written in ink » c.h.

iii

Calum - for the life of him - couldn't remember why he was at this party (even though he had been told multiple times by several different people what the party was for, why they had to go, and no, they couldn't back out of it) and was starting to think it was the worst party he had ever attended in his life.

For starters, he was wearing a suit. A suit. He hadn't worn a suit since- since- since...okay, he didn't remember the last time he wore a suit, but it must've been a hell of a long time ago if he didn't remember, right? Then there was the fact that there was absolutely no music play at all - actually, there might have been, but it was completely inaudible above the sound of people talking. And the main room (ballroom? it certainly seemed big enough to be one) was hot as balls. It wasn't just because he was in a suit and those things were goddamn warm, it was because there were a fuckton of people just meandering around the ballroom, just mingling and talking and laughing and just making the room way warmer than it should be.

But at least there was alcohol.

He'd already had two glass of champagne and had to chase down one of the men walking around with glasses on platters in order to get a third one; he thought that maybe with alcohol in his system he would loosen up, be more comfortable at the worse party he had ever attended in his life. But boy, was he wrong. It only made him feel a little buzzed and feeling way too warm in his suit.

"I'll be right back," he told Michael, who had been leaning against the wall next to him with his own flute of champagne as they watched their bandmates talk with the party guests, Ashton on the receiving end of giggles as he gave some girls a dimpled smile and Luke demanding the man who had said he was a magician do the trick again because he didn't believe he could do the trick twice in a row.

"Alright," Michael mumbled back, eyes on the magician that Luke was egging on.

Calum tugged at the collar of his button down shirt as he skirted around the edge of the room, towards the wall of windows he had passed by earlier while chasing down alcohol; there had been a set of doors off to one side of the windows and anyone with even the barest deduction skills could deduce that it led to a balcony. He quietly slipped through the glass doors and sighed happily at the cold air that greeted him once he was outside.

But little did he know, he had walked onto a balcony that was already occupied.

+ + +

You were sitting in the shadows, the part of the balcony that was hidden from view from inside the ballroom with your shoes discarded in front of you, the shiny fabric of your dress pooled around you. You'd snuck away from the party - your party - ten minutes ago, escaping the clutches of your publicist by lying and saying that you had to go the bathroom. So when he pushed the door open, you had assumed that the person coming through the door was your publicist coming to get you, so in a desperate attempt to stay hidden you put your phone up against your chest to hide the light coming from it. But it hadn't been your publicist; no, it had been man in a suit. The man in the suit who clearly thought that he was alone on the balcony as he leaned up against the railing and stared out into the London skyline.

"Hey," you said and he jumped, almost dropping his flute of champagne over the edge of the railing. That made a laugh bubble up from your lips. "What, you thought you were the only one out here?"

"I, uh - yeah," he said, the hand that had been tugging at the collar of his shirt moving to scratch at the back of his neck. "So..." he drawled, "what're you doin' put here?"

"Avoiding the party," you told him, finally pulling your phone away from your chest; he had interrupted your looking through the tag that was your name on Tumblr. People always posted interesting art there, so you peaked into it every once in a while, occasionally stumbling on conspiracy theories that you were actually John Green using a pen name. (And sometimes, you went onto people's blogs and anonymously told them blatant information about yourself under the guise of just making up theories, just to see what people's reactions would be.)

"Same," he sighed, leaning back against the balcony railing. "Parties that don't have solo cups and dance music aren't really my scene."

"Same," you sighed back, but sounding exasperated. You liked parties where you were just another person in the London club scene, able to party without people shaking your hand and telling you how much they loved your poetry when they were only saying that because they had been invited to the book launch party of your second book. "I hate dressing up." You picked at the fabric of your dress. "I mean this dress is pretty, but that doesn't mean I want to wear it for hours."

He groaned and nodded in agreement, taking a sip from his glass. "I feel like I'm dying in this thing," he said, motioning to himself.

"Don't get me started on my shoes, okay. I'm going to have blisters for days."

"At least there's alcohol," he mused, sliding down the railing so he was sitting across from you.

"At least there's alcohol," you repeated before you picked up your empty champagne flute from the ground next to you and leaned forward, clinking it with his.

+ + +

Thanks to your suit-clad stranger-turned acquaintance-turned friend, your ten minutes spent avoiding your publisher had turned into an hour. You were surprised that you publicist hadn't busted onto the balcony and dragged you back into the party. Maybe she had texted you? Called you, left seven voicemails in increasingly angry tones? You were afraid to check your phone, if you were being honest; it had been abandoned when your conversational topic had changed from there being alcohol at the party to the worst parties you had ever attended.

You decided it was high time that you get back to the party, lest your publicist actually kill you; you pulled a Sharpie marker out of the top of your dress (which earned a confused look from him, but you had learned to be prepared in all situations) and reached for his hand, scribbling your phone number onto the palm of his hand.

"I should probably get back to the party," you said as you shoved the Sharpie back into your dress, pulling your shoes back on. "But it was nice talking to you, and we should definitely continue this conversation later, okay?"

"Okay," he mumbled as he looked down at his hand, looking back up at you as your heels clicked against the balcony.

"Bye, Calum," you said as your hand hovered on the glass door, ready to pull it open and re-enter the party.

"Wait -" he said, his hand unintentionally shooting out in front of him as if he could stop you from puling the door open. "You know who I am?"

You grinned. "Well, duh. You're Calum Hood, bassist for 5 Seconds of Summer. Honestly, with how popular you guys are, how could I not know who you were?"

"But," he started, but was at a loss for words until he sputtered out, "who are you?"

"Y/N," you said, and a dumbfounded look spread across his face, "poet, author of From the Heart, host of this absolutely terrible party. Now, I need to go, or my publicist is going to murder me on the spot." You pulled open the door and stepped through it, telling him, "text me", before the door shut behind you and rejoining the crowd inside.

And that left him to put his head in his hands and whisper, "holy fucking shit."