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repost repost for expediencies sake! ♥
we'll be misunderstood
social network (mark, eduardo)
800 words. a triptych of scenes about sandwiches. from a prompt from pyrimidine!
Before;
Mark doesn’t keep food in his room other than ramen and red bull, the latter of which doesn’t even count. This is because Mark doesn’t even really have enough money to pay for Harvard, much less eat well while he’s attending.
Eduardo, however, owns a mini-fridge.
“Who even eats bologna,” Mark says, shuffling food aside. Eduardo doesn’t bother to protest anymore. “Do you have any idea what it’s made out of?”
“Did you have a childhood?” Eduardo asks, continuing to pretend that he’s doing his homework. “I try not to look at the ingredients of my nostalgia.”
“You should,” Mark says, and takes out two pieces of bread, and the Skippy peanut butter stuffed to the back that Eduardo bought him last time they went to the campus minimart together. Last Tuesday. Eduardo doesn’t like peanut butter. “Meat by-products. Not the most appetizing of descriptors. I prefer when edibles sound edible.”
“I bought you peanut butter, what more do you want from me?” It’s not really a question, but Eduardo is looking at him over his boring business text. His hair is flat on the left side from how he’s been curled up in his chair. Mark just blinks at him.
“Do you have a knife?”
During;
When the lawyers call for a recess, Mark heads across the street to the Au Bon Pain. It’s filled with businessmen and women getting a quick bite between meetings, hopeful interview candidates. Mark buys a chicken pesto sandwich, and a bottle of orange juice that is much too small for it’s price. But he’s a billionaire now, what the fuck does he care? He grabs some napkins and heads for the exit. He doesn’t mind people, but he doesn’t particularly like these people.
Eduardo is standing by the door, uncertain.
Mark pauses for a moment, and then takes a few steps forward.
“Try the roast beef caesar,” he says. Eduardo looks surprised, and then schools his features. They’re probably not supposed to be talking - in fact, Mark is pretty sure that at some point his lawyer said as much, but he wasn’t paying attention.
“I’m a vegetarian now,” Eduardo says. His voice isn’t warm, but it hasn’t been for long enough that Mark isn’t sure he remembers it otherwise.
“Because of the chicken?” It’s a joke, a stupid one, but Eduardo laughs for a moment before he remembers that he’s not supposed to. That they aren’t friends anymore. Mark can see him process it, and pull back. He can always tell, with Wardo.
“Mark,” Eduardo says, and his voice has that disapproving, you can’t say things like that to me anymore tone to it.
“You’re still my friend,” Mark says. He’s not fidgeting. He never does. He’s just telling the truth. “I still think of you that way.”
“Well, that’s pretty idiotic, don’t you think?” Eduardo laughs again, but this time it’s bitter. Dark. It makes Mark think of the computer shrapnel that hit his face when Eduardo slammed his laptop against his desk. It makes him think of how wet Eduardo’s eyes had been, and how angry.
Mark shrugs.
“You said it already. You’re my only friend.”
He’s prepared for it when Eduardo pushes past him. He leaves, sandwich tucked under his arm.
After;
Mark’s kitchen is all polished, attractive metal and state of the art appliances. He rarely even goes into it for anything other than coffee, instead ordering take-out approximately eighty-four percent of the time. Another fifteen is dedicated to business dinners.
One percent of the time, like now, Mark relies on his own foraging skills.
He ends up with a sandwich made of hamburger buns, with sliced turkey and French’s mustard on it. He’s not sure how old the turkey is, but it smells okay. He doesn’t have any vegetables. Mostly his refrigerator only contains food to put on other food.
He stands at the kitchen island to eat. He doesn’t bother with a plate, just sets his laptop up in front of him and takes a bite. Bland. He’s not picky.
He opens up his mail client, and starts a new message.
To: Wardo (esaverin@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: Sandwich
Raided the dubious contents of my fridge. If you don’t hear from me for a while, tell the authorities.
He takes a picture of the sandwich with the webcam on his computer, and attaches it to the email. His hand hovers on the send button before he shrugs to himself and presses it. He emails Eduardo every couple of days, but he hasn’t heard back, yet. He’s not sure he ever will. He’s not sure he doesn’t deserve that. Still, Eduardo hasn’t told him to stop. He’s sending them to the right address.
He wonders if Eduardo is waiting for something.
