It's textbook stuff

Well, this is different. Trying to make a comeback, friends. Don't ignore me!

2012-12-19T21:41:31Z

Holy fuck it's been AGES. LJ has changed so much wth happened.

Anyway, making a return because I miss fandom and stuff like wow. Plus I really wanna start writing fic again. I miss everyoneeee.

I'm really super curious about how the baseball comms are doing. And what about TSN fandom? Is that still existent?! HOW ABOUT YOU GUYS?! HALP.

I feel so Internet-illiterate. What was I even thinking, leaving like this.

That's not to say I haven't been reading fic. I've spent the last year reading Merlin fic like crazy but I just don't do any writing anymore. Gonna have to beef up my flist so I can get back in the swing of LJ.

I'll do a quick update here of my life the past...year and a half? Was that when I quit Tumblr and LJ? I think so. Anyway, there was school and band and me working for the newspaper. I had a communications internship this summer at an aluminum company. I watched baseball, as usual. Even went to Yankee Stadium. Even went to Spring Training with one of my good friends. Saw the Nationals and Astros lose to the Braves while there, which was nice. Went to Disney for free. I turned 21 in October and it was great. I sobbed my eyes out at the SEC Championship game a few weeks ago. I started rushing a music fraternity. I applied for a sports journalism internship and I'm now in the process of hopefully securing a summer job. Interview soon, maybe? Fingers crossed! I decided to postpone graduation to May 2014 (I was supposed to graduate a semester early but I don't want that anymore; yay, 6-hour last semester!) and I'm happy with that. I'm not quite ready for the real world. I don't know. I'm not much less of a shut-in than I was a year and a half ago but there's been some major character growth for me, rest assured. Second most-exciting news is that I'm finally getting the chance to pick up a sports beat for the paper next semester. Hopefully softball or baseball!

And now that I'm on break, I've realized I really miss fandom. So I'm trying to make a comeback.

I started working on a Merthur fic last night, one that I've been halfheartedly plotting for months, and now I'm in the process of outlining it. Maybe something will actually come of it.

Expect more from me soon!

The Merlin Friending Meme -- because I need friends STAT

I'm working on involving myself more in fandom so, here, copy and paste this box into comments, yes?!

Here's my info :)

Name: Maria
Age: 21
Location: Georgia, USA
Other fandoms/TV shows/interests: Baseball, The Social Network, Glee, Revenge, Vampire Diaries, The New Normal, Modern Family, working on Mad Men and Doctor Who
Favorite Merthur fic? Been hooked on In Your Name by Bohemia. Also finished I Keep Going Over the World We Knew and I can't get it out of my head. I wish I had a record of all the fics I've deleted off my Kindle in recent months, just so I make a list of all the ones I've adored of late. Maybe Amazon has a list of that...
Anything else? I wanna be a sports journalist, namely a baseball reporter. I can't stop listening to Taylor Swift because, for as long as I've been listening to her (since ninth grade), it's impossible to stop. I play flute/piccolo for the University of Georgia. If I stick to my promise of becoming LJ-active again, you'll hear way more about that. So far, the majority of my Christmas gifts this year have been crafts because Pinterest. And that's all I can think for now. OH YEAH. I've been watching Merlin since June 2011. I've been lurking for a LONG time and it's time to come out of the shadows. :)

fic: as of now untitled prince andrew au

2011-12-29T12:52:59Z

Ugh, it's been way too long but I just don't have time to go on about my life right now. Posting this before I leave for my trip to Tampa, so I hope I don't screw it up.

Title: In Which Jesse Rams Prince Andrew with a Library Cart
Author: learnthemusic
Recipient: hold_onhope, who deserves way more than what I've written here.
Warnings: Fluff is a legitimate warning, right? :P
Pairing: Andrew/Jesse
Rating: PG, for now
Summary: In which Jesse, library shut-in, runs into Andrew quite literally. Andrew, who is referred to as "Your highness" by a big white man with an overcoat. ~1,500 words.
Note: This exchange caught me by surprise. One minute I was plotting and the next I was one day from the second check-in. The good thing is that, even though this is short, it's really only a teaser for what's to come. I have this whole AU planned out and it will be written at some point in the next few months. Ugh, I'm so sorry TSN fandom. I've been away for way too long. I miss you and I'm ready to come home. I gotta thank yellowwolf5 for kicking my ass over IM because this wouldn't have gotten written without her. I hope you like this, hold_onhope!

It all starts in the library, as many stories do. For Jesse, anyway, who spends all his time hiding behind stacks or otherwise volunteering to put books away when the staff looks a little worn down. And since time for a history major involves forcing himself through volumes and volumes of encyclopedias and, well, history, he practically lives in the library. If he could, he’d set up a tent on the third floor, away from all the aisles, right where the sun shines in through the curtains, and never leave. As it is, he’s stuck adhering to the library hours and claiming a whole table in the basement on a daily basis instead.

Nothing really happens in the basement. The media archive is down there so whenever people are around they’re watching videos or listening to CDs – not sitting there shuffling papers or listlessly paging through books. It’s probably the quietest place on campus and Jesse couldn’t be happier that he’s the only one to know that.

Of course, the one day Jesse actually wants to take advantage of all the old films around him is also the day a horde of film students claims the only television hooked up to a functioning VCR. Jesse has no choice but to gather his things and leave, figuring he could probably lend Ms. Lionel a hand with the books instead. Not like he has anything better to do.

Ultimately, the only people to blame are those film students.

Not Jesse.

Never Jesse.

- - -

“No, really, Jasper, you can stay here. It’ll only take me a minute.”

“Your hi—”

“Seriously. Just a minute.” Andrew holds up a finger, smiles and pats Jasper’s back. Then he’s on the elevator in the blink of an eye, more than eager to shake Jasper, if only for a few minutes. The three floors between them when Andrew gets to the top floor is probably the greatest distance they’ve been apart since Andrew arrived in the States. And that was two months ago.

The signs on the wall point directly toward the Policy section and he ducks his head, hoping not to attract any attention to himself. It may be Saturday but on a campus this big there’s bound to be more than a few people studying in here who will recognize him and accost him for pictures. Without Jasper around, he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

He lets out a sigh of relief when he manages to traverse the main hallway without causing a scene. It’s moments like these, peaceful and undisturbed, that remind him why he wanted to study outside of England in the first place. There are no paparazzi at every corner here, at least not for him. Americans don’t care nearly as much about him as the rest of the world does. It’s refreshing how, even with Jasper around, some people don’t even bat an eyelash when he walks by. They just ignore him. He wishes everyone on campus were that way.

But he most certainly doesn’t wish that those who do ignore him also crash into him with a library cart.

“Holy shit.”

Groaning, Andrew straightens himself up and clutches his right hip. Pain shoots up his side, all the way up to his ribs, and he almost doubles over again to catch his breath.

“Oh, shit, I am so sorry.” The person who’d been pushing the cart dashes around it to touch a hand to Andrew’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem very comfortable doing so, for he starts flapping his hands about everywhere, unable to decide where to set them until he finally just backs away. “So sorry.”

Andrew watches him suspiciously, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely this man is going to freak out even more if he recognizes who Andrew is.

“Please don’t tell me I knocked your vocal cords out too. I don’t think I could handle that.”

Laughing earnestly, “I don’t think that’s even possible,” Andrew straightens up some more and holds out his hand. The man looks between it and Andrew’s face for a while, as if he thinks this is some kind of joke, before he finally takes it. “I’m Andrew.”

“You’re British,” he says, and then he snatches his hand back to clap it over his mouth. All right, maybe he doesn’t know who Andrew is after all.

“I am,” Andrew confirms, amused. He rubs his hand on his hip, soreness settling in slowly and making him wince. “And you are…?”

“Jesse – I’m Jesse.” He shakes his head and Andrew’s afraid he might hurt his neck for how jerkily he does it. Jesse’s apparently a poster child for nervous energy. “I’m sorry, Andrew, really. I didn’t see you there, I was just trying to put these books away and I was clearly going too fast.”

Andrew holds up a hand that he hopes might serve to calm Jesse down. “It’s ok, Jesse. I understand. No harm done.”

“Except I might have broken one of your ribs.”

Chuckling, Andrew holds up both his hands and stands up as straight as he knows how. His father would be proud. “I’m fine. No broken ribs.”

Jesse narrows his eyes, clearly not convinced. “I hit you pretty hard.”

“I’m a strong guy.”

“I don’t doubt that but –”

“I promise I’m fine.”

He doesn’t sound like he trusts Andrew at all when he says, “Well, ok. If you say so.”

And Andrew, for some reason, really wants Jesse to believe him. Maybe it’s the bright blue eyes that compel him, or the way Jesse’s gnawing on his lip ceaselessly, but whatever the reason, Andrew wants to reassure him.

So it makes sense that he makes the ill-advised decision to say, “Let me prove it to you.”

Jesse draws his eyebrows together and asks, “How? Are you going to start doing cartwheels or something?” which draws the loudest of snorts from Andrew.

“No, no, none of that. I just want to – well –” he clears his throat, “– Maybe you could come out with me.”

“How would that prove anything?”

“If I can take you out, I must be fine, right?”

Jesse shakes his head vigorously and Andrew winces, slightly and irrationally fearful for Jesse’s neck again. “To the contrary, actually,” Jesse starts, wringing his hands in front of him. “I’ll just think I caused you brain damage.”

“Why?”

He widens his eyes, like Andrew’s already supposed to know. “You can’t really want to go out with me.”

“But I do.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Stammering, “You’re – well, I don’t know,” Jesse ducks his head and starts observing his shoes. “You’re just you and I’m not, uh…” He shrugs.

If there was ever a time Andrew could just automatically know everything about someone, it’d be now. He kind of just wants to pull Jesse into his arms, stroke his hair and tell him that he’s got nothing to be scared of. Which, yeah, that’s not something he can do to just anyone, but he wishes he could. He’s been aware of Jesse for all of two minutes but he can already tell he’s nothing like the people he knows already. They’re all cocksure, even the ones without cocks, and they have their noses so high in the air it’s a miracle they don’t frequently trip over themselves since they can’t watch where they’re going. Jesse, just by existing, is already a nice change of pace.

“I promise there’s nothing for you to worry about,” Andrew says, taking a few steps forward as Jesse shuffles back against the wall.

Jesse glances up. “I’m not worried.”

“Go out with me, then.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t want to compromise your innocence or anything like that, Jesse. I just want to have dinner. Preferably with you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Actually, it does.”

“How?”

Andrew backs away and sighs, Jesse watching him with narrowed eyes. “If nothing else, I should like to be your friend.”

“I –”

“Your highness.”

Grimacing, Andrew turns around and gives Jasper a look. “I was coming right down.”

“I was afraid you’d maybe gotten lost, sire. We’ll be late if we don’t leave right now.”

“Your highness?” Jesse sounds like he’s tasting the words, like he’s never heard them before in his life and wants to get a handle of them.

Andrew faces him once again, frowning a little. Jasper never fails to ruin moments like these. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Jesse looks lost as he says, “Right.”

“What’s your last name, Jesse?”

“Huh?”

“Your highness, we really have to –”

Over his shoulder, Andrew pleads, “Just one second,” then turns back to Jesse. “What’s your last name?”

“Um. It’s –” Jesse shakes his head at himself. “It’s Eisenberg.”

A smile quickly spreads across Andrew’s face unbidden, growing way too fast for him to stop it. “Jesse Eisenberg. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yeah, uh, same.”

“I’ll see you, yeah?”

Jasper chooses that moment to very forcefully grab Andrew by the arm and start dragging him back toward the elevator. Andrew doesn’t even bother fighting him; he’s never been able to shake Jasper off and that’s not going to change now. So he just looks back at Jesse, offers him another smile and says, “I will see you. Have no doubt.”

Jasper lets him go only when the elevator doors are sealed tightly in front of them. He looks at Andrew and shakes his head at him like he’s some kind of idiot. “The textbook, your highness.”

Andrew looks down at his empty hands. “Oh.”

i am the worst procrastinator/finally, here is a letter to my TSN Santa

2011-10-16T23:48:33Z

HI SANTA. I AM SO SORRY FOR BEING LATE. I GET SO LAZY WITH UPDATING.

But here we go!

Dear Santa,

I know you're really busy up at the North Pole and stuff but I really really really want a huge set of Legos. Can you bring me the kind to build Hogwarts out of? That would be so awesome!!!

Oh wait. Not that kind of santa.

Dear TSN Santa,

I hope this finds you well!

First of all, this is not a big deal. I don't want you to write me an epic (though it would be AMAZING if you did and I'd probably drop everything I'm doing at the time to sit there and read it cover to cover -- errr, first part to last part). Anything over 1,000 words is totally acceptable. I know this is kind of starting at a rough time if you're a college student like me. The story might even be due mid-finals for you and I would never want my gift to interfere with your grades. So I would totally understand if you can't churn out a fic the length of a big bang. It's absolutely acceptable.

This is what I posted on the site:

Things that you like to see in fic? videos? artwork/graphics? Mark/Eduardo, Andrew/Jesse. AUs! I love AUs. Especially ones based on movies. And high school AUs, which this fandom lacks. The more dramatic the better, and if there's a way to include betrayal without actually using facebook, I'd love it even more. Future fic, fix-it fic, Harvard-era fic, established relationship fic -- everything goes. As far as RPS goes, I think the best fics out there are the ones that don't treat Jesse like a vulnerable man. Neurotic, yes, but not so much that he's a total hermit.
Squicks or things that you dislike? Mark/Sean, Eduardo/Sean, gender switch, m-preg, extreme kink (I just can't do kink for some reason) or any BDSM stuff. I'm about as kink-less as one can go, so none of that, please! Not really a sci-fi fan, so there's that. No pre-slash either, by the way. At least not as an overall thing. I'd actually like the pairing to have a pay-off ;).

And that's really all that I can ask for. As long as it's Andrew/Jesse or Eduardo/Mark everything will be fine in this world. I wasn't kidding about Mark/Sean or Eduardo/Sean, by the way. :P

Umm, I don't think I have any more inputs here, actually. Obviously, I would really love an AU but canon fic is great. And, ha ha, fic too. Though if you do make a vid, I'll definitely watch it :)

Thanks so much, Santa! Feel free to comment here. Anonymous commenting is on!

-- Maria

fic: three's a good number (mark/eduardo)

2011-07-26T06:21:49Z

Title: three's a good number
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There are three very specific things that Eduardo likes about being in a relationship with Mark, things that he never would have envisioned himself tolerating even when he was twenty years old and starving for Mark’s attention. future fic! established relationship!
Word count: 1,443
For: The kink meme prompt Anything with Mark sitting between Eduardo's legs.
Note: Written for tsn-a-thon! Team Pride all the way, baby!

There are three very specific things that Eduardo likes about being in a relationship with Mark, things that he never would have envisioned himself tolerating even when he was twenty years old and starving for Mark’s attention.

One: that, whenever they’re making out, there’s always a chance Mark might get hit with a sudden burst of inspiration and find it necessary to push Eduardo off him to go fetch his laptop from the office.

(Maybe Eduardo shouldn’t like it, that Mark can so easily dismiss him when he gets one of his ideas, but, honestly, he doesn’t mind. Not much, anyway. It makes things exciting.

One time, it was two in the morning and Eduardo had just come home from a week-long business trip to China. They hadn’t really been in much contact, what with the time difference and the firewalls, and as soon as Eduardo had walked in the front door, Mark had pushed him against the wall, mumbled a welcome home and leant up on his toes to kiss the surprise clean off Eduardo’s face. Miraculously, Eduardo hadn’t lost grip on his laptop bag but he had dropped his suitcase right on Mark’s foot while he tried to pull Mark’s hips in close with one hand.

He’s not sure how that managed to set off a trigger in Mark’s head but the next thing he knew, Mark was scurrying off—not in pain or anything, even though twenty five pounds of clothes and leather had just landed on his foot, but in—

Well, whatever it was, it had Mark pulling out his laptop and typing furiously while Eduardo waited in the front hall, stunned and breathless but ridiculously turned on.)

Two: that Facebook has a tendency to be Mark’s number one priority and rule his life—but there are times when he can figure out not to bring it up around Eduardo.

(Like that afternoon three months after Eduardo had moved back to the States—but not into Mark’s house because they were going to do this right, ok? No point rushing into things when we have so much time, Mark—Mark had come over after a shareholders’ meeting and found Eduardo staring blankly at the television with his cell phone clutched in his hand. He could’ve started complaining right then about how stupid the Winklevii were even with their shares adjusted or how Dustin’s jokes had grown flat ever since he left Facebook or even just how he hated being forced to give the same speech about Facebook’s progress at every one of these get-togethers.

He could have and, if he had been the Mark Eduardo knew in Harvard, he would have. But, no, this Mark was just as desperate to make up for lost time as Eduardo was and he could tell, just by walking into the apartment, that things were not all right. So instead of getting on his soap box and ranting at a speed too fast for any human to understand, he gently pried Eduardo’s fingers off his cell phone and set it down beside himself on the coffee table.

Ten silent minutes passed and Mark was still sitting in front of Eduardo, a thumb rubbing circles into his knee.

Eduardo swallowed because his mouth had gone dry but he still sounded throaty when he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t show up. My dad, he just . . . And –”

“I know,” Mark said, shifting to sit next to Eduardo and pull him into his side.

There was nothing Eduardo could do but go willingly and let Mark run a hand through his hair as he buried his face in Mark’s collar and tried to convince himself that his father couldn’t possibly keep this up the rest of his life.)

And three: that when the offer of a sexual favor doesn’t quite work, Mark tries to resolve arguments by intruding on Eduardo’s privacy.

(It gives Eduardo moments like this:

“Can you please just give me some time to think?” Eduardo shouted, pushing himself out of the lawn chair he’d been sitting on for all of five minutes before Mark decided that it was ok to come outside and demand that Eduardo stop being mad at him.

“I don’t understand why you need to think about anything,” Mark said, shrugging his shoulders even with his hands in his pockets.

Eduardo glared, went back into the house and made a beeline for the fireplace upstairs, in front of which he could sit without worrying that Mark would come near. In all the time Eduardo had lived here, Mark had come in this room once—and that was just to wake up Eduardo when he’d fallen asleep with his hand stretched out dangerously close to the fire.

He’d only been sprawled out a few minutes when he noticed Mark’s shadow falling across the floor. He groaned loudly and threw his arm over his face. “Leave me alone, Mark.”

But Mark didn’t leave. He came closer, actually, the wood creaking under his feet as he neared Eduardo’s body. Eduardo could feel his heart begin to race at the thought that maybe Mark was going to step on him but that quickly subsided as soon as Mark dropped himself onto the ground right between Eduardo’s legs.

Eduardo pushed himself up so fast his chest smacked into Mark’s back. “Jesus, Mark, I told you to let me think!”

Mark dropped both his hands onto Eduardo’s thighs before Eduardo even had a chance to move. He said, “And I told you I didn’t mean it.”

Huffing, “You still said it,” Eduardo tried to pull his legs out of Mark’s grasp but Mark was holding so tight he was almost digging his short nails into Eduardo’s skin.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“So, what, you were just gonna keep it a secret, then?” Eduardo scoffed and smacked Mark’s wrist. “Let me go.”

But Mark still didn’t listen. He said, “I’m sorry, ok?” and wriggled back so that he was even closer to Eduardo, his back lining up against Eduardo’s angrily rising chest. “I know it’s a sensitive topic but I was angry and I just—it was the easiest thing to say but that doesn’t mean I actually be–”

“But you do! You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t believe it at least a little.”

“That’s not true, Wardo. Facebook couldn’t have existed without you.”

Eduardo shook his head and again attempted to get away from Mark. “That’s such bullshit.”

“It’s not!” Mark looked over his shoulder then, seeking out Eduardo’s eyes so intently Eduardo had to give in to that too. “I couldn’t have done it with anyone else. I didn’t want to do it with anyone else. Please believe that.”

“How can I when you kicked me out?”

“I thought we were done with that, Eduardo.”

“It’s never done, Mark!”

Mark winced and turned away, finally freeing Eduardo’s legs and crossing his arms. Eduardo could see how high he set his shoulders then, the same way he did whenever someone offended him and tried not to show it.

It probably wasn’t normal since he was supposed to be mad at Mark but Eduardo felt terrible for going back on his own word. When they first got together, he’d promised he wasn’t bitter about the dilution anymore, that he’d finally gotten over it, and that had allowed him to start fresh with Mark. And it was true, too; it still was.

It was just that Mark sometimes knew exactly which buttons to press to make Eduardo lose his temper.

“Maybe this was all a mistake, then,” Mark said eventually, voice cold and smooth, devoid of any inflection. He still hadn’t moved.

“It wasn’t,” Eduardo said, rushing to say it and tripping over just those three syllables. “No, Mark, I don’t think that’s true.”

“If you can’t trust me –”

“But I do!” Sighing, Eduardo wrapped his arms tightly around Mark’s waist and rested his chin on Mark’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean that.”

Mark held still, even as Eduardo moved as close as possible and hugged Mark against his chest. “I didn’t mean what I said either but you still thought I did.”

Eduardo shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you—or that I did, I guess.”

A quiet sigh pushed out of Mark’s lungs and Eduardo could feel as Mark’s stomach expanded with it. Mark relaxed too, slowly leaning back and lowering his arms on top of Eduardo’s. “So we’re ok now,” he said, words whispered and slightly unsure. The question in it was plenty noticeable.

Eduardo just pressed his face into Mark’s neck and nodded.)

If you're interested, I'm also writing an animal shelter AU that is currently being posted only on Tumblr, since I haven't finished it yet. Check out this tag. :)

(fic): insert cheesy title here (andrew/jesse)

2011-06-16T17:13:37Z

Title: Of Muscles and Men
Pairing: Andrew Garfield/Jesse Eisenberg
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's not that Jesse wasn't attracted to Andrew before Spider-man. It's just that now Andrew's all buff and stuff and Jesse is so turned on.
For: The kink meme prompt Andrew manhandling the shit out of Jesse and Jesse just loving it, Andrew picking him up and wrapping his legs around his waist, fucking him against walls, pushing him around in bed with his arms muscles flexing and driving Jesse crazy.
Note: Man, I've never published porn before, though I've written plenty of it over the years in RPs. So, um, yes, this is the least plotty, least tame thing I've ever posted. 2,300 words of pure PWP. I blame Andrew and his muscles and Tumblr and the kink meme. Also, cheesiest title in the history of titles, I AM SO SORRY.

There’s nothing – absolutely nothing, fucking zero, zilch, nada – that Jesse likes more (and he’s got to be so careful about admitting this kind of thing around certain people because he has nosy friends like Emma who like to stir pots and gossip and tell his boyfriend things he never wanted him to know) than Andrew when he’s being touchy. It’s probably got a lot to do with how long they usually go without seeing each other when one of them is filming, but he’s almost one hundred percent certain that the main factor here is not how long they’ve been apart but how big Andrew is.

No, not big down there but big in the arms. Like, he’s got guns. Jesse’s never been one to use phrases like that because they are way too clichéd to be part of his rather eclectic vocabulary but he understands now why people make fusses about muscles. Andrew’s always looked fantastic to Jesse, even when they first met and he was twenty pounds too skinny for his role, even when he was stuffing his face with Twinkies while he forced Jesse to watch Zombieland throughout the course of filming their movie, even when he came down with a stomach flu three weeks before principal shooting for Spider-man began. Jesse’s never not been attracted to Andrew.

It’s just that now he’s even more attracted to him than he’s ever been. Surprising, yes, because Jesse’s always prided himself on not putting too much stock in superficiality. But once you’ve been with someone for a while, it’s totally acceptable to welcome physical changes enthusiastically. (His therapist even told him so when he called her up a few weeks ago, asking if his sudden, well, boner for Andrew’s beefiness is normal.) This is just one of those things that Jesse has, at no loss to him, passionately embraced.

And why shouldn’t he, when Andrew’s kind of flaunting his muscles anyway? He keeps parading around in cutoff sleeves and wearing old shirts that are tight around the shoulders and it’s no wonder why the tabloids keep plastering his pictures all over the place. He turned into a Greek god overnight.

* * *

It’s challenging for Jesse to keep his eyes from roaming when Andrew’s got his back turned, cooking in Jesse’s kitchen wearing low-slung boxer shorts and one of Jesse’s oldest Ween shirts. Jesse can see all of Andrew’s muscles working underneath the thin fabric, which is stretched tight across Andrew’s shoulders because Andrew can’t fit properly into anything that’s Jesse’s anymore. When Andrew pulls ingredients from the cabinets with one hand, face still turned down toward the stove, the shirt rides up so that an inch of really tan, muscle-rippled skin peeks out. When he bends to pick up a fallen utensil, his shorts tighten very revealingly over his ass. When he stretches, both arms over his head, hands palm-down on the overhead cabinet doors, his sleeves slip down and the flexing of his biceps just looks so unreal.

Jesse, from his perch on the opposite counter, doesn’t think he can handle this anymore. It doesn’t matter that Andrew flew in last night and they had sex almost as soon as he walked into Jesse’s apartment, that his sexual needs were finally satisfied for the first time in two weeks, that they just, like, thirty minutes ago had a pretty hot and heavy make-out session. None of that bears any consequence on how magnificently turned on Jesse is right now. He can’t even try to hide it with the paperback he’d meant to read while he waited for Andrew to finish cooking. It’s become way too obvious.

Swallowing hard past the knot in his throat, Jesse very carefully, with a lot of concentration because all of a sudden his hands are shaking with want, sets his book on the counter and grips both his thighs with his hands. He takes as deep a breath as he can, which is one that whistles through his teeth and is actually pretty shallow for all the work he puts into it. He’s trying really hard to just stop thinking about it, about Andrew holding him up and fucking him against a wall, but the more he tells his brain to stop and to betray him no longer, the tighter his pants get. There’s just no denying his arousal at this point, because even if he conjures up the image of his mom in the her scariest clown suit, the image of Andrew leaning over him, brow dripping with sweat, arms flexing in Jesse’s line of vision, is way more powerful.

He must have involuntarily made some sort of undignified noise because the next time he opens his eyes, Andrew’s turned around and his gaze is kind of smoldering, brown eyes ablaze in the dim lighting of the overhead kitchen lamp. Under any other circumstances, Jesse would blush and fidget and profusely deny being turned on. Right now, though, he’s so hard his dick kind of hurts and the best way to make it stop hurting is for Andrew to get over here this instant.

“Andrew,” he chokes out, already panting, “turn off that fucking stove and –”

Before he can even finish, Andrew’s doing just as he asked and then some. What happens is kind of a blur. Jesse feels his leg muscles twinge as Andrew yanks him off the counter and pulls him into his arms. It’s more a defense than anything else for Jesse to wrap his legs around Andrew’s waist and his own arms around his neck, though he won’t deny that he’s been thinking about this very moment the entire time they’ve been in here, puttering about the kitchen when they could be doing much more useful things in the bedroom.

Through his own shirt, he can feel the strength in Andrew’s forearms as he’s carried, the way his muscles constrict and move against Jesse’s back, hands clutching onto his sides in a bruising hold that Jesse can’t even bring himself to complain about. He’s more concerned with nipping at Andrew’s lips and getting a taste of him, anyway. It’s an added bonus that his crotch is pressed right against Andrew’s stomach and that he’s bouncing in his arms enough to get just the right amount of friction.

Somehow, without getting hurt, Andrew lowers himself into a sitting position on top of the bed. Jesse doesn’t bother pushing him onto his back. He just wants Andrew to keep grabbing at him like he is, fists clenched in his shirt, arms tight around his waist. He leans up as far as he can without tumbling, though, so that he’s no longer in Andrew’s lap but instead pressed against Andrew’s torso. It’s just the right angle for him to reach down and mold his hands around Andrew’s shoulders and press his thumbs against his clavicles just far enough for to feel his pulse thrumming under his fingertips. He gets bored fast and slips his hands onto Andrew’s biceps, squeezes them hard in his palms, so hard, apparently, that Andrew breaks their kiss to moan against Jesse’s neck, breath all warm and wet on his hot skin.

Jesse thinks he hears Andrew ask, “Is that why you want this?” but it’s kind of overpowered by the guttural sound Andrew elicits when he squeezes Jesse’s ass through his pajama pants. That’s Jesse’s kryptonite, right there, and you can’t ever expect him to pay much attention to anything else when he’s given it.

Tipping point reached, Jesse finally gets out of Andrew’s hold and rolls onto his back on the bed, dragging Andrew over as he goes. He plants both his feet on the mattress, lifts his hips so he can wiggle out of his pants, and then he reaches back to pull his shirt off by the collar, not caring when he tugs too hard and the thread gives. Andrew distracts him, naked body fitting between Jesse’s spread legs without warning, and his cats could claw at his door until their nails bled and he wouldn’t care (ok, not something that extreme, but you get the point) because he’s got the most beautiful man in the world getting ready to fuck him. That fact alone is enough to shut down the parts of Jesse’s brain that aren’t necessary for sex – and if it means being better able to focus on what Andrew’s doing right now, he doesn’t want the rest of his brain on anyway.

What he wants is simple; he just hopes Andrew is enough in-tune with him to figure it out because Jesse can’t make a single sound that isn’t a string of alternately low- and high-pitched moans (which at any other time would be mortifying to him but right now it’s kind of like the means to an end).

At least Andrew wastes no time in slicking his fingers up and stretching Jesse out like he usually does. He seems set on getting through this as soon as possible too, if the way he’s panting and frantically gnawing at Jesse’s neck is anything to go by. Jesse tips his head back, eyes squeezed shut, and hooks one of his arms over Andrew’s shoulders, the other over his back. He can feel Andrew’s right arm jerking as he slips more fingers inside Jesse, probing around until he’s satisfied with how violently he’s got Jesse thrashing underneath him.

It takes Jesse an incredible amount of will not to tell Andrew to skip the condom and just get on with it already. He has to lie still on the bed, breathing in and out as slowly as he can, while he watches, through half-lidded eyes, Andrew open the condom packet with his teeth, otherwise he thinks he might have an orgasm from this alone. Just watching the way Andrew’s arm muscles glide under his skin as he slicks his dick with lubricant is more than enough for Jesse to lose all coherent trains of thought. He looks so sinewy and tough and like he can do a lot of damage if he’s given a baseball bat and instructions to beat up all the bullies in his neighborhood and –

Jesus Christ, Jesse’s so turned on he can’t deal with this anymore. He manages to say Andrew’s name even with his throat all tight and his voice all raspy and then he uses all the strength he has left to haul Andrew on top of him and whisper in his ear, “Fuck me.” For good measure, he even nips at his earlobe.

Andrew actually growls, kissing Jesse hard and yanking Jesse by the wrists so that he’ll keep his arms back. He tells Jesse, “Don’t even move,” in the sultriest voice Jesse’s ever heard and then hitches Jesse’s legs over his shoulders, as if Jesse could even protest when he’s being handled this way – not that Jesse minds or anything like that at all. He’s screaming on the inside with how glad he is that Andrew is taking charge.

Then Andrew’s dick is pushing into Jesse’s ass and the screaming can no longer be contained. Even though they’ve done this before, way too many times over the past few years to count, Jesse has to let out a cry. He’s got his hands wrapped around the headboard and his body bent almost in half and he’s going to be vocal if he wants to, neighbors be damned. At least his bed doesn’t squeak and he’s not pounding against the wall at three o’clock in the morning.

Jesse arches his back off the mattress, digs his heels into Andrew’s shoulders for balance and tries to rub himself against Andrew’s stomach on every push in of Andrew’s dick. They’re still moving too spastically for a good rhythm to be established, so he’s just guessing with his eyes closed what moment is the best to get some kind of friction, though he’s almost certain in a few minutes he could come without even that.

