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It’s raining outside and he’s standing in it, his chubby little outstretched hands opening and closing, grabbing at the drops coming down fast and strong, blinking quickly so as to keep them out of his big cow eyes. I’m sitting in the kitchen. The radio is on—mum has it tuned to some news channel, and I can smell the bread she’s baking for later. He turns to me and laughs. I count his teeth from where I’m sitting—there are six in total. I watch him sit, slowly, legs spread apart and bum lowering between them, down, down, down until it lands. Nice soft landing. I hear him gurgle. He applauds himself from his sitting position in the mud. Sometimes, at night, I hear him whispering to himself. He doesn’t know many words yet, but the ones he does know he says over and over and over again until even my eyes get droopy and the numbers on my clock become too big for me to read. The timer on the bread oven beeps and I hear my mum start down the stairs. When she sees him sitting in the mud she makes a noise that I know means she’s not too happy, but she goes out anyways, picks him up, kisses his ears, and scolds him never to do it again. It all must be very confusing for him I would guess, since he’s being told he’s a good boy and a bad boy all at once. Mum deposits him on the floor and runs off to get a washcloth. When she gets back he’s fast asleep on the doormat, chin tucked into his shoulder and mind already halfway to dreamland.
The day I find out where he came from is the same day that Niall Horan calls me dumb. We’re sitting on the playground and his friend Liam is telling us how he’s going to have a new baby sister. I ask Liam how his parents know his sister’s parents, and Niall looks at me and says, “they’re his parents, duh.” I tell him that can’t be right because Harry was my mum’s friends’ baby, and they knew each other from college. But now Harry’s my brother, and I love him very, very much. I had always loved Harry, but when he came to live with us I think I really started to love him more. I learned a lot about him, which helped. I learned that his nose whistles a little while he sleeps. I learned that he likes animal crackers and peanut butter. I learned that his skin is soft, he likes to have his belly rubbed, and he hates wearing socks. I learned that he can’t sleep without his nightlight, and that he cries if he thinks he’s being ignored. But Niall told me I was stupid, because brothers and sisters come from the exact same place that their brothers or sisters came from, meaning that Harry should have come from the same place as me, only I know that’s not true because I met his mum a long, long time ago. When I ask my mum and dad about it at dinner they tell me that Harry had a different mum before he came to live with us, but that she had died. They said that his dad had left a long time ago. Harry was sitting there the whole time, gumming away at a biscotti. I reached over to rub his belly and he laughed so hard he sneezed.
When Harry turns five he starts going to school with me. We have different classes and teachers and we learn different things, but it’s nice to have someone to walk with. On the first day of class, mum dresses him up in his new green pants with the zippers and his little white shirt with the big brown bear picture. She packs our lunches, and gives us both forehead kisses before she sends us off. It’s only three blocks, which is why I’m allowed to walk it by myself, but as we reach the end of our street, Harry whispers to me that he’s afraid to cross without mum. I take his little baby fingers and give them a squeeze. No need to be scared, I tell him. No need at all.
I’m in fifth grade now and Harry has a lot of questions about his mum. He wants to know what she looked like and what he favorite TV show was. My mum shows him pictures of her, and pictures of Harry when he was a little itty-bitty thing, just a blob of blue cotton, really. I tell Harry that he’s my favorite brother and that makes him happy. We eat cookies in the backyard and he tells me that some of the kids at school have been picking on him because he doesn’t know his real mum. I tell our mum and she has words with Harry’s teacher. The kids stop picking on Harry, but I still make sure to go over at lunchtime and give them a stare down. After all, I’m a fifth grader and they’re all only in second year. Harry leaves a note saying thank you that night. He even draws a little picture of him, mum, dad, and me with crayon onto the back of the card. When his birthday comes around that year he asks for us to all go to the zoo. On the way home from the zoo we stop at his favorite bakery and get him a strawberry cream cake. He’s still so much smaller than me, and after just one slice tells me he’s full. I rub his belly like old times and he falls asleep in his car seat on the way home.
