Do you want to talk now?

His phone vibrates twice on the table. The only response--a polite "Good luck on your finals."

...

The weekend passes, and then the finals begin. He goes to school to take the tests, waiting in hallways for test proctors to finish setting up. The anxiety-ridden faces of his classmates are hidden in last-minute notes. Those same expressions seem to linger on their faces as they leave the school, shivering into the folds of their scarves. Henry watches as they hurry back home. He wonders what expression's on his own face.

At the end of the Geometry final, he gets to his feet and just as he leaves the classroom, he's tackled by another body. It knocks the breath out of him, and he stumbles before regaining his footing. At the corner of his vision, he catches sight of wispy hair, floating up almost of its own volition.

"Denny," Henry says. Some other kids have glanced back at the sound of scuffling. One of them quirks an eyebrow up at the sight.

"I won't let go, Jack," Denny quips. Her voice almost seems to bubble up from her throat.

Henry sighs, tentatively taking a step forward. It's a shaky step, what with Denny's arms slung over his shoulders and her feet dragging against the floor, but he continues down the hallway anyway.

Meanwhile, Denny gushes behind him about how it's such a relief to be free from Geometry, to be free from school for a week, to be free from-

"Denny, you do know we have another semester of Geometry, right?"

He has no way to see her face, but the way Denny's grip slackens is telling enough.

Denny's reply of "Oh" is low and short. She slides her hands back, then moves to walk next to Henry.

"How did you forget?" Henry asks.

"Alas, Henry," Denny says, bringing a trembling hand up. She clenches it into a fist before bringing it to her chest, her eyes shutting with the weight of her emotions. "Is a fool not allowed to hope?"

When she opens her eyes again, she fixes them onto Henry. "So, see you next semester?"

Henry nods.

"Don't forget to talk to me during the break."

Henry nods.

"And don't forget to join the photography club."

Henry stops. He narrows his eyes, scowling. Despite his icy response, Denny clutches her stomach and laughs.

---

How about now?

His phone buzzes twice in his hand. "I'm busy" pops up on the screen.

With a sigh that crystallizes in the cold air, Henry stuffs his phone into his coat pocket. He tilts his head back, taking in the  sight of the red brick three-family house. Through the second-story window, he can't see any moving figures. Regardless, Henry raises a hand and rings the doorbell.

It takes a few seconds, but he hears the pounding of feet down a flight of stairs, through the entryway, and then the door is pulled open.

Turner stands there in a pair of ripped jeans and a black t-shirt, one hand hidden behind the open door, the other leaning against the doorframe. There's a split second where the other boy's eyes go wide, but then his face sets into an impassive mask.

Henry drops his gaze. He's gone over this in his mind so many times, but now, the words are gone. All he can think of is that time in Biology class, with Turner smiling like everything was normal, and then that smile dropping so quickly, so easily.

"Well." There's a hint of irritation to Turner's voice. "You're letting in the cold air."

It doesn't sound like an invitation to come in, but Henry swallows his trepidation, looks up, and says, "Are you still busy?"

A pause. Something seems to slip in Turner's expression. "No," he responds, carefully.

"Can I...can I come in?"

Turner's mouth forms the shape of a no. Then, he seems to think better of it and he steps aside. Wordlessly, he motions for Henry to get in.

Henry follows the other boy, passing by the first floor tenant's door before heading up the carpeted stairs. He's been here before with Finch, when they worked together on a social studies project. There's a hole in the wall by the staircase's landing that wasn't there before, but otherwise, the house hasn't changed.

Turner's back is to him; the other boy doesn't look back once, not even when they head to his room.

As if no one else is around, Turner flops down on his bed. He squirms until his back is resting against the headboard. Then, he begins playing on his phone.

Henry stands in the bedroom doorway awkwardly. Desperate to find some way to talk, he casts a glance over the room, eyeing the wrinkled checkered bedsheets, the cluttered textbooks on the computer desk, and finally the bookshelf facing the bed. Some of the books on the bottom shelf are pushed up neatly to the side, others are leaning precariously, and the rest seem to almost be spilling out onto the floor. He quietly walks over to the pile, blinking at the hardcover book lying on top.

