Impossible

Get Off My Back

To be totally honest, he doesn’t know how to respond to that sudden declaration. It doesn’t bother him—and why would it? He certainly wasn’t on the straight and narrow either—but it doesn’t sit right.

Why would he say it like it was a problem, like it was something he wished he could have kept hidden? Why would he say it to Harry like it would drive him away? Was it truly so wrong so wrong?

Harry had faced his fair-share of bullying through primary and middle school, but never would he be ashamed of that part of himself. What had happened to poor Louis, to make him teary-eyed and embarrassed, asking his roommate to move out for his own comfort?

A certain rage settles itself in Harry’s stomach that makes thinking rationally hard.

“Okay,” Harry nods his head, a mess of dark curly hair falling in front of his eyes. He pushes them away to keep eye contact with his roommate, who, besides being awfully vulnerable, looks entirely surprised and confused.

“What?”

“Okay.” Harry says firmly, standing up, “That’s no problem. I mean, I don’t really care.”

“What?”Louis repeats incredulously.

“I said it’s okay. I’m not going to change my room because you like cock. That’s stupid.”Harry stands up from his bed, his hands in fists at his sides. The sweat bands on his wrists are soaked with sweat and the air is humid, but he doesn’t dare take them off, not now. “And anyone who’s got any sort of problem with that can take it up with me, if they like.”

Louis’ breathing halts, caught in his throat. Everything is still for a moment, all silent.

Harry offers his hand to the older boy, “Let’s go get something to eat, okay?” Harry forces a smile and Louis chokes out a sort of snobbish laugh and takes it.

I want to kill someone.

I’ve never been this angry before.

Maybe the medication adds something to it. Maybe you’re making everything so muddled and stupid and maybe writing things down isn’t therapeutic at all and maybe it just makes things worse and maybe

I don’t know.

I’m so angry.

 

Louis is out for the night and Harry has finally found a perfect place for his diary: a fake bottom to the desk drawer; only opened by the room key. Which means that if Louis ever found it, he could open it, but who would assume the lock on it was the same as the lock on the door? Harry feels rather ingenious.

His mother calls as he finishes, and he answers with no small amount of indignation.

It is no secret that he is not close with his mother—after her severe disappointment at his emotional state, despite the fact that he is categorized as a child genius, a teenage prodigy.

His being aware of this caused a rift between them early on in his life—his being prone to severe bouts of depression and anger, though the latter he was not so keenly aware of—and though she tried her best, as all mothers do, to close it, it was too little too late, and Harry was separated from his mother and all that was left was his bitter resentment at not being good enough for her, and the raw hurt of being unloved by your own child.

She sounded dejected at his rejection of an actual conversation, which is what happens each time she tries to call, but the difference now is that she passes the phone to his sister, who is still enrolled at the local school. The one she had never been forced to leave due to academic excellence. (Though it isn’t as if Harry had ever enjoyed going to school there—being two years younger than the rest of your peers is never good for socializing.)

Gemma has a tone of excitement to her voice that very rarely fades. She is several years his senior, but their grade standing is the same.

“Harry, darling!” Her chipper voice brakes through the background noise—a popular song is blaring back at home, “How are you?”

And on goes the line of questioning that would be expected from a nosy older sister. His roommate, the weather, any cute girls, his classes, if he missed home at all—of course not, Gemma—if he had found a lover yet. The last of which he coughed at and attempted to reprimand her for saying, as if it was any of her business in the first place.

She giggles at that in her very Gemma way, and prods at it more, but Harry threatens to hang up and she laughs and stops pestering him.

“I only have one question, Harry.”

“Oh, really?” Harry raises an eyebrow, “Then what was that whole list of “not questions” that you “didn’t” ask me?”

“Shut up and let me ask it, you tosser,”

He smiles in return, “Ask away, dearest sister.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”Her voice is playful, but he frowns.

“I’m hanging up,” Harry says flatly.

“No, no, no, no, Harry,” She laughs, “No, just te—”

Her voice is cut off by his pressing the end button. He had no lovers—but crushes were different. Was it even a crush? Was it infatuation? Was he simply protective over someone who was ashamed of something? Was it just a feeling of inconvenience for his roommate because he wanted something adventurous?

Was he even ready to face the answer to that?