Disclaimer: I own literally nothing, let alone a multi-million pound franchise such as Skins.

Author's Note: I'm actually quite flattered by the reviews I've received, I can definitely see why so many people on here crave them. I'd just like to say that, where possible, I'll make everything as era-specific as possible. That means to say that major events will still happen in the right years, but music etc. will be from the decade, not necessarily the specific year. Otherwise I'd have to cut out some of the best stuff of the decade. This chapter is from Naomi's point of view and starts in the morning of the first chapter. I'm not too keen on it, but next chapter I start getting into stuff I want to write, which I'm looking forward to.

Naomi's POV

Here Comes The Sun

I love the sun. I really do. I love it whether it's baking me in my clothes or barely poking through the clouds. I miss it more every day that it's away. Now that's cleared up, the following statement has more gravitas: AT THIS PRECISE MOMENT IN TIME, I WOULD LIKE NOTHING MORE THAN FOR THE SUN TO GO AND DIE IN A DARK AND LONELY PLACE. I was looking forward to a nice lie-in this morning, I had no work, it was Saturday after all, but no. The sun, it turns out, had far more nefarious plans. And after I had done nothing but love it. At approximately half past eight it lanced it's way through a tiny chink in my heavy bedroom curtains and managed to find its way over the eiderdown and right into my face. The bastard. That act of treachery was the reason that I was currently sitting at the tiny table in our kitchen, wiping my face after missing my mouth and pressing scalding hot porridge to my cheek for the hundredth time.

"It's too early. Way too fucking early. I'm not meeting Cook for another three hours, what the hell am I supposed to do till then?" I thought to myself, also for the hundredth time. I groaned loudly to the empty kitchen and glared at the porridge as if it was withholding the answer to my woes from me. Making a snap decision, I put the porridge back in the oven after covering it with a plate and trudged back upstairs. I went to the bathroom and pushed on the door. It swung open an inch and stopped. I huffed, rolled my eyes and kicked the bottom corner, cursing my home's quirks. I tried my best to freshen up, brushing my teeth and washing my face, but by the time I was done I still felt knackered and half-asleep. I stomped back across the landing, not worried about waking my Mum. That woman could sleep through the apocalypse. Once back in my room I closed the door behind me, eyes flicking around for something to occupy my time. Not that my options were numerous. There were only three real parts to my tiny little room. My bed sat flush to the wall in the corner, underneath and parallel to the sloped part of the ceiling (the cause of many a head injury and heavily postered), opposite the window responsible for my current predicament. Next to the window and preventing the door from opening fully was a large wardrobe that, from the amount of clothing on the floor, was likely to be empty. Right in front of me, bridging the gap from the window wall to my bed was my favourite part of the room: my record player and (if I do say so myself) impressive record collection. Upon seeing that a small smile appeared on my face.

"As if I could stay pissed off when I have John, Paul, George and Ringo to keep me company" I thought, practically bouncing over to where I knew Revolver lay, sandwiched between Rubber Soul and The Kink Kontroversy. I could barely contain my glee as I set the needle on the vinyl, hearing the warm crackle as it began to spin. Slipping off my dressing gown and standing only in my nightie, I closed my eyes and stepped back into the centre of the room, tapping my foot and humming to the opening bars of Taxman. That didn't last long though. Within seconds I was bouncing and waving my arms, singing along with the Fab Four.

"It's one for you, nineteen for me! 'Cause I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman!" I yelled, thankful for my Mum's comatose sleeping, the sturdy floorboards and the fact that the curtains were closed. I think the sight of a half naked girl flailing around in her room at this time of day would have been a bit much for some. Not that I was too worried, I was in my element, adrift on a guitar.

I spent the next two hours completely lost in a whirlwind of music, sometimes dancing, sometimes singing, sometimes just sitting on my bed and nodding along. I caught sight of the time mid-spin, and stopped abruptly, deciding that I should probably get ready to go out. I turned the music down to an ambient level and slid over to my wardrobe. Examining it's contents, I fished out a summery looking polka-dot dress with a wide red belt. Picking out some clean underwear from the drawer at the base of the wardrobe and laid the lot out on my bed. Instinctively checking the curtains were still shut (I was a confident person, not an exhibitionist) I dropped my nightie to the floor and donned the ensemble. I spun round a few times, enjoying the light swish of the dress as it brushed my lower thighs.