With the golden letters saying "Congratulations, Class of 2015" and that starry cover, it's unmistakably their junior high yearbook.

A glance at Turner tells him that he's still being actively ignored.

Henry takes a seat on the floor by the foot of the bed and pulls the yearbook into his lap. He runs his fingers over its cracked spine--how long has it been since he's seen his own? This one opens easily enough, its pages settling to a collection of portraits belonging to the kids of class 801.

Above him, he hears the rustling of bedsheets, the creak of bedsprings. Before long, Turner's head pops up above him. The other boy reaches out a hand (his elbow bumping into Henry's temple) and without asking, he flips the pages of the book to a picture of him, Henry, Finch, and a girl. They're in science class, building a model. Finch and Turner are sitting side by side; Henry is sitting with the girl. Turner has an elbow on the desk to brace himself as he reaches out with his other hand to place a stick on the very top of the already-leaning model. The girl has her hands on her face, covering one eye, the other eye peeking out. Finch is leaning forward, fists on the table, his mouth falling wide open. And then there's Henry, sitting stiffly in his seat, narrowing his eyes at the model, eyebrows drawn low on his forehead, his bottom lip stuck out petulantly.

They all look so...so terribly childish.

"I noticed something while I was looking through this," Turner says, right in Henry's ear. He points to the Henry in the photograph. "That face. You're making that face in almost every picture they got of you."

Henry scratches the back of his ear. "I don't remember them taking this picture."

"Figures." And Turner's turning the page again. Photos of their old classmates--vaguely recognizable--are passed over. There's a picture of the afterschool band, with Finch posing next to his band mates. That gets passed over too. When Henry reaches out to try and find that page again, his hand gets slapped away.

Finally, they arrive at a photo of their graduation trip to a state park. In the background, somewhere downhill, the sun's shining off the ripples of a lake. Closer to the camera, Finch and Henry are sitting on a bench. Henry's in the middle of biting into a sandwich, but his eyes are cast off to the side, where a Canada goose waits, eyeing the sandwich with its soulless black eyes. Finch has this shaky smile on his face, his hand on Henry's shoulder, tugging him away from the giant goose.

Upon seeing the picture, Henry feels his heart clench. Though it was only last year, it feels like it happened so long ago; he hasn't thought of it since.

"I think," and Henry jolts from the sudden sound of Turner's voice, "it's always been like this, hasn't it? The two of you in your own little world. It was all I ever saw."

Henry sidles away, so he can crane his neck around without bumping into the other boy.

But Turner's not really looking at him. He's just lying there, staring at the yearbook, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed.

"Do you remember where I was? When that picture happened?" Turner asks.

Henry shakes his head.

"Finch remembers."

And something awful rises up in Henry's chest as he realizes Turner and Finch have talked about this same picture. "So?" he asks.

Turner laughs breathily. "God, why are you...? My point is...I guess, that I wanted...I wanted this-" and he gestures towards the page. "And I thought I could get that from you two. But it had to be Finch, and not you. Because with you, it's always Finch. It's always going to be Finch. And that's so fucking lonely."

Henry reels back. The yearbook slides out of his lap. "I-I don't-"

"You don’t what? What'd you come here for, Henry?" Turner demands, pushing himself into a sitting position. His teeth are gritted, and his hands are fists against the fabric of his jeans.

"I came to talk."

"Well, fuck you, we're talking now. What'd you come here for? What do you want from me? What, do you want to be friends again? Want to go back to hating each other? Or do you just want to keep pretending that there's even a small chance that you can like me when all you really want to do is to keep me away from Finch?"

Turner's face is red by the time he finishes yelling. His chest rises and falls from his heavy breaths. He takes one look at Henry's speechless face, and slowly drags a hand down his own.

