Without incident, the semester goes by. Time passes quickly as Henry settles into a mindless routine of waiting for the weekends. In school, he tries his best not to fall asleep while counting down the minutes to the end of each period. After school, he puts in the minimum amount of effort into his homework so he won't have to worry in school the next day. No matter how early it is, sleep always comes easily to him. No matter how much sleep he gets, he always wakes up tired.

Things don't change with Turner, or rather, they keep the status quo. Turner treats him the same in school as when they were friends. He speaks less during Biology, opting instead to write messages on the corners of his looseleaf paper. If Henry doesn't look, Turner jabs him in the side repeatedly to convince him otherwise. Outside of school, they don't meet. On the rare occasion that they do, one of them inevitably ends up asking Finch to join. When their friend has his back turned, Turner grabs Henry's hand. His grip is always loose, as if he's daring Henry to pull away.

One time, Finch turned around, catching Turner with his arm slung around Henry's shoulders. There was a jolt against Henry's neck as Turner stiffened under Finch's narrowed eyes. But all Finch had to say was, "Have you two always been so close?"

Finch texts them regularly and sends them pictures of his own outings with his orchestra members. His hair grows longer, long enough for a short ponytail. They meet every weekend, up until midterms start. The texts become more sporadic, coming as late as 3 in the morning or even in the middle of the school day. There's no more mention of meeting in person. Henry's tempted to ask Turner for his phone to see if he's getting the same responses, but it's not worth being accused of being jealous that Turner's getting more attention.

And so, Henry keeps himself busy with midterms.

When he comes out the other end, his brain addled with extraneous facts and formulas, his eyes blinking at the sight of people he hasn't truly seen for days, he's in the lunchroom a bit too early, with Denny by his side ranting about the comments the English teacher gave him on his essay. Turner's there, surrounded by his friends. It's always a wonder to Henry how Turner manages to befriend so many people, especially the girls. Henry doesn't know how to interact with them. When he does, what's always present in the back of his mind is what others are thinking, that ever-present question of whether or not they're dating. His head's a lot quieter around guys his own age, where the default assumption is friendship.

The thought of that makes him frown. Denny taps his shoulder and gestures towards Turner, who is currently leaving the lunchroom.

"That's the guy who always says hi to you," Denny says.

Henry nods. "We went to elementary school together."

"That's impressive. Staying friends for that long, I mean. All my friends from elementary blew me off in middle school. Well, it's not like I didn't do the same to them."

"Doesn't sound like you're too sad about it."

In reply, Denny just grins. From the way the corners of his lips creep up, Henry guesses that Denny's trying to be sinister, but with his friend's round face, it just looks like childish glee.

"I suppose once you ditch me, I'll try not to be too sad," Henry says.

He doesn't call out to Turner, like usual. He expects him to just pass by, but when the other boy glances his way, that expectation is lost. They wave to each other.

In Biology, Turner lays his head down on his desk, angling his right arm around so he can write on the corner of his binder: Do you want to eat something after school?

Henry contemplates those blocky words, then writes on his own paper: Okay. Do you know if Finch is busy?

When he lifts his pen off the paper and glances over to Turner, the other boy's scowling, already scribbling out his reply.

Don't need to invite him.

Henry squints at Turner, who lifts his eyebrows at him in a meaningful way. He's not sure what to make of that, so he turns his attention back to the board. As soon as he does so, Turner begins writing in his binder, the scratching noises embarrassingly audible to everyone in the room. Henry swears the teacher's voice falters at the sound of it.

Soon, he feels a sharp object jabbing him in the side. He's expecting it this time, so he doesn't jump, but his hand clenches the edge of the desk from the pain.

He glares at Turner, and finds that the other boy has covered the margins of his paper with his erratic handwriting.

Finch is busy with his own thing so don't bother him. But me? I'm the one getting sick of being stuck in school and only seeing you in Bio where you don't want to talk because you suck at being subtle and then when you get caught, you blame it on me. You even spend more time with Denny, and I'm the one you've known for YEARS.

