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smaller than Milo, but makes room for him anyway.
    They never talk about how bad things are getting, partly because they both know it’s hopeless to think there is help other than Milo getting away in two years when he goes to college.
    °
    “You haven’t complained about this in, like, thirty whole minutes,” Milo says one afternoon. “Are you gonna puke? You’ll waste away.”
    “Oh, look, a comedian gracing my presence.” Andrew punches Milo’s arm lightly.
    “You both need to shut up and focus,” Ted says. He’s using his whole body, moving the controller and his arms and torso as he navigates the game they’re playing. Milo’s naturally competitive nature kicks in and he turns back to the game. Andrew holds on as long as he can before throwing the controller down.
    “Weak man,” Ted says. His eyes never leave the screen.
    “Whatever.” Andrew closes his eyes. “Do you guys wanna go out? Movies? Coffee?”
    Ted swears when he dies again.
    “But this is a tournament!” Milo says. “We can’t walk away.”
    “Well,” Ted says as he hits the pause button, “we are getting our asses kicked.”
    “Fuck.” Milo puts down his own controller. “Maybe Andrew has a point.”
    Andrew’s already texting and checking times on his phone. “Sarah wants to come, and Lindsey.”
    Ted moans. “Oh god, not Lindsey.”
    “You totally want to get into her pants,” Milo says. “You can’t pretend you don’t.”
    “No,” Ted says. He shudders. “She’s so annoying.”
    “But you think she’s hot, right?” Andrew says, raising an eyebrow and sharing a look with Milo.
    “What movie do they want to see?” Ted stands, changing the subject effectively, but Andrew doesn’t miss the way he blushes. Sometimes he’s grateful that his skin is not nearly as fair as his friends’, because blushing rarely gives him away.
    °
    They end up watching the sort of slapstick comedy Andrew cannot stand. Thankfully, he’s next to Milo, who also hates this kind of crap. Majority rules have forced them here. They banter in whispers, commenting on the clothes, the awkwardness of cheap jokes and poorly choreographed physical comedy. More than once they’re shushed by other audience members. When a guy, obviously on a date, turns around and tells them to shut the fuck up, Milo sinks down in his seat, shaking with laughter. It sets Andrew off, who is susceptible to the giggles.
    “What does he care?” Milo leans in to whisper in Andrew’s ear, setting off a cascade of delicious, nervy shivers. “He’s totally going in for the super awkward, probably sweaty hand hold.”
    Andrew leans forward and peeks. He looks over and, in the bright wash of the screen light, half smiles in agreement. Milo’s lips are full and tempting and completely off limits. It’s very, very hard not to imagine him brushing them against Andrew’s neck. He gulps down a breath and leans into Milo’s space. If he inhales again to catch Milo’s scent, he really can’t be blamed. He hopes it’s subtle.
    “What would you know? Whose hand have you been holding?” Milo smiles, but it’s a little weird. Andrew’s wondered about him recently, because Milo never says anything about girls or crushes or wanting.
    They all eat at a diner after the movie. Sarah’s dressed normally—just jeans and a shirt that would work anywhere. She’s the kind of classic-pretty with sleek brown hair and beautiful clear skin that doesn’t need extra work. Lindsey, on the other hand, tries. She tries very hard. She’s dressed up more than any of them, wearing a glittery, slithery tank top that dips a little too low. She reapplies her lipstick while they wait to be seated, and Andrew wonders if that kind of thing works on Ted. Ted’s hardly said a word to her all night, but that hasn’t stopped him from looking.
    At dinner Milo cracks jokes the whole time, poking fun at the movie and actors. He’s in a rare carefree mood, and when he’s on like this, he’s