There are pictures scattered all over his room.

No, scattered is an understatement. It's like a tornado just tore through every photo print shop in a ten-mile radius, and for some goddamn reason, laid all of its debris in neat little rows and columns on his bed, his desk, and even the floor. And squatting in the corner of the room, gingerly adjusting the position of yet another photograph, is Henry. His spine is bent at a strange angle, his head bowed so low that the ends of his hair fall into his eyes.

The idiot probably didn't even notice the door opening.

"I was only gone for ten minutes," Turner proclaims loudly. "What is this?" At the sound of his voice, Henry whips his head around. Then, his eyes go wide as if he's seen the calamity he's wrought upon the room for the first time.

He scrambles to his feet. "I'll clean up," he promises, but his gaze lingers over the array of photos on the floor. Turner knows that look on his face all too well: it means the pictures won't be going away anytime soon.

Careful not to step on anything, Turner picks his way across the room until he reaches his desk. There's a manila envelope covering the keys of his laptop. He shoves it to the side, not caring how a couple of the sheets inside hang precariously on the edge of the table.

As the laptop logs him back in, Turner glances back. Henry hasn't moved from his spot, but he has begun scratching his chin.

It's been, what, three years since they've started going out. He's never gotten used to these long lapses of time where Henry does nothing but think, and no matter how much Turner pokes and prods him, Henry keeps to his infuriatingly slow pace, even now when he's choosing pictures for the collage meant for the returning alumni of the photography club.

Really, did he have to lay them out like this?

"Take your time," calls Turner. "You're always welcome to sleep over."

Henry scrutinizes him, hunting for suggestiveness in the quirk of Turner's eyebrows and the tilt of his smile. "Maybe if you helped me-"

His phone rings. Just as quickly as the irritated words come out, he clamps his mouth shut. Turner almost laughs at his sour expression. Henry wears his pride like a shroud, clutched tight around him. But it's these clumsy moments when Henry almost, almost asks for help that make him likable.

"What, am I not qualified to pick out pictures?" Turner asks. "Or are you just using them as an excuse to sleep over?"

Henry responds to the goading remarks by turning red, then turning his back on him as he answers his phone. From the way he's speaking so normally, it must be Finch on the other end.

"Ah yes, hold on," Henry murmurs, and then puts the phone on speakerphone.

Almost immediately, Finch's voice rings through the room, bright but tinny, "Hey Turner!"

"'Sup, Finch," Turner says.

"Not much. You two studying together?" And the way Finch says that last sentence verges on something suggestive. Henry doesn't pick up on it, but Turner does. That's the thing about Finch. Coming from any other person, it'd make Henry recoil.

"Not really," Turner says. "Henry's picking out pictures for his club's alumni, and I'm doing college apps."

Or at least, trying to. The laptop screen's probably gone dark behind him.

Finch laughs a breathy laugh. "Thanks for reminding me. Anyway, I called to let you both know I work on Sunday."

Last year, Finch quit his school's orchestra. He'd been contemplating it for years, and his indecision had weighed heavily on him, dragging down the smiles that once came so easily. At some points, Turner swore that Finch had begun hating music, frowning whenever he heard it in public.

Since quitting, his sullenness has cleared up. Finch even got a small gig playing at a local jazz club. It's a small club, but the ecstatic look on Finch's face when he told his friends was something that they had not seen in a while, and so they agreed to come and listen on the nights he played.

Too bad they have plans for one of those nights. "Sunday? We can't make it that day, sorry."

"We can't?" Henry interjects.

"Yeah," Turner says. "Remember? We're going to a movie."

As a date, he wants to add, but Henry always gets a little squeamish when Turner's direct about their relationship in front of Finch.

"We'll go another day," Henry says, as if it's that easy.

When he speaks to Finch, however, his tone is all light and warm, "See you Sunday, Finch."

"See you!" Finch hurriedly says. The phone lets out a blip as Finch hangs up.

Turner cackles, and it's an ugly sound coming from the back of his throat that makes Henry toss a withering look at him.

It's a little stupid, but he's come to think of that as "his" look, a look meant only for him.

