Just like in middle school, Turner slips into high school as if he's always belonged there. They don't share many classes, but it's already apparent just passing by Turner in the hallway. The other boy's never alone, and Henry's pretty sure some of the people with him aren't freshmen.

He's not doing too badly for himself, either. During the second week of classes, the guy sitting behind him taps his shoulder.

When Henry turns around, he's met with the worst case of bed hair he's ever seen--wispy strands standing up in defiance of gravity, leaving the most unfortunate view of the other boy's high forehead.

The teacher starts writing on the chalkboard, and Henry's about to turn back when the boy lets out a long sigh. "Okay, so don't judge me, but I've been absent the entire first week and I have no idea what proofs are. Can you maybe help me?"

Henry scratches the back of his neck. "I'm not too good with them either," he whispers. The other boy's face falls, and Henry's quick to add, "But I'll help you ask the teacher for some extra help."

The other boy is Denny--no don't think of the famous restaurant chain, he tells Henry--and after they ask the teacher for help, Henry discovers that their schedules are really similar.

"Great," Denny says. "You can help me ask the other teachers too."

Despite himself, Henry lets out an exasperated sigh. Their next class is five floors up, and Denny refuses to walk any faster.

"I know it seems like I'm taking advantage of you, Henry." Denny shoves his hands into the pockets of his gray hoodie. "But trust me, you're getting something in return."

Denny's giving him some Turner vibes, but Henry takes a chance and asks, "What am I getting?"

"A friend!" Denny exclaims, clapping Henry on the back.

"A friend?" Henry echoes. He can't help but think of Finch, who's currently attending a school with a strong music program. They hung out during the summer, but it doesn't lessen the sting of looking for his childhood friend everywhere and seeing him nowhere.

"A best friend," Denny adds.

Henry is skeptical, but he plays along anyway. "Can my best friend walk a little bit faster?"

"Indeed they can!"

They're late to class anyway, but it's not so bad when Henry catches sight of what the running has done to Denny's bed hair.

---

"You've been hanging out with someone lately? Making friends?"

It's Biology, the only class Henry shares with Turner. Turner hasn't lost his tendency to talk in class, nor have the teachers begun calling him out on it, but Henry now knows better than to respond out loud. Without looking to the side, he nods.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Turner shifting in his seat. The two of them occupy such different spaces in the school's social circles that there haven't been many chances for them to talk. It would be all too easy for Turner to pull out the "You're lame; I don't know you" card, but Henry's usually the one shunning Turner.

They've come a long way since elementary school; he finds a sense of gratitude welling up in his chest, something he never would have felt before.

"That's good," Turner says, tapping the end of his pencil against the desk. "I thought you'd cry a little bit more over Finch."

Like a cactus given too much water, the gratitude rots and shrivels up. Henry sighs and shakes his head.

"Come on, I know you miss him." Turner leans his head on the palm of his right hand. With the other, he jabs his pencil into Henry's side. There's a clatter as Henry's knees hit the underside of his desk.

Before the teacher fully turns around, Henry and Turner are both bent over their binders, furiously taking notes. The teacher nods and turns back.

"I've got something to tell you later," Turner murmurs from the corner of his mouth. "If you want to hear it, wait for me after school."

Henry doesn't want to hear it. From Turner's solemn voice, it sounds like a hassle. On top of that, he can't recall a single occasion where he and Turner have spoken about serious things. In some ways, they haven't changed since elementary school.

However, stronger than his trepidation is Henry's curiosity. He waits outside the school for Turner, something which he comes to regret when Turner invites him for a walk, and in the middle of the city, proclaims that he is interested in men.

"What?" Henry shouts, incredulous. It's not that he's unaware that a guy can love another guy. No, it isn't like he hasn't entertained the idea himself.

But from Turner of all people? This boy he's known since childhood--who's so close to him?

Henry scrutinizes Turner's face, but the other boy's eyes are unreadable, and his mouth is a straight line, cutting off all hint of emotion. Carefully, Henry asks, "What were all those girls in middle school?"

Turner snorts. "It's not like that was fake. I liked all of them."

Henry taps his chin thoughtfully. "So you like both?"

"I...might."

The middle of the city is definitely the best place to have this conversation. Turner's leading them away from the main streets, where all the high schoolers usually go. Even in the middle of this awkward silence, their feet can keep them busy as they naturally line up with each other.

