V2.0: fic(&mix) (2/2)

[mherld]

- a stranger with your door key explaining that I am just visiting

and I am finally seeing

why I was the one worth leaving -

You've always known that Mark's not a graceful sleeper, have witnessed him sleeping first-hand before, but the sight of him sprawled across the bed is more than familiar to you. He seems calmer than before and the realisation worries you, starts to make you question what you've done. He's muttering in his sleep and it's more like home to you than anywhere else that you've been in the past handful of years. It's not a comfortable thought; it twists at your stomach, red-hot and angry like you're arguing with Mark for the first time. Like you're scared of offending him all over again. Once, you'd thought that you might hurt him in one of your arguments, that he might turn around and suddenly renounce any claim that you had to some sort of messed up friendship. You hadn't wanted to admit to yourself that you'd hoped he cared that much. He never had.

Screw him. You're not going to be the one to apologise this time. Not again.

You start packing your things instantly and silently, not wanting to alert him to your thoughts. Not wanting that confrontation just yet.

Your phone's on the edge of the bedside table, alerting you to Five missed calls and Four texts from Chris and Dustin respectively. Chris is easy to ignore, a standard text consisting of “Where are you? Be careful, C” but Dustin's sent you two texts that seem to be imply Chris hadn't taken his phone off him while he was still drunk, judging by the “sexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxy tiems”, “yuuurgh i afm not drunkk but i miss yuuu guise!1!”. It's his last text that worries you though; sent seven hours later and demonstrating Dustin's ability at being a keyboard warrior - “any deleting/hacking/embarrassing of facebook personnel and i will end you, saverin”.

The text causes you to pause in your packing and turn to look at Mark, who still sleeps just as heavily as he did back in college. When you could actually drag him to his bed, that is, and he'd turn away from you before passing out until you had to wake him for his lessons. He'd always bitched at that; bitched at you for putting him to bed in the first place (what, Mark, you've suddenly got dignity?), bitched at you for not waking him up in time to finish whatever piece of code he was working on before his class.

That was always the problem with Mark. You'd never quite learned how to tell when something was really wrong before it all blew up (the phone calls, the freezing of the accounts) but he'd get stupidly angry over the little things, like Dustin drinking the last bottle of beer, or with you when you'd meet up with other people instead of going to see him. It was the little things that always made you wonder if maybe, fine, he wasn't a robot like everyone thought he was. It was the tightening of his jaw and the tone of his voice - that's how easy it was. While Mark learned code, you learned Mark and-

It's not like Dustin to ever make you question your morals, but the fact he suspects you of making up with Mark and hacking his Facebook leaves you slightly shamefaced, the fact that he doesn't even consider you being the one to hurt Mark. It's an all-too familiar of the easy friendship that the four of you shared back at Harvard.

Clearly, things have changed.

Chris is waiting for you outside of your apartment, appearance immaculate and somehow you're not surprised. If he's suffering any hint of the hangover that you are, he isn't showing it.

“Please tell me you didn't just-” He runs a hand through his hair and gestures towards your door, his expression unreadable.

“What, Chris?” Somehow you want to hear him say it, want someone to actually care about what the two of you just did, want to know that it has an effect.

He pauses, lips pursed, and moves towards the door, shirt sleeves rolled up neatly around his forearms.

“Is Mark in there?” is all he chooses to say, but his face is clearly saying that what you've done is wrong, is already judging the situation and assuming the worst. It annoys you, pushes you to say what you wouldn't have otherwise.

You shrug. Fake a sigh that's not nearly as fake as you'd meant it to be. “Mark's always been stubborn, Chris. You know.”

And you know that he does, because you know exactly what being with Mark does to people so you know exactly which buttons to press and God, he's Mark's best friend now, shouldn't he have a little more faith in his friend?

