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The first time that Peter notices is after Henry gets his ears pierced.
It’s the first day of Peter’s third year and Henry’s seventh. Naturally, Peter starts the day early, seven o’clock sharp. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and even shaves (albeit the shaving cream comes off just as white and smooth as it goes on). As he leaves the bathroom, he sees his mum down the hall, knocking on Henry’s door and jiggling the knob after he doesn’t answer.
Just as Peter’s about to get dressed, Henry swings his door open, and she lets out a yelp of surprise. She calls for their father, who comes rushing up the stairs and, upon seeing the inside of the room, lets out a sharp, “Henry! Peter cranes his head over to see what the commotion is about; knowing Henry it could be anything from illegal fireworks to a live animal. But as he peeks over his mother’s shoulder and actually listens to her squawking, he realizes that the only issue is a pair of small gold rings hanging from Henry’s ears.
“I just don’t see what the big issue is!” Henry argues with them, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“‘What the big issue is’? Henry, you’ve gone and mutilated yourself!” Mum retorts.
“I’m not mutilating myself, if anything I’m making myself look nicer!” Henry says, standing up. “Besides, you’re lucky I only got these. The piercing shop was offering a deal on septums too. Maybe I ought to go back…”
“Septums? Have you gone mad?” Dad asks, aghast.
“Absolutely not! Henry, you take those horrid things out this instant!” Mum demands.
As she thrusts out a finger, he steps back and crosses his arms. “I’m not taking them out, they’re my ears!”
“Well you’re my son!”
The two continue bickering as Peter slips away to finish getting ready. When he arrives at the breakfast table, the two are exchanging pointed looks over their eggs and Sweet Tweets.
“They’ll get infected, you know,” she chides him, picking at her scramble.
“Not if I clean them.”
“Since when do you clean anything?”
Henry chews his cereal furiously.
When Peter and Henry finally embark on the path towards the bus stop, Peter glances up at the hoops swinging from Henry’s ears. Henry catches his eye and glares back at him. “What, Worm? You hate them too?”
“No, no!” Peter says hastily, clapping his hands together. “I think they look quite lovely, actually.”
“…Hmph.” Henry shoves him half-heartedly. Peter flashes him a genuine smile, but Henry’s eyes are glued to the pavement.
“Hey, Henry!” Peter and Henry look over their shoulders, and Henry scowls as Margaret comes into view, a bag swung over her shoulder and a smug grin on her face. “Nice earrings. Where’d you get them, the 1990s?” She cackles.
“Nice bangs, Margaret. Lose a scissor fight?” She gasps and he sticks out his tongue at her, reveling in his victory for only a moment before crumpling as she kicks at his ankle. “Ouch!”
The three of them board the bus, a glum expression on Henry’s face. However, it dissipates the second that he catches sight of Ralph, who appears overjoyed as he pokes his head out and waves him to the back. Peter follows in his shadow as Henry slides next to Ralph, leaving Peter to quietly file into the seat across the aisle from them.
“You actually got them?” Ralph says, flabbergasted.
“Of course I did,” Henry replies. “What, you thought I’d turn chicken?”
“Let me see, let me see.” Ralph pulls some of Henry’s hair back and his mouth falls slightly agape. Henry turns red, and Peter cocks his head to the side as he watches. “Wow,” Ralph says quietly.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve already heard it all from my mum this morning. I’ll take them out tonight,” Henry replies.
“T— Take them out? Why?” Ralph asks.
Henry lets out a huff. “Obviously they must look silly. Everyone thinks so.”
He crosses his arms and leans away, eyes trained on a piece of rubbish under one of the seats. Peter opens his mouth to say something, but then Henry startles and glances at Ralph, who’s placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Well,” he says, “I think they make you look quite handsome.”
Henry stares at him for a moment, mouth open— before closing it and smiling. “Of course they do,” he replies. “Never had any doubt. They make me look like a rock star, don’t they?”
“Mhm. Or one of those cool bikers with the leather jackets.” Ralph puts his finger through one of the hoops and tugs lightly to inspect it, making Henry hiss through his teeth.
“Careful!” He reprimands him.
Ralph chuckles. “Sorry.”
“You know,” Henry continues on, “It didn’t hurt too bad. I was thinking about getting some lip or nose piercings as well. What do you think?”
“Hm,” Ralph says. “I could see it. But I think an eyebrow piercing would suit you better. And you’d look real hardcore as well.”
