it looks like a thousand emotions cross her face before she finally settles on supreme embarrassment.

Her face flushes as dark as the beets she plants in the greenhouse, crimson rushing up into her cheeks, covering up the faint freckles that dust the bridge of her nose. And, before his mouth can even form the first letters of her name - to tell her something, anything -the door just as suddenly slams back shut. A thunk is heard as the deadbolt slides into place.

"Fuck," he spits out.

There’s a pause as Calum shuffles his feet.

“So, um, I suppose you’re wondering why…?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Another pause. More feet-shuffling.

“Let’s walk and talk. You’re going to the shops, right? I needed some things anyway.”

   Her heart is racing, her face feels like it’s on fire, and Penn finally thinks she might have a vague idea of what this is how you know means.

After sitting a few minutes on the floor, slumped with her back to the now-locked door - she doesn’t even know why she did that, locking the door like he’s going to burst in on her - it’s all she can do to pull herself up enough to make her way over to the sofa. Which she promptly flops down upon, face pressed deep into the depths of the cushions.

Penn’s taken back to her conversation with Calum which, although highly unexpected, ended up being ridiculously informative, and tries to reconcile his words with the look in Ashton’s hazel-green eyes when she had opened the door.

  Blowing the cup of hot tea she’s just placed in front of him - because he’s a guest and guests always have tea when they visit - Calum grips it with both hands and brings it up in front of him in a way that Penn associates with crotchety old aunts.

He doesn’t sip it though, just lets it sit there between his tanned fingers as he watches her putter about the kitchen, shifting things to and fro in a bout of nervous energy.

She’s restacking a set of plates when he says it, seconds later, easy as you please.

“He’s wrecked, you know. About all this.”

And just like that, there’s her heart up in her throat.

The plates clatter around dangerously, her hands trembling, and she doesn’t trust that her voice would come out steady.

But it’s no matter, because Calum continues without any prompting.

“You know, we’re mates. Or you might not know that, I don’t know. But, sometimes when we just chill, you know, you can sort of see it, in his eyes and all. When he thinks you’re not looking, he just looks like really distracted and wrecked.”

“He can’t though!” It bursts out of her mouth before she can stop it. “He can’t. He’s got someone.”

(Someone who’s not her. Better than her.)

He’s got one eyebrow raised, vague bemusement crossing his face. “Ashton’s got many someones. He’s a people person. You should know that. But I don’t think I’m talking about a someone like you are.”

Flapping her hands distractedly, trying to cast off the nerves building up underneath her skin, Penn brings herself to sit down in front of him and tucks her legs underneath her as she curls up into her chair.

“It’s not -- we’re not a someone. I mean, I’m not a someone to him. Like, he doesn’t --”

“Care about you?” He says back.

And the words that she’s been too scared to say are there now, out into the world, and she wants nothing more than to snatch them back, tuck them into a pocket and sew up the top so they don’t fly out again.

And they’re not even her words.

So instead, she whispers them back. “Yeah. He doesn’t care about me. Not like that.”

Calum takes a sip of his tea, and replies, “How do you know?,” unconsciously parroting her words to Zayn right back at her.

She thinks of the photographs, the this is how you know.

This is how you know.

That’s it.

Calum must know. He’s got to know.

And as he flips through the photos, just as Niall did, his face scrunches up.

“Penn,” he starts, voice hesitant. “It’s not my place to tell you what this is. You need to talk to him, like truly talk to him.”

Setting the folder back down on the table, he makes to get up and head for the door.

“Wait!” she calls, grabbing for his wrist. “But, why can’t you just --”

“What is the one word you’re too afraid to say?”

Those are the last words he utters before he leaves her flat, the door clicking quietly behind him. She doesn’t even try to stop him.

   Getting called into the office only twenty minutes after you’ve arrived at work is never a good sign. Even less so when a major promotion is on the line.

“I hate this,” Delacroix mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face tiredly as she perches on the chair across from his desk. “Fucking hate this, every single time.”

“Sir…” She’s not sure what to follow that up with, though, so the sentiment trails off.

Laying back in his chair, he tilts his head to the side, examining the girl before him as closely as he would a plate laid in front of him for a final inspection.

“Tomlinson told me, you know, about your problems after your grandmere’s passing. Criss, Penn, why couldn’t you have just -- I can’t, I can’t, not with this. Louis is getting the promotion.”

Someone’s just taken a railroad spike and hammered it through her middle. She’s transfixed and numb, stuck in that chair like a butterfly speared in a collection.

He continues, attempting to explain away the dull ache building in her chest.

“The main reason - one of the only reasons, in fact - comes down to how much you have been through. Are going through. I know that now, and I have no desire to add to that stress, because then your work would suffer and where would I, a businessman, be with that? No, I have decided that Louis takes over Basiatio as executive chef, effective immediately, and you will run Farrago, starting five months from now. That should be enough time to have yourself in order.”

Penn doesn’t think she heard clearly. “Wait, what?”

“Five months’ time, trial time almost, then executive here, Penn. I expect flawless performance throughout, though. No slips, you hear me?”

She nods emphatically, thanking him profusely and dashing out of the office before he’s got the opportunity to change his mind.

