The first time Louis hears the name “Zayn Malik,” he’s sat outside his first lecture hall, studiously ignoring another missed call from his mum and Niall’s fervent texts demanding the whereabouts of his guitar. (He may or may not have hidden it after he’d been woken up at the crack of dawn by a fevered rendition of a Poison solo, amp at full blast—what did that little leprechaun expect?)
Eyes glued to his phone—and why is he even on Facebook? His newsfeed only leaves him irritated—he uses every ounce of mental strength he possesses to ignore the yipping girls to the right of him, resplendent in bland personalities and Chanel. They’re essentially bedazzled hyenas.
It’s just as Louis masters the art of selective hearing that two more girls suddenly join the pack, slamming the door shut as they scuttle into the building, giggling and bumping into each other as they frantically seek their friends, Prada bags flying.
Which is excellent.
“OH MY GOD,” the girl with lanky white-blonde hair exclaims, grabbing her chest, and Louis successfully manages not to scoff, instead focusing on a picture of his cousin’s dog chasing its tail. Something he would rather be doing right now.
The sharp cheekboned brunette next to her shushes her with a giddy giggle. “Hush! What if he hears you?”
For one terrifying moment, Louis thinks they’re talking about him. But then—
“He’s not gonna hear, he’s probably on the other side of the school grounds by now!”
Thank the baby Jesus.
“Who’s ‘he’? What are you talking about?” Hyena Number One asks, clutching her iPhone in French-manicured claws.
“Zayn Malik!”
And then a series of screeches ensues. Louis is sure that, somewhere, a dog is howling. Maybe the dog in the picture.
“NO!”
“We’re not even joking!”
“Oh my god! He’s so fit!”
“He’s even better up close!”
Up close? Who the hell is this guy? Louis’ never heard of him. Even so, he’s now flicking through his newsfeed with all the ferocity of one who is very clearly eavesdropping. Oh well.
“Oh my god, did he say anything?”
“No…”
“I don’t think he talks to people.”
“He talks to the boys.”
(The boys?)
“Well, obviously.”
“But I didn’t know he went here!”
“Well, his dad’s the bloody Chancellor, what do you expect?”
Oh, well that’s interesting. Fuck.
“It’s only his first year.”
“Does he live here?”
“Yeah, he’s got rooms in the tower.”
“I thought those were for dons?”
“Not when Zayn Malik’s a student.”
Damn.
Now Louis really is curious.
So, in an act of comforting rebellion, he makes a solid promise to himself NOT to ask about Zayn Malik, and obediently waits for his lecture.
**
“Who’s Zayn Malik?” Louis asks as soon as he’s entered his flat.
(All right, so he caved, but he’s heard the damn name all day and he’s never claimed not to be nosy.)
