On Friday, Henry wakes up with the realization that he can't take back what he's done. With that thought, he can't bring himself to stand up and get dressed. It's not the first time he's contemplated skipping school because of Turner, but this might be the first time he'll go through with it.

As he lies there, his phone buzzes twice. Sighing, Henry reaches up to his bedside table and checks his phone: it's a text message from Finch.

Do you want to look for a graphing calculator with me on Saturday?

Henry props himself up on an elbow as he texts back "Okay." Then, he swings his feet out of bed. The trepidation from the thought of yesterday makes his sluggish limbs stutter, but he doesn't think he can face Finch if he avoids Turner.

Turner solves the problem for him by avoiding him first. Even in the stairwell in the moving time between third and fourth period, Henry doesn't see him passing by. When he sits down in Biology, he's not surprised to see that the seat next to him is empty. With his fears alleviated, he's free to concentrate on the rest of his classes.

The next day, he goes to the library to meet Finch. His old friend is sitting on the library's front steps, his long legs bunched up to minimize space as people step around him on their way up and down the steps. Finch's hair, which was always kept a neat length just above his ears, has gotten a bit longer since the summer started. A lock of it curls against his neck, the dark color stark against the tan. It disappears from view as Finch turns to look for him.

When Finch spots him, his eyes widen and his lips spread into a smile. Henry quickens his pace, then plops himself down beside Finch.

"Hey, Henry," Finch murmurs, his voice low and groggy. "How has high school been?"

He hasn't seen Finch since school started, but it feels like no time has passed at all. Leaning forward and balancing his elbows on his knees, Henry replies, "Good. How has orchestra been?"

Finch sighs, scratching the back of his neck.

"Not good?" Henry supplies.

Finch laughs at that. "Well, it's stricter than I thought it would be. On the first day, the teacher started talking about standards of appearance and..."

"It's not what you had in middle school?"

"Yeah, that's it," Finch says. "You remember the middle school band teacher, right? Mr. Walker?"

Henry thinks back to his botched try-outs, to the band teacher looking upon him with pity as he made feeble farting noises on his trumpet mouthpiece. He remembers the band teacher as a big man with tattoos showing just above the collar of his shirt and hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Despite his appearance, he broke the news to Henry gently that there would be no room for him in the band.

"Yeah, I remember him," Henry says. "You talked about him a lot."

Fiddling with the strap of his shoulder bag, Finch says, "I remember when I was starting out, I really sucked. A simple song like 'Hot Cross Buns' could mess me up. I remember I played the wrong note every single time, and Mr. Walker was like 'Actually, that sounds really good Finch. Let's continue with that' and he composes a new song on the spot using my wrong note."

Henry thinks for a moment, then says, "And now it's more like 'Finch, you need more practice?'"

Again, Finch laughs, but it sounds a bit hollow. "Well, not yet. But maybe soon."

Henry reaches out to pat his friend on the back. "Don't worry. You're good on the trumpet. It won't happen to you."

"What won't happen?"

They turn to the left. Standing there is Turner with a bleariness to his half-open eyes and a scowl on his lips. Surprised, Henry ducks his head as soon as he sees him, turning to Finch with a feeling much like betrayal.

Oblivious, Finch smiles. "Oh, you know. Getting kicked out of orchestra." Bracing his hands on his knees, he gets to his feet. "You're late. Henry and I have been waiting."

Frowning, Henry stands up. He doesn't want to admit that he didn't know they were waiting, so he nods along.

"Huh." And the tone Turner uses shows he couldn't care less. "Let's go."

Finch leads, picking his way down the front steps of the library. Henry falls in behind him, jumping when he feels something grazing his hand. Quickly, he looks back to see Turner's outstretched arm, the index finger of his right hand lifting to poke the side of Henry's hand.

Henry jerks his hand away and Turner bares his teeth at him.

"This is what couples do, Henry."

In response, Henry stuffs his hands into his pockets, keeping his gaze on the back of Finch's head even when he hears a sigh from behind him.