A few days later Peter comes home late from orchestra practice to find Henry absent from the dinner table. The second he asks about it, Henry walks into the kitchen with a bar through his left eyebrow, the balls on each end winking silver under the overhead light.
•••
The second time that Peter notices is during movie night.
Once every two weeks or so, Henry and his friends get together at someone’s house to watch a film. This month it happens to be Henry’s turn, so all of his friends had crammed into their living room with sweets and bags of popcorn, all awaiting Henry’s return from the video store with bated breath.
“What do you think he’s picked this time?” Gurinder whispers to Soraya.
“I’m sure it’s something awful again,” Margaret replies loudly, taking a can of soda from the tray that Peter had brought out. “Henry always picks the worst films.”
“Yeah, the worst. Remember when he tried to show us those disgusting Saw movies?” Susan mentions. William whimpers and swallows a gag beside her.
“I don’t understand why he can’t just pick something fun,” Al says. “None of us can stomach the stuff he watches, besides for Ralph.”
Speak of the devil, the front door swings open and both Henry and Ralph walk in, gabbing away while a plastic bag swings from Henry’s hand. Henry catches sight of Peter picking up empty cans and scowls. “What are you doing here, Worm?”
“Peter was just bringing us drinks. You know, like a good host,” Margaret scoffs, “One who shows up on time.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Your duty’s done here; now, run along,” Henry says, shooing him away. Peter frowns.
“Actually, I think I’ll stay through the movie,” Peter says.
“Actually, I think you won’t,” Henry replies tersely.
“Well, actually, Mum said you have to let me, so,” Peter sticks out his tongue, and Henry rolls his eyes.
“Fine. I just hope you like Scream,” Henry says, pulling a DVD case from his bag with a proud expression. Everyone groans and he frowns. “What?”
“Why would we ever want to watch that?” Susan snaps.
“Why would anyone ever want to watch The Notebook?” Ralph retorts.
“Oh, come on. This is a cult classic, it’s genius, you have to watch it at least once,” Henry says.
“That’s what you said about Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” Al says.
“And Cujo, and The Exorcist, and Demonia,” Margaret adds.
“And I was right every time,” Henry replies. “Come on, it’s going to be fun, I promise.”
It’s not fun like Henry promised. Peter has to cover his eyes every five minutes, trying to ignore the sounds of screaming and squelching. Andrew and William are the first to leave, set off by the DVD cover alone; Soraya and Gurinder follow after Casey’s murder; then Al and Bert leave during the killer’s first call to Sidney; and then Brian and Graham tap out after the scene where Tatum gets stuck in the dog door. When they finally hit the big reveal with Billy and Stu, Margaret stands up with Susan held close and nudges Linda awake.
“That’s it, we’re leaving. Hope you’re proud of yourself, Henry; that’s the third time you’ve lost all your guests before the movie’s even over!” She scolds him.
“Not all of them,” Henry says, pointing to Ralph, who’s grinning ear-to-ear and kicking his feet.
“Yeah, speak for yourself. Not our fault you guys can’t handle a little fake blood,” Ralph replies.
“You two are impossible. Next time we’re going over to my house and watching normal movies made by sane people. Like The Notebook!”
“Wait, Margaret, no no no, not The—! Dammit!” Henry complains as the door slams shut, leaving just him and Ralph on the couch. Henry leans his head back and sighs dramatically. As he opens his mouth to say something, he startles at the sound of someone screaming, and clings to Ralph’s arm like a koala. Ralph lets out a loud, boisterous laugh.
“Man, I’ve never seen a movie make you jump like that!” Ralph cackles. Henry rolls his eyes.
“Whatever, I just got distracted for a second, the noise surprised me,” He mumbles. He leans against Ralph’s shoulder, and Ralph puts his arm around him. Peter raises an eyebrow, equally confused by the display and thankful for something to focus on besides the movie. Henry gazes at Ralph’s face as Ralph stares intently at the movie, wincing yet grinning at each mock stabbing and fake blood effect. Henry’s eyes trace Ralph’s nose, his jaw, and the awry strands of dark hair curling around his ears. He smiles, and it almost shocks Peter more than the multiple death scenes; he’s seen Henry snarl and smirk and crow with glee, but he’s never seen such a gentle and fond expression on his face.
Ralph glances at him for a moment, starting to say something about the scene they’re watching, before stopping. He smiles back. “Something on your mind?”
“Hm?” Henry blinks a few times. “Oh, just…y’know…thinking about how much I hate The Notebook,” Henry responds. “Hey, you know what would be funny?”
“Hm?” Ralph replies.