His voice is quieter, shakier when he speaks again. "Look, I'm not even-I don't even want Finch. That's it. There's nothing left to talk about."

Henry chews on the inside of his cheek. He's never seen Turner so weighed down. It's always seemed like the other boy's been floating above the rest of them, gliding through each act of his life like it's just too easy for him.

He lifts his hand, sliding it along the bed to place it on Turner's knee. The other boy jolts from the contact, lowering his own hand to glare at Henry. He doesn't know what he's doing, but it feels like something he wants to do.

It was something he was allowed to do, back then. Something that would have been welcomed, though now Turner glares at the offending hand.

Henry withdraws his hand. "If I said I wanted to, could we go back to the way things were?"

Turner looks as if he's about to punch him.

"I mean, it wasn't so bad--the dating, I mean. I wasn't always-Finch wasn't...I-"

"Prove it."

"P-prove it?" Henry asks, incredulous.

A strained smile spreads on Turner's face. He rocks forward, and suddenly, Henry's being lifted by two hands under his armpits, and he's dragged to sit in the other's lap.

"If you like me so much, which of course you do, then you'll give me what I want, won't you?"

Henry grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the sarcasm in Turner's voice. "Of course," Henry mutters. Then, he does the only thing that comes to mind. He takes the other boy's hands by the wrists and pushes them under his own shirt.

Although he's the one directing the action, he can't help but freeze at the foreign feeling of someone else's skin against his. It doesn't help that Turner's hands are so clammy.

All Turner can say is, "Oh." His face flushes a bright red, but then he leans forward, his eyes intently watching Henry's expression. Henry turns away, releasing Turner's wrists.

The two of them are silent as Turner begins moving, the pads of his fingers moving along Henry's waist before coming to rest on his ribcage. Henry holds his breath, watching his coat ride up with Turner's movements. He occupies himself in watching the way the fabric of his shirt folds over itself, ever-changing, and tries his best to ignore how he feels Turner's nails the most as they drag against his stomach.

I can get through this, he tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut. This is nothing.

And all at once, the sensations stop. When he opens his eyes, Turner's pulling his hands away, tugging Henry's shirt down and making his coat decent again. There's this crookedness to Turner's mouth, as if he's not sure if he should be smiling or frowning.

"Is this what you think I want?" Turner laughs. "Oh my god, Henry, don't flatter yourself. You're a skinny nerd. I'm not interested in your body."

Henry gives him a scandalized look. Self-consciously, he runs a hand down the front of his shirt. At this, Turner rolls his eyes. He reaches behind himself and gets his phone. When he passes it to Henry, a contacts list has been pulled up. Sitting at the top of the screen is Finch's name.

Henry looks up, and Turner's sitting back with a smug smile on his face. "You haven't been talking to him have you? To be fair, I was kind of...glad? Thought it'd be my chance, or something."

"Your chance? How did you...did Finch tell you?" Henry asks weakly.

Turner lifts an eyebrow. "Does it matter? Can't you see I'm doing you a favor? If you want me back, all you have to do is call Finch and tell him the thing you've been avoiding him over. You should be thanking me."

"...you want me to tell him...everything?" It feels like the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. It's bad enough that he no longer remembers how he used to talk to Finch; he can't imagine this leading to anything but an awkward conversation about exactly how he and Turner started dating followed by Finch tiptoeing around the two of them for however long their friendship will last.

Turner slides a hand onto Henry's shoulder. It's a touch that's barely there, almost hovering just above his coat. His voice is emphatic when he speaks, "Hey man. I'm here. I don't know why you want me at all, but you can't have me like it was before. But I'm here for you, and since you do want me, that must mean something, right?"

Henry stares at Turner, this obnoxious boy he's known since second grade who's staring back at him with this not entirely unwelcome affection in his eyes. The phone screen is already starting to dim, the name of the other boy he's known since second grade hardly visible anymore. He swallows past the lump in his throat, and makes the call.