Three years ago, around the end of their first semester of high school, Henry once grabbed Turner's hands and forced them under his shirt. It had come as a shock at the time. They were on the verge of breaking up. Not only that, but Henry had never enjoyed kissing or touching. He had only ever tolerated others in his space, besides Finch.

So as he sat on his bed, wondering at the way Henry's heartbeat shivered under his fingertips, a dawning feeling of wrongness had invaded his thoughts.

Because this warmth, this soft skin, though it had been offered to him, was not his. That was a fact that had been made clear all too many times before. It was easy to pull his hands away then.

But now as he watches Henry scrutinizing photos, he finds himself wondering not for the first time if Henry is his--if the back of the boy's neck, a fading shade of red, is his, if those fingers delicately picking up photos are his, if that mouth, surely twisted into a distracted frown, is his.

And when Turner tricks himself into thinking that yes, they are, a creeping anger crawls along his spine, clinging to him like the stench of too many bodies in a train car.

Three years ago, Henry allowed Turner to touch him, because that was what he thought Turner had wanted from him. Turner laughed it off in front of Henry, thinking to himself oh, so this is what he thinks I am? Some dirty pervert?

It's the anger that makes him raise an eyebrow and say, "You really sure about this collage?"

Henry turns. His face is open and unsuspecting as he says, "Yeah. Why?"

"It just seems kind of bland to me."

"You're also not interested in photography."

"Yeah." Turner laughs. "But what's this gonna do? You go through all that effort, and give it to--what's his name? Brian? You give it to him and it'll just end up taking space in his room."

Doubt furrows Henry's brow. "It won't be that big."

"Doesn't matter. A flat piece of cardboard? He might be happy to get it at first, but then some time will pass and he'll throw it out. Jeez, Henry, everyone knows that."

Henry looks down at the pictures in his hands. Is he also thinking of freshman year, with Turner, as if he had all the authority in the world, goading him on what relationships were supposed to be like, hissing to him "This is what couples do, Henry"?

"Should I make a photo album instead?" asks Henry.

Is that what he's thinking? "Like that's any better."

"Are you upset?"

Turner freezes. "What? No."

Henry sits there, staring at him. "Are you lying?"

A pause.

"Okay, yeah. I'm pretty pissed." Turner drags a hand through his hair. Has anything changed, even? Finch still takes precedence. Henry still squirms out of his touches. Turner still feels like nothing more than an afterthought.

Henry is quiet for a moment. "Come here?" he says, more like a request.

Turner gets up. He picks his way to Henry, standing over the other boy. There's a fleeting sense of superiority as he towers over him. As it passes, he feels worse because it doesn't matter how much taller he is, or how much stronger, or how much more popular.

"So?"

"Aren't you going to sit too?" Henry asks.

Turner sits cross legged. He wants to sit closer, maybe lean a little against Henry, but it's moments like these when he hates touching him the most.

Finally, Henry says, "I'm not ditching Finch."

Turner throws his hands up in the air, incredulous. "You say that like it's the noble thing to do. That's nice and all, but I don't think you get that you're ditching me for Finch!"

"Aren't you coming with me? That's not ditching."

"You. And me. We made plans, and then you happily threw those plans away as soon as Finch was involved. That's ditching to me."

Henry's frown grows more pronounced. "It's the same, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Watching a movie together, or watching Finch play. It doesn't matter where we spend our time since you're with me." Henry scratches the back of his neck, avoiding Turner's eyes. "I thought it'd be better spending it supporting Finch because he's our friend."

Turner opens his mouth, then closes it. He sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Henry's shoulder. The sudden contact has the other flinching, and Turner feels it, but he's a little too overwhelmed to care.

"God damn it," he mutters. "What the hell's wrong with me?"

Henry doesn't say a word, just reaches around to awkwardly pet Turner's hair.

"Man, I'm acting like you in elementary school."

For his efforts, Turner gets a thump on the head. It hurts a little, and his legs are already starting to cramp in this position, but he's not moving anytime soon, to Henry's exasperation.