I knelt down and reached under my bed, pushing aside yet more records and grabbed a hold a shoe box and a mirror. Balancing the mirror against the wall, I sat in front of it on the bed, careful not to knock it over with my movements. After adjusting it to the right angle, I opened the shoe box and eyed my modest make-up collection. I pulled out the mascara, eye-liner and eye-shadow necessary for the smoky, dramatic eye-look that people often complimented me on. I also retrieved some pale lip-stick after a second's deliberating. Apparently it helped emphasise my eyes. Not that I'd know, this was Effy's territory, not mine.

Ten minutes and several self-blinding incidents later I was sufficiently fabulous. I put away the mirror and war paint, stacking the records back up in front of them to hide the evidence. What? I have a reputation to maintain.

I flicked the needle arm off the record, mourning the loss of sound and switched off the player before I paced down to the cupboard under the stairs. Leaning in, I dragged out the ironing board and iron. I set the board up in the kitchen and plugged in the iron. Whilst I waited for it to heat up, I helped myself to a few spoonfuls of the lukewarm porridge from the oven. Seeing that the iron was hot, I put the bowl in the sink and set the tap on it briefly. My Mum would probably wash it up properly later. I turned back to the ironing board and stood in front of it, breathing deeply. Of all the beauty processes, this was the one I hated most. But it also yielded my favourite result. I rested my head on the board, using my left hand to push my hair away from underneath me as I used my right to pick up the iron. I took one last, deep breath and ran the iron in long strokes across my newly fanned out hair. Once that side was done I flipped over and switched the iron to my left hand. I repeated the process. I placed the iron down and took a large serving spoon from the drawer behind me. I examined my reflection in it, spotting an unruly piece of hair at the back of my head, which was quickly subdued with a brush from the iron. Satisfied that I didn't look like a banshee, I put the spoon back and stood the iron on the draining board to cool. I folded the ironing board and attempted to put it back under the stairs, giving up when it collapsed and whacked me in the head. Instead I leant it next the cupboard door, hoping my Mum would take pity on me and my clumsiness and put it away.

I glanced at the clock and blanched when I saw it read a quarter to 12.

"Shit!" I gasped. I ran back upstairs and yanked a pair of sandals from the bottom of my wardrobe and grabbed my bag from the end of my bed. I sprinted back down to the front door, making sure I had my keys and money on the way.

I flung the door open and hopped outside, slamming it shut behind me. I took a moment to run my fingers over my prize possession; a 1963 Austin Mini Cooper S in red, with a large Union Jack on the roof. I saved up for years to get it, a friend of Effy's offering it to me at a cut price and a mate of Cook's adding the Union Jack. I loved my Mini, possibly even more than my records. I sighed longingly before striding off down the road, towards Vincent Street.

By the time I arrived at the end of the street, I was in an excellent mood. My spat with the sun was over, and I was in love again. I weaved my way through the crowds that were already growing in both size and noise. I made a beeline for Keith's Place, the most unimaginatively named cafe in London, where I knew the others would be. Keith's Place was also our place, unofficially, and we met here every day, unless we had work. It was run by a distant relative of Cook's; Keith, a large, hairy man that constantly reminded (and showed) people that he lost 4 toes at El Alamein. Despite his war hero persona, he, almost openly, supplemented his business by selling drugs to his younger customers. Whether you wanted to dance all night, relax or have a religious experience, Keith would have just the drug. Of course Cook, being a relative, got a discount that came in handy when we headed out West for the night.

Cook and I had been friends since primary school. We bonded over nothing in particular and as we grew up, that bond grew stronger. Even when I passed the Eleven-Plus and he failed it, with me going to Hartley Grammar and he to the local secondary modern, we were still as close as ever. He was like the older brother I always wanted; protecting me from harm, and I was his Jiminy Cricket, reigning him in when he became out of control, which he often did.

I met Effy, Pandora and JJ at Hartley. Eff and I soon became close due to our mutual hatred of the education system. I swear we spent more time in detention or getting the cane than we did in lessons. Of course wherever Effy went, Panda went too. That girl was too happy and lively, the exact opposite of Effy's cool and calm demeanour. But, like I said, they were inseparable, and no one in our group would question it. Least of all JJ. If Eff and I were the troublemakers at school, JJ was the teacher's pet. He passed all of his O-Levels without breaking a sweat, or getting the cane once. He joined our group once Effy helped him assert himself after he was mercilessly bullied for his obsessive ways and nervous tics. Now he was part of the family, and no one would dare to harm him.