My mum tries to sign Harry up for footie lessons because she says he’s old enough and should have some sort of sport to play to keep him occupied. But on his first day, he gets mud on his little white shorts and cries and cries and cries, so mum gives him an apple juice and lets him sit in the car with her until I’m finished. That night Harry tells her that he doesn’t want to go back to football. I sit with him in his room and he paints me a picture. We listen to the radio and Harry tells me that he wants to take ballet. He said that he sees ballerinas all the time when mum takes him to do the shopping with her. There’s a studio not too far from us, and he says that he wants to wear a ballerina costume and ballerina shoes. I don’t say anything. I just watch as his little fist grasps his pink crayon and he moves his hand wildly over the paper. He’s still got a lot of his baby pudge, which I love, and so I tell him this and give him little kisses all over. He laughs and we watch the sky get dark together, curled up on his floor.
The next morning at breakfast I tell my parents that Harry wants to be a ballerina. My dad, who usually doesn’t say anything, tells me that he thinks it would be best if Harry just stayed in footie with me. I tell him that Harry doesn’t like footie. Harry wants to be a ballerina. My dad doesn’t say anything; he just sips his coffee and tells my mum to put another piece of bread in the toaster for him. Later, once my dad has left, I tell my mum that she should really sign Harry up for those ballet lessons. I tell her that I’ll even take him there if she wants, that it’s really no trouble for me. She gets a sad look on her face and tells me that she just doesn’t think it’ll help with the bullying. I go upstairs to Harry’s room. He’s humming to himself and playing teatime with some of his stuffed animals. He smiles at me and I pet his hair a little. Later, when its time for me to go to footie again, my mum tells me that she’ll take Harry to go look at the ballet class, but that I mustn’t tell my dad just yet. I watch as she tells this to Harry, and the look on his face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. He hugs my mum, and then he hugs me. I bury my nose in his neck and he smells like soap and the laundry detergent my mum got special for us, the kind that makes our clothes soft and is good for kids.
A few days later Harry comes running into my room. I know it must be something important because Harry never runs. Everything about him tends to be slow and leisurely. I love that about him. When he gets inside, though, he runs straight for my bed. His arms are full of something, but I can’t tell what exactly. I go over to where he’s flopped down, face-first. He rolls over, his green eyes sparkling, his dimple showing, and his little legs jerking in happiness. He shows me what’s in his arms—a little white leotard, a pair of black tights, and two perfect little pink shoes. He shows me how to put everything on, giving me a little fashion show, strutting up and down my carpet. He tells me that mum bought them for him at a special store, and that the ladies there told him that he was a very handsome little boy. I ask him when he’s going to start lessons, and he tells me that his first one is the following Monday. I ask if dad knows, but he says that mum still wants to keep it a secret. For some reason that makes me sad. I don’t say anything, though, because Harry looks so happy, and if he’s happy, then that’s enough for me.
When Christmas comes, Harry tells me that he’s going to be in the Nutcracker performance that his dance studio puts on every year. He gets the part of a mouse, and my mum gets us tickets to go watch. I think he’s the best mouse there is, and after he’s done, I go backstage and give him some roses I picked out at the store on my way over. I lift him up and he hugs me hard, the little whiskers on his costume tickling my face. We go out to where mum’s waiting and she takes out for hot chocolates. When we’re done, we take the bus home, and Harry delights everyone by dancing down the aisle in his little ballet shoes. When he’s done, he does a little bow and runs back to where I’m sitting.
This goes on for a few years. My dad is convinced, the whole time, that Harry is at an after school club rather than ballet practice. Harry says he doesn’t mind, but we both know it bothers him. I quit football after a while because I get sick of my dad nagging Harry to join up footie with me again. I get sick of hearing how Harry should be a real boy and join a real sport. On the eve of Harry’s thirteenth birthday, he sneaks into my room. It’s a cold night, and he’s wearing his little plaid pajama set that I got him for Christmas the year before. Only, he must’ve grown because they look a little short at the ankles and the wrists. I let him in under my covers and we snuggle together. I’ve just turned sixteen myself, and I know that snuggling with your little brother is usually considered weird, but Harry needs me, so I don’t mind.