He knows he'll regret asking, but he does it anyway, "You might?"

"I might."

Henry smacks his own forehead, which earns a laugh from Turner.

"See, this is why I told you Henry. Your opinion of me can't get any lower," Turner says. "But yeah, I might. I'm..."

"Uh huh."

Turner's hands wave around, searching for the right words to grasp onto. "Wow, this is hard to say. I'm...thinking of...trying it out? With Finch?"

Henry stops walking. It's the middle of September and the sun is still out, but the tips of his fingers have gone cold. Turner glances back at him, one eyebrow quirked in a silent question.

For one dizzying moment, Henry wants nothing more than to lunge at Turner in the middle of this busy street, to drag his face against the sidewalk and tear his tongue out.

Henry takes in a shuddering breath to steady himself. "Th-this is why you're actually telling me, right?" he asks. "Because of Finch?"

"Partly." And the bastard has the gall to be so blunt about it. "Don't get me wrong, Henry. I'm not asking your permission. I'm just letting you know because it's the decent thing to do."

"Like you care about doing that."

Turner blinks at him. "You're still holding a grudge over elementary school? Get over yourself."

"It's not-" Henry flinches, having bitten down hard on his tongue. He knows it's not the memories from elementary school which made him say that; those have disintegrated into blurry snapshots. Instead, it's the fresher memories from middle school and high school--disgusting memories of Turner with his hands on the bodies of various girls, the vomit-inducing, fleshy sounds of his lips working on theirs.

He thinks of Finch--Finch who smiles so sweetly with his whole face, whose incomplete sentences were the center of Henry's world back in elementary school. The Finch who shared his aversion to kissing--Henry doesn't want to see him sullied by Turner.

He sucks in a short breath, then reaches out to pinch the end of Turner's sleeve. It's closer than he wants to be to the other boy, but it's a distance he'll have to get used to.

"Why Finch?" Henry whispers, though he already understands why. He just doesn't want to come up with the words himself.

"Why do you think? We've always been close, and even if he says no, I'm sure he won't make it awkward."

"Wh-what about me?" Henry silently curses himself for stuttering. He stops to steady his voice before continuing, "Why can't it be me?"

Turner glances around them; people are starting to stare. He grabs Henry by the wrist and jerks him forward. As he drags Henry behind him, he mutters from between clenched teeth, "Look, man, I know you've had this weird crush on Finch since elementary, but don't you think this is going a bit far?"

"I don't think of him like that. He's my best friend. But it's different with you."

It's part truth. Turner looks back, studying Henry's expression. Henry's not sure what Turner's finding there, but the tight grip on his wrist is released, and the other boy continues walking. As Henry quickens his pace, he catches short moments of coherency from Turner's angry mumbling.

"Fuckin' liar...'s hated me since elementary...the fuck is he doing."

Suddenly, Turner whirls around. The motion makes Henry rock back on his heels. There's a finality to the other boy's smile that Henry's never liked. That's the face Turner makes when he's come up with an awful scheme.

"You like me, right?" Turner asks.

Henry slowly nods.

"I'll go out with you, but only if you give me a big, ol' smooch." Turner taps his lips and leans towards Henry. "Right here in public, where we've got a lot of people who can see you. Lots of witnesses. For legal purposes, of course."

Maybe if Turner's goading wasn't so obvious, Henry wouldn't have done it. Maybe if Turner thought to stop after "big, ol' smooch," Henry wouldn't have been sufficiently pissed off to even try it.

But what actually happens instead is Henry squeezing his eyes and lips and mind shut and leaning in. He's not sure if his luck is great or if Turner ducks into the kiss, but he does make contact with something warm and soft. There's a countdown from five in his head as he lingers there, and once the countdown reaches zero, he pulls away.

He doesn't dare to open his eyes until he's a safe distance away, but when he does, he catches a glimpse of the conflicted expression flashing over Turner's features, and a view of strangers on the sidewalk who have stopped to stare at them.

"Okay," Turner murmurs, scratching at his bottom lip. "I guess we're going out now."

For the rest of the way home, there's this fragile atmosphere between the two of them. It makes Henry wonder if something's broken, and if he valued that something after all.