Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He stares down at his algebra homework—this is algebra isn’t it? Maybe it’s geometry. Has he ended up in that pre-calculus class his mum had threatened him with during class sign up last year?

Oh, no.

He is.

What has he done to deserve this?!

Why are there so many numbers?!

What’s a parabo—Hold on… this is algebra… maybe... possibly…?

He slams his face against his desk, paying no attention to his table partner—a cute little blonde girl with a fake flower crown woven into her hair— because she can squeak all she likes but his distress over his wellbeing definitely runs deeper than her distress over his wellbeing.

“Um.. Louis?” she says timidly. She sounds like Fluttershy, and if anyone ever asks Louis why he can make that comparison it can be entirely attributed to the life of a boy with four sisters. “Are you… are you okay?”

“Yeh,” Louis grunts into the fake wood panelling of the desk. “Just do me a favour,” he sniffs, sitting up and grabbing his backpack. He puts it on the table and pushes his face into it. “Smother me.”

She gasps. She’s so innocent. So nice and so lovely. Makes Louis sick.

“Go on. Don’t be shy. Go on and put an end to my sad life.”

Sarah Loveheart (Yeah, Loveheart. Even her last name for god’s sake) rubs Louis’ back awkwardly and picks up his pencil, filling in the last few problems for him just before the bell rings.

Louis sighs and lifts his head out of his backpack, feeling so not dead it makes him want to rip the flowers out of her hair. Of course he won’t because she could very well kick his arse, but it’s always the thought that gets him through carrying on in this mediocre world.

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles as he passes her by to get the fuq out of there. What even is algebra?

Louis sniffles to himself, not really crying but playing on his feelings of self-pity. He isn’t even a smart nerd. What point is there to live if he can’t do simple math? Then again, what point is there to die if he can’t figure out how to write a suicide note on his calculator?

He guides himself down the hallway, allows himself a pitiful glance at the indie-jock-hipster-peoplewholistentoLilWayneandstilldotheCupidShuffle crowd aka the Zayn-Liam-Harry-Niall pack. They’re so cool that they don’t need to be smart. Sadly, Louis will never be so smart that he doesn’t need to be cool. He’ll just be that gay kid who had to kiss a girl onstage and wears TOMS because he’s a faggot.

They all wear things like leather and letterman jackets and boots and Adidas and Nike: just do shit. They all probably have massive popular kid orgies and make out with dudes and don’t get shit for it because they’re at the top of the food chain. If this was a food pyramid, however, they’d be at the bottom because they’re the most important. They are whole wheat. Louis is fats and carbohydrates. He’s that pointy bit at the top symbolic of awkward boners. He’s the last bitch piece the slaves had to haul all the way up in the sweltering heat not because it was important but because it was fucking pointy.

And of course right at that moment of wistful glancing Zayn Baguette Malik and his little troop of dinner rolls just had to look up long enough to laugh at Louis’ pathetic existence.

Louis steps over the kid who’s just fallen face first in the middle of the hallway. He doesn’t stop to help pick up the kid’s papers because Louis has enough problems in his life right now what with the object of his mortal desires laughing at him.

“Louis! Louis!”

Louis groans as the squeaky voice of his younger sister follows him down the hallway. As if he wasn’t subject to enough ridicule and social degradation, he just had to be associated with lowerclassmen (lowerclasswomen?).

“Louis!” she pants, having finally caught up to him. Being in track really helped with hurdling over that poor boy in the floor. “Louis, I’ve got to…” She holds up a finger while she catches her breath. “Mum just…” Okay, maybe she’s a little more excited than overexerted. Maybe she’ll hyperventilate. Maybe Louis will temporarily only have three sisters. Oh, the joy.

“Cousin… Aisling… here.”

And now it makes sense why Lottie is making him late to his next class and also dying but mostly making him late to his next class.

You know the phrase shit hits the fan? Well, it should be Aisling hits the fan because Cousin Aisling is literal shit in the wind—no. Shit in the hurricane. The only good she brings is a constant distraction for the girls so Louis can wallow without someone braiding his too-long hair. (What point is there in getting it cut if life is still a thing?)

Louis stares at Lottie, waiting for her to walk away. And she does. After she hugs him, embrace unreturned because who does she think Louis is? He’s in the middle of an existential crisis; he can’t be expected to spend his energy hugging at a time like this. He’s barely got any in the first place, either from this spiralling galaxy of depression or from routinely lying in bed with a box of pizza.

He sighs deeply. This is his life.

