In class the next day, Henry reels as he spots Denny. The other boy's wearing his usual hoodie, and for once, his hood is down. Henry supposes he's tired of the teacher calling him out on it every time, but it's like he's seeing Denny again for the first time in a while, only instead of the usual flyaway strands, Henry finds that Denny's hair has grown quite a bit.

"Your hair," Henry says as he sits. "Reminds me of a friend of mine."

"Really? She hot?" Denny asks, leaning forward in his seat.

"Um," Henry mumbles. "He's a boy."

Strangely enough, this makes Denny chuckle. "You sure about that?"

Before Henry can say anything, the teacher calls for him to turn around, joking that it might be the last week of classes but they still have to pay attention.

The day after the concert, Finch sent him a text, a mundane one asking if he got home safely. Reading it, Henry feels cheated for the flash of dread that went through him when he saw he had a new message.

But then again, finals are coming up. Neither of them have the time to worry about this.

Which is why Henry's so surprised at the end of class, when Denny asks him to check out his club.

"I probably shouldn't," Henry says. He almost has to shout; the hallways are a little louder than usual, the energy charged with the anticipated end of the semester.

"Why? I don't see you doing anything after school."

The statement rubs Henry the wrong way. For a moment, he wonders if Denny's using a roundabout way to call him lazy.

"I go home. To study," Henry murmurs, pushing open the door to the staircase.

"What's that, Henry?" Denny shouts, piling in behind him.

"I go home! To study!"

"Aw, you don't need any of that," Denny says, waving his hand. "What you need is to come to my club with me."

Henry shakes his head.

"Come on, Henry. It's the last meeting of the semester. You can't miss it!"

Henry cranes his neck back, saying, "I'll go next semester." As he says the words, he sees Denny's smile falling into a dejected scowl. It makes him miss a step and stumble. Denny's hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. There's no leverage in the grip, but thankfully, it's just a misstep.

As they continue up the stairs, Denny calls, "We might not have any classes together next semester." His words are punctuated with intermittent long breaths, but they don't take away from his point.

It's something that's been on the back of Henry's mind for a while. They applied for classes three-fourths the way through the semester, but judging from what some of the upperclassmen have said, they won't know their schedule until the first day of the spring semester. There's no more of that old security from middle school and elementary, where his academic prowess ensured him a class with his friends. It didn't matter to him at first, what with Finch being in another school entirely, but listening to Denny now, he can't picture going to school without the other boy's constant presence, complaining under his breath in the middle of math, slowing him down in the travel period between classes, nudging him for help with group activities in history.

They leave the stairwell, and Henry finds himself saying, "Okay, I'll check out your club with you."

Denny mouths a "Yes!" while pumping his fist. Henry doesn't know why he's so excited. He's just going to see the club and leave immediately.

---

What club is this? Turner writes when Henry tells him about it.

The biology teacher has been a bit more lax lately, never raising her voice to admonish even the chattier groups of the class. Yet, Henry still glances at the board before forming two right angles with his index fingers and thumbs in front of his face. He makes a soft clicking noise with his tongue. Turner raises an eyebrow at the pantomime, snickering under his breath. Quizzically, Henry tilts his head. 

"Send nudes," the other boy whispers before his shoulders begin rocking with silent laughter.

This is where Henry would usually sigh before turning away to ignore Turner for the rest of the period. However, he finds that nonchalance evading him now as he watches Turner, the other boy with his hand over his mouth, the raised corner of his lips peeking out from beneath his fingertips.

His arm doesn't feel like his own when he reaches out, easing his fingers into the gap between Turner's hand and his face. As soon as he touches him, Turner stills like someone cursed into stone, but his hand stays pliable; Henry slowly curls it away from Turner's face.

When he catches sight of Turner's petrified grin, something like horror fills Henry. His eyes flicker up to Turner's, and there's confusion there that Henry has no answer for. He considers changing the subject, but he can't think of anything to talk about. More importantly, he has to take his hand back. Right now.