And there it is, his face is changing to almost-sympathetic, but you can see the confusion in his eyes, the way his eyebrows are slightly furrowed. You can tell he's slightly disappointed by your behaviour; two years haven't changed how he rolls his eyes when he's pissed.

So this is how it is.

You let down Chris because he expected you to stick by Mark. To some degree, you let down Dustin because, fuck, you have no doubt that leaving him to cope with Mark has worn him down just that tiny bit, grated on his nerves more than once. You let down your father because of all of the times that you stuck by Mark. And Mark? Mark.

You never let down Mark, because he never expected anything from you. Never looked away from that computer screen when you told him to eat, never gave a damn about you.

So why does it feel like you've let him down the most? You're older than you thought you'd ever be while dealing with Mark, but somehow it still feels like you're barely twenty and stuck in the corridor again after being caught in the rain, pretending you don't care half as much as you actually do.

- run away, run away like a prodigal

don't you wait for me, don't you wait for me

so ashamed, so ashamed but I need you so -

“Wardo!”

He looks at you like he doesn't know what's being said in the office, doesn't know that the latest rumour around town is that Mark Zuckerberg took Eduardo Saverin up to his apartment and forced him to fuck him. He probably doesn't even know why you left, probably thinks that you had to call some business associates, probably thought that you'd return eventually. The thought of Mark sitting in the middle of the bed waiting for you causes you to look away from him, to place your hands defensively on your hips.

He's got that smile on again, that smile that signified the creation of theFaceBook from across a crowded room. It's amazing, promising and simultaneously the worst thing that you've ever had to see.

“I modified the Chat feature to function separately as a part of the new update but Dustin's thinking that that's a bad idea, that we're going to encourage people to sign up just for the Chat which we're trying to improve but-” is his opening statement, thoughts rushing out of his mouth like he's nineteen and just broken up with Erica all over again and fuck, he's telling you about how FaceBook runs, this is so screwed up and-

“You two shouldn't be talking,” is the first thing that Chris says as soon as he's made his way across the room in fast strides. Mark's looking confused and slightly annoyed, any hint of his smile completely wiped from his face.

“What, come on Chris, we're just-” he's starting to say in that tone of his, the one where you can tell that he's getting mad because of that little lift to his voice but Chris is cutting him off, looking at both of you like he's just found out about the lawsuits again.

Suddenly, Chris is lowering his voice and you recognise the PR-voice, recognise that you've done exactly what you wanted to do and hit Mark in a double-strike by affecting both him and FaceBook.

“Mark, you need to be very careful about what you say next, but we're about to go into your office and sort out a statement because otherwise the next story is going to be about how you couldn't keep yourself from touching Eduardo last night.”

It all happens too quickly for you to really realise what's going on at that moment, but in a matter of seconds, Mark's angled his body entirely away from you and is only facing Chris, one hand instantly reaching for his pocket, the other frozen in mid-air. It makes him look younger than ever and fuck, Chris' face looks like he's not sure whether to be furious or to try and be the comforting friend.

You're not sure if this is what you wanted. You're not sure what to do now, but Mark's finally saying something after minutes of just tightening his face until you're fairly certain that any chances of reconciliation have just been completely destroyed.

“How I couldn't keep myself from touching Eduardo last night,” he repeats, his tone dry. You're doing your best only to look at Chris but he's right there in the corner of your eye, doing his best not to look at you.

You're not sure if you did the right thing or not at this point in time. For once, you're beginning to consider the repercussions in terms of Dustin and Chris, whether your friendship will actually be able to make it through the scrutiny of the tabloids all over again. You can't help wondering if it's going to be

(x + y = c(m-e) + d(m-e))

or

(x + y = c(e-m) - d(m-e))

At this point, though, you've got a fairly clear idea from the expression on Chris' face, his polite-diplomat face. He looks older than he ever did when you passed each other in the corridors at Harvard, even though that was only a few years ago. It's a stark contrast to the boy who used to argue with Dustin over who could watch their program, or who used to set up the television so that it wouldn't immediately turn on to keep Dustin and Mark from spending that extra hour playing video games before bed. You'd always got on with him, but you're not sure if that's still applicable here.

