Flight risk. [h.s]

036.

TW- talk of overdoses and poor mental health 

★

"Did you bring what I asked you, Harry?"

I turn my head to the side, watching as Harry starts to route through a tote bag that sits on the floor between his feet.

"What- what did you ask him to bring?" I politely turn to the therapist that Harry has insisted we came to see today.

I, of course, was more than willing to abide by his wishes to book an appointment with his trusted therapist but I can't lie and say that I don't feel like my head is on the chopping block here.

"Nail polish," His therapist, Christina, says calmly with a small smile as Harry lifts out three nail polish bottles from his own brand, Pleasing.

"Nail polish?" I question. "Why has he bought nail polish?"

Harry places the three colours down on his knee, barely looking at me but shrugging in reply.

"Oh, well... you've got your nails done already, Arlie, so... why don't you paint Harry's nails–" She turns to Harry who is stiffly sitting beside me on the couch opposite her. "-Is that okay with you, Harry?"

He nods, wordlessly.

"I'm sorry?" I frown, looking between them awkwardly. I feel like I have been left out of an inside joke. "Why would we be painting each other's nails? Is this a slumber party therapy session or something?-"

"Arls–" Harry sighs, gritting his teeth. "Can you just hear her out, please?"

I huff but I nod, giving into this stupid ploy. "Fine. Why am I going to be painting Harry's nails again?"

"Because–" Harry grunts, getting frustrated with me more and more.

"Harry tells me that the first time you really opened up to him about your mum was when he was painting your nails years ago. I thought maybe that relaxed environment might be more comfortable for you to be candid in opening up and expressing your feelings."

I feel a little bit sick but all the same, I stagnantly nod my head and press my lips into a flat line.

I nod towards the three bottles of nail polish that are clutched in Harry's hand.

"Which one?"

"Uhh–" He looks down, flicking his eyes up and down to see which one appeals to him more. "This one, Inky Pearl,"

Taking the bottle from him, our fingers brush and a small tingle rolls through me. My fingers dance against the skin of his palms as I pick up the bottle and lift my eyes to meet his. When I look up, I find him already gazing at me with an unreadable expression.

His eyes slowly bounce back and forth between mine, glimmering in the midday sun that is gleaming through the cracks of the blinds.

I take a deep breath, bowled back by the emotions that are written behind his eyes as he slowly pulls his eyes away and fixes them back on Christina, the therapist again.