Henry's fingers go cold, as cold as they can in Turner's balmy hands. From the corner of his eye, he sees Turner moving to look at him, but Henry can't bring himself to turn away from Finch's steady gaze. For once, he doesn't know what Finch might be thinking. Disgust? Bewilderment? Those dark eyes seem so blank.

He knows what he'd think of two boys holding hands, and though it's nothing close to revulsion or even disapproval, he quails upon finding it reflected in the eyes of the orchestra kids. That's not Henry as he knows himself. What can he possibly say? Oh god, even his silence sounds incriminating.

"Oh, this?"

His hand is lifted in the air, and when he looks, Turner's grinning like a child dying to burst out all of their secrets.

"It's crowded here, so I wanted to make sure we wouldn't get separated," announces Turner, shrugging. "You know how slow Henry walks."

His hand is released. Henry fretfully watches as the orchestra kids lose interest. Compared to that, the clear sound of Finch's laughter is many degrees warmer. "I'm afraid I don't remember? It's been a while."

"That's okay," Henry says. "I think being so busy was worth it when the concert sounded so good."

It's the strangest thing, but Henry swears that Finch's smile drops even though his lips don't move. The other boy's voice sounds as sincere as before though. "Thanks, Henry. Means a lot."

Before Henry can reply, Finch's parents call for him. The two of them are beaming as they reach Finch's side. Henry's met his parents before--he's even come over to their house a few times--but it's hard to get anything in with Finch while the two of them fret over their son and make him pose in pictures with his teachers, his friends, and most obviously, themselves.

The first picture is with Henry and Turner. As his mom gestures for them to move in closer, Finch whispers into Henry's ear, asking him if there's any news they want to tell him--they, as in him and Turner. The question, and the flash from the camera, catches Henry off-guard. He's sure that once the pictures get developed, his mouth will be open in the awkward beginnings of a grimace.

He manages to answer that no, there's only the usual: school. Nothing else.

Finch scrutinizes him, but is soon whisked away by his parents for more pictures. They only get to say goodbye at the end, and when Finch's parents offer to give them a ride home, Henry turns it down. It's only a fifteen minute ride back to his house, but he's uneasy about being stuck in the backseat with Finch and Turner.

Finch's mom frowns, asking, "Are you sure, Henry? It's dark outside. I don't want you walking by yourself."

Henry waves the question away. "It's okay. I like walking at night."

"Do you really? Are you just saying that to be polite?"

It's such a direct question from Finch that his parents chuckle awkwardly and ask Henry to excuse their son for his weirdness. Henry rubs his arm, laughing along, but he knows Finch's question is purposeful, that it's easier to concede and join them in the car than to reply to that question.

"You know Henry. Slow walker. Likes to take in the scenery," Turner says. "Besides, he won't be alone. We live around the same area."

"Wait, wha-" Henry begins before getting elbowed in the side.

Turner whispers to him, "Sort of in the same area. Close enough. Shut up."

He shuts up, waving goodbye to Finch's parents. When Finch looks at him with a question in his eyes, Henry wishes he was a little bit better at ignoring him, and a little bit worse at reading him. For now, he lingers in the entrance of the school until they leave, and lingers a bit longer to make sure they're gone.

It's Turner who gets fed up and finally drags the two of them outside. It's 10 and the sun is long gone, but the city's never dark at night. The glow from office windows spills into the streets and countless streetlights line the sidewalk. Each time they pass one, their shadows grow long by their side. Henry watches their shaded doppelgangers in the grass, Turner's with his back hunched and his own form trailing closely behind. They're connected by the v of their stretched out limbs, and the shape of Henry's hand is indistinguishable from Turner's. Their shadows blur and melt into the gloom until they reach another streetlight. But by then, they've reached the bus stop and Turner has broken away to read the bus schedule.

"Next bus comes in twenty minutes," Turner says, checking his phone for the time. "Shit. That's gonna get us home at 11."

