Cherry Bomb [h.s]

16

We're all extremely tired, half of us hungover as well, when we arrive at soundcheck the next day. Upon seeing us, Atticus rubs at his eyes, obviously regretting scheduling a double show in Vegas. 

"Okay everyone, get some coffee and Advil in you and sober up! We have a show in just a few hours!" He yells out to no one in particular, but I can see that he's eyeing Louis the most, wearing his sunglasses per usual. 

"Can you please be a little bit quieter until I get rid of this hangover?" Louis whines. 

"Just get rid of it quickly, please. I can't have you complaining of a headache when you're supposed to be playing very loud music." Atticus tells him. "Cherry Bomb, you're up first!" 

We manage to pull ourselves onstage and get ready to play. 

"And no interruptions this time, please," Atticus says, directing it towards Harry, "No matter how much you hate someone." 

"Oh don't worry about that, Atticus," Harry tells him, "Haven't you heard? Sunshine and I are friends now." 

"Friends?" He questions, much like I did when Harry proposed it. "I'll be surprised if that lasts even a day."

"We're ready!" I yell out to the sound tech, and he gives us the signal to begin playing. 

Sound check goes normal, and Louis actually manages to get rid of his hangover pretty quickly. 

Immediately afterwards, we all go back to the hotel, hoping to regenerate some more before the show. 

I take a shower, shaving and styling my hair in preparation for tonight. I always feel like I perform the best if I look and feel my best. Which means taking extra time to do things like plugging in a hair straightener. 

I run the hot tool over my locks, smoothing them out to be perfectly straight. There's a little bit of steam, but I'm putting faith into my heat protectant. Perhaps a little too much faith, to be honest. 

As I'm running the straightener over a section of hair, there's a sudden sharp, loud knock on my door, startling me and causing me to drop the tool. Instinctively, I grab for it and catch it. Unfortunately, though, I just happen to grab it right where the hot metal is.

"AH FUCK!" I yelp out and immediately drop the hair iron again, letting it hit the bathroom countertop. I turn my palm face up to examine it, and see the large bright red mark left there, causing a searing pain. 

I hiss in pain as I try to move the muscles in my hand, not being able to do so without making it worse. 

There's another knock on my door, and I huff loudly as I go to get it, cradling my hand as I walk over. 

And of fucking course, it's Harry. 

"What the fuck do you want?" I snap, still feeling the affects of my burn. 

"Now that's no way to greet a new friend," He says, then looks down at my hand curiously. 

"I burned it. Which is your fault, by the way." I tell him, answering the question I know he wanted to ask. I turn back around and head back towards my bathroom. 

"How is it my fault?" He asks, his voice following me as he enters my hotel room. 

"Because I accidentally dropped, and then caught, my straightening iron when you knocked on my door." I explain, running cold water over my hand, offering some relief to the burn. 

"Ah," he says, now looking over my shoulder, "It's only a first-degree. You'll be fine." 

"Gee thanks, Doctor Harold." I tell him, "What are you even doing here anyway?"