Out In the Open

Dudley drove blindly, instinctively. The trip from Little Whinging was a blur of hedges, buildings, and macadam. He steered his car through the streets of London without thinking and parked his car in front of his flat and wearily emerged into the slanting evening shadows. He hadn't slept much at number four Privet Drive. The last several days had been difficult. The pervasive underlying aroma of bleach that made his head ache, despite the wide-open windows at night. The silent battle of wills with his mother at each meal as she heaped food on his plate that he resolutely refused to eat. The looks of reproach Petunia sent his way as she scraped the food into the bin were enough to give him indigestion. His mother's pinched nostrils when he came into the house after a run, her nose wrinkling with disgust at his sweat-sodden clothes. Dudley had never envied Harry more than he did now. Harry no longer had to deal with Vernon or Petunia's utter nonsense.

Dudley slipped his key into the lock and opened the door of his flat. He blinked in confusion at the empty room, before belatedly realizing all this things were now at Aaron's flat. Our flat, he corrected himself. He'd come to his old flat out of sheer habit.

Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight. Dudley closed his eyes and exhaled, then slowly inhaled with the first deep breath he'd taken since he'd received the telephone call about his father. He leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. His father would live. For now. And I fled as soon as Mum left to pick Dad up from hospital, he mused, staring at the bare walls of his former home. He hadn't wanted to be in the house when Vernon and Petunia returned. Quashing down the feeling that he had been a coward, Dudley took one last look at the flat and pushed himself to his feet.

He carefully opened the door and left the flat, locking the door behind him. Dudley slumped in the driver's seat of his car. 'Time to go home,' he muttered.

XxXxXxX

Dudley stood in the shower, with his forehead pressed against the wall. It had been an awful week. Perhaps not the worst week of his life, but it was terrible all the same. He rotated his head, stretching the knotted muscles of his neck, letting his mind drift over the first morning that proved to be an omen of the rest of the days to come...

Dudley wiped the sweat from his face, using the hem of his t-shirt. He let himself into the house, and his nose wrinkled slightly as the scent of freshly-mown grass on the early summer morning breeze was replaced with the aroma of sizzling bacon underscored by the scent of a mountain meadow that did not exist in nature.

Petunia bustled out from the kitchen into the foyer, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Dudley didn't miss the sniff of disapproval she tried to hide. She made a sharp gesture with the towel. 'Shoes off. Goodness knows where you've been, and I've just washed the floors.' She paused, glancing at Dudley's soaked hair and shirt. 'Why don't you go and have a wash, darling? You'll feel refreshed, and then you can have a nice breakfast.'

Dudley bit his lip so he didn't snap that he wouldn't dream of eating a meal in this state at his own flat, much less her antiseptically clean kitchen. After all, he was only gay, not a barbarian. With a sigh, he toed off his trainers and bent to pick them up. Once upstairs, Dudley deposited them in his old bedroom and then grabbed a change of clothing from the open bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. He showered quickly and made his way down to the kitchen, sliding into a chair that faced the back garden, wet hair plastered to his head.

Petunia set a loaded plate on the table in front of him. Dudley groaned inwardly. It was a full breakfast: fried eggs, fried potatoes, fried mushroom, bacon, sausages, black pudding, baked beans, a grilled tomato, and toast. 'That's a lot,' he said quietly.

'But you're so thin!' Petunia bleated. 'I've seen more meat on the bones of Mrs. Figg's scrawny cats! An absolute disgrace, she is,' she added, peering through the net curtains for one of Mrs. Figg's unfortunate cats.

Dudley pursed his lips and mentally calculated how many calories were oozing into his pores just by the proximity of the breakfast. 'I just mean you don't have to go through all this trouble,' he murmured feebly, feeling his insides lurch at the thought of eating the entire contents of the plate. 'I normally just have fruit and cereal or porridge...'

'Nonsense,' Petunia said briskly, attention turned from Mrs. Figg's cats. 'I don't see how you survive on what you eat,' she said disdainfully. 'Skimmed milk, no butter or oil, no sugar... Just heaps of lettuce, and I don't know what,' she sniffed. 'You'll make yourself ill, darling,' she insisted, nudging the plate a hair closer. 'Your food's getting cold,' she said pointedly.

One egg, Dudley told himself. Just one egg, the tomato, some of the mushrooms, one slice of bacon, a bit of the beans, half a slice of dry toast, and that's it!' He began to eat, reminding himself to lay his knife and fork down between bites. To chew his food. To take note of the birds outside, flitting round that horrid fountain in the back garden, where a fat, naked cherub poured water from a jug tucked under his arm. To not hurriedly shovel the food into his mouth in an effort to get away from the table. Petunia nattered shrilly in the background about this and that while Dudley made noncommittal noises between sips of tea.