For his part, though, Mark's not bothering to do anything to dissuade Chris from his ideas of dubious consent and just how much alcohol did they have exactly, choosing instead to turn towards you. His face is almost hurt, although the years apart have forced you to consider just how well you could decode the small differences in his emotions.

Chris is sighing and running his hands through his hair, eyes already looking towards the exit and Dustin, who's standing silent and steady like he's already heard the outcome of your arguments.

“Give me a day to sort out the press around this. Don't go anywhere, Eduardo and I don't know, Mark, try actually having a conversation with Eduardo for once.”

As soon as he's dug his phone out of his pocket and has headed away from the two of you, Mark instantly rounds on you. He seems even smaller than normal and you have no idea what you're even going to start to say.

“You sold me out, Wardo!” His voice is high and his expression is pinched, hands clenched at his sides in what you recognise as an attempt not to put them into his pockets. To not show weakness in front of you. For once, you manage to stop your mouth from adding that 'Ed' to your own name, although it feels like a sharp pain at the bottom of you stomach; almost something like nerves.

You'd never thought about that phone call before now (liar, liar) but you can't help wondering what had happened if you had actually been there in person, if you'd actually been able to see his face.

It's too late to wonder about it now, of course.

Of course.

- and if I forget you

I'll have nobody left to forget

I guess that's what assholes get -

You're all civil to each other on the surface, of course, but Mark's different and Dustin is awkward to you. He knows, you think and it causes shame to rise up in the back of your throat at the board meetings when Chris is overly-apologetic and simultaneously uncertain of how to react. Suck on that, Springer, is the height of your thoughts when Mark is stuttering through the latest news and trying not to meet your eyes.

You've stopped trying to convince yourself that you don't feel in the least bit guilty.

Until it finally stops, one day, when Dustin storms into your hotel room one day, only giving a prior five minute warning in a curt phonecall beforehand. You've been told that under no circumstances, are you to leave by Chris and usually, while this would convince you to find something crucially important to have to fly to, it comes as a genuine surprise when you find yourself not wanting to piss Chris off any more.

Of course, it's a little too late for that.

But Dustin's impromptu hotel visit is something that you hadn't anticipated, something that you aren't sure whether to be worried or pleased about. It's definitely unexpected - the Dustin you'd known back in college would have told Chris before saying anything, who would have ultimately worried about it before Mark would have to tell you bluntly.

Now that he's actually standing in front of you, though, you can tell that Dustin's probably changed the most since you last actually spoke properly. He's uncertain around you, his hands moving anxiously by his side. Even his scent is different; you'd always associated the loud and constantly there scent of some expensive aftershave with the knowledge that once again, Dustin was trying and failing to date some girl. Now, though, he's dressed neatly, his once-eager expression replaced by something almost wary, almost cautious. You don't like to think that you caused it.

“Mark won't say anything,” he states blankly and part of you is glad that he's finally spoken, finally broken that awkward silence between the two of you. His words aren't much better though; reminders of how you've screwed everything up.

You're not quite sure of how to react and so all you can do is shrug weakly at him, eyes fixated on the tap-tap-tapping motion of his fingers in the air. It's a habit that he must have picked up from Mark; something he'd done during lectures to try and memorise bits of code that had suddenly come into his head. Dustin follows your gaze down to his fingers and instantly stops, hands now rigid.

“You kind of screwed this up, Wardo,” he says thoughtfully, only a trace of anger barely noticeable underneath his tone. “No, I mean, you really screwed this up. As in, I'm not sure Sean Parker could have done a better job than you. He's trying to worm his way back into Mark's good books, by the way.”

“Fine,” you reply, but all of the force that you had meant behind your words isn't there and both of you know that it's anything but fine. You're still wondering why you care at all, why you don't feel so much better now that you've hurt Mark. You keep telling yourself that he deserved it.