“If we switch the discs without telling anyone. Goodbye Notebook, hello Cannibal Holocaust,” Henry says.
Ralph laughs. “Ha! Good one. I haven’t seen Cannibal Holocaust in ages. I thought you didn’t even like it, you hated the scenes with the animals.”
“Yeah, well. You like it, so…” Henry says, voice small. Ralph’s face softens, and Henry recovers with, “Besides, Margaret would hate it even more.”
“Yeah, she would,” Ralph says, thumb rubbing circles against Henry’s shoulder.
•••
The third time that Peter notices is when Ralph and Henry are working on an English project.
After too many infractions for plagiarism, the two had no choice but to spend the night at Henry’s house, studying side-by-side at the kitchen table to create an authentic original presentation. Peter had offered to help, but that just seemed to piss Henry off. So he’d settled with quietly baking biscuits in the same room instead, waiting for one of them to ask him how to spell “ameliorate”, or what the difference between pathos and logos is.
“There, done,” Ralph says, setting his book down with a smug grin. He flexes his fingers, sore from the grip they’d had on the hardcover; his new rings shine under the overhead lights, twinkling like stars. “Only took me 30 minutes to finish the chapter this time. How about you, Henry?” Ralph looks over at Henry, and his grin fades. “Henry?”
Henry’s presently picking at his cuticles, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He’s sitting with one leg up and the other kicking back-and-forth beneath his chair, his ankle occasionally knocking against the wooden uprights. Ralph nudges him, and he jumps in his seat. “Henry, how far are you in the chapter?”
“Huh? Oh, um.” He squints at the open novel in front of him. “…Two pages.”
“Two pages?! We’ve been sitting here for half an hour! What else have you been doing?” Ralph demands.
“I dunno, stuff? Listen, we have all day to do this, I’m sure I’ll get it done eventually.”
“It’s almost six already and we still need to write the actual presentation, we’re running out of time. You know I can’t afford another F, my mum will kill me,” Ralph says. “Can’t you just try and focus?”
Henry’s shoulders tense and he stills for a moment. His eyes are suddenly downcast, and his lip quirks in a way that makes Ralph take pause.
“I am trying.” Henry continues picking at his skin, not looking at Ralph. His fingers are getting red and irritated. “I’ve been trying.”
Ralph frowns and looks away. After a moment, he says, “I have an idea. Here.”
Ralph slides off two of his rings and hands them to Henry, who stares at him, confused. “Play with these. I’ll read to you.”
“What?”
“You keep your hands busy and listen to me while I read, sound good?” Henry jingles the rings in his palms as Ralph opens his book again and clears his throat. “‘It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils’…”
The whole time that Ralph reads to him, Henry looks on with intrigue, shaking the rings in his fist with a ‘clack, clack’ or spinning them around his fingers. When Ralph sets down the book, he asks Henry, “Alright. What happened in the chapter?”
“Uh, Frankenstein raises the dead and freaks out like a little baby, and he goes on a walk to get himself to stop thinking about death, and then his friend comes over and he goes nuts, and the dude nurses him back to health and tells him to write to his family,” Henry explains. Peter can’t help but feel proud of him, and judging by the singular clap of Ralph’s hands, he feels the same.
“Exactly!” He exclaims. “Nice job, Henry!”
“Yeah, well, you did all of the actual reading,” Henry says, blushing. “So, thanks, or whatever.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s no problem, just means we can finally start the actual work,” Ralph says. “We need to talk about how it’s relevant to a theme of the book.” He bites the end of his pen. “If only we had a theme.”
“What about the importance of family and friends?” Henry mentions.
Ralph fake-gags. “Oh, vomit.”
“I know, I know, lame, but…you know. Clerval took good care of Frankenstein, even if he didn’t need to. He was a really nice friend, just, helping him out like that. Making sure he got what he needed when he couldn’t provide it for himself. A—And they clearly really liked each other, they were so happy when they met up. Maybe Frankenstein should’ve done more for Clerval, to be honest, he…deserves it,” Henry’s voice gets soft towards the end of his rambling. They make eye contact, then turn away. Listening to them, Peter chuckles.
“Haha, it almost sounds like they’re a couple,” Peter jokes.
Henry turns red. “Silence, Worm.”
•••
The fourth time that Peter notices, it’s the coldest day of the year so far, and Ralph’s wearing nothing but a white shirt and a light jacket.
