Princess and the Popstar

Every perfect summer's eating me alive

Keefe fell asleep feeling like his lips were on fire.

He woke up and once he remembered the night before, he thought his whole body had to be on fire. He was burning, aflame, alight, being consumed from the inside of his very heart, and the flames were licking every inch of him.

Stop this, he thought, You did that to get it over with. To make it disappear. Now, make it disappear.

It would not hecking disappear.

His lips were still tingling the next morning. They tingled as he walked down the hall, down the stairs, into the kitchen--

Fuck.

He was not getting over her any time soon.

She was everywhere. Everything belonged to her, everything made her dance in front of his eyes, and her imaginary hair slide through his imaginary fingers, her lips cover his again in his mind, her hands sharply pull his above his head, only to caress and curl closer and closer until he felt like his every nerve ending was aflame and--

He exhaled, sharply.

Stop. It.

You're not twelve, he told himself, sternly. That kiss was to get it out of your system. So she needs to be out of your system.

He thought back to how wonderful and nice and amazing and perfect her kisses had been and the way he'd felt when her hands had brushed through his hair.

She was most definitely not out of his system.

The kitchen was bustling.

He was down there again, in the bustling, watching people do what they needed to. Something about this place was safe, he thought to himself, as the sunlight flickered through the bright, wide windows. Something about this place was good, was full, was normal. A good normal. Not a normal you got used to over time, that you made yourself believe was normal because there was no way around it, but the feeling like you were in the right place at the right time doing the right thing with the right reason, and you were so used to it, it didn't stand out anymore.

Keefe leaned his chin on his hand, watching a girl with soft brown hair and sharp, deep blue eyes try a bite of something. Her eyes lit up, and she grinned. "That's perfect!" she said, "Keep up the good work!"

The person who had been preparing the dish grinned back, spurred on by her joy, and turned back to their cooking.

"Alright," Called out Calla, from the side of the room, as she walked in, her dark hair in thin braids today, and pulled out of her face and into a thick ponytail. "Her Majesty has passed on the menu for today's council dinner. All the councilors will be in attendance, as well as the royal family. That brings the total to 16 people, and it's a three course meal, so a total of 48 plates that need to be set, and 32 bowls. There's going to be a soup course, an entree with two sides, and then dessert. It's a little less formal than usual, but with the international ball and the people's performance approaching, it makes complete sense."

And then Calla was off, listing names and stations, things they'd have to do, and Keefe sat and watched as they moved.

In about fifteen minutes, everyone was doing something. She tapped his shoulder, gently, and he turned and looked at her. "Want to learn how to make custard?" she asked, like it was the normal thing in the world to ask someone you barely knew.

He didn't waste a second before nodding.

She told him what to do, mixing up her own pot, and telling him each step as they went. His eyes were fixed on the way she moved her hands, and the confidence that infiltrated every one of her movements. She never stopped moving, even when other people came and asked her what they ought to do, or Keefe made a face because his didn't look quite right.