Petunia slid another egg onto his plate from the pan, but Dudley pushed the plate away. 'I've had plenty to eat, Mum.'

'But you've barely touched your food,' Petunia wheedled, replacing the plate back in front of him.

Dudley resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 'Mum,' he began with the exaggerated patience he used when his more recalcitrant students were on the verge of giving him a headache. 'I don't want any more food,' he said firmly, shoving his chair away from the table. Petunia's lips thinned in abject disapproval as she snatched up the plate and with an aggrieved glance at Dudley, ostentatiously dumped the remains of his breakfast into the bin. Dudley inhaled deeply though his nose, determined not to rise to her bait. 'When is Dad coming home?' he asked, trying to change the subject.

'A week,' Petunia replied tightly. 'If there aren't any stresses in his recovery.'

The statement hung in the air between him.

'Right then,' Dudley sighed. 'If you don't mind, I've got some work to do to prepare for the summer term,' he muttered, hastily retreating upstairs. Stresses, he mused to himself. It wasn't too difficult to parse what she meant. He could accompany her to the hospital, but not see his father. And when Vernon came home, Dudley wouldn't be there.

Aaron poked his head in the bathroom. He could see a vague outline of Dudley through the steam-fogged shower door. 'You all right in there?' he called. Dudley had been in the bathroom for over half an hour, when he normally spent five minutes or less in the shower.

'Yeah. Be out in a minute,' Dudley said thickly. He opened the door and peered through the crack at Aaron. 'Just lost track of time. Thinking.' He gave Aaron a crooked smile. 'I'll try not to hurt myself.' Aaron's brows knit in exasperation at Dudley's feeble attempt of self-deprecating humor. 'I'm only joking.' The shower door closed.

Aaron nodded and turned his attention to the pile of clothes Dudley had left just outside the bathroom door. As he gathered them in his arms, Aaron heard soft metallic ping on the polished hardwood. He bent and retrieved the object that had tumbled from Dudley's clothes. It was a small, battered tin soldier. Aaron set it on top of the bureau, thinking it was a memento from Dudley's childhood. Dudley had very little from his childhood as it was. He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, then plugged it in. Aaron automatically reached for the tea they usually drank, but decided the last thing Dudley needed was a stimulant, regardless of how relaxing the process of drinking tea could be. He found a box of chamomile tea, giving it a cautious sniff. How old is this box of tea bags? he asked himself, turning the box over in his hands. He could recall his mother giving it to him, but not exactly when. Shrugging, Aaron pried the flaps of the box open and left it on the counter, while he found the teapot in the cupboard. His mobile vibrated in rear pocket of his jeans. Aaron swiped his thumb across the screen to answer the call. 'Hiya, Mum.'

'Hello, darling,' Miriam said brightly. 'Have you heard anything from Dudley?'

'Yeah. He got home about an hour ago. His father came home from hospital this afternoon. We haven't really talked about it yet.'

'Do let me know if I can be of assistance. Maybe I could come round and help him unpack his things and get sorted.'

Aaron smiled. 'I'll pass it along. Probably tomorrow after he's had some decent sleep,' he said ruefully. 'I could tell he hadn't been sleeping well, just by the look of him when he walked through the door.'

Miriam settled for a neutral, "Mmm-hmmm.' She didn't like to speak ill of people. Even if Dudley's parents did richly deserve it. 'Should I expect the two of you to dinner on Friday?'

Dudley padded into the kitchen and took a glass from the dish drainer, filling it water from the tap. Aaron muttered, 'Hang on,' to Miriam. 'Dinner at Mum and Dad's on Friday?' he asked.

Dudley took a sip of water and considered the idea. David and Miriam's house in Hampstead was everything his own parents' house was not. He could use a lovingly prepared dinner, where there were no pressures to consume half his body weight with each meal. A bit of tea or coffee in the peaceful back garden. 'That'd be great, thanks.'

'Aaron, I swear you've no manners,' Miriam complained. 'You could at least wait until you're not speaking to someone on the telephone. Cheeky monkey.'

'We'll be there about six,' Aaron said, as if his mother hadn't spoken.

'I'll see you Friday,' Miriam said. 'Good-bye.'

'Bye, Mum.' Aaron slid the mobile back into his pocket. He leaned against the counter and motioned to the sitting room. 'Go, sit, relax. You look all done in.'

