Spotted: Boyband Sensation Breaking Fourth Arriving Back in London
Late last night, UK boyband, Breaking Fourth, arrived back in London via Heathrow Airport after spending nearly three months completing their North American tour. The four teen heartthrobs, despite looking exhausted after a grueling nine hour flight from Chi-Town where the tour concluded, stopped to sign autographs and shake hands with their dedicated fans who gave up quite a chunk of beauty sleep for a chance to brush arms with the gorgeous internationally acclaimed popstars. While the boys will only be back home a few months to finish up their third studio album, it seems they won't wear out their welcome any time soon.
Early Bird Radio Show Interview
Interviewer: So how's it feel to be back in England again?
Cris: A bit like coming home, I suppose.
Dominic: (laughs) Someone's cheeky this morning, Cris.
Interviewer: Happy to be back, then, I take it?
Cris: Of course. England's home. I think we all may have a bit of wanderlust, but this is where our families are, our friends. Coming back home is always incredible.
Micah: Yeah, you never realize how much you miss home until you're gone. Touring's always really fun, getting to see all these new cultures and places and the fans, of course, but coming back home's always really great.
Nic:Little bittersweet, though, if we're being honest.
Benji: Yeah, yeah, got to play a bit of catch-up to readjust.
Interviewer: So, that what everyone's planning for today? Playing catch-up?
Micah: Just settling in, I think today.
Nic: Are we not going out tonight for our 'Huzzah we're homecoming'?
Micah: Oh, yeah, I quite forgot about that.
Nic: It's tradition.
Benji: I'm not quite sure that can be called a tradition yet.
Cris: No worries, Nic, when have we ever been able to resist the allure of the London club scene?
Dorian Grey II (@DorianII)
Who's this boy on my couch and where are his pants? #Iwasntthatdrunk #lostboy
Irish Rose (@rosieposie)
@DorianII pretty sure he's not mine either
Dorian Grey II (@DorianII)
Potter...what's mine isn't yours too. Don't leave your naked leftovers in my flat #myflat #mycouch #mycoffee #gohome
"You're kind of a slut."
Irial registered the words, pursed his lips and cocked his head, examining the girl whose lips they'd fallen from with a judgmental and rather thoughtful expression. He blew some cool air upon the surface of his scalding coffee—a pumpkin spice latte, his seasonal favorite, because he still hated the taste of coffee and would have ordered tea if Harry wasn't such an insufferable ass—and chose his words carefully. He wasn't particularly insulted by the sentiment, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted it spread around campus. Cocking his head and sipping the liquid, trying not to scowl, he decided on, "I'm not sure you're qualified to make that assessment. I mean, it's a bit pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?"
Rosemary Ireland, flatmate, barista, and adamant speaker of truth, raised her eyebrows at him, twirling one of her strawberry blonde ringlets around her pointer finger. They'd met first year, been stuck in a dorm together for their premiere year attending Middlesex University. She was a brutally honest American from Savannah, Georgia with deceptively sweet looks that hid both pessimism and bitchiness. Irial was flamboyant, loudmouthed, sarcastic without really bothering to hide it. Both of them were acquired tastes, and they'd gotten on so well that by the time summer had rolled around at the end of first year, they'd already found a decent flat halfway between campus and central London, setting up shop, jobs, and a chore schedule, though they were still bickering over whether joint custody of a cat was a good idea.
"No, it isn't," Rosie argued, pursing her lips and glaring at Irial who just raised his eyebrows at her, not even bothering with an innocent expression.
Harry Benton-Sterling, their adoptive third flatmate, chose that moment to plop down at their table, hands clutching his own cardboard mug of coffee, black and artificial flavorless, Irial curled up his lip while Harry just smiled at him, unbothered. Hipster freak, he really was.
"I don't sleep with every guy I meet."
"I don't sleep with every guy. I didn't sleep with Harry."
Rosie choked on her mocha, slamming the cup down on the table and hunching over. Harry blinked at Irial in disbelief, shaking his head upon seeing Irial's genuinely perplexed expression.
"What? I didn't," Irial insisted, wracking his brain for a time when he'd had any sort of sexual contact with one of his best mates beyond flinging sexual innuendos in class and sprawling across his lap during movie nights. It came to him suddenly, and he grimaced, shaking his head at the pair of them. "That shouldn't count. I was drunk."
"So was I," Harry laughed, shaking his head. "Sex is sex though."
"Ew!" Rosie squealed, "Can we stop?"
Irial and Harry shared a laugh, and Irial shook his head and brushed the wispy strands of honey colored hair from his eyes to grin at Rosie, "You brought it up, sweetheart." Rosie clucked her tongue at him and flipped him off while Harry leaned back in his seat silent, smiling, and shaking his head. "Besides, it wasn't me that let a naked law student sleep on the couch last night."
Rosie shot Harry the stink-eye, but the boy only shrugged half-heartedly and ducked his head, sipping his coffee genially, unconcerned by the topic of conversation. She sighed and turned back to Irial, "No, you were the one who fucked Peter the music major in my bed."
"My bed was otherwise occupied. It wouldn't have been gentlemanly to do him in the bathroom."
"Preferable, though," Rosie intoned, "seeing as how I don't enjoy sleeping in other people's sweat and come."
Irial narrowed his eyes on her, "Oh, look who's being cheeky today. Congratulations on not being over the top kinky. Would you like a round of applause? Flowers? Chocolates?"
"I'm not a jilted lover."
"I'd hate to think you were. Your equipment just doesn't do it for me, sweetheart, and I'd hate to think I couldn't get it up for my gorgeous flatmate. I feel like that could negatively impact our stellar relationship."
