Working Through the Rest

Before It Bursts Out

When the Christmas holidays roll around, Scorpius and I are both fairly cheerful on the journey home. Despite the fact that Delphi is still at large, I feel able to laugh when Scorpius mentions that he deems the term a success, simply because neither of us ended up in the Hospital Wing with broken ribs.

Although it might simply be because Scorpius is smiling. I'm finally able to accept just how beautiful he is, mainly in general. But when he smiles, it just catapults it to an entirely new level. I don't really know how to describe it beyond the idea that he just lights up and brings warmth to everything in his surroundings.

Stop. Merlin's Beard, Albus. Stop.

He is sat opposite you. You cannot start crushing this hard on him right now.

"Are you going to be okay over Christmas?" Scorpius breaks the silence.
"Probably," I nod. "Delphi hasn't done anything yet. And dad, dad won't let anything happen."
"Yeah," Scorpius nods. "Albus just, please make sure you're okay."
"I will."

I mean it. If he wants me to make sure, if he cares that much (of course he does) then I'm going to make sure. Even when I don't want to. For him. I'll do it for him.

*

The beginning of the Christmas holidays is pretty uneventful. Dad is rarely around, constantly out on the hunt for Delphi. When he does get home, it's so late that they assume I'm asleep. I'm not. Most of the time, I try to keep myself awake until I crash so badly that I sleep too deeply to dream.

I want to tell them, I think, but it's difficult to work out how when I never see dad and mum is also looking after Lily and James. Whether or not I mean to, I've started to isolate myself again. And I can't stop.

Two days before Christmas, mum realises that my sleeping patterns are still fucked up and starts to sit with me as I fall asleep, stroking my hair softly. When she starts doing this, I try to work out what I would say to her if I were going to tell her that I'm gay.

I don't think she'd have a problem with it, because she cares about me, and it's only a small thing. It shouldn't matter that much. But it does matter enough to be scared to tell her.

On Boxing Day, once dad goes back to work after one day with his family, I sit down at my desk and take out a quill. There are so many thoughts running around my head and I need to get them out because I'm terrified everything is just going to spill out when I don't want it to. I need to have some control over the entire thing.

So I just write. I write out every thought until I can't write anything else. Everything is probably repeated a dozen times, but in my head it makes sense.

When that is done, I pull out more paper and attempt to condense my insane ramblings into something that is, at the very least, legible. And then I just sit, for what I think might be hours, debating as to whether I should rip the entire thing up and continue keeping it a secret.

I am so shitty at keeping secrets.

So that isn't a good idea.

But telling mum might not be either. Because I know that I don't want dad to know, not yet, and I don't know whether mum will keep it a secret.

I suppose that all I can do is ask.

Because keeping this secret entirely to myself is not going to work.