Now that he’s thinking about it, the reason Andrew told him not to move is probably that he wants to make Jesse come just from being fucked. Jesse couldn’t possibly complain; he just gets harder.

Andrew starts rocking into him faster, both his hands in a firm grasp around Jesse’s ribs, and Jesse starts wriggling underneath him, wanting really badly to hold onto Andrew’s forearms and leave his own nail marks on Andrew’s skin. It only takes a few more thrusts for Andrew to finally hit Jesse’s prostate and then he’s hitting it over and over, a wave of heat overwhelming Jesse every other second. He arches his back so far up he can feel Andrew’s chest expanding against his own, his dick twitching against Andrew’s firm abdomen, and that’s when he knows he’s not going to last much longer at all.

His insides coil unbearably tight and his dick throbs and then he’s coming, gasping Andrew’s name repeatedly, shaking so hard the bed starts to move. He pays no mind to the wetness now sticking his skin to Andrew’s because he’s too busy calming down, harsh breaths drawn between his teeth.

When Andrew comes, Jesse has at least settled enough to stroke Andrew’s hair and kiss his cheek through it, even though he’s still having trouble breathing. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet because it’s still unnaturally black underneath his eyelids and he knows he won’t be able to distinguish between Andrew’s face and the wall behind him if he tried (especially since he’s not wearing contacts and his glasses were most likely trampled over on the way here).

“I think you just broke me,” Andrew mumbles, his face tucked against Jesse’s neck.

Smirking, Jesse wraps both his arms around Andrew’s back, squeezes and kisses the top of Andrew’s sweat-matted hair. “I’m just glad you’re Spider-man.”

Andrew snorts quietly and then they just lie there for a while, forgetting about the half-made omelet on the stove, the mess in the kitchen and the broken pieces of Jesse’s glasses littered across the floor.

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse), part four

2011-05-26T03:27:02Z

The next week and a half passes pretty smoothly. Things are like they were in Harvard after Mark broke up with Erica, only there are a lot more people they have to be wary of and a lot more coding they have to schedule around. Or not schedule, because scheduling sex isn’t what guys their age are supposed to do, but they have to work around Mark’s coding, which he (and everyone else) is still doing at the house because they haven’t hired enough people to fill up the office yet.

And they don’t have to worry about school either. Eduardo spends his days lounging around the pool, playing video games with Dustin and the interns, going out for jogs along University Avenue. He goes into the Stanford campus once, just to see what it’s like. He’s not considering moving out here just because Mark’s not going back to Harvard but he just – he wants to know.

Somehow, he does a really good job of avoiding Sean as much as possible. He’s not in the house very often anyway. More often than not, he’s gone by noon and isn’t usually back (unless he’s off shacking up with another one of his youngster girls) until well after Eduardo’s in bed. The few times they do run into each other, they’re pretty civil. After the one argument they had the third night Eduardo was here, where Sean accused Eduardo of being a distraction and Eduardo accused Sean of being a bad influence (and lots of other nasty things, most of which he can’t remember because he’d had a few too many beers), it’s like they signed a truce or something and decided not to go at each other’s throats anymore. For the sake of the company.

It makes Mark happy, at least. Lately, he’s been quieter, like he’s deeply considering something, and Eduardo hates seeing him shut down sometimes when he’s around. He’s starting to think his presence is what’s causing Mark to close up.

So it’s a good thing his trip ends the day it does. He’s had to deal with quiet Mark for too many days now and he can’t take more of it. He really cares about Mark, probably too much, maybe a little obsessively, and this funk he’s been in hurts Eduardo, as if he’s the one experiencing it.

The morning of his flight, Mark comes back from the kitchen, drinking coffee out of a mug that Eduardo and Dustin got him when they went to Six Flags with all the interns the day Mark was interviewing potential employees. Eduardo’s just of the shower, halfway dressed in his slacks and undershirt. He looks up from his suitcase, which he’s still sticking things into, and smiles. “Hey.”

Mark nods. “Why do you have to leave so early if your flight isn’t even until one? It’s not even nine yet.”

Eduardo picks up a washed San Francisco Giants shirt and pats it down on top of the rest of the shirts in his suitcase. “You know about security at airports as well as I do, Mark. And SFO is international, so it’s only worse.”

“Yeah, sure, but you don’t have to be there five hours early. That’s too much wait time.”

“I wouldn’t be there five hours early, Mark. The airport’s not that close, you know.”

Mark sighs and Eduardo can hear the way the coffee ripples because of it. “You shouldn’t leave today anyway.”

Eduardo’s hands freeze and he looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“You shouldn’t leave.” Mark shrugs and sets his mug on top of the dresser. “There’s something that needs to be fixed in the contract you signed and since you’re here, I might as well get that done sooner rather than later.”

Rolling his eyes, Eduardo goes back to packing. “There isn’t a single thing that needs changing in the contract, Mark. I looked at it myself and the lawyers told me everything that was in it. Nothing sounded off.”

“Well, there’s something I –”

“You’re just trying to stall me, Mark. I have to go back – you know that.”

“I’m not just trying to stall you,” Mark grumbles and he kicks the foot of the dresser too. “It’s important.”

Huffing, Eduardo closes his suitcase, zips it up, puts it on the ground and then turns to Mark completely. “What’s going on Mark?”

And, just like dozens of times before, Mark chooses now to kiss him, as if Eduardo hadn’t just asked him a question. Not that Eduardo minds much, really, he just wants to know what Mark’s so worked up about. It’s not like him to want to redo things because he always believes he gets everything right the first time around. Whatever is worrying him must be really important after all.

But Eduardo can’t change his itinerary for one of Mark’s flights of fancy. He has to get back to New York so he can move out and then get back to his family for the first time since January. That’s always been the plan.

Mark is insistent in kissing Eduardo, wrapping his arms around Eduardo’s neck and keeping Eduardo’s lips close with a hand in his hair. Eduardo’s not one to deny these advances but he really thinks he should. There’s too much in Mark’s kiss for right now. It’s like he wants to make Eduardo late or miss his flight altogether.

“Mark,” he pants, pulling his lips away and leaning his forehead against Mark’s. He puts his hands on his shoulders and rubs. “Mark, we can’t do this right now. I can’t be late.”

Mark clears his throat but he’s still quiet when he says, “Just one more time, Wardo.” He even kisses the side of his mouth, which he rarely ever does. “Please.”

This is probably what it feels like to have your heart break into a million pieces, Eduardo figures when his chest gets so tight that it’s like it’s going to crush his lungs. As much as he loves vulnerable Mark, he always makes him sad.

“Mark,” he sighs and he shakes his head a little, “we can’t.”

No isn’t the answer Mark is going to accept, though. He says, “No, we have to, Wardo,” and he kisses Eduardo again. He trails his fingers down over Eduardo’s face, slips them along the curve of his cheek and to his jaw, strokes his thumb over the pulse point in Eduardo’s neck.

Eduardo squeezes his eyes shut, breath catching in his throat, and doesn’t tell Mark not to again. There’s just something wrong that he can’t shake but, shit, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want sex right before he goes back east. It’d definitely put him in a better mood to sit on a plane for almost six hours.

So he gives in.

They undress each other slowly, mostly at Mark’s tempo, and Eduardo doesn’t rush it because he likes this opportunity he has now to really touch Mark. He’s able to run his hands down his sides and nose the back of his neck, finger up his spine and kiss the tip of his shoulder. Their pace gives him the chance to really look at all of Mark as they drop clothing piece by piece in a specific order.

And when they get into bed, Mark’s able to do the same thing to Eduardo, crawling down his front and pressing his mouth right at the bottom of his ribcage, sucking a red spot over his hip and kissing lines down the insides of his thighs. Mark’s just being so gentle and quiet that Eduardo can’t comprehend it. His brain is failing him, reducing him to strands of thought that are two words long or less.

Then there’s the sex, which is on a wholly new level. When Mark slides inside of him, it’s slow and tormenting, and it’s quite clear to Eduardo then that that’s the way this is going to go. Gradually, then, Eduardo lets himself relax. He focuses only on feeling and not putting any unnecessary words to it. He tips his head back and digs his heels into Mark’s back and reacts to Mark’s body, thrusting when he’s pulling out and staying still when he’s pushing back in.

But the closer Mark gets to Eduardo, the less his body wants to cooperate. He shivers and groans and twists one hand in the sheets, makes a tight fist. His heart’s hammering in his chest and yet he still manages to groan, rather breathlessly, Mark’s name, an exaggerated emphasis on the last two letters.

Eduardo’s not sure how he doesn’t just black out right in the middle of this when his senses are all so heightened that it feels like they’re way over the top. Like if he takes another breath, he’ll experience some kind of overload and just short-circuit or something. Mark’s just too much for him, way too much, and he can’t deal with this much longer.

Eventually, Eduardo notices that Mark’s struggling to breathe too. With each thrust, he gets closer to Eduardo’s ear and ghosts his breath across it, ragged and wet. He tries to say, “Wardo,” but it’s overtaken by a low groan and then, his hips moving frantically, he presses two, three, five times against Eduardo’s prostate and Eduardo can’t stop himself from coming.

It’s hard and drawn-out and at the end of his orgasm, all he can see is black for a few moments. But Mark comes too and Eduardo can’t just let him ride it out on his own. He has to kiss him and rub his arms and help him come down.

Ten minutes later, Eduardo’s lying on his back, resting, willing his leg muscles to uncramp after being pulled for so long while Mark had him bent in half. Mark is on his side, tracing random shapes and lines into the skin of Eduardo’s arm. Eduardo’s so tempted to fall asleep, just so very soothed by Mark’s touch, but he still has a flight at one that he has to catch. So he just stays still, watching Mark through half-open eyelids and occasionally brushing his knuckles up Mark’s arm or down his cheek. He pays attention to the shapes Mark’s making and notices a pattern after a while. The shapes have turned into lines and Mark keeps repeating them, one by one, time and again.

He opens his eyes all the way at that, wondering if maybe he can see it for himself, but he can’t. And Mark’s not showing any signs of what he might be doing on his face but –

Well, as sappy as it sounds, it feels a whole lot like Mark’s tracing “ILY” on his skin.

“Mark?” he whispers, chewing on his bottom lip.

Mark looks up at him, motions stilling. “Yeah?”

Eduardo takes a deep breath and says, “I love you.” It doesn’t feel wrong at all. He hasn’t given love a single thought since he’s been here but he knows he means it. For a year, he’s been trying to sort out his feelings for Mark and he’s finally figured it.

He loves Mark. Of course he does. It makes a lot of sense.

Mark actually blushes and Eduardo presses his hand to his cheek, stroking his fingers on his skin. “I love you, Mark,” he repeats, voice a whisper, and then he leans over to kiss him.

- - -

“Are you tired?”

“No.” Eduardo yawns, tries stifling it with his pillow so it won’t reach Mark through the phone.

But of course it does because Mark chuckles. “It’s, like, midnight over there. You should go to bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said you had a long day.”

Languidly, Eduardo rolls onto his back and, with both his legs but just one of his arms, stretches. His hand knocks against the headboard and he hisses, shaking it off. “Yeah, lots of packing.”

“Are you done with it?”

“Almost. A few more boxes, probably.”

“You should go to sleep, Wardo.”

“What, you’re my mom?” He scrubs a hand over his eyes.

“It’d be quite awkward if that were true.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“We can talk another time.”

“How long have we been talking?”

“Um . . . over an hour and a half.”

“Wow.” Eduardo snorts, unable to believe that. Before this, the longest conversation he’d had with Mark was probably twenty minutes long. “We had that much to say to each other?”

“Apparently.”

“Oh, I should rephrase that. I had that much to say.” He yawns again. “You just typed while I talked your ear off.”

“That’s not true. That’s not true – I listened.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d I have for dinner then?”

Mark is silent for a good while before he says, “Food.”

“See, you weren’t listening.”

“But I was.”

“Why can’t you answer that question?”

Mark sighs. “You had sesame chicken for the first time and you liked it.”

Eduardo smiles into his hand. “Yeah.”

“I was surprised you hadn’t because I’ve seen you eat Chinese takeout so many times in the past two years.”

“You know me. I don’t like change.”

“It was weird. You like so many things and yet you hadn’t tried one of the main flavors of Chinese American food.”

“I don’t like that much . . .”

“You’re Brazilian.”

“So?”

“So you like a lot of things.”

“Like what?” Eduardo pauses to think about the kind of food he likes then starts listing them. “I like American, Chinese, Spanish, Brazilian, Italian . . . Ok, that’s not that much.”

“And Jewish.”

“Oh, yeah. If you can call it that. I do love your mom’s latkes.”

“I know.”

“You should get her to send you some for when I visit you again.”

“You’re in New York. Stop by to visit her before you leave. I’m sure she’d love to make you latkes.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Gulping, Eduardo rolls onto his side and hugs his extra pillow close. “Does she know about us? About you and me? About you . . . and me?”

Immediately, Mark says, “Um, yes.”

“Oh. You told her?”

“She’s a psychiatrist. She figured it out.”

“Oh.” Well, Eduardo’s mom is a counselor and she still hasn’t figured it out. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t even know he likes guys. “So you didn’t tell her?”

“Wardo.”

“Sorry. I was just curious.”

“It’s ok.”

Eduardo sits up now. He can’t have this conversation lying down anymore, it’s making him feel crazy, in some odd way. “Does everyone know?”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Like –”

“Because people here know. Obviously.”

He hadn’t expected anything less. “Yeah, no, I know. The two weeks I spent with you guys helped with that.”

“Yeah. And a lot of other things too. And it’s almost been a year.”

Grinning, Eduardo fists a hand in his sheets as hard as he can so he doesn’t make some stupid, embarrassing noise. “You’re keeping up with that?”

“No! No, I just looked at the date – not that I’m aware of dates or anything, because that would be ridiculous – and I thought. Yeah. Ok.”

“It’s ok to remember.”

“You knew it too. Don’t even try to lie.”

Laughing, Eduardo hides his face in both hands, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “I won’t. I know it very well.”

“Ok.” Mark goes quiet for a while. The only sound that Eduardo recognizes is the unmistakable clatter of well-worn keyboard keys, the same thing that’s filled all the gaps tonight. He’s not even sure he remembers a single instance when the keyboard hadn’t played the background music for this conversation. Usually, he’d feel ignored. Tonight’s just different.

Eduardo shrugs. “I miss you.”

Mark actually stops typing. Eduardo counts ten seconds before another sound passes through the phone – and it’s the sound of Mark’s voice, not the click-clack of the keyboard. “You should’ve stayed,” Mark says quietly.

“I couldn’t.”

“You should’ve never gone to New York in the first place. You wouldn’t have to miss me now. You should’ve –” He stops and swallows loud enough for Eduardo to hear. “Wardo, I asked you to come out here. I asked you to stay but you left anyway.”

The slight desperation in Mark’s voice makes Eduardo’s heart ache. “Mark, I haven’t seen my parents since January. I had to come back so I could –”

“I know, but you could’ve – you should’ve stayed.”

“Mark, come on. I haven’t seen them in months. School starts in a few weeks. And I’ll be back out there in no time.”

But it’s like Mark doesn’t hear him. He forges ahead, talking fast, “If you hadn’t gone to New York, you could’ve gotten us the VCs we needed. We could’ve – I wouldn’t have needed Sean to set it up for us and – and, fuck – Wardo.” Mark pauses, voice strained on the last two syllables. “You needed to stay here so I could fix the papers –”

“You didn’t have anything to fix in the papers, Mark. You were just trying to postpone me leaving.”

“That’s not true. I would’ve fixed it and you would’ve signed it and then you would’ve been free to go.”

“Mark.”

“If you’d come out to Palo Alto from the beginning, you might still be here. You could’ve transferred to Stanford and you could’ve worked with me and it would all be all right. We’d be all right.”

Eduardo blinks, confused. “We are all right. And I don’t want to go to Stanford, Mark.”

“Why? Because that’s not where your dad wants you to go?”

“Hey. Fuck you, that’s not what this is about,” he hisses, quickly losing his patience. He hates that Mark would even suggest something like that.

“Then what is it about?”

“Harvard is Harvard, Mark!” He groans and scoots back until he’s sitting comfortably against the headboard. “It’s where I want to be. I can’t – I can’t just put my life on hold for you, ok? And it’s not like you’ll even realize I’m gone.”

“That’s not true.”

He groans, “You keep saying that same phrase.”

“Well, what do you want me to say? That it is true? That you don’t know what you’re talking about? Eduardo, we’re not arguing semantics, ok? We’re not.” Mark’s still not resumed typing.

“Fine. You’re right.” Sighing, he slumps down to his back again and pulls the covers over himself. “Mark, you have Facebook to worry about. You don’t need me there – you’d just ignore me anyway.”

“When you were here, I didn’t ignore you.”

“You have Dustin and the interns to hang out with.”

“Wardo, come on. Listen.”

He groans, “What are you trying to say?”

“I needed you when I came out to Palo Alto but you were too stubborn to take my lead. I – I needed you when Sean took your place and I still need you now, even though it’s all changed.”

“What’s changed?”

“Wardo, just believe me, ok? It’s different now and I still need you. What do you want from me?”

Eduardo’s silent and Mark still hasn’t started typing yet. This is the longest time all night that something wasn’t going on in the background. “That’s all I ever wanted but I can’t stay in California. I belong on the east coast. And as much as I want to say I belong with you, that’s just not true.”

But just like that, Mark’s turned back to his keyboard. “You can’t say I didn’t try.”

“That’s really sweet, Mark.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t get like that.”

“Like what?” Mark asks, sounding annoyed.

“All monosyllabic and fuck-the-world-they-just-don’t-understand.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Mark.”

“What, Wardo?”

“Was that your twisted way of telling me you miss me?”

“It’s only been a day. That would be ridiculous.”

“So?” Smiling, Eduardo closes his eyes and snuggles into his pillow. “I miss you.”

“And do I have to reciprocate that?”

“No,” he says slowly, thinking it over. “But I know you do.”

“Do you think I don’t care?”

“No, I never sai –”

“You didn’t have to say it. I know people think I’m an asshole and I know I usually am, but I care, ok?”

“Mark, I’m sor –”

Mark stops again. “I can’t do anything about you going back to Harvard, then?”

“No. It’s not up for discussion.”

He sighs. “Ok.”

“I should go to bed, Mark. Long day, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet dreams, Mark.”

“Should I be saying that?”

Eduardo smirks. “Yeah, I guess you should.”

“Is that all you need to tell me, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing else you want to add?”

“Um . . . no?”

“I have a question.” Mark trails off, probably absorbed by whatever he’s typing.

“Out with it, man.”

“Do you remember what you said this morning?”

Of course he remembers. He just can’t let Mark get away with it easily. “I said a lot of things this morning.”

“Yeah, I know, but it was important.”

“Isn’t everything I say important?” Eduardo laughs.

“Wardo.”

“Mark.”

Mark draws a deep, rattling breath. “You said that – that you felt that you –”

“Stop beating around the bush.”

“You told me you loved me.”

Eduardo grins. “I did.”

“You knew I was talking about that.” It’s not a question.

“I did. I wanted to hear you say it.”

“Why’d you say it?”

“You mean why do I love you or why did I pick that moment?”

“Why’d you pick that moment to tell me you loved me?”

“This may sound crazy but it’s really not.”

“Wardo.” It’s probably the hundredth time tonight alone Mark has said his name on the phone like that, warningly, like Eduardo shouldn’t keep pushing buttons.

He sighs. “I thought you were tracing letters on my skin and it kind of felt like you were spelling that out so I said it before you could finish.”

“Oh.”

Eduardo’s silent for a few seconds. “So were you?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s kind of sappy, Mark.”

“Oh, fuck you, you’re the one who felt it or whatever the fuck.”

Laughing, “Ok. Well, it’s true,” Eduardo scratches a hand through his hair and may or may not think of Mark running his own fingers through it. “Did you want me to say it again? Were you fishing for me to stroke your ego or something?”

“No. Not really. No.”

He laughs again. “I love you, Mark.”

“I know you do.”

“Good night.”

“Night, Wardo.”

Eduardo tucks his phone under his pillow and smiles into his blankets, then quickly falls asleep.

- - -

Eduardo’s first semester of his senior year at Harvard is a lot less exciting than the previous one. At least last year he’d had the Investment Association election and the Phoenix punching to keep him busy. The only thing challenging him this semester is a particularly hard course load, which is pretty much a given so he’d always expected it, and keeping up with Mark.

The first couple of weeks after Eduardo left Palo Alto weren’t too bad to deal with. Mark always made himself available to Eduardo at the right times during the night and Eduardo always took Mark’s calls as long as he wasn’t in class or studying with one of his friends. They had built themselves a pretty good dynamic and Eduardo was starting to believe it would last.

But in October, things change. Mark gets busier and becomes less receptive to Eduardo’s calls. Instead of entertaining all of Eduardo’s spiels about everything that comes to mind, he starts cutting him off halfway, making up some project or other. When he moves into his own apartment, this time renting with the money he’s made and not Eduardo’s, he uses that as an excuse to not call Eduardo back, even though Eduardo spends two days trying to get through to him and even has to ask Dustin to make sure he’s alive.

There’s no specific reason for why Mark pulls away like he does. He just does it and he doesn’t apologize and it leaves Eduardo partially heartbroken and discouraged.

He gives their relationship a lot of thought while he’s getting ready for his final projects the week before the Thanksgiving break and he comes to the conclusion that distance has always tended to wear them down, no matter how much effort they put in for that not to happen. Maybe Mark’s just gotten sick of waiting around for Eduardo. Or maybe he misses him but, knowing he can’t do anything about it, he put some more space between them, like if they stopped talking as much then the time between now and the next time they see each other would be shorter.

It all feels logical to Eduardo, at least, and it helps him justify what Mark’s doing. All he wants is a reason anyway and if Mark won’t give it to him, the next best thing he can do is make one up himself.

And once he gets sick of feeling neglected, he books a flight to California for Thanksgiving. His parents couldn’t care less if he’s home then since they’re not American, so he might as well take those three days off from class to go to Palo Alto and sort this stuff out. He sends Mark an email with his itinerary, tells him he’ll take a cab to his apartment and then just waits for a reply to come in. He half expects Mark to tell him not to come out, that he’s too busy and won’t be able to spend time with him anyway, but what he gets instead is so much better. I’ll be here is more than enough to make Eduardo feel like he still has a chance.

He gets to Palo Alto at three on Wednesday and Mark lets him into his apartment, which has just one room and a main living area that’s divided into a living room and eat-in kitchen by a transition from carpet to tile. There’s a second-hand couch in front of a TV stand and a fold-out table with chairs under the cheesy, faux chandelier in the kitchen. Boxes are stacked halfway to the ceiling along the wall and Eduardo feels kind of confused. Mark’s so adamant about staying in California and abandoning his Harvard degree yet he’s been here six months and he’s still not unpacked.

He doesn’t question anything, though, until Mark shows him his room and he sees an air mattress on the floor.

He gapes at Mark, dropping his suitcase unceremoniously on the ground. “Are you insane?”

Mark raises an eyebrow at him and shakes his head.

“You’ve been sleeping on an air mattress for a month and a half?”

“Yeah. It’s actually pretty comfortable. You should try it out.”

“Mark,” Eduardo chuckles, coming over to him and holding him by the shoulders. It’s the first time they’ve touched since Mark dropped him off at the airport in early August and Eduardo loses his train of thought there for a second. “Mark, you can’t sleep on the floor the rest of your life. It’s bad for your back and for you it’s probably even worse since you’re at a desk all day.”

Mark shakes his head, curls bouncing around with the movement, falling in his eyes. Eduardo doesn’t think he’s ever seen Mark’s hair this long; he likes it, though. “I wasn’t planning on it the rest of my life. I just haven’t gotten around to buying a bed. I’ve been busy.”

“Well, are you busy now?”

Slowly, Mark says, “Yes?” and it turns into a question, like he’s expecting Eduardo to know all the answers or something.

If that's the case then, he replies, “No, you’re not,” and goes around behind him, steering him out of the room with one hand between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t think he wants to let go of him. “We’re going to a mattress store right now. I refuse to sleep with you on an air mattress.”

“Wardo –”

“No buts, man.” Smiling, he pats Mark on the chest and nods him toward the kitchen. “Go get your keys.”

- - -

Later that night, after the guys from Badcock are gone, he and Mark are lying on the bed, one thousand dollars worth of an awesome, queen-sized mattress under their backs, and Eduardo feels at ease again. He’d thought coming to Palo Alto would be awkward since they’ve been apart for so long and they’ve been so estranged on the phone, but it’s kind of like he’s been here all along. Mark actually makes an effort to talk about things and even though they haven’t done anything but maybe accidentally brush hands, Eduardo’s still glad they haven’t really changed.

“So how’s your last year going?” Mark asks just as Eduardo’s drifting off.

Eduardo rolls onto his side so that he and Mark are both facing each other, a couple of inches between them, and shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s all right. My classes aren’t as bad as I expected.”

Mark nods, rubbing a knuckle over his eye, and says, “Things aren't usually as bad you expect them to be.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re usually better or just worse.”

“Huh?” Eduardo yawns and covers his mouth with the back of his hand, lets his eyes fall shut for just a few seconds before he focuses on Mark again. He has a flashback to the day he signed the new contract, when he found Mark leaning against the wall, looking vaguely distraught. Mark kind of looks like that now, eyes scrunched up a bit, mouth downturned.

“Sometimes you overestimate how good something is going to be or underestimate how bad something to be,” he says eventually, words slow, like he’s trying to find the right way to say this. Like he’s unsure or something.

Eduardo’s still not sure what he’s supposed to do other than listen when Mark’s reflecting on things. “Ok,” he breathes out, pulling his pillow under his cheek, hand pressed on the mattress beneath it. He wants to reach across the space between them with his free hand and pull Mark into his chest but he’s not sure he can. “How do you figure?”

“You know how Sean and I are working on that thing with Case?” Eduardo nods, already resigned to the fact that Sean has pretty much taken his job in everything but title. “I’m not sure if I’m overestimating how good or underestimating how bad it’s going be.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Mark,” he promises, nodding emphatically to make his point.

Mark just shrugs and goes quiet for a few minutes, leaving Eduardo to his thoughts, giving him the chance to drift off again until he finally says, interrupting again (not that Eduardo should be complaining because this isn’t anything like Mark, him lying in bed at ten PM when he could be coding, and he should be relishing in this opportunity), “Do you remember what you said that night we got high?”

Eduardo laughs at the memory of smoking two jays at the same time and not realizing he was doing it. “Seeing as I’ve gotten high so few times,” he says, nudging Mark’s calf with his big toe. “What I said about what?”

“If we would make it through the restructuring and everything.”

“I said yes, right?” Eduardo asks, unable to remember that particular conversation. What he remembers about that night is smoking, sitting really close to Mark and helping everybody chase Dustin into the pool for something he’d done that had clearly been offensive. There’s also a very vague memory of him and Mark eating food in bed but that’s it. The details of that night are regrettably fuzzy.

Mark doesn’t answer him. He just stares at him for a while, hand pressed beneath his cheek as he mirrors Eduardo’s position. Again, all Eduardo wants to do is touch him – and he knows he can but he’s too afraid. Irrationally afraid, probably, because Mark has never made it seem like he didn’t want Eduardo to.

It’s just been too long and Eduardo’s always been afraid of rejection.

So he doesn’t do anything but lie there, drifting again. When Mark gets out of bed, Eduardo really badly wants to stop him; he’s just too tired to do anything about it.

- - -

He wakes up around one in the morning alone and his legs feel naked under the blanket that’s been thrown over him. Sitting up, he sees that his pants are actually pretty neatly folded on top of the bed and if he’d been doubting Mark’s feelings for him earlier, he can’t possibly be doubting them now if he voluntarily made sure Eduardo was comfortable while he was asleep.

He smiles to himself and gets up, padding out to the living room in just his boxers and dress shirt. All the lights are still on and Mark’s sitting at the table in front of his laptop. His shoulders are slumped forward, hands in his lap, head bowed. The closer Eduardo gets to him, the more obvious it becomes that he’s fallen asleep while working.

Sighing, he comes up behind him and wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders, ignoring all his previous qualms about touching Mark this time. He’s too fond of Mark in this moment not to touch him, so he bends down and kisses the back of his neck, noses against it and inhales deeply. He catches the faded scent of Mark’s soap and sweat and it’s very possible this is the best thing he’s smelled in months.

He turns his head a certain way and his eyes alight on the computer screen, which still hasn’t blackened or locked out. Mark’s browser is open to his Facebook messages and, sure, Eduardo isn’t usually one to creep but he sees Sean Parker’s bold name and he has to read it.

Sean: Is he brainwashing you? – 12:33 am
Mark: That’s a ridiculous suggestion. If anyone brainwashes, it’s you. Look, I just don’t believe Eduardo de

Clearly Mark had started to think about how to finish that sentence and fell asleep in the process. Eduardo considers all the different possible ways to finish the word – denies, deceives, deals, debilitates, devotes – but it doesn’t really matter, honestly, because he has no idea what this conversation is about in the first place. He’s not going to snoop either; he trusts Mark. He has no reason not to.

Shaking his head gently so that he won’t start thinking too hard about it, he wakes Mark up with a firmer kiss to his cheek and a squeeze of the shoulders. Mark grumbles, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his cheek against Eduardo’s arm.

“Mark,” Eduardo chuckles quietly, putting one of his hands on Mark’s head and gently tugging his bushy hair. “Come on. You should go sleep in a bed.”

When Mark says, “Don’t wanna,” it comes out jumbled, slurred by sleep.

It makes Eduardo laugh some more because sleepy Mark is as amusing and emotive as drunken Mark. He kind of hates that he has to wake him up. “The bed’s more comfortable than the chair. Come on.”

Mark groans when Eduardo jostles his shoulders some more but he doesn’t resist him this time. He nods and turns off his computer, not seeming paranoid at all that Eduardo may have read what was on the screen.

That’s all Eduardo has to see to know that he doesn’t have to worry about that conversation with Sean anymore. He’s pretty sure Mark’s got his back.

- - -

Only it turns out, less than a month later, that Mark never had his back at all.

Eduardo’s ambushed at the millionth member party in December. The papers the lawyer from the contract signing hands him emasculate him, knock the wind right out of his lungs. He brings the paper closer, notices how bad he’s shaking when the neat, black words start jumping around. All his insides feel like they’ve been tied up and squeezed for good measure.

Even though his vision’s starting to black out in certain places, the intention in the document is pretty clear: He’s not part of Facebook anymore.

He leaves the glass room he’s in, not hearing any of the lawyer’s pleas to keep him back, and walks straight through the bullpen, tunnel vision focused only on Mark, who’s wearing what looks like the North Face jacket Eduardo accidentally left over Thanksgiving break and his huge, fuck-off-or-you’re-dead headphones. Eduardo can’t believe, how in all his anger, he can still recall things about Mark that he’s always found endearing.

Even once he’s finally gone through with breaking Mark’s computer – just like he’s wanted to do at various points in the past when the damn thing was messing everything up between them – and yelling at him and hearing his voice crack, he still, no matter how hard he tries, can’t shake this feeling that he’s just lost something he’ll never find a replacement for.

And, yes, he’s furious. And, yes, it’s possible he’ll never forgive Mark for this. And, yes, he’s already thinking about what lawyer he can contact when he gets back to Cambridge and is able to sort through all papers and formulate his case.

But he can’t just ignore everything that has happened in the last year and a half. He can’t sit in the cab back to the airport without remembering, more vividly than anything, the most recent night he was in Palo Alto, when Mark had watched Eduardo gathering the few things he’d brought with him from the door and said, without any preamble at all, “I love you.”