[][][][]

At around five, Louis finally climbs up the steps to the backdoor of his house. Just on the other side of that eight-centimetre thick piece of wood is hell and all its demons—and Satan.

But Felicite is only six, so maybe he should wait until she’s older to declare her the Lord of All Evil (even if she is that now).

Grudgingly, Louis twists the brass knob and winces as the sound of screaming girls hits him like a wall of giggling, squealing, murderous cement.

“I hate my life,” he says simply as he witnesses the destruction and chaos currently taking place in the Tomlinson residence.

For starters, there’s flour everywhere. In the floor. Across the counters. On a sticky hand going into a toddler’s mouth. Felicite is chasing Lottie around the room, clapping her powder-covered hands over her sister’s hair and giggling maniacally as the older screams in displeasure. (See? Satan.) The other toddler is just throwing the flour on herself, up in the air like a shower of cocaine. And last but not least, there’s the twenty-two year old fool head-banging (with terrible technique he might add) to a screamo version of My Love by Justin Timberlake.

Her shaggy black hair whips flour around as the twin on the counter (Louis’ not quite sure which one it is—he definitely knows it’s either Daisy or Phoebe) cries his name in joy and makes grabby hands at him. The white-dusted face, belonging to the one who’s far too old to be doing this, crunches up into a devious smile at the sight of her only sane cousin.

“Louis.”

“No.” Louis starts to back out of the door again, fleeing the advances of his cracked cousin. She honestly looks like she’s about to eat his heart. She can just go ahead and put those arms down because Louis is not having any of that. Not in a box with a fox. Not with a mouse in a house. He will not hug her, not for shit. He does not like that crazy bitch.

“No,” he repeats more urgently, honestly fearing for his life.

“Louis, I fucking missed you!”

And fuck everything. Fuck the world. Fuck the stars. Fuck the sky. Fuck the ocean. Fuck every little grain of sand. Fuck’m in the arse, Sam-I-Am.

Her gross, powdery arms fly around Louis, trapping him as she bounces and squeals. In the arse.

“You’ve gotten so—” Of course, she has to pause and reconsider what she was going to say. Big is not exactly the word she would use; he’s still pretty short. “… Your hair is so long!”

‘Among other things,’ he thinks, but he doesn’t tell her that because it’s still his cousin, and he’d rather use his words to say something like, “Stop touching me.”

“Aww. S’little Louis got his knickers in a twist?” She coos over him and pulls him the rest of the way into the house.

Louis grumbles something around the lines of “I literally hate everything,” and it’s not so much to Aisling as it is to whatever higher being is doing this to him.  He twists out of her grip, all sluggish and apathetically like he doesn’t really want to choke on a stray Lego (even though he does), then drags himself up to his room.

But of course, Aisling can’t take a hint and follows him asking all these stupid questions. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘What’s wrong, Louis?’ “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I am not discussing my doomed fate with you, okay?” Louis rolls in his bed and stares at the wall, too deep in his hole of misery to be bothered about the flour rubbing all over his sheets. It’ll be a little bit of everywhere for the next few months anyway.

He hears the creaking of his desk chair being sat in—his desk chair which he never even uses because his desk is piled with clothes and papers and half-eaten candies. Gross, he knows; he just doesn’t care. He remembers that at some point he meant to‘put the clothes away in a few minutes’ or ‘sort the papers after school’ or ‘finish the treat tomorrow’. But that’s just Louis Tomlinson, isn’t it? Making promises to be a better person and making promises to keep those promises—mentally swearing to himself tomorrow will be the start of something new— then putting it off because he’s just too something to get the job done: hot, cold, tired, sad, hungry, busy (being not busy), short (in his defence that bookshelf is far too high to actually use without dying), too Louis.

Louis is a procrastinator. And pathetic. And he knows that. And he accepts that. But he doesn’t like that.

He wants to be one of those people who not only wakes up before the arse crack of dawn (his first alarm is set for 4:28 every morning (he sets nine)), but also gets out of bed (without all of them going off before he even considers moving) in time to shower and fix his hair and eat a good meal and brush his teeth and not have to run to his mother’s car in his boxers and attempt to dress on the way to school in a car full of screaming little girls.

Louis wants to be that guy who perfects a scale model of La Pietà for his Art History project (Zayn) and gets track & field recognised on the morning announcements for the first time in years (Liam) and pulls anyone even though he changes his gender preference every five seconds (Harry). He wants to be that guy who started an impromptu flash mob to Cupid Shuffle featuring the entirety of Lunch B. How did Niall even fucking do that?!

