I Hear You Calling In the Dead of Night

Chapter 6: Meteor Shower

~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 shouldn't be surprised to see Louis and Eleanor together at school on Tuesday. It shouldn't hurt to see Louis' arm slung around her thin shoulders as they cross the courtyard. It shouldn't hurt to see her turn her face into Louis' chest, laughing at something he said moments earlier. It shouldn't hurt when Louis' hand comes up reflexively to stroke her dark hair. And when Louis meets Harry's eyes over the top of Eleanor's head, it shouldn't feel like Harry's stepped on a landmine, like he's going to bits all at once.

It was only a kiss after all. Yes, it had been Harry's first kiss. But in the grand scheme of kisses – Harry was just one in a long line of kisses for Louis. It didn't have to mean anything. So why did it?

Harry manages to ignore Louis' texts – ranging from politely concerned to outright desperate. He even manages to avoid him in the corridor between lessons, darting around corners and leaping into empty classrooms at the last second. By lunch time, he's beginning to feel a bit like a secret agent (only way more clumsy and way less cool) and he's relieved for the reprieve to the boy's toilets on the third floor. He hugs the brown paper sac with his lunch in it to his chest like it's a life-preserver and he's alone in the middle of the open sea.

In the toilets, Harry's safe. Safe from the prying eyes, safe from the whispers that halt abruptly whenever he enters a room (exaggerated rumors about his fight with Stan have reached ludicrous proportions), safe from the sight of Louis and his girlfriend cuddled together in the back row of Biology class. No one can get to him here. No one can see the silent tears streaking down his face as he hugs his knees up to his chest. As he quietly implodes.

A soft knock on the door abruptly halts Harry's increasingly despondent train of thoughts.

Of all the loos in the world, someone had to walk into this one. During lunch, it gets the least amount of foot-traffic – partly because of its distance from the canteen and partly because it's run-down. It's part of the old wing that hasn't been restored yet and there's a pervading scent of damp and rust in the air that discourages even the most adventurous snoggers from frequenting it as a make-out spot. Every once in a while, someone will get caught smoking in there – as it's one of the few places at school where the smoke detectors aren't up to snuff - but Harry can deal with a little smoke. What he can't deal with is another crack in his shell, not when he's already working so frantically to repair the damage.

"Stall's – um – it's occupied," he stammers, voice watery and thin from crying.

"Harry?" Louis asks softly. "It's me." Harry gives a loud, distressed sniffle as he wipes his runny nose into his shirtsleeve. His face still feels swollen and raw - like ground hamburger meat - and it hurts to the touch.

Louis lets out a heavy sigh on the other side of the door that makes Harry's chest ache, makes his hands itch to reach out and touch the other boy. His exploration of Louis' golden skin had been brief and ephemeral – in the morning he had evaporated in Harry's hands like smoke or breath. Their time together seems distant now, like a sepia-tinged photograph from a halcyon summer long past, and not something that had happened just a few nights ago.

For a moment, Harry allows himself to press his palms to the stall door, imagines he can feel the heat of Louis' hands through the dented, graffitied metal. But all he feels is coldness. Harry blinks back bitter tears. Why won't Louis just go away? Why won't he just leave it alone? Doesn't he realize how much harder he's making it for Harry to let him go?