The term begins in a bit of a flourish for the lads.
Once again, Zayn is the talk of the school after it’s announced he’s first in his class, closely followed by Liam. “Brains, beauty, and money? That’s what dreams are made of!” Louis heard one girl say the other day. It was followed by a stream of giggled assents and a brief wave of annoyance-induced nausea within him.
Because really? Wow.
Shortly after it was printed in the school newsletter—designed by Liam himself which he proudly declares every single opportunity he can—Louis had even had the disturbingly awkward shock of coming face to face with the Chancellor himself after Zayn had texted Louis to meet him near the chapel for lunch. There, amongst dead ivy and muted ancient stone standing tall in wintry white skies, was a severe-faced, tall, intimidating man with peppery charcoal hair and smooth cinnamon skin whose spirit animal was probably a piranha or a vampire.
And so, sending forth ‘Is this a fucking joke, why are you doing this to me?’ eyes to Zayn—who merely smiled peaceably back, muttering low sentences with his father—Louis walked up to the pair.
“Louis Tomlinson?” Khan Malik had asked, satiny and powerful and assessing. And fuck, this was intimidating because just one wrong move and this man could have Louis expelled. Possibly banned from the continent. He knows no limits of the rich.
“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis affirmed, shaking the man’s hand and feeling his bones compressed into diamonds by the sheer strength in the grip.
“I’ve heard excellent things about you from my son.” He released Louis’ hand, stared at him with sharp black eyes. “Are you in any of the extracurriculars here? The paper? The council? I don’t recall hearing your name.”
Well, shit. Awkward.
“Er, no,” Louis said, sliding his hands in his pockets and tucking his chin further into his patterned scarf. “I’m a bit of an observer, me.” Lie. “But I was thinking of checking out the drama club next year.” He shrugged. “Opportunities await, 'n all that.”
Khan Malik nodded, staring at him with close, unblinking eyes. “Indeed. Well, I urge you to participate. We are proud to display our brightest students—it reflects on us as a whole. There’s a reason we have our reputation, Mr. Tomlinson.”
And that was definitely a compliment and Zayn was definitely beaming proudly beside him and so Louis squeaked out a pleased, “Of course, sir, thank you,” before Zayn whisked him away for pasta and wine.
And since then, it’s been ‘Zayn Malik,’ ‘Zayn Malilk,’ ‘Zayn Malik.’
Of course, it doesn’t help that his mother’s just signed on to star in
yet another
“Lord of the Rings” film (where do they keep coming from??) bringing further attention to all that is Zayn Malik and his impressive lineage. Hoards of hygienically sound trust funders thirsty for ‘fame’ cluster around him at parties because of it, spewing forth jovial invitations to their spring homes and their banquets and their ‘this’s and their ‘that’s. They shout greetings to him as he passes in the courtyard or in the halls, they snapchat his photo whenever he’s not looking, they’ll stare at him wide-eyed, caught between reverence and judgment and…
And, to be quite frank, Louis doesn’t give a fuck about any of it. And neither does Zayn.
Because his near celebrity status is something felt by the outside only—not by those near to him—and Zayn barely bats an eye at the influxes of attention and uninvited praise. He smirks at pleasantries and breathes smoke through introductions and slithers around the masses of designer clothes silently because it’s