Louis lets out a huff of frustration because he can’t even get his sisters to clap their hands when they’re happy and they know it.

“C’mon, Lou. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” he snaps, flopping onto his back and giving her a nice, hard glare. Aisling will never understand. She may be up to her frickin neck in batshitcrazy, but she’s attractive at least. With energy like hers, she could probably perform plastic surgery on herself in the morning and jog twice around the neighbourhood before she’d even think about taking a rest. Then again, she probably has to compensate in looks for her mental instability so that men will put up with her.

“All depressed and stuff.” Her brown eyes flicker down then back up with this sympathetic look that just infuriates Louis because how dare she feel sorry for him! He’s pathetic. He knows. He doesn’t need another person telling him he’d feel better if he’d just do something when he knows himself better than to imagine he’d do any fucking thing at this point. He’s so goddamn over it. He’s done trying. He’ll eat and breathe and sleep and age in this same room until he rots with a Staples nametag on his chest.

“Well pardon me for having an existential crisis. I didn’t exactly ask for you to involve yourself in my plethora of shitastic emotions, did I? No, and I don’t particularly appreciate that misguided look of sympathy either, but by all means continue to stare at me like I’m an Olympic swimmer turned paraplegic. There is no greater f-”

“Oh my god, Louis. Shut. Up.”

Louis’ mouth snaps shut, and he glowers at her. How dare she interrupt the externalisation of his sorrows- the exposition of his burdens- the expression of his grie-

She returns his scowl with a roll of the eyes and the beginnings of a fond smile. “You are the most dramatic person I have ever met in my entire life, Louis, you.”

He gasps, offended. He is not dramatic. “I am not dramatic.”

“You are dramatic,” Aisling nods slowly.

“I’m not arguing with you about this. I possess this body and inhabit this mind therefore I shall decide what I am and what I am not.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“Get out of my room.”

“Alright,” she sighs, a sly grin hiding in the corners of her mouth.

Louis notices this along with the fact that that was way too easy. Aisling never goes down without a fight. He still remembers both their dads trying to restrain her as his mother pressed her jaw open and Aisling’s mother attempted to pour cough medicine in her mouth. In the end, their parents gave up and put NyQuil in her PB&J, which scares Louis because (1) that’s such bad parenting, and (2) he did not have to drug her to get her cooperation.

That crazy bitch is up to something.

But he’s already comfortable so…

[][][][]

“WAKE UP, LOUIS, AND GET DRESSED!”

Louis groans into his pillow. This is not how he wants to start his day: with Ashley… Asha… Ashhh… Aisling! Aisling screaming into his ear like a fucking banshee. It’s too early to be thinking about names. He pulls the blanket over his head to muffle her grating voice and block out the sunlight.

sunlight.

s u n l i g h t…

Louis shoots straight up in bed, frantically searching his bed for that dinosaur of a phone he still uses. He grabs it and flips it open with a cry of distress because it is eight-forty, which translates to so fucking late for school.

“Why didn’t you go off?! You stupid piece of shit,” Louis throws it down on the bed and scrambles over to his closet.

“Aren’t you going to shower?”

He starts, one leg in his last-resort sweats, and topples over into a pile of clothes on the floor. “Why are you in my room? Shit.” He wrestles his other leg in the over-sized, heather monstrosity, then switches his night shirt for this terrible, striped mess his mother had bought him last year. It’s tight and stupid-looking but he hasn’t got anything else, so….

“I’m going to be so fucking late,” he mutters under his breath, rushing on deodorant and a beanie and what else does he need…? Oh, right! Glasses.

“No, you’re not.”

Louis freezes mid-wiggle, tangled in the grey of his jacket. “What do you mean?”

“We’re going out today!” she exclaims as she throws her hands in the air.

His face goes blank. “What?”

“Shopping!”

“What.”

“Makeover time!”

“What.”

“Yea!”

“NO.”

Aisling’s excited smile never fades. It actually grows. Her eyes get huge with a manic glint in them, and oh look there’s that eat your heart face again. “Yes. We’re going to go shopping and cut your hair so you don’t look like a willow tree and then I’m going to teach you how to put in those contacts I know you have. I know you have them, Louis. I know.”

“But I have school-”

“And I handled that already.”

“But-”

“I have money too.”

“Don’t use your money on me,” Louis moans, shouldering his backpack.

