Eddie has a way of jostling him out of his thoughts like none other. The present rushes back to him like oncoming traffic, deep rumination disturbed with relative ease as the other plonks himself down beside him. Henry hesitates briefly before looking at him.
❝ Truthfully? I’m thinking about you. ❞
More specifically, his current state. He remembers when he’d found him on the forest floor, all torn up and hanging on by a thread. He’d thought he had a death-wish, lying in the dark in Hawkins like that, though he’d quickly realised that something else was afoot. That he needed help.
❝ What’s it like? ❞ he asks. They haven’t spoken about it, not much, but Henry’s patience is beginning to run thin. There’s only so many ways he can avert focus from the truth before he begins to hunger for it. ❝ Being the way you are now, I mean. Does it… hurt? ❞
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