The Young And The Beautiful

Chapter Two

The following weeks had been fairly hard for Zayn Malik to keep up with. It seemed like the minute his Vans had stepped out of Mr Styles' studio and into the London streets after his first ever shoot, his life had literally turned upside down. The following week, he was once again summoned to the white studio, the one that practically represented heaven with the purest white walls and the high views over the bustling city.

For a building to be so slap bang in the centre of a city, a city with people that scurry like ants and cars that shoot around like marbles falling from a bag, the huge windows seemed to make it still. That was why Zayn considered it to be the closest he would get to Heaven in his human life. The white walls were clouds as far as his eyes would classify.

Mr Styles had stood in a scrap of designer material that looked like it had gone through the works. Two thin straps clung onto his broad shoulders while the rest of it drooped down over his skinny torso, the vest being atleast two sizes larger than the male's body required. The front was scooped and pushed behind a large black belt, Mr Styles legs still strapped within those black skinny jeans once more. His hair had been a mess, obviously unwashed yet still tempting enough to make Zayn's fingers twitch.

Mr Styles had barely said a word, a cigarette remaining sealed within his pink lips, his green eyes cold as they watched Zayn shrug his body away from his thick denim jacket and backpack that he had worn previously. Stripped down to just a white T-shirt once more, the flash of the camera continuously coated his body, second after second, the large lens capturing every move and breath the boy gave out.

He barely felt that he had been stood there for fifteen minutes before Mr Styles turned around, his hands clicking the large camera back into the tripod in a swift movement before he turned his back to the boy, allowing Zayn's brown eyes to slowly cast over the amount of skin and muscle that was on show for his viewing. Mr Styles' broad shoulders acted like a coat hanger towards the skinny vest, which revealed black ink on pale skin. He tore his eyes away in the silence, his hands slipping together as he tried to glance over Mr Styles shoulder and to the iMac in front of him, yet his feet remained on the spot.

During the shoot, Mr Styles had barely mumbled more than seven words to him, one for each day that had laid inbetween this shoot and the first. The lack of communication, even when the photographer had tried to direct the boy into what he wanted, had been little between grunts and points. It all left Zayn feeling more than puzzled on what he should do next. He glanced down to his bag and jacket, debating putting that on, but his mind told him that he may be expected to take more photos, and so he forgot the idea and continued to be still.

The silence was too thick within the room that he knew any words that left his lips would be lost within the clouds of quiet that filled the small space between the two men. Quiet clicks of the mouse Mr Styles was pushing around his table filled the space for a moment, before the tall male swiveled around, his large hands digging into the back of his jeans pockets before he stepped forwards toward Zayn. His long legs swiveled him around the tripod that was set up before he pushed a box of cigarettes and a black iPhone into Zayn's limp hands.

"Homework." Mr Styles' gruffed, a puff of smoke coming from his mouth as his green eyes watched Zayn's hands stay outright, holding the objects that had just been pushed within them.

Zayn's nostrils couldn't help but slowly inhale the smoke that had left Mr Styles mouth as a first instinct, even though the boy had barely touched a cigarette in his life, let alone hold a box of them.

"Learn how to smoke these. Learn how to use that. Has useful numbers in it, none of them being my own." Mr Styles grunted, before stepping away from Zayn.

The tall male turned away abruptly once more, his back once again being the only thing Zayn was allowed to look at. The words were the last Zayn would hear from Mr Styles from that session, before he had shoved the phone and box of cigarettes into his bag, still extremely unsure of why he had to learn how to smoke, and why an Earth he had been giving an iPhone. His jacket sleeves found his arms, his backpack his shoulders, before his feet shuffled out of the white room and down the spiral staircase, his lips shut tight so as not to wish goodbye to Mr Styles. The silence was still too threatening for him to dare to speak.