“It’s not my money. It’s Daddy’s money. He told me I should like get some new clothes or something… something about my sneakers?… I don’t know, but I’m definitely not giving up my darling babies for an afternoon of unsweetened tea with people I don’t even like.”

“Why must you do this to me?”

“Cos we both know you won’t do it yourself,” she smirks, effectively shutting Louis up.

He realises now that this may be the shooting star of opportunity he’s been waiting for. A blessing disguised as Aisling. It’s fate lending him a hand, a sign at the fork in the road pointing to the path he’s destined for. This is in the will of the universe.

“Can you maybe continue your melodramatic inner monologue in the car please? We only have eight hours.”

Louis grumbles at her, but still follows her down the dirt path toward his city of diamonds.

“Clothes are first,” Aisling notifies Louis as they walk through the shopping centre. She stops suddenly and trails behind him… checking him out?

“What are you doing?” Louis hands go to cover his bum, but she swats them away. Then (because she obviously wants Louis to die of embarrassment) she pulls the fabric of his loose sweatpants tight across his backside and hums in critique despite his squawks of ‘being incested please anyone god help me’.

“Well, I can’t very well gage your figure if it’s all covered up. We need to find clothes that flatter you. Starting with Blue Banana. Don’t even argue. Just go.”

“But emo people scare me,” Louis whines as they turn into the store, picking his pants out of his butt— a little too loudly apparently because the guy unboxing shirts glares at him the way that makes him afraid of people with septum piercings.

“Bro, you need to learn the difference between emo and punk.” She leads a steadily whinging Louis over to the racks of coloured skinny jeans.

“Why are we even in here?”

“To get you trousers for that lovely Louis lump.”

Louis groans while Aisling laughs and holds out some ugly teal thing. Louis thinks it may possibly be an article of clothing, but it just doesn’t look like it should be worn… ever.

“What the hell do you want me to do with these?” he sniffs disparagingly, pinching at the fabric to find it doesn’t give at all. How is he even supposed to get them on? His butt is roughly the size of a 747, give or take a few centimetres.

“I want you to put them on. Along with these (red), and these (navy), and these (purple), and these (burgundy). Fuck, you’ve got try these, Lou.”  The jeans hit Louis in flying flashes of colours he would never have considered acceptable. (Doesn’t consider acceptable.) He’s barely got enough room from being pelted in the face with ugly to see the vertically-striped star-spangled atrocities she’s ogling.

Seeing those… those transgressions against fashion makes him question the universe’s judgement for a moment. Only a moment. He prefers not to be struck down even though he’s also getting real tired of this bullshit. The powers of destiny could have chosen any person on the planet besides Aisling. They literally had seven billion other options.

But no.

Of course not.

“Ruin Louis’ life,” they say.

“It’ll be fun,” they say.

“No the hell I don’t,” he replies tenaciously. “I’ll try on these pretentious douchebag skinny jeans in any tacky colour you chuck at my head, but I draw the line at stars and stripes. I’m not the American fucking flag. I’d rather choke on a red, white, and blue dildo.”

“You know those are the colours of the UK’s flag as well… right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Now who’s being a pervy little incest…errrr?”

Louis stares at the evil cotton/spandex (Candex? Spotton?) contraption, trying to wrap his head around the idea once more that his thighs are supposed to fit into those holes. And what about after that? Where does his butt go? There’s no room for all the junk in his trunk.

“I don’t hear you getting naked!”

Louis grumbles for her to shut up and drops his sweats. Leaning against the wall for support, he worms his feet through the little openings then stops for a breath. He’s already winded. Maybe he has asthma, or his arteries are clogged with despair. With a burst of determination (because if not now then when?), Louis grabs the waistband and hauls them over his precious bits.

It’s actually a lot easier than he expected. Huh.

But he does have to suck in his gut to button them, and that’s irritating. Also irritating, there’s no mirror so he has to actually face the music and show Aisling to get an opinion. As far as the fit goes, it makes him feel both ridiculous and sexy at the same time. He wants to hate it, but he never thought about compacting his fat arse in tight clothes to make himself look smaller. Louis centres himself with a breath prior to leaving the stall.

“Oh my holy Jesus,” is the only thing he hears before he’s yanked around in a circle and slapped on places he doesn’t like to be slapped, not even as a kink. “Sweet damn, just holy fuck, okay.”

Was that a compliment? Aisling was obviously referring to Louis’ bottom, so maybe the pants didn’t help as much as he felt they did. Maybe they made it look bigger. “Is it that big?” Louis whines, suddenly uncomfortable in the skinny jeans.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t wan-”

“Oh, but you’re going to. Louis Marie Tomlinson, you got da nicest booty I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Marie?”

