chapter 1

Day 1: Beginning

Well, one boy band is certainly bringing the new year in with a bang – or several each, from the look of the night. Unfortunately, pulling on the job is frowned upon, so I was left regrettably lonely, drunk, and horny this evening. This is just the beginning of the emotional and sexual blight I expect suffer during this year as personal reporter and consort to that boy band from hell, Hi5. The band, I may remind you readers, that I specifically DID NOT WANT to cover in any capacity, let alone a comprehensive one. (If you are wondering, this IS directed at you, Greg. I hate you. You’re just the absolute worst. We aren’t speaking any longer, and there certainly won’t be a repeat of the events at last year’s Halloween party. Bastard.)

Louis needs a pen. His mental first draft of his blog post is actually rather brilliant, and he knows he’s too drunk to remember tomorrow morning when he’s typing it up.

Except maybe he should cut all the material in the parentheses. Greg is the one giving him an impressive paycheck for this assignment. Louis knows he deserves it; he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take it without, and no one else was stupid enough to do it at all. Nobody but the rookie reporter who’s a little desperate for cash.

365 days with the world’s biggest boy band. He’ll eat with them, drink with them, travel on their first world tour with them. He would be surprised if Greg wants him to keep track of their shits and sleep cycles.

Fuck.

Louis knocks back another whiskey. His thought are altogether too serious and coherent for eleven forty on New Year’s Eve. There must be someone in this crushing throng of people who’s gay and up for a quick fuck.

Actually, come to think of it, there probably isn’t. This party was thrown by a couple of the band members – the bland one and the blond one, Louis thinks. It’s full of groupies, B-list British musicians, and people from their management company. Nobody looking for anonymous sex, especially with a reporter. And he can’t even go home early.

Fucking pop stars.

He hates his job.

“Can I buy you a drink?” a deep voice says in his ear.

For a fraction of a second, Louis lets himself hope he’s wrong. Then he turns to look and recognizes the lad. It’s the young one from the band, the one that’s all hair and no brain.

Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s an open bar,” he informs him coldly.

The youngster doesn’t give up. “Right,” he smiles nervously. “Well could I get you one?”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” Louis half turns away, trying to be dismissive, but the young one doesn’t move. He stays right there, hovering and fussing with his bracelets anxiously. “Can I help you?” Louis asks after another couple minutes.

“I’m trying to be friendly,” the kid says, biting his lip. “You’re our reporter, right? You’re coming with us everywhere this year?”

“Don’t remind me,” Louis mumbles grumpily. “Can I get another whiskey?” he asks the barman. He waits for it and then drinks half in one sip. The pop star is just watching him. “You’re still here?” Louis says.

“I’m just trying to be friendly,” he repeats quieter, almost too soft to hear.

Louis finishes his drink. “What do you want me to write about you?” he says flatly. “Just tell me. I don’t want to do this cat and mouse, yeah?”

“What?”

“You expect me to believe you came over here without any ulterior motive?” Louis arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

The kid looks at him, wide-eyed. “Really.”

“Right. Okay.” Louis rolls his eyes. “Nice to meet you.”

“My name’s Harry.”

As if Louis cares. “Yeah, well, nice to meet you, Harry. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other very well. Another drink,” he orders. He can’t remember if this is his fourth or fifth.

“Are you gay?” Harry blurts.

Louis glares at him. “Why is that any of your business?”

Harry has flushed a deep pink. “I’m sorry.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I am.” Louis gives Harry a sharp look. “Why? You gonna tell everyone about how your gay personal reporter is drooling all over you?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head, hair swishing all over.

“Good, ‘cause it’s not fucking true.”

“Okay.”

Louis ignores him for another minute, but Harry obnoxiously doesn’t go anywhere. “What, are you just gonna stand here, then?” he asks. “With this whole party thrown for you?”

“I dunno.”

Louis sighs from deep in his stomach. “Jesus. I can see the heading; Hi4 out of Hi5; the ratio of band members who are having a proper night to those being weird. And the number of thumbs down I give this party.” The last half is said into his whiskey glass. He feels like a drunk, a grumpy old drunk. And that only makes him more grumpy.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Don’t remember asking for your opinion, pop star.” Haz tries to smile, but Louis shoots him a glare. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Have I offended you?” Harry asks.