You know what Mark would say when you were back in Harvard, when you used to know him. He'd give that wry smile and his voice would be in a monotone, but he used to tell you, “Because you're a nice person, Wardo,” and back then, it'd sound more like an insult than anything. You used to bristle and quickly change the subject, telling him not to forget to take his laundry down to wash, but you can see now that maybe you missed the point of things. Maybe you missed a lot more than you thought at the time.

But Mark's not talking to anyone, let alone you, and he's trying not to run into any of you when he has to come out of his office.

Dustin's still standing there and you're a little ashamed to say that you're not sure that you know him so well any more, not sure what would happen if you defied Chris' orders and left right this minute. You'd like him to tell you to 'stay, Wardo, try to work things out. Please?' like he did last time, but something tells you that he'd encourage you to go. Maybe you should go, maybe you should try to sell your shares, maybe you should try to completely erase Mark from your life. But you know that Chris would be pissed and would track you down, even if you ran to the other side of the world. Because that's what happened last time and he'd been on your side then, had told you that it was okay to be angry.

“Wardo, this isn't you,” he sighs and you can see a glimpse of the Dustin that you used to escort to classes after the incident of FaceMash because people used to trip him up. Mark, they'd left him alone to a point, but you'd been able to see that things bothered him a little bit, forced him to lock himself away inside a reality of code. A reality you'd never been able to get into, no matter how much you tried.

It's a little too late now.

“Maybe the three of you shouldn't have tried to screw me out, then,” you reply bitterly and God, what are you doing, you didn't mean to be as bitter as this but your mouth is moving without your permission. Dustin's face crumples and you feel a bit as if you've not only kicked the singular puppy, you've found the entire litter and introduced them to your shoes personally.

“It wasn't like that, Wardo!” he says a little urgently and you can only shrug in response, not trusting your mouth to speak. He looks dejected before shuffling over to the door, shoulders slumped and eyes low as if they're back in their dorm at Harvard and Chris has had a go at him for spraying the room with aftershave again.

You can't see any way out of this one.

- I finally felt the weight,

of my crimes.

it's passion, it's not love -

The next day, you plan to try to talk to Mark again. You don't know what you're supposed to say and you're certain that he doesn't either, but Chris told you in a low, low voice that despite the fact that Mark's been holed up in his office, Dustin is certain that the site hasn't changed at all. He'd said in that voice which actually meant 'Sort your shit out, Eduardo, and stop waiting for us to do it', a voice clearly primarily used to scare the shit out of interns. The interns are already desperately trying to avoid Mark's office, clearly anticipating an argument reminiscent of smashing laptops that only lawyers and pieces of paper can solve.

So you knock on his door, resting your head against it as you hear the steady 'rat-tat-tat-TAP' of keys next door. He's always done that, thumped down the last key in a pattern when he'd got to the end of a line. It'd had been something that simultaneously annoyed and amused you back at Harvard; a marker for when you could touch his shoulder and tell him in no uncertain terms that the two of you were going to eat now, but a constant distraction for when you had to study, knowing that Mark was on the breakthrough of something at the other side of the room. It's a blast to the past that leaves a clenching in your stomach and the acrid smell of burnt noodles from years ago lingering across your mind.

“You're still plugged in,” you say through the door blankly and you're not sure whether you're frustrated or terrified because he has to give you something to work with here. There's no reply again before suddenly the door opens and he's standing there in front of you, backing away quickly when he sees how close you are. It's something that you'd never realised before at Harvard; that he was willing to let you be closer than anyone else, was willing to let you put your hand on his shoulder because that's how you dealt with people. You've both changed since then; he's not willing to let you get any closer to him and you've stopped trying to.