At the secondary modern, Cook met Thomas, a totally laid-back guy of Jamaican descent. Cook rescued him from a savage beating at the hands of some local kids, who despised him purely for his colour, demanding that he "Fuck off back to Timbuktu or wherever the fuck he came from". If they had taken the time to speak to him, his accent would give away the fact that he had never travelled any further than Brighton and was a London lad through and through. Cook gave the knobends a taste of their own medicine, the teachers didn't care, and introduced Thomas to the rest of us. I never understood how anyone could ever hurt someone as nice as Thomas, but the crooked scar above his left eye still served as a reminder that the world is in fact, a bloody nasty place to be.

Our group was like a family, everyone looking out for everyone else. We were the rejects from other groups, but what we had often made others jealous of our closeness. We didn't all have the same interests, or fashion styles, or musical taste, but that just gave us more to love about each other. Cook, to others, resembled a Rocker, with his Bryl-Creemed hair, leather jacket and motorbike, but we all knew that that was just an image he liked. It intimidated strangers, which appealed to him; he had no interest in hanging round with other Rockers. Thomas and JJ dressed Mod-style, with snappy suits and trilbies, which I have to say, suited them perfectly. Pandora always looked like she'd dressed in the middle of an explosion at a painter and decorators, with no two items of clothing matching. Effy changed styles periodically and often gave gender roles the finger. For the last two months she's been joining Cook in the Rocker spectrum, leather and all, which raised many a wrinkly eyebrow. I didn't really fit into any of these categories. I was just as likely to wear a plaid skirt as a mini-skirt, and I loved the fact that, with my friends, I didn't have to choose.

Shaking my head, I crossed over the street; the traffic was almost non-existent, and continued through the noisy mob. Just then I caught a snatch of Cook's throaty laugh up ahead and smiled. The crowd shifted and I glimpsed Cook spinning JJ round, laughing his head off. I giggled and snuck up behind them, grabbing Cook by the shoulders.

He whirled around. "Blondie!" he roared, unceremoniously dumping JJ on the floor. Cook advanced on me instead, and I could see his intentions.

"No!" I screeched, attempting to dodge away, but he was too quick and soon I found myself in the air, giggling like a school girl, desperately trying to keep my skirt down.

"Gaargh!" Cook grunted, over exaggerating as normal "Jesus Naomi, what the fuck have you been eating?"

I slapped him playfully, "You better put me down then, if you're not man enough to handle the weight."

He caught the glint in my eye, and cottoned on quickly. "Well in that case..." he grunted as he lifted me higher, making me squeal, "I'm not gonna put you down till you apologise"

With that he strode off into Keith's Place, lowering me slightly so that I didn't knock myself out on the door frame. JJ followed behind us, retrieving his fallen hat. Cook headed for a table at the back, near the counter, where I could see Thomas and Effy chatting slowly. They looked towards us as we drew closer.

We reached the table and Cook looked up at me expectantly. I huffed, "Fine. James Cook, I'm sorry for insulting your manhood, may I please get down?" I asked in my finest schoolgirl-in-trouble voice.

He appeared thoughtful for a second, "I dunno..." he said, slowly "I was very hurt by what you said"

"Cook, let me down you fucker!" I shouted, all formality thrown out the window. He blinked before setting me down.

"Yes m'lady, right away m'lady" he said, throwing in a mock bow. I slapped him on the chest, "Knob" I thought, with a smile on my face.

"Alright, you lot?" I greeted the others "Where's Panda?"

Effy spoke up, "Her mother dragged her away to some WI meeting in Luton, she won't be back till six".

I couldn't resist a smile at that; the thought of Pandora in a room full of sugary treats and old women was too amusing. Effy must've realised what I was thinking and smiled with me, "I know, right? It's a wonder her mother still takes her" she said, before lighting up a cigarette and leaning back.

I helped myself to a chair and looked across to the counter. It appeared as though Keith wasn't working today, instead it was Doug, a lovable yet simple bloke from the Valleys. If I was clumsy, he was a walking disaster area. I watched as he managed to head butt a saucepan that was hanging overhead, and fell back, a quiet "Oh dear" escaping his lips as he disappeared from view. I laughed, shook my head and strode towards him. I leant over the counter, looking at him on the floor.

"You okay down there, Doug?" I asked, barely containing a snort of laughter.

"Oh...hello Miss Campbell...I'm fine. How are you? What can I get for you today?" he said, standing up slowly.