He keeps replaying that scene in his head, focusing on different things every time he goes through it, like the sad tone Mark had used and the way only one of his fists was clenched at his side and the angle at which his head was tilted. Something new shows up every time. When the cab finally gets to the airport, Eduardo has to wipe his face with his sleeve and shake feeling back into his hands because he hadn’t even realized he’d been clenching them so tight.

- - -

It’s past three in the morning and Eduardo has finally managed to fall asleep. His phone rings, though, and it wakes him up, its obnoxious, tingly ringtone filling up the room.

His throat hurts, his eyes are sticky and he can’t even read the phone’s screen through the bleariness. Somehow he manages to press the send button and whisper, “Hello?”

All he hears is, “You were right about Sean, Wardo. He got – ” before he ends the call, tosses the phone onto the floor and hears it crack open. That’s the last thing he allows himself to think about – not Mark, not Dustin’s earlier text saying I swear to god wardo I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t even know, not the vision of Sean flinching back when Eduardo went to punch him – before he goes back to sleep.

end

note: In case you were curious, what Mark was going to send Sean in response was, “Look I just don’t believe Eduardo deserves to be cut out of a company he helped found.” I'm not sure why he didn't ultimately send that. Maybe he wanted to word it differently. The point this section is trying to make is that Mark regrets getting Eduardo to sign those contracts and he wants to reverse it. Sean just won't let him.

So, wow, ok, if you made it through this fic, you totally deserve kudos. Thank you so much for reading! I'd appreciate any comments from you at all. ♥

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse), part three

2011-05-26T03:23:18Z

All the attention Mark got for Face Mash can probably be multiplied by one thousand and still not compare to the amount of attention he gets for Thefacebook. For a week, Eduardo watches him field phone calls and reply to emails, all of them asking for interviews or a single quote. If Harvard had a Most Wanted list, Mark would be on the top, listed next to a million dollar reward, he’s in that high demand.

Eduardo doesn’t mind it at all. He’s actually quite proud of Mark for finishing this huge project in a few weeks and launching it to such an extravagant amount of success. It’s not like he’s deprived of Mark just because a horde of people demands his attention.

What he does mind, though, is that his name is never mentioned. All the articles in The Crimson talk only about “sophomore founder of Thefacebook Mark Zuckerberg” without any reference to Eduardo or his help in getting Thefacebook off the ground. Sure, he didn’t do any coding for the site but he did do its errands. He was the one writing checks for more servers and making sure Mark didn’t die from malnutrition or lack of sleep. Thefacebook wouldn’t exist in this form if Eduardo hadn’t kept its creator alive or agreed to fund it.

So, yes, it bothers him that Mark always ignores his role in the site’s development when he gives interviews. But he tries not to dwell on it. His name’s on the masthead, at least, and that’s all he needs to show his father that he can be successful.

And Mark knows Eduardo’s important to Thefacebook. He thanks him once, too, when he’s half-asleep on Eduardo’s chest. He mumbles something unintelligible and then, clear as a whistle, “Thanks, Wardo.” There’s no telling for sure if he says it because Eduardo pulls a blanket over them or if it’s because he understands the concerns Eduardo had aired not even ten minutes ago, but Eduardo likes to think it’s the second reason.

Since only a few people know about Eduardo’s involvement, he’s not surprised when, at the Bill Gates lecture, the two girls who introduce themselves have no idea who he is. He takes it in stride, though. Eduardo’s always been good at that.

The long-haired brunette who’s clearly the most outspoken of the pair – Asian, just like all the other girls Eduardo has ever dated for an appreciable amount of time while at Harvard – asks him, as soon as her stupidly annoying giggles die down, “Your friend – is that Mark Zuckerberg?”

Eduardo blinks at them. He can’t really understand why they had to do so much laughing to get his attention. Was it really not easy enough to lean over and tap on his shoulder? “Uh, yes,” he says after a beat, trying really hard not to sound annoyed.

“He made Thefacebook,” she whispers back. It’s not a question as much as it is a very slightly uncertain statement.

And Eduardo had thought the attention wasn’t a big deal but now that he’s faced with it, he can’t fight a smile. They’ve done something awesome and, well, maybe this is the “not expendable” thing Mark had talked to Eduardo’s father about his first night in Miami. Maybe Thefacebook is what Mark’s always wanted to accomplish.

He bites his lip and then says, voice still low but a little bit shaky, “Yeah. I mean, it’s both of ours. But, yeah, we – yes.”

“Cool.” The girl tosses her hair, leaning forward a little more so that her red bra is even less covered by her white shirt, and points at her friend. “I’m Christy. This is Alice.”

Murmuring, “Very nice to meet you,” he shifts around in his chair and briefly catches the eyes of two people who are pointing at and obviously talking about him and Mark – or, really, Mark. But the fact still stands: The recognition Thefacebook has given them is almost unbearably surreal. His heart maybe skips a beat thinking about what this could mean for his future.

“Facebook me when you get home. Maybe we can all go out and grab a drink later.”

It’s really hard for Eduardo to stop his eyes going all buggishly wide at that. He’s not even sure how he manages to say, “Certainly. Absolutely, I will do that,” without stammering or blushing or dropping dead.

This is just way too much.

Facebook me.

Jesus fucking Christ.

- - -

They do a lot more than go out for drinks that night.

After he and Mark argue about monetizing the site (after all, a “not expendable” site needs money to run and he can’t keep paying for the servers himself) and responding to the Winklevoss’ cease and desist letter, they meet Alice and Christy and both end up being sucked off in the bathroom in adjacent stalls. Eduardo’s pretty sure he comes thinking about Mark on the other side of the wall and not about Christy’s hot mouth on his dick (she uses a little bit too much teeth anyway, and although seeing all that cleavage was cool in the beginning, he’s never been charmed by showy girls).

Then all four of them go back to Kirkland because Mark decides, after running into Erica at the restaurant, that the next step with Thefacebook is to expand – right now, tonight. There’s no time, he tells Eduardo on their way out the door, to walk the girls back to their dorms because this has to be done now, before he loses all the codes that are in his head or whatever. Eduardo can’t do anything but agree and turns to Christy to tell them they have to go but she latches on, insisting they can join them.

And that’s how, after hours of brainstorming with Chris and Dustin ways on how exactly to expand and get the word out on campuses that are hundreds of miles away with a limited budget, Eduardo’s faced with a sleepy, clingy Christy and a very sober and awake Alice. He’s not even sure why they’re still here. It’s three o’clock in the morning; they should be tucked into their own beds, not in a partial stranger’s suite.

“Eduardo, I had so much fun,” Christy gushes, shaking off Alice’s hand on her shoulder and wrapping her arm around Eduardo’s neck.

Eduardo pulls his head back and raises his eyebrows, keeps his arms at his sides. “You did?”

“Yeah, hearing you guys talk about all that stuff was fascinating. I think getting Stanford really isn’t going to be as difficult as you think. Californians are easy to win over.”

Chuckling, “Right, yeah, you’re probably right,” he finally reaches his hand back to get Christy’s arm off him. Before he can move it, she laces their fingers together and kisses him on the mouth. It’s like when she kissed him in the bathroom, hot and full of tongue, just not as long because Eduardo breaks it. He doesn’t want Mark, who’s in his room, to see that or Alice, who’s waiting by the door with a stern look on her face, to witness it for too long. “You should go get some sleep, Christy.”

She smiles at him, finally letting go, and nods. “Yeah, I should. But, hey, we should go out to dinner soon, ok?”

“Um . . .” He blinks at her, because this is definitely not what he wanted to get into. He’d just wanted to go out and have fun; he’d never intended for this night to lead to a possible relationship. He has Mark, after all, and he’s more than enough, way, way more than enough.

And, God, Mark’s in the other room, probably listening to this whole conversation because, even though he makes a big deal about being wired in, he’s always aware of what’s going on around him.

But Eduardo still says, “Sure, yes, that would be nice,” as if nothing he’s just realized matters at all. Then Christy’s gone and he sits on Mark’s couch, trying to figure out how to get himself out of this mess.

- - -

In the end, there’s no mess to clean up. Eduardo tells Mark about Christy the night before he goes on his second date with her and Mark doesn’t even pretend to care. He stares at his computer, falters maybe the tiniest bit with his keyboard, and says, “Yeah.”

Yeah and that’s it. Eduardo gave him a long explanation on how he couldn’t get out of the date because Christy’s manipulative and all Mark says is yeah. He’s not even looking at him when he says it. He’s just typing into that stupid black box on his screen, like Eduardo only deserves the least amount of his attention.

If Eduardo weren’t so crazy about him, if he weren’t so invested in keeping Mark happy, he’d take Mark’s computer and smash it into pieces.

He’s more level-headed than that, though. It’s easier to be passive-aggressive and say, “Ok, fine. I guess that’s it, then,” and then walk out of Mark’s suite without looking back to see if Mark’s stopped coding yet.

He goes out with Christy, too, and that’s actually not as bad as he’d thought it would be. She makes it pretty obvious that she wants a boyfriend and that, in particular, she wants Eduardo to be her boyfriend, but he figures there could be worse things. Things like being in an almost purely physical relationship with your best friend. Things like caring for someone who doesn’t seem to care enough.

Christy’s not a monster. She’s sweet and she’s smart and when she drinks a little too much, her sentences are like ten-car pileups, words mounting on top of words until it sounds like one long word. Eduardo really enjoys holding her hand and kissing her in front of the steps of Littauer before his Immigration Economics class and taking her to his Phoenix parties.

And after the first time they have sex, Christy doesn’t get up to check on her email or make some excuse to get out of bed. Instead, she licks the sweat off Eduardo’s upper lip and kisses him long and slow, helping him breathe. Her hands mold around his shoulders, massaging, and she rubs the back of his calves with the heels of her feet. He feels so taken care of, so reassured. He hadn’t realized this was what he was missing in not having an actual significant other. He doesn’t want to think about how things may have been if he had just asked Mark to be his boyfriend before winter break like he’d really wanted to. He really doesn’t because it hurts to know that he could have probably had it all if he hadn’t been so worried about how Mark would react. It couldn’t have hurt to try and –

Shit. Now he’s in bed with Christy, thinking about Mark after making a very conscious effort earlier not to do such a thing, and he feels terrible about it. It’s not fair to Christy for his mind to be anywhere else but here, with her, where’s she putting so much work into making him feel good.

“Eduardo?” she whispers in his ear, carding one of her hands through his hair and scratching his scalp.

He sighs as quietly as he can but it’s a sound magnified by one thousand and is about as loud as any normal exhalation. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” he says, licking his lips and rolling off her. He’s not a big person but he’s pretty sure it can’t be comfortable to be underneath him for so much time. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking.”

She gives him this tiny smile that makes him feel a little better. Quietly, she says, “Stop thinking,” and settles against his side, nuzzling into his chest and tightening her arm around his waist. She’s so small next to him, so much more fragile than he’s used to (not that Christy’s fragile or anything).

Nodding, he swallows hard and wraps his arm around her shoulders, leans down to kiss the top of her soft hair. “I’m stopping,” he promises.

- - -

Things with Mark are awkward.

It’s not like Eduardo purposefully sets out to make their relationship as uncomfortable as possible but he can’t control the stiltedness of their conversations. Mark certainly doesn’t help in trying to alleviate the tension because he just keeps on being absorbed by Thefacebook, almost constantly altering code and checking out test accounts to make sure everything is running smoothly. He’s got Dustin doing much of the same stuff he’s doing too, so whenever Eduardo’s in their room, it’s even more difficult to talk about things.

He just wants to settle the score, ok? He can’t do that if Dustin is in the suite, yelling shit about hits and overloads whenever he thinks it’s necessary to fill the awkward silence that constantly falls between Eduardo and Mark.

But when Eduardo brings up Christy’s connection with Sean Parker, Mark stops everything he’s doing, turns to Eduardo, who’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and highlighting his notes, and says, “You have to make a meeting happen.”

Eduardo just blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have any idea what meeting Sean Parker could do for Thefacebook, Wardo? Do you even know who Sean Parker is?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and goes back to his notes. “Yes, I know who he is. I’m not exactly fond of the idea of associating him with Thefacebook.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter if you’re fond of it,” Mark snaps, and he tosses something – a pen, Eduardo realizes as he lifts his hand to pull it out of his hair – at him. “You’re going to have to compromise. If he contacted Christy, we need to meet him.”

Eduardo clenches his jaw. Of course Mark would want to meet a man who started his legacy at the same age as Mark’s beginning his own. But Eduardo doesn’t want Sean Parker imparting any kind of wisdom when he’s very publicly floundered. Thefacebook doesn’t need that kind of reputation.

Mark insists on it some more, though, and this is the first time since Thefacebook launched that he’s seen Mark get so fired up. When he wants something, he goes after it, full force, knocking everything down in his path if it means reaching his goal. Eduardo vaguely, remorsefully, wishes he were one of the things Mark would fight for.

Nostalgia, eventually, is what gets Eduardo to give in, twisted as it is. He shouldn’t be nostalgic for something he never had. It’s just – well, the opportunity to make Mark happy trumps everything every single time.

So, over spring break, Mark, Christy and Eduardo go to New York to meet Sean Parker, the infamous Napster founder. He’s almost thirty minutes late and Mark’s still impressed by him. So impressed, in fact, that when Sean pauses meaningfully for them to mull over what he’s saying, Mark doesn’t say a single thing.

It wouldn’t even be so bad if Sean was making any sense but that’s just the thing. Everything that comes out of his mouth is bullshit and he doesn’t offer them a single piece of advice on how to make Thefacebook more successful, other than relocating to Palo Alto, which is way out of reach. He talks circles around them, wraps both Mark and Christy up in his stupid paranoid philosophy and then pays for their meal. Oh, sure, he predicts that Thefacebook could be worth up to a billion dollars but nothing else he says is of value.

That is, until he backtracks when he’s on his way out, to tell Mark – because apparently Sean thinks Thefacebook is all about Mark and not at all about his team of co-founders – that it would be cleaner if he drops Thefacecbook’s “the.”

Hundreds of dollars spent just to get out to New York to meet this idiot and all he tells them to do is drop the “the.”

It’s not enough to say that Eduardo’s angry.

- - -

There’s nothing from the Sean Parker Variety Hour, as Eduardo so affectionately comes to call it, that Mark doesn’t take to heart.

First, he changes Thefacebook to Facebook as soon as they get back to Cambridge without talking to anybody about it.

Then he starts looking at houses in Palo Alto, which is something Eduardo doesn’t find out about until the afternoon that Facebook crosses the 150,000 member mark. Mark’s slip is intentional, of course. He very casually mentions that he’s interviewing two interns to go out with him to California in the middle of a conversation about needing more money and Eduardo couldn’t be more outraged.

It’s one thing for Mark to make a decision about semantics on his own (and, ultimately, changing Thefacebook to Facebook is the best thing that has happened for the site since it launched) but he can’t just one day wake up and decide I’m going to Palo Alto today and I’m taking everything with me. That’s not how business works. Business relies on structure. Eduardo likes structure; that’s why he wants to be in business. If he didn’t like structure, he’d be studying history or working as a substitute teacher.

Mark can’t just walk up to a very carefully made business plan and uproot it.

Except he insists that he can. Amidst squawks from the caged chicken Eduardo’s carrying around as part of his Phoenix initiation and the steady number-calling from Dustin, Mark makes it very clear to Eduardo that his opinion doesn’t matter. He trusts Sean, not Eduardo, and he wants to give Facebook a shot out west. There’s nothing that’s going to change his mind.

And of course, Eduardo shows up the following night at the CS lab with 18,000 dollars and the willingness to be a team player, as long he’s able to keep Mark as a friend and not ever have to hear something like Get on board with this man, you know – or I don’t know what else to say ever again. Because that sounded too much like an ultimatum and Eduardo never wants to lose Mark. Being with Christy doesn’t change the way he feels.

That’s what Eduardo chalks it up to a few weeks later when it’s just him and Mark left after finals. Chris and Dustin are both gone and Mark’s suite is so empty. All that’s left are the Harvard-issued couch and coffee table and Mark’s things. The posters and pictures that hung up all year have been taken down, the walls stripped bare, and everything feels eerie. Eduardo remembers being here at the beginning of the year when everyone but Mark was helping tape things in weird places with loud music playing in the background and he misses it. He misses that, what they all had before Facebook took over.

He especially misses what he and Mark had – but he catches himself before he starts to feel too nostalgic. It’s not the time for that.

He could be in his own room, where everything is already packed and he doesn’t have to worry about the junk Mark’s sticking into boxes of his own, but he wouldn’t be a very good friend if he didn’t at least give Mark a hand.

Between the two of them, they manage to take twelve boxes to a storage facility that’s just off campus, right across the street, in three hours. When they get back, they splurge on both pizza and Chinese and break out the last of the vodka and beer.

A few after-dinner shots later, Eduardo’s nursing a beer, lying on the dirty floor, when he asks, “What do you think?” right up to the dark ceiling. Mark’s desk lamp isn’t potent enough to reach all the corners of the room.

From somewhere, Mark’s disembodied voice says, “About what,” with absolutely no inflection. Drinking does that to him sometimes. He gets all monotone. Eduardo’s spent enough time around drunken Mark to know.

“What do you think about –” Eduardo props himself onto one elbow to take a quick swig of his beer then plops back onto the floor. “About – about me and, like, you know.”

“Wardo, I don’t know.”

“About – you know, Mark!” He sits up fully this time, pointing around the room with his index finger until he finds Mark sitting on his bed. “You know what I mean, Mark, you always know.”

Mark snorts into his beer, which is not the same as Eduardo’s because it’s in a green bottle and Eduardo’s is brown. “Jesus, you’re drunk.”

“Jesus isn’t drunk, Mark,” Eduardo says, widening his eyes. “Jesus can’t get drunk.”

“Yeah, ok, Wardo, whatever you say.”

He pouts exaggeratedly at Mark. “Will you listen to me?”

“I’m waiting.” Mark looks too amused for someone who’s talking like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

“So, ok, what do you think about me and, um, and – meandyou?” Blushing, Eduardo tucks his chin against his chest and brings his beer back to his lips.

It’s silent for a long time. Eduardo feels stupid for even bringing this up now, when they’re both just hours away from parting ways for a whole summer. That question is something he should’ve asked months ago, before Christy came into the picture, before Mark was too sucked into Facebook to pay him any attention, before they stopped being best friends and their friendship turned into a shell of what it used to be. It’s not something he has any right to ask now, when they’re both drunk and mildly vulnerable.

But, God, he wants to know this answer so badly it’s making his chest hurt.

His eyes fall closed as he focuses extra hard on pulling the last bit of beer out of his bottle without having to tip back his head, so it surprises him when two warm hands land on his shoulders and try to pull him up. He drops his bottle and jerks and it’s a miracle he doesn’t scream, even though he knows there’s no one else in this room but Mark that could be touching him.

It scares him. It’s been way too long since Mark’s touched him so purposefully.

Eduardo takes a deep, shaky breath and pushes himself to his feet, not even sliding on the little puddle of beer that spilled from his overturned bottle. Mark’s looking at him, straight at him, and pulling his bottom lip through his teeth like he does when he’s nervous.

Something balloons in Eduardo’s chest as he watches him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says firmly, tilting up his chin in what he thinks he wants to be defiance. He’s not really all that sure if he wants Mark to think that he’s being demanding or that he’s being bold. Either of them works but only one of them will get him what he wants. He’s just not sure which, so he tries his best to be both.

Mark just keeps staring from ten feet away and, in this state, Eduardo can see this scene in his mind looking like something out of an old western film, tumbleweeds, quick draws and all. Only not so much quick draws as tumbleweeds, because no one’s doing any moving here.

Sick of waiting, he presses on, “Mark? Are you going to answer?” and crosses his arms across his chest. His balance is thrown momentarily.

And then he’s completely off balance as Mark takes five long strides across the room and pulls Eduardo by the upper arms right into a kiss. Their teeth click together painfully as Eduardo hastens to uncross his arms and wrap them around Mark instead. He groans, not even caring that it hurts, just enjoying that the hurt is there because he hasn’t felt something like it in so long.

They kiss so hard that, after a minute, Eduardo can taste blood in his mouth. He doesn’t, however, make any effort to slow this down. Mark’s already rucking up the back of Eduardo’s shirt, his burning hands all over Eduardo’s back, and Eduardo’s busy too, willing his usually deft but now useless fingers into undoing the fly of Mark’s jeans. The first time they break apart, it’s to finish removing their shirts without getting anyone’s head stuck in the collar. Then they’re right back at it, kissing and sucking on tongues, walking backwards and pushing down waistbands until they gracelessly topple onto Mark’s bed with their pants around their knees.

Thankfully, they’ve had enough practice doing this drunk and Mark’s really good at flipping Eduardo onto his back without hurting him. All Eduardo’s good for, though, is lying there, watching Mark wrestle with Eduardo’s jeans until they’re on the floor, arching off the mattress every once in a while when Mark’s nails scrape against his skin. It’s hard not to wriggle around when all of Mark’s attention is on him. His gaze is so intense, like it’s trying to burn a pattern into Eduardo’s skin, and Eduardo wants it all over his body, just about as greedy for Mark’s mouth as he is for his eyes. All he ever wants, anyway, is Mark’s narrow focus all for himself.

Now that he’s got it, he doesn’t plan to let it go, no matter how much he’s had to drink. He can school himself into being completely present for this – he’s not that hammered. It helps, too, that they banged teeth earlier because the pain definitely sobered him up, no matter how delicious it was.

Before he knows it, Mark makes quick work of all the clothing they’re still wearing and then straddles Eduardo’s thighs, leaning over to kiss him and pull stuff out of the nightstand at the same time. (That Mark still even has those things in his drawer after packing all his stuff is something to think about later.)

Eduardo catches Mark’s bottom lip in his teeth and runs his tongue over it as Mark climbs up a little higher, their hard dicks able to touch each other now. He has to pull back his head and groan, all the nerves extra-sensitive. He hears Mark’s grunt too, hears how it turns into a whimper when Eduardo twitches his hips up and their dicks rub even more.

He’s way too hard now and he’s had too much to drink and he’s not going to last long if this is how they’re going to do things.

“Mark,” he starts, panting and clutching at Mark’s hair with one hand and his shoulder with the other. “Mark, I’m not – I can’t be – this is so –” He makes a really whiney noise, then forges ahead on a big breath, “You need to fuck me because I’m not going to last long enough.”

Mark nods against Eduardo’s palm and Eduardo feels it all over, until Mark climbs off him and starts fumbling with the condom and lube.

Gasping, Eduardo props himself onto his elbows to watch Mark’s nimble fingers roll on the latex and then slick on the lube. He can already feel him, a ghost memory, deep inside him, searing hot, and he wants it now so badly. “Mark,” he involuntarily whispers, the syllable breaking into two at a really high pitch. “Please.”

Mark’s face goes so red and then he says, “Want this just as bad, Wardo,” and hikes Eduardo’s legs onto his shoulders, no warning necessary.

Eduardo isn’t sure if he’s referring to sex or answering Eduardo’s earlier question or both. He’s kind of hoping it’s both.

3 | clinging to the remnants of perfection

Eduardo doesn’t regret what happened with Mark. The next morning, he’d made sure Mark knew that he didn’t want that to be it for them. He’d said, “It’s just that with Christy in the picture, it’s hard,” and Mark had understood. When they said their goodbyes to each other, they’d hugged and Mark had whispered that he really wished Eduardo could come out to Palo Alto, that it’d be so much better than sucking up to ad execs in New York and working for Lehman Brothers. Much as Eduardo would’ve enjoyed being out there, it wasn’t something he was willing to do.

Although their last exchange was quick, Eduardo left on his train to New York feeling so much better about where he stood with Mark and where they stood together. He didn’t think the summer would be too hard to bear.

A month later, though, things aren’t going as planned. He quit his Lehman Brothers internship to regale advertising executives with his ideas for Facebook full-time because he knew half-assing this job wouldn’t get them any money. But after all the hard work and all the headaches, he still hasn’t managed to convince anybody to take Facebook on. He’s running out of ideas fast.

He tries to ask for Mark’s opinion but whenever they talk, it’s hit or miss. He can say one thing and Mark will respond but he can say something else and all he’ll get is white noise or keyboard or shouts or slurping. It feels like Mark wants to undo everything they’ve just gotten back and Eduardo can’t deal with that.

So he stops calling every other day and starts checking in once a week, at a time when he’s almost positive Mark won’t be too busy to pay Eduardo some attention. It’s a better strategy but not nearly as satisfying as it could be.

At least Christy’s in New York too. He’s not totally miserable running around when knows he has someone to come home to. She’s not Mark but she’s good enough and he really does like her.

At some point, though, even his relationship with Christy takes a turn for the worst when, after one particularly long day out that just so happens to be on a Friday, she accuses him of cheating. She throws stuff across the room, pegs him with a stiletto, slaps him in the cheek. She’s like a train wreck and all Eduardo can do is stand and watch, too stunned to defend himself.

Three days later, when he’s talking to a potential client, he coughs into his elbow and then has to excuse himself because his chest hurts too much from where Christy had dug her heel. It’s embarrassing and he was already off to a crappy day.

After a week of her jealousy, he books a flight to Palo Alto, calls Mark so that he’ll pick him up at the airport the next night at nine, and swears off ad execs and Christy for at least a week.

- - -

Mark doesn’t pick him up. No one does. He has to call a cab and pay the driver sixty dollars because he charges an exorbitant airport surcharge for being the only cab running around there this late at night when it’s raining. He has to wait outside the front door for five minutes, suit getting ruined as the rain pounds down on him. He has to face Sean, who’s for some reason letting him in. It’s three in the morning in New York and he has to face Sean in his Palo Alto house, as if that makes any kind of sense at all. Sean shouldn’t be anywhere near Facebook, it’s what they’d agreed on.

So when Mark finally comes downstairs and they go into the hallway to talk, the first thing he asks him is why Sean is setting up meetings when it’s Eduardo’s job to get them money. Just the thought of Sean representing himself as part of Facebook is enough to make Eduardo’s blood boil. He’s said it time and again that they don’t need someone as notorious as Sean, that he’ll just screw with their public image, that whatever he suggests will be a really bad idea and Facebook will tank. It’s pessimistic, sure, but it’s the reality they have to face if they align themselves with Sean.

And now they have to face it, because Mark doesn’t give a shit about what Eduardo thinks is best for their company. Because Mark is too absorbed in his hero worship of Sean to see that this is a bad idea.

What makes it even worse is that he threatens to leave Eduardo behind, which is ten times more terrible than his almost-ultimatum when he asked Eduardo for money to relocate to Palo Alto. That one, Eduardo could deal with because he wanted – and still wants, for that matter, and probably always will – to get on board with Mark and Dustin and there was no way he could convince either of them that Palo Alto was a bad idea. After a few weeks, he was even able to accept that Palo Alto was indeed the best place for any successful web site to be headquartered, especially if they wanted to get attention from any other Silicon Valley companies to keep Facebook moving forward.

This, though, this having Sean Parker conduct business for Facebook thing is not something Eduardo is ready to handle.

Freezing Facebook’s bank account, then, is the best course of action Eduardo can think of in order to get Mark to understand that he refuses to accept Sean into Facebook. It’s the first thing he does when he gets back to New York the following morning. He’s angry and tired and he’s determined to get this out of the way and get his point across as soon as possible. That’s probably why the teller at the bank just gives him one glance and says, quickly looking down at a paper he handed her, “Certainly, Mr. Saverin.”

Mr. Saverin – he doesn’t usually get sick of being addressed that way, like he’s heard his father be addressed his entire life, but today, it doesn’t feel right. The thing he’s doing now, it’s just out of vengeance and it’s immature and it’s not what any “mister” would do. It’s unprofessional and unbecoming of a future businessman.

But he has to go through with it. He can’t just keep letting people – and people like Mark, he thinks bitterly – walk all over him. He’ll never get anything right if he doesn’t stand up for himself once in a while.

This is Eduardo Saverin standing up for himself.

- - -

That evening, when he’s lying on top of his bed in his un-air-conditioned box of an apartment, Christy barges in, demanding an explanation for why he hadn’t told her he’d come back and why he hadn’t answered any of her messages. Eduardo’s freaked out, stammering half-assed excuses and trying to get her to calm down. He’s already spent a weekend with Christy’s crazy alter ego, he doesn’t want to spend even another second with it.

But when she’s like this, seeking some kind of retaliation, she’s impossible to win over. Her eyes are dark, shoulders rolled back, chin up – all the proper ways to stand when you want to intimidate someone. She’s doing a hell of a job of intimidating, that’s for sure.

It gets worse when his phone rings and she realizes that he really has been ignoring her all day, that his phone actually isn’t messed up. “It’s Mark,” she says, and her tone is a cross between disgusted and annoyed, like she can’t believe Mark’s calling at such an inopportune time for her, since she’s clearly about to rip out Eduardo’s throat or something equally violent. Like hit him over the head with the box he hands her when he takes the phone from her and goes into his bathroom to talk to Mark.

Once Mark starts talking, though, Eduardo realizes he’s really got his plate full while having Mark and Christy in his life at the same time. Mark’s busy yelling at Eduardo about the possible, thankfully avoided, consequences of Eduardo’s frozen bank account stunt (“College kids are online because their friends are online and if one domino goes, the other dominos go. Do you get that? I’m not going to back to Caribbean Night at AEPi!”) and Christy is –

Well, Christy’s setting Eduardo’s bed on fire and walking out and that’s it, Eduardo has had enough of this fucking – “What is wrong with you?” he yells after her, tearing his free hand through his hair and rushing over to dump his phone on the side of the bed that isn’t in flames. “Hang on, hang on!” he shouts down at his phone, quickly pressing the speaker button and then dashing to the kitchen area.

Mark is still talking and the fire is still crackling to life while Eduardo rummages through all the cabinets and drawers, looking for the fire extinguisher. When he finally finds it, he pulls back the lever and sprays his bed, blocking Mark out for most of whatever he says. Eduardo does manage to hear “That was the act of a child” and “Maybe you were angry” and then, once he’s put out the fire, he’s able to grab his phone and say, “I’m sorry. I was angry and maybe it was childish. But I had to get your attention.” He hates the way his voice cracks on that last word.

“Wardo, I said I’ve got some good news.”

He exhales, “What is it?” and drops the extinguisher by his feet.

“Peter Thiel’s just made an angel investment of a half a million dollars.”

Suddenly, the fire and Christy’s craziness and Mark’s stupidity and Sean’s existence don’t matter. After all this work, Facebook finally has money. 500,000 dollars worth of money that they can use for servers and employees and equipment and –

Eduardo can’t even breathe but he somehow manages, weakly, so disbelieving, “What?”

“A half a million dollars and he’s setting us up in an office. They want to re-incorporate the company, they want to meet you, they need your signature on some documents. So get your ass back on the next flight to San Francisco.” Mark pauses and when he says, “I need my CFO,” it’s even more fervent than anything that preceded it.

The smile that spreads across Eduardo’s face hurts, it’s so wide. “I’m on my way.”

“Wardo.”

“Yeah?”

“We did it.”

- - -

By the time Eduardo’s waiting at the arrivals section at SFO the next morning, he realizes he’s probably spent more hours in the sky than on the ground these last two and a half days, flying back and forth between here and New York. The whole time, he’s been running from something – running from Christy and failed pitches to ad execs, running from Mark and Sean – but now he’s just here, hopefully for long enough to stop feeling like he doesn’t have a place in Mark’s life.

And he’s broken up with Christy too, so that’s another one hundred pounds off his back. It didn’t even hurt to break up, like all his other breakups did. This one was just I’m breaking up with you and You need to leave your keys and get out and he felt absolutely nothing watching Christy walk out of his apartment with tears in his eyes.

Well, ok, he felt remorse but it wasn’t specifically dealing with Christy. He felt remorse for wasting so much time and putting so much energy into a relationship he didn’t even really want.

