During the night, the temperature rises above freezing. Maybe it was snowing the day before, but when Henry steps out of his apartment building, the monotonous gray sky that seems to infinitely stretch out and the drumming of rain on the sidewalk is all he's met with. With a sigh, he unfurls his umbrella and begins the trek to school. Underfoot, the only evidence of snow is the sad piles of slush, and even those dissolve easily when Henry steps in them.

Compared to that, the inside of the school is as bright as any sunny day. Really, it should be inviting, but the harsh fluorescent lighting cutting into the muted gray makes Henry slow his steps and wonder if it would really be so bad if he didn't go to school.

It's a familiar thought he should have outgrown in elementary school. Besides, he has nowhere else to go.

And like that, his hesitation is only a blip, a stutter in his pace as he hurries to homeroom.

Denny walks into math class so casually that for a second, Henry tricks himself into believing things are normal again.

Normal? What was normal again? Wasn't this normal?

Denny's voice cuts into his thoughts with a drawn out "Awww maaaan." Henry turns around to look as Denny presses her face against her desk. She goes so low, Henry makes awkward eye contact with the guy sitting behind her. The guy looks away first before Denny rights herself. 

"I'm going home after finals," she mutters.

"Well," Henry says. "Yeah. Of course."

"No no no," Denny says, waving her hands. "I'm leaving the city I mean. My mom wants me back home."

Henry blinks. For a moment he wonders who would allow their kid to live on their own. It can't be that. A list of other possibilities run through his head.

"Oh," he decides to say, as if he's made the connection in his head.

Denny nods.

"Are you coming back for next semester?" asks Henry.

Scoffing, Denny pulls her binder out of her bag. "It'd be a waste not to after passing the entrance exam."

"Right..." Henry trails off. He lingers there, spine twisted awkwardly to face Denny. He's missed the timing to turn back, but he doesn't know what he should say.

Denny raises an eyebrow. "Something on your mind?"

"I, uh. Well." He stops himself. Denny doesn't know about Finch, barely knows about Turner. There's no sense in saying anything.

"No," Henry says. "Not really. Just sleepy."

"You can sleep now. I'll wake you up when the teacher-oh never mind." And just like that, the teacher walks in. Henry turns back around. There's this heavy mass settling in the back of his throat. As much as he swallows, he can't rid himself of it.

---

Turner's there before him when he gets to Biology. As usual, he's sprawled out on his desk. It's not new, but the sight of his head buried deep in his arms makes Henry hold his breath. His steps are quieter, and he's careful not to jostle his own desk when he sits down.

He thought Turner would be absent. It was part of the reason why he managed to come to school today, but now Turner's this undeniable presence to his right, with one elbow jutting too far into Henry's space. With a grimace, Henry nudges the other boy's elbow, trying to slide the arm back into its nest, but no matter how much strength he uses, it doesn't move. The slow rise-and-fall of Turner's arched back doesn't fool him. He knows he's not asleep.

Henry frowns, trying to think of something to say. It feels like he's being baited into something unpleasant.

"Don't sleep in class," he finally says. There's a cool indifference to his voice which makes him inwardly wince. He didn't mean to sound like that.

There's no reaction from Turner. Henry waits another beat, and just as he's given up, Turner sighs like the breath is being dragged out of him and lifts his head. Strangely enough, he's smiling.

"If they don't want me to sleep in class," says Turner, stretching his limbs with a languid sort of manner, "Then they shouldn't make these chairs so comfortable."

Henry glances to the seat of Turner's chair--the same hard material as his own.

The direction of his gaze doesn't escape Turner. He leans his face against his curled up fingers. "It was a joke."

Henry laughs weakly. Turner's no longer smiling though. His eyes travel down Henry's face, lingering somewhere around his neck, and Henry can't help but notice the way his lips curl as if he's tasted something sour.

"Sorry," Turner says, dropping his gaze. "I don't really want to see you right now."

And with that, he turns away. A part of Henry tells him he should stop him, but he should know better than that. This is what he's always wanted: a Turner who won't bother with him.

But when he opens his binder and sees lines of meaningless conversations squirreled away in the margins of his notes, he can't remember why he wanted that in the first place.