I Hear You Calling In the Dead of Night

Chapter 5: Shoebox Valentine

~Oh, I feel overjoyed when you listen to my words.  I see them sinking in. Oh, I see them crawling underneath your skin...~

I hear you calling in the dead of night

Harry's halfway through his morning bowl of Weetabix, elbow keeping his worn copy of Shadow of the Wind open on the kitchen table, when Gemma barges in, skidding across the tile floor on her stockinged feet. "Did mum leave yet?"

Harry glances up from his book, the words falling away from him like dead leaves shaking from a tree in autumn. He can still feel their shadows on his skin when he lowers his glasses to look at Gemma. She's dressed in a pink dressing gown, hair still wet from the shower, holding a straightening iron aloft in one hand like she's intent on injuring someone with it.

"Ten minutes ago," Harry mumbles through a mouthful of high-fiber cereal.

"Shit." Gemma visibly deflates as she sinks down into the seat beside him, looking like a failed strawberry souffle. She glances despairingly at his mug of tea, letting out a heavy sigh as she props her head in her hands. "I really miss tea. Proper tea. With caffeine."

"Is everything okay?" Harry dog ears the page he's on in his book, redirecting his full attention to Gemma. She looks exhausted, which is par for the course when you have a fetus practicing footie moves in your stomach all night. Just like his grandfather, Harry thinks, but doesn't say aloud. There are a lot of things he doesn't say aloud.

"Just peachy. My back hurts, my ankles are swollen, my tits are sore and now Ed can't give me a ride to my appointment because his car's broke down. So, I'm literally a beached whale."

"Pretty sure whales don't have ankles. Not sure about the tits. I'd have to google it," Harry says contemplatively.

"Not helping," Gemma groans wretchedly, letting her head drop to the table with a wooden thunk.

Harry drops his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. "I could, if you wanted - "

"Sorry?"

"I can't help with any of that other stuff, but I could give you a ride to your appointment. If you wanted?"

"I can't ask you to miss college, Marcel."

"Harry," Harry corrects her and she grimaces. Harry was their dad's name and even all these years later, it still feels like playing with fire to say it aloud. Like they're summoning something best left alone. Harry knows that as long as his father's alive and out there, they'll never feel safe, but he's tired of living in fear, of constantly looking over his shoulder, of thinking every person's out to hurt him. And he's tired of being a victim. But most of all, he's tired of being Marcel. That spineless, pathetic loser who'd been so lost in the worlds books created for him that he'd missed out on the actual world.

He doesn't want to be that person anymore. Marcel never had any friends to speak of and Harry - Harry does. Marcel was a loner that no one spared a second glance, but Harry is someone that gets kissed. By Louis Tomlinson.

"You sure you don't mind?" Gemma gently prods. "I could reschedule."

Even under ordinary circumstances, Harry would be happy to skip out on lessons, but it's not ordinary circumstances. It's the morning after Louis Tomlinson kissed him. And while that was all well and fine when they were holding each other in the dark of his bedroom, where no one could see them, he's not sure how well these things hold up in the light of day. Like a broken vase that's been glued back together and looks fine on the fireplace mantle, but shows a host of spider-webbed cracks when the sun strikes it.