“Shut up. It works for you.. like these jeans. Fuck, Lou. If you weren’t sixteen and gay and my cousin…”

Louis turns around with a scowl on his face. He really doesn’t need her freaky shit right now. Not only is his bum reminiscent of the dome at St. Peter’s Basilica in these tighty tight tight things (he’s run out of names to mock skinny jeans), but he’ll have to worry about people seeing his Eiffel Tower as well. He’d rather them not.

“I don’t want them. No matter how ginormous they make my arse look.”

“I don’t care. You’re getting them.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at Aisling hoping to get his resolution across with a little attitude, but she just folds her arms and pops her hip out inviting him to challenge her. He lets the look fall and sighs. Whining always works sometimes. His voice is so fucking annoying that maybe he can get her to ditch him if he just whines a lot. “But people will see my boners.”

“Not they won’t. If you wear these, everyone will be walking behind you.” Aisling winks suggestively and pushes Louis back into the stall.

She said clothes were first.

What’s second?

[][][][]

Louis grumbles curses under his breath as he hauls around six giant bags full of skinny jeans and striped shirts (because nothing could possibly make him look gayer than he already does). Now he owns a pair of nurse shoes and ten fucking pairs of suspenders. Yes, suspenders. He’s going to split his crotch in half one day.

“Next, is hair. You need a haircut. And styling tips. You look like a weeping willow,” she informs him, steering him toward some salon with colour splats all over the window and a giant pair of scissors above it. Louis doesn’t like getting his hair done. He’s always too small to fit in the washing basin comfortably so he has a giant crick in his neck while the stylist burns him with the hairdryer and tries to rip all his hair out with a little comb.

The bell above the door jingles when it’s opened.

The place is done up sort of modern with a lot of geometrical shapes in black with splashes of colour here and there. It looks trendy, but not like Louis’ mum’s salon. It’s more teenager-ish and reeks of hair bleach and dry shampoo rather than fancy conditioners and hairspray.

“Leslie!” Aisling calls out, and oh fuck no. Leslie is Aisling’s partner in crime/ possible lesbian lover. Louis’s never been sure about the last one. They touch a lot though. Then, again Louis never touches anybody so his perception of affection is warped.

“Aishy!”

“Lesbo!”

“Fuck you.”

“Point proven.”

The two girls clash in a violent embrace, yelling something about bitches. Louis doesn’t care enough to listen. All he’s trying to do is slowly retreat out of the salon before Thing 1 and Thing 2 gangbang his mental health. He’s got his back on the door and his eyes on the back of Aisling’s head. He’s so close to being safe. He just has to push-

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

Louis jolts a half-step forward from the door. Knowing Aisling, she’d follow through on that threat.

“Louis Nicole Tomlinson…” Louis groans as Leslie’s big purple lips smirk around his name. (Except that’s not his name. Why’s everyone calling him girl names?) “What the fuck is that on your head?” Coming from the girl with a parrot on her head. There are so many bright colours spiked up in some weird girl version of a fauxhawk.

“Parrot?!” she squawks indignantly.

“Don’t listen to him,” Aisling interjects, cutting off Louis’ probably irrelevant comeback. “He’s doesn’t know how to interact with other human beings. I’ll translate for him. We’re here to help him move on. He got rejected from The Beatles.” She whispers the last part theatrically, motioning to his overgrown bowl cut. It actually used to be just really short, but his hair’s grown out like his mother had shaped it with kitchen scissors.

Louis tries to keep his expression stoic. He shall not dignify her with a gasp even though that was really fucking rude. Louis has feelings, you know.

Leslie laughs and directs Louis to where he can set all the shopping bags. “What did you have in mind?”

“Umm… remember when he was fourteen?”

“Yeah, and his forehead was so fucking huge like his bitchy little ego?”

“Yes!”

Louis can’t help but scowl at that one while Aisling jumps up and down and claps her hands.

“Just keep that shit covered!”

“True fucking dat, babe. Whatever you want.” Leslie yanks Louis over to a washing basin and pushes his hair off his forehead. She then proceeds to cackle loudly as she begins washing his hair.

“And you wonder why I have self-image problems,” Louis calls to Aisling.

[][][][]

Louis walks out of the salon in a daze, partially from sitting deathly still (lest he have his ear burned or cut off) for two hours and also from Holy shit did I just spend that much on my hair? His hair looks good and all (it looks fucking great), but damn. Don’t people usually get a best friend discount with these kinds of things?

