Chapter Text
Mama says they need American names if they’re going to live in the United States. Henry doesn’t really know why, but he’s not Enrique anymore, people at school will call him Henry. Yenifer is Jennifer now, but he’s still allowed to call her Yeni, it’s just that nobody outside of the family will use her real name.
Mama keeps her name, because her father’s father was from Dallas, Texas, this town they moved to, and she already had an American name. Gloria. Papa has to be Robert, though, not Roberto, and they all took Mama’s maiden name. They’re the Emilys now, not the Torreses.
When Henry starts school, the teachers say the wrong name. Not Enrique, but the one he went by before he convinced Mama to give him a new one. Mama had said that she put his real name into the system, Henry, but had to put that one in, too.
He wasn’t brave enough to tell Mrs. Delaney that his name is Henry. She’d looked at him really weird when she read the bad name and then saw that he was wearing a boy’s uniform, because he’d cried until Mama got him that one instead of the one with a skirt. Skirts just make him think of Abuelo, and that makes him feel gross— and like a girl, which is also bad.
Papa said that starting sixth grade in Texas would be a fresh new start. He would get away from all of the mean kids back home, in Juchitán, Oaxaca. He was bullied in Mexico. Everybody said that it would be better now. It’s not.
By the first day, he knew things weren’t going to be good. He’s different. Everybody else in his school has lighter skin than him and speaks English perfectly. They actually speak, and, when they write, they don’t misspell words or forget to add certain things or mess up sentence structure. Not only is he the only not-white kid in school, he’s also the one with the girl’s name and short hair and a boy’s uniform.
He’s mute, he’s Mexican, and he’s a boy with a girl’s body. The kids in the U.S. like him even less than the ones in Mexico, because he’s even more different than everybody else here. But he can’t tell anybody that, or else he’ll cause even more problems. He doesn’t want that.
He’s already asked Mama why his teachers all call him the bad name, and that caused a problem. Mama went to the school to tell them about it, and most of the teachers started to call him Henry, but the kids don’t. They always laugh when they hear his real name, whisper and mock him just loud enough that he can hear, but not enough that the teachers can.
Henry thought the people in Mexico were bad, but the people here are even meaner. Within the first two weeks, his sketchbook had been destroyed, homework torn to shreds, and he’d ended up with a myriad of bruises, scrapes, and an intimate familiarity with the inside of his locker.
Henry will never tell anybody about them, though, even when Phillip and Douglas held him down so Arthur could punch him in the face so hard his nose started bleeding and he had a black eye. He kept his mouth shut when Bruce manhandled him into his locker just before second period and Mr. Tucker only found him at the end of fourth. He stayed quiet when Stanley and Francis snuck a lighter into school and burned his homework, then pressed the hot metal of the cap to his inner arm until he smelled burning.
No matter how much the girls snicker to each other and spread rumours, no matter how much the boys hit him and take his things, he’ll never tell. He can’t.
They see the bad things under his skin. They’re still there, still writhing in his chest, tightening around his lungs, keeping him silent, even when he desperately wants to say something. Henry doesn’t remember the last time he spoke. Mama says he started saying words, short sentences, when he was five, but stopped quickly.
He can still make sounds, he knows, because sometimes he whimpers a little bit when he cries and he laughs when Yeni makes him really happy. Words just don’t work. He doesn’t know how to make himself talk, barely even remembers how to manipulate his lips and tongue to make certain sounds. He’s sure that, if he started talking, he would have some sort of speech impediment and a painfully awkward accent.
If he were to start talking, Henry would want to talk to Yeni, first. Does she remember his voice from when he was little? Henry would like it if Yeni knew his voice, he thinks. Maybe, one day, if he learns how to make himself talk, he’ll ask her to teach him how. He’s not sure if he’ll remember how to by the time he’s ready.
Maybe, if he could talk to Yeni with his voice instead of his sketchbook, he could find a way to ask her about the bad things. Maybe, if he had a voice, he would be better at words. Is that why other people seem to understand feelings and expressions so much better than him? Do people need voices to understand other people? Or is there just something wrong with him, in specific?
~~~~~
Henry doesn’t like the new school Mama enrolled him in. Last year, in Texas, school had been even worse, so he’s trying to look on the bright side, but it’s hard.
