camp cherry | hs

sixteen

watermelon sugar mv tomorrow i will die

✩︎

HANA

I try not to read too much into the implication of Harry's words, but it's impossible to ignore the way my heart rate increases terrifically, feeling as if it may burst out of my chest.

"I'm all in, too," I lift my head slightly, the awkward way my neck bends hurting, but I do it anyway to see the joyous grin on his face, "when was the treehouse built?"

"About six months after I left England - when I was nine. My dad built it, think he must've forgotten about it, though. I come up here whenever I need a break."

"When did things get really bad with your dad? Or was he always this bad?" I ask, clenching my jaw to subside my anger.

"He would always slap me a lot, but it got really bad with punches and stuff when I was twelve."

"Why?"

He's tentative to answer, "realised something he didn't like or agree with."

"What?" I ask, a frown etched into my features.

"Doesn't matter. It just got a lot worse, sent me to this army boot camp thing for it a month later."

"My brother used to go to those all the time," I remember Adam disappearing for any time from a week to two months, having always known he wanted to follow in my dad's footsteps and join the army.

Suddenly he sits up, his eyes flickering as if he tries to figure something out, "his name was Adam, right?" I nod, curious as to where he's going with this, "his last name wasn't Anderson, was it?"

I join him, pushing myself up to lean against the wall comfortably, "no, my mom had him with someone else who died a year before my parents met. Kept the guy's last name."

"I know this is crazy to think but... was his last name Fern?"

"Yes. You knew him?" I ask, my brain confused and trying to connect the dots mentally.

"I went to boot camp with him. Look," he surges forward, pulling a box from underneath one of the blankets and rifling through the items inside, pulling out a photo that displays a tiny Harry, his hair straight and a boy stood next to him, that's surely my brother, "he is, was, um, my best friend there."

"This is insane. Why didn't you keep in contact with him?" I ask, my jaw practically on the floor the entire time, studying the picture again.

"I did for about a month, but my dad found out and made me cut all contact."

"Why would he do that?"

"He, um, sent me there for a specific reason and thought he, he—I can't," he hesitates, taking deep breaths before admitting he doesn't have the courage to tell me, his eyes falling closed and a disappointed expression settling on his face.

"It's alright, tell me when you feel comfortable, if ever," I reassure him, passing him the photo for safekeeping in his box, pulling him into a tight hug.

"I, um, didn't know he died," he whispers when I pull away from him, looking down and playing with the rings on his fingers.

"Harry, I'm sorry," I rest my head on his shoulder, letting him feel my body warmth without suffocating him.

"He's your brother, I only knew him for like a month," he counters as if his natural reaction is pathetic.

"And I've had two years to process and grieve. You just found out your old best friend died, you're more than allowed to be upset, Harry," my last word is barely out of my mouth before his arms are wrapped around me tightly.