He chats for a while about school and his friends. There’s one friend in particular—Zayn—who he says just moved here from Bradford. Zayn is Muslim, he says, and gets picked on a lot because of it. He says that they’re friends, only Zayn can be really quiet sometimes, and a lot of the times he doesn’t want to talk. Then Harry’s quiet for a moment. I think that maybe he’s fallen asleep. I’m just about to myself when he starts talking again.
“Lou,” he says. “I…can I ask you something?” I grunt and he shakes my arm. “Lou, I’m serious. This is serious. I want to ask you something.”
I turn the light by my bed on and flip over to face him. We’re nose to nose. He’s still so young, but he has also grown a lot. I cuddle him close and nod for him to go own. He sighs a huge sigh.
“I think I might like him.” I bop his nose.
“Good—you shouldn’t care what other people think about him, Haz, if you like him then that’s enough. Besides—”
“No.” Harry cuts me off. His eyes are huge and green and I feel like I’m falling down the rabbit hole and into the Emerald City. He seems scared so I try to snuggle him closer, but he only snuggles away. “Lou. I think I might…I might like him.”
I let it sink in. Harry thinks he might like a boy. Harry. My Harry. My Harry thinks he might like a boy. I reach for his hand. It’s lying on top of his hip, which in turn is covered by my quilt. It’s jittery and warm.
“Harry.” I can hear the roughness in my own voice. “Harry I don’t care. I don’t care okay. You’re so wonderful, and…and it really doesn’t matter.” I’m trying to picture it now. Harry tangled up with some boy. My Harry. He’s only a baby. I’m picturing him all rollie-pollie in the sandbox. I’m picturing him playing with his spaghetti at dinner. I’m picturing him crawling into my bed when he had a bad dream. I don’t even notice that he’s started crying, too caught up in my little head world, but then all of a sudden he lets out a little whimper, and I watch his face crumble and his hands shake some more before he’s grabbing onto me, his tears running rivers down my neck.
“I love you,” I tell him. He’s pressed to me side and I can hear his heartbeat through his thin pajama top, beating its way up, up, and out. I kiss his forehead and he’s shakes turn into tremors, which turn into little twitches and small eruptions. We stay awake for a while longer. I want to tell him more. I want to tell him how much I love him, the depth and magnitude of it. But instead, I let myself fall to sleep, slowly, quietly.
At breakfast the next morning Harry doesn’t eat much. He pokes at his eggs. He nibbles at his toast. My mum looks worried. She runs a hand under the bit of fringe he has going on up there and tut-tuts at him to eat a little more. He finishes his toast. I can almost feel the dryness of it. Harry asks if he can be excused. I do too. I follow him outside. He’s crying again. We walk, mindlessly, downtown. I buy him a cup of tea, a biscuit. I want to buy him a scarf because he keeps shivering. I want to buy him something nice. He shakes his head though. We walk a little further, a little further still. We stop in front of a nice house with flowers in the yard.
“This is Zayn’s…” he gestures behind him. I walk towards the gate but he stops me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I shrug. “Just want to meet your friends, Haz.”
He bites his bottom lip. “I want you to meet him, too.”
We’re both shivering now. Harry’s long finished his cup of tea, but he’s still holding onto the paper wrapper. He twists it around his fingers. I have a question sitting on the tip of my tongue. I can feel it tumbling.
“Are you together?”
He gives me a sideways look. Finally he shakes his head. “‘He doesn’t want that. He just wants…he doesn’t…I mean, he doesn’t even have friends, you know? So he just wants me…sometimes.”
I try to decipher that.
“Haz—”
“God, we’re not having sex, Lou. I’m thirteen.”