So don't be a hardass and just hang out with me without Finch for once. I know you worship him, but he's not the one you're dating.

Well, that makes it simple enough for Henry. He writes a single No.

Turner reaches over with his pen and despite Henry’s attempts to push him away, he manages to turn the No into a distorted-looking Yes.

“Use your own paper,” Henry hisses.

No, writes Turner. He glances up at Henry and the look of outrage on his face has Turner snickering under his breath.

---

It's a week later when Finch sends his next text. It's a short one, asking how things have been, but it's enough for Henry. The texts become more regular, tapering off once more as they near finals. They don't meet up for the rest of the semester, but Henry and Turner go to Finch's school for his winter concert.

Henry listens carefully during the songs for the sound of Finch's trumpet, but the trumpet players are like one unit. Among the perfectly in-tune orchestra, Finch has no unique sound.

Turner shifts in his seat. He has his head against the curve of Henry's neck, his jaw resting against Henry's collarbone. It's an unwieldy weight on him, a little uncomfortable, but it's more of a physical discomfort, one that he forgets until Turner moves again.

"You see him?" Turner whispers, nodding towards the back of the stage. The movement chafes against Henry's skin; he elbows Turner once as a warning before looking up.

All of the orchestra kids are dressed in the same white collared shirts with black slacks or skirts. To top it off, Finch's section is really far back, the members' faces obscured by music stands and polished brass instruments which catch the light. Henry has to really search in order to find Finch, and even then, he only knows it's him because of the other boy's long hair. He's too far away to see properly, but Finch seems to have his eyes half-closed, his posture as straight as his bandmates'.

Henry blinks to clear up his vision, but his judgement remains unchanged.

He and Turner used to go to Finch's concerts back in middle school, and he remembers the other boy practically keeping time with his entire body, his leg jostling as he tapped the beat out, his head bouncing up and down to the rhythm. It was so easy to pick him out back then.

"Well?" Turner asks.

"I see him," Henry says.

"Took you a while. Looks professional, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Henry says, somehow managing to keep his voice neutral.

After the show, they find Finch outside of the auditorium hanging with a group of orchestra kids.

With an open-mouthed laugh, Finch lists off all the parts he made mistakes in. This gets a chorus of "Yeah, I remember that!" from the other kids.

"Dude, I looked up at that part and I swear I saw Mr. Moretti glaring at you," one of the kids says. "Guess you know what to expect on Monday."

"I won't be the only one at least!" Finch exclaims, nudging the person next to him.

Henry feels fingernails scrabbling against the side of his palm. Turner's watching him.

"You stopped walking. Come on, it's Finch."

He nods blindly, lifting one leg then the other. He doesn't know why it's so hard to move, nor does he understand why Finch seems so foreign to him now. It hasn't been that long, has it?

"Finch!" Turner calls, one arm in the air. This jolts Henry from his thoughts. He looks up in time to see Finch's eyes landing on them.

He's close enough to see the few droplets of sweat collecting on Finch's browbone, and close enough to see how his mouth falls open in increments. It makes it all the more mesmerizing when Finch's bottom eyelids scrunch up, his lips curving up in a brilliantly familiar toothy smile.

"Henry, Turner, I..." Finch hesitates, his eyes darting away from the two of them before coming back. "I'm pretty glad that you two came."

Henry can't think of a response, not with the other members of the orchestra staring at the three of them. It's Turner who chimes in with, "Of course we came. How else would we show you how to be a good friend?"

There's no venom in Turner's voice, but it elicits a couple of awkward chuckles anyway. Finch rubs the back of his neck. "There's no excuse I can tell you two except that it was really busy here-"

"Busy being a bad friend," Turner cuts in.

"Oh god," Henry mutters, smacking his own forehead. "You didn't even remember the concert was today."

At that, Finch laughs. It's such an honest sound that Henry can't help but smile. "Nothing changes between you two..." Finch says before his eyebrows twist up in confusion. "...is what I would say but..."

He points between them. They look down at their hands, entwined together.