written in ink » c.h.

iv

Calum had wanted to text you as soon as you had exited the balcony, but he had some thread of self-restraint; he'd wait until the next morning to shoot a message your way. But the morning came and went. It was well into the afternoon (and after much deliberating, contemplating, and careful choosing of his words) by the time he actually hit send and set down his phone, nervously waiting for you to text him back.

When the screen lit up his phone was in his hand in an instant, a giggle bubbling from his lips as he read what you had typed. Before he knew what he was doing, he had composed a text and was pressing send.

That first text had released a floodgate and in a matter of hours, the two of you had delved from pleasant conversation to just sent memes and reaction images back and forth to one another, essentially trying to out-meme the other person.

"Who are you texting and why are they more important than me?" Michael asked as he jumped onto Calum's bed, face-planting into the white comforter. "I asked you if you wanted to play video games and hour ago and you never responded."

"I'm not texting anybody," Calum defended, snorting to cover up his laughter at the picture you had just sent him.

"Not texting anybody, huh?" he asked, starting to crawl up towards Calum. "That means you're texting a girl."

"What?" Calum glanced up at him. "No. Definitely not."

"Definitely not? You must be texting a cute girl, then." He heaved himself up next to Calum and tried to look at his phone, but Calum his whole body away from him; Michael just followed him, leaning so he was on top of Calum. "Is it the girl from the party? She was pretty cute. If it's her tell her she's cute but you have to go because your best friend is forcing you to play video games because you can't just sit around texting cute girls all day. Do it or I'm going to take your phone and send her all your bad selfies I have saved."

"You wouldn't."

"Do it," Michael said, using Calum as leverage to reach out to grab Calum's phone. "Do it or she's gonna get some 2011 Calum!"

"No!" Calum yelled, holding his phone just out of Michael's reach. "Don't you dare!"

+ + +

"Wow," you said, putting a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh that wanted to escape your lips, "nice get-up."

"It's an international superstar original," Calum said, spinning around to show off his outfit of his typical black Converse, black skinny jeans, plain sweatshirt, sunglasses, and a hat with a pug embroidered on the front of it before taking a seat in the chair across from you.

Somewhere between the jumble of texts and obnoxious memes, Calum had invited you to lunch with him. Apparently he was going to be leaving London in a couple days - heading to L.A., with the rest of his band - and didn't want to miss out on the opportunity to actually hang out with you. So the two of you agreed to meet at a tiny café, one tucked away from any main streets with heavy sidewalk traffic try to postpone the inevitable of him being recognized by a passerby (or paparazzi, which would be utterly terrible).

"Well, international superstar, wearing both a hat and sunglasses is suspicious. You look like you're trying too hard to disguise yourself." You reached across the table, pulling the hat from his head and planting it on your own. "There, now you're inconspicuous."

He grinned as he picked up his menu and you readjusted the pug hat, smiling back at him.

"I was thinking breakfast food," you said after a moment, picking at the edge of your menu; you'd arrived earlier than he had, so you'd had time to look at the food option already. "Waffles, specifically, with fruit topping. Whip cream optional."

He set down his menu. "I like the way you think. Waffles it is."

So when the waitress came out to take your orders - and after she had a mini freak-out because she recognized Calum - the two of you ordered waffles, getting strawberry topping on his and blueberry topping on yours, as well as ordering a hot chocolate for yourself.

+ + +

"You know," you commented as you brought your hot chocolate down from your lips, licking at the whip cream that you surely knew was on your lips. "I'd totally fly to LA, if it meant you buying me breakfast for lunch."

"Oh, I see," he said, feigning annoyance as he stabbed a strawberry with his fork, "you only love me because I buy you breakfast."

"You're right," you sighed dramatically. "I do only love you because you buy me breakfast. In fact, it's the only thing holding this friendship together."

"Wow, I cannot believe this - uh, you got a little..." he trailed off, making a small gesture to his lip with his finger.

Apparently you didn't get all of the whipped cream like you had thought; you ran your tongue over your lips. "Did I get it?"

"No, it's -" He reached across the table, brushing his thumb against your upper lip to collect the whipped cream that you had missed. He wiped his finger on his napkin when he pulled his hand back and you noticed the sudden flush of his face. He cleared his throat, "um, so... which of your poems is your favorite?"

You rolled your eyes and leaned back in your chair, poking at the blueberries on your plate, which causing the air to lighten considerably. "People always ask that. It's like if someone asks you which song of yours is your favorite. But if I had to choose, I'd pick night life. But beautiful is a close second, and veins and melt / harden are definitely in my top five."

"Beautiful is my favorite," he said, cutting one of his strawberries in half with his fork. "You know, I could probably recite it from memory, I've read it so many times."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm being serious! It's really my favorite one. I love it so much, in fact, I think I'm going to get it tattooed on my ass. Not even in a decorative pattern, just flat out tattooed on my ass cheek."

"Ohmygod," you mumbled, choking back a laugh. "You sure know how to woo a girl."

"Woo a girl?" he asked.

"This..." you started, "this is a date, isn't it?" He just stared at you, dumbfounded; your face felt hot all of a sudden. "Oh my god, this isn't a date - I totally misinterpreted the situation."

"It can be a date..." he said, hesitantly creeping his fingers around the table, intertwining his fingertips with yours, "if you want it to be?"

3�5��.#