07. masturbation fuel.

✖️

As awkward and as quiet as I'd always assumed Luke to be, the guy definitely knew how to turn a simple conversation topic into something we could talk about for hours.

Not a second of the phone call went by where it was just silence. Granted, there were times I'd say some pretty odd stuff, and I never expected him to laugh- but he did.

Likewise, he'd say some things, too- some very flirty than others- and I'd laugh like he did for me. It wasn't weird or scary or awkward. It was just nice.

I found out that we were both living in LA. Despite how much of a fan I've always been of him, I had zero idea; only adding further excitement to my already overwhelming bundle of emotions.

"Maybe we can go out and get a coffee sometime." he'd said to me. I just said yes back, though I knew it probably wasn't going to happen due to how he was Luke fucking Hemmings. A coffee with him meant cameras in every single direction and at least five hundred distressed fangirls creeping into my inbox- I know because I am one.

I have coffee this morning anyway, the instant powder type that's all in one and tastes disgusting. Nevertheless, I pour it into my mug and carry on with my day by taking a seat on the patio. It's no lunchdate with a superstar, but to me, it's pretty damn close.

Ashley comes out to join me later on, her laptop wide open and the contents of her Wattpad account displayed clearly on screen. I've never read anything she's written, though without saying, I really want to.

"What are you writing?" I ask her, taking a sip of my cheap coffee. Her eyes flicker between the keyboard and her phone, which is- unsurprisingly- opened up on Michael Clifford's Instagram page.

"I'm trying to get out of this block," she sighs, pressing the backspace numerous times. "I can't, though."

"You'll do it," I tell her, patting her shoulder reassuringly. "You've done it before."

"Yeah," she sighs, cheeks puffing out as if not believig me in the slightest.

I shift my position, instead choosing to lean over the table with my hands wrapped around the warmed coffee mug. "Why are you on Michael's page?"

"I don't even know. Motivation?" Ashley says, shrugging her shoulders. "Fanfiction Procrastination, honestly."

"Permanent Vacation who?" I joke, and she laughs.

Once Ashley goes back inside, I take the time to go through my Instagram. Much like her, I'm procrastinating, too; only my procrastination is different, because I'm pretending like none of my problems exist rather than just putting them off.

The band's account posted earlier, and I end up staying and stalking through their page for much longer than I should. Then I click off, post a picture of my own, and hold my breath.

Can more guys be kinky and want to choke me, please and thank you.

Drumming my fingers against the metal armchair of the patio seat, I watch the likes slowly start to rise. I lean back, a nagging sense of regret at the back of my mind as I see the usernames flood my screen.

"You kinky shit," Bailey chuckles from the doorway, scrolling through her own phone with a smirk. I give her a small smile.

"Didn't know you were awake."

"I've got your notifications on. You post, Ernie pings," she says, referring to her iPhone, in which she labelled Ernie in the first few weeks of having it. "What are you doing still awake?"

"I was on the phone," I reply, clearing my throat as I mock being busy.

"With who?" she then starts to smirk. "Luke?"

"You gave him my number, didn't you?" I raise my eyebrow at her. Bailey just grins.

"It was a collective thing. He texted Ashley first, and she woke us all up to fangirl about it,"

"Is that what all the screaming was about earlier?"

"Mhm," she nods. I nod, too. "How long were you speaking to him for?"

I glance at the time on my phone, the fact that it reads 08:42am making me yawn and subconsciously feel way more tired than I am. Bailey laughs. "I take it since 3am?"

"We hung up half an hour ago," I say, muffled through a yawn.

"Jeez," she shakes her head, pushing herself off of the door frame. "Five hours of non-stop talking to a guy who probably creams his boxers at your captions- you're living the dream. What even is there to talk about?"

"A lot of stuff, actually," I tell her, in a knowledgable tone. Bailey looks unconvinced. "He's not as bad as you think."

"I never said he was bad, just famous," she notes. "There's a difference. Not a big difference, but it's there."

"He asked me if I wanted to go out for a coffee sometime."

"Good. You should go,"

"Are you being serious?"

"Yeah, I am," she says, before a slow smirk spreads across her lips. "It'll be good for you. Maybe this way, you can finally get over your stupid fear of commitment,"

"Wow, and we're back to that," I say in disbelief. Bailey lets out one last laugh, before sending me a wink and walking back into the house, leaving me alone on the patio.

I decide to go for a walk, seeing as I'm not really doing anything today and the past week has been spent cooped up inside, lazing around. As much as I love my bed and/or the warmth of the couch, it's still nice to have a breath of fresh air every now and again.

After quickly getting ready and slipping out of my pyjamas, I pull my hood up over my head. Then I plug my earphones in, shove my phone in my back pocket, and start out of the neighbourhood.

The sun is warm yet the air is slightly cold, creating a perfectly comfortable atmosphere for me to walk in. Los Angeles is always busy but it only ever is around the main part of the city; thankfully, I live more on the outskirts. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Turning the corner, I consider typing a quick text message to Luke, just to start another conversation seeing as he's always the one to do it. But then I think about how he's probably asleep and wouldn't want me to bother him after our five hour phone call last night, so I shut my phone off before walking into one of the quieter cafés (slash diner, because the owners are a little bit indecisive) in the busiest part of LA.

'Quieter' doesn't necessarily mean quiet. This is the first thing that crosses my mind the second I enter the double doors, and a gust of hot wind and noisy chatter greets me.

A chime rings throughout the establishment as some 90s track plays on the speakers, loud and clear and there to destroy any chance of silent communication. Neon signs flash at me like blinkers from motorway traffic. It's never been this loud before; I know because I work here.

From the counter, I spot Dylan and Chase serving a bunch of bustling customers, their faces all signs of panic.