At least he’s free now and Mark’s free and things are going to go right back to how it was between them, maybe even with more. Hopefully with more.

When Mark arrives, he gets out of the car to help Eduardo with his two suitcases – it’s not like he could’ve left all his valuable things in New York when he wasn’t going to be there for a few weeks – even though Eduardo doesn’t ask for it and even gives his arm a quick squeeze in greeting, a tiny smile too.

Eduardo’s still upset with Mark for not even warning him about Sean taking up space in his house for free but Mark’s being too kind right now for his annoyance to last long. Once they’re settled in the car, embarking on the thirty minute ride back to Palo Alto, Eduardo turns to Mark in his seat. He watches him for a little bit, taking in the new freckles that have appeared on his cheeks and the way his lips purse whenever someone passes him or cuts him off on the highway. He tracks his gaze down to his arms, all sinewy and taut as he grips the steering wheel tightly, like he’s afraid he’ll make a wrong move. It makes him laugh and Mark quickly looks over with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

Shrugging, Eduardo smiles and shifts in his seat. “You look like you haven’t driven in centuries or something.”

“Well, I haven’t driven in centuries, so, yes, you’re very observant, Eduardo.”

“I’ve always prided myself on that.”

That earns him Mark’s laughter.

After a few minutes, Eduardo finally figures he can go ahead and get it out there. It’s not like Mark’s not going to be happy to hear he broke up with Christy. “Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“I broke up with Christy.”

Mark’s grip changes on the steering wheel so that it’s tighter, the leather squeaking quietly under his palm. Eduardo gulps.

“Why’d you do that?”

“She was crazy, I told you. She set my bed on fire last night.”

“She – what, with what?”

Eduardo shrugs and turns to look out the window. He loves coming out west and cataloguing all the ways it’s different from and similar to the east. “I guess with her lighter, since she started smoking this summer.”

Mark nods and flips his turn signal on. The Palo Alto exit is less than a mile away.

“I guess I thought you should know. Because – well, I mean, you know why.”

“Well, yeah, I do,” says Mark and spares a glance at Eduardo again. Eduardo can’t see it because he’s staring very intently at his lap now, trying to will away the redness threatening to creep up his neck, but he can feel it.

“Um. Ok.” He nods and bites his lip. “Good.”

They don’t talk about anything else and when they get to the house, they don’t make an effort to make any extra conversation. Mark tells him he can sleep in his room and that there are clean towels in the closet and blankets under the pillow. Eduardo pulls his suitcase on top of the bed and unzips it, already starting to unfold his dress shirts and pants because even though he’s tired he can’t let them get any more wrinkled than they already are. Meanwhile, Mark clears some space for him in the dresser and the closet and then he’s out the door, laptop under his arm.

Eduardo puts all of his clothes away, changes into a t-shirt and gym shorts and slides into Mark’s bed, ready to zonk out for the next twelve or so hours, which will hopefully be enough to settle some of his sleep debt.

- - -

He wakes up a few times during the day.

Once, Dustin decides it’s a good, fun idea to jump on the bed of a sleeping person and then he justifies himself by saying, “I haven’t had the chance to bug you for months, Wardo. Months!” He plops down on the mattress beside Eduardo and turns huge eyes on him. “Do you have any idea what that’s doing to my heart’s health?”

Then around seven, he wakes up because the doorbell is being pressed repeatedly and he can’t block it out with his pillow. He ends up having to go downstairs and open the door himself because everyone in the living room is too busy working and Sean isn’t around to field these things for them like he figures has been his job. It’s a pizza deliverer who’s got a pile of boxes on his feet and two more in his hands. Eduardo can smell the pepperoni.

Thankfully, Sean has already paid for the pizza; all Eduardo has to do is sign Sean’s name on the receipt and add a tip. After some quick calculations – six one-topping pizzas at fifty dollars times fifteen percent is seven fifty – he writes twenty dollars in the tip section and gives the pizza boy a huge smile.

He ends up staying downstairs for thirty minutes, sorting out plates and napkins for all the guys and then sitting next to Mark while he eats his own couple of slices. Mark actually talks to him about what he’s doing while he’s down there, licking grease off his fingertips.

When Eduardo gets back to bed, he can’t fall asleep this time, so he takes a long, hot shower and, after, lies in bed reading a random, overpriced novel he picked up at JFK until he can fall asleep again.

This time no one wakes him up until three in the morning – and it’s Mark, failing epically at quietly closing his drawers.

Eduardo groans and sits up, leans over to flick on the lamp on the nightstand. Mark looks relieved to be able to see. His shirt is on inside out.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling off his shirt so he can put it on the right way.

Eduardo looks down so he won’t be caught staring and finds his book under one of the pillows. He sets it on the nightstand. “It’s ok.”

Mark kicks his drawer shut, not caring to be careful now that Eduardo’s awake. “Finally done for the day.”

Eduardo yawns and nods at him. The longer he stares, the more apparent it becomes that Mark isn’t sure whether to climb in bed or go sleep on the couch. “Mark, you know you can sleep here right? This is your bed.”

“Yeah, no, it is, I know,” Mark says, scratching the back of his head and teetering back on his heels. “But you’re exhausted, you should get good sleep –”

Chuckling, “I’ve been sleeping all day, Mark,” Eduardo kicks off the sheet he’s using and pats the space next to him.

“I don’t want to disturb your rest or whatever.”

He laughs again, pats the mattress more firmly. “Mark, come on. We’ve slept together before – and that was in a much smaller bed, so.” Mark still looks unsure. “Get over here, man.”

Muttering, “Right, ok,” Mark walks to the side of the bed Eduardo’s not occupying and lies down. There’s like a foot between them and Mark has his arms pressed against his sides.

“Jesus, Mark,” Eduardo snorts, and then he pulls Mark into his own side, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. Mark stays stiff, obviously not comfortable touching Eduardo. Eduardo can’t be anything but baffled. “Mark, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he grunts, his breath ghosting over Eduardo’s chest.

“You can touch me, Mark. It’s ok.” He pauses. “I want you to.”

Mark looks at him like he doesn’t understand Eduardo’s language or something and Eduardo, beyond tempted at this point, kisses Mark gently on the lips. “It’s ok,” he says again when he pulls back. “I want you to.”

And once Eduardo’s turned off the light and settled back into his spot from before, Mark stretches his arm across Eduardo’s waist. His fingers curl around the jut of Eduardo’s hip and he lays his head on Eduardo’s chest.

Eduardo squeezes him tightly, whispers, “Good night, Mark,” and falls asleep to the feel of Mark’s warm breath moistening the cotton of Eduardo’s t-shirt.

- - -

When Eduardo cracks open his eyes again, the sun’s cutting across Mark’s face, lighting him up like a candle in the dark, the rest of him merely a silhouette. He’s pretty sure it’s not a decent hour to be awake but he is anyway. It takes a few minutes for him to jar his mind into working order.

That’s when he notices just how close Mark is. At some point in the night, Mark must have thrown a leg over Eduardo’s thigh, pressed himself in close enough for his exhales to be Eduardo’s inhales. And now it’s obvious just how hard they both are because, even through layers of fabric, Eduardo can feel it all.

It’s been months since this has happened. He can’t just let this opportunity go, no matter the hour.

Slowly, he slides his hand between their bodies and slips it down the front of Mark’s sweatpants, deliberately palming skin on the way. He leans over, places his lips to each corner of Mark’s mouth alternately, just lightly kissing because he has to take advantage of this.

Mark doesn’t wake up until Eduardo’s fingers have encircled his dick and started jerking, which is pretty remarkable for all the work Eduardo’s doing. He gasps but before he can even try to say Eduardo’s name, Eduardo closes his lips over Mark’s, tongue already forcing them to part.

It’s times like these he’s glad they’re both blessed with good dental hygiene, no morning breath to worry about.

When Eduardo pulls back and leans his forehead against Mark’s, Mark pulls a hand through Eduardo’s hair, holds onto his skull with crushing fingers, and finally groans. Eduardo loves seeing him this way, so uninhibited, unconcerned that anyone might hear if he makes any louder noises. Mark’s so vulnerable when he’s half asleep, so easy to unwind and so easy to convince. All it takes is the right actions and he’s mush in Eduardo’s hands. This is the only time Eduardo can have anything he wants without Mark’s ridiculous babble getting in the way.

He’s not exploiting Mark or anything. He’s just taking advantage of this rare opportunity to please Mark in complete serenity, no worry for coding or thin walls or classes to distract either of them. It’s just him and Mark, only enough space between them to breathe.

Mark whimpers, “Eduardo,” into Eduardo’s mouth, voice caught and pinched in his throat so it makes the sound of a whining dog, when Eduardo flicks his wrist and thumbs the slit of Mark’s cock at the same time. Pleased with himself, Eduardo takes Mark’s bottom lip between his teeth and licks at it in short, random strokes. Mark starts squeezing Eduardo’s head again, so Eduardo times his licks and jerks with that, tugging and tasting every time a little burst of pain blossoms in his skull.

There are these wonderful noises Mark makes when he doesn’t have full function of his mouth that remind Eduardo of their first time, when neither of them had a single clue how to get the other off without fucking it up. He remembers, as he screws his eyes shut and forces himself not to start rutting against the mattress, how Mark writhed when Eduardo danced his fingers down each of his ribs slowly, taking the time to memorize the bumps and curves. He remembers the sound Mark made when Eduardo scraped his teeth up the hollow of his waist to the tip of his hipbone, when he sucked a hickey right where the waistband of Mark’s shorts had left an angry, red groove in his skin. He remembers the incredibly quiet, low scream Mark let out when Eduardo finally pushed inside of him.

He remembers it all, as if it just happened, and it’s difficult to keep himself from coming just from that memory alone.

“Wardo. Wardo, please,” Mark mumbles, almost delirious, clutching Eduardo’s hair tighter and thrusting into Eduardo’s fist. “Please, please, just let me –”

Eduardo kisses him before he can finish the sentence. He kisses him and removes his hand and fends off the protests by pressing himself, boxers and all, right over Mark’s crotch. They rub against each other, Eduardo bracing himself with his forearms on each side of Mark’s head, Mark hooking one arm around Eduardo’s neck and wrapping the other around his back. There’s lots of fabric between them, the thick material of Mark’s sweats and the thin material of his own shorts, but Eduardo forces himself to feel through it.

“Wardo, come on,” Mark mutters again, barely discernable this time.

All Eduardo wants to do is say, “I’m trying, I’m trying,” but Mark crushes their mouths together and he forgets everything. He focuses on Mark’s lips and Mark’s dick and it’s enough to push him to the edge, coming only seconds after Mark.

It’s only mildly embarrassing that they both came in their pants.

Eduardo buries his face in Mark’s neck and breathes in his sweat, licks some of it onto his tongue. It’s nothing he hasn’t tasted before, just the customary mixture of perspiration and Ivory soap, but it’s been so long since he’s been allowed this that he wants it, wants Mark – wants it all so bad.

His chest aches with the realization that he can finally have it.

- - -

They go to the new Facebook offices that afternoon. People are milling about, carrying in desks and chairs and computers, setting up in weird arcs that look exactly like what Mark showed him he wanted on paper. Something open, something communal. He doesn’t want anyone to feel more or less deserving than anyone else because it would defeat the whole purpose of Facebook, which is to bring everyone to the same level so that it’s easy to communicate.

Eduardo thinks it’s brilliant. He can imagine all the chairs full of people like Mark and Dustin, coding and occasionally having fun. Like a group of rowdy fraternity brothers. Like a –

“It really is like we’re presidents of a Final Club, Mark,” Eduardo says in awe, smiling, just taking it all in.

Mark grins at him and nudges him in the side with his elbow. “I told you so.”

Later, after he’s signed and initialed dozens of pages in his new contract and caught a celebratory beer from Dustin, Eduardo finds Mark leaning against a wall, his eyes closed, his arms crossed protectively in front of his chest.

“Mark?” he whispers, not wanting to startle him. He takes a drink of his beer, still waiting for him to respond, then tries again, a little louder. “Mark?”

Mark cracks open one eye, then the other, and then he stands up straight and gives Eduardo this weird, tight-lipped smile. “Hey.”

“Hey. Are you ok?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Eduardo shrugs and drinks some more beer. “You just looked – well, it seemed like you were worried about something.”

Blinking, Mark takes a step closer to Eduardo and shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Ok.” A frown tries to pull down the corners of Eduardo’s mouth but he doesn’t let it. He doesn’t want Mark to see it. “I signed the contract, man.”

“Yeah, that’s –” Mark clears his throat, darting his eyes away and stepping back. “That’s good, Wardo. Great.”

Scrunching his brow, Eduardo asks, “Are you sure everything’s ok?”

Mark huffs, “Yes, Wardo, Jesus,” and goes back to lean against the wall. “There’s nothing wrong. You can stop asking now.”

Eduardo sighs and tips his bottle against his lips, not believing a second of anything Mark says. He wishes Mark would stop acting like Eduardo doesn’t know him well enough to notice when he’s lying. There’s this awful, partially hidden look of distraught on Mark’s face that makes Eduardo think his grandma’s died or something and he just doesn’t want to tell him it happened. He wants to hug him and tell him everything’s going to be ok.

Then he thinks of something better. Smirking, he chugs down the rest of his beer, tosses the bottle into the nearest trash can and then approaches Mark again. Mark’s back to resting his eyes or whatever he was doing when Eduardo found him. “Mark.” He opens one eye. “Follow me in two minutes.” His brow furrows but Eduardo doesn’t bother explaining himself.

He walks away, cutting a path through all the set-up desks and movers while in Mark’s line of vision. When he reaches the bathroom door, he briefly looks over his shoulder to make sure Mark is watching then goes inside. The bathroom smells sterile, like it’s never been used. All the surfaces are gleaming, no fingerprints on the faucets or the door handles. Each stall is perfect black, cracked open at that universal angle custodians use after they clean bathrooms.

It hits Eduardo then that this office is theirs. They have an office with stalls in the men’s bathroom and sparkling tiles or plush carpet on the floor.

He gets so caught up looking at the bathroom and thinking about how far they’ve come in just five months that he jumps when the door opens and Mark comes in. “Jesus,” he mutters, clutching his chest through the material of his black waistcoat.

Mark just shrugs at him and shuffles further into the room, backtracking for a second to flip the lock.

Eduardo smirks. “What was that for?”

“What was what for?”

He nods toward the door. “You just locked the door.”

“Oh.” Mark looks sheepish when ducks his head and shrugs at Eduardo again.

“You think you’re about to get lucky, don’t you?” Laughing, Eduardo walks over to Mark and tips his chin up. His cheeks are that really light pink color that rises right before you start full on blushing. Eduardo can’t keep himself from kissing him.

Mark hums and pulls back momentarily to say, “I know I am.”

Eduardo’s lips stretch into a smile against Mark’s mouth.

- - -

“Where’d Sean get this again?” Eduardo takes a slow drag off the makeshift cigarette, feeling like a pro already even though it’s the first time he’s ever smoked weed. His surroundings are getting a little fuzzy but that’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He’s gotten good and smashed various times, after all.

Then again, he never thought the first time he got high would be while sitting on a diving board.

“One of his friends, I don’t know where.” Mark puts his own jay between his lips and inhales slowly.

Eduardo eyes his skeptically, turning it in his fingers every which way, trying his best not to touch the side that’s lit. “I’m not sure I trust it.”

When Mark asks, “Why not?” it sounds husky and nothing like him.

“He could’ve laced it with cocaine or something.”

Mark rolls his eyes dramatically. “He’s got allergies.”

Eduardo gawks at him, cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. “That’s like saying I don’t drink coffee.”

One of Mark’s eyebrows shoots up really high on his forehead. “How is that relevant?”

“I’m Brazilian, of course I drink coffee,” Eduardo explains after a short pause, going back to his cigarette and taking another hit in spite of everything he’s saying. “He’s Sean Parker, of course he does drugs.”

“We’re not discussing this, Wardo.”

Eduardo sighs and looks over the pool, bare feet dangling just inches above the dark water. If it weren’t for the weed, the wind would make him cold because the shirt he’s wearing – an Exeter Fencing shirt of Mark’s – is so well-worn that it almost feels like he’s not wearing anything over his chest at all.

“Wardo?”

He looks over at Mark. “Hmm?”

“You would do anything I asked you to, wouldn’t you?”

“Not anything,” Eduardo says immediately, not even bothering to consider the consequences of his admission.

“But pretty much everything?”

He sighs, resigned. “Yeah.”

Something glints in Mark’s eyes, a little mischievous glint, and then Mark grins and Eduardo knows he’s fucked. “You should smoke mine and yours at the same time.”

“No,” Eduardo says immediately, drawing his eyebrows together, trying to appear stern.

“Why not?”

“Because if I smoke two I’ll fall off the diving board.”

Mark blinks at him a few silent moments then says, “Well, that’s a non-sequitur if there ever was one.”

“No, Mark,” he insists again, shaking his head vehemently, so vehemently, in fact, that his whole body moves with the action. If he weren’t trying to make a point, he’d laugh at the thought of shaking his head with his whole body.

“It won’t happen, though! You’re not going to fall off the diving board.”

Eduardo’s still shaking his head and he thinks he can feel his brain moving around in there. “Prove it.”

“Only you can do that.”

He stops and looks at Mark. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, his hand outstretched, his burning cigarette proffered. “Fine,” he groans, pouting and holding out his free hand, palm up. “I can’t believe I can’t fucking say no to you.”

Mark snorts and drops it very carefully in Eduardo’s hand. “Yes, you can.”

Eduardo glares, sticks out his tongue, then puts both jays in his mouth at the same time. When he sucks in the smoke, he has to do it extra hard so that he’s sure he doesn’t miss a good pull or something.

Mark looks too amused when Eduardo blows out the smoke into the air above his head, neck tipped back as he exhales. His eyes water a bit watching the stars cloud up under the plume of smoke. He feels a little lightheaded and when he sits up straight again, feels himself lean off to the side. Mark’s quick to grab his elbow, fingers tight around it as he pulls Eduardo closer to him. Their thighs are pressed together now.

Once he’s settled, Eduardo says, “I was just kidding.”

Mark shrugs.

“But thanks for trying to save me.”

“No problem.”

Wistfully, Eduardo smiles and takes another drag, staring down at the illuminated water. He’s entranced by the way it ripples and gets lost in it for a few minutes. Then, noticing his lapse, he jerks his head up and asks the first thing that comes to mind. “How did you start calling me Wardo?”

Mark reddens. If he weren’t stoned, Eduardo would say Mark’s embarrassed. But he is and Mark’s blushing. “I was looking for you one day and I asked Dustin, ‘Where’s Eduardo?’ And he was drunk, so he started laughing. He said, ‘Where’s Wardo? Like Where’s Waldo!’ and it just stuck.”

“You’re the only one who calls me that.”

“You mean besides everyone else?”

Eduardo laughs, shaking his head at himself. “Yeah.”

Silence falls between them for a while, the only sounds that of crickets and faraway music and Eduardo’s puffs. Mark eventually asks, “I’m the only one who counts?” in a whisper that Eduardo has to strain to hear.

But when he deciphers what Mark says, he smiles and says, voice loud, “Yep.”

“That’s touching, Wardo.”

“You sound really normal for being stoned,” he notes, looking pointedly at Mark.

“You’re smoking more than me.”

“What? No, I’m not.”

Mark grabs the second jay, which is still between Eduardo’s fingers, and holds it up as evidence.

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

They smoke in silence some more. The world starts to get a little blurrier for Eduardo and he leans into Mark, silently willing him to wrap his arm around his shoulders. Mark just puts a hand on Eduardo’s thigh and squeezes the fabric of his gym shorts.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” he asks, quiet again. For some reason, Mark likes being quiet when he’s stoned.

“Make what?”

“Make it. Like, through Facebook and the restructuring and everything.”

Eduardo nods emphatically. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“If something went wrong . . .”

“Are you telling me something’s going to go wrong?” He raises an eyebrow.

“No, I’m just being hypothetical.” Mark’s fingers start tapping on Eduardo’s leg. “If something goes wrong, would you still . . . you know.”

“Support you?” Eduardo offers.

“. . . Yeah.”

“Of course.”

“You promise.” It’s not a question.

Eduardo looks Mark in the eyes, difficult as it is, and nods. He puts his hand on Mark’s upper arm. “Promise. Do you want me to cross my heart?”

Mark smirks and shoves Eduardo in the shoulder. It’s a miracle they don’t fall in the pool.

“You could’ve killed me, Mark!” Eduardo whines, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt and kicking him in the shin. “Just this much of an inch –” He demonstrates with his other hand. “And you could’ve impaled me on the diving board or something.”

Mark snorts and gently pries Eduardo’s fingers off his shirt. “You’re too hard-headed for that, Wardo.”

“Oh, ha ha, very funny,” Eduardo grumbles, overly sarcastic. He huffs and puts his cigarette back in his mouth.

“Just because it’s trite doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

He kicks him again.

“Hey! That hurt.” Mark frowns and reaches down to rub his shin. “Quit.”

“Fine.” Eduardo stubs out his cigarette on the diving board and then does the same with Mark’s, because his fingers were too loose to stop him.

“Wardo!”

“I have a better idea?”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Eduardo smirks and leans in, wrapping his left hand around Mark’s neck and using the thumb of his right hand to drag out Mark’s bottom lip. He feels Mark’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallows and it makes him feel good to be able to draw that kind of reaction from Mark. He naively thinks no one else has ever been able to do it with as little work as Eduardo.

Mark’s tongue darts out to lick Eduardo’s thumb into his mouth. That’s most definitely the hottest thing Eduardo has ever seen. Mark’s tongue swirling around one of his fingers – that’s just too much for him to handle.

But just as he’s about to pull it away and kiss Mark instead, the patio doors open and everyone comes running out, Dustin in the lead, one of the interns shouting, clear over everybody else’s groaning and shouting, “Moscovitz, you’re supposed to fucking warn us before you let one of those silent-but-deadlies rip!” He and Mark both jerk apart. Eduardo’s burning red, wiping his thumb off on his shirt like he has something to hide.

Part Four

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse), part two

2011-05-26T03:15:43Z

Eduardo’s really not that drunk.

The beer he stole from the party (stole, at Mark’s insistence, as if he has no mind of his own, as if he has to do everything Mark tells him to do) is warm at this point, yeah, but it’s not like he hasn’t had lots of beer before. He likes to think his tolerance is pretty high, especially now that he’s gone to college and experienced the party scene and even owns a fake ID so that he can drink whenever he wants. It’s not like he’s a novice, not like this is the first time he’s ever gotten drunk on a beach before.

Not that he’s drunk, because he’s not. He’s a little tipsy, maybe, but nothing more.

Mark, though – Mark is pretty drunk.

“Wardo, pass me that –” Mark pauses to cough into his arm. “That bottle, by your elbow.”

Eduardo laughs and nudges it over, watches the sand stick to it as it rolls over to Mark. “There.”

Mark smiles, expression small and weird-looking on his face, and opens the bottle with his teeth, as if his hands are too delicate to twist off a cap. It’s possible they are, since they’re extra important to the work he does, but Eduardo’s spent a lot of time looking at Mark’s hands. They’re not delicate in the slightest. His fingertips look rough, especially the pads of his pointer and index. Probably because he spends so much time popping open cans of tuna and Red Bull.

And Eduardo’s watched Mark open plenty a beer before, so he doesn’t get why Mark wouldn’t use his hands now. It’s got to be less painful than opening with your teeth, for sure.

So Eduardo asks, “Why din’t you use your hands?” after taking a long pull from his own beer and blinks down at Mark, who’s lying on the sand with his beer balanced precariously on his chest. One sudden movement and it’ll tip over, splashing Mark in the face and probably getting on Eduardo too.

Mark’s staring too intently at his bottle to answer, so Eduardo snatches it and raises his eyebrows in challenge. Mark sits up and smacks Eduardo in the arm, grunting something unintelligible and undoubtedly rude as he tries to scramble over his legs and get the beer back. Eduardo holds it as far out of reach as he can but the more Mark tries, looking and sounding obscene and ridiculous, the less successful Eduardo is. His shoulders start to hunch over in laughter and his arms are involuntarily folding in so he can grab his sides.

It’s not really too hard after that for Mark to wrangle the beer from Eduardo, who falls onto his back in hysterics. Mark crashes down on top of him, though, beer spilling everywhere. Their chests get soaked in warm alcohol and Eduardo would care more – seeing as both the ruined shirts belong to him – if he weren’t laughing so hard at the image of a deranged Mark wanting his beer back, flailing his arms around like the undead or something.

“Fuck, Wardo, that was the last one,” Mark whines, voice uncharacteristically high-pitched and maybe a little too close to Eduardo’s ear. “The last one, Eduardo, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Eduardo stops laughing because Mark’s breath puffs at the hinge of his jaw and that’s just not something Eduardo’s wired to deal with. Accidental brushes of the hand, sure. Elbow nudges, he’s been schooled on those long enough that if it was a course it’d been an A plus on his report card. Mark breathing on him? That’s way out of Eduardo’s jurisdiction.

What, exactly, should you do when the person you have a crush on is breathing on you?

Eduardo’s brain very possibly short-circuits. He can feel his nerve endings fraying before he can feel Mark sagging his weight on him, like he’s there to stay. A very sudden, very hard knot rises in Eduardo’s throat, making it impossible for him to voice his concern for this position. He may not know how to deal with Mark right now but he knows how to deal with this particular situation. He’s made out with plenty of drunken people before and each time it started with some girl throwing herself at him and whispering right in his ear.

That’s kind of what Mark’s doing, breathing on Eduardo’s skin and all that jazz. Only difference is he probably doesn’t want to make out with Eduardo, like all those girls. He’s probably just using Eduardo as a mattress or something, his face a pillow for Mark’s stupid hair.

But that doesn’t make Eduardo want Mark any less.

“You going to or what?” Mark’s saying, mouth moving sinfully slow on Eduardo’s jaw.

This is not a good situation. Eduardo shivers, clears his throat and forces himself not to focus on Mark’s wet lips when he turns his head to look at Mark, effectively disconnecting Mark’s mouth from his face. “Going to what?” he asks, raspy and shaky, as if he needs to be any more obvious.

When Mark responds, “Drive us back,” he looks at Eduardo with wide, watery eyes and Eduardo can’t stand that. He can’t stand Mark giving him so much attention, can’t stand touching him –

And yet none of that seems to matter because the next thing that he knows, he’s kissing Mark, wet and forceful, all the words he wanted to say disappearing. Mark tastes as bitter as all the beer he’s consumed tonight but Eduardo couldn’t give more of a shit, he’s so busy pushing his tongue into Mark’s mouth. He wants to kiss Mark so hard that they’ll break away tasting like each other.

Eduardo rolls them over so Mark’s the one writhing on the sand, clutching at hair and pressing his heels into calves. It’s so good, so incredible, that Eduardo only now realizes Mark is actually kissing him back. He’s fitting his mouth around Eduardo’s, sucking on Eduardo’s tongue and running his own along the back of Eduardo’s teeth. He’s leaning up on one elbow and fisting Eduardo’s hair. He’s groaning and making outrageous noises and Eduardo can barely believe this is happening.

This, them – they’re happening and it feels so fucking good.

- - -

Time catches up with them that night and they have to scramble to get back to Eduardo’s house before curfew. If Eduardo hadn’t felt drunk before he kissed Mark, he definitely feels it now – but it’s more of a giddy drunkenness than anything else. His vision’s not impaired or anything, he just feels so light and satisfied and he kind of wants to shout it out the window of his car so everyone will know. (He doesn’t, of course, because he’s not stupid and he doesn’t want to attract any police attention and he surely can’t risk embarrassing himself now that Mark’s kissed him, can he?)

When they get into the house, they’re just shy of four o’clock and Eduardo doesn’t bother tiptoeing around. From the foyer he can hear his dad snoring upstairs and it’d take a nuclear disaster to wake him from that deep a slumber. They pass through with no problems and then, without much thought, they both collapse onto Eduardo’s bed, so exhausted they don’t bother putting space between them at all.

The first thing Eduardo notices when he wakes up is that his hand is clenched in Mark’s shirt, numb because the angle cut off circulation at some point in the night. He blinks blearily at how loosely his fingers are curled around the fabric and wonders if it’s been like this all night, him pulling at Mark and unconsciously wanting him close. Heat creeps into his face when he notices the possibility of Mark having woken up to see how clingy Eduardo can get.

But Eduardo can’t seem to make himself let go, even with that realization. He finds he likes this too much, likes Mark in his bed too much, to be embarrassed by it. If Mark hadn’t responded to him as eagerly as he did, this would have been a totally different story. Eduardo would be backing away so far he’d probably land on the ground or something. But Mark had responded well. He’d arched his back and touched Eduardo’s chest and bit Eduardo’s lip – those aren’t pure intentions. Eduardo has nothing to be scared of; if Mark were going to punch Eduardo, he would’ve done it before Eduardo sucked a hickey onto his collarbone.

Eduardo’s eyes dart up to Mark’s neck at the memory of pushing his shirt out of the way. Mark had actually whimpered when Eduardo nibbled on his skin and it had made Eduardo so hot that he pulled away to catch his breath. He’d never thought Mark capable of such noises. Now, seeing the light-colored bruise low on Mark’s neck, under the distended collar of the beer-ruined Polo, Eduardo is convinced. Debauched, his new favorite brand of Mark.

Sighing quietly, he slides his hand up Mark’s side, fabric bunching underneath his palm. He just wants to lie here, feeling Mark breathe, watching him sleep like he’s never really had the chance to in the past. There are so many good things that can come of this, if Mark will let this happen. Eduardo’s willing – he’s more than willing, even, he’s anticipating. Mark couldn’t possibly backtrack on last night; he couldn’t possibly deny the obvious attraction between them. Eduardo’s been trying all week and has failed. Sure, Mark’s a genius, but he’s not a miracle worker. It wouldn’t be fair for him to be able to easily dismiss all those kisses and all those – stupid as it sounds – caresses.

Then again, if anyone could do it, Mark could. That would probably be the world’s cruelest joke but Eduardo couldn’t say he never saw it coming.

He’ll just have to wait for Mark to wake up, then.

Again, Eduardo sighs, only this time it’s less wistful and more weary, like he’s already conceded to losing something he doesn’t have. A tragedy before it’s even begun.

A knock on the door shakes him out of his thoughts and he scrambles to get to his feet, putting as much distance between him and Mark as possible before whoever’s at the door can start speculating. He gets to the door before anyone can open it, though, and he fits himself in the crack so no one can see inside. He doesn’t need his parents knowing anything about this.

“Mae,” he says in greeting. If he’s a bit breathless, he ignores it.

His mom gives him a suspicious look, probably because he’s still wearing the beer-stained shirt from last night. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Eduardo?”

He says, “No,” and it’s true because he hadn’t bothered to spare his alarm clock a single glance the entire time he’s been awake. Being too caught up in Mark has proven to have adverse effects on his common sense.

“Almost three,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Did you forget the Liras are coming over for dinner this evening?”

Eduardo presses a hand to his forehead, the one that’s not holding the door close to his body, and closes his eyes. “Oh, man, I –”

“It’s at six. You need to get ready.”

“Yeah, no, right, I’m sorry.”

“Did you have a good night?”

He swallows to keep himself from smiling. He’s sure if he let a grin onto his face his mother would be able to see right through him. “Yes, I did,” he says slowly, words measured so that he won’t give too much away.

She doesn’t seem convinced but she doesn’t press for anything more. She just tells him, “You might want to make sure Mark’s up too,” looks pointedly over his head and then leaves.

Biting his lip, Eduardo slumps against the closed door and tips his head back, pinches his eyes closed against the sun that’s filtering in through the blinds. The breath he exhales is so long that he’s not sure how he doesn’t just collapse from lack of oxygen.