In Texas, everybody had been cruel and awful, hitting him and shoving him around and constantly insulting him. He’s gotten good at hiding bruises and making it look like he hasn’t been crying. After that time in third grade when he told Mama the kids at school were calling his names and she went to the school to talk to his teacher, he never wanted that attention again. They’d been even meaner to him after they got into trouble, and so he vowed not to make that mistake again.
He tried once more last year, with Abuelo. Never again, not after that. Never after that.
Henry started talking maybe a year ago, now. The family moved to Hurricane, Utah, two weeks ago. He had a brief lapse in speech then, for maybe a week as he adjusted, but Yeni managed to convince him to start talking again. His accent is so thick, still, heavily Mexican and vaguely Texan, and so people are very mean about that. He doesn’t talk much at school in hopes of keeping his classmates from picking on him for it.
Moreover, he’s chubby and put on even more extra weight after getting away from Abuelo’s constant touching. For some reason, being away from the man makes his appetite better. Mama and Papa used to be worried about him for that, the fact that he didn’t eat as much as Yeni (or them, when they weren’t pretending not to be hungry because they couldn’t afford enough food for all four of them). People in school don’t like him for that, either. They like to pinch his sides and make pig noises at him for it.
Nobody likes the fact that he used to be a girl, and people are perpetually mean about that. His cousins used to pick on him for it, but Mama and Papa could always tell them off back then. Now, the teachers are also mean about it, always giving him weird looks. They sometimes call him “she” and his gym teacher likes to put him on the girl’s team when they have to play sports.
Henry is already bad at sports. He doesn’t need the added attention of being forced to change in the bathroom instead of either changing room and then being put on the girl’s team even though he has boy hair and a boy uniform and a boy name. Why couldn’t his body just match up with who he knows he is inside?
Even though he’s 13 and that’s plenty old enough to know who he is, everybody acts like he’s stupid. People treat him like he’s useless just because he’s not very good at talking to people. He may not understand expressions or innuendos, but he knows himself and he knows he’s not a girl. Why won’t anybody just listen to him and believe that he’s a boy?
Yeni is the only one who listens to him. Even if she doesn’t know what it’s like to know that her body is inherently wrong and doesn’t match up with how she feels, she hears him when he tells her how much it hurts. She knows he’s a boy, reminds him whenever he starts to feel gross and fights anyone who says otherwise in front of her.
She can’t always be there, though. He’s learning that much the hard way.
Now that it’s lunchtime, Henry is hiding in the library. He always goes here when he’s not in class. People are cruel and nobody hangs out in the library except for other kids like him, kids who need to stay away from everybody else or they’ll get hurt, and so it’s safe. Well, mostly safe.
A boy Henry still doesn’t know the name of but knows well enough to understand his presence means leaving has come into the library. Henry slips out of the room quickly, quietly, and beelines it to the bathroom. He doesn’t need to go, but hiding in the stall works— temporarily, at least. If he stays in there for too long, somebody will notice and he’ll end up being bullied for hiding out. For a little bit, though, he’ll be able to lock himself in a stall without getting flack for it.
Before he can make it all the way down the hallway, though, Henry ends up bumping into somebody. Whoever it is is tall and thin enough that they’re the one who stumbles backwards instead of Henry, nearly falling backwards. Henry grabs them by the wrist, hoping to steady them.
It works, and he ends up face to face with a boy who has a foot on him, at least, but is too skinny to look scary because of his height. Black hair, startlingly striking grey eyes, and skin so pale he looks almost sickly. The way his gaze rakes over Henry is unsettling at best, and he immediately squirms under it. His eyes are sharp, and he looks kind of tense. Henry couldn’t be paid to understand expressions, but he knows that furrowed eyebrows and creases at the corners of the lips generally mean somebody isn’t happy.
“Oh, perfect, just what I need,” Grey Eyes grumbles, voice deep and thick with an accent Henry has never heard before. British, he has to assume. He hasn’t heard many accents in his life, just Mexican, the southern one he heard living in Texas, and whatever the one in Utah is, because it’s not southern but it’s certainly not like his, either. And now Grey Eyes’s even, smooth way of speaking. It’s nice to listen to, actually, like velvet against his ears.
“H-huh…?” Henry stutters, already overwhelmed at the concept of having to talk to somebody. Especially this somebody. Grey Eyes seems annoyed and stressed, which are two things Henry isn’t very good at navigating.