"Hey, you guys." I wave at them, and they physically drop everything they're doing once they see me, relieved. You'd think that- after owning and running this place for about five years now- they'd be more aware of the complications associated with delaying rush hour.

An impatient man with a briefcase clamours on about his non-fat, gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free and caffeine-free cup of decaf coffee, and out of Dylan's frustration, gets handed a sit-in ceramic mug of hot water instead. He scowls. I hold in my laughter.

"How are things goi-" my sentence is interrupted immediately by a waitressing apron; it's thrown frantically at my face, and it's strings land right in between my teeth. "-Hey!"

"Soph, I know you're on Holiday Pay," Chase says, skirting around the counter and placing his hands on my shoulders to shake me. "But. Help. Us!"

I glance over him, where a bunch of teenage girls have resulted to sitting on each other's laps just to fit in a small booth made for two people. The sight is ridiculous- they fall off the second they get on- but I keep my mouth shut all the same.

Chase shakes me once more, attempting to pull me back from where I zoned out.

"Alright, alright," I say, puffing my cheeks out before ditching my hoodie altogether. As I tie the strings around my waist to fasten it, I think about how it is way too hot to be wearing long sleeves in here. "Why is it so busy?"

I watch as Chase turns every single coffee machine on, his way of making up for the three minutes wasted on rattling the brain inside of my skull. He looks back at me, flicking a switch on. "Your little band's out in the city."

"Who?"

"Seven years of a season I can't remember, I don't know," he says, frustrated with one particular stubborn cappucino machine. He hits the side of it, resulting in a low hum to emit from the cogs.

"Who, 5SOS?" I ask, and I really wish I hadn't- for a chorus of loud, high-pitched screams echo from a different group of girls on the table right next to us.

I wince, immediately walking over to stand on Chase's other side. I lower my voice. "What does that have to do with the amount of people in here, then?"

"The boys called and booked a table yesterday. One of their fans found out, and I'm guessing they told everyone else," Chase explains, grimacing at the gunk surrounding the back of the Keurig.

"Jeez. How did they find out?"

"You're asking me? If anything, you're more of a fan than I am," he chuckles, before returning to the main topic. "They're supposed to come later this afternoon."

My heart practically freezes, and it's only just now that everything begins to make sense in my brain. "Wait," I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. "Here? Why here?"

"Why do you think? Not a lot of people come to a place like this when there's a Starbucks right around the corner," Chase replies, and I can't argue with him there. "Guess they wanted some peace and quiet."

At the mention of 'they', my stomach churns, because I know exactly who 'they' consists of. "How long are you going to need me to help out here for?" I ask, already ready to leave.

"Why? You scared of running into your masturbation fuel?" Chase asks, jokingly. He then looks surprised when I nod. "Okay, well, hopefully not for long. I'm guessing everyone'll leave once they realise the band's not going to show up anytime soon."

"So they don't know what time the boys are coming?" I question.

"Fortunately not. So don't worry, you won't have to help for long." he smiles.

I want to tell him that no, it's not the effort of helping out that's the problem. The problem is that I might see- and even meet- the boys, and that is a responsibility I simply cannot take.

I have a really weird thing when it comes to stuff like that, you see. I can be as dirty and as weird and as unbearable as I possibly can on the internet, and I can fangirl until I pass out when I see a picture of any of the boys on screen. But seeing them in real life, much less meeting them, is a whole other story.

What if they're dickheads? What if they're fuckboys? What if they push me away when I ask for a picture, or laugh in my face when I tell them how much their music means to me? They're probably not like that- it's a bigger chance that they're not- because so many people have met and loved them and I never hear otherwise. But still; it's better safe than sorry.

For the next few hours, Dylan has me running around tables, serving screaming girls and guys my age with their bored parents, who all look as if they'd rather be anywhere else but here. Nothing but paranoia jolts through my veins every time the doors open, for I have an impending sense of running into one of them real soon.

Chase's earlier prediction proves to be correct as, around 2pm, the café starts to clear. Parents are finally able to drag their disappointed children out, though the emptier the place gets, the sicker I feel.

Once all of the tables are empty and there are only a couple of elderly women sat in the booths, I untie my apron, folding it in a haste.

"I'm done for the day," I say, calling over the counter and placing it on top. Dylan emerges from the kitchen, his eyes wide.

"Soph, wait!" he says, just as I turn to walk away.

"What?"

"Can you help us out with wiping some of the tables down?" he asks, sheepishly, his face guilt-stricken. "I know it's a lot to ask but I'll pay you extra-"

"It's fine," I shake my head, already reaching for the cabinet we use to store the cleaning products. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can leave.

"Which ones?" I ask him.

"Seventeen, nineteen and twenty-seven," Dylan replies breathlessly, doing numerous double-takes towards the entrance to the kitchen. He then gives me a quick, thankful hug.

"God, I owe you one."

Before I can tell Dylan that it's really no big deal, he runs off, calling for Chase and sounding very worried while doing so.

I watch as he disappears behind the plastic cover seperating the counter from the kitchen, my own eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I have half the mind to follow him and see what's going on for myself, but I stay put.

Grabbing the wet tea towel and a spray bottle filled with all types of cleaning agent chemicals, I begin to turn around, the worry for Chase enveloping my mind as I momentarily forget my reason for wanting to leave so badly in the first place- that is, until I crash into someone on my way to table seventeen.

"Shit!" they say, and I jump back as the bottle falls to the floor and the plastic splits; spilling toxic blue agent everywhere. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you-"

I'm frozen in place as the person continues to ramble, my worst inner fear becoming reality as they look at me, pause with a frown, and place their hand gently on my shoulder.

"Hey," Ashton Irwin begins, eyebrows furrowed in concern as my already pounding heartrate threatens to increase. "Are you okay?"

✖️