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What do I do, what do I do

With a love that won't sit still

Or do as it's told?

2

It‟s six o‟clock in the morning, and Louis‟ cat is on his face.

This, Louis thinks, is probably a metaphor for the state of his life.

Perhaps. He‟s not up to contemplating it further yet. He hasn‟t even had

his tea.

“Off,” he says, the sound muffled by a mouthful of fur. He rolls over

and dumps Duchess onto the floor, and she makes an unhappy noise as

she slinks out of his room, probably to go throw up in his shoes out of

spite.

Right. First day of the term, then. Starting the year off with cat hair in

his mouth.

He hauls himself out of bed and puts a kettle on, almost tripping over

the stack of books and scripts by his bedroom door before he finds his

glasses. He should really finish going through all that shit eventually.

They‟ve been piling up for almost a year now, odds and ends that he

always means to get around to but never does. Zayn calls it his bird‟s

nest. Zayn can fuck off, really.

It‟s been a boring summer, like the one before it and the one before

that. He read a book. He bought a new set of bath towels. He spent

three days marathoning trashy American reality television on his laptop

and getting food delivered to his flat. He definitely did not get asked on

any dates.

3

He leans against his kitchen counter and stares at his collection of

mismatched mugs and tries not to think too hard about it.

He turns the shower on and leaves it running as he makes his tea,

having learned years ago how to arrange his morning routine around

the ten minutes it takes for the dodgy water heater in his building to

kick in. He‟s lived here ever since he moved to Manchester when he

was twenty-two, and it‟s full of the last three years of his life, the

curtains from his mum and the programmes on his bookshelf. He‟s

managed to slowly accumulate a respectable collection of furniture, all

of which actually matches. It‟s nice enough, even if he can‟t do

anything about that place on the living room wall where Niall got too

drunk and pitched a beer bottle at it.

When he‟s finished his tea and dried his hair, he pulls on some pants

and pads over to his closet. Dressing for work is always a bit tricky.

He‟s not like Zayn, who effortlessly charms all of the mothers (and

some of the fathers) just by existing. Zayn can get away with having an

edgy haircut and dressing like a hipster librarian with a motorbike

fetish because he‟s Zayn. And anyway, Zayn‟s an English teacher;

fashion sense just makes him seem more sensitive and artistic. Louis

teaches drama, which comes with different stereotypes. There‟s a fine

line between artistic and camp, and wearing leather boots would take

Louis right over it.

So it‟s braces and trousers and dress shoes for Louis, pressed shirts

with the sleeves rolled up, the occasional sensible jumper when it‟s

cold enough. It‟s a classic look, and he takes pride in it. It takes time to

get his hair to that state of artfully windswept, though, so he has to set

his alarm for six and try not to let the ungodly hour send him into a

homicidal rage for the rest of the day.

As much as he hates getting up early and spending most of his evenings

marking, he likes his job. Well, most of the time he likes his job. On

the days when nobody asks him for the ten millionth time to explain

something he‟s already gone over or breaks one of his lighting trusses

right before a dress rehearsal, he likes his job. He likes working with

kids, likes putting on shows and getting paid to talk about theater all

day.

4

“You like your job,” he tells his reflection in the side of the toaster,

waiting for his bread to brown.

He leaves Duchess with a bowl of food and a pat on the head as

recompense for kicking her out of bed earlier, ignoring the icy glare she

gives him in return. Then it‟s a final check in the mirror and out the

door, bag slung over his shoulder. He spends the drive to school

contemplating what the year might have in store for him and hoping to

God for anything other than a repeat of last year‟s flu pandemic. He

had to burn a set of of 800 thread count sheets. It was a dark time for

everyone.

His regular parking space awaits him when he pulls into the carpark.

He‟s come back during the break for meetings and workshops and days

of preparing his classroom, but it still feels like he hasn‟t been back in

months. The same brick buildings, the same football pitch, the same

scuffed bumper of a French teacher‟s car staring back at him. Another

year. Nothing at all has changed.

He happens to catch sight of Zayn as he turns down his hallway, mostly

just a quiff and a cloud of cardigan-wearing gloom coming down the

hall with a giant book tucked under one elbow. He‟s nursing a thermos

of coffee and still seems to be half asleep, and Louis really can‟t be

expected to let that grumpy face go unharassed.