“Fine, I guess you’re coming with me, then,” Grey Eyes determines, grabbing Henry’s wrist firmly and then turning on his heel and dragging the smaller boy behind him. Henry stumbles, trips over his feet pathetically, but rushes off behind Grey Eyes because he’s still being held by the wrist.
“W-what’re we— w-where—?” he manages to force out, even though he’s terrified. Henry hates being touched and he hates new people and he hates trying to act like a normal person even though he doesn’t even understand what a normal person is supposed to act like.
“Shut up,” Grey Eyes says firmly, stopping at the janitorial closet a few feet away and then shoving Henry inside of it. Before he can ask any questions, Grey Eyes is in there with him and the door is shut behind them.
They’re so close together. Henry hates it. He’s close, too close, way too close. Henry needs space to breathe. He hates feeling a body against his. He pulls away as best as he can, flattening himself against the shelf behind him instinctively, trying to get as much space between the two of them as possible. Mercifully, Grey Eyes also pulls back, leaving them with as much distance as they can manage in this closet.
Henry tries to ask a question, but Grey Eyes hushes him quickly. Half a second later, Henry heard a teacher— his science teacher, what’s her name again? He was too overwhelmed to listen when she introduced herself— in the hall, talking to a student whose voice he doesn’t recognize.
“Where on earth did that boy go?” Mrs. Science Teacher asks. Henry guesses she’s asking about Grey Eyes, who glares at the door. Henry can just barely see his expression with the light filtering through the window behind them, blocked by both his own body and the shelf covered in cleaning supplies.
“I don’t know— that ass,” the student grumbles, and Henry can hear him stomping, not just walking. Grey Eyes glares even harder. Henry wonders what the fuck he’s gotten himself into.
“Don’t talk about him like that, Johnson,” Mrs. Science Teacher scolds, which feels weird. Grey Eyes must’ve done something bad if a teacher is looking for him and a student is cursing about him in front of that teacher, but Mrs. Science Teacher is defending him. Does that mean Grey Eyes is a good student? Well behaved? Henry hopes so, even though this whole situation doesn’t really feel like something a well behaved, good student would be doing.
“Sorry, Miss,” the student— Johnson— amends. “But he punched me. Why can’t I be angry?” Johnson continues, probably angry. Henry’s heart starts beating faster, now. He’s in a closet with a guy who just punched somebody and the guy is between him and the door, too close to him, looking angry.
“Afton wouldn’t do that, don’t be that way,” Mrs. Science Teacher corrects, and Henry suddenly feels marginally safer. She seems like a pretty nice teacher, so Henry has to trust that she knows Grey Eyes better than Johnson and he’s not in any danger.
“Right, sure,” Johnson relents, and Henry hears them walking again. Henry kind of wishes they could come back, because he doesn’t know how he feels about being alone with Grey Eyes— Ashton or something? Her words were muffled by the closet— like this. Even if Mrs. Science Teacher trusts him and is right, he still dragged Henry into a closet and forced him to be quiet.
By the time Henry can’t hear footsteps anymore, just the silence of the halls whenever everybody is either out for lunch, in the library, the gym, or the cafeteria, Grey Eyes looks less tense. Henry still isn’t confident enough after hearing his last name once to say it. Henry knows names like Johnson and Brown and Smith, he’s heard them plenty— everybody in the United States seems to have a surname like that— but he’s never heard Grey Eyes’s before.
“God, finally,” Grey Eyes sighs, reaching behind himself to open the door. He sidles out of the closet and Henry follows suit, tiptoeing just because this situation is making him so uncomfortable and nervous. His arms are folded up to his chest and his hands are limp. Yeni says he looks like a dinosaur when he does this. Henry drops his hands because an old classmate once heard her say that and started to be mean about it.
“W-what did… w-what…?” Henry trails off, too nervous to continue, wrapping his arms securely around his chest. When he can’t do his dinosaur hands, he likes to hug himself. It’s nice, even though he usually hates being touched. Holding himself is less upsetting and more comforting than being held by somebody else.
“He was being a jerk about shit he has no business sticking his nose in,” Grey Eyes says shortly. “Has anybody ever told you that you stutter a lot?” he asks, eyeing Henry up. Henry wonders if he’s being sarcastic. He frequently misses jokes and things like that, so it would make sense that more sarcasm might be going over his head. This time, maybe, he’ll be able to catch it.