They end up at Staples. Finch quickly finds the calculators, but they're locked up.

"Guess we gotta find an employee," Turner says.

"You're right," Finch says, looking around. "Do you need calculators too?"

"I'll buy mine later with my dad," Turner answers.

"Me too," Henry says, eyeing the price of the calculators.

"See, that's what I'm avoiding," Finch quips before disappearing from the aisle. Henry starts to follow him, but Turner catches him by the shoulder.

Henry stiffens, bracing himself for something awful. Instead Turner asks, "So I'm thinking maybe we tell Finch?"

Peering over his shoulder, Henry says, "Tell him what?"

"That his best friends are going out?"

"I'm his only best friend," Henry snaps.

Turner draws back like he's been stricken. Seeing the grimace on his face, Henry grits his teeth and wishes he would have just agreed. Before he can say anything more, the two of them hear Finch's voice growing closer until he's returned with a Staples employee whose nametag reads Jane.

"This one, right?" she asks, unlocking the cabinet. "I'll bring it to the cashier, so just follow me."

Finch hesitates to answer and glances between his friends. If he notices that Turner's scowl has deepened and that Henry won't make eye contact, he doesn't mention it.

"Okay," Finch finally says. He trails behind Jane, but Henry catches him looking back.

He's had enough of standing here, so he joins Finch on the cash register line. Turner is nowhere to be seen. He feels guilty, but only because he doesn't feel more guilty.

When it's time to leave, Turner still hasn't returned. Finch has to text him as they wait by the exit.

Turner shows up with only a shallow "Sorry, guys" which Finch easily forgives. They leave the store, with Finch walking backwards.

"I just wanted to say good bye to both of you before I go home," Finch says. "See you next week!"

Henry opens his mouth to protest, but the words falter when he sees the tight corners of Finch's smile. It's an unfamiliar look on the other boy. He doesn't know why. Finch should be used to them fighting.

"It was nice to see you again," Henry says instead. There's no change in Finch's expression. He turns and heads down a side street. Henry follows him with his eyes until the buildings hide him from view; he's pretty sure Finch is going the wrong direction.

Once more, Turner brushes against his hand. Without even thinking about it, Henry jerks away.

Turner sighs. "Let's just stop this now. I'm not stupid. You're only doing this for Finch."

"No, I'm-"

Turner cuts in with a hard tone, "I said, I'm not stupid. God, it’s like you hate me, even more than when we were kids. Next time you lie and tell someone you like them, you should actually try acting like you do."

Henry keeps his head down. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it? Because it's not fair when I'm the only one trying to take this seriously. I might not like you, but I don't want to be treated like some old pervert when I just want to hold hands." Turner pauses, pinching the skin between his eyes. "Look, I'll swear not to go after Finch. I just don't want to be with you."

The feeling is mutual, so that last sentence shouldn't sting as much as it does. Henry grits his teeth, willing himself to back down and end this farce.

He doesn't know what he's doing when he turns around and grabs Turner's hand. Turner's mouth falls open. Henry's not discreet about it; the darting motion catches the attention of people walking by, and he doesn't know what he'll do if anyone from his family sees.

But he needs to do this. He needs the proof that he's not missing something vital to being human.

"It's my first relationship," he mumbles, face red. "This is the most I can do." He doesn't mention that even this contact is discomforting to him.

Turner stares down at their connected hands. With the way his head is tilted and his eyebrows are furrowed, he looks guileless, like a lost child appraising his situation. For a moment, Henry thinks the other boy will pull away, but instead he's the one being pulled forward as Turner says, "We're standing in the way."

The palm pressed against his own is slightly sweaty. The fingers locked in the gaps between his are bony. And the pads of the other boy's fingers resting against the back of his knuckles are rough with calluses. Henry's disgusted when he thinks about where this hand has been, but he resists the urge to wrench away. It's his own fault that this is a hand he'll have to get used to.