Peter watches him shudder and shake from across the courtyard. A breeze comes through, and the dying breath of summer is replaced with the first laugh of winter, making Ralph tuck in his knees where he sits on the courtyard bench. Beside him, Henry’s raving and ranting at the rest of the Purple Hand Gang, who are all bundled up in heavy coats, mittens, and knitted hats.
As his one-man comedy routine hits a crescendo, Henry turns to Ralph, and pauses for a second, taking in his red cheeks and nose, and the way he’s tucked his hands into his sleeves. He stutters as he finishes his story, giving the floor to Al as he motions for Ralph to step away with him. They come within earshot of Peter, who tucks in his head and looks at his lunch.
“You look like you’re freezing. What are you doing dressed like that? It’s barely eight degrees out here,” Henry asks.
“I forgot to wash my coats, they all smell like dust,” Ralph replies. “Besides, none of them match with my outfit.”
“Oh, hell— you know, you’re worse than Margaret about this stuff, I swear,” Henry scolds him. Ralph chuckles, and Henry’s face turns concerned again as Ralph’s teeth chatter together with an awful clacking noise. “Careful. You know, we could’ve sat inside, you should’ve said something.”
“Well, you like sitting outside more. You’re always t—talking about how gross the cafeteria s—smells,” Ralph says, trying to keep his jaw tight.
Henry stares at him, face almost as rosy as Ralph’s. Then, he sighs. “The things you do for me, Ralph,” he says. “Here.”
Ralph’s eyebrows raise as Henry shucks off his jacket. It’s the thick black one with bones bleached onto it and superficial rips in the arms— Henry’s favorite. He sets it on Ralph’s shoulders, then goes to undo his scarf as Ralph gawks at him.
“Oh, Henry, you don’t— are you sure?” Ralph asks, sticking his arms through the sleeves. He already looks more comfortable, Peter thinks to himself.
“Of course I am, don’t want you going cold all day,” Henry states. He slips the scarf off and wraps it around Ralph’s neck, pulling him slightly closer so he can tie it together in the front. Ralph examines the callouses on Henry’s fingers, the ones he’d gotten from learning the drums. They match, Peter thinks, remembering feeling similar hard spots on Ralph’s palms when he’d clapped him on the back or given him a high-five.
“…There,” Henry says, stepping back again. The knot is absolute dogshit, and Ralph laughs at it. Henry rolls his eyes. “Oh, so much for a ‘thanks’.”
“Oh, thank you, Henry, my hero,” Ralph says, teasingly. He glances at Henry, now only dressed in his jumper and undershirt. “Are you sure you don’t need your jacket though? You’re going to freeze to death with just that sweater on.”
“It’s alright. I run w—warm,” Henry says, folding his arms over his chest like he’s embracing himself. “The worst blizzard couldn’t knock m—me down.”
The next day, Henry wakes up with a cold, and Peter fights the urge to giggle at him as he blows his nose and assures Ralph over the phone that this is a complete coincidence.
•••
The fifth time that Peter notices is when Henry makes the worst lunch imaginable.
Peter remembers when they were kids, and Henry and Margaret made him eat this horrible concoction of condiments and leftovers from the fridge, which they’d aptly christened ‘glop’. By all measures, the bubbling pot of chunky brownish-gray sludge on the stove could be termed ‘glop 2’. Peter has no idea what he put in there to give it that consistently, or that pungent bitter-sweet odor; judging by Henry’s worried frown and knitted eyebrows, he doesn’t know either.
“Henry, dump that out, it smells horrid!” Peter whines. “What were you even trying to make?”
Henry presses his mouth into a line. “Well,” he says, “It was supposed to be soup.”
“Why were you making soup?” Peter asks, opening the windows, “You hate cooking— and you’re horrible at it, too.”
“Mind your own damn business,” Henry grumbles.
Peter gasps. “Watch your language!”
“Yeah, Henry,” a voice sounds from behind him, making Peter startle. Ralph closes the door and sets his bag down, a smile on his face. “Why don’t you watch your effing mouth?”
As soon as Ralph gets deep enough in the kitchen to see the pot of ‘soup’, he wrinkles his nose and gags. “The hell is that? Fake vomit, mud, tar?”
“He tried to make soup,” Peter fills in.
“Silence, Worm,” they both say together. Ralph leans over Henry’s shoulder.
“How did you even mess it up this badly?” Ralph asks. “It’s a bit impressive.”
“I don’t even know! I followed the recipe down to the letter!”
“Let me see.”
Henry passes Ralph the cookbook, and Ralph squints as Henry prattles on. “I used all the right ingredients: onions, carrots, cereal—“
“Celery,” Ralph corrects, pointing to the word.
