Mark doesn’t count how many days it’s been. He doesn’t know the date; it’d been the 13th of some month, but probably not a Friday, otherwise Dustin would’ve leaned over his desk beforehand and whispered, “It’s a bad omen,” and Mark would’ve smacked him.

It’s been however long it’s been since then – since the longest and most pointless week of Mark’s life. He’s in Shanghai for promotions and app meetings, the most boring part of being CEO, but at least people listen to him. People are also really annoying, and talk a lot, so after the meeting he excuses himself for lunch alone.

His Mandarin is passable at best, to any Chinese-speaking person who tries to understand him through his horrible pronunciation. Still, there are some English speaking waiters and he manages to get around eating, alone, just a small meal that no one looks at him twice for, especially with pity. He enjoys himself; no one scolds him for using his fingers to eat when the metal chopsticks are too slippery for him.

It’s when he’s walking out of the restaurant and full of food, brain working with the energy to think about the recent meeting, when he doesn’t look where he’s going. He stumbles into someone on the sidewalk, and says, “Sorry.”

He doesn’t usually look up. Mark doesn’t always say, “Sorry,” either, but after years of suffering the back of Chris’s metaphorical hand and it’s habit.

And something compels him to look up.

He almost regrets it — almost. It’s Eduardo, because of course it’s Eduardo. Eduardo is the one who belongs on this side of the world, even though Mark’s memory recalls he’s in Singapore, not Shanghai. Eduardo hadn’t even looked up, had mumbled something Mark had barely caught with his ears, is tapping away on his insanely outdated Blackberry.

“Wardo,” Mark says, because he’s an idiot.

Eduardo’s head jerks up violently. He glances around like he thinks Mark’s got him surrounded, even though Mark’s alone — and then he meets Mark’s eyes.

“Mark,” he says, civilly.

It’s — painful. Mark has never forgotten the two years at Harvard, two years of telling his parents that he made a new friend, a guy from AEPi who’s older than him, his name’s Eduardo, he’s in the Investor’s Association, he’s Mark’s best friend. He’s never forgotten that, but somehow it just hits him again. A flood of Eduardo’s hands between his shoulderblades, studying in silence under the golden light of Mark’s room, eyes blazing with fury in Facebook fluorescents.

This is what it’s like, Mark thinks, seeing your life flash before your eyes. Except he’s not in a car accident — he’s just run into his best friend in the middle of the street in a too-big city in a too-big country. And Eduardo isn’t his whole life — he’d been here before, a piece of a whole, before Mark had washed him away.

There’s no regret. That’s not what this is. But Mark has a sinking feeling that admitting as such would not be a bad idea, when Eduardo nods curtly, then begins to turn away, walking out of Mark’s life once more.

“I can’t believe I just said sorry,” he says, when Eduardo’s back is turned, “for bumping into you in the street.”

Eduardo freezes. Mark watches as his shoulders shake, and Mark can’t see the other side of it. But he has, the few times he’s seen Eduardo walk ahead of him (and not behind him) — he’s laughing.

Eduardo turns around. “What do you want, Mark?”

“I want,” Mark says. It should be easy. It’s always been easy to tell Eduardo what he wants, and expect it, back then.

He’s not sure about that now.

He remembers Eduardo’s touches, absent fingertips across his forehead, tucking a curl behind his ear, feeling for a fever. He remembers Eduardo’s presence behind his back, warm, solid, reliable. Mark knows what he wants.

“Do you, uh.” He coughs into his fist. “I don’t, um.”

Eduardo stares at him.

“It’s been a long time,” Mark says, after clearing his throat. “We should, ahem. Shake hands or something.”

Eduardo frowns. But there is a crack in the armor — Mark doesn’t know if it’s him giving in, or indulging Mark, or both — but he can see it, and Eduardo says, “Okay.” He extends out his hand.

In the middle of the sidewalk, Mark takes it. Eduardo seems prepared just to shake his hand and go off, but before he can, Mark pulls him in, because they’re at such a distance and Eduardo has never been with Mark that way and it’s painful. He pulls Eduardo in because he misses him, even though he’s never initiated contact before, even though he’s not a hugger. Eduardo knows this, because he’d always hug Dustin and Chris goodbye whenever they left for breaks at Harvard, and just smile at Mark before walking out

But Mark hugs him here, because he’s never hugged Eduardo before. He smells like cologne and feels stiff and warm — he is unmoving in Mark’s arms, Eduardo’s own dangling awkwardly at their sides, as Mark takes him in. This is so fucking weird, Mark thinks, but he doesn’t care. Eduardo can push him away and spit in his face and say he doesn’t want to see Mark again. Well, he already has.

Mark waits for it.

It takes a moment, but then Eduardo is doing the shaking thing again. “What are you doing, Mark?” he says. He sounds awed.

Heat rises to Mark’s face. “What does it look like I’m doing ?” he mumbles, instead of answering.

And instead of shoving him off, or spitting in his face, Eduardo says, “Loosen up a little.” And when Mark tenses, he adds, “I’d like to use my arms too,” and when Mark has let him go, a bit, there is a warmth at Mark’s back again. It is familiar, but different — it is not a comfort, but maybe forgiveness. Maybe a confession, that Eduardo misses him too. Mark holds Eduardo, face buried between his shoulder and neck, in the middle of Shanghai, and Eduardo’s hand wanders up and down Mark’s spine, stroking him there.

Maybe this is hardly a first step. Maybe nothing will come of this. But Mark knows, for maybe a minute, that holding Eduardo means that everything is okay.

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Retouch

by aroceu

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