“I’m not here to be involved. I’m here to observe,” Louis says dutifully. Greg would be proud; he’s only said that in every email for the past three months.

“Okay… but that’s not an answer.”

Louis intends to mock Harry’s voice but ends up sounding drunk. “Shut up,” he says instead. “Stop being stupid. Go snog Rita Ora or something, it’s almost midnight and I’ve got better places to be.” A white lie.

“I don’t want to.” Pop star sounds pouty.

“Well what the fuck am I s’posed to write about your night, then?” Louis sighs. “’Pop star spent his night chatting to the only reporter in the room and not snogging anyone because he’s awkward as hell.’ Yeah. Greg will love that. Not exactly exposé material.”

“You’re doing an exposé?”

“Well. I’m doing an exclusive, so they expect something shocking,” Louis mumbles into his glass. “He’d better not send me fucking apology flowers or some shit. Dick.”

Harry tries to laugh, but he seems a little bit shell-shocked. “Is there anyone you like?” he asks.

“Excuse you,” Louis says sharply. “I like a lot of people. None of those people are vain, shallow, spoiled, obscenely rich, one-dimensional, auto-tuned pop stars who wear stupid fucking bracelets like they’re in grade eight.” He slams his glass down and pushes through the crowd.

Fucking pop stars.

He’s supposed to report on who they kiss at midnight, so he has to linger. He finds a spot on the stairs where he can look down on the mass of people. He spots the virtuous one with his irrationally hot girlfriend – no prize for guessing who he’ll be kissing. The moody one is also with his girlfriend, both of them indie and probably too cool for stupid traditions like this. The blond is already making out with somebody. He can’t find the bland one – his eyes are probably just skipping over him. And then, Harry.

The name’s ironic, Louis thinks. Because of the hair, he explains to himself.

He’s too drunk.

Just before midnight, he finds Harry, sitting off to one side almost directly across from him. As Louis watches, he picks at his bracelets, throws them onto the ground and crosses his arms tightly. A second later, he picks them back up, and puts them in his pockets. As midnight strikes and everyone else goes mental, Harry just wipes at his eyes and hangs his head.

For some reason, that sticks with Louis in the morning. He’s feeling just a little more sympathetic after a night of sleep, so he isn’t too harsh. One member of the band had a tamer night, and by tame I mean boring. While the other Hi4 were living up to their name, he was wandering about trying to cheer people up. Whether or not he was genuine I’ll leave up to you. All I’ve got to say is Hairy Styles indeed. That boy needs a trim before mourning doves take roost.

364 days till Bye5. Wish me luck. The way things look, I’ll need it.

 

 

Day 8: Worst

Not much to report. Been a week of boring and uneventful meetings. I did my best not to fall asleep in my seat, just in case something fun happened, but no such luck. Best I can do is this tidbit; there is, in fact, part of the contract that says they can’t always pick their own clothes. You heard it here first; those disgustingly tight jeans were possibly not Hairy’s idea.

 Rumour has it that I’ll get to sit in on some recording sessions soon, so hopefully I’ll earn my paycheck then. I suppose in the meantime, I can do an in-depth examination of their debut album. I pray to God it doesn’t come to that.

Louis looks up from his phone at a loud giggle. The bland one is cackling, showing his phone to the other lads. Louis looks back down – for being so famous, these are four of the stupidest boys in the world. It’s probably a penis joke. He’s just glad Harry isn’t here, with his raucous guffaw. Louis has a headache this morning; he sips his tea and prays for guidance.

He’s not sure why he’s praying. Probably the headache.

His phone buzzes then, with a twitter update from the young one himself. Louis is annoyed; he was forced to follow all five boys for an immersive experience. He looks, though, because last he remembers, Harry was going to the bathroom, and if he’s instagraming his shit, that’s definitely blog-worthy.

It’s a series of tweets, actually. They’re all awful, misspelled, crude, and either scatological, homosexual, or plain old sexual in nature. About a dozen in a row, and then as Louis refreshes the page to look for more, they disappear.

Louis is confused. At least he was right about the penis jokes, he figures.

The moody one is shaking his head. “C’mon,” he says. “He’ll be deep in the shit for this.”

“It’s already gone,” the bland one scoffs.

