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It had to happen eventually. There are only so many circles American billionaires move in, and they've run into one another a few times since the lawsuit ended, gotten away without quite looking one another in the eye, but it had to happen eventually, the two of them without the benefit of a crowded room to hide in.
It's at a party Mark's funding. That's the rub of it, because Eduardo had to know, there was no way he didn't know, and he'd shown up like the masochist he must be, made small talk with people Mark knew and people Mark didn't, and the party whittles down to a mostly empty room, cavernous without the steady hum of voices, without the noise swallowing up whatever's left between them.
Mark's still there because it's his event. Eduardo's still there because—well, Mark doesn't know why, but he can venture a guess. Mark's getting a last drink at the bar, drinking a jack and coke now that he doesn't drink for appearances. It's watered down, which is an insult considering what he's paying for it.
Eduardo comes up for last call, orders a glass of wine, and Mark doesn't look at him, but he can feel the heat of him all down the line of his body, even though he's feet away. They stay that way, the closest they've been in years, and Mark is almost savouring it in a sick way until Eduardo speaks.
"You never told me why you did it," he says, and Mark has been dreading that question for years, but now it's moved down to a dull ache, a scab he only picks at when he's alone.
"It wasn't personal," Mark says.
Don't feed me that shit," Eduardo says. "It was only personal. If it was about the money, that'd make sense. For anyone else, it'd be about the money. But you, it was. God, it was the goddamn Phoenix. I got in and you didn't, and that killed you."
"No," Mark says.
"No," Eduardo says. "It was because I got in, and you didn't, and you wanted me to decline, just because they didn't want you. You wanted them to want you, and you wanted me all to yourself, and you didn't get either."
"No," Mark says, just for something to say, because that hits too close. Eduardo's always had him figured out like no one else managed, and that was never a bad thing until now.
"And now you've got jack shit," Eduardo says. "You've got money, but you don't give a shit about money. Do you have a single friend left?"
To anyone looking in, this would look like stilted conversation, the two of them up against the bar, talking without facing one another. Mark has never claimed to be observant, but he can see despite the casual pose Eduardo is managing to adopt that his hand is clenched tight around the stem of his glass, holding it for dear life.
Mark's hand shakes on his own glass, and he spills a little of his drink down the front of a shirt that cost more than their start-up funds. He'd bought it yesterday, and now he'll have to throw it out, and it's like throwing pennies in a fountain, it means so little. That's never something he wanted, but it's what he has.
"What do you want from me?" Mark asks, and maybe Eduardo was a masochist for coming, but Mark is a masochist for not leaving, for adding fuel to the fire. He'd leave, but this is the first time he's cared about a conversation in months, in longer.
"I want to watch you burn," Eduardo says, and he finally looks at Mark. He's smiling, but it's all teeth and dark, serious eyes.
"Any suggestions that don't involve incineration?" Mark asks, and his voice stays steady. His hands keep shaking, but his voice is steady, and maybe that's enough.
"I'm so sick of you," Eduardo says, and he laughs. It's an ugly sound. "God, I'm so sick of you, I have no idea why I came here."
"I was hoping you'd enlighten me about that," Mark says, and takes a sip of his drink, waits for the burn in his throat that never comes.
"Do you give a shit about anything?" Eduardo asks. "Is there a single thing beyond that website that you couldn't handle losing? Because I'm honestly curious, Mark, I really want to know."
"I lost you," Mark says, with a poor attempt at a shrug.
"And I'm sure that keeps you up at night," Eduardo says, voice strung tight, all sarcasm.
"You care too much about things," Mark says, and then, quietly, "and yes, it keeps me up at night."
"Good," Eduardo says, spat out like a curse. "I'm glad."
"I'm sorry," Mark says. "Did I ever say that? That I was sorry?"
"No," Eduardo says. He's quiet for a moment. "I should go," he says finally.
"Please don't," Mark says, even though there isn't a single reason for him to stay.
Eduardo puts his drink down on the bar.
"Yes, I was jealous," Mark blurts out. "Of you, and of them, but that's ancient history, it doesn't mean anything."
"Yes it does," Eduardo says.
"Yes it does," Mark says. "Fine, you're right, you're always right, I wanted it and I wanted you, Wardo, and I didn't get either of them and now I'm a cliché of the miserable rich guy instead. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make you happy?"
"No, Mark," Eduardo says. "It doesn't make me happy."
Mark swallows, watches the way Eduardo's hands clench into loose fists without a glass to clutch. He can't manage to look Eduardo in the eye.
"What would?" Mark asks, and the question comes out plaintive, desperate. It doesn't even sound like his own voice.
"For the record, I wanted you too," Eduardo says in lieu of an answer. He leaves, and Mark doesn't stop him. He looks down, and he watches his hands shake, and he fights every urge in himself to follow.
He succeeds.