we're young hearts, look at us go

stay

The bedroom is unfamiliar, dark, and the air is stuffy and thick. Allie doesn't think a window has been opened in weeks. Clothing litters the floor, and half a sandwich rests on a discarded plate at the foot of the nightstand.

Harry Bingham is not okay.

He mumbles something about not wanting to see anyone—especially her, whatever that means—and all Allie can really do is sigh.

"You don't have to be ashamed," she tells him, and she means it. She remembers feeling exactly how he looks not too long ago. She makes some dry comment, half joking, about the last time she was here. It gets a smile out of him—faint, tired, but it's there. It shows Allie that he's still in there, that this isn't just a shell of who Harry used to be.

"This is different," he protests, and it's all she can do not to scoff. She's never been one to compare traumas, but it's difficult to ignore the fact that she never became some reclusive catatonic when her own sister was murdered.

"I get it," she says. "Okay? I get it. After Cassandra died, I didn't want to do anything. I mean, fuck people, fuck food. Fuck everything."

He sasses her, gives her a good for you when she tells him that she actually forced herself out of bed. Prick.

She takes a deep breath. It's not like she expected this to be easy, anyway.

Sitting on the bed beside his sprawled form, she stares straight at him. Somehow, looking into his eyes makes everything seem so much worse. She feels pity, and maybe something else, tugging at her heart and tickling the back of her throat. "You have to get up," she says firmly, determined to keep her voice level. She makes up some bullshit excuse about how she can't let him keep moping or else other people will, too, but she knows that that's all it is. An excuse.

She needs him to get up. She needs... she needs him. Everything has been sucking these last few months and, for all the trouble he's worth, Harry's presence was still an important part of New Ham. He brings a sense of normalcy, at least for her. And as much as she hates to admit it, she feels like something is missing without him around to badger her.

"You have to get up and get back to work," she says, half-begging as she throws up her hands. Then, without necessarily meaning to, she reaches out and places a hand on his wrist. She watches in slight awe as his fingers begin to curl around her own wrist, his eyes slipping closed. It's such a tender, needy gesture, and she isn't sure what to do with it.

Harry Bingham is a person who relies on others. She's learned that over these months. He's insanely dependent on other people, needs their presence constantly. But somehow, despite this need for interaction and affection, he is one of the loneliest people Allie has ever met. She wonders if that's why he clings to her now, furrows his brow as if he's afraid she'll pull away if he even thinks about letting go.

She wasn't planning on sticking around. The idea was to get in, tell Harry to get his ass up or else she's cutting his rations, and then get out. But, as his fingers begin to move along her wrist as if he's trying to make sure she's still there, something inside of Allie softens. He's a kid, too, barely older than her. Everybody copes differently. This is his way, and she just needs to help him out of it.

Sighing, she turns to face Jason and Shoe, gesturing with her free hand for them to go. They seem uneasy, but one hard look and they're leaving, shutting the door behind them.

Once they're gone, she turns back to Harry. "Can you let go of me?" she asks, as gently as possible.

For a moment she thinks he's fallen asleep, hie eyes still closed as he makes no effort to move. But then his grip tightens slightly, just a short squeeze, and he releases her wrist.