Moody is not amused. “Act your age, man,” he says, then actually gets up and moves over to Louis’ empty side of the room.

“Hey,” Louis says after a moment. “What’s that about?”

The moody one looks up at him and shit he’s the got the best eyes when he isn’t frowning. Louis is suddenly uncomfortable not knowing his name. “They give Harry shit,” he says after a moment. “Steal his phone and tweet shit from his account to get him in trouble with management. Just.” He shrugs. “Juvenile. And Aiden’s the oldest.”

“How old?”

“Twenty.”

Louis feels slightly bad for hating the whole band. Maybe this one is cool. “Zayn, right?” he says, and Moody nods. “Does it happen a lot?”

“I dunno. I guess not, but it’d be less annoying if it wasn’t always Aiden doing it always to Harry. So.” Zayn gives him a long look. “You gonna write about this on that blog?”

“No,” Louis shrugs. “Not really a story. Just gossip.” Observe, he reminds himself. Do not get involved. Even if the bland one is obnoxious.

Zayn nods, though. “Right, okay. You’re not gonna be like that, then? You’re here to do it proper, not to make us look like horny twats?”

Louis snorts. “Well. Not if that’s not what you are.”

Zayn actually laughs then, and shifts in his seat so he’s facing Louis more. “You’re Louis?” he asks. “What’s your deal?”

“I’m twenty, I’m a freelance journalist, this is my first real paying gig, and I’m sorry – I kind of begged for any other band besides yours.” Louis makes a face. “Just to put it all out there.”

“Too good for bubblegum pop?” Zayn smirks.

“Nah. Too good for anything my little sisters like.”

They’re funny together. Louis discovers that Zayn has sisters too. They have a very nice, low-key chat for a little, and Louis makes a mental note to be nicer to Zayn in his posts.

Harry comes back after a couple of minutes. Louis looks up, expecting someone interesting, and accidentally catches how Harry seems surprised that he’s talking to Zayn. He hesitates in the door before coming over towards them.

“Missing your phone?” Zayn says, deadpan.

Harry checks his pockets, blushes and stumbles, trying to look everywhere at once for it. “Um, does one of you have my phone?” he asks the other boys. One of them throws it at his head; Haz ducks, and instead it hits Louis in the shoulder. It looks like Harry’s about to cry. “Sorry,” he says quickly.

Louis gives him a long, suspicious look. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Keep better track of your shit.” He hands Harry the phone and goes back to his blog post. He thinks he’ll add something about the childish antics he just saw, but can’t quite figure out what to say. Something about the oldest acting youngest, he thinks, but he’s not sure.

“So are you guys friends?” Harry asks after a moment. Nervously, he sits on the floor in front of Zayn’s chair.

Louis and Zayn exchange exasperated looks. “Is this the playground?” Louis asks patiently. “Are we six year olds?”

Harry blushes and busies himself staring at his phone. “Sorry.”

Zayn laughs, ruffling Harry’s hair. “I’d say you’re at least seven,” he says.

Harry hunches his shoulders and scrolls through something on his phone. “Did I tweet something?” he frowns.

“Aiden,” Zayn says flatly.

Louis watches Harry glance across the room and flush dark again. “Was it bad?” he asks softly.

“No. Couldn’t pass for you.” Zayn sounds disinterested, but Louis catches the look he gives Harry, casually concerned. “You should really lock that thing,” he offers after a moment. “Set a password. Not your birthday.”

“How?” Harry asks.

“In the settings, it’s an option.”

Louis decides to speak up after a while. “So you guys prank each other? That’s blog-worthy.”

“Yeah,” Harry says quickly. “Like…”

After a long pause, Louis rolls his eyes and looks to Zayn. “Like?”

“Niall told Liam he was giving him non-alcoholic beer, but it wasn’t and Liam got pissed, which he never does,” Zayn says. “Ummmm… Aiden switched the door handles on everyone’s dressing rooms and we were stuck in there for a couple hours. I convinced them there was such thing as dope that wouldn’t get you high, that was funny.”

“I could do a prank of the week type thing,” Louis considers.

Zayn shrugs and texts somebody. Harry seems eager to give his approval, though. “That sounds fun,” he says. “You could video me pranking someone.”