“Are you going to stand there the rest of the day or . . . ?”

Eduardo startles and looks over at Mark, who’s sitting up with a hand scratching his head. His cheek is pink from where it was pressed against the pillow all night, his eyes a little puffy, and Eduardo would jump him now if he didn’t think it’d be exceptionally inappropriate.

“Didn’t, uh, mean to wake you,” Eduardo coughs, curling his toes, nails scraping over the carpet.

“Actually, your mom did.” Mark yawns and the sound his jaw makes when it pops is loud enough to make Eduardo cringe. “They’re hosting a dinner?”

Nodding and mumbling, “Yeah, yeah,” Eduardo stares pointedly down at the floor. Maybe Mark won’t notice the red seeping into his skin tone this way.

“I should go shower then.”

He swallows hard and nods some more, acutely aware of how dumb he looks but also distinctly indifferent about it. So many conflicting ideas in his mind – there’s only so much Eduardo can do, and it’s what he’s doing now, acting as awkward as he can be.

“Right,” he hears Mark say, and then he hears the bed springs squeak and the unmistakable padding of footsteps muffled by carpet. He looks up just as Mark stops a few inches away from him, telling Eduardo to get out of the way with his eyes.

Chest tightening, Eduardo wraps one hand tightly around the doorknob and gives Mark yet another nod. “We’ll talk later, then.”

Mark doesn’t acknowledge him with anything more than a muttered, “Yeah, sure,” before he’s out the door, Eduardo frozen holding it open for him.

- - -

Dinner’s a really civil thing, if anything maybe just a little too formal. Mark’s wearing a sweater vest over a white dress shirt and a nicer pair of jeans than usual and Eduardo’s in his customary slacks get-up, hair finally clean of all sand and syrup that worked its way in when he was too concerned with Mark’s mouth to care much about what havoc was being wrought on his head. They exchange small smiles, barely there upward twitches of the mouth, over their plates, and that’s it.

Eduardo can barely focus on his food the entire evening, way too distracted by what could happen when everyone’s gone, when it’ll just be Mark and Eduardo, faced with endless possibilities. He misses some of his father’s cues to enter the conversation and accidentally angers him when he doesn’t throw all his attention onto the Liras’ daughter Marina, but he can’t really help himself when he’s so convinced that this is actually it. Mark has acknowledged it, it’s not just in Eduardo’s head anymore, and there’s really no room for anything else.

He’s thinking like a love struck teenager yet he’s not bothered by it in the slightest.

After dinner, Marina tells him that he’s a really nice guy and that whoever has him – “Or gets you?” she adds unsurely, the cutest little twinkle in her eyes – is lucky. So even with halfhearted conversation, Eduardo was able to charm her and get her to see that he’s smitten with someone else and she’s not even upset about it. She’s gracious and funny and then she’s out the door, trailing her parents into the driveway.

But of course he’s wrong to think he’ll get away with it. Just as he’s turning to go help his mom in the kitchen, where he hears Mark entertaining small talk and possibly doing dishes, his dad stops him with a tight grip on his shoulder and asks, glaring down at him, “What’s wrong with you?”

Eduardo swallows, confused. “Wh – what are you – there’s nothing wrong with –”

“You didn’t ask her out on a date,” his father elaborates, stern and unflagging, like he refuses to be otherwise swayed. Most of the time, Eduardo would try to sweet talk him down off that stupid, condescending ledge he’s constantly perched on, but right now he’s kind of stumped. Yes, he’s aware that this whole dinner was an attempt to get Eduardo attached to Marina but he didn’t think his father would be that upset if things didn’t work out. This has happened before, too many times to count. Eduardo’s never taken particular likings to any of the girls his dad has attempted to set him up with and usually he can get himself off the hook by fabricating something he didn’t like about her that he knows his dad wouldn’t like either. Right now, though, his dad seems too intent on blaming Eduardo.

“I didn’t like –”

“Bullshit, Eduardo.” Glaring, his father takes his hand off Eduardo’s shoulder and pokes him in the chest, right above his breast pocket. “There was nothing wrong with her. You were just too much of a coward to do something.”

Eduardo huffs and rubs his hand over the spot that was jabbed with a meaty finger. “I’m not a coward. I just don’t like her that way.”

“Why not?”

He narrows his eyes. “Because I don’t, Dad. She’s not my type.”

“No?” His father barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “What’s your type then, Eduardo? American? Blond hair, blue eyes? Eduardo, you know that –”

“That’s not it at all, Dad.” Eduardo groans and throws his hands up in the air, already pacing around. “I just don’t want you to set –”

“If I don’t set you up, you’re not going to find the right suitor for –”

Scoffing, “The right suitor?” Eduardo turns sharply on his heel and points a glare at his father. “I don’t need a suitor. I don’t need anyone you want for me because I am perfectly capable of finding someone on my own.”

His father rolls his eyes. “You’re way behind in that department. You’re clearly never going to find the right person to carry the name –”

“Dad!” This conversation is bordering on crazy and pointless. “I don’t want you attempting to set me up with anyone anymore, ok? I can do it on my own.”

“If you could do it on your own, you would’ve brought someone home a long time ago, Eduardo.”

“I’m twenty years old! I haven’t found anyone I’d want to spend my life with yet!”

Clucking his tongue, his father says, “Eduardo, Eduardo,” like he’s trying to soothe a baby, and slips a hand back onto Eduardo’s shoulder. Eduardo glares at it, at the arthritis-crooked fingers, and wonders how much longer he’ll have to deal with his father’s unfailing lack of confidence in him, how much more he’ll have to do to show him that he’s not as idiotic as he seems to think he is. “When I was your age, I already knew exactly where my life was headed. I had a fiancé, I had a career, I had stability. You don’t have any of those things.”

“That’s because times have changed, Dad. I’m still in college,” mutters Eduardo through clenched teeth.

“You’re going to call Marina,” his father continues, as if Eduardo hadn’t said anything at all. His eyes are locked on Eduardo’s but it’s like he’s looking right through him. “You’re going to ask her on a date and then you’re going to be her boyfriend. Are we clear on that?”

Eduardo clenches his jaw and glares. “I’m not going out with her. If you try to make me, it’ll only backfire on you, so you really don’t want me calling her.”

The shock on his father’s face is worth the hard push in the chest, even if it knocks the wind out of him. “Go to your room,” he’s told, and he doesn’t spare a glance back as he climbs up the stairs.

- - -

Mark walks in around ten, face completely shuttered but fingers knotted together, belying his steeliness. It’s clear he wants to ask what’s going on, Eduardo can feel the question on the tip of his own tongue, but he doesn’t think he has the right to tread that ground. Eduardo’s touched he even wants to know.

“Hey,” Eduardo offers from his place on his bed. He sets aside his book and pulls himself up so he’s sitting against the headboard.

Mark’s still hovering by the door when he returns the greeting. He’s not wearing his nicer clothes anymore, back in his shorts and t-shirt.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Amused, Eduardo pats the empty space beside him with his foot.

“I heard what you said to your father,” Mark blurts, fast and clipped, like he didn’t want to say anything in the first place.

Eduardo raises his eyebrows. “Ok?”

“And,” he continues, looking at Eduardo only for a second before he goes back to shuffling his feet on the carpet. “I thought you were going to give in.”

“I’m kind of done appeasing him, actually. I wish he would just see that and leave me alone.”

“Right, but he never will.”

“Mark, what is this about?”

At least that gets Mark’s attention but Eduardo squirms under his gaze. It’s gentle and intense and warm and cold all at the same time. “You really didn’t like that girl?”

“Marina?” Eduardo shakes his head. “I’m not even going to be here to be her boyfriend. It was a ridiculous idea. I don’t know how he even thought I’d start a relationship with someone who will be thousands of miles away in a few weeks.”

Mark seems placated by that, if the way his shoulders relax is any indication, and he softens his gaze a bit, drops it off to the side while he talks. “She didn’t seem like your type anyway.”

It’s not stupid to feel like his chest is going to collapse – it’s practical. He’s been feeling so many things lately, been receiving so many different cues from Mark all weekend, that it makes sense for him to be so stricken by Mark in this moment. Mark, always pretty steady in his actions, perturbed by something.

Cheesy as it is, Eduardo really, truly hopes he’s that something.

“What’s my type then, Mark?” he ends up asking, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and chewing on it.

And Mark looks at him again, wavering a little this time, and Mark says, “I’m not sure but I know it’s not Brazilian brunette. I don’t think that’s exotic enough for you,” which draws a guffaw from Eduardo. “I wasn’t kidding, though.”

Smiling, Eduardo gets to his feet and approaches Mark, who takes a step back and turns pink, probably embarrassed he let Eduardo catch him so unsure of himself. God, if Eduardo could just bottle this moment forever, he would.

“Stop,” he says quietly, grabbing for Mark’s wrist with one hand. Mark tries to hide it behind his back but Eduardo just reaches around and pulls it out, gentle as he’s ever been. “I don’t want that girl, Mark.” He swallows hard and watches himself lace his fingers with Mark’s one by one. They’re both shaking but he wouldn’t have it any other way. “I don’t want any girl, actually.”

Mark rasps, “Well, yes, you’ve made that quite clear,” and then shakes his head at himself in distaste, as if he hadn’t really meant to say that at all. Which is ridiculous, because Eduardo’s always wanted to hear what Mark has to say.

So Eduardo whispers, “Didn’t think I’d made it clear enough,” and, after wrapping his free hand around Mark’s hip and pulling him in, he leans down to kiss him. This time, it’s everything their other ones weren’t – slow, cautious, partly and reluctantly appetent, fearful that if they push it any further it’ll break. It doesn’t make sense for a kiss like this to leave them both breathless but when Eduardo leans away from Mark’s lips, he can’t make his lungs expand fast enough to capture air, and Mark can’t either because he’s panting too.

“Wardo,” he says, and he sounds so wrecked that Eduardo just can’t hear it anymore without having his heart break.

“Mark,” he says in kind, and then he takes Mark’s face in both his hands and kisses him harder than he’s ever kissed anyone before. Mark wraps his fingers loosely around Eduardo’s wrists and he’s right there with him, leaving all that reluctance stuff behind and slipping in tongue like he’s actually got purpose.

The rest of it is a blur of a flipped lock, kicked off pillows and choked sounds.

2 | the steps I took to get to look into your deepest feelings

Things are a lot better at Harvard than in Miami. They don’t have to worry about his parents walking in the front door when they’re stretched on top of each other on the couch or being quiet when they’re locked in his room, which is inconveniently located two doors down from his parents’. Sure, they have to calm it down whenever they’re in the presence of Chris and Dustin but it’s not like they’re constantly touching to begin with. Eduardo really likes kissing Mark whenever he wants but he understands he can’t just do that all the time.

He’s not even sure if Mark wants to get really involved, like in a relationship, or if he just wants to be friends with benefits or whatever.

They both have other things to do anyway. Eduardo has to campaign for his presidency in the Investment Association and it’s no easy task. Economics and business-minded people are a lot more difficult to win over than the general student population, which is what he catered to in high school. It’s even harder when there are a few Machiavellians that keep trying to cut him down whenever he makes a speech, trying to make him look worse than the competition.

That project Mark was working on in Miami, one he’s calling Course Match, is just about finished too. He’s busy getting the servers and making sure they’re running so that the site won’t crash before the Add deadline. It’s a pretty ingenious idea.

By mid-September, once things have winded down for the both of them, Eduardo’s more comfortable with Mark than he’s ever been with anyone. He’d thought the same thing last year, sure, but it’s different now. They haven’t had actual sex yet but Eduardo’s pretty sure he’s got Mark down to a T. He spends way too much time studying him not to.

Somewhere along the way, though, Eduardo misses a step. Something keeps him from noticing one very important detail: Somehow, in the midst of everything, Mark has managed to find a girlfriend.

- - -

He finds out about Erica on the first Friday night in October, four days after he’d last seen Mark.

As soon as Mark’s through the door, Eduardo pulls him by the front of his hoodie onto the bed, wasting no time in starting this night off on the right foot. Mark actually laughs into Eduardo’s mouth as he kneels between Eduardo’s knees and Eduardo can’t believe he’s gone without this all week. Granted, the hiatus is his entire fault, the first round of tests catching him by surprise and causing him to live through endless cram sessions in order to get through all the reading he’d been pushing aside. But he’s missed Mark all the same. After a month of near-constant togetherness, it’s hard to spend a few days apart.

“You did well on your tests, then,” Mark breaks away to say, that sly smirk quirking his lips as he nudges Eduardo’s cheek with his nose and rolls off to the side.

“Well, yeah, I hope so.” Frowning, Eduardo props himself up on one elbow and looks down at Mark, who’s got bruised lips and flushed cheeks. That might be a sheen of sweat at his hairline if the light isn’t playing tricks on Eduardo’s eyes. “Why’d you stop?”

Mark shrugs and casts his glance away from Eduardo, shakes his head.

This can’t be good, he thinks. Nothing good ever follows aversion. When he asks, “What is it?” he swears to himself that it’s not because he’s a masochist; he’s just concerned.

A long ten seconds pass before Mark finally looks Eduardo in the eye again, steady as always, like he’s got Eduardo cornered instead of being cornered by Eduardo. He says, “I’ve been seeing a girl,” and yeah, ok, now Eduardo can see why Mark’s gaze is so unwavering. “I met her last week at the bar.”

Blinking, Eduardo shifts around until he’s sitting Indian style on the bed, ankles crossed over each other, fingers curled tightly around the knobs of his knees. He takes a deep breath that whistles through his teeth and tells himself that no, Mark has not been cheating on him. “And you decided now would be a good time to tell me?” he asks calmly, refusing to look at Mark because he still looks disheveled and Eduardo obviously did that to him. But Mark tasted like beer and cherry lip balm and Eduardo knows for a fact that Mark doesn’t care about lip moisturizers.

“I was going to tell you last weekend but you said you had tests to study for and I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Hissing, “Oh, yeah, that’s rich. Choose now to be considerate,” Eduardo looks up and glares at Mark, who’s sitting up now too, brow drawn, lips pursed.

“Fuck you, Wardo, at least I told you.”

“Yeah, you get so many brownie points for that, Mark.” Eduardo rolls his eyes and stands up. For all he wanted to be close to Mark tonight, he doesn’t even want to be near him anymore. This ridiculous sense of betrayal is wedging itself into his chest, making it kind of hard to breathe, and sitting next to Mark is just making it worse. He grabs the back of his desk chair to steady himself and draws another deep breath.

Mark huffs somewhere behind him, “We’re not together, you know.”

It’s possible Mark could be referring to his new girlfriend but Eduardo knows way better than that. Mark wouldn’t have brought her up if he weren’t actively dating her and he wouldn’t have said what he just said if he thought he and Eduardo were in any kind of relationship. Clearly, he sees being with Eduardo as nothing more than a way to blow off steam and, well, that’s just great. “I’m aware of that, Mark,” he says sharply, talking to the desk because looking over his shoulder would mean watching Mark’s reaction. He wouldn’t be able to stomach it.

“Then why are you reacting like that? It shouldn’t matter so much.”

He mumbles to himself, “Of course it doesn’t matter to you,” and then turns around. “Whatever, ok? If it doesn’t matter then it’s ok you have a girlfr –”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“You clearly do. But, hey, it’s ok because it doesn’t matter and we don’t have to keep up this – this whatever that we are.”

“Wardo, I didn’t mean –”

“I’m not helping you cheat on this girl, Mark,” Eduardo says exasperatedly, throwing his hands up like he does when he talks to his father. Things can change way too quickly in five minutes.

“Her name is Erica.”

“That’s just great. Fucking fantastic.” Shaking his head, Eduardo goes to his door and tries to yank it open, not remembering he’d locked it. When it’s successfully unlocked, he holds the door open for Mark and gestures extravagantly for him to leave.

Mark looks at him like he’s grown two heads but gets up anyway. “You’re being unreasonable,” is the last thing he says and then Eduardo slams the door.

He goes to bed that night thinking not of Mark betraying him but of how similar his name is to Erica’s.

- - -

Because he feels like a jerk (and because he’s a much better friend to Mark than Mark will probably ever be to him), Eduardo goes to Kirkland the next afternoon and tells Mark he’s happy for him.

“What?” Mark looks surprised with the end of a dart in his mouth shaking up and down.

Eduardo actually laughs because he can’t ever stay mad at Mark for long. He’s too unintentionally funny. “I just –” Shrugging, Eduardo sits on the edge of Mark’s still unmade bed (he remembers Mark saying I will never make my bed on weekends, Wardo, deal with it when they first got back). “I acted immaturely. You deserve to have someone who will make you happy.”

It doesn’t seem like Mark understands that logic; the crease between his eyebrows tells Eduardo as much. “Ok,” he says slowly, swiveling around in his chair and then turning back to his computer after a moment’s consideration of Eduardo’s face. “Thanks, I guess.”

Eduardo nods down at the bed, sighs quietly when he realizes he won’t be sleeping in those sheets for a while, and then forces himself to brush it off. There’s no reason for this to hurt.

- - -

But after a week, Eduardo meets Erica and it hurts a hell of a whole lot more than he’d expected it to. It’s because Mark’s actually smiling and taking her hand and getting her a new beer and being his usual self but in a less caustic way. They – including Chris and Dustin – are all sitting in the common room, alternating between movies and Nintendo and beer pong, and Eduardo really shouldn’t feel alone but he does.

Just the way Mark looks at Erica, like he’s surprised that he’s happy to have her around, ties Eduardo’s stomach into knots. He doesn’t think Mark’s ever looked at him like that– but, then, he and Mark were never together and it shouldn’t matter.

It does, though. It matters to Eduardo very much and as much as he hates to admit it, he doesn’t want Erica to last long. He wants her to figure out how much of an asshole Mark can be and then kick him onto the curb. He wants her to see Mark when he’s too busy with his computer to spare her a moment of his precious time. He wants her to see the real Mark, the one who judges people before properly meeting them, and he wants her to hear Mark when he’s on one of his spiels about his classmates so that she can see that he’s not nearly as charming as she thinks.

He wants her to know that Mark’s willing to do things with guys because she doesn’t seem like the type of girl who’d like to date someone who’s also been with the opposite sex.

Then he feels bad about thinking all of those things because Mark doesn’t deserve that, not in the slightest. Eduardo doesn’t really even believe that Mark’s a bad guy. Everyone has their moments when they’re less than saintly and Mark’s just like everyone else. Only thing is that Mark’s a little cocky about his intelligence – but so what? Anyone who made a perfect score on his SAT has the right to brag a little. And it’s not like Mark’s never done anything to show his brilliance; Course Match is just one of many examples.

What makes it worse is that Mark can actually be really sweet. Maybe not so much with words but his actions speak volumes. He’s being sweet now, attending to Erica just like a good boyfriend should, and he’s been sweet with Eduardo too, drooling on his chest and ending phone conversations with goodbyes and not clicks.

It’s only fair that Eduardo give Erica a chance because she’s so nice and pretty and not at all as incompetent as he’d maybe hoped for her to be. And she likes Mark too, which is probably a first for any girl in Boston and definitely a plus.

The only thing he resents her for is taking Mark from him – and not in the sense that she’s sleeping with him (there’s no mistaking the signs of sex, even with Mark) but just that she’s using up all his free time. Eduardo used to be able to come into Mark’s room and do homework while he typed on his computer, the steady click of keys on the keyboard a welcome background noise. Now, Mark’s barely ever in his room whenever Eduardo wants to come over. He’s either avoiding him, which is pretty unlikely, or he’s really always at Erica’s dorm like Dustin and Chris say.

It turns out he can’t concentrate very well without some kind of similar background noise, so he takes to camping out in Widener near the reference desk where the librarian is always clicking or typing away, hard at work on something research-related like any good Harvard employee. It’s soothing in the way that Mark’s absence isn’t. Because, for as much as Eduardo tries not to feel abandoned, there’s a gaping, Mark-sized hole in his life that he can’t fill with anything and he’s just trying to figure out what things were like before he and Mark ever decided it was a good idea to start kissing each other and getting off together. (Not that he’s complaining about that side of their friendship; he just misses it too much.)

When Mark is in his room at the same time as Eduardo, he’s either too busy with school or updating Course Match to pay him much mind or he’s brought over Erica. There’s never enough time for Eduardo and Mark to just talk or work like they used to and that’s like a sucker punch to the gut. It’s what he misses most of all, just being in Mark’s presence.

Almost all of October passes without Eduardo and Mark ever being alone in the same room together.

- - -

At the end of the month, Eduardo slips into his desk chair around two in the morning after a really long study group session and an Investment Society mixer and finds in his email that Mark has updated his blog, something he hasn’t done since the previous school year had ended. (No, Eduardo did not start tracking Mark’s blog over the summer to see what he was up to, that’s ridiculous.)

He drops his jaw when he reads the first line of Mark’s entry and it’s silly, yeah, but he really is legitimately surprised. He’d thought Mark and Erica were getting along fine, that Mark had actually found someone he could tolerate long enough to keep around for a few months, at least, maybe even a few years. She had to be something if she was replacing Eduardo, right?

But now he’s reading “Erica Albright is a bitch” over and over, like it’s the only line on the page, and thinking, kind of regretfully, maybe this is my chance to get it right. He shouldn’t be happy about the breakup, especially not if Mark’s very clearly devastated about it, but this is what he’s waited for all month, really. He misses Mark, he really does, and if a breakup is the only thing that will bring him back into Eduardo’s life, in whatever capacity, then he’s going to be selfishly happy that it’s finally happened.

He doesn’t read anything else in the email, just shuts off his laptop, grabs his jacket and leaves.

The sooner he can get back in, the better.

- - -

And so it turns out that Mark doesn’t want anything from Eduardo but his algorithm to rank chess players so he can finish a stupid site that’s pretty much hotornot.com with female Harvard undergrads and without the ads. He feels bad condoning the site’s launch, providing the last ingredient, but it’s still Mark, his best friend, and Eduardo helps him so constantly it’s like a hobby.

He’ll pretty much do anything just to have Mark’s company again, even if all he ends up doing is watching Mark watch the site’s traffic. He’s kind of pathetic like that but that’s just what Mark does to him.

- - -

At four, the network crashes and Eduardo jumps up from Mark’s bed to start pacing around nervously, pulling his hands through his hair. Mark’s nonchalant about the whole thing but Eduardo can’t just pretend nothing’s wrong.

“Don’t you know you’re going to face some serious consequences?” He’s stopped moving for the moment, just so he can spin Mark’s chair around and get him to look at him straight in the eye. “You can get expelled, Mark!”

Mark rolls his eyes and shrugs off Eduardo’s hand. “For what? Making a site that’s too popular?” He scoffs. “I’m pretty sure this type of thing has happened before. They won’t expel me for misjudging the amount of server space I needed.”

“Not for the fucking crash, Mark!” Groaning, Eduardo takes a few steps back and holds up his hands. “You stole from Harvard. Don’t you see that?”

“I didn’t steal from Ha–”

“Mark, the pictures!” He gestures wildly at the blackened computer screen. “Those don’t belong to you!”

That seems to hit Mark, at least, which is more than Eduardo could ever have wished for. This oh shit expression takes over his face, turning his smug, self-satisfied smirk into a frown and screwing his eyebrows into one long, down-pointed line of hair. It kind of just makes him look angry, really, but at least there’s some remorse there, more than there was when he thought the only thing he’d done wrong was cause the network to crash.

Just when Eduardo starts to feel bad for him, though, Mark’s face goes blank again and he says, “I didn’t make any money off running the pictures, Wardo.”

Eduardo huffs, cheeks puffing out and everything. He doesn’t kick Mark because someone up there is looking out for Mark’s wellbeing and makes Eduardo kick the base of the wall instead. Dustin and Chris, who up until now were discussing something secretively on the couch, both give Eduardo a look that screams you’re a dumb fuck and now you’re going to need ice for a broken toe. Eduardo glares at them, points at his foot and says, “Didn’t break it, guys, thank you,” then turns back to Mark and points at him instead.

“You still used them without permission. People sue for that kind of shit all the time.”

“Look, if it’s copyright law we’re getting into –”

“No, Mark, look.” Eduardo crosses the space between them and bends down to Mark’s level, hands gripping his shoulders so that he can somehow get him to pay attention. Mark’s not looking at him directly but he’s not exactly ignoring him either, at least. “You hacked Harvard’s network. You stripped it of its images and you redistributed them. It’s not just copyright – it’s security we’re dealing with.”

“We’re not dealing with anything, Eduardo –”

“For God’s sake!” Groaning, Eduardo pushes Mark back and stands up straight again. When he starts pulling his hair again, he tries not to think about what he’ll look like by the end of his Harvard career if he ends up having to deal with Mark’s stupidity the rest of the time and focuses instead on how he can make Mark see that he’s wrong. “You’re going to get investigated, Mark. You’re going to need to work on a story so that they won’t expel you and you’re going to have to apologize.”

Mark scowls at him. “I don’t think I’ll have to apologize to anyone.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious I’ve pointed out some gaping holes in their system.”

Eyebrows raised, Eduardo tilts his head to the side and looks at Mark. Maybe if he stares long enough, Mark’s logic will transfer itself into Eduardo’s mind and stop giving him such a headache. “I . . . What?”

“If it was that easy to hack into the facebooks, how easy must it be to hack into our own personal accounts? People complain about identity theft all the time but not even at Harvard is there a secure enough system to protect its students and faculty. At least I didn’t do this with the intent to ruin anyone.” (Eduardo rolls his eyes at that, mutters oh please and sits on the edge of Mark’s bed.) “Wardo, that could be the story.”

He shakes his head. “You blogged the entire time, Mark. They know why you did all of this and how you did it.”

“Right, but they can’t deny that what I did proves how flawed their system is. If they expel me for this, it’ll only look bad on them.”

Sighing, Eduardo scratches the back of his head and closes his eyes. More of this is making sense than he had expected. “All right, fine. You’re still going to face some serious consequences, Mark.”

Mark flashes him the quickest of smiles and shrugs. “It was worth it.”

- - -

Maybe six months of probation really is worth all the attention Mark gets after Face Mash but Eduardo doesn’t really see it. Mark tries to get him to understand, tells him that before Face Mash, people didn’t know who he was. Course Match didn’t exactly get him the attention he’d wanted, not really; it was covered somewhat thoroughly maybe once in The Crimson and then shoved to the back of the paper for less than two hundred word follow-ups.

But Face Mash actually made Mark the center of attention – and that’s exactly what he’d wanted.

“We were talking about the Final Clubs before, remember?”

Eduardo rolls his head along the back of the couch so he can look at Mark, who’s got his feet kicked up on the coffee table and his eyes trained on the TV. It’s like he’s talking to no one. “What?”

“Final Clubs. Face Mash. Keep up.”

He sighs and pushes himself into a straighter position so that he’s barely leaning back anymore. “What, you think the Porc will notice you for invading people’s privacy?”

Mark looks over at him and narrows his eyes. “I didn’t invade anyone’s privacy.”

“Right, sure. So you think making a name for yourself by pretty much insulting the entire female undergrad population will endear you to a Final Club?”

He nods. “I don’t see why not.”

Eduardo grabs the nearest pillow and chucks it at Mark’s face. He would’ve kissed him if they had talked about their – their fling or whatever but Mark’s been avoiding relationship talk of any sort since the night Erica broke up with him. So all he can do is say, “Shut up and watch the movie,” and turn back to the TV so that he won’t start fantasizing.

- - -

The night Eduardo learns he’s been punched by the Phoenix S.K. Club doesn’t start out on a very exciting note but after a few cups of spiked punch at AEPi’s Caribbean Night, things get way more interesting.

Maybe Mark does belittle Eduardo’s good news with the whole it’s just a diversity thing and maybe Mark does drag an underdressed Eduardo into the cold to tell him about his new project, but at least he doesn’t step all over him and tell him he doesn’t deserve it. It’s the only good thing Eduardo can pull out of the conversation to keep himself from getting too upset about Mark’s lack of congratulations.

Oh, yeah, and there’s also the very important fact that he’s about to become the CFO of a website, which – Well, if anything’s going to make his father proud and make him stop thinking of Eduardo as an incompetent fool, it’s being the business head of a company. Since not even making three hundred thousand dollars over the summer was enough to please him, this one thousand dollar investment has to take the cake.

He would’ve appreciated some support from Mark, though. A simple yeah, that’s good would’ve been better than the you got punched by the Phoenix line he got, especially since Mark had sounded as unpleasantly surprised as he ever allows himself to sound. But with Mark, Eduardo always has to take whatever he can get. It’s never easy to push for more.

Three cups of punch later, something gets it into Eduardo’s head that he can at least try to get more from Mark. There’s really nothing stopping him from asking Mark why he wasn’t excited for him. Or why he doesn’t want to talk about Erica. Or why he hasn’t tried to kiss Eduardo any of the numerous times Eduardo made it plenty obvious that it’s what he wants.

He can’t just keep waiting for Mark. He’d probably end up waiting forever.

So he leaves Dustin and Chris talking to the Asian girls who’d been eyeing them earlier and makes the fastest trek he can manage to Kirkland without running into anything or tripping over himself. Mark’s door is unlocked and Eduardo can see Mark hunched over his desk from the entrance. He doesn’t even look up when Eduardo makes a big deal of locking the door.

“Mark?” he tries, unwinding his scarf and dumping it on top of the couch.

Mark just grunts, but it’s more than Eduardo expected.

“Can I ask you something?” He sets his coat over his scarf and walks further into the suite. His fingertips are tingling, his legs are shaking and he’s pretty sure it’s not because he just walked across campus in twenty degree weather not wearing long pants. He’s pretty sure it has something to do with nerves and his anticipation of how Mark will react to what he’s about to say.

Mark still hasn’t looked up. He does say, “What is it?” though.

That’s more than enough to push Eduardo all the way into Mark’s room and apparently enough to get him to close Mark’s door, which surprises him because he hadn’t planned this on his walk at all. Then Mark turns his face up and Eduardo can’t stop himself from surging forward and kissing him. He curls his fingers around Mark’s skull and crushes their mouths together, harder and more fervent than he would’ve liked their first kiss in a month and a half to be.

It’s all good, though. A lot better than nothing. Mark’s obviously caught off guard and Eduardo’s maybe the tiniest bit intoxicated (it’s not like the punch was spiked really well) but the kiss is better than anything he could have imagined. He slips his tongue along Mark’s bottom lip, sinks his teeth down into the tender flesh. Mark’s hands come up to grab Eduardo’s waist and they somehow end up rolling backward in the chair without falling all over each other on the floor.

Eduardo’s straddling Mark, tearing his hands through Mark’s hair, pressing himself as close as he can get. The front of his pants rubs against Mark’s stomach and they groan into each other’s mouths, Mark eventually pulling away and muttering, “Get this off,” as his fingers stumble over the buttons of Eduardo’s Hawaiian print shirt.

Clearly Eduardo has been wrong all along.

He thinks about how much time they wasted, how many circles they ran around each other trying not to step on any toes, and it makes him dizzy. Because here he is, getting undressed with Mark in mid-November, and he could’ve probably been naked hours ago if they hadn’t both been so oblivious to each other. After this summer, he’d thought they’d gotten over missing each other’s cues but it’s painfully apparent how wrong he was.

Now he and Mark are stumbling over to Mark’s bed, stripped down to their boxers, and Eduardo’s heart is pounding so fast and so hard that he’s pretty sure Mark can hear it. It feels like it’s about to fall out of his chest.

“Wardo, for fuck’s sake,” Mark groans when Eduardo puts his knee between Mark’s legs and presses it up to his crotch. He rolls his forehead over Mark’s collarbone and pants onto his neck. Goose bumps rise on Mark’s skin as he trails his fingers up the inside of Mark’s arm. “Fuck.”

