It doesn't make any sense. Or, it does, in the way that the words form coherent sentences, and that when Eduardo stops to consider the speaker, he can't say the point being made is all that surprising, but the logic behind it, he still doesn't grasp. Maybe the wound is still fresher than he thought, not yet fully healed even after months of having been on the island, but that Mark could see it that way honestly hurts. Then again, as time and distance have let him acknowledge, things always were a little one-sided. He was just always able to deal with it when it didn't involve what could only seem to him an outright betrayal, Mark's way of saying how little he cared about him, how inconsequential he'd become. Coming into it with that framework, there's no way for it to be any less than puzzling, what Mark has to say now.
"I think you and I have a different idea of what being someone's friend means," he says, half to himself, with a short, mirthless laugh, a hand resting on the back of his neck. Being here has been fairly exhausting, but that's nothing compared to the weariness he feels in this moment, looking at Mark, to whom he'd once thought himself so close, and not knowing what the hell to make of him. It was almost easier when Eduardo could outright hate him. "Maybe it's a separate matter to you, but I'm the one who was lied to, and set up, and — and stabbed in the fucking back, while you — You couldn't have said anything?" For a moment, a fraction of a second, his voice falters, sounding as pleading as he had while standing in front of Mark in the Facebook office. He doesn't expect to be met with anything but the same typical stoicism. It's not a trait in Mark that's ever really bothered him, but now, it's downright infuriating. He sighs, swallows hard, shakes his head. This is hardly how he meant to say any of this, what's becoming a recurring pattern in this conversation that still seems completely surreal, and when such high emotions are involved, he can't help feeling a little self-conscious for it. "Yeah, I definitely need that drink."
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"I think you and I have a different idea of what being someone's friend means," he says, half to himself, with a short, mirthless laugh, a hand resting on the back of his neck. Being here has been fairly exhausting, but that's nothing compared to the weariness he feels in this moment, looking at Mark, to whom he'd once thought himself so close, and not knowing what the hell to make of him. It was almost easier when Eduardo could outright hate him. "Maybe it's a separate matter to you, but I'm the one who was lied to, and set up, and — and stabbed in the fucking back, while you — You couldn't have said anything?" For a moment, a fraction of a second, his voice falters, sounding as pleading as he had while standing in front of Mark in the Facebook office. He doesn't expect to be met with anything but the same typical stoicism. It's not a trait in Mark that's ever really bothered him, but now, it's downright infuriating. He sighs, swallows hard, shakes his head. This is hardly how he meant to say any of this, what's becoming a recurring pattern in this conversation that still seems completely surreal, and when such high emotions are involved, he can't help feeling a little self-conscious for it. "Yeah, I definitely need that drink."