“Video you? Why you?” Louis frowns. “Are you a big pranker?”

“No,” Zayn snorts.

“Yeah,” Harry tries to claim.

“Name once when you have,” Zayn challenges.

“I wore Niall’s boxers.”

Louis laughs and Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, on accident. That’s not a prank,” he informs Harry. “That’s being disorganized.”

Louis wonders if Harry ever will stop blushing. He’s half inclined to think it’s endearing if the kid wasn’t so obnoxiously clueless. It’s obvious he’s the youngest, and it’s almost painful to watch him stumble through human interaction.

He tries not to be too harsh with Zayn in his final draft, but he doesn’t hold back with the rest. While one member, at least, seems to have a slightly reasonable (and well-groomed) head on his shoulders, the others are universally dumbasses. So, par for the course for teenage boys. Stay tuned for more specific updates.

353 days till Bye5 (or 51 weeks. Hope they all don’t drag like this one did.)

Day 22: Fun!

Recording today! As long as I don’t say a word, I’m allowed in the booth, so temporary radio silence from me. Find a way to survive without my dulcet tones, kids, and I promise I’ll find some interesting shit to fill you in on.

Louis looks up when he hears what sounds like an argument. “Look,” the bland one is saying. “Just let me sing it once, to see if I do it better.”

Harry is embarrassed but strangely upset, too. “No,” he says doggedly. “This is my part. I want to sing it.”

“Don’t be selfish,” the goody-two-shoes tells Harry. “Let him try.”

“Yeah, just once,” the blond one chimes in.

Harry gives in. The bland one tries it. They all agree he sings it better than Harry. Harry looks mutinous, so Louis excuses himself. He spends a minute in the bathroom, hoping to avoid the argument he’s sure will happen. He sits on a closed toilet and texts his sister – he’s been meaning to let her know he’s alright anyways.

As he’s standing, someone else comes in, slamming the door shut behind them. Louis freezes and listens. Whoever it is starts crying.

Louis can’t just stand here like a weirdo. He flushes the toilet and comes out very nonchalant, not looking at Harry. Calmly, he washes his hands and dries them. Then, he gives Harry a tiny glance. He’s crying still, tears dripping down his face and he’s staring at Louis with something like fascination, but more delicate. He doesn’t say anything until Louis speaks first.

“Rough in there,” Louis says for lack of anything better.

Harry wipes his eyes but new tears fall just as fast. “Yeah.”

“This is a one-time deal,” Louis warns, then opens his arms.

Harry is stunned for a second, but then he comes and lets Louis hug him, cuddling into his arms. Louis locks his arms around the kid’s thin shoulders and doesn’t complain that he’s getting his shirt damp and snotty. When he’s ready to let go, he pats Harry’s back until he backs off.

Harry’s eyes are still bright with tears. “Did he sound better?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

Harry tries to act like that doesn’t hurt him; he nods and sniffs and wipes his face off, but he’s crying hard again. “Right,” he says. “I need to stop being such an immature dick.”

“It’s just like, two lines in a song,” Louis shrugs.

“But I don’t have a lot to sing already,” Harry says, like he can’t help himself. “If he can sing everything better, than why doesn’t he sing on his own?”

Louis’ reporter instincts prick up. “Does he want to do that?”

Harry gives him a surprisingly sharp look. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “He’s…” He can’t seem to find a way to finish that. He changes the subject. “I took off the bracelets.”

Louis frowns, annoyance kicking back in. “So?”

Harry looks down. “Right. Okay. Sorry.”

Louis leaves. He sits back in his chair and pulls his legs up in the seat. When Harry comes back, Louis avoids his eyes and pretends to be very interested in the weather app on his iPhone.

Of course he feel bad about Harry crying; he’d feel bad about anybody crying. It’s not a big deal. The kid cries at everything, anyways. Or so Louis assumes; he doesn’t really know. He seems like a crier. It doesn’t mean Harry’s right, though. The bland one can really sing.

Something feels weird, though, so he isn’t quite as harsh as he could be in the post that night. Here’s a surprising fact; the lads really care about their music. A couple were in tears today, and not in a stupid way. I’m not saying I respect any of them (yet) but they’re slowly convincing me to give them another chance. Don’t tell my sisters.

343 until Bye5. Might not be horrendous.