Louis Tomlinson slumped on the bed, exhausted. He raised his head slightly to look at his watch and groaned. Three AM in Tokyo. He looked at the alarm clock next to his bed. Seven PM. He groaned again, but louder. The jet lag was hitting him hard. His head was pounding.
Tokyo had been fun. They'd done a promotional commercial for their latest song, Story of My Life, and gone on tour across several prefectures. He loved that part of his job the most, the traveling to new places and getting to eat new foods. He was sick of eating fish, but he'd take sushi any day. Maybe he could convince his trainer to make it a permanent part of his diet instead of more grilled salmon. Louis winced as his head throbbed again angrily.
"Martha! A glass of water and some ibuprofen please," he yelled, before remembering that he'd given most of his staff the month off. Except for his bodyguards of course, which were prowling downstairs, probably stealing things out of the cupboards again. And they weren't going to wait on him. It was their job to protect him, not serve him. And nick a couple of things in the process, greedy bastards.
Whatever. Let them have the oreos he'd bought on wishful thinking. He couldn't eat most of it anyway, being on a strict 2500 calorie diet and rigorous training schedule. It was bad enough with the occasional creamy mash from Nandos. Something the label said about appearing relatable. Honestly, he wasn't too big of a fan of the place anyway. He wanted a huge steak, not more chicken. And tomorrow morning was kickboxing. He wanted to scream. I'm a celebrity, for fucks sake, can't I get a day off? A real one too. Not the super fun group vacations with the rest of the bandmates and their girlfriends. A proper sick day that he could spend watching bad movies
Twenty-two and worked to the core. Constantly high-strung and stressed. It was a wonder that he managed to keep his nose clean from the drugs constantly pushed his way. Niall Horan had a bad drinking habit that he'd managed to keep under radar from the presses.
Ah, yes, Niall. He'd laughed at him when he'd installed a panic room into Hertfordshire. Called him crazy, that the death threats were useless. He shuddered.
Stop. Don't think about it.
He still kept her spare clothes in the bottom drawer. He remembered the lace of her panties, how she used to dance with them on in the mornings with a goofy little smile and he'd thought she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen with her long brown hair and lush pink lips. He'd felt so lucky. So blessed.
She'd left. He was poisonous, marked by the limelight. It was too much for her and she'd adored the fame, up until one of his mentally deranged fans had tried to attack her. Until that had proven to be yet another lie, but he still blamed his fame for changing her.
He was sick of it. Why had he held onto her clothes like this? A year later and he was still hung up on everything. He needed to move on. This was ridiculous. She'd already moved on with someone else.
He walked downstairs to find a trash bag. It was time to do something he should have done a year ago. Jones was standing by the door with telltale chocolate around his mouth and a blank expression.
"Did you raid my oreos?" Louis asked emotionlessly, opening a cabinet. Nope, no bags here, just spices.
Jones paused before answering.
Louis sighed as he opened another cabinet.
"It's fine, I buy them mostly for you guys anyway. You know I can't eat them. Now, where the fuck does Martha keep the trash bags?"
"Cabinet next to the door on the left."
These guys know my house better than I do, and they don't even live here. The thought made him a little annoyed.
"Thanks man. Have a good night. I'm absolutely wiped, gonna hit the shower and sleep."
He poured his glass of water and swallowed his ibuprofen before going upstairs shoving her clothes into the trash bag and throwing out the pictures of her and them that had plagued him non-stop. He should have done this ages ago. It was like the ghost of her memories was finally being exorcised out of his house.
That was right. This was his house. Not theirs anymore. His. He had claimed it back. He felt good. The shower helped too. He curled up with his pillow and drifted off to sleep...
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Louis groaned and opened a single, sleep-blurred eye. His alarm said four. In the morning. Time to get up for kickboxing. He felt as though he'd just closed his eyes, and while he'd slept, someone had plucked his brains out through his ears with a pair of tweezers. He hated jet lag. It was a traveling hangover.
As he got ready, he looked for his schedule for the day. Surprisingly, it was almost empty for the next two weeks with the words "Competition Prize" written in on it. Probably another piece of promotional bullshit.
He loved singing. He loved performing. He loved the scream of the crowd, he loved that they loved him, and he hated how they felt entitled to his life because of his career. He hated the gossip mags and the lies and the inability to trust anyone new he met. He hated the greed he saw reflected in everyone's eyes, his manager, his dates, his fangirls.
Can't have one without the other I guess, he thought tiredly as he slammed the automatically-locking front door.