Chapter Text
Oct. 8th, 1999
London
There has never been a time, Jamal thinks, when he has ever felt so strongly for someone as he does for the boy sitting directly in front of him. Even though the boy was asleep, and his face half-buried in the navy blue blazer of their school uniform, he still looked gorgeous. From his sharp jawline to the long, smooth slope of his nose, down to his full lips and wide brown eyes—currently shut due to his somnolent state. His hand, which had been loosely gripping a mechanical pencil, finally slackened, and the pencil dropped to the ground. It rolled until it stopped near Jamal’s red Converses.
Jamal liked to think these small little moments were signs from some divine power, encouraging him to go after what he wanted. He stared down at the pencil for a long time, imagining the numerous possibilities. He looked around for a moment before discreetly leaning down. Jamal pretended to go for his shoelaces (which were already knotted in a perfect bow) but instead grasped the fallen pencil. He brought it back up to his desk, feeling his heart beat a little faster in his chest at the thought.
Maybe…today was going to be his day. Maybe he would finally do something about his embarrassingly major crush on Jobe Bellingham.
Jamal began to lean over, his hand a bit shaky as his pointer finger aimed itself at the taller boy’s shoulder. He would just have to take that first step, that little leap of faith—
“Mr. Bellingham!” A loud, firm voice had Jamal freezing.
Their teacher, Mrs. Flemmings, stood at the front of the room with her arms placed on her hips in agitation. There was a tense moment of silence as all the kids in the class slowly turned to watch the sleeping boy.
Jobe let out a soft snort in his sleep. Some students giggled, and Jamal’s heart stuttered at the sound. Subconsciously, he gripped the pencil in his hand a little tighter.
Mrs. Flemmings, obviously not amused, cleared her throat and repeated even louder, “Mr. Bellingham!”
Jobe’s eyes opened slowly, his long eyelashes fluttering as he sat up in his chair with a yawn.
“Sleeping in my class again? After I warned you what would happen next time if you did?” She challenged him, an irritated eyebrow raised.
Jobe just shrugged, speaking through another sleepy yawn. “Sorry, Miss. Your voice just makes it so easy.”
More snickers arose from the students around them, and Jamal bit his lip to hide his amusement. Mrs. Flemmings let out an offended scoff and snapped her fingers towards the door.
“Headmaster’s office, now!”
Jobe, ever unfazed and indifferent, just turned in his seat to start collecting his things—which wasn’t a hard task to do, seeing as he blacked out five minutes into their class session. He looked around for something, though, a slight crease of confusion on his forehead. His pencil. Jamal’s heart jumped in his chest again; his brain kept chanting at him that this was his moment.
He opened his mouth, the words ‘Here, you dropped your pencil,’ on the tip of his tongue. But before he could even utter the words, Jobe turned away. He slung his bag across his chest and walked out of the classroom without another word.
Jamal let out a soft, disappointed sigh, accepting his defeat. Who was he kidding? He was always a nervous wreck when it came to talking to him; why would he think this time would be any different?
There was no way Jobe Bellingham would like someone like him, anyway. He wasn’t nearly as high on the social ladder as he was. Jamal liked to study in the library, while Jobe preferred smoking with some sketchy guys at the school gates. Jamal loved spending his Friday nights listening to his favorite Michael Jackson tape and humming along to the words on his Walkman—it was soothing and comfortable. Jobe was more of a thrill-seeker; he was wild and unpredictable at times, which made him a hot commodity in school.
They were two different kinds of people, so completely opposite in personality, yet Jamal still liked him so much. He sighed again to himself, wondering if the divine powers above were enjoying his emotional torment.
Or maybe, they were just as exasperated as he was.
Jamal slid the pencil into one of the small pouches in his bag and continued listening to the teacher.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
Michael stood leaning against the wall, staring blankly down at the linoleum floor as the group of kids around him talked about their vacation plans for the holiday break. It was all vacations in Ibiza, ski cabins in the Alps, or shopping trips in Paris and Milan with this crowd. They were your stereotypical, pretentious rich kids, living off the nepotism of their wealthy parents and thriving at being at the top of the school’s social ladder.
Now, he would be a blatant hypocrite if he said he didn’t experience those same privileges—his family made more money than any of these kids’ families combined. Michael was the top of the top; sole heir to the Olise Engineering Corporation. He was popular for his good looks, quick wit, and money. A perfect dream for some, and the sole envy of others. One would think someone like him would be satisfied with his life; he practically had everything served to him on a silver platter. He was destined to be his father’s successor, which meant that he would have to follow his father’s every whim. After all, Michael knew nothing in life came for free. Everything had a price to it, and the price for his luxurious, easy life was his own dreams and ambitions. But he was never really bothered by that.
Michael was simply just bored.