“Louis, shit, move some part of your face. You’re not blinking and it’s creepy.”

“Three hundred pounds? You just spent three hundred fucking pounds?... On my hair?! What the hell, Aisling?! What… the hell?” Louis’ arms jostle the bags around as he waves them distraitly.

“You’re going to stand outside the next time I pay.”

“No! There’s not going to be a next time! This is outrageous! You need help.”

Aisling whips around on the sidewalk, and she looks about fucking done with his whining and complaining. “Shut up. Jesus Christ, I’m not the one who needs help. You need help. That’s what I’m trying to fucking do but you can’t just let me. No, of course not. You’ve got to act a goddamn diva the entire time. If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘Sorry I’m a little bitch I’ll fucking shut up now’, I’m going to make you deep throat a fucking cactus! Am I very clear?!”

Louis nods quickly, his blue eyes blown with fear.

“Great. Now we’re going to get you more TOMS because they’re really fucking cute on you. Keep up.” With that, Aisling spins back around and marches off down the street.

“Auntie Jay! We’re home!” Aisling calls out.

Louis’ mum should be home still. She usually doesn’t leave for work until four in the afternoon. Then she has the neighbours watch the girls until Louis gets home. It’s only about two now.

“Oh goodie! I can’t wait to see!” she yells back from the top level, dropping something heavy on the floor. Her excited footsteps pound across the ceiling like Lottie’s when Waliyha’s at the door. She stops on the middle of the stairs, a hand held to her chest and this look on her face like she’s so proud of him. Louis doesn’t know what for though. For letting his cousin spend at least a thousand pounds on making him look attractive?

“My handsome baby…” she whines, coving her mouth. Louis thinks he sees tears starting to form. Was he really that ugly before? Does the contrast really induce tears?

Well damn.

That’s mildly insulting.

His mother finishes down the stairs and holds her arms out. “I know you don’t hug, but come on. Humour me.” She wriggles her fingers cutely and expectantly, so Louis has no other choice but to sigh and give in, wrapping his arms around her loosely.

“Was I really that ugly?” Louis mumbles into her neck. Seriously, though. She almost cried. Her eyes got misty.

“No!” His mum pulls back and grabs his face and levels their eyes. “It’s just…” She sniffles mid-sentence. “… my little Louis booey bear is growing up!” she wails, constricting Louis in a deathly tight hug as she cries.

Awkwardly, Louis raises his hands to rub at her arms while discreetly trying to pull them away from his neck. It’d be a shame for him to asphyxiate when Aisling just shit out a bank for him.

“Aww! Auntie Jay!” Aisling cries with her, turning this two-sided whatever into a group hug.

Fuck me, Louis groans in his head, disgruntled.

Fuck me, Louis groans in his head, desperately. He peeks through a crack in the door to the empty teacher’s lounge. Just down the corridor, almost out of sight, is Zayn Malik and also his friends but mostly Zayn Malik.

He swears by the stars in the sky, by the moon and the sun, by air and life and death and existence that Zayn Malik was made to wear leather jackets. He just was. He looks so fucking hot, Louis wants to put his dick in his shoe.

...Ignore that. Louis doesn’t know what he wants. He can’t think straight with that piece of molten hot caramel fogging up the hallway with his tasty pheromones.

Suddenly the door flings back into Louis’ face.

“Holy shit,” he cries, falling backwards onto his arse. He grabs at his forehead, wincing.

“What the he- Tomlinson! What are you doing in here?!”

“My face,” he moans in response. Thank god he doesn’t have to answer that question right now. Broken brains is a good enough subject change.

His maths teacher looks him up and down then steps to the side. “This is staff only. Please leave.”

“But my face.”

“Do I look like a nurse? Go to the infirmary if your face hurts.”

The bulky man, who also doubles as the wrestling coach, yanks Louis up by his elbow and thrusts him into the hallway. The door closes, then opens again as Louis’ backpack flies out to join him on the floor.

“Fuckin prick,” Louis mutters, sitting up.

“You alright?” a deep voice sounds above Louis, which causes his eyes to pop open. He’s looking at some stupid Converse shoes printed like the Union Jack. Either it’s a really manly woman or a guy with the fashion sense of a thirteen year old wannabe punk. Louis’ eyes slowly trail up the overly tight denim skinny jeans to a matching Union Jack belt buckle then a white polo shirt. Louis is judging this guy so hard. But then he sees his face.