“Right, sorry.”
Harry sighs, his hands shoved deep, deep into his pockets. His breath puffs out warm and thick. “Look, he just…we just keep each other company. I’m happy. He’s happy. We’re both…I’m just afraid, Lou. I’m afraid of dad and what he’ll say. And Zayn’s afraid. So it’s good. Sort of. You know?”
I think I do. I
Harry points to a window on the second floor. “That’s Zayn’s room. It’s small, but it’s really nice. And his mum’s really nice. She knows he gets bullied, so I think she’s just happy he has a friend.”
A shadow appears in the window. Harry grabs my wrist. We slip away into the wind, into the row of identical houses, the cobblestone streets, Harry’s heartbeat coming through his hand.
Time goes. We grow. It’s a Thursday and the house has begun to erupt. Harry. Harry. Harry. He’s screaming upstairs. I come home to find the kitchen chairs flung across the room. There’s burnt toast in the toaster. I hear him screaming and I scream too. I don’t even know what’s happening yet, but he sounds like he’s in pain and all I can see behind my eyelids, each time I blink, are Harry’s chubby little fists, his baby shoes, his tiny ballet costume, the way he used to run. I’m upstairs before I even register what my body is doing, where it’s taking me. I see my dad before I hear him, before I understand what I’m looking at. He’s towered over Harry. Harry. Harry. My dad is beating his fists, his big, strong, man-fists into Harry’s side. Harry’s face is bruised. I see the tears on his face, the ones that are pooled on his trousers, the ones caught on his chin.
I punch my dad.
Harry’s running. He’s down the stairs. I’m after him. He’s shoving his clothes, his phone, his computer, his wallet into his backpack. I’m crying. He’s crying. I pull him close. My knuckles are bruised. He heads for the door. I stop him, run to my room, empty my wallet, grab my phone, grab anything that looks valuable. He’s waiting downstairs. His tears have turned into tremors, his tremors into shakes.
I hand him the money, my watch, my phone. He hands the phone back.
“Take it. Dad will disconnect yours. This way you’ll still…you’ll have mine.”
Harry nods. This is happening too fast. My dad is raging upstairs. He’s calling the police. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
“I…I’ll come…with you. If you want me.” The words slip out before I can stop them. But I don’t want to take them back. I’d never want to take them back.
“I want you, Lou. God, I want you.” He presses his cheek to me chest. I notice how his spine curves, how he has become taller than me. I’m about to tell him alright. Alright, lets go. He pulls away “But I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you, Lou.” He grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “I love you. And I promise you’ll see me again.”
I blink and he’s gone. Out the door. My dad is screaming at me from the top of the stairs. I’m a dead man. Harry’s taken away my heart. My dad has taken away my faith. I don’t even know what happened.
Mum is a mess that night. Harry’s gone. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. She tells my dad to let him back. She tells him its wrong. Harry is a good boy. My dad snorts. I want to smash his wine glass into his face. I want to carve his heart out with his steak knife, ask him how it feels. My mum cries.
That night she asks me if I know where Harry’s gone. I tell her I don’t, but that I’ve given him my mobile. We go outside and call him under the streetlight. He picks up on the fourth ring. He’s staying at Zayn’s. The next morning we go over together. Zayn’s mum serves us tea and tells us Harry’s not well enough to come down stairs. I go up instead. He’s lying on Zayn’s bed, eyes closed. Zayn is on his computer. He turns when I come in. I hate him for being so beautiful. Harry’s eyelashes flutter. His lips are parted ever so slightly. Zayn shows me the bruises. He’s careful not to poke. Then he lifts up his own shirt and shows me his.
They’d been downstairs. Just holding hands. Harry had made them sandwiches. My dad came in. He’d seem them. Harry jumped up and away from Zayn. Zayn jumped away from Harry. My dad laughed. Called Harry something I’ll never say. He hit Zayn. Harry started yelling. My dad hit Harry. Threw a chair. Zayn tried to stop them but Harry told him to leave. He said he ran home and was about to call the cops when Harry called him. Told him he was outside his house. Our house. Zayn picked him up at the end of the road. Took him home. Cleaned him up.
