(no subject)
It has been a really, incredibly long day. That was the case, of course, even before Eduardo found himself in what's been described to him as a pocket universe, but now, it just seems that much more unending, that much more tiring. If he's honest, it still doesn't have all that much to do with the island. It's confusing, that's without question, but everything back home had already been turned on its head, and that has him reeling far more than the prospect of being here does. (He suspects, though, that that will change once he's had time to let this sink in, once being on the island doesn't seem quite as surreal.) Having been assured that he's somehow still back there and will be able to take care of any unfinished business, of which there's a lot, provides little reassurance. It still happened, it's still something that's going to have to be dealt with, and it still hurts like hell, knowing that he could mean so little.
By the time he makes it to the building that he's been told is called the Compound, he's shed his suit jacket, leaving it draped over one arm, and rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt to his elbows. He hadn't worn all black with the intention of walking around a tropical island - no, he'd been dressed for the business meeting and the party, neither of which wound up happening - but he's regretting it now. The weather itself, he's fine with, but with the exception of the short time he spent in Palo Alto, he's coming from a Massachusetts November, not equipped for this in the slightest. It's why, at a loss for anything else, he decides to check out the so-called magical box first, see if he can't find something a little more weather-appropriate.
Navigating isn't really all that difficult, though Eduardo still feels dazed, like none of this is quite real, like he'll wake up back at Harvard and everything, including the situation with Mark, will be back to normal. As it stands, he's got to try to deal with it, and this is a start. Crouched in front of the box, which he eyes warily for a few seconds, he then takes a deep breath and reaches in. Just what he's expecting, he doesn't know - magic is kind of vague, after all - but it isn't what he winds up with. His hand first closes around a t-shirt, and that's all well and good, if not what he normally wears; catching in the fabric as he pulls it out, however, is a pair of black Adidas sandals, which would be more than easily dismissible if not for what he said about Mark's customary footwear just seconds before arriving here. Rolling his eyes, he lets out a short, unamused laugh, tossing one back in so he can run his free hand through his hair, exasperated. Of all the reminders to get, this is a fucking pointless one, but not one he needs. "Figures."
[Timed to Sunday afternoon. ST/LT/whatever more than welcome, and no tag limit.]
By the time he makes it to the building that he's been told is called the Compound, he's shed his suit jacket, leaving it draped over one arm, and rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt to his elbows. He hadn't worn all black with the intention of walking around a tropical island - no, he'd been dressed for the business meeting and the party, neither of which wound up happening - but he's regretting it now. The weather itself, he's fine with, but with the exception of the short time he spent in Palo Alto, he's coming from a Massachusetts November, not equipped for this in the slightest. It's why, at a loss for anything else, he decides to check out the so-called magical box first, see if he can't find something a little more weather-appropriate.
Navigating isn't really all that difficult, though Eduardo still feels dazed, like none of this is quite real, like he'll wake up back at Harvard and everything, including the situation with Mark, will be back to normal. As it stands, he's got to try to deal with it, and this is a start. Crouched in front of the box, which he eyes warily for a few seconds, he then takes a deep breath and reaches in. Just what he's expecting, he doesn't know - magic is kind of vague, after all - but it isn't what he winds up with. His hand first closes around a t-shirt, and that's all well and good, if not what he normally wears; catching in the fabric as he pulls it out, however, is a pair of black Adidas sandals, which would be more than easily dismissible if not for what he said about Mark's customary footwear just seconds before arriving here. Rolling his eyes, he lets out a short, unamused laugh, tossing one back in so he can run his free hand through his hair, exasperated. Of all the reminders to get, this is a fucking pointless one, but not one he needs. "Figures."
[Timed to Sunday afternoon. ST/LT/whatever more than welcome, and no tag limit.]