Smiling, he slips his hand between their bodies, arching up so there’s more space, and wastes no time in taking Mark’s cock in his hand. The hard, familiar weight of it makes Eduardo’s head spin. He missed this, missed having Mark at his mercy, but most of all missed being able to touch. For him, there’s never been anything like this. There’s never been anything like feeling Mark breathing under him, his chest expanding, his stomach rising. There’s never been anything like Mark whispering Eduardo’s name, chanting it when things get to be too much.

Eduardo wants this, all of it, so much that it hurts. And now that he has it back, he wants nothing more than to get everything else.

So when he gets Mark to the point where he’s thrusting into Eduardo’s palm, scratching one hand down Eduardo’s back, Eduardo leans in close. He kisses him and tugs his bottom lip out with his teeth and then whispers into Mark’s ear, his eyes screwed tightly shut, “I want to fuck you.”

Mark actually stills and yanks his head away. Eduardo can feel him trembling and he doesn’t let go. “You want to – like actually have – with me?” he pants brokenly, making almost no sense.

Eduardo knows him well enough, though, and he can fill in the blanks and extract the underlying fear in his words. God, he feels so helpless, watching Mark’s face redden and his eyes dart around so they won’t stop on Eduardo’s. There is no way Eduardo could ever get out of this thing he has with Mark without feeling something very deeply for him.

Whispering, “Yes, I do,” he nods and kisses Mark, eyes open so he can see how Mark reacts to him. It’s like a flash went off in his eyes or something, he’s blinking so fast – and it’s then that Eduardo notices, right before he starts kissing back, that Mark’s eyes are red.

- - -

After that night, they have sex a lot.

Neither of them has ever been with a guy before so it’s interesting. They have to figure out what their best position is and what lube doesn’t make Mark’s hands dry out. They have to find which condoms don’t break easily and if it hurts to push too fast. They get drunk one night and Eduardo’s fingering Mark while they’re making out on the couch when he discovers that if he starts with two fingers, it’s actually easier to open Mark up.

They’re learning on the fly and it couldn’t be better.

Mark’s work on the Winklevoss’ dating site and his own site gets in the way sometimes, sure, and so does Eduardo’s school work and Phoenix parties, but they make it work. Mark’s especially hard to pull away from the computer after one of the Phoenix activities but the point is they’re working. There’s no more of that missing cues thing or that hesitance thing.

It’s just them and they’re having fun and there are no labels and Eduardo couldn’t ask for anything more.

- - -

The Phoenix accepts Eduardo late in the first semester and Mark doesn’t really say anything about it.

Even as Eduardo explains the new tie he’s going to get – all black, little white birds dotting it – Mark’s not paying attention. He’s just typing, fingers tapping the keyboard smoothly, without a single moment of hesitation. There’s nothing Eduardo can say to break Mark out of his godforsaken routine – and he’s tried all the tricks he’s learned recently.

“Do you even care?” Eduardo asks pointlessly, setting a half-finished beer on Mark’s nightstand and gathering his things. The whole minute he spends packing his backpack, the only response he gets is a more rapid patter of keys. He doesn’t need any more signs from Mark telling him he doesn’t care.

Muttering, “I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” he brushes past Mark’s desk and walks quickly out of the room, head bowed as he ducks out of the suite and out of the way of a confused Dustin. His feet can’t carry him fast enough back to Eliot in the snow.

It’s stupid. They don’t talk to each other for days.

- - -

Mark shows up with a small box the following week, looking kind of harried with his already unruly hair resembling more of an afro than the curly mob it’s supposed to be. Eduardo’s just arrived from being sworn in and he’s not sure what to do.

“I know I was a jerk about you getting into the Phoenix but I didn’t really mean it. At first, I didn’t want to admit that you were better than me and that you were more desirable to Final Clubs than I was. But then I thought about it and I figured they could use someone like you and I’d just probably bring them down.”

Blinking, Eduardo steps to the side to let Mark in and crosses his arms across his chest. He’s never heard Mark be so self-deprecating before.

Mark fidgets with the box and looks everywhere but at Eduardo’s face. “I wasn’t jealous. I just didn’t think you deserved it.”

Eduardo scoffs. “Is that why you’re here now? You wanted to tell me this so you could feel better about yourself? Or was that other thing just a backhanded compliment?”

“No.” Mark finally looks in Eduardo’s eyes and Eduardo sees the panic that briefly flickers in Mark’s. “Past tense, Wardo, I don’t think that anymore.”

“Then what do you think?”

Shrugging, Mark shoves the box into Eduardo’s hands, says, “Congratulations,” to the floor and backs away. He doesn’t leave.

Small as it is, the box weighs kind of heavily in Eduardo’s palms, like maybe it’s a watch or something, or a rock, since Mark has the sensitive capabilities of one and would think giving one would remind Eduardo of him the most. Or something equally stupid. He doesn’t open it; it just sits in his hands as he stares at Mark intently, trying to figure this out.

It’s not like Mark to backtrack on something like this. It’s not easy for him to admit mistakes and try to make things right like any other normal person. Mark’s problem-solving skills are either really eccentric or nonexistent and, from past experience, Eduardo would say Mark doesn’t know how to fix anything that isn’t on a computer screen.

But here he is, actually trying, unknowingly breaking Eduardo’s stupidly fragile heart all over again, and Eduardo wants to forgive him so badly because fighting with Mark is a losing battle. Somehow, they’ll end up back in each other’s good graces and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

He bites his lip for a few seconds and then asks, clearing his throat, “What is this?”

Mark doesn’t want to look up, Eduardo can tell from the set of his shoulders, so Eduardo puts his free hand under his chin and tips his face up. Mark’s Adam’s apple bobs against his knuckles. “A watch.”

Eduardo’s chest tightens and he drops his arm to his side. “Why would you get me a watch?”

Mark shrugs at him again then shakes his head, thinking better of it. “Yours is old.”

“I like my – well, yeah, it’s really old.”

“Are you going to open it?”

Eduardo considers that for a moment. If he doesn’t open it now, he can insist later that Mark take it back. It’s not necessary for him to bribe Eduardo with gifts just so he’ll forgive him. All he ever needs is genuine remorse and Mark’s given him that already, just by being fidgety.

“Later,” he decides, smirking. Right now, he needs to feel Mark writhing beneath him, needs to see him tossing his head back and forth, needs to hear him whimpering Eduardo’s name like he would whisper God’s name in prayer. He needs to watch him lose his unclenching grip on control and give into pleasure because it’s been so long and he wants Mark to enjoy this so badly.

After setting the gift on his desk, Eduardo yanks Mark to him, hands fisted in the front of Mark’s sweater on each side of the GAP emblem. Their mouths mold and their teeth click together. Eduardo’s rough in all ways, wanting to keep Mark here, even if it’s just for the night.

- - -

A month after winter break, Thefacebook finally goes live. He and Mark send emails to fifty different people and sit in front of the computer for an hour, drinking beer, watching the hits come. He has to nudge Mark awake a few times because he starts losing his train of thought in the middle of their conversation. Eventually, he gives up and lets Mark drool on his shoulder. Eduardo tips his head back against the wall and strokes Mark’s hair, fighting off sleep until he can’t do it anymore, regardless of it still being early in the night.

He wakes up to Dustin shaking his leg and Chris snapping his fingers in front of Mark’s face. Even when he’s groggy he can tell their tag-teaming technique is some kind of ploy to get them to do something stupid. That notion is reinforced when he notices how strong Dustin’s breath smells of alcohol and if Chris is helping him, he must be drunk too.

Groaning, “Stop fucking touching me,” he kicks at Dustin and turns his nose into Mark’s hair. Mark’s still blissfully unaware that two monkeys are trying to wake them up.

“Aww, lookit that, Chrissy!” Dustin gushes. One of them starts clapping. “Ain’t it jus’ so sweet?”

“You fuckin’ tease, Wardo,” Chris starts, and Eduardo looks at him because he really sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. Which doesn’t make any sense at all. “You said you weren’t gay!”

That makes Dustin start laughing obnoxiously but Eduardo doesn’t get it. It just makes him confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You fuckin’ – you fuckin’ owe me.” Chris points at him and his hand’s wavering. “You owe me big time, Wardo.”

“For what?”

Dustin jumps in with, “You’re so fucking Mark, aren’t you?”

Eduardo widens his eyes and blushes. “No, what – no, that’s just –”

“Aha, I knew it!” Laughing again, Dustin starts jumping around, twirling in a circle, and he eventually drags Chris with him, who doesn’t look happy at all. Eduardo would get him to the bathroom because he actually looks like he’s about to throw up but he doesn’t want to leave Mark’s side. That his arm is numb and his butt hurts is no matter; he’s too warm to give this up.

Dustin’s stupid dance eventually leads them out of the room. They’re considerate enough to close the door.

Mark grunts into Eduardo’s neck, “Thank God,” and Eduardo laughs. He didn’t even notice Mark waking up.

“They’re idiots,” he says, kissing the top of Mark’s head.

Yawning, “Yeah,” Mark sits up straight, freeing Eduardo’s side, and then just rolls over so he’s lying down instead. Eduardo follows suit, assuming that if he doesn’t sleep spooned up behind Mark tonight, he won’t get any sleep at all.

He doesn’t even feel embarrassed thinking that – or thinking, right before he falls asleep again, that he could probably live with this forever.

Part Three

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper I hurt (it only gets worse), part one

2011-05-26T03:04:46Z

Tite: The deeper you cut, the deeper I hurt (it only gets worse)
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark
Rating: R
Word count: ~38,500
Summary: Mark can get away with anything, even if it cuts Eduardo to pieces.
(or, the one where Eduardo and Mark run circles around each other, intersecting only when they both want the same things; in other words, the beginning and end of Eduardo and Mark's sexual relationship - although there's really not THAT much sex)

1 | sometimes things are just beyond control

Two months fly by in the summer before Eduardo’s junior year, June through July spent in Brazil predicting the weather. He makes money off it – lots and lots of money, way more than enough to impress his father – and when he gets back to the States, he’s glad to see his father actually is proud. At first he berates him for being so stupid and taking so many risks, but it’s mostly in jest. He smacks him playfully in the head and then pulls him into a hug, genuinely happy to see him.

Somehow, Eduardo has three weeks of break left. Three weeks of sleeping in, relaxing, reading things he actually wants to read instead of seventeenth century British literature that isn’t even related to economics. He heaps issues of The Economist and the Miami Herald and the Wall Street Journal onto his desk and spends hours each day reading every article, taking notes and digesting the information at a pace suitable enough for leisure. He gives their housekeeper Rosa days off and cooks dinner sometimes, puts to use the skills his uncle taught him in Brazil and tries to prove that he has enviable culinary visions.

He doesn’t make many phone calls. He doesn’t go on dates with any girls. He doesn’t stay at parties late. He doesn’t break his 4 AM curfew. He doesn’t think about his friends or the people he hasn’t spoken to in months.

He doesn’t try to contact Mark because it hurts that, after almost a year of constant communication, Mark didn’t even try to make an effort to talk to him once the first week of June was over. There were no emails asking about Brazil or his job or his family. There were no emails telling about Mark’s internship at ADCOM or his ventures in the fast food world. There was nothing about anything and by the Fourth of July, Eduardo had stopped checking his email for anything from sender zuckonit@aol.com.

So when Mark calls him two Mondays before Eduardo’s supposed to go back to Harvard, it’s surprising. Eduardo almost drops his phone in the sink and is pretty much out of breath when he answers, “Hello?”

A host of shouts and blaring car horns filters through the speakers, almost drowning out Mark’s voice when he says, “Wardo, hey, what’s your address?”

“My what?” asks Eduardo while he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and tries to force himself not to breathe too hard. It’s just Mark. He’s probably inventing some program that will automatically compile all the addresses of your friends when you put in their student numbers or something like that. There’s nothing for Eduardo to worry about. Not really, anyway.

“Your address.”

“What do you need my address for?”

Mark’s sigh is drawn out and long suffering, the kind he uses when Dustin asks stupid questions or a classmate makes an obvious observation, the kind Eduardo really shouldn’t worry about now because he doesn’t need to be remembering things like that anymore. Eduardo can picture him rolling his eyes and shrugging, no qualms about making others feel inferior. But Eduardo really doesn’t need to be imagining Mark right now – or at any moment, really.

“Well?”

Mark replies, “I need to tell the cab driver,” so fast that Eduardo takes almost a minute to process the words all the way. His chest feels so tight he can’t even breathe properly.

“Why would you tell a cab driver in New York my address, Mark?” And there his voice goes up an octave, like when he was in eighth grade and had to read a passage in his social studies book aloud and his voice cracked up to an embarrassingly high pitch.

“Not in New York, Wardo. In Miami. Can you please hurry up? I’m about to lose this guy if you don’t –”

“Why are you in Miami? You never told me you were coming – you didn’t even talk to me until right now. Who even said you could –”

“Eduardo, we can’t argue about this right now. You need to tell me –”

“I can pick you up myself,” Eduardo blurts, blinking fast and breathing hard and thinking too fast, a hand over his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tells himself that it’s ok. He can get through this phone call and get to the airport and not want to strangle Mark in public. He’s sure this is a good plan.

“I don’t want you to pick me up, Eduardo. I want you to tell me your address so I can get the fuck off this street and go back into an air conditioned environment before I get vaporized by the heat coming off the asphalt. Ok? Tell me.”

Sighing, “Fine,” Eduardo rattles off his address, listens to Mark regurgitate it to the cabbie, and then leans against the kitchen counter. “You should’ve told me you were coming, Mark,” he finally says, once Mark’s seemingly done settling into the backseat.

But he doesn’t get a satisfactory response. Mark just says, “You would have told me not to,” and hangs up, as if he hadn’t just spent the whole summer ignoring Eduardo.

He spends the next forty minutes alternating between pacing the living room floor, wrecking his hair with his hands and tidying up his bedroom (the last thing’s more out of habit than anything else; his room’s always pretty clean). He knows he should call his parents, warn them of Mark’s arrival, but he doesn’t even know how long Mark will be here. He doesn’t know if Mark reserved a hotel room or if he assumed Eduardo would let him stay over until he had to go back to New York. He doesn’t know about any of his decisions – and that’s not how friends are supposed to treat each other, not even in Mark’s world. He can’t just show up without warning. It’s not logical. Mark’s lucky Eduardo’s home; Eduardo could’ve been in Orlando, hanging out with some family members at Universal Studios or something. It’s a good thing Eduardo’s no big fan of theme parks.

It’s past three o’clock when Eduardo, from his perch on the kitchen counter, hears a car honk at the front gate. He quickly gets rid of the remains of his orange and goes outside. After being indoors all day, he’s blasted with a 90-degree temperature that threatens to melt all the clothes off his body. From the front door, Mark’s figure looks like a mirage, wavering in the sun. It’s not until Eduardo’s only a few feet away that he can think oh, hey, that’s actually Mark. Then he sees the GAP emblem on Mark’s shirt and he knows he’s not just imagining things.

Eduardo steps up to the gate, arms crossed over his chest, and blinks at Mark, who’s squinting in the sun. “Hello, Mark.”

“Wardo,” Mark says, and it sounds like almost every other time Mark has said Eduardo’s name in the last year, like he wants him to stop whatever he’s doing and pay attention to him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well.” Mark pulls his backpack up his shoulder and that’s when Eduardo notices Mark is actually conscious about the hot weather – he’s not wearing his hoodie. “I’m here to see you.”

“What if I hadn’t been here?”

Mark shrugs – he actually thinks he has the right to shrug when Eduardo is interrogating him – then must notice that Eduardo’s glaring at him because he says, “I guess I would have found a hotel until I had to go back home, then.”

“Which is when, by the way?” Eduardo’s foot starts to tap against the driveway impatiently.

“Two weeks from today.”

“You mean right before we have to go back to Harvard?”

“Yes.”

“You plan on spending the rest of your summer in Florida?”

Mark shrugs again. “I guess.”

“In Florida, with me?”

“Am I not making that clear by standing in your driveway with a backpack and a suitcase?” Mark shakes his luggage at Eduardo to make a point.

Eduardo huffs, sticks out his bottom lip. This is not on. “How was I supposed to know you even wanted to talk to me after you spent the last two months ignoring me?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Wardo. I was busy. You were busy.” Eduardo rolls his eyes and mutters, as if that’s important, while Mark continues, “We were both busy and it didn’t make sense to waste time sending emails that wouldn’t get responses for days.”

Although he feels righteously indignant, Eduardo stops himself from yelling when he says, “It did not take days for me to respond to emails,” and points at Mark accusingly. “If anything, it took you days to respond to emails. And then a week passed and I figured you just didn’t want to talk to me anymore.” He doesn’t mention that he logged into MySpace pretty regularly, just to look at the last time Mark had logged in, to make sure that Mark really was avoiding him and not just grounded from the computer or something.

“Was I supposed to send you an email saying that I wouldn’t have time to respond to you again?” Mark seems to think it’s ok for him to be upset now even though it’s obviously his fault that they’re even having this conversation in 90-degree weather in Eduardo’s driveway of all places in the first place. But Mark’s looking at him with narrowed eyes and has his head turned slightly, like he’s daring Eduardo to say something – anything – and Eduardo refuses to take the bait. “That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it, Wardo?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eduardo mutters immediately, and then he finally wrenches open the gate and lets Mark in. “You’re taking your own shit upstairs.”

When Mark walks past him, he casts a sidelong glance and throws Eduardo a smirk. “Whatever you say, Wardo.”

Eduardo puts his hand between Mark’s shoulders (no, no, no, he’s not thinking about what that feels like, he’s angry right now, too angry to be concerned with trivial things like the warmth of Mark’s shirt or the sweat he can feel even through the cotton, oh he must be really hot poor – no, no, no, he must shut down that line of thought) and pushes him up the driveway. “Shut up and walk.”

- - -

Eduardo’s father comes home around seven that evening, not that long after Rosa makes dinner, and quickly shuts the door to his bedroom. Mark’s at his desk, typing loudly and quickly, and Eduardo sets his hand on Mark’s shoulder.

Mark doesn’t even acknowledge Eduardo but he does respond, “What is it?”

Eduardo’s fingers dance lightly across Marks’s collarbone then squeeze. “My dad’s here.”

“And?”

“I haven’t told him you’re staying with us.”

“That’s bad of you.”

Sighing, Eduardo shakes his head and goes to sit on the edge of his bed, pulls a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t like houseguests, Mark. Especially not ones he hadn’t planned on having. Ever.”

Mark spins around in Eduardo’s chair, already very obviously at home because all he needs is to be in front of his computer, and shrugs very helpfully. Eduardo rolls his eyes.

“You could always hide me in the closet if you really wanted to.”

Eduardo snorts. “I don’t think that’s a very feasible plan. I may not like you very much right now but I’m not going to have you suffocate.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“Thanks.” Eduardo sighs again and rubs his sweaty palms up and down his thighs. “You’re going to get me in some kind of trouble, Mark. This is why you should’ve warned me.”

“Well, we can’t undo what’s already been done. You know I’m here now, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.” Mark turns back to his computer, just to close it, and then sits next to Eduardo, puts a warm, slightly shaky (why the hell is Mark even shaking, he’s not the one who’s got to face Eduardo’s dad, it makes no sense) hand on his forearm. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

All Eduardo can do without looking flustered (because there is absolutely not a smattering of thoughts like holy shit Mark’s touching me he’s trying to be nice what is going on in his head or anything) is scoff, “You don’t know him, Mark,” and stand up. “I appreciate the sentiment, though,” he hastens to add, when Mark seems to briefly deflate. “I’ll just, uh, deal. With him, or whatever. I’ll figure it out, don’t worry about it. He won’t kick you out or anything. I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, that sounds reassuring,” Mark says, and at least there’s a hint of a laugh in that sentence, a little bit of deprecation. He’s not wounded that Eduardo pushed him away and that’s all Eduardo needs.

“We’ll figure it out.”

- - -

At first, it doesn’t seem like Eduardo will get his way. His father, recently arrived from work, lounging on the couch with the TV tuned to CNN so he won’t have to deal with any of his children, is doing everything in his power to ignore him, even though he’s saying pai pai pai over and over, in different combinations, but he still doesn’t get his attention. Pai, I’ve got something to tell you. Pai, will you listen to me for a second? Pai, this is important. I –

It’s five minutes before they lock eyes but Eduardo knows better than to assume they’ll engage in any kind of conversation. His father looks right through him, tells him to come back later and turns back to the news.

It’s always like this, without fail, and Eduardo can’t let this keep happening all the time. He just can’t deal with not being heard every time he wants to contest something or suggest something or even just say something that might change his father’s mind. He’s dealt with this shit, this being nothing more than a mirror off which his father can see his reflection shit, long enough.

“God – Dad! Listen to me!” Eduardo shouts, standing in front of the television now. He shouldn’t have to be yelling about this. He shouldn’t have to be yelling about getting his father’s attention period.

His father – and Eduardo thinks he might just start calling him Roberto from now on, for all the fatherly things he does – fails to be shaken. He just crosses his arms across his wide chest, moves his neck back a bit so that his double chin is incredibly, ridiculously prominent and blinks at Eduardo. Blinks, like looking at him is such a terrible waste of time. “What?”

Huffing, Eduardo decides he won’t even beat around the bush. This conversation has been so long already, and for no good reason at all. “One of my friends from school is here and he needs a place to stay for two weeks.”

“What does this have to do with me, Eduardo?”

He glares. “He’s staying here.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He has nowhere else to stay!” Eduardo throws his hands up and lets both of them slide onto his neck, where his fingers steeple and twist in frustration.

His father shakes his head. “You know I don’t like houseguests, Eduardo. You didn’t even warn me –”

“He just showed up, Dad!”

“Oh, yeah? What, did he knock on the front door this morning when you were still in bed sleeping?”

Eduardo makes a point of breathing slowly and deeply so he won’t fly across the room and punch his dad in the face – not that he would ever really do that, but maybe if his father weren’t his father he would. “Look,” he says, cutting the air with his hand and leaning forward in what he hopes can only be a menacing manner. He wishes he didn’t have to be so disrespectful, that his father would just deign to speak to him in a civilized manner so that he wouldn’t have to pull out the Worst Son of the Century mask, but that’s all he can do is wish. “I can’t kick him out. He’s my friend and I want him here. You can’t just act like I don’t have any right to –”

“What’s going on here?”

Eduardo whips around at the sound of his mother’s voice and widens his eyes at her, gestures wildly behind him. “He’s being unreasonable!”

“Again?” She smiles and sets her briefcase on the desk in the corner of the room. Just by walking in, she manages to defuse all the tension and Eduardo stands there, kind of awestruck, completely silent. “I come home to both of you yelling and now none of you wants to tell me what this fight is about?”

“Sandra,” his father starts, but Eduardo immediately shakes the cobwebs that briefly sheathed his brain and interrupts.

“Mom, can my friend Mark stay with us for two weeks?” He watches her eyes flit back and forth between himself and his father, who he’s not even facing anymore, and says, before she can ask if he has anywhere to stay, “He’s already here – I didn’t even know he was coming, he just showed up.”

She sighs. Eduardo knows she hates taking sides, especially when it comes to him and his father. Her entire career is based on her ability to separate herself from situations and allow the parties involved to work their issues out on their own. She couldn’t call herself a good counselor if she insisted on telling people who’s right and who’s wrong. All she can do is give reasons for why each person is both right and wrong, but whenever she has to stand between her husband and her son, it’s never an easy problem to fix without hurting one of them.

“Eduardo, you know your father doesn’t like company –”

“Mom, he’s here! I can’t just send him to –”

“But,” she intones, raising her eyebrows at Eduardo pointedly and stopping him with a hand, “I understand that if he’s your friend and you want him to stay here, then neither I nor your father should deny you that luxury.”

“Sandra –”

“Roberto, he barely ever has friends come here anymore. It’s not that much of a burden.”

His father finally gets off the couch and now stands a few feet to Eduardo’s left, red-faced, huffing, hands on his hips. “But for two weeks?”

There’s only so much indignation Eduardo can put up with. Thankfully his mother takes this fight on herself. “That’s nothing. I want Eduardo to enjoy the rest of his summer and since he returned from Brazil, he hasn’t really done much of anything seemingly entertaining. Just allow him a two-week reprieve from your No Houseguests policy, Roberto. He’s your son, after all. No need to treat him like a prisoner. This is his home too.”

When his father breathes out a really long sigh that sounds like it has a difficult time leaving his lungs, Eduardo briefly wishes he’ll run out of oxygen and drop like a fly onto the carpet – but he doesn’t really want that, obviously. He loves his father, he actually does, but right now he’s angry and can’t be held accountable for the thoughts that fly through his head.

“So, it’s ok, right?” Eduardo looks to his father for an answer this time, mostly because he wants to see the defeat in his eyes (he really needs to get a handle on his evil half).

His father shakes his head and, through gritted teeth, says, “Yes,” and goes back to his spot on the couch.

“Bring your friend – Mark, you said, right? He’s the one you told us about all the time last year? – down for dinner in twenty minutes, ok?”

Eduardo nods exaggeratedly and wraps his mother tightly in his arms, presses a firm kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, mãe.”

She pats his back, whispers, “No problem, querido,” and playfully ruffles his hair. “Now go. Get ready for dinner.”

- - -

It turns out that Eduardo’s father actually really likes Mark. He laughs at Mark’s snide comments and agrees with his views on the status of the economy. Mark’s pretty clearly a Democrat and Eduardo’s father is a Republican but they don’t butt heads when they discuss how unlikely it is that the Clinton surplus the federal budget was still riding pre-9/11 will have any significant impact on how well Bush does in his presidency. It’s all a matter of how well he handles war and how shallowly or deeply he digs himself into a hole. The public won’t remember the surplus when 2004 comes around; all they’ll remember is how Bush acted when their safety was threatened.

Eduardo doesn’t think he’s ever heard Mark talk like this.

His father asks Mark about his career plans and Mark isn’t sarcastic. He says, “I want to make something that’s not expendable,” and Eduardo furrows his brow because he’s not sure he understands. Mark doesn’t care about money; it’s why he didn’t sell Synapse to Microsoft. Making something that’s “not expendable” would be the complete opposite of not caring about money. He’d need money to run this “not expendable” thing, probably lots of it if the programs Mark’s made before are any indication of how good it could be. But, Eduardo realizes, it’s not really worth an argument now, honestly. Probably not worth an argument ever, or at least not until this thing comes into existence, so he shoves his thoughts aside.

His mother is not nearly as impressed with Mark as his father is but she does smile at him. She seems to like his sarcasm and his dry wit but the conversation about politics and economics bores her about as much as it bores Eduardo (that’s actually kind of bad, he thinks, being an Economics major and all; he should be participating but he’s too shocked at how well the discussion is going without him to contribute). Eventually, she excuses herself to start putting up the dishes and Eduardo is left to be a third wheel all by himself because she doesn’t ask him to help her. In fact, she gives him this look of he’s your friend, you’re going to deal with it when she takes his plate.

He has to force himself not to look too unhappy.

“You really hit it off with my dad,” Eduardo says later that evening, when they’re finally allowed to go back to Eduardo’s room. Mark’s already at his computer again, writing whatever new project he has in mind. Something that will connect students better, help them choose what classes to take, is what Mark explained before.

Mark mumbles, “Yeah, he’s a cool guy,” but doesn’t acknowledge Eduardo any other way.

Eduardo sighs. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Why, because you don’t?”

He blinks. “What the fuck, man?”

All Mark does is shrug.

“Well, fuck you too,” Eduardo growls, and then he leaves his room and goes out to the patio, even though it’s pretty much completely dark now. Mark hasn’t even been here six hours and he’s already frustrating the shit out of him.

The thing that bothers Eduardo the most is that he just lets Mark do this to him. He always has. From the day he met him to now, he hasn’t learned a thing.

He used to think that the only reason Mark ever says anything out loud is to prove to people that he’s not as antisocial as they make him out to be, but, as time marched on, he came to the conclusion that Mark is just a pathological asshole. Period. It won’t matter if they’re in line for pizza or standing outside a frat house waiting for entrance, Mark is predisposed to irritating the hell out of people. He could be saying anything that crosses his mind while they’re waiting for a theater ticket and strangers will turn around at every ridiculous comment – “Wardo, can’t you see it? If a sinkhole opens at our feet, it would swallow the entire university, eradicate our enemies and afford us the luxury of never having to put up with the sheer idiocy of collegiate mêlée ever again.” – and they’ll glare, wrinkle their noses, mutter something obtuse under their breaths.

And after, they’ll turn away, probably blaming Eduardo for allowing Mark in public in the first place. Like he should have known better than to drag the slimy little miscreant out where anybody could see him. Like he could have prevented the bestowal of Mark’s kind graces by smothering him with a pillow before leaving the dorm.

They just don’t understand that where Mark is concerned, Eduardo has absolutely no power. He can’t stop Mark from saying hurtful things or thoughtless things or outlandish things because Mark is like a force field. He’s selectively permeable, willing to let in only the most important opinions, and, a lot of the time, Eduardo doesn’t own one of those.

Well, maybe not a lot of the time. Just often enough that Eduardo feels even more inadequate than the time his father was upset with his SAT score – “Dad, it’s 1,410 points, 190 less than a perfect score. How much more could I have done?” “If you had studied a little harder you could have done a lot more.” – and a knife twists in his gut to make it even worse than that because it’s Mark and he’s supposed to be his best friend, he’s supposed to at least consider what he has to say.

But, in spite of it all, Eduardo always forgives him. He justifies himself by acknowledging that Mark’s only defense mechanism is douchebaggery. Being an idiot is just how he deals with anxiety. It’s in Mark’s genetic makeup; there’s nothing Eduardo can do to change that.

Mark can get away with anything, even if it cuts Eduardo to pieces.

So that’s how Eduardo goes back to his room about an hour later and says, to Mark’s back because Mark doesn’t seem to have turned away from his computer since Eduardo left him earlier, “I don’t care if you and my dad get along. Actually, it’s more favorable this way. Now I don’t have to worry about him getting annoyed with your presence for the next two weeks.”

“I’m glad you’ve realized the advantages of the situation, Wardo. I was hoping you wouldn’t stew over this issue for too long.” Mark looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. Eduardo kind of wants to punch him in the face but then he says, “I wanted to get him off your back so I bullshitted him. I’m sorry if I offended you in any way,” and Eduardo suddenly has the urge to kiss him.

Which is weird, because he’s never felt that before and it should definitely not be happening. However, he can’t stop a blush from climbing up his neck and he ducks his head so he won’t see the look on Mark’s face when he realizes Eduardo’s now beet red. “I guess I appreciate it, then,” he mutters, and turns away to busy himself with getting clean clothes out of his dresser. “You can, um.” He whirls around again and Mark’s back at the computer, only he’s typing carefully this time, in a way that Eduardo’s never seen. He has to stop and catch his breath for a second because suddenly he’s feeling so many things. He can’t make sense of any of them. Swallowing hard past a knot in his throat, he twists a t-shirt in his hands and kicks uselessly at the carpet. “I’m going to shower and go to bed so, uh. Feel free to stay up ’til whenever but I can’t really sleep with you making noise in my room, so –”

“I’ll go to the guest room, yeah,” Mark finishes for him, saving him from more embarrassing stammering, and he grabs his computer and crosses the room in a few strides. He doesn’t look over when he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Instead, he stares at his hand on the doorknob, and after a brief pause, in which he nods to himself like he’s affirming something or other, he leaves, door hissing shut in his wake.

Eduardo lets out a huge breath and stumbles confusedly out into the hall after him, glad the bathroom is in the opposite direction of the guest room so he won’t have to deal with this thing, whatever it is, that’s pressing down on his chest in front of Mark.