He does so with mechanical, jerky movements: first letting his hand go slack, then by folding his arm back towards himself, and finally by shifting his whole body towards the front of the class. He can still sense Turner's gaze on him; it has him quickly scribbling an explanation on the corner of his paper.

Turner leans over to read it, and when he's done, his answering scoff tells Henry exactly how little he thinks of it.

---

The photography club isn't anything special.

Rather, it's remarkable, and not in a good way.

When Henry tells Denny this, the other boy only snorts and says, "You're just saying that because you wish you had a camera too."

Denny's fingers have gone red from the cold. The pads of his fingers where he clutches his camera are white from the pressure of his grip, and even that doesn't completely still his shaking. No, Henry definitely doesn't envy him, not with his hands stuffed safely in his warm pockets. Instead, Henry's wishing he was home already, reacquainting himself with his notes and his textbooks.

He sweeps his eyes over the park, over the various high school students who scattered as soon as the club president, a short junior with a booming voice, shooed them all away. Not all of them are holding cameras--some have their phones out--but everyone's trudging through the grass, nosing around brass statues, looking for good shots. The club president's sitting only a few feet away at a picnic table, guarding bulging bags from the nearby grocery store. Every so often, the president shouts some tips to Denny, but otherwise continues speaking to the vice president about how this year has gone.

Henry's squatting next to Denny as the other boy precariously leans forward to take a picture of two miniature brass figures posed next to a pile of pennies. His ankles are starting to get sore; he wonders what Denny sees in this.

"You've been there forever, Denny's. Go find another subject," the president suddenly calls.

"Yes sir!" Denny exclaims, jumping to his feet immediately. Henry tries to do the same thing, but ends up toppling forward. With a sigh, he gathers his numb legs and slowly stands.

"I thought," Henry says, "that you didn't want to be called Denny's?"

Denny, whose eyes have been darting around for the perfect spot, stills and aims a shaky grin at Henry. "She's not calling me Denny's. She's calling me Denny's. Not that I like that name either. Sounds old and strict."

Henry blinks, because isn't that the exact same thing?

"Denise," Denny repeats. "Not Denny's."

His ears catch the difference this time, the stress that falls on the second syllable instead of the first. "Is there something you want to tell me?" Henry asks, weakly.

Denny fiddles with his camera for a bit, and then picks a seemingly random direction to walk in. As he does so, he mumbles something unintelligible. Frowning, Henry draws closer to try and hear, but by then, Denny's finished.

"Sorry?" Henry says.

"'m a girl," Denny mutters, face turning red.

There's a quiet moment as they face each other. Things like "I guess I do have a female friend" and "Why does this always happen in a public place?" flicker through Henry's mind and all he can say is, "Okay."

"Okay? Henry, really? Okay?" Denny splutters, dropping the camera altogether. It hangs from a cord around his, her neck, safely suspended in the air. Henry watches it, wondering just what he's done wrong.

There's nothing he can think of, so he just nods. Denny's incredulous expression crumples into a deep-set scowl, the likes of which Henry's never seen on her face before.

"Sorry, did I do somethi-"

"No no no," Denny cuts in, waving both hands in front of her. "I don't even know what I was expecting, and now all my worrying seems stupid. Did you know I lost sleep over this?"

Denny's tone is lighthearted, so it seems safe to laugh. "Why?"

"Planning, Henry. I've been plotting every single rebuttal to everything I could think of. All my devious plans. Ruined!"

Henry digs his phone out of his pocket to check the time. "You should have studied instead of planning for this."

"It was important to me," Denny mutters, picking up her camera once more. "We're best friends, after all, and I met you when I was trying to figure all this out. This is coming months too late."

"We're not best friends." Henry's mind is far away as he speaks the words. Stronger than Denny's physical presence here is the memory of Finch's questioning eyes.

"But yeah," Henry says, giving Denny a soft smile. "It's never too late."