Harry scoffed, and Irial smirked even as Rosie kicked his shin under the table. He laughed, the hit barely even stinging.
"I'd hate to think I murdered mine, but I'm almost at that point," Rosie replied back with a smug smile and a roll of her eyes. Harry studied the two of them, laughing silently at their weird articulation of affection; Irial wasn't disturbed, just entertained. This is why he'd asked her to be his flatmate in the first place despite the fact that between the two of them they could make tea, Ramen noodles, and pasta, couldn't manage money for shit, and cleaned with even less skill than they had for managing their limited funds. Well...the banter and their mutual love of sexy times, parties, and pubs. She shook her head at him, "Whatever, I'm just saying, if you ever meet someone you actually like don't hook-up with him, you feel me?"
Gaping, Irial shook his head, "But...what? I mean, Harry and I get along just fine."
The way Harry narrowed his eyes said he seriously doubted that was true. Irial ignored him, because their dysfunction barely even showed up on the Richter scale..
Rosie rolled her eyes, "Ooh, one out of like a hundred punks you slept with. Seems legit." Irial smirked and nodded while Rosie just shook her head and patted Harry's hand, "My Harold just has class."
"Class? He fucked a law student in my bed and then had him sleep naked on the couch," Irial argued.
Harry looked offended, "I changed the sheets. Besides, where was Rosie supposed to sleep then?"
Irial looked between Harry and Rosie in disbelief. He loved the two of them, really, truly, just some days he had to convince himself of that. The pair were weird with each other for sure and had been ever since he'd introduced them to each other first year over English Breakfast tea and Lucky Charms after...well...after having wild drunken sex with him when attending his first rave. It went beyond co-dependency and spending a ridiculous amount of time together; the pair shared the same bed at least five days out of the week, swapped clothes as if it was all one closet, and ate off each other's plates despite Rosie being one of the biggest germ-o-phobes Irial'd ever met. It was a tad bit unnatural. At first he'd simply assumed they were sleeping together until he'd found Harry hooking up with a blonde fashion major during a party with the drama students, now he kind of wished they would just to put his mind at ease and center his world again. He'd really appreciate it.
He chose not to say that it made a helluva lot more sense for Rosie to have slept on the couch than it was for Harry to kick out his one night stand and change the sheets just so Rosie could sleep in a bed...with Harry. He didn't, though, because the pair of them were not normal people, wouldn't get it, and he didn't have the energy to explain civilized human rationale to the pair of them today.
Rolling his eyes, Irial replied, "Your Harold just realized my awesomeness was too much to part with and chose to bask in its glow via friendship instead of anything serious. Isn't that right Potter dear?"
Harry snorted and remarked flatly, "Of course, Irial, I'm sure that's what it was."
Irial waved a hand imperiously while Rosie just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and he smirked at her. Rosie shifted in her seat and took another sip of her coffee, releasing a long sigh and eyeing the door coldly, stopping what would have been a customer from prancing into the coffee shop with just a single glance. She turned her attention back to Irial, "Why are you in my coffee shop again?"
"I work here too, darling," Irial replied while Rosie eyed him disbelieving. He glared at her, contrary to popular belief Irial was a good employee, scatterbrained, yes, outspoken, for sure, but he did his job, did it well, and entertained customers at the same time. People came back to see him and be around him; Irial didn't quite get his so-called 'magnetism' but certainly embraced it seeing as how it had saved his ass from being fired many times before. He let the insult go, though, and continued, whipping out his phone, "I got an invite! E-vite? Whatever."
Rosie's eyes widened dramatically, and she put a hand over her heart, "Oh honey, it only took twenty years but you finally got invited to someone's birthday party!"
Blinking at her, Irial stared at her dryly while she snickered, "You know, you're not funny sometimes."
"I am."
"You're not," Irial shot back with a broad smile and a smug one-shoulder shrug. "It's alright though. You have me here to pick up the slack."
"You?"
"Me!" Irial grinned and waved his hand dismissively, "But let's not talk about how fantastic I am. Let's talk about how fantastic me got invited to the party of the century at Club Deccord in London."
Harry scowled, "Posh."
"Slag," Irial retorted before pausing to think about that one, reevaluating and correcting himself by saying, "Hipster slag."
"That's not insulting," Harry pointed out. "That's true."
"You got invited to a party at one of the most upscale, elitist clubs in London? By who?"
"Morgan McCallum," Irial smirked, taking another sip of his latte and wagging his eyebrows at Rosie. "He follows me on Twitter."
Rosie nodded in understanding, "So Dorian got invited to a party at Club Deccord. I get it now."
Irial cocked his head at her, "I feel like I'm being insulted, but I'm too excited to really care. You're coming, yes?"
"I hate clubs," Rosie sulked even as Harry mirrored Irial in rolling his eyes at her. So she said, all the time. Irial got it, he really did, since he hated crowds and people and the sickly sweet smell of pot that usually accompanied such endeavors. However, he loved being the center of attention at parties, working people and the room, hooking up and drinking and dancing to music. The pros outweighed the cons every time.
"Yeah, but you like booze," Irial replied patiently.
"You make me sound like a drunk. I'm not."
She wasn't. And neither was Irial, contrary to popular belief. They both had hedonistic streaks in them, though.
"And dancing. And dating. And actually being able to twerk to Kesha without judgment," Irial continued.
Rosie hummed thoughtfully before shrugging, "Alright, I'm in, but I'm letting you know right now, if I wake up to find naked boy on my couch again, I'll be pissed. And this one isn't getting coffee and Advil either. He'll be fending for himself in the cold air of September in London with or without his pants."
Irial grinned and raised his cup in agreement, "Cheers, sweetheart."