He takes another bite of his sandwich.
we'll be misunderstood
social network (mark, eduardo)
800 words. a triptych of scenes about sandwiches. from a prompt from pyrimidine!
Before;
Mark doesn’t keep food in his room other than ramen and red bull, the latter of which doesn’t even count. This is because Mark doesn’t even really have enough money to pay for Harvard, much less eat well while he’s attending.
Eduardo, however, owns a mini-fridge.
“Who even eats bologna,” Mark says, shuffling food aside. Eduardo doesn’t bother to protest anymore. “Do you have any idea what it’s made out of?”
“Did you have a childhood?” Eduardo asks, continuing to pretend that he’s doing his homework. “I try not to look at the ingredients of my nostalgia.”
“You should,” Mark says, and takes out two pieces of bread, and the Skippy peanut butter stuffed to the back that Eduardo bought him last time they went to the campus minimart together. Last Tuesday. Eduardo doesn’t like peanut butter. “Meat by-products. Not the most appetizing of descriptors. I prefer when edibles sound edible.”
“I bought you peanut butter, what more do you want from me?” It’s not really a question, but Eduardo is looking at him over his boring business text. His hair is flat on the left side from how he’s been curled up in his chair. Mark just blinks at him.
“Do you have a knife?”
During;
When the lawyers call for a recess, Mark heads across the street to the Au Bon Pain. It’s filled with businessmen and women getting a quick bite between meetings, hopeful interview candidates. Mark buys a chicken pesto sandwich, and a bottle of orange juice that is much too small for it’s price. But he’s a billionaire now, what the fuck does he care? He grabs some napkins and heads for the exit. He doesn’t mind people, but he doesn’t particularly like these people.
Eduardo is standing by the door, uncertain.
Mark pauses for a moment, and then takes a few steps forward.
“Try the roast beef caesar,” he says. Eduardo looks surprised, and then schools his features. They’re probably not supposed to be talking - in fact, Mark is pretty sure that at some point his lawyer said as much, but he wasn’t paying attention.
“I’m a vegetarian now,” Eduardo says. His voice isn’t warm, but it hasn’t been for long enough that Mark isn’t sure he remembers it otherwise.
“Because of the chicken?” It’s a joke, a stupid one, but Eduardo laughs for a moment before he remembers that he’s not supposed to. That they aren’t friends anymore. Mark can see him process it, and pull back. He can always tell, with Wardo.
“Mark,” Eduardo says, and his voice has that disapproving, you can’t say things like that to me anymore tone to it.
“You’re still my friend,” Mark says. He’s not fidgeting. He never does. He’s just telling the truth. “I still think of you that way.”
“Well, that’s pretty idiotic, don’t you think?” Eduardo laughs again, but this time it’s bitter. Dark. It makes Mark think of the computer shrapnel that hit his face when Eduardo slammed his laptop against his desk. It makes him think of how wet Eduardo’s eyes had been, and how angry.
Mark shrugs.
“You said it already. You’re my only friend.”
He’s prepared for it when Eduardo pushes past him. He leaves, sandwich tucked under his arm.
After;
Mark’s kitchen is all polished, attractive metal and state of the art appliances. He rarely even goes into it for anything other than coffee, instead ordering take-out approximately eighty-four percent of the time. Another fifteen is dedicated to business dinners.
One percent of the time, like now, Mark relies on his own foraging skills.
He ends up with a sandwich made of hamburger buns, with sliced turkey and French’s mustard on it. He’s not sure how old the turkey is, but it smells okay. He doesn’t have any vegetables. Mostly his refrigerator only contains food to put on other food.
He stands at the kitchen island to eat. He doesn’t bother with a plate, just sets his laptop up in front of him and takes a bite. Bland. He’s not picky.
He opens up his mail client, and starts a new message.
To: Wardo (esaverin@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: Sandwich
Raided the dubious contents of my fridge. If you don’t hear from me for a while, tell the authorities.
He takes a picture of the sandwich with the webcam on his computer, and attaches it to the email. His hand hovers on the send button before he shrugs to himself and presses it. He emails Eduardo every couple of days, but he hasn’t heard back, yet. He’s not sure he ever will. He’s not sure he doesn’t deserve that. Still, Eduardo hasn’t told him to stop. He’s sending them to the right address.
He wonders if Eduardo is waiting for something.
He takes another bite of his sandwich.