“Whatever. There was no fresh chicken so I tried peeling some frozen chicken nuggets.”
“You—? Alright. Anything else?”
“We didn’t have pasta so I thought, y’know, bread’s kinda similar—“
“Good grief, Henry, you know, you really can be thick sometimes.” Ralph ruffles Henry’s hair, and Henry makes a low rumbling sound in his throat like an annoyed cat. “Why were you even cooking in the first place?”
“…You, uh,” Henry lowers his voice, and Peter pretends to not be listening, “You said you were craving chicken soup the other day, so I wanted to surprise you when you came over for lunch.”
Ralph’s face softens. “You did all of that for me?”
“Ugh, I know, it’s so dumb,” Henry says.
“Well, it is, considering how horrible you are at reading recipes and using the stove,” Ralph says, turning off the gas. “But, I…that was nice of you, Henry. Thank you.” Henry turns bright red as Ralph pats him on the back. Ralph continues, “Besides, now I can take you to lunch at that new diner on Fifth Street.”
“Really?!” Henry beams at him, braces on full display, and Peter swears Ralph looks ready to fall at his feet. “I hear they have a real jukebox in there! Quick, what’s the most annoying song you can think of? I want to drive the other customers insane!”
The two of them yap back and forth as they head for the door. As they’re closing it, Peter looks out of the corner of his eye and sees their hands locked together, fingers interlaced.
Huh, Peter thinks, as he pulls the pot off of the burner and puts a lid on it to trap the smell. When they get all close like that, it almost seems like they’re dating. He smirks and laughs to himself. Yeah, as if that would ever happen.
•••
When Peter finally realizes, it’s after Henry comes stumbling into the house on Ralph’s shoulder late one night after a Killer Boy Rats concert. Mum and Dad are already long asleep, and Peter’s just going down to grab a glass of water before he turns in, when he sees Ralph set Henry on the couch and hurry for the kitchen. Peter tilts his head to the side with confusion, then stifles a gasp as Henry turns in his direction. There’s a large bruise forming under his eye that spans across his cheekbone, red around the edges but already a purplish-black towards the middle.
“Here.” Ralph returns with a wet cloth and a first aid kit. He sits next to him on the couch and turns Henry’s head to face him, then gently presses the rag to the wound. Henry hisses through his teeth, and Ralph whispers him platitudes along the lines of, “I’m sorry, I know, just cleaning you up,” before pulling away.
“‘S cold,” Henry says through gritted teeth, bringing up a hand to rub the irritated skin. Ralph gently takes his wrist and moves it down.
“Don’t mess with it,” Ralph instructs him. “You’ll only make it worse.” He takes Henry’s hands and holds them for a minute. Peter can see his knuckles, bruised as well and split in some places. Ralph frowns as he dabs them clean with the cloth, then sets one down for a second as he riffles through the first aid kit. He comes up with a fistful of band-aids, which he unwraps one by one before tenderly smoothing them over Henry’s injuries.
“There,” he says once he’s done. To Peter’s surprise, Ralph raises one of Henry’s hands up to his face and presses his lips to one of his bandages, which is already staining through with blood. He looks up at Henry. “Good as new.”
“…Thank you,” Henry says quietly. He can’t look Ralph in the eyes.
“That was awful brave of you,” Ralph says. “Dumb, but very brave.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to just let them talk about you that way,” Henry returns.
“Henry—“
“I can’t believe they would call you that— of all words, of all things.”
“Henry, it doesn’t matter.”
“But it does; you hate when people talk about you that way.”
“I hate seeing you hurt even more,” Ralph says, squeezing Henry’s hands, making Henry pause. “Besides, it’s nothing that I can’t handle. Do you remember being kids, like in elementary school and stuff? I was Rude Ralph for years, I still am to some people, and that never bothered me once.”
“But they didn’t call you rude, Ralph, they called you a—“ Henry falters. “God, it’s such a horrid word, even I don’t want to say it. I hate people that talk that way, and I hate everyone who lets them talk that way as well.”
“So many things that you hate,” Ralph says. “Do you know what I liked tonight? I liked seeing the Killer Boy Rats live for the tenth time with you. I liked singing with you in the back row and keeping my arm around you for the whole set. I liked finding a new guitar pick on the ground for free. I liked when you heard someone call me something horrible and decided to defend my honor. And all around, the thing I really loved, Henry, was that I left with you; and I love being here with you now, and I’ll love following you forever. No matter how many rotten people we meet along the way, and no matter how many times I’ll have to help you out or patch you up.”
