The pain in Eddy's hands were a near constant thing, an odd tingling numbness that would sometimes build gradually or sometimes flair sharply when he was doing nothing at all. But when he exerted himself, oh, that was a special sort of agony. It was like his muscles were replaced with fraying rope, twisting and tightening against the skin of his bones, sawing down right to the marrow. The whole thing felt creaky and tight, as if his wrists might snap from the pressure and crumble into dust.<br/><br/>Eddy let out a pained hiss and set the pencil down, the stupid rubber grip making it bounce and flop about. He flexed his stinging, aching hand as he glared at his sketch, mood so sour he was inclined to hate it, himself and everything else in this unforgiving world.<br/><br/>So he was wearing a pretty impressive scowl when he looked up at the knock. It instantly softened into surprise when he saw who it was at the door.<br/><br/>"Freckles," he said, faint and mystified. He honestly hadnt expected to see Luke again, convinced that it had been a chance encounter never to be repeated. But there he was, all pretty grey eyes and freckles, though not as soaking wet as last time.<br/><br/><i>"...this a good time...?"  </i>Luke asked, as if he was afraid of being an imposition, as if this was Eddy's house rather than his place of business.<br/><br/>"Yeah, sure," Eddy said, waving the boy in. It was a little too late to hide away his book so Eddy didnt bother. "Yeah, take a seat."