Wednesday begins as a mess.
It’s already rubbish because Louis is utterly exhausted since he had gone to bed too late once again. He’d grilled Niall as soon as he’d returned, casually demanding if Des was at the studio—he wasn’t—and gathering whatever other information he could on the situation—which was nothing—then proceeded to smoke too much, watch too much tellie with blank eyes as his mind wandered and heart beat angrily, and stuffed whatever food Niall had piled around them into his mouth.
All the while resolutely not thinking about a certain light in a certain window as a certain shadow flickered on the walls.
Thus today, through the exhaustion that mercilessly pulls on his eyelids and sinks his limbs to the floor, he has found himself late for every single course of the day. And not once has he retained an ounce of information throughout said courses, pen always uncapped but never connecting with the blank notebook page before him, because his minds keeps flicking to either one of two places:
1. His bed with its plush sheets and lonely pillows.
And
2. That certain window.
And it’s a big fucking mess.
Which only worsens when he runs into Cindy, the only person in his “The Study of Prose in Victorian Era Playwrights” course that doesn’t make him want to pour sulfuric acid into the sprinklers and set the world on fire, as he’s heading to that very course.
“Louis,” she greets with a smile, bedecked in what appears to be Hogwarts robes. Or some shit.
Louis tries not to judge her choice in attire (he likes Harry Potter, so who is he to judge?) but instincts take the wheel and he finds himself sliding disapproving eyes over her ensemble.
“Cindy,” he nods happily, but his eyes are still caught on her sleeves which are as large as church bells.
Luckily she doesn’t notice, instead grinning and asking a curious, “Where’s your gown?” while tilting her head in confusion.
Which now confuses Louis. Gown?
“What on earth are you referencing?” he asks with amusement, shouldering his bag as he walks into step beside her.
“Your academic dress. We’ve an exam today and you know the rules—have to wear your robes proper if you’re taking exams, else you’ll be asked to leave. Remember?”
And Louis shits his pants.
Because, no, he did not know they had an exam today, let alone that they had to wear rubbish bags to do so. Well, he did have a faintrecollection of such regulations, but actually putting these things into practice is another world entirely.
Without explanation or reason, Louis takes off in full sprint, in the opposite direction, throwing back a frantic “Sorry!” as he flies through the stone corridors, leaving a very perplexed Cindy in his wake.
And so Louis arrives to his first exam—in the one course that is threatening to sink him to the bottom of the academic ocean—late, academic regalia haphazardly adorned (Niall attempted to help him assemble in the mad rush, but he was in the process of eating pizza, his hands flecked in sauce and reeking of beer, so Louis spent more time shushing him away than anything) with the fear of death rattling his ribcage.
He proceeds to take the exam, attempting to answer as intelligently as his bewildered brain permits, before finishing with pained hesitance and leaving the building with a very real sense of failure.
And so it’s decided that Wednesday is utter shit.
‘At Zayn’s. Come after class’ his phone reads as he slides it out in misery.