She’s going to do it. She’s going to make it, live her dream, become as fucking successful as she can and soar to unfathomable heights.

She’s going to make Gran and Pop proud.

A whirlwind of emotions swirl around in her gut for the rest of the day, and Louis grabs her by the arm just as she’s about to trip down the stairs with her bicycle on the way out.

“Did you hear?” he starts solemnly, a blank look on his face, and, for all of her previous frustrations with this boy, this person, she really can’t be arsed to care about it anymore.

Patting his cheek, Penn smiles. “Yes, I did. Congratulations, chef. You earned it, Louis.”

“And you’re okay with doing the whole waiting thing?”

“You know, it really doesn’t matter that much even more. I’m confident that I can make the five months and get the position. And I’ve got other things to worry about now, before then. Everything will be sorted out, and it’ll be fine.”

Louis doesn’t look convinced, cocking one eyebrow with a smirk. “Other things? You mean, your Ashton?”

Penn absolutely hates him now, mentally revoking her congratulations. Her mouth opens, to tell him just as such, but those aren’t the words that end up pouring out.

"He’s not my Ashton. I don't know anything with him anymore! I honestly have no idea what we are, it’s not like we've been talking recently, and way too much has happened to just out and ask him what the hell we are. And he pretty much hates me, so there’s that as well."

Finally, a serious look crosses Louis' face as he simultaneously folds his arms. "Then I'll ask the hard-hitting questions. Do you like him? Are you attracted to him? What is he to you, just to you? Don’t try to define a relationship if you’re not even sure what your feelings are towards him."

A flush rises in her cheeks as she remembers all those honey-tinged mornings in her kitchen, and her heart begins to pound.

Throwing one leg over the saddle, Penn turns to leave, fussing with the straps of her backpack. "You know, I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I don't have to listen to this, I mean, I should really get going..."

She misses the way Louis glances quickly over her shoulders before he steps in closer.

"Two birds, one stone," he mumbles, the hint of a grin appearing at the corner of his mouth.

Cupping her face deliberately, he leans over the handlebars towards her face, stopping millimetres away. He's so close that Penn can feel the warmth of his breath glide across her cheekbones, and, just as she's about to ask what the fuck he thinks he's doing, he whispers, "Just go with this. I want to try something."

And he kisses her, presses his mouth to hers solidly, determinedly.

She's so shocked that she rocks back on her heels, enough that he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her in until the ends of the handles press into her middle.

(It's a good thing that he warned her, otherwise her hand would be on its way to making a painful acquaintance with the side of his tanned face.)

But it's not a bad kiss, by any standard. A nice kiss. A passable, almost friendly kiss.

Her heart isn't thumping in her chest, her pulse isn't racing.

And, when he pulls away, she tells him. "That was...nice."

Laughing, Louis wiggles his eyebrows. "A little bit more practice and it'll be a bit more than nice, love."

He goes to lean back in before an arm catches around Penn's shoulders, throwing her wildly off balance and causing her to clutch at her handlebars and stretch her toes to the ground to keep her planted.

 "I think that's enough of that, actually." Ashton's voice comes from somewhere above her head and, for a second, she thinks she's hallucinating. He can't be here, touching her, right now.

He hates her.

He despises her.

He...hasn't let go yet, even though Louis has stepped back, hands raised up defensively.

"Ashton?" she stammers out, still unwilling to believe that this isn't some elaborate hoax Louis has pulled on her.

If anything, her voice startles him, and he lets go suddenly, throwing her into another battle to stay on her feet.

Arms windmilling ferociously, she's seconds away from imminent collapse when Louis lunges towards her and grabs onto her arm.

It's like an instant replay though, as a sour look crosses Ashton's face when he starts towards her again, and Penn decides that it might just be prudent to dismount from the bicycle altogether.

Tossing her leg back over until she stands on solid ground, she takes in the picture: Ashton, bags of groceries in hand and clad in a jumper and black denims, glaring down at Louis, who's got enough nerve to risk a cheeky grin to go along with his pristine white chef's coat.

There's a tug at her sleeve and a third boy materializes by her side. It's Niall, who's probably functioning as Louis' best and only sort of back up in this endeavor.

"We can leave now, if you want. Nip up to m' da's place in Mullingar, get away from this." He mumbles jokingly, as he gestures at the scene before them, a bad move as it brings the other pair's attention back to their corner.

“You? Are you here for her too?”

“Here for me?” Penn’s tone is incredulous, temper momentarily taking over and stomping out her embarrassment. “I am not a thing!”

Ashton immediately back-pedals, hands raising up defensively, placatingly. “No, no, no, Penn, no - I just wanted to know if I could walk you home.”

And that’s it. She’s done, melted on the ground from the look in his eye and the sweetness in his voice.

“I...I -- no,” she stammers. Everything is too, too much now, so she backs away from it, stepping on the pedals and speeding away from everything that hurts.  

  It’s not until she’s sorting through the photos one last time, setting certain ones aside to hang up on the walls above her bed that her heart gives one hard thump as she thumbs the corner of the Polaroid.

It’s one of her and Ashton, the one where they’re on the sofa together.

Her heart gives another thud against her ribcage and that’s when she realizes: oh, Ashton.

I’m in love with Ashton.