“First day of school!” Louis says brightly, cuffing him on the shoulder

as he passes. “Perk up, sunshine!”

Zayn scowls at him, and Louis smiles back, pleased that at least one

person in the world hates mornings more than he does. “Go fuck

yourself,” Zayn mumbles.

“Now, now, mind your language,” Louis teases. “We are the moulders

of tomorrow, remember?”

“I‟m going to mould this book into your face,” Zayn says.

5

“Love you too,” Louis says, and they split apart, Zayn off to the stairs

and Louis continuing down the hall to his classroom.

He and Zayn came on staff the same year and became best mates

almost immediately through the shared terror of their first year in the

faculty and a mutual appreciation of each other‟s fashion sense amidst a

sea of tartan and beige. Zayn started out as a teaching assistant, but

took over the spot when the previous English teacher retired. They‟ve

since earned a bit of a reputation for mischief, which Louis‟ not sure is

really fair. So maybe they‟ve been known administer field sobriety tests

to random students in the hallway, and maybe they accidentally-on-

purpose planted the idea of putting glitter in the air vents as a

graduation prank. They both have sound alibis for the time the assistant

headmaster‟s car wound up on the roof, and even if they had

hypothetically been involved, it would have been all Zayn‟s idea.

Hypothetically.

Their second year, Niall got hired fresh out of uni as the assistant

orchestra director, and he fell in with the two of them right away. He‟s

a good sort, relaxed as can be and always reliable, though he‟s

generally more likely to sit and laugh at their schemes than participate

in them.

Louis knows they‟re generally regarded as the “cool” teachers, the

youngest ones and the ones least likely to write you up for a uniform

infraction. He also knows that Zayn is “the fit one,” the one whose

classes are always anxiously anticipated at the start of every new year.

It‟s understandable. Louis honestly pities any unsuspecting, pubescent

teen who shows up for their first day of school and is confronted with

Mr. Malik reading Wordsworth with his soulful eyes and dramatic

cheekbones.

Zayn‟s eyes, soulful or not, are irrelevant now, because he‟s got a full

day of trying to keep a bunch of teenagers from slipping into a

vegetative state while he goes over syllabi. His first year he‟d been

given the typical arrangement of teaching his class in the theatre, but if

there‟s one thing Louis needs it‟s his own space, and after a year of

nagging the administration and being interrupted by assemblies and

6

spelling competitions, he‟d been granted his own classroom. It‟s not

much, but at least it‟s his.

That should really be the tagline of his life, to be honest.

The students start filtering in slowly, small clusters that settle into

desks at random. Louis notices a lot of familiar faces. He‟s been around

long enough to have seen most of them in the halls at some point or

another, and many of the ones who end up in his classes have already

been in at least one of his productions. By the time the bell rings, there

are only a few he doesn‟t recognize, new students or ones that managed

to fly below his radar. Excellent. Always fun the first day. Nobody ever

really knows what to expect from him.

Louis shuts the door and hops up on his desk, sitting cross-legged in

front of the class.

“All right,” Louis says, adjusting his glasses. “Let‟s skip the part where

I tell you good morning like I‟m not already on my third cuppa and you

say it back like you‟re happy to be wearing ties this early in the

morning.”

A nervous sort of laugh ripples through the classroom, and Louis

smiles. He forgets sometimes that he‟s actually quite good at this.

“As most of you already know, my name is Mr. Tomlinson,” he goes

on. “Before anyone asks, I‟m from Doncaster, I‟m a Capricorn, I enjoy

long walks to the vending machine on the third floor, and yes,

McDonnell, I‟m expecting your mum to send toffee again for the night

rehearsals this year.”

Another laugh. Louis feels a bit more of the tension ease out of the

room.

“I‟m sure some of you are thinking this course will be an easy way to

get high marks without having to do much work. It‟s okay, nothing to

7

be ashamed of. I did it myself when I was your age,” Louis says mildly.

“But I regret to inform you that if you‟re expecting to pass this class

without ever cracking a book or doing your coursework, you are

tragically mistaken. We‟ll be covering some of the basics of theater,