“U-um, yeah,” Henry mumbles, voice quiet. He hopes he’s not making Grey Eyes uncomfortable or making him strain to listen. That would be rude, and Henry needs to get better at socializing. Mama and Papa would be happy if he could make friends— or even just be better with people.
Grey Eyes stares at him for a long moment before speaking.
“Oh, you’re that… that boy-girl kid, right?” he says after a brief pause. Henry’s heart sinks. Does everybody in this school know he’s like this? He doesn’t want to be known as a freak again. He got signed into this school like the right name. How could they know when everybody knows him as Henry? Grey Eyes continues: “Transgender or something,” he murmurs, tilting his head. Is Grey Eyes knowing what Henry is a good sign or a bad one?
“I— I g-guess so,” Henry shifts his weight uncomfortable, and then Grey Eyes nods, turns, and starts walking somewhere. Not the library, that’s for sure, and they’re not going to the cafeteria or the front door, either.
“Come on,” he urges, not looking behind himself to check if Henry is following, which he is. He’s not sure if he should, but he does regardless, because Grey Eyes doesn’t seem dangerous. He seems… nice, actually.
Grey Eyes leads him to a hallway Henry has never been down, mainly because there’s no classes this way, just the nurse’s office. At the end, there’s a door. It looks like it should be locked, but Grey Eyes opens it like he’s done this hundred of times (after checking over his shoulder to make sure there’s nobody around) and gestures Henry through it.
They end up in a small, fenced-off garden area. It must be a spot for smoke-breaks for school staff or something, maybe five-by-five feet, surrounded by a wooden fence and some trees that seem like a fire hazard for a smoking area, but Henry can’t really do much about that. It’d be weird to admit to a teacher that he’s been in the staff-only space and is worried about the safety there.
“Where…?” he trails off. Full sentences are hard and Grey Eyes seems to be able to piece his fragmented ideas together just fine, from what he’s experienced so far. That’s comforting, at least. Even if Grey Eyes made a crack at his ability to talk at first, he’s been good at extrapolating thus far.
“The teachers smoke fags here,” Grey Eyes says with a shrug. Henry has never heard that word before, but he nods nonetheless because Grey Eyes is being nicer to him than anyone else in this school has and he wants this guy to like him, now.
“Right,” Henry nods, agreeing, if only because he doesn’t know what else he can do. “U-um, y-you are…?” he hopes he’s not being insensitive or rude or something. If everybody is supposed to know Grey Eyes and he’s offending him by not knowing.
“William Afton,” Grey Eyes— should Henry call him William or Afton?— replies simply, head tilted to the side, smiling lopsidedly, like this is an everyday occurrence for him. “Remind me what your name is? Unless you need another one. I heard people like you change them. I bet I could come up with a good one,” he adds confidently, looking pleased with himself. Henry grins awkwardly, because he can’t imagine what else he should be doing right now.
“N-no, I’m— m-my name is Henry. Emily,” he answers, before realizing he’s whispering. “Hen— Henry Emily is m-my name,” he babbles, louder this time, anxiety spilling from his lips as he tries his best not to go mute with his anxiety. William— or Afton? God, what does he call this guy?— laughs at his discomfort.
“Hey there, Henry,” he replies smoothly. “Call me William. These Americans keep calling me Bill and it pisses me off,” William orders, but it seems quite casual. Henry nods. He doesn’t know why he would call William “Bill,” that doesn’t seem like a very logical shortening of the name, with the fact that it starts with a “B,” but he accepts that.
“W-well, I’m not American, s-so…” Henry shrugs, still smiling awkwardly. He knows he’s being weird and William is probably going to hate him pretty soon, but he wants to put that off for as long as possible. He wants people to like him, even if he finds them tiring most of the time.
“That makes two of us,” William says with a shrug, mirroring Henry’s. His grin is lazy, kind of handsome, actually. Henry bites his tongue the second that thought pops up. He knows better than letting those thoughts slide.
He gets… distracted, by those things. Very distracted. Maybe something is wrong with his brain, something unfixable, something broken, because those thoughts will eat away at him if he lets them in for even a second. It’s happened before, and he’s sure it could happen again. He used to be awful for it, letting himself think boys look nice only to do something stupid because of it and get into trouble for misbehaving.
William is aesthetically pleasing, with his pale, smooth skin, his straight, dark hair, and his silvery eyes, yes, that is a fact, but Henry does not need to think about it. He will not think about it. It’s disrespectful and gross to think about somebody he just met that way.