“You're still here,” is all he says, turning away from the door and sliding his laptop into the bottom drawer of his desk, clearly thinking of the last time you fought with him at the office. It makes your words stick in your throat because come on, how are you supposed to talk through the current mistakes that you've made if no-one's willing to let the past go? It's more than a little grating and you feel your jaw unconsciously tighten. As if Mark's done nothing wrong, as if you're losing your three best friends and your father all over again, as if there's papers waiting for you instead of a reunion.

“Should I go?” you ask him but you both know that you're not asking, you're telling him that you don't want to be here.

He turns to you at that point, eyes staring just past your shoulder, hand unconsciously reaching for his pocket. “Do what you want.”

It's not so much the words as the way he says them; somehow the fact that you hurt him is better than this because at least then you knew that he cared, knew that the two of you were still joined together closer than anyone else. Now, though, now he sounds like he couldn't care less whether you stayed or left because there's no point in trying any more. It hurts and it makes you burn, makes you angry because you're trying here, trying to make sense of this whole trip.

“I didn't mean to- I didn't want to-” you're almost stuttering, almost spitting out the words because you still have to get your point across, have to prove to someone that God, you didn't want this even though your hands are still trying to reach and your mind is still remembering at two in the morning.

You're both angry and you both know it. He's struggling not to revert to any of his previous mannerisms (does he think that you'll manipulate him at the first sign of weakness?) and you're trying to maintain the shreds of a professional composure that you used to throw on in the morning after your daily shower. Neither of these actions is solving anything.

“What, because suing me clearly wasn't enough,” he spits out angrily, eyes flashing in a way that only you've seen before and all that you're thinking is don't get into this, do not start this for the sake of everyone next door, for the sake of any fake ambivalence shared between them in the future. “You sued me and you left, Wardo. You left.”

You're more furious (hurt, confused) than you've ever known and he hasn't even finished talking, is still wide-eyed and motioning, closer than he's ever been to you before.

“-and you're making out that you're the martyr in this situation but I never meant to push you out of the company that way and I never pretended to be anything than who I was. I never fucked anyone and made out that they'd forced me into it.”

“You need to grow up, Mark,” you're forcing out and you know that you don't mean it, don't mean any of what you're saying and the words that aren't coming across are I'm sorry, I'm sorry but he's not listening. “Because this is business. This is what adults do and it's like you said, if you don't catch up, you're going to fall behind. Ironic, huh, Mark?”

“Because you were my best friend and I cared because I needed you out here and you never cared, Wardo, so you know, thank you, fuck you and whatever. Have a good trip.” He's leaving his office now, ignoring your protests and you can't leave this here but he doesn't care, has already closed the door between the two of you.

- please, please calm down. steady out, I'm terrified.

sorry, I want us to ally, but you swing on little knives.

they're only sharp on one side -

You don't know what's worse, not talking to Mark or arguing with Mark. Chris is giving you those disappointed looks that he used to give you when you used to return home with Christy and Dustin's just avoiding you, skittering away whenever you come within three feet of him.

You don't know how to fix this.

“Sort it, Wardo,” is all that Chris says to you whenever you raise the subject with him, whenever you try to understand the situation. You want to say, he's your friend and you know him better than I do but that's a lie and that's exactly why you're in this mess now. Because you understood exactly how to hurt him and you hit him exactly where he was weakest.

It's never been your fault before, you've never been the one to apologise, never been the one standing on the outside of Mark's door before. It's not even like he's busy in his office - Chris walked in and returned with his laptop yesterday morning after Mark had been in there for around eight hours. You'd heard the unmistakeable thump of a fist against the door, had hoped you'd see him, but the door remained closed.

Everyone knows now, you want to tell him but you don't know whether you should go in, don't know whether he'd even listen now.

“Mark?” You're speaking to a closed door and you're more than glad that most people have gone home by now. You don't want the world to see the way that you're feeling right now; nervous, your palms are clammy at your sides, bunched into fists like you're ten years old again and your father's telling you not to play when you should be studying.