Dudley shuffled to the sofa and threw himself on it. 'You're not wrong. I feel done in.' The kettle burbled with a comforting whooshing rumble, and Dudley rubbed his burning eyes, feeling the last of the week's tension drain from his body. He lay sprawled over the sofa, listening to the small sounds of Aaron puttering in the kitchen. Warm steam soon tickled his nose and he opened his eyes. Aaron stood in front of him, holding a mug just under Dudley's nose.

'It's chamomile,' Aaron told him. 'Drink up, and then you can go have a nice sleep.'

'Thanks.' Dudley accepted the mug and took a cautious sip of the hot liquid.

Aaron settled next to him on the sofa. 'So... How are your parents?' he asked, more out of politeness than actual concern.

Dudley's head fell back against the sofa cushions. 'Mum is... Mum. She never shouts or raises her voice, but you bloody well know she's unhappy with you.'

Aaron snorted into his own mug of tea. 'If passive-aggression was an Olympic sport, your mother would have won a gold medal multiple occasions. She excels at it.'

'You might be right,' Dudley murmured, sipping his tea. 'Dad, well, he'll live. He's got a diet that makes mine look decadent. They want him to exercise, stop drinking, reduce stress...'

'In other words, become a completely different person,' Aaron interjected wryly.

'I suppose so,' Dudley chuckled tiredly, eyes closing.

Aaron eyed Dudley for a moment. 'Dudley?'

'Hmmm?' Dudley opened one eye.

'Do you love your parents?'

Dudley sat up and set his mug on the side table. 'What do you mean?'

Aaron rubbed a hand over the bristly stubble over his jaw. 'I've been thinking that perhaps I ought not to have pushed you to visit your parents.' Aaron paused and rubbed a finger over his eyebrows. 'I started thinking that if something happened to my brother, I'd be there in a heartbeat, even though he thinks my life is an abomination, because I do love him. I even respect him for standing by his convictions. I couldn't imagine not being with my family if something were to happen to Daniel. But I never thought for an instant that you might feel differently about your parents, considering the past year. I feel like I pushed you into going to your parents' this past week. I know it was absolute torture for you.'

'Exaggerating a little, don't you think?' Dudley scoffed lightly.

Aaron blinked. 'Perhaps a little.' He swirled the tea in his mug. 'Regardless, I owe you an apology.'

Dudley sighed and stretched, exhaling gustily as he settled into the sofa cushions once more. 'To answer your question, I don't know. I don't know if I love them, not like you love your mum and dad. I thought I did when I was younger, but I'm not that selfish brat anymore. I don't really respect them. I mean, how can I respect someone who thinks the worst of me? They don't handle it well when their version of life doesn't mesh with reality.' He retrieved his mug and rubbed a fingertip on the handle. 'I still care what they think about me.' Dudley smiled sadly. 'Isn't that daft?'

'No.'

Dudley continued as if Aaron hadn't spoken. 'What bothers me is that if my father had died, I don't know if I could bring myself to be horribly put out by it.' Dudley raked a hand through his hair. 'God, that's awful.'

'It's human,' Aaron countered. 'And you are, after all, only human.'

Dudley snorted and took a gulp of his cooling tea. 'I could manage to live without my parents. They could move to... I dunno... Indonesia or something, and I'd be fine. You, on the other hand, you I need. If for nothing else than to put things into perspective.' He leaned over and rested his head against Aaron's shoulder. 'I think I could sleep for a week.'

'Want company?' Aaron murmured, lightly stroking Dudley's back. He knew Dudley would fall asleep the second his head hit the pillow. There was no suggestive lilt, merely the offering of love and support.

'But what will you do?' Dudley muttered sleepily, peering at his watch. 'It's barely eight o'clock.'

'I'm a big boy. I can entertain myself for a bit. I've got a book. Really gripping mystery.' Dudley chuckled, and let Aaron haul him to his feet.

The last thing he remembered was the feel of Aaron's hand wrapped around his in a touch that demanded nothing, but offered everything.

XxXxXxX

Dudley glared at the neatly stacked boxes. It was already warm, and the July morning held the promise of sticky humidity. A new desk had been placed in front of the large window, so it overlooked the back garden. Bookcases flanked the window. Dudley laid a hand on the back of a large leather desk chair and sent it twirling in a spasm of indecision. Aaron had helpfully unpacked his clothing, but left Dudley's personal items for Dudley to organize and integrate into the household. Aaron had earmarked this room for Dudley's office, claiming his extraordinarily disorganized space would give Dudley hives if they had to share.

Dudley sighed and picked up the pocketknife he had laid on the desk earlier and slit the tape sealing the uppermost carton. He dropped it when he heard the doorbell, grateful for the interruption. He opened the door to find Miriam, dressed in a pair of rather sturdy trousers and a serviceable shirt. She peeled off her cardigan and smiled. 'I thought you might want some help unpacking. Or company. It's a dreadful business trying to integrate your bits with someone else's bobs.' Dudley snickered at Miriam's unintentional joke and she lightly smacked him on the arm. 'Mind out of the gutter,' she said resignedly.