“Why are you so anxious? Are you afraid of me?” William asks, smiling so widely that Henry wants to hide. Sure, he seems nice and all, but this is very intense and Henry isn’t built for it. Plus, it’s not like his thoughts would make any sense to anybody. He kind of wants to run away and pretend like he never met William at all, but that’s not a possibility and so he figures he should be able to sort this out. He’s plenty old enough to have a normal conversation on his own, right?
“N-no, no,” Henry reassures, even though that’s definitely a lie and William can probably tell because he’s a really bad liar, as he’s been informed by his parents and sister. “Just… I d-don’t talk to people much… so…” he doesn’t know where to take any of his sentences. He’s lost and hurt and has no idea where to go from here. Talking to people is so hard.
“I can see that,” William decides, then leans in and crouches down closer to Henry’s level, which is kind of impressive. His height is very imposing. “What class do you have after lunch?” he asks.
Instinctively, even though he knows what class he has because their schedule operates on a rotating basis and he always has math after English, he reaches for his pocket. “Math,” he answers before he’s even unfolded his schedule. William plucks it from his hands to study it, himself.
“Maths, huh?” William hums, scanning the paper like he owns it. “Looks like we’re both in Mr. Park’s maths class. Suppose we’ll be spending more time together,” he decides, smile getting even wider, somehow. Henry can’t tell if he’s excited or terrified at the prospect of spending more time with William.
“Uh, yeah…” Henry agrees, fully aware he’s not saying what he should be but having no clue what he’s supposed to say. William hands him the schedule and Henry pockets it obediently, standing there like an idiot afterwards, awkwardly rocking from his heels to his toes.
“I’m not going to bite you, calm down,” William laughs. Henry feels his face getting hot, but he doesn’t comment on that and hopes William won’t, either.
“I— I know,” Henry confirms quickly, but he knows full well it isn’t believable in the slightest. He doesn’t necessarily think that William will bite him, per se, but he can’t bring himself to believe that he’s actually met somebody who’s interested in talking to him.
“You know, I’ve seen you drawing in maths a few times. Are you any good?” William asks, standing up straight now. This is small talk, isn’t it? Henry can do small talk, surely.
“I… think so?” he responds, hoping that doesn’t sound too cocky. Nobody likes cocky people, right? “I like drawing,” he adds, because that feels safer than commenting on his own skill. William’s expression hasn’t changed. Henry wonders what that means.
“That’s cool. What do you draw?” William questions, glancing at Henry’s backpack— the first time he’s broken eye contact. Henry wishes he would do that again, because the intense eye contact is getting stressful. He already doesn’t like it, but all of this is getting upsetting.
“Just… robots, mostly. Like, blueprints,” Henry explains, vaguely anxious. Sometimes, people are mean to him over it. Once, in Texas, some boys dunked his sketchbook in the water fountain because they didn’t like his schematics.
“You should show me sometime,” William decides, then, before Henry can say anything, checks his watch. “We need to go to maths now. Come on,” he says suddenly, slipping past Henry to open the door back to the school. Mercifully, he doesn’t touch Henry this time, just slides past him fluidly, like a weirdly smooth ghost.
Strange person. Henry wants to spend more time with him.
~~~~~
As it turns out, William is in the debate club and is the eighth grade representative in the student government. They’re in the same grade, of course, since they’re in the same math class, but William has been in Utah since he was twelve, so he knows this place better than Henry does.
More importantly to Henry, though, he’s quite interested in the apparently younger boy’s animatronic sketches. His interest is mostly in Spring Bonnie, who Henry was quick to doodle for William as a gift. As much as meeting the Brit made Henry nervous, he very quickly decided he wants to be friends with William, who is nicer and more supportive than anybody he’s ever met, save Yeni.
William likes to drag him around places, mostly the smoke area they talked in the first time they met. Henry knows they’re not supposed to be in the places they go, but William is so sure of himself, so charismatic, that Henry follows him even though he’s breaking the rules. Even when William found a way onto the school rooftop (the door is always locked, which is incredibly confusing), he followed obediently and sat, leaning against the little janitorial room up there while they ate lunch.
Henry follows William everywhere and puts up with the fact that the older boy is clingier than he’d usually accept. In return, William keeps him safe. Everybody loves William so much that they listen when he tells them to fuck off, and so Henry doesn’t get picked on when he’s around. More than that, William is nice to Henry, supports his artistic endeavours and his love of math and sciences and engineering.