- - -

The rest of the week flies by surprisingly smoothly. Eduardo’s father was so impressed with Mark after dinner on Monday that he pulls Eduardo aside on a rare afternoon off, when Mark’s upstairs working on code, to tell him, “Your friend has a great head on his shoulders. You need to keep him around to see if it will rub off on you. He’s got good ideas about business that you could learn a lot from.”

Eduardo huffs and is about to say something smart, something contemptuous along the lines of, “I wasn’t planning on pushing him away just because you like him, father,” but his father adds:

“Don’t screw this up.”

And Eduardo deflates. He doesn’t let Mark know about the conversation later, when they’re both silent in his room, Mark click-clacking away on the keyboard and Eduardo turning the pages of his latest Economist issue. It’s better, he’s sure, to keep it to himself because Mark pretended to be someone his father would approve of to get his father off his back and that’s got to mean something after all. No point in making Mark feel guilty when he honestly had only good intentions in mind.

So when Mark finally powers off his computer for the rest of the evening and looks at Eduardo expectantly, like he can see right through him with that unnervingly steady gaze, Eduardo shoves his magazine aside, even though he’s in the middle of a piece on page 169 about detecting tsunamis, and shrugs. “What do you want to do now?”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “We should get some ice cream or something, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure whatever you’re reading is terribly boring and I’m done with my stuff for now and your house is nice and all, but there’s not much to do once night’s fallen, so we should go out.”

Eduardo snorts, shaking his head, but gets up all the same because he can understand Mark’s logic and he doesn’t really want to be cooped up in his room for the rest of the night anyway. “Fine. But frozen yogurt is better.” Mark makes a face. “I promise. Come on.”

So that’s how they end up on the grass in the backyard, eating vodka floats in really large Yogen Fruz containers, laughing stupidly in really high-pitched tones with their faces pressed against a ratty old blanket Eduardo procured from the garage. Mark’s cheeks are pink and his lips are sinfully red and Eduardo has to look away and sit up to eat some more before he starts to think very dirty things. He can’t have a crush on his best friend, that’s unacceptable, and he’s pretty sure his vodka-fied yogurt understands because it slips down his throat smoothly and doesn’t make him choke when he fleetingly wonders how Mark’s mouth would taste, if it’d be all bitter mango-y or if it’d mix with his own taste and become bitter mango-pineapple-y.

Mark looks at him skeptically but that’s as far as they get into deep questions territory. He seems to be content with Eduardo snappily asking, “What?” and he doesn’t bring it up, not a single time, the rest of the week.

- - -

On Saturday, Eduardo drags Mark out to the beach at eleven o’clock in the morning because they haven’t really done anything exciting yet. At least at the beach there are girls they can look at, water they can swim in, hot dog stands they can buy bad food from. The most thrilling thing they’ve done to date is steal alcohol from Eduardo’s father’s liquor cabinets and that only happened with some arm-twisting on Mark’s behalf, because even though Eduardo knows he can be a bad son (well, he really isn’t; he just has some terrible thoughts every now and then) he doesn’t ever want his father to blame him for anything. And since none of his siblings are here for him to thrust any blame onto, it only makes sense that he’s a little hesitant about lifting anything from his father. But Mark’s always been persuasive and Eduardo’s a sucker for Mark’s logic, so they ended up outside making vodka floats.

Today, though, Eduardo’s determined to show Mark that they actually can have fun in Miami; it’s not all about shopping (they actually haven’t done that yet, but that’s mostly because Eduardo knows there’s no point in taking Mark down to Bayside when he won’t even enjoy himself, yacht tours or not) or hiding in movie theaters or eating Cuban food. Maybe swimming in saltwater and getting a second-degree burn isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but Eduardo could care less at this point what Mark wants. Cabin fever in the summer is so deplorable it’s beyond the point of return and he has to fix that.

So he refuses to take lip from Mark when they spread out their towels in a spot that’s only partially shaded by the palm tree they manage to find a clear place under. Mark doesn’t look particularly happy to be here but he doesn’t look totally displeased either; Eduardo decides to mark this outing as a victory even though he hasn’t exactly gotten Mark to take off his shirt yet.

“You’re going to burn anyway, you know,” says Eduardo, waving a can of sunscreen in front of Mark’s face.

Mark swats at him and wrinkles his nose. “There’s a reason I brought my hoodie.”

“Why, so you could get heatstroke and maybe die? I don’t think that would convince your parents that you’re very good at taking care of yourself, man.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the most in danger of losing credibility if I die under your watch.”

Eduardo glares and kicks sand at him. “Put the damn sunscreen on. It’s, like, SPF 1000, so you won’t turn red.”

“Actually, it’s quite clearly…” Mark snatches the can from Eduardo and looks at it closely. “SPF 85. So.”

“Just put it on. It’s easy spray-on sunscreen. It’s not that much of a hassle.”

“I could get it in my eyes.”

“Not if you’re careful.”

“Well, I’m not the most careful person, you know that very well.”

Eduardo huffs, “Forget it, Mark. Burn if you want to but I’m not taking you to the hospital,” and turns away to take off his t-shirt. He hears Mark mutter under his breath, “Fine, have it your way,” and can’t do anything but turn back and smile.

“What are you looking at?”

Shrugging, Eduardo takes back the can from Mark once he’s tossed aside his shirt, gestures for him to spin around and mists him with the spray. Two minutes later, it’s almost as if they’re not at the beach at all because the only thing Eduardo can smell is the overpowering scent of something vaguely coconut-y, a breeze coming off the water blowing sunscreen right back into Eduardo’s face. He coughs and sticks the can under his shirt so it won’t burst in the heat.

“All right, let’s go,” Mark says, not even waiting for Eduardo’s input before he’s starting to walk away. Eduardo reels him back by the elbow, though, and raises an eyebrow at him. “What is it now?”

“You know you have to wait a few minutes, right?”

Mark just blinks.

“Have you never been to the beach before?”

“No, I have been, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, and how long ago was that?”

“Wardo, you can let go of me now.” Mark shakes him off. “And it was on a vacation before I started high school. We went to Norfolk for a week and we did a lot of jet skiing. Or it felt like a lot anyway, since we did it twice. But, yeah, we also went to Washington D.C., so I learned a lot about sunburns that summer.”

“Oh,” mutters Eduardo, rubbing his hand up his arm self-consciously and looking down at the sand. He’s struck with this odd sense of jealousy, like he’s maybe a tad bit envious of Mark’s ability to recall something fun from his childhood. The most memorable family vacation he ever went on was to Miami before they moved here for good, and all they did was scope out places to live and go to a few different restaurants that had awesome kids’ menus he could draw on.

Mark kicks sand at him this time and asks, “Wardo, can we go now?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s do that,” Eduardo mumbles, even though he just told Mark to let the sunscreen sink in first, and then he kicks off his flip-flops and takes off toward the water, running because the sand’s a little too hot to walk on.

- - -

The thing about swimming is that it’s so easy to get exhausted. They both try to stay in the water for more than a few hours, just floating around on their backs and letting the waves wash them back to shore like they had been doing all along, but Eduardo ends up swallowing too much salt and Mark gets annoyed speaking to the other nosy beachgoers around them, so they go back and crash onto their towels.

Mark, on his stomach, head pillowed on his t-shirt, is the first to fall asleep. Eduardo tries but he’s always been paranoid about falling asleep in public places. He contents himself with downing a bottle of water and reading a book instead. And if Mark makes noises and moves closer to him, well, he doesn’t mind reveling in that either.

He’s pathetic, is what he is, pining over his best friend when he’s never done that before. It doesn’t really make sense that after spending so much time together at Harvard he would only now develop feelings for him. That couldn’t possibly be a good thing, right? He obviously knows about the whole “best friends make the best lovers” thing because Hollywood gets a kick out of that plotline often enough, but there’s no way that can actually be real. Life doesn’t work like a movie; there’s never really an “aha!” moment that leads to clumsy stumbling over to a recently-discovered love interest, just a “well, shit, I’m fucked” moment that leads to obsessive thinking about what the other person would do if you ever made a move on them. That’s not exactly conducive to a working relationship. Plus, he’s pretty sure Mark would have to consider him a best friend too and he’s not completely convinced that he does, surprise visit and impressing his father aside.

And there’s also the fact that he’s just now realizing he’s attracted to his best friend and that’s not really all that acceptable, in his family or anywhere else. It’s causing him way too much stress and if Mark ever did reciprocate Eduardo’s feelings, Eduardo couldn’t reel him into a relationship without feeling guilty for being so confused about everything. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them but least of all to Mark.

So he resolves to let this infatuation thing go because it can only end in disaster anyway. That’s all it can do because when he loves – and he’s already getting ahead of himself and he’s not even in love with Mark or anything, at least not yet, and he doesn’t think he will be (he might hope so but – no he really doesn’t need to be thinking about this) – he loves completely and Mark’s a jerk who would probably use that against him, which would just lead to heartbreak and a terrible parting of ways. Eduardo would really like to keep his best friend, thank you very much, even if it means having to keep quiet about his feelings. It’s not too hard a decision to make, not really.

A girl comes along eventually, wearing a fairly modest bikini but swinging around her beautiful brown hair and effectively jarring him. She crouches beside Eduardo and Eduardo immediately sets down his book to give her his full attention. Her smile is nice, teeth all straight and pearly, and her eyes are unbelievably blue. She looks like she’s stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

“Hi,” she says, handing him a piece of bright-colored cardstock with blocky text on it. “I’m Liz.”

Smiling, Eduardo props himself up on his elbow and extends his free hand to her. “Eduardo.”

She giggles – giggles – and shakes his hand. “Um, one of my friends is having a party tonight. It’s just five dollars at the gate and there will be live music for a while. You know, drinks. All for five dollars – you should come!”

He nods down at the flyer and looks back up at her, taming his eyes so they won’t start roaming. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“And bring your friend too. The more, the merrier, right?”

“Guess so,” he laughs, endeared by the rosy color of her cheeks and the flitting of her eyes. He doesn’t think she should be nervous around him, not by a long shot because he’s just Eduardo, he’s harmless. He tries to give her the most reassuring smile he can because he never wants anyone to feel uncomfortable around him, and he says, “We’ll be there.”

Then she looks hopeful for a moment and Eduardo figures a little flirting can’t hurt. He’s got to deal with his feelings for Mark – his Mark Feelings, he thinks he’ll call them – somehow and there really is no better way than being proactive on the dating front to prove to himself that he’s not completely gone on Mark.

She leaves him her number, seven blocky digits written on the back of his invitation with a pen he dug out from his beach bag, and walks away, looking every so often over her shoulder at him and waving goodbye when she gets too far for them to keep staring at each other. Eduardo feels good and turns back to his book, a goofy grin on his face, all ideas about him and Mark out of his head for the time being.

After a while, he looks over at Mark. He’s not snoring or anything, just breathing quietly and blowing the hair on his arms away with every exhale. He looks peaceful, actually, much like the way he looks when he’s coding with a good idea of what he’s going to accomplish or when he was nodding off next to Eduardo the other night after having enough to drink. His skin is so smooth, tinged red by the sun, no creases of concentration anywhere on his face. All Eduardo wants to do is kiss him, trail his lips down the bridge of his nose and skim his fingers across the soft, fair hairs of his eyebrows. Mark’s lips look dry and he wants so badly to kiss him that he almost doesn’t realize he’s leaning down. He jerks back, heart pounding in his chest, and distracts himself by pulling his t-shirt out from under his elbows and lifting Mark’s head to pillow it before he starts to inhale sand.

So much for Operation Flirt with all Girls. It’s clearly not going to help.

He sighs and looks back at his book. The words blur together. Instead of reading, he thinks about the jolt of electricity that passed between his and Mark’s fingers when they passed a bottle of wine back and forth the night before. Eduardo had bought a six-dollar bottle from Publix right at closing and they spent a few hours lying poolside, handing the bottle to each other every couple of swallows, steadily getting drunker. At one point, Eduardo had reached out for it too early and his fingers grasped futilely at the air until Mark finally set the bottle in his palm. He closed his fingers right over Mark’s and either none of them paid it any mind or none of them decided it was worth it to move away. They stayed there, holding hands for a few minutes, until Mark coughed and shook Eduardo off. Eduardo had blushed deeply and taken a long pull. When he looked over at Mark, he’d fallen asleep and it was like nothing had happened.

Mark breaks into Eduardo’s thoughts with a clear, “Wardo?” and Eduardo does his best not to jump five inches off the ground.

“Hey,” he says, schooling his voice into sounding normal. His book has been laying spine-up on his chest for way longer than he’s aware and his eyes feel kind of gritty. He must have fallen asleep. Sighing, he pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks down at Mark. “Nice nap?”

“I think I should be asking you that.” Mark smiles that sarcastic smile of his.

Eduardo finds himself stupidly thinking he wants to kiss it off his face. He shakes head of his thoughts and rolls his eyes at Mark. “Yeah, well, whatever. Listen, we were invited to a party.”

Mark’s eyebrows arch up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s five dollars at the gate but there’ll be live music and lots of alcohol.”

“How’d you hear about this?”

“Oh.” Swallowing, Eduardo sits up and draws his legs underneath himself, Indian style. “A girl came by and –”

“Was she hot?”

The look of genuine interest on Mark’s face throws Eduardo for a loop. “Um, yeah, I guess she was. I, you know, didn’t look at her like that, it would’ve been rude.”

“Right,” Mark says, nodding, and also sits up. Eduardo catches sight of the bright red patch of skin on the back of Mark’s neck before Mark clamps his hand over it and rubs. “So we’re going?”

“Yeah, if you want to.”

All Mark does is blink, as if to say no shit, you dumbass, booze, girls, music, sounds like a hell of a party, and Eduardo actually does feel stupid. What was he even doing, thinking Mark would want to do something alone with him on a Saturday night when there’s a party they could go to with all the alcohol you could want.

He mutters, “Right, ok, yeah. Let’s go to the party,” and picks up his book, bites his lip to keep from frowning.

- - -

Eduardo doesn’t find Liz that night. There are so many people, so many beautiful girls, so many of them with long, brown hair, that he gives up after half an hour of searching and settles for the first girl who jumps at him. She’s pretty, too, like all these other regular beach-goers, the ones that lay out an hour a day just to turn the right shade of bronze before classes start up again and they have to hide in libraries and dorm rooms until their color fades and it’s winter and they can’t do it again. Her hair is sandy blond and there’s a braid of it around her head like a crown that Eduardo really wants to smooth his fingers over, just to feel the perfect texture of it. The dress she’s wearing is the kind that hugs all curves and seems uncomfortable to walk in but it looks so good on her – the yellow of it just really offsets her skin tone and it’s like she’s glowing – that Eduardo ignores his usual distaste for showy outfits.

It helps that this girl, named Mandy, has proven to be pretty smart in the fifteen, twenty, thirty – Eduardo’s bad at keeping track of conversation times – minutes they’ve been talking. She goes to U Miami and is also going to be a junior a few weeks from now. Pediatrics is what she wants to devote herself to, so Eduardo tells her about his sister, who’s actually at that same school now and wants to work in pedodontics. It strikes up a nice aside about how Mandy came to her decision to work with children. If this party were anywhere else, at any other time, she’d be the kind of girl he’d want to date.

But he keeps glancing across the room at Mark every few minutes. Mark, who’s stunted in the social niceties department, seems to be engaging in a non-confrontational discussion with a cute girl. They’re actually laughing and neither of them looks forced doing it. She’s not put off by anything he says and Eduardo has to pull himself out of that train of thought because he doesn’t even want to wonder about the reasons why he’s so interested in the dynamics of Mark and his new friend. He’s had enough of this crush.

He needs something to drink.

“Would you like a refill?” he asks Mandy, unaware if he’s interrupting her or not. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, because she hands him her cup and smiles and that’s all Eduardo needs for confirmation that she’s not hurt by Eduardo’s abrupt decision to cut her off.

The drinks table is so much more peaceful to stand by than that wall. He doesn’t have to look at the back of Mark’s head or the way the girl he’s talking to curls her hand around his biceps and leans up to whisper in his ear. He doesn’t have to think about what it would feel like to touch Mark like that himself, to slip his fingers under the sleeve of his shirt (it’s actually Eduardo’s blue Polo that he’s wearing because he claimed that he didn’t have any more clean, stainless shirts to wear tonight and it looked so good on him that Eduardo couldn’t tell him to put it back on the hanger he stole it off) and touch the sun-warmed skin of his muscles, finger the curves they make in his arm. He doesn’t have to pretend that it fails to annoy him because he can pout down at the punch all he wants for the next few minutes until he has to go back to Mandy.

This much yearning for his best friend isn’t socially acceptable, he’s pretty sure.

When he returns, he pointedly ignores Mark’s existence and hands Mandy her cup with a smile, all teeth bared as not creepily as he can manage.

“So how do I know you didn’t slip something in my drink?” she asks teasingly, voice lilting up in pitch in an adorable impression of a squeak.

Eduardo can’t help but laugh at that, at everything. What’s not to laugh at, anyway? Just because Mark’s actually succeeding tonight on the girl front it doesn’t mean Eduardo can’t enjoy himself, right? He can have fun with Mandy and not feel terrible for it at all. He has no reason to feel terrible for it.

“I mean,” she goes on to add, “guys are kind of notorious for things like that.”

“Do I really look like someone who would do that? Do I look like a rapist to you?”

She giggles. “No, but neither do most of the guys who carry roofies around in their pocket.”

Smirking, Eduardo pretends to dig around in his pocket for said drug and then shows her how empty-handed he comes out. If she’s smart, it probably won’t trick her. “See? Nothing there.”

“Oh, please, you probably only carried one and then threw the bag out before you could get here.”

“All right, all right. You’re right, I did put something in your drink,” he laughs, rolling his eyes and licking his lips. “I just didn’t think you’d want to be with me any other way, you know?”

“And that’s the funny thing about it,” she says, and there’s this knowing look in her eyes as she hands him back her cup. “Some of the guys who do it act as if they can’t score on their own but all they really need to do is sweet talk. Now, just to prove yourself to me, drink from both of those.”

Eduardo shakes his head amusedly and takes sips from each cup in his hand and smacks his lips playfully. “Mm, delicious. Tastes just like a date rape drug.”

Mandy beams at him, lips stretched around her teeth thinly but not in a completely hideous way, just in an endearing way. She takes her drink back and takes a long gulp of it before she says, “I knew you were a decent man, Eduardo.”

“I try my hardest to be, actually, so I’m glad I’ve managed to get that across. It’s kind of exactly what I was hoping for, that you’d fall for my charm.”

“Oh, you might be taking it too far, actually. I’m not charmed. I’m not that easy.”

“That so?” Eduardo grins over the brim of his cup and takes a few steps closer to her, finally bridging the distance between them and setting his hand bravely on her waist. She gives in, hard to get façade faltering, and immediately covers his hand with her own tiny one. Her eyes sparkle and everything goes kind of foggy as Eduardo focuses his gaze on her alone, finally able to get Mark out of his peripheral vision, out of his mind. “I’m not saying you’re easy or anything but you seem pretty well captivated by me.”

Mandy shakes her head slowly, bottom lip caught under her teeth, and moves even closer, so close Eduardo can feel her stomach press against his own and her bare leg touch his. She says, coy words just above a whisper, “Well, I can’t say that you’re unattractive because you very clearly are. And I can’t say you’re a jerk because you’re a total sweetheart.” Her fingers pull on his wrist until his hand’s pressed into the small of her back. “But I can say that I’d really like you to kiss me right now.”

Eduardo gulps. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Humming, she quickly downs the rest of her drink, takes his and sets both their cups on the mantle behind them.

So Eduardo licks the last bit of punch off his lips and leans down to kiss her, really tentative at first. Even as she slides both her hands up his chest and laces them behind his neck, he doesn’t think he should push her any further. Even as she fits her leg between his thighs and nips at his bottom lip, he can’t make himself take advantage of her – not that he’s taking advantage of her, exactly, since she’s really urging him on. She’s making soft noises and massaging the back of his scalp and whispering, “Come on, Eduardo, we’re just having fun.”

But he can’t, ok, this isn’t how he does things. He can’t make out with this girl – this beautiful, intelligent girl – when dozens of people are milling about and loud music is playing in the background and Mark’s across the room. Just the thought of doing anything unbecoming in public makes Eduardo’s stomach lurch; if there was food in his stomach, he’d probably throw it up. He’s just not built for the public display of affection thing, he never has been. It’s the reason why all three of his high school girlfriends dumped him. They didn’t think handholding was a good enough public gesture and they broke it off to find someone who’d want to make out with them at their lockers between classes.

He can’t stand here and let everyone watch him make out with Mandy and start judging. It’s not fair that people could form opinions about both of them, think she’s desperate and he’s unwilling or something. He’s not unwilling; he just can’t do this in front of everyone. And she’s not desperate, she’s just – well, she’s just horny, maybe, because she’s still making these quietly obscene sounds while all Eduardo is doing is kissing her and rubbing the small of her back with the side of one hand and gripping her waist with the other. There’s nothing too dirty about the situation but it’s getting there.

Worrying if people are watching is what gets him to open his eyes. He darts them around quickly, suspicious, just trying to find anyone giving them a disgusted look so he can have an excuse to put the brakes on this charade and suggest they go upstairs. He doesn’t expect to lock gazes with Mark and he doesn’t expect the reaction he gets from him either. Mark’s staring at him blankly, blue eyes unblinking, in that way Eduardo’s seen before when Mark’s annoyed by whoever he’s talking to. Only now he looks kind of sad too.

That might just be Eduardo’s subconscious talking, though. Wouldn’t it be convenient if Mark were jealous of Mandy, if he wanted to take her place?

It’s a crazy thought and he pushes it down, way down where he won’t notice it anymore.

Ten seconds is how long they stare at each other before Mandy tugs on Eduardo’s hair and Eduardo realizes he hasn’t been kissing her. This is stupid, he thinks, so incredibly stupid. A beautiful girl obviously wants to have sex with him and he’s obsessing over his best friend instead. He closes his eyes as soon as Mark makes a snippy comment to the girl he’s talking to and grabs her cup before he walks away. He doesn’t want to see her reaction because he doesn’t want to wonder what Mark said. All he wants to do is take Mandy upstairs and stop this from getting out of hand.

- - -

Almost an hour has passed since Eduardo last saw Mark. He’s been searching for him for what feels like ages and he hasn’t even caught a whiff of him. The girl Mark was talking to earlier told Eduardo he’d never come back with her drink and then asked him to relay the very typical “you’re an asshole” message as soon as he found him, which is starting to seem like a very unlikely possibility.

So now he’s dialing Mark’s cell phone for the hundredth time and still reaching voicemail. He’s running out of options.

He probably shouldn’t be down here searching for Mark anyway. He should still be upstairs with Mandy, who was so nice and understanding about his unwillingness to go forward. He should still be up there, kissing her breathless and making her feel good. He barely knows her but he feels like he owes her that, just for not being bummed about him not sharing her same desires. She even gave him her phone number, telling him to call her when he’s figured it all out, and the scrap of paper she wrote it on is burning a hole in his pocket right now.

The second he finds a trashcan, he’s going to toss it because no one deserves to be led on and he never plans on using that number for any kind of favor.

Eduardo’s search leads him out into the humid night. The further away he gets from the front door, the more he’s beginning to think that Mark left without letting Eduardo know. It’s not a good feeling, thinking your friend has abandoned you.

That’s probably why he’s so happy he finds Mark sitting on the hood of Eduardo’s car, so he doesn’t have to consider that possibility anymore. (It has nothing to do with the fact that he hasn’t even had the chance to tell Mark about his feelings for him, of course not.)

But he has to pretend to be angry, at least, so Eduardo rounds the front of the car and folds his arms, gives Mark this appraising look and raises his eyebrows. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says, voice steady.

Mark blinks at him then goes back to taking a pull from his beer bottle. His lips come away wet and Eduardo has to try very hard not to look at them.

When it becomes apparent that Mark isn’t going to respond, Eduardo presses, “Why’d you leave like that?”

Mark shrugs this time.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“I don’t have a fucking problem.” Mark snaps his gaze back to Eduardo and narrows his eyes a little, looks about as menacing as Eduardo has ever seen him.

It hurts a little.

“Jesus. Why don’t you go back to that girl and leave me the fuck alone? I was perfectly fine without you coming out here to haggle me, so.”

Knot rising in his throat, Eduardo does the exact opposite of what Mark tells him and joins him on the hood of the car. Right now, he doesn’t really care if the metal bends out of shape under their weight – not that it should, anyway – because he just wants to get this dilemma out of the way. There was the slightest trace of bitterness in Mark’s words, barely there long enough for anyone who’s untrained in Markisms to notice, and Eduardo needs to figure out where it’s coming from. Mark couldn’t possibly be jealous; it must just be the beer talking.

“Wardo, seriously, there’s nothing to talk about.”

He shakes his head and puts his hand on Mark’s jaw, yanking his face over so that he’ll actually look him in the eyes. If he lies, fine, but at least Eduardo would’ve gotten his attention. “What is this about?”

Hissing, “What is what about?” Mark shakes Eduardo’s hand off and shifts away. The way he draws up his knees and looks morose when he drains the rest of his beer makes Eduardo think of a petulant kid. His bottom lip’s all puffy and Eduardo wants to, very ill-advisedly, lean over and nip it.

“Was that girl not good enough for you or something?”

“What girl?”

“The one you were talking to.”

“Oh.” Mark aims his bottle at the bushes and tosses it. Glass shatters as it slips through the thin branches to the ground. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You must have had a good reason to just walk out on her like that.”

He turns his face to Eduardo, expression blank, and just blinks.

“Ok, fine. Don’t tell me.” Sighing, Eduardo stretches out his legs and looks up at the sky. He wonders if he sounds wistful when he asks, “Wanna get out of here?”

It’s probably just his imagination playing tricks on him because when Mark says, “Yeah,” it sounds kind of wrecked and that’s just not the way Mark talks.

Part Two

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse) masterpost [mark/eduardo]

2011-05-26T02:57:46Z

Title: The deeper you cut, the deeper I hurt (it only gets worse)
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Eduardo/Mark (and also implied Mark/Erica and Eduardo/Christy)
Word count: ~38,500
Summary: Mark can get away with anything, even if it cuts Eduardo to pieces.
(or, the one where Eduardo and Mark run circles around each other, intersecting only when they both want the same things; in other words, the beginning and end of Eduardo and Mark's sexual relationship - although there's really not THAT much sex)
Credits: Title from “The Way She Feels” by Between the Trees. Chapter titles from “Curl Up and Die” by Relient k. Beautiful art by kissoffools that you can see here.
Warning(s): drug use, underage drinking, not fix-it
Beta: The amazing, talented, patient, wonderful, sometimes demanding yellowwolf5. Without her, this fic would not be the length that it is or the way it is.
Note: Written for tsnbigbang/thesocialbbang.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Also available on AO3.

drabble meme stolen from deviliknow

2011-05-13T19:37:43Z

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

Title: I don’t want my life to be so full of bad and misery.
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: PG-13 (mainly for drug use)
Summary: A series of drabbles based on a music meme.

Note: I cheated, ok? I looked over this a few times and edited. I also stopped a few songs so I could finish the scenes that I couldn’t leave halfway. I’m sorry! Anyway, these are pretty much all an AU with Mark and Eduardo as homeless druggies? I don’t know how that happened. Daughtry came on and I was just like, well, ok, this works, I like it. So there are three actual TSN drabbles, one of which is AU, and the remaining seven are all druggie AU. Yeah. I’m not sure. I’m tempted to write more.

Walking on Water – Ryan Cabrera

Mark can see Eduardo from his spot in his office at home, can see Eduardo biting his lip and scratching the back of his head at the kitchen table. The door’s cracked open enough that he can even see the way Eduardo’s jiggling his leg up and down, nervous, like he’s trying to decide what his next course of action should be.

Mark wants to go over there, wrap his arms around his shoulders like some kind of sap, and tell Eduardo that he actually can do this. He really can go back to Florida and talk to his dad for the first time since he moved back to the States. The email was an invitation enough; clearly the elder Saverin wants to make up and it’s only fair that Eduardo give him a chance. But Mark’s never been one to believe in such acts of forgiveness and he’d feel hypocritical if he just pushed Eduardo into something he doesn’t want to do.

So Mark just stays in his office, watching and waiting for Eduardo to push himself away from the table, pick up the phone and book a flight to Miami. He’s pretty sure it’s going to happen. Eduardo’s a strong person.

My Love Will Follow You – Dierks Bentley

Eduardo hates himself for this, actually. He’s being stupid, pretending to ignore what he saw in the papers, acting like Palo Alto is the only place he’d like to be the rest of the summer so Mark will be satisfied. It’s not like him to just let people walk right over him but it’s Mark and Eduardo’s so fucking gone on him that he doesn’t even care. If it buys him a few more months or a few more years, he’s going to make Mark happy because –

Well, he’s just an idiot.

But he’s so in love with him that he’ll give him what he wants. There’s no telling, really, when this will go down. It’s just a stipulation. Mark could change his mind.

He can only hope.

Used To – Daughtry

Erica takes up so much of Mark’s time that Eduardo finds himself reeling, like he’s stumbling blindly in the dark, so out of whack, so knocked out of orbit.

Mark used to be his lynchpin, the one person who could ground him in the present and make him stay there.

Now all he wants to do is go back to his old ways. He wants to find his old friend and fork over a hard-earned hundred dollar bill like it’s nothing.

He wants that feeling back.

Because when Mark told him about Erica and said he couldn’t just be there for Eduardo anymore, Eduardo felt his chest split wide open.

There’s no way to fix it but going down.

The Fairy Tale – Ryan Star

Mark watches Eduardo spiral out of control, from a distance, aching for him so badly but unable to help him anymore. Erica’s got a tight hold on him, unwilling to let him go back to that, and Mark sometimes wants to punch her and tell her she doesn’t know shit because she doesn’t, ok, she doesn’t know what it’s like to just – to just lose all the time.

She tells him one night, when Mark’s curled onto his side, staring out the dark window, wondering what Eduardo’s doing now that he’s not watching him, she leans her chin on his biceps, soft hair brushing on his still weak chest, and she says, “You’re not his keeper, Mark. You can’t throw your life away for him.”

And he wants to shake her and yell at her but he can’t because, for one, she means well, and secondly, he actually loves her. And although he’ll never love her like he could (like he will always love Eduardo) he wants to be everything for her. She pulled him out, she saved him from drowning, and she doesn’t deserve backlash for that.

So Mark takes in a shaky breath and nods and wonders, still, if Eduardo’s found a place to sleep tonight because he can’t bear the thought of Eduardo wandering tiredly around the city, unable to sleep for fear of being mugged or killed or something. Mark has had enough experience with that as it is, but he always had company. Eduardo’s alone now.

Mark can’t save him.

What If You Stay – Chuck Wicks

Mark can’t move.

Everyone’s milling about him, whooping and hollering and popping champagne and spraying each other in an area clear of all expensive technology. Sean’s leading the pack, standing on a swivel chair and punching the air, yelling something stupid that Mark can’t understand.

He doesn’t bother to, actually. He can’t care about it, really.

The image of Eduardo stalking away, led by security guards, is burned onto his retinas. He closes his eyes and sees it on his eyelids and he opens them and sees its afterimage on the wall.

He can’t escape it. His fingers ache to grab his cell phone, dial Eduardo’s number, beg him to come back. But he knows Eduardo wouldn’t listen – he probably wouldn’t even pick up.

Mark can’t do anything right now.

When a Heart Breaks – Dave Barnes

Shivering, Eduardo huddles himself under the shade of the tree and throws his old, threadbare coat around his knees. He pulls his hands up under the collar and drags it up to his chin, trying to cover as much of his body as he can.