Henry stares at him, eyes wide yet soft as Ralph cups his cheek. A small smile forms on his lips. “You know. You truly are a wonderful partner, Ralph,” Henry whispers, voice just above a breath.
Ralph returns his expression as Henry fits his palm against Ralph’s shoulder blade and brings him a stone’s throw closer. He replies, “And you’re a wonderful person, Henry.”
Without another word they draw each other into a chaste kiss, and Peter covers his eyes. They stay that way for a good few seconds, locked in an embrace. When Ralph pulls back, Henry opens his mouth to say something, but closes it as Ralph pecks him on the cheek, right where his bruise is forming. Peter can see Henry’s hands on Ralph’s back and shoulder, and the only word he can think to describe them with is ‘reverent’; they handle him like a work of art, with a forbearance that Peter had never known his brother to have.
As Henry leans in to say something to Ralph, Peter figures it’s time to drop the water idea and head back to bed. He turns on his heel to go back up the stairs— and immediately trips, tumbling down a few steps before catching himself near the bottom. Ralph and Henry jump apart, and Peter scrambles back to his feet, rubbing the back of his head and moving a few paces back. “S—Sorry. I didn’t see anything,” Peter stammers. Henry’s eyes widen with horror. “I mean, what anything? There was nothing to see. Nothing going on, at all. Um, hello, Ralph, nice to—“
“Do not,” Henry says through gritted teeth, “Tell Mum.”
“But I—“
“Peter, don’t tell your mum,” Ralph repeats.
“You know, Henry, Mum and Dad aren’t homophobic. They’re okay with Steve being gay, and they’re quite fond of Miss Lovely’s new girlfriend,” Peter says.
“It’s not about that,” Henry says.
“Then what is it?”
“Peter, if they find out that I have a boyfriend, they are going to be so annoying about it.”
Peter blinks at him. He has to stifle a laugh as he asks, “What? What do you mean?”
“Mum’s going to start giving me all sorts of advice on how to treat Ralph, and she’s going to make me dress nice on dates too. And Dad’ll start inviting Ralph to dinner and talking about how he’s always voted Labour. And God forbid, they’d probably get one of those ‘I Love My Gay Son’ stickers for the car,” Henry rambles.
“I don’t know about the bumper sticker,” Peter says.
“It’s inevitable. Look, they already have one for you.”
“What? No they don’t!”
“Yes they do! They have that big magnet that says ‘My Kid’s A Huge Nerd’.”
“It says ‘My Kid Is On The Honor Roll’!”
“Same difference!”
A loud snore from upstairs cuts through their mounting squabble, and they both quiet instantly. As it dissipates, Peter glances back at Ralph, whose head is turned over the couch to stare at him, and Henry, who’s standing over it with a furrowed brow and a nail in his mouth.
“Well,” Peter says, “If you’re really not ready to tell them, then my lips are sealed.”
Henry’s eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
“Of course,” Peter replies. “…On one condition.”
“Pft. I see quid pro quo’s run in the family,” Ralph remarks.
Henry gently shoves him. “Go on.”
“They’re playing Air Bud on Channel 4 right now and I want to watch it.”
“Aw, what?” Henry groans as Ralph snickers beside him. “But Air Bud sucks.”
“Air Bud doesn’t suck, it’s awesome, and I want to watch it,” Peter argues. “But if you’d rather keep the TV to yourself, I suppose I can talk to Mum over breakfast about taking Ralph with us to Great Aunt Greta’s this summer—”
“And you said it’s on Channel 4?” Henry asks, picking up the remote.
Sitting next to Ralph and Henry on the sofa, Peter can’t believe that it took him this long to figure out that they were dating. The longing stares, the lingering touches, the little unasked favors— they all add up whenever Peter looks away from the screen for a second and sees them still huddled up, fingers laced together with Ralph’s head on Henry’s shoulder.
“What are you looking at?” Henry asks, though it hardly sounds as biting as usual.
“You two make a nice couple,” Peter says simply. “That’s all.”
Ralph and Henry raise their eyebrows. They exchange a look, then a smile with it.
“Thanks, Worm,” Henry says.
“Yeah, Worm, you’re alright,” Ralph adds.
As Air Bud plays on, Henry and Ralph nod off, and it’s just Peter left to finish the movie. Once he’s done, he turns off the TV and stands up. Just before he leaves, he picks up a blanket and throws it over the two of them, before flicking the light switch off and heading upstairs.