Dudley stood back, allowing Miriam to come into the flat. 'I'd love it.' He closed the door and pattered back to the office. 'My idea of decorating is circa poor university student. Cinder blocks, planks of wood.'

Miriam draped her cardigan over the back of the desk chair. She eyed the boxes piled in the corner. 'That shouldn't take terribly long. When we're done, we can treat ourselves to a nice lunch. Somewhere with snooty waiters or something seedy?'

Dudley pulled a handful of battered novels from the opened box. 'There's a part of me that wants to go somewhere snooty, just as we are,' he chuckled, gesturing with a free hand to his shorts and t-shirt. 'But maybe some takeaway and a park bench will do.'

Miriam retrieved the pocketknife and opened a carton. 'Seedy it is!' she proclaimed, digging through the layers of crumpled newspapers. 'Dudley?'

'Yeah?'

'What on earth is this?' Miriam brandished a figurine in Dudley's direction.

Dudley's ears turned pink. 'Housewarming gift from my aunt Marge when I moved into my old flat,' he muttered, sliding a binder of previous years' lesson plans onto a shelf.

Miriam studied the china shepherdess. 'It's quite...'

'Bin it,' Dudley said firmly, surprising himself.

'Are you sure?'

Dudley studied the figurine. It bordered on garish, was definitely twee, and really was just another thing he had to dust that he didn't care about. 'Bin it. It doesn't belong here.'

'It is rather... interesting,' Miriam demurred, as she wrapped the shepherdess in newspaper and dropped it into an empty box.

'That's one way to put it,' Dudley agreed.

Miriam unearthed a small photograph of Vernon and Petunia. It was hardly bigger than a couple of postage stamps. It almost seemed as if he kept the photo out of politeness. 'How are your parents, Dudley? Truly?' She set it gently on the desk.

Dudley slit the tape of another box containing a collection of mismatched mugs. 'They're fine,' he said shortly. 'My father will recover, and my mother will see to it that he does.'

'Were you able to mend things with them?'

Dudley shook his head. 'No.'

Miriam found a box with tea towels and began to carefully wipe smudges off the glass of the photograph frames. 'Had you hoped there would be a reconciliation?' she asked delicately.

Dudley slid battered mystery and adventure novels onto the shelf. 'I do and I don't. Being around them made me feel awful. Listening to my mother wittering on until my head's fit to burst. Or hearing my father's opinions about anything and everything while my stomach burns and I want to vomit.' He paused. 'But they are my parents. Am I supposed to just pretend they don't exist?' Dudley busied himself with rearranging the books according to author. 'It was my birthday, when my father had the heart attack,' he began in a muted voice. 'The whole day, I waited, checking my mobile when I thought Aaron wasn't looking to see if my mother was going to ring. Barring some sort of major head injury, I doubt my parents will ever truly accept me. My parents can be...' He tapped a fingernail against the white-painted shelf. 'Stubborn? Set in their ways? They make up their mind about something, and there's no turning back.' He chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking about how they still despised Harry, in spite of the circumstances that led Harry to live with them, and then leave their home forever. 'I've never known them to change their minds.'

'If they've washed their hands of you, then why did you bother to stay with them?'

Dudley slowly exhaled and plucked the photograph of his parents from the desk and set it on one of the bookcase shelves so it sat in shadows. 'Aaron said I ought to,' he admitted.

Miriam unwrapped the layers of newspaper from another framed photograph. 'Dudley? I hope you don't think I'm poking about where I don't belong,' she began, continuing to peel the newspaper away from Dudley's photographs. 'Aaron isn't always right, you know.'

Dudley snorted. 'Go on,' he told her, with a slight smile.

Miriam set down a photograph of Harry, Ginny, and their children. 'Aaron means well. His heart usually is in the right place, but he can be awfully pushy at times, especially when he feels he has the best opinion." Dudley stared at her, mouth agape. 'Close your mouth, dear. You'll swallow an insect of some sort," Miriam told him. Dudley obliged, his teeth snapping together painfully. She smiled widely at Dudley. 'Oh, I am perfectly aware of my son's faults, Dudley. Just because I'm his mother, it does not follow that I feel I have to overlook aspects of Aaron's character.

'But tell me... Had Aaron not insisted you stay with your mother while your father was ill, would you have stayed of your own volition?'

Dudley nudged the photograph of his parents with a fingertip. 'No,' he admitted quietly.