Of course it's not so much from being drunk. Eduardo doesn't ever really drink with abandon. The reasons a man needs to drink always say a lot about the person, and for Eduardo, those reasons are usually about ambiance and practicality. When others are drinking around him, Eduardo will have a beer. When he needs to calm down and soothed frayed nerves, Eduardo will have a beer. (Mark remembers with a particular sort of amusement, the way Eduardo managed to work his way through almost an entire six-pack of beer shortly after incident with Christy and— what's her name, something fairy talesque— Alice, that's right— Alice in the restaurant bathrooms. Eduardo thought that the two of them had split the beers evenly, but what he didn't realize was that Mark kept on swapping out the beers, made a game out of it, needed Eduardo to come down from bouncing off the fucking walls.) When he needs to fit in the bicycle room of a final club, he'll have a glass of wine, or at the very least a wine cooler. Shot are nearly nonexistent, martinis are... well, Mark can't remember the last time Eduardo's had a martini, and he suspects that he probably knows the reason for that. Has to do with a curly crop of hair, and Mark doesn't mean his own.
But he's sure that Eduardo realizes that Mark didn't really mean what he said, not that time, just as much as he's sure that Eduardo's just explaining because that's what he does. That habit he has of sounding out all of his thoughts, fully and coherently, as though it helps him paint some kind of picture, give him the perspective that Mark so often lacks. Mark works with two dimensions. Blinking letters on a computer monitor. Eduardo doesn't do that, he's never done that, he's always needed to meet with people, to shake their hands, to have that strong indication that he is working face-to-face with living folks. Mark thinks that phone calls are convenient for how (for him, at least; he can't speak for the rest of the world) they allow a faster rapport in communication than text does. Eduardo sees them, instead, as the only thing that can even try to approach the intimacy of being around someone in person. His inflection is always clear over the phone. Mark's, hardly.
(He's made games out of that, too.)
So he lets Eduardo go on a bit, not really sure what to do with his hands, simply rubbing them together on his lap nervously. Feels like confession, the sort of guilt twisting into one's gut that is never forgotten, even if it's been years since Mark's stepped into a booth. Because somehow, it's just... approaching impossible for him to say the same, even though Mark has the more than sneaking suspicion that for the first time in their lives, Mark and Eduardo's feelings are running along the same line.
"Yeah," he manages first with a shrug of both shoulders. His mouth is in the same firm line that it usually is, the one that most people associate with nonchalance. What gives him away, though, is the look in his eyes. Not hyperfocused on code, on the pixels of a monitor, not fixed on some vague point in the distance where he can mentally work through the logic of his programming, they're just watching him. It's the closest that he can come to direct, unflinching honesty. Hopefully Eduardo gets it, though. He's not just acknowledging Eduardo's feelings (though there's that, too, and with that a deep surprise that has the knots from his shoulders slowly easing away). He's mirroring them.
Tired of the way his fingers keep on moving against air, Mark finally shoves both of his hands into his pockets, taps his foot against the ground.
"So," he continues, as though working out the words one at a time, nodding vaguely to himself. "Please tell me you're not living in a mud hut."
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Date: 2011-05-21 03:43 am (UTC)But he's sure that Eduardo realizes that Mark didn't really mean what he said, not that time, just as much as he's sure that Eduardo's just explaining because that's what he does. That habit he has of sounding out all of his thoughts, fully and coherently, as though it helps him paint some kind of picture, give him the perspective that Mark so often lacks. Mark works with two dimensions. Blinking letters on a computer monitor. Eduardo doesn't do that, he's never done that, he's always needed to meet with people, to shake their hands, to have that strong indication that he is working face-to-face with living folks. Mark thinks that phone calls are convenient for how (for him, at least; he can't speak for the rest of the world) they allow a faster rapport in communication than text does. Eduardo sees them, instead, as the only thing that can even try to approach the intimacy of being around someone in person. His inflection is always clear over the phone. Mark's, hardly.
(He's made games out of that, too.)
So he lets Eduardo go on a bit, not really sure what to do with his hands, simply rubbing them together on his lap nervously. Feels like confession, the sort of guilt twisting into one's gut that is never forgotten, even if it's been years since Mark's stepped into a booth. Because somehow, it's just... approaching impossible for him to say the same, even though Mark has the more than sneaking suspicion that for the first time in their lives, Mark and Eduardo's feelings are running along the same line.
"Yeah," he manages first with a shrug of both shoulders. His mouth is in the same firm line that it usually is, the one that most people associate with nonchalance. What gives him away, though, is the look in his eyes. Not hyperfocused on code, on the pixels of a monitor, not fixed on some vague point in the distance where he can mentally work through the logic of his programming, they're just watching him. It's the closest that he can come to direct, unflinching honesty. Hopefully Eduardo gets it, though. He's not just acknowledging Eduardo's feelings (though there's that, too, and with that a deep surprise that has the knots from his shoulders slowly easing away). He's mirroring them.
Tired of the way his fingers keep on moving against air, Mark finally shoves both of his hands into his pockets, taps his foot against the ground.
"So," he continues, as though working out the words one at a time, nodding vaguely to himself. "Please tell me you're not living in a mud hut."