But this is different. This isn't your silent, disappointed father any longer and this isn't someone else's fault. You have no reason to justify any anger that you still have. You have to try again.

“Can you just-” Open the door, you want to say, but you're terrified that the door's never going to open, so you can't manage to get the words out of your mouth.

“Listen to me,” you're spitting out suddenly to the door but no one's replying and you're pushing your way through his door, not at all surprised by the fact that Chris and Dustin had the locks taken off the door a mere week after Mark had moved into his office.

For once, the headphones are off and the laptop's closed on his desk, papers shuffled through and scattered over the floor.

“What,” he simply states, not even bothering to ask, not even bothering to meet your eyes. It's a struggle again not to snap at him, but you're leaning over him and remembering Lawyer up, asshole. You're fairly certain he must be remember that as well, his posture an instant flashback.

“Can we just- We should just start again,” you say determinedly and he's finally giving you his full attention, the pen motionless in his hands before he's shrugging and glancing to the floor again.

“Yeah, sure, Eduardo,” he's saying flatly but you can tell that he doesn't think that anything is going to change. So you move forward, place your hands onto his shoulders, look down at him seriously because this is Mark, Mark, and things are suddenly beginning to make more sense than they have done ever since you started Harvard.

He's tense beneath your hands and he won't meet your eyes, just keeps on staring blankly over your shoulder. You recognise the look from when girls used to approach him after FaceMash, back when everything started. And it's a terrifying thought, but you can't help but think, what if this was meant to happen?

You have no doubt that you'd have gone on to do something ridiculously boring in some rigid field of business, but what would Mark have done? It's unlikely that all four of you would have kept in contact past the initial year, past the forgotten “I'll call you back”s and the “Yeah, we'll have to meet up for a drink”s.

“Is this the point where a writer for The Journal phones you, or have people finally realised that you're just bullshitting?” He snarks at you and the familiar urge to shout back clenches at your chest, forces you to straighten your shoulders, but you know better. You're used to this Mark, the Mark who insults his sister on the phone before straightening the photograph that she left on his desk the last time she visited him.

“You know I'm not.”

He's biting his lip in the way that you recognise from the board meetings, his eyes dead as they stare you down.

“Remember when I said I needed you? Yeah, Eduardo, that doesn't really apply much right now. I'm pretty sure that you've got enough money from suing me to afford a plane ride home.”

“Mark, I didn't mean to-” you're suddenly coughing, the words thick and heavy at the back of your throat like you've been smoking sixty a day.

“Get on with it, Eduardo,” is all that he says before fiddling with a pen and you remember this now, can remember the hurt in his face facing you at the depositions.

“I want you,” you say suddenly and it's almost a revelation even to yourself, something that you never quite let yourself admit after the shares, something that you locked away into the very corners of your brain. There's always been something keeping the two of you apart; your father, Erica, Christy, FaceBook, Sean, but you've never been closer to him than in this moment. He's not looking at you, but he's not pulling away and oh God you've never wanted something quite so much.

- little walls are tumbling down, I feel them crumble

there's nothing left to tear down, there's only gravel

I'm breaking out, I'm breaking down -

Sometimes, you're not sure whether you and Mark ended or began on a dark, freezing cold night inside his small, cramped office. You'd spent a few times telling him that you were sure that he could afford to expand, but it didn't take long for you to realise that it was never about the money, that it was never about looking good, but that it was simply a way to show everyone.

But it takes time. It's hard for you to realise that when something goes wrong, he's not going to look at you before anyone else and that when he's got a new idea for the site, you're probably going to be the last person in the office to know. Sometimes it feels like you're just visiting the office and it's very much a case of Us vs Them, but you know better than that, realistically. You've seen Mark subtly take revenge on the intern who loudly described them as being the “most dysfunctional couple” he'd ever seen before suddenly finding that yes, his parents did receive that e-mail about his subscription to bondage pornography. You'd looked across the room to try and decipher Mark's face through the shouted accusations before finding his eyes already on you, almost ready to share a smile that neither of you can forget from a lifetime ago.