I smiled, "Just two cokes please Doug, don't worry about glasses,"

"Right you are Naomi, coming up," he looked from side to side, forgetting where he kept the Coca-Cola. I rolled my eyes and pointed. "Thanks, Naomi." He chirped, scurrying over the shelf in question. He came back to me with the two glass bottles and placed them on the top, popping the lids for me, "That's one and sixpence please."

I rooted around in my bag, handing over the necessary coins, before picking up the bottles and heading back to the gang, throwing a "Thanks" over my shoulder to Doug, who was struggling with the till. I placed one bottle down in front of Effy, before sitting and taking a gulp from mine.

There was silence for a while, a comfortable one. Suddenly JJ smirked, "So Cook, how's venereal disease treating you?" Everyone laughed, except for Cook who charged towards JJ, mock fury on his face. JJ was already off, dancing between tables, shrieking like a girl. I rolled my eyes, "Things never change" I thought, turning to speak to Effy.

The conversation continued for several hours, only lulling between us briefly. It was then that I realised that I hadn't heard any music in a while, I was getting withdrawal symptoms. "Cooooook..." I whined, puppy dog eyes in place. My eyes flicked to the table and he caught on. He nodded and disappeared into the staff room behind the counter. He reappeared shortly after, lugging a radio along with him, fag still hanging loosely from his lips. He dropped it down on the table, earning a glare from Thomas, who caressed it lovingly. Cook rolled his eyes and gave the socket to Doug to plug in. He did so and the radio crackled into life. Thomas fiddled with the dial and the slow droning voice of the BBC station was replaced with Sunny Afternoon by The Kinks. I smiled, turning up the volume and thanking God for pirate radio, I don't think I handle listening the bourgeois crap on the government approved radio. "Who still listens to Bach anyway?" I thought, leaning back and letting the melody flow over me. "This is the life for me...lazing on a Sunny Afternoon."

A while later, I decided to get some fresh air. The crowds had grown considerably and the noise and heat in Keith's Place were getting to me. I gestured to Effy to join me, but she shook her head, pointing to her new bottle of coke. I shrugged, "Suit yourself." I thought, weaving my way outside. I headed over to a lamppost and leant against it, taking deep breaths. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, savouring the feel of it in my lungs, calming me.

I began to people-watch, a pastime of mine and Effy's, though she was scarily good at it, coming up with entire life stories for strangers that often weren't far from the truth. My mind drifted to the protest I had coming up, as it often did. My mother and I were going with some other CND folks to Parliament, to protest the acquisition of yet more nuclear arms from the US. The thought of it made my blood boil. It was a topic I felt very strongly about, alongside women's rights, racial equality and anti-Atlanticism. I had been a member of CND since I left school, and after that I joined every club or society that I could. I was a regular little guerrilla warrior, desperate to change something in this world, but I knew deep down that things wouldn't. No single person can change the world.

I sighed and threw my head back, resting it against the lamppost taking one last drag of my cigarette before crushing it underfoot. I stood up straight, smoothing out my dress and took the first steps towards heading back inside. I was still in people-watching mode however, and one girl in particular caught my attention. I slowed down to watch her. She was spinning round, eyes wide and a dazzling smile on her face. I guessed that she was either high as a kite or new to this whole place. From the conservative way she was dressed, I assumed that it was the latter. She glided right past me, her smile infectious, and my eyes followed her. She reminded me of a dormouse, with her thick yet tame brown hair, small stature and delightfully cute features. I was about to turn away from her and head back inside when I saw an arm reach out and snatch her from my line of sight. Before I knew what I was doing, I headed over to where I last saw her and it was then that I glimpsed Pete and his cronies frogmarching her over the to the wall. I hesitated, Pete was a nasty piece of work, I couldn't take him on, but he was terrified of Cook. Pete had once tried mugging the little old lady that lived next door to Cook and Cook had repaid him in kind by beating him within an inch of his life with his own scooter mirrors. There was no time to go back and fetch him though, so I pushed on, praying that Pete would remember my association with his nemesis. I was just going to have to wing it.

I finally made it over to them just as they ripped away her satchel. I quickly wrapped my arm around her shoulders and drew her close, placing my other arm on her attacker's chest.

"PETE, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY COUSIN!" I roared, bitch-glare focused on him. The little dormouse twisted in my embrace and looked up at me, tears in her chocolate eyes and the most grateful expression I had ever seen on her face.

"Oh."