I go downstairs. Mum is finishing up her tea. She’s been crying some more, I can tell. I sit down next to her.
“Louis,” its Mrs. Malik. “Your mum and I have been talking. I think…we think it might be best for Harry to live with us for the next few years, until he’s old enough to go off to university. I wanted to ask you what you thought.”
My first answer is no. No. No. No. They are not taking Harry from me. But then I remember coming home, hearing him scream. I never want to hear that again.
“If its what he wants,” I finally say. My throat closes on the last word.
Harry is sitting up. He’s eating apple sauce and chocolate milk. I want to spoon-feed him like when we were little and he was happy. We all gather round. Mum explains his options. I hold his hand. He looks at me.
“Whatever makes you feel safe, Haz.”
Mum tells dad that Harry won’t be coming back. My dad says nothing. I lose it. I yell at him until I can’t breathe and I think I might pass out. My dad still says nothing. My mum drags me away.
I go to university in the fall. I haven’t seen Harry except for at school. He never looks good. Zayn talks to me occasionally. He told me that he and Harry are just friends.Always have been. Just with benefits sometimes. That makes me angrier. It makes me feel like Harry had to leave for no good reason. It makes me want to punch something.
The night before I leave I walk to Zayn’s house. I throw pebbles at the room that he and Harry share, presumably. Zayn comes down. His hair is a mess, he’s in his pajamas. He sees me, lets me in, goes upstairs to call Harry. Harry comes down. He sees me and he gets this watery look. I love him like this. He’s soft. He’s happy. As happy as I’ve seen him in a long time. It’s like he’s taken his walls down. I hate that he ever had to put them up.
He knows why I’m here. I love him. He loves me. We take a walk together, down the road, through the streets. I hold his hand. My university isn’t too far. I dream of him coming on the weekends, by train perhaps, with a duffle bag on his shoulder. I dream of meeting him at the station, taking him back to my dorm room. It’s always been him. It’s coming together, piece by piece. He kicks a pebble and I kick it back. We play this game up and down our town as the lights in the windows shut off one by one. We reach the city limits. He walks me over to where the road changes and we sit in the middle of the street, one half in one place, the other somewhere else. I dream of us being somewhere else, somewhere else together.
It’s nearly dawn when we walk back. I leave him at Zayn’s. I give him a kiss. Just on the cheek. It’s the most intimate I’ve ever been. I feel like he’s bathed me, left me out in the sun, washed away my dirty insecurities, my angry feelings, my fear. He presses his whole body against mine, momentarily. I’m suspended in space. “I love you, Lou.”
And suddenly I’m back home. It starts to rain. It’s a heavy rain. I go out into the backyard. The drops are coming down fast. I think I start crying, but I can’t be sure. The air smells like earth. I kick of my shoes. Everything hurts, yet everything feels light again. I feel my feet hit the mud. I’m a mess, I can feel it. Slowly, carefully, I sit down. I sit there for a while, rocking back and forth, back and forth. I can hear Harry’s babbling. I can hear my mum calling to him through the screen door. I feel my back relax into the ground. I want it to swallow me up. Instead the rain comes down harder, harder, harder. I can feel the sea rising up to greet me. Harry’s hand finds mine. I love him, I love him, I love him. The town is coming alive. People are going to work, starting a kettle, getting on with it. Soon my parents will be down. My mum will cry. My dad will be silent. I will hate every minute of it. I’ll hate breaking my mum’s heart. I’ll hate the sight of my dad. I don’t think about that now. I just think about being here, in the rain, in the mud, on the ground. I think about how I’m changing, how my present and my future are morphing in front of me, changing shape, rearing their heads. I’m scared for a second. But then I open my eyes. The sky is grey and beautiful. In this moment I am in love. I am so, so in love.