William makes him feel… safe. He’s never had a friend before, so this is very exciting.
It’s been another month and a week since William first pulled Henry into that janitorial closet and things are going well. They hang out after school pretty frequently, always at Henry’s house, sitting around in his bedroom and drawing or chatting or studying. Henry likes spending time with him.
“Your mother is so nice,” William comments idly, staring at the door where Mama just exited. He talks about how nice Henry’s parents are pretty often, even if him and Papa can’t really talk because Papa’s English is barely any better than William’s Spanish.
“Yeah, she is,” Henry agrees from where he’s gotten comfortable on the bed, laying on his stomach and doodling another sketch of Freddy. Henry never knows how to respond to William when he starts talking about parents and families. It doesn’t take somebody who knows how to read others to understand that William has some issues at home.
“My brother’s nice enough, too,” William murmurs, looking a bit grumpy. Henry has gotten better at reading him, mostly because William is okay with explaining how he’s feeling most of the time so the younger boy can get a grasp on how he expresses himself. William always talks highly of his older brother.
“He is,” Henry confirms, because Lawrence is very nice. He seems very genuine, from what Henry can tell based on his limited and very flawed experience, and he treats Henry really well. He picks them up after school sometimes to drive them to the Emily house and smiles very kindly when he says hello. He’s also very nice to William, which is good to see.
William spins around in Henry’s cheap desk chair, kicking his feet against the floor. Henry still misses his carpet from his old bedroom in Mexico, as he is reminded whenever he walks anywhere or sees anyone touch the floor.
“You can always stay over, Will,” Henry offers softly. He’s seen the bruises circling William’s wrists, his split lips, his black eyes, the way he flinches when people raise their voices or hands, the way he lashes out when anybody presses him about it. That was what got Johnson punched in the first place, he learned. Henry doesn’t like the fact that his friend— his best and only friend, at that— is hurting. He’s willing to do anything to make life easier for William, alleviate any of his suffering.
“I… can?” William asks, looking up at Henry with wide eyes. He looks kind of like a kid for a split second, like he might cry, like he needs to be held. Henry can feel his face crinkling. Was that not obvious?
“Yeah, ‘course,” Henry confirms, giving a small smile as a peace offering. “That’s why I always invite you over. I like spending time with you,” he explains. His words are weak, they always are, but he can see that William is hearing them for what they mean for the first time. It’s not just an invite, not just hanging out. It’s safety— safety that Henry is always going to be there to give.
“Oh,” William blinks. He seems surprised for the first time Henry can remember. Is this what being a good friend means? “Sure. Thanks,” he says with a sudden nod, leaning against the backrest and staring at Henry with an unreadable expression.
“Of course,” Henry nods back. He wonders if William sees the way he, himself, withers when he’s touched, the way he always covers up, the way he behaves around older men, the scratches and bruises covering his wrists. He wonders if William sees that they’re both hurt— in different ways, to different degrees, but they’re both hurt nonetheless.
Being hurt doesn’t feel so awful when Henry is hurting with somebody else. He hates William being in pain, of course, but, if they’re both already hurting, isn’t it better to be in it together? Henry thinks so.
“Why’d you call me Will?” William asks suddenly, chair swivelling side to side slowly, just to occupy himself as he talks. Henry blinks at him dumbly, because he didn’t even realize he said that.
“Uh,” he starts, then realizes how stupid he must look sitting there with his lips parted, expression blank, and blinks hard to reset himself. “I didn’t mean to. It just kinda… came out,” Henry says with a shrug, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry if it upset you. I just— well, it’s not Bill, so I figured it’d be fine. Is that okay?” he questions softly. The moment feels too intimate for talk of nicknames, but, if William started it, then surely it’s okay.
“Well,” William pauses for a long moment. He looks like he’s thinking very hard. Henry hopes that means good things. “I don’t usually like nicknames,” he pauses again, still thinking, and Henry curls in on himself, bracing for the worst. “But you can be an exception. I don’t mind being called Will if it comes from you, I suppose,” he finishes after a long moment. Oh?
“Really?” Henry feels like an idiot all over again when he asks for confirmation for something William just spelled out for him. His face feels hot again. He gets that a lot when he’s with William.
“Yeah,” William confirms, then spins around in the chair again. This time, he looks much happier.
Henry hopes this means they’ll be friends forever.