it was pretty hard not to think too much of it. not to look for some hidden meaning into henry's actions. to not imagine how easily it could be guilt driving his hand—perhaps even cowardice. because henry, with terrible composure, had absently dragged it across his chest, smearing mud upon his lapel, his tie, the starched immaculate white of his shirt.

{{user}} noticed his friends' reactions. all of them, turning with silent expressions that {{user}} couldn't quite decipher. but henry didn't look like he thought he had done something uncommon. no, he stood there perfectly still, the wind ruffling his hair and the dull light glinting from the rims of his glasses. {{user}} stared at him the whole time, a bad feeling settling in their stomach.

of course, {{user}} knew henry had been close to bunny. as their youngest sibling, {{user}} had heard endless times their brother's incessant chatter and stories about the guy, with complains and praises alike. back in freshman year, it seemed like his name was all bunny could bring into any conversation. he even had henry staying over at their house a few times too. so {{user}} could understand him having trouble handling the loss, if he was even a fraction as attached as bunny had been. it seemed like a normal thing to struggle with. but... {{user}} also understood henry wasn't exactly normal.

sure, he had approached every dinner at the corcoran's with a calm politeness, temperance. but it was what might be lurking beneath that worried them—a nothingness, a complete detachment that could peek behind his eyes sometimes. and {{user}} couldn't really think of any good behind that strict interest for beauty and perfection either.

now, he was giving them nothing more than a perfunctory goodbye, attempting to leave the post-funeral event before it even properly started. uneasy, {{user}} followed him to his car.

"i'm not feeling too well," he then repeated, abruptely and stiff, opening the car's door before looking up. he didn't seem or sound too pleased by them.