"Will your parents worry?" Henry asks.

"More pissed than worried, but the most they can do is nag at me."

"They nag because they're worried."

"I didn't say they're not worried. I'm sure they are."

Henry muses on that. "You just wish they had less annoying ways to express it?" he asks. "Because they lecture you on things you already know?"

"Yeah," Turner snorts. "That's it."

"You should have gone with Finch," Henry blurts out.

Turner twists his mouth to the side, then gestures behind him with a thumb. "It's too late now. Let's just walk home."

It's so natural how Turner takes his hand again, like there's no question inherent in the action, like there's no greater meaning to it. It's this easygoing way of Turner's that lulls Henry into a false sense of security.

"What're we gonna do with Finch?" Turner murmurs in a voice so low, Henry doubts it was for his ears until Turner looks over his shoulder. "We could just tell him. Last time I checked, Finch wasn't a homophobe."

"I'm sure he's not, but that's not the problem," Henry says.

"Oh yeah? What's the problem then?"

Henry can't say. He can’t shake the feeling that if Finch ever finds out how it all started, he’ll know—he’ll just know the lie that Henry told, that Henry's still telling for some stupid reason. The silence stretches out, and finally Turner squeezes his hand.

"It's not like we've got anything to be ashamed of," Turner mutters. "All we've been doing is holding hands. We've barely kissed. Totally innocent schoolgirl kind of romance."

Innocent schoolgirl kind of romance or not, Henry's face still heats up upon hearing the details. "It's not that."

"Whatever it is, can you get over it already?"

Henry grits his teeth. It's petulant, but he tugs his hand away from Turner's, stuffing it into the pocket of his coat. His steps grow heavy, his shoes scuffing loudly against the concrete.

"Well, fine. Whatever then," Turner mutters, clenching his hand into a fist. "You know, you can be a real dick sometimes, Henry. And the worst part is, you don't even consider it because you're busy feeling sorry for yourself."

"If that's what you think, then why don't you leave?"

There's no reply. Henry's feet stall. His face feels hot, and the thought of walking next to Turner sickens him, but the way Turner continues walking--not slowing at all--causes something to twist inside of him. The distance stretches between them, and Henry can't bring himself to close it. It's much easier to stand there and wait for Turner to disappear around the corner.

He watches the section of the street that Turner went down. He should take another route home. He should actually start walking. He should...

He shakes his head. It's just Turner, the boy who got in between him and Finch in elementary and middle school, who's always right when he has the wrong thing to say, who has an endless supply of people who can replace him. Turner doesn't need him; Henry doesn't need to care about him.

The back of his throat is brisk as he takes a shuddering breath. His sigh crystallizes in the night air. He must look suspicious, standing here in the middle of the night. That's the thought that makes him start walking again.

As he rounds the corner, his foot catches against something and he stumbles. That same something lets out a hushed "Ouch!" When he rights himself, there's Turner sitting against a wire fence, one leg stretched out, the other drawn close to his body as he rubs his ankle with ungloved hands.

Henry blinks. His shadow's falling over Turner, so he can't tell what sort of face the other boy is making, but his nose looks a little red.

"Took you long enough," Turner grumbles, clambering to his feet with a sniffle. "Just so you know, I stand by what I said. I just think that's a shitty way to break up."

"That was a break up?" Henry says, a weak chuckle leaving him.

The tips of Turner's fingers are pale red in the dim light. He brings his hands to his face and huffs into them before rubbing them together. His smile is not quite there, barely touching his lips. "If you want it to be, I'll leave it to you. But again, shitty way to break up."

Henry reaches out, takes Turner's hands and stuffs them into each of his pockets. He can't quite look the other boy in the face as he does this, and he's sure the heat of his embarrassment can be felt through his fingertips. "Better?"

For a moment, Turner doesn't speak. Still cold, his fingers wriggle in Henry's coat pockets. When he finally speaks, it's with a crack in his voice. "Good enough."