It's not as if the two of you are a couple, exactly. You're still staying at a hotel and living out of a suitcase and nothing's entirely clear, but he lets you put your hand on his shoulder again. You'd never admit it to anyone, but you like the slow pace that he's letting you set, like that he's letting you take the time to work things out in your head. You have no doubts that it's also for his benefit though; he's still skittish when you're standing close and it still hurts, but you're learning.

Today, though, you're more nervous than ever and you think he can tell, in that Mark-kind of way that you're still trying to decipher. It's Chris' birthday and you're uncertain of how things are going to go, not sure whether he's totally forgiven you yet. He's talking to you more than Dustin, who's still awkwardly trying to avoid you, but you doubt that it's ever going to go back to drunkenly discussing sharks at three in the morning while Mark's running some insane software on your laptop. You're fairly certain that you don't want it to, actually. Harvard was another era.

“Try to not have an aneurysm, Wardo,” Mark says sarcastically, picking up a shirt from off the floor and sniffing it before catching your eye and reaching inside his wardrobe. You'd agreed to meet him here before heading to the office for the surprise party that Chris has half-arranged in pointed comments like “No, Dustin, I would not appreciate a giant fluffy llama for my birthday” and “If anyone ever did arrange a party for me, I'd like it to be known that I hate the taste of sponge cake”. It's half the reason you're so nervous; is this Mark subtly saying that you're supposed to come over now, or have the two of you moved past mysterious hints. Sometimes he gets it and throws out the occasional “Wardo, I have no idea how to cook actual consumable food, so you're coming over tonight”, but mostly it's a case of you meeting him at the office and following him outside.

“I resent that,” you reply with a small smile, thinking I should be offended by that but somehow you're past that, past picking out the thorns in his speech. He's exactly the opposite and it makes you feel a little better about how unclear the situation is, knowing that you can get to him this way.

He doesn't answer but turns to face you, holding up a button-down for inspection.

“Yeah,” is all you can say, swallowing thickly as he turns his back to you and starts to change. It's not like Mark's ever been shy, but he's never been the type for casual nudity, even partially. Even when you'd all been drunk and passed out in a too-small room in only boxers, he'd always reached for his hoodie.

It hurts and you don't know why, but you're not planning on letting things change.

You're not ready to go back to that night quite yet, but you move closer and reach to take his shirt from his hands, briefly noting the way that his back stiffens and his cheeks flush before storing it in your memory. His eyes stay on yours as you do up the buttons, before you reach for a tie and he raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Wardo,” is enough for you to throw the tie onto the bed and move away to the window, trying to regain any coherent thoughts that you've ever had. He looks strangely disappointed before picking up the tie and loosely knotting it around his throat, an exaggeratedly-choked expression on his face. “Never again, Wardo,” is all he says, mock-seriously, and you get the impression that he's talking about more than just the tie, as blunt and straight-forward as Mark usually is. It feels almost as if you're in a room with a different person from the boy that you knew at Harvard and you're not sure whether to be relieved or sad about that, not sure whether you're fully to blame for this change in personality. He looks like Mark and sometimes you catch a glimpse back to the boy that you used to take survival boxes of fruit, tuna sandwiches and the occasional can of Red Bull. You wonder what his fridge is stocked full of now, whether he still drinks the same type of cheap beer that he and Dustin used to buy in bulk. You can't wait to find out.

So you step up to him, uncaring of the fact that you're definitely late by now and Chris is probably pulling his semi-outraged expression, and undo his tie, slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“Okay?” You ask and it's not so much a question as a this is me kind of begging so give me something back and he doesn't answer for a moment before tugging the lapels of your jacket closer to him.

“Okay,” he says slowly, levelly. “That's okay.”