When everything was laid out for you almost on a day-to-day basis, it all became mundane and predictable. Every day, he would get ready and eat breakfast in their vast dining room with his parents. His mother would ask him how his studies were going; he would always give a vague answer, and his father would update him on the happenings of their family’s company. Every day, he would get into a pristine Mercedes-Benz, and his driver, Vincent, would take him to school. Every day, he would stare at the same achromatic buildings through his tinted windows, and every day he would meet up with these people, always dressed in the latest designer. It was only clothes, trips, and parties with this type of crowd. Never anything substantial, never anything interesting.
His gaze caught on a gray windbreaker. Compared to the luxury brands Michael is used to—he opted for a crisp Ralph Lauren navy blazer and white dress shirt instead of the school’s standard, cheap ones—this shouldn’t have held his attention. In fact, if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have given them a second thought. But it was Jobe Bellingham, zipping his windbreaker over his uniform as he made his way down the hall.
One of the girls in their group—he thinks her name is Lindsay?—smirked as she eyed him. “He’s so hot, a shame he has no real future.”
She said it boldly, with the intent to be overheard. Her friends giggled obnoxiously at her comment, and Michael tried not to roll his eyes. Jobe did hear her, and he looked her dead in the eyes with a stare so fierce that it felt like a vortex, threatening to suck you in.
Lindsay shifted uncomfortably, clutching her Chanel purse a little tighter to her body. None of them were brave enough to make eye-contact any more, except for Michael. He kept his eyes only on Jobe as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed lazily over his chest. Eventually, Jobe met his gaze, and it was like they were locked in a standstill. Michael refused to break contact, arching an eyebrow in challenge. The taller boy shamelessly looked him up and down, a slight smirk curling at the edge of his lips, before he turned away. Breaking their silent battle.
Lindsay waited until he was a good distance away before she scoffed.
“Criminal,” she spat out the insult as if it were poison, and the others meekly agreed.
A small, amused smile twitched at the edges of Michael’s lips. Now, Jobe Bellingham wasn’t boring. He was very interesting to Michael. A breath of fresh air in his otherwise banal life.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
Jobe never did go to the headmaster’s office.
He waltzed out of the front entry and hopped over the school gate, not even breaking a sweat. He pulled a lighter and the cigarette box out of his trousers and leaned against the gate as he lit it up. He inhaled the warm smoke, staring emptily at the gloomy London sky.
Silence was never his thing; his life was always filled with loud, disruptive noises, and he quite liked it that way. Because of his attraction to disruption, trouble had a way of finding him no matter where he went. He blew out a plume of smoke, and then wiped his eyes, still trying to shake off the rest of his grogginess. He had a very rough night last night; it was a miracle he even got up in the morning to go to class.
A shadow appeared from his right, growing longer and larger until he felt its owner’s presence right behind him. It made the hair on his arms rise.
There was a light snort, and then a deep voice said. “Figures, I knew I would find you out here.”
Speaking of trouble…
Jobe took another drag, before twisting his neck to face the newcomer—a shorter man with chestnut skin and a high-top fade. He grinned at him, flashing his pearly whites, which would seem warm and charming to some, but he knew better.
“What is it, Carney?” Jobe asked, his voice a little hoarse from not speaking for so long. Well, that plus the smoking.
Carney shoved his hands into the pockets of his own windbreaker. It was getting cold now, and Jobe mentally noted that he had a good excuse for walking around in one now. It would look less suspicious.
“Boss wants to see you tonight. He’s got another job for you.”
Jobe sighed. “I just finished one last night. It’s too soon—the coppers will start to catch on, you know.”
“Not if you do it right.”
Jobe shot him a pointed glare.
Carney only smiled wider. “You’re not working the streets this time, anyway. You’ll meet some clients at the party on Friday.”
Jobe arched an eyebrow. “Who are they?”
“Can’t tell you that, client confidentiality and all that. Just show up around ten; don’t be late.” Carney’s gaze moved from Jobe to the cigarette between his fingers. “Those things will kill you, you know.”
“Careful there, it almost sounded like you cared about my well-being.” He took another drag and purposely blew it in Carney’s direction. “Would be a silly thing to do, given our profession.”
Carney rolled his eyes, but gave a small nod of farewell before turning and walking back towards the school. Jobe took one last drag, the smoke igniting an effusive sensation in his lungs. He didn’t know why, but his mind replayed a clip of Michael Olise staring him down unabashedly. His wide, doll-like eyes completely devoid of any fear. It was like he wanted him to do something about it.
Jobe thought it was kind of cute.
He huffed a short laugh to himself, shaking his head. Olise was always a strange one; he was probably the richest guy in school but never really flaunted it. He preferred to stick to the background, and it made him seem out of place with those other pretentious kids he hung around. What was the point of doing that when he clearly didn’t care for any of them?
Jobe checked his watch and dropped the bud on the ground so he could stomp it out. He would have to save the mystery of Olise for another time; he had places to be. He stood straight up, stretching his joints and rolling out his neck, before heading off.