He wasn't sure if it had been a good idea, to take the ecstasy. He had done drugs before, but not often, and he didn't actually know if he liked it or not. He'd spent the night at Zayn's house, he knew that, but he found he couldn't recall much of the evening. He could account for about half of the night, he believed. He remembered feeling lighter, remembered Zayn making him laugh, the two of them sitting on the floor in his bedroom. He remembered not feeling nauseated at the thought of his mother seeing what she'd seen. He also recalled talking. A lot. He'd talked Zayn's ear off. About Louis. About his eyes, his face, and probably how good he looked naked, too. Zayn promised he hadn't done or said anything stupid, and forced him to hydrate the whole day after. At the time it had been a relief to take the molly, but a couple of days later he still got random chills.
He walked back into his house the day after he'd snogged Louis right in front of his mother. She hadn't been home. His father was there, but he showed no indication of anything having changed. Harry had snuck straight to his room and closed the door, heart racing. Gemma hadn't called, which meant that she probably hadn't found out, either. It meant his mother hadn't told anyone. He didn't know if that was good or bad. She definitely hadn't been home since the day before.
"She's staying at Lucy's," muttered his father when Harry dared to ask another day later.
He didn't know if he regretted it or not. In a way, it was easier to breathe when he walked into school. His mother knew he was gay, and so did his best friend. It wouldn't be as hard if anyone else found out. He regretted the way he had done it, though. He had wanted to hurt his mother, to shock her, so he supposed she deserved a couple of days to digest what she'd seen. Nevertheless... he needed to talk to her about it. Soon. He needed to know what she thought.
Two days before February first, his mother walked into the house. Harry was sitting at the telly, watching another animal documentary, and his father was in the kitchen. Harry's heart sprung up his throat, and he stared, terrified as his mum strode into the room like a woman on a mission. She was dressed in a beige coat, her nails were done, and her golden bracelet was closed around her wrist. She held her chin up high.
Harry inhaled. He wished he was back on the cold tiles in his bathroom.
She was carrying a bouquet of flowers. They looked like tulips; a bush of orange and purple crowns. She also hauled in paper bags full of items. Harry couldn't tell what they were, and his father cleared his throat as he poked his head into the living room, standing on the threshold to the kitchen.
"Hello, darling."
"Good afternoon, dear." Her voice was one sweeping chirp.
"What's happening?"
"We need to plan!"
"For...?"
"Harry's birthday dinner, of course."
Harry had forgotten. It was his birthday in only two days. He didn't blame his dad for forgetting, because he'd barely remembered it himself.
"Dinner?" he asked quietly. His shoulders were drawn, not wanting to draw attention to himself.
His mum didn't look at him. "Why, yes." Her eyes were on the flowers she was settling into a vase. "The whole family is coming over."
"Great," said his father.
"Great," whispered Harry. She strode about the room, pulling items from bags and organising them into drawers. She moved from the kitchen and back, and throughout all of it, she didn't bat an eye at him.
"Mum?"
"Yes, dear?" She didn't look away from the set of baking equipment she'd brought out from a shopping bag.
