Eduardo doesn't know what he's expecting, really, or why he even asked, except that it seemed like the thing to do. With anyone else, under any other circumstances, it would probably have been easy small talk. The sudden transition, though, from the lighthearted joking (he'd just looked down at his shirt, about to make a comment on how he'd have chosen something better if he had any say in it, and how this isn't even the worst of what he has; there are a bunch of t-shirts he knows he can hand off to Mark now that he's here) to what's downright unsettling is enough to almost make him wish he hadn't asked. He's left him practically dazed, eyes going wide as he sets his glass down on the table again. It isn't a length of time that's been named, but it's simple math. He's used to being the older one, but that isn't what bothers him. However bad things were he didn't think he would actually be four fucking years before they got everything resolved.

"Jesus," he murmurs, a hand by his mouth, gaze lowering from Mark's as he shakes his head. He can't very well blame Mark for this much, but it's going to take him more than just a second's notice to wrap his head around. "Four fucking years, that's — I only just turned twenty-three a couple months ago." It's a halfhearted effort to lighten the mood, but he doesn't expect it to work, not really. If anything, he suspects that Mark will see through it, unless those four years have really changed Mark's ability to read him. "The clothes are, uh, it's a long story, there isn't a whole lot of choice."