status (luke hemmings)

nine

Like now, for example. After a long day of the endless mind-prodding and pruning that was rehab (although, the "lite" version, as his managers kept repeating over and over again), Luke was downright exhausted. All he wanted to do was go back to his hotel room, crawl under the covers, and go to bed.

But, of course, he couldn't. Modest! was forcing him and the rest of the band to attend some sort of social event, where he and the rest of the band had to act perky and awake and lively, unless they wanted their asses kicked harder than they already were.

Yes, Modest! had done some very nice things for him and his three best friends, including scoring them invitations to exclusive events like this.

But, at the same time, Luke couldn't help but think it was all just a huge lie. He now realized that the cons way overpowered the pros of being micro-managed to the second.

If only he'd known that earlier. Four years earlier, to be precise.

"Luke! Hey, Luke! Look over here! Luke!"

Luke froze in the middle of the sidewalk, dumbstruck. He was conflicted, because a) Modest! had always taught him to be polite and courteous to those wanting to take his picture, b) Luke by no means felt like obeying rules right now, and c) what the hell does 'polite' and 'courteous' even mean these days?

However, Luke was spared by his bandmates. They made the decision first to completely disregard the 'how to be perfect role models' speech, and simply kept walking like they couldn't see the overbearing masses of paparazzi that swarmed them.

Luke followed their lead and ignored the paparazzi and their bright lights until he reached the bands' black Range Rover, where his bandmates had piled in moments before.

All of them were there--unhappy, but there.

Michael's nose was buried in his iPhone, pouring over something on Twitter. Ashton, usually in a chipper mood, stared blankly out of the tinted window in silence. Calum appeared to be napping, sunglasses over his eyes and earbuds in his ears.

For a group of young men who had just come out of their sixth alcohol counseling session, they seemed remarkably hungover.

The Range Rover suddenly jerked over a pothole, sending Michael's iPhone flying onto the floor and Calum's sunglasses off his face and onto Luke's lap. This didn't seem to affect Ashton, though, as his attention was still to the window. Luke was too lost in thought to notice.

"Okay, that's it," Calum declared angrily, grabbing his sunglasses off of Luke. "I need a drink."

"Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you can't." Michael responded tiredly, not even making an effort to pick up his phone. "That would just make everything worse."

"Honestly, who cares?" Calum responded, rolling his eyes. "I don't. Fuck them."

"Well, if you actually mean that, you'll be out of a job and living on the street in no time." Michael rubbed his eyes, a bleary look on his face. "C'mon, it's not for forever. We're two weeks in, don't quit now."

"Yeah, and we've got that awards show tonight. Maybe there'll be drinks at that." Ashton suddenly joined the conversation, although his voice was flat and lifeless. He was usually the perkiest of the bunch, which meant that something was wrong. (Also, it was strange that Ashton knew the schedule better than Calum, the perfectionist, but that's beside the point.)