It’s October in Boston and he has nobody.

He used the last of his money to buy himself a slice of pizza and now he feels terrible, hyper aware of the way the grease is pooling in his stomach. It doesn’t help that he bummed a joint off a stranger earlier either. It could’ve been laced with something and now he’s like this, shaking like an addict off his fix, because it’s too damn cold outside.

(And he is an addict and he is off his fix but that doesn’t explain the feeling of being left.)

And it’s October and Fenway’s thrumming somewhere across the water and Mark’s nowhere to be found. Eduardo hasn’t seen him in days.

It’s breaking him.

Orange Sky – Alexi Murdoch

Erica doesn’t usually let Mark walk out alone this late at night. She usually insists that she accompany him or that he wait until daylight. But he actually begs her for just one walk alone, just to clear his head. He needs the chilling air to pierce his lungs tonight. It can’t wait until morning.

It’s been months since he’s seen Eduardo. It’s March and his birthday is soon and Mark wants to find him.

Erica doesn’t know that, though.

So he’s out here, walking as fast as he can without sliding around on the ice. He finds people he knows would have seen Eduardo recently, asks about his whereabouts. No one has a straight answer but he gets the idea that Eduardo’s in hiding.

And there’s only one place Eduardo hides and Mark knows that place like he’s certain that his blood is coursing through his veins.

When he finds him, huddled in the corner of that abandoned tree house sleeping, Mark drops to his knees beside him, heart suddenly lighter and heavier at the same time, and wraps his coat around Eduardo. Mark’s fine, wearing a hoodie and another jacket, but Eduardo’s got the only coat Mark’s ever seen him with and nothing else. He can tell by the way Eduardo’s teeth are chattering in his sleep. It’s not enough to just leave the coat, though, so he pulls Eduardo into his arms and rocks him and mutters nonsense. It wakes Eduardo up and he tenses in Mark’s arms but then he realizes it’s Mark and he curls into him, making a choked noise.

Mark stays with him until he’s warm and he doesn’t look at his watch when Eduardo leans back because he knows it’s been at least three hours since he left and Erica’s probably going insane. Right now, Eduardo’s a little more important.

They don’t talk at all. Mark just lets Eduardo stare at him and gape and then he lets him clutch him and squeeze him and he even lets Eduardo push him away because he deserves it. He deserves it because he abandoned his best friend. It hurts, it really does, but he never thought it’d be easy either.

But just when he’s about to hug Eduardo, an obnoxious beeping fills the ragged silence between them and Eduardo disappears and Mark jars awake. Erica leans over him to shut the alarm off.

It’s been two months since he left Eduardo for good, not even January yet, and he’s dreamt of Eduardo in some way, shape or form every night.

He wants to look for him so badly but he can’t.

Keep Your Head – Ting Tings

Nights like these are fun.

Eduardo managed to score something totally pure and they took it and now they’ve been running around the city, sweating and stripping down to their undershirts in the crushing heat of the summer, for hours. Eluding sidewalk performers when they jack a few dollars out of their cases. Taking drinks of water from sprinklers that are set up along curbs. Barging in and out of random bars looking for God knows who, probably imaginary people Eduardo makes up at some point to keep them entertained.

Mark never knew what it was like to feel consistently adrenalized but he does now. Eduardo teaches him how to come down, though. He pushes him against the brick wall of a closed-up bakery and shoves his tongue down his throat, licking over his teeth. When he pulls away, he says, “Your turn,” and Mark doesn’t hesitate to spin them around and return the favor, tasting Eduardo’s mouth urgently, lapping him up like he’s an oasis in the desert. He’d always thought making out with Eduardo would make him crazier but it actually has a sobering effect. When they pull away from each other, he’s breathless and boneless and his energy’s not boundless anymore. He wants to sink to the ground, pull Eduardo over himself like a blanket, and sleep.

Eduardo chuckles amusedly, the puffs of his breath tickling Mark’s lips. “We should find somewhere to crash.”

All Mark can do is nod because his tongue is too heavy and he wants to crash, wants to crash with Eduardo so bad. There’s no way he can ground himself now.

Keep Faith – Matt Wertz

Mark holds a shuddering Eduardo in his arms tightly, nosing the back of his neck and rocking him. “Shh,” he whispers, eyes closed tight against the darkness. “It’s going to be ok,” he says, and he’s not sure he even believes it himself.

But Eduardo whimpers in acknowledgment and he steadies himself a little, just the slightest.

This is how Mark learns to bring Eduardo back, in the backseat of a car in the middle of a spring night.

Bar-ba-sol – David Cook

Eduardo wakes up with a foul taste in his mouth and he scrambles to his knees, hustles over quickly to the toilet and dry-heaves into it for a few minutes until he realizes he can’t bring up anything. He collapses feebly against the opposing wall and when he tips his head back and to the side, he sees Mark staring at him from the doorway, looking like a train’s run him over.

“Hey,” he mutters hoarsely.

Mark comes over to him, sinks to the floor beside him, and leans into his side. Eduardo wraps his arm around his shoulders and presses a kiss into his hair.

“Are you feeling better?” Mark’s words are muffled into Eduardo’s sweat-damp shirt but Eduardo can still understand him. He’s always been able to understand him.

So he nods and says, “Yeah,” even though he knows his throat is sore and that he can barely talk. He doesn’t remember last night but he knows what happened just from past experience. He’s actually kind of amazed Mark managed to get them some place to sleep. “Are you?”

Mark just shrugs.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was nothing.”

But Mark curls his fingers tightly around Eduardo’s belt loops and Eduardo understands that too. It was very clearly not nothing but he won’t push Mark. He’ll find out eventually how Mark got a black eye.

fic: thinking back, thinking of you (andrew/jesse)

2011-04-17T01:36:09Z

Title: Thinking back, thinking of you
Pairing: Andrew Garfield/Jesse Eisenberg
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Companion to HS AU. Her laugh is tinkly and kind of forced. It sounds exactly like Jesse's did the last time they spoke, when he wanted to convince Andrew that everything was fine.
Note: I was hesitant to post this because it's out of context again but, shit, after writing almost 6,000 words of comment fic in the 'verse, I feel like this should reach more people. Title from "Dakota" by Stereophonics, which was the song that came up in response to yellowwolf5's request. Only extra info you need to know is that Andrew and Jesse go to the same college but Andrew's in London for a theater program. Things are tough.

No one can say he didn't try. No one can tell him that he should've fought harder or that he shouldn't have taken 'no' for an answer. No one can say he didn't state his case over and over until he could barely talk.

Andrew did all of those things and now he's here, sitting at a pub in London, avoiding all the members of his company, drowning his sorrows in mugs of beer. Jesse hasn't talked to him in almost three weeks, since Andrew left after the semester break. It'll be Valentine's Day soon and even though they weren't going to be able to spend it together this year, they could've at least Skyped or something – if Andrew hadn't somehow screwed up over the holidays, if he hadn't somehow made Jesse think that he didn't want their relationship to continue anymore, just because he was in this London program for a school year and was away from home four months at a time. He's spent a lot of time trying to figure out what he said that made Jesse believe in such a preposterous thing but he can't remember a single instance where he might have suggested a breakup would be good. In fact, he's pretty sure he did everything he could over the break to convince Jesse that they could make it through this but Jesse didn't want to listen.

And now he's moping, staring at his beer and remembering all the random things they did when they figured out what being drunk felt like. That summer before senior year, when everything between them was still new and fragile, when sneaking alcohol out of their parents' liquor cabinets was the best way to spend the weekend. Some of those nights, they'd drive out to the lake and pitch the tent they'd bought from Wal-Mart a year before. Instead of sleeping in separate bags like they used to, they'd zip both of theirs together and huddle closely, arms thrown around each other to keep warm, breaths mingling hotly between them when they'd been making out so long they could barely gasp for air. There were other nights too, unseasonably chilly ones when they'd get Andrew's older brother, who was home from Princeton for the summer, to buy them wine and they'd light up the fireplace in Jesse's living room. They were in charge of watching Hallie Kate and, once she was sleeping, they went downstairs and tried to watch movies. But instead of paying attention, considerably intoxicated by both the wine and the smoke, they'd end up shamelessly rubbing against each other on the floor, hidden by the coffee table in case Hallie woke up.

So many memories and so much alcohol and Andrew's an ocean away from New Jersey, trying really hard not to picture Jesse in the library, studying his history books under the lamp stuck to the table, color-coding with highlighters to his heart's content. Andrew's failing miserably at this task. He's failing so badly that he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and dials Jesse's number, doesn't even have the patience to look through his contacts list.

The phone rings two and a half times – a brief moment of silence when the call connects and Andrew can make out the sound of Jesse's breathing, but then the call ends and he's been hung up on. He almost hurls his phone over the bar but he forces himself not to, just in case Jesse might change his mind and call him back.

***

Sleeping was a luxury for Andrew way before he and Jesse broke up (that still feels weird to think, even though he hasn't admitted it out loud; he's between denial and acceptance, still grieving like a widow, thinking that maybe if he doesn't give voice to it, it won't really be true) and it's even more of a luxury now that he can't sleep at all. It used to be that he'd take every spare chance he had to power nap between classes or between rehearsals – because being in this conservatory has fucked with his schedules since day one and it's like he's experiencing constant jet lag – but now all he can do during those quiet moments is stare at the ceiling, wishing he could close his eyes and drift off without nagging thoughts anchoring him to reality.

For almost two months, Andrew Garfield has been nothing but a zombie. He's not failing his classes yet and he hasn't been canned from playing Mark Antony in their final production because he's some kind of theatrical genius who can perform his best on little rest – but classes and rehearsals are the only things he participates in now. Sometimes he'll accompany his cast mates to a club or to a pub but mostly he just stays home with his grandmother, who at least makes him eat and talk every once in a while. The amount of concentration he musters for schoolwork is so little that he'll often nod off in the middle of a text. If he tries to actually go to sleep, though, he's plagued again with this despicable agony he can't shake and rolls around restlessly for the rest of the night. He usually just ends up at a café in the early hours of the morning, downing a few cups of coffee while poring over his playbook and forcing himself not to remember those mornings he and Jesse spent in total silence at breakfast while they studied for finals.

***

It's not like Andrew hasn't tried to talk to Jesse. He actually has; he's made so many efforts that he can't even keep track of them anymore. Sometimes his attempts are so automatic that he doesn't even realize he's calling until the phone is ringing obnoxiously in his ear.

Jesse never answers. Andrew sends him an email a day for two weeks and he never gets a response. Granted, the emails aren't very descriptive. They're variations on Worked some more on this play and let me tell you, Jess, I'm so in over my head with this role, I don't even know how I'm going to pull it off on stage, I really don't and Please tell me how everything is going back home, I really miss you and I am so sorry, Jesse. You don't understand how much it's hurting me to know that I even made you think I didn't want to be with you anymore. Anyone would have to be crazy to say such a thing, don't you get that? I must have been really off my rocker and he doesn't really expect much in return. A Yeah, everything is fine would suffice but he doesn't even get a blank email in his inbox from Jesse. All he gets there is from Amazon, Priceline and Facebook and he sort of wants to stop checking altogether.

Instead, he tones down his messaging to every other day and then to every two days until he's only sending an email once a week. It doesn't help things.

All the voice messages he leaves go unanswered. No matter how much he pleads for Jesse to call him back, he never gets a call. Sure, there's the whole issue with exorbitant international calling fees, but Jesse didn't seem to mind them before, he shouldn't mind them now.

Clearly responses are too much to ask for. Soon after Valentine's Day, Andrew stops it all.

***

At midnight on the first of March, Andrew calls Hallie cell phone. As much as he complains about today's generation being way too technologically advanced and extremely deprived of the joys of playing games outside, he's glad he can talk to her without having to go through Mr. or Mrs. Eisenberg. He’s not sure he could take hearing their voices very well, not when they probably hate him for supposedly breaking up with their son.

Soon as Hallie answers on the third ring, Andrew blurts, "Hal, it's so good to hear your voice!"

"Andrew? Is that you?" There's the unmistakable sound of the door closing in the background.

He has never been more grateful for an intelligent thirteen-year-old in his life. "Yes, it is! How are you?"

"Oh, I'm hanging in there." Her laugh is tinkly and kind of forced. It sounds exactly like Jesse's did the last time they spoke, when he wanted to convince Andrew that everything was fine. "I'm having a real easy go of it in school. How about you? How's London?"

"I'm glad to hear that. London is . . . actually kind of fabulous. I've got this extravagant role and it's driving me bonkers but I love it."

"That's really good, Andrew!"

Andrew plops himself down on the edge of his bed and holds his face with one hand. He digs his nails so far into his jaw he can feel the crescent-shaped grooves forming in his skin. "Yeah, I think so. Well, hey, how is everyone doing? I haven't heard from you guys in ages."

"Oh, um." Hallie's voice goes lower and he can tell right off the bat that she's already been sworn to secrecy. Jesse's probably turned everyone against him – not that Jesse would actually be callous that way, at least he doesn't think he would. "We're good. Kerry's asked about you but I haven't been able to tell her anything since I haven't heard from you in so long. I'm glad you called, so I could let her know you're doing well."

Andrew inhales deeply and bites his lip. "How about your parents?"

"They're good too."

"And . . ."

"I don't know that much about Jesse, Andrew."

Nodding to himself, he slips his hand into his hair and closes his eyes, tugs as hard as he can without making a noise.

"I'm sorry, it's just that he said –"

"I can imagine what he said."

Hallie sighs, "I shouldn't even be talking to you right now but you sound like you could use a friend, so I will."

"I appreciate that, Hal."

"But I can't tell you anything specific about him because he's supposed to donate his next paycheck to the animal shelter if I don't make contact with you and I promised –"

"Paycheck?" Andrew sits up straight again and wrinkles his brow. "Is he working now?"

"Oh. Um, yeah. At the main library a few nights a week. I wasn't supposed to tell you."

In a rush of words, Andrew tells her, "It's ok! He won't find out," and even makes hand gestures to reassure her, as if she's even there. He's stooped so low he doesn't even feel stupid for it. "I haven't talked to him in so long that I'm starting to believe I won't ever have the chance to ask him about it anyway."

"I'm sorry, Andrew. If it makes you feel any better, we all miss you. Here at home, anyway. Jesse hasn't really been around much for me to tell you anything about him but he's not exactly his usual self."

Sighing, Andrew rubs his hand over his mouth and wonders why, if he's so very distraught by all of this bullshit, he can't even be selfishly glad that Jesse's not the happiest of people without him around either. The last thing he wants is for Jesse to feel miserable; he probably would have been a little happier to know that Jesse's doing well and is moving on effortlessly.

"I should probably go now, Andrew. This is an international call after all. I don't want my parents taking away my phone or anything. I mean, I just got it back after a week!"

"No, yeah, you're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you. It's just . . . You're my only tie now, you understand?"

"I do. I'm sorry, Andrew," she repeats. Andrew actually believes her. "Bye."

***

A few days later, Andrew leaves Jesse a voicemail and his call is almost immediately returned. He experiences three seconds of terror and hope at the same time and then an unrecognizable male voice tells him, "Look, man, I got your message and I wanted to tell you I'm not the Jess you're looking for. You must have the wrong number."

Andrew deflates and leans back all the way against the tree he's camped under for the evening. "Oh. Oh, dear, I am so sorry, you don't deserve such –"

"Hey, no, it's ok. I'm actually more upset that you're going through whatever it is with your girlfriend than I am for you leaving that message on my phone. Honestly, I feel bad for listening to it. You're obviously in a bad place, which I'm sorry about. Man to man, you know. I know what you're going through."

"Oh."

"And I can tell you from experience that it will get better. This girl Jess is not worth your heartache, kid. I promise you that. You deserve better."

His chest gets all tight and he can barely get out a faint "thank you" let alone a full argument for why this man's wrong. But he appreciates the gesture, appreciates that there are people kind enough in this world to offer advice to a stranger.

"Believe me, there's nothing you need to thank me for. Good luck, kid."

When his phone beeps to indicate the end of the call, Andrew can't muster the energy to pull it away from his ear. He remains frozen, staring into the distance, unable to believe that after at least five and a half years, Jesse's finally changed his phone number.

***

"Andrew fucking Garfield!"

It's hard to keep a smile off his face when Justin greets him like that. Much as he sometimes hates him for being such a terrible first roommate, he can't fail to appreciate his peculiar sense of humor. "Timberlake, hey," he says, a note of happiness in his voice that he hasn't heard in a while.

The things Justin does to him.

"Shit, man, I haven't heard from you in years! How's it goin' in the UK?"

"Oh, it's all right. Could be better."

"Find any hot girls?"

"Justin, I –"

"Right, right, you're holding out for Jesse. I get it. I should tell you, though, that's not a really good idea."

The bottom drops out of Andrew's stomach. He has to lean against the wall of the study to catch his breath before he can ask, "Why not?"

"Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what, exactly?"

"Oh. Well, I guess I shouldn't tell you if you don't know . . ."

"Spit it out, Timberlake."

"Ok, ok. Don't, like, punch me for what I'm about to say, ok? Don't shoot the messenger."

Andrew pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm in London. I can't."

A few moments pass before Justin continues. "I know you guys broke up and it shouldn't matter anymore what Jesse does or doesn't do, but I don't know. I feel like you should know. So, he's been on a few dates with this chick named Anna. She doesn't really seem like his type, to be honest, but I've seen them around. Not lately, though. He may have gotten rid of her."

Yeah, that would probably make a lot of sense, Andrew figures at first. It's Jesse, after all, smart, sweet, beautiful Jesse. Anyone would be lucky to have him, like he once did before some kind of misunderstanding broke them up. He should be ok with this.

But Andrew’s knees buckle anyway and he finds that he doesn't have enough strength to keep standing. He sinks to the floor, draws his knees up and lays his forehead against them. He draws in sharp, ragged breaths and wills himself not to start crying when Justin's still on the phone and his grandmother's sleeping upstairs. There's a sob, though, lodged in his throat, that he has no choice but to let go, and he hates himself for allowing Justin to witness so much of his weakness in just a few seconds.

"Andrew? Hey, look – Shit, I knew I shouldn't have – Andrew, listen, they're not together! It was just a go-on-a-couple-dates-and-see-what-the-single-life-is-like kind of deal, I swear!"

Whispering, "That can't be true," Andrew focuses on deep inhales and slow exhales, in, out, in, out, just like his instructors have taught him to do whenever he's nervous before a scene or when he needs to be able to project his voice across a large auditorium. It's working for this too. "Jesse isn't like that."

"He's so hung up on you, it's ridiculous, man. You should see him. Or actually, I should see him. He never even comes out anymore. Sometimes I catch him riding his bicycle across campus but it seems like he only ever comes out to go to class or go to the library, where he's working now. Those few times he was with that Anna girl a month ago, it wasn't even anything big. He told me they were just friends and they were going to get dinner together or something. I mean, at the time it didn't look platonic, but maybe she's just an over-affectionate bimbo who's –"

"I appreciate the effort, ok?" Andrew interrupts, finding enough oxygen in his lungs to be able to enunciate his words clearly. "But it's not necessary."

"Andrew, come on."

"No, no. It's really not." He bangs his forehead against his knees twice. "Thanks for talking to me, Justin," he says, and then he hangs up and he can't stop the floodgates opening.

***

He finds Jesse's new number in the online student directory and he calls it from a kiosk outside his grandmother's house at midnight, although he should be inside trying to rest. It's been a few days since he's even had a few hours of sleep and he's running on fumes now, this first full week of March, hoping he'll finally get through to Jesse. This calling card, he hopes, will at least convince Jesse that the unknown number is American and thus friendly fire.

The phone rings for a seemingly long time. Every beep is a reason for why he should just stop trying but he can't make himself listen. He can't give up when he hasn't tried everything in his power yet. This just has to work.

Finally, on the seventh ring, the call connects and it's not the automated voice message system greeting him this time. It's actually Jesse, quiet, breathless Jesse, saying "hello?" on the other side. Andrew's so stumped to hear Jesse's voice for the first time in months that he can't articulate any words. He just breathes. Jesse says again, "Are you there?" and Andrew startles.

"I'm here," he blurts, immediately wishing he could take it back. "Sorry."

"Who is this?"

Andrew closes his eyes and clears his throat. "It's Andrew," he says, really slowly, trying to make this phone call longer, even by just a second, so he can listen to Jesse breathe long enough to be able to at least recall the rhythm of his voice. He's pretty much convinced Jesse will end the call in three seconds but he asks anyway, "Will you please refrain from hanging up on me? Just this once?"

Jesse exhales loudly and it makes a racket through the line but Andrew doesn't even care as long as there's a Jesse on the other end for once. "How did you get this number? Did Justin give it to you?"

"No! No, I – I checked the, uh, the, um, student directory, you know, it's kind of useful."

"Oh, I bet."

Andrew whispers, "Jesse," and is about to start in on a long tirade about how miserable and lost he's been since they were last able to speak when Jesse cuts him off.

"I can't talk to you, Andrew, I'm busy. I – look, I just can't right now."

"Well, if not now when, Jess? It's been months since we even –"

"I know. I know it's been a long time but I think it's good that we've had this – this, like, time apart. It's, um, doing us some favors, I think."

Andrew shakes his head. This breakup has caused him nothing but constant sadness and anger and he just wants it all to stop. "Jesse, we need to talk."

"Isn't it midnight over there? Shouldn't you be in bed or studying or running lines? Don't you have a play in a few weeks? You shouldn't be wasting your time on me, ok?" Jesse sounds exasperated but it's slightly unconvincing. Andrew's had enough time to learn Jesse's manner of speaking and this tone he's using right now, high-pitched and breathy, is the one he uses to fake nonchalance. It's plain how much he doesn't believe what he's saying.

"You're so full of shit, Jesse," he says, and he's actually really surprised he says it as calmly as he does. What surprises him most, though, is that Jesse gasps but he doesn't hang up the phone. "No, yeah, that's right. You're full of shit. I've never wasted my time on you. I don't know where you got the idea that I didn't want to be with you anymore because I'm certain I didn't give it to you." He takes a deep breath. "I hate feeling this way, Jesse. Like I can't do right by you and I can't fix whatever's gone wrong. You've avoided me since I left for the semester and no matter how much I try to talk to you, you don't respond. I can't – I can't do this forever."

Jesse's voice wavers when he says, "You shouldn't have to."

"I shouldn't but I will. Because you're – fuck, Jesse, you're everything to me. I don't know what I did but I promise you that I didn't ever mean to hurt you."

The line goes silent for a full minute. Andrew counts the seconds and realizes with every ten he reaches that more and more air is being sucked out of this kiosk, as if there's a vacuum wrapped around all the cracks in the walls.

"I have to go to work, Andrew," Jesse finally says, words quiet and measured.

Sighing, "Jesse, please," Andrew puts a hand over his eyes and digs into the sockets with his forefinger and thumb. He's tired of crying; he has to stop tears from forming.

"But I'm going to call you back, ok? I'll, um. Your cell phone, I'll call it in two hours, after my shift. I, yeah, that should be right."

He freezes. "Do you mean that?"

"Yeah, I do. Listen, I'm late. I'll talk to you soon, ok?"

"All right, all right. Bye."

When Andrew gets back inside, he flops down on his bed and covers his face with his pillow. He's crying silently into it when his phone rings fifteen minutes later and he scrambles to pick it up anyway, completely disregarding how messy things could get if his tears fly everywhere. A text message pops up on his screen from Jesse's new number that says Two hours, I swear. It's the best thing Andrew's ever read.

***

The clock flips to two o'clock and Andrew immediately grabs his phone off the nightstand and stares at it, willing it to ring. Five minutes pass and the screen doesn't even light up. He feels like his gut's been kicked in, like spending the last two hours alternating between hyperventilation and excitement was a complete waste of time. It makes him sick to think that he's so wrapped around Jesse's finger that he believed he'd actually call back. Jesse's a pretty good liar, sure, but Andrew never thought he'd use his masterful skills of deception on him of all people, someone he's never had to lie to before.

But the longer Andrew lies on his bed, waiting for the phone to ring, the more convinced he becomes that he's been duped, that he's fallen victim to Jesse's games. The worse part about it is that he can't even get out. He considers turning his phone off and forcing himself to sleep but something stops him and makes him set it down on his chest instead so he can wait patiently for a call that might never come.

Thirty minutes later, he's drifting off and its shrill ring brings him back. He clambers to pick it up, heart in his throat, and when he answers, "Hello?" he's breathing so hard his voice is practically unrecognizable.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah – yes, yes, it's me!" Swallowing, he sits up against his headboard and bites his knuckle. "Hi."

"Were you sleeping?"

"No! I was, uh, just reading and the phone scared me, I'm sorry. Hi. Um, how – how are you?"

"Right," Jesse says, sounding completely unconvinced. "Yeah, I'm all right. I just got back from the library. I was held up. Sorry I made you stay up so long."

Before he can think his words through, Andrew says, "Oh, no, it's ok! I don't really sleep much anyway." He claps his hand over his forehead dramatically as soon as he's done talking.

"You don't? I'm pretty sure that's not good for you."

"No, it's not. I just don't really have time for it. So many books and lines to read and I'm always distracted and –"

"It's not because of me, is it?"

"No! No, it's not because – I mean, why would you even think that?"

"I mean, I don't know." Jesse trails off and Andrew chews the inside of his cheek nervously, waiting for him to finish. "I just thought that with, um, you know – actually, you know what? That's ridiculous, so don't even worry about it."

"Oh, um. Ok. Well." Sighing, Andrew rubs the bridge of his nose. He's actually glad they're not doing this on their computers because his lie would be so incredibly blatant if they were looking at each other. There are these, like, semi-permanent circles under Andrew's eyes now that are only covered up by extreme amounts of stage makeup and even in dim lighting, Jesse would be able to notice them. He's got hawk vision or something and that would definitely not escape his notice.

"So, it's been a long time. How are things in London?"

He bites his lip to stop himself from saying "miserable without you" and says instead, "They're good. Normal. Just rehearsals and classes. Some trips to museums I've been to a hundred times. What about you? How are your classes?"

"Oh, they're classes."

Andrew can't help but snort. "Yeah, I figured. You signed up for some British history classes, didn't you?"

"I did. About the Reformation and one called The British Atlantic World." Jesse makes this sound that's like a cross between a snort and a disapproving hum. "Also taking an East Asian Geography class and one about Eastern Europe, too."

"Sounds challenging."

"It's what I get for being in so many departments at once, I guess."

"At least you're going to be an Honors student next semester, right?"

"Yeah, um, I'm supposed to be. I haven't done as well as I should have this semester, though, so I don't know if my GPA will be high enough to qua –"

"It will be. You always worry about pointless things, Jesse. You know you're brilliant and you're going to be selected and maybe you'll even win that award too."

"I don't know, maybe."

"If I were home, I would slap some sense into you right now for –"

"Well, you're not, so it doesn't matter. No point wasting your breath wishing for things you can't do."

Andrew pulls his hand away from his face and straightens his spine, furrows his brow. He blinks a few times, hoping if he does it enough he'll be able to see what he said wrong now. But after a couple of seconds he thinks he may have finally figured out Jesse's thought process. "Wait, Jesse, what is this really about?"

"What is what really about?"

He huffs. "Did you break up with me because I wasn't there?"

Jesse sputters, "Wh – what, no, that's absurd. I wouldn't – that's not why, Andrew, you were the one who –"

"I don't care how many times you say it, Jesse, but I didn't ever tell you I wanted to break up with you. That was all you."

"You didn't have to tell me anything, I am perfectly capable of reading into things myself."

Sighing, Andrew shifts around until he's lying on his back. "Whatever. Tell me, did you think we couldn't work things out because I was thousands of miles away and couldn't be there for you anymore?"

"No, Andrew, that's not why!"

"What, then? Were you really that desperate to see someone else that you had to lie to end things between us?" A familiar sense of dread is building within his chest again, very rapidly, close to peaking now.

"No! That was never my intention and – Wait. What do you mean, see someone else? I'm not seeing anyone else, that's a ridiculous assumption to make."

"Justin told me you went out with this girl Anna a few times."

"Justin? You listen to him now? Justin doesn't know an apple from a pear and you're telling me you believe what he said?"

Andrew shakes his head. "So, what, he imagined seeing you with Anna?"

Jesse sighs. "No. But it wasn't like that. Anna's just a friend, Andrew. We never went on a date, ok? What does it even matter, though? We're not – you and I are not –"

"Don't say it, Jesse, unless you really believe it."

Jesse's silent for a few seconds.

Andrew holds his breath and crosses his fingers.

"I wanted to give you space, ok? I thought it'd be better for you if you could be in London and not have to worry about me anymore."

"You're an idiot, did you know that?"

"You just told me I was brilliant."

Somehow, he manages a laugh that sounds so sincere he wants to cry. "But that was before you told me the most ridiculous thing you've said in your entire life."

Jesse laughs too. "I didn't want to hold you back, ok?"

"You don't hold me back, Jess. I – God, I couldn't do this if it weren't for you. I know that's sappy and overly romantic, but it's true."

"I wish it weren't."

"Why?" Andrew asks, biting his lower lip so hard he can taste blood on his tongue. This conversation is taking him from one extreme to the other so fast he thinks he might be experiencing whiplash.

"Because I don't want you to depend on me."

"I don't depend on you like that, Jess."

"Not, like, depend depend, just – fuck – I'm afraid, ok? I'm afraid you'll figure out some day that I'm not nearly as worthwhile as you think I am and that you'll break up with me and go off to Hollywood and forget I ever existed. So instead of letting that happen, I figured it'd be easier to do it myself, before you had the chance."

"Jesse –"

"I'm sorry," Jesse whispers, resigned and tearful and heartbroken. "I didn't mean to hurt you like that. I really thought I was doing you a favor."

"Hey, hey, no, I get it, ok?" Andrew closes his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself into Jesse's room and wrap him so tightly in his arms that he wouldn’t be able to breathe, in a non-counterproductive way. "Please don't do me any extreme favors like that again, though?"

"Ok."

"Good." He swallows hard. "I miss you so much, Jesse."

"Yeah, I do too."

"Will you stop avoiding me now?"

"I think so, yeah. I can do that."

Andrew nods to himself and smiles. "Yeah? I'm glad. Thank you."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Jesse chuckles, "That's just like you to apologize for something that's not even your fault."

Andrew hadn't realized how much he'd missed his laugh, actually genuine this time, not at all strained. Just hearing it makes him feel so much lighter. "It kind of is. I never meant to put pressure on you –"

"You didn't."

"Well, ok. But I'm still sorry." Yawning because he can’t stifle it anymore, Andrew stretches himself out on his mattress then curls into his side, pulling a blanket over himself with the phone pressed warmly against his ear. It's been weeks since he's felt so good and it's making him incredibly tired. "Do you still have your plane ticket for spring break?"

"You're tired, you should go to bed."

"No, answer the question first."

"Yes, I do."

"Are you going to use it?"

"Do you want me to?"

Andrew doesn't bother hiding the grin that spreads across his face. "You know I do, Jesse."

"Then I will," Jesse says, and excited as he sounds, Andrew doesn't think he'll be able to make it through two more minutes of this phone call.

"Fantastic." He yawns again. "I really want to talk to you some more but I'm falling asleep now."

"I can tell."

"Call me after work tomorrow?"

"I'll call you before so you're not up late waiting."

"Great. And Jesse?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, ok?"

A really long pause stretches between them. Andrew has to check his phone to make sure the call hasn't dropped. Eventually, Jesse says, voice steady and not at all tentative, "I do too – I love you."

Andrew's pretty sure the way his chest tightens and his stomach turns is what people refer to as soaring. "Good night, Jesse," he whispers, throat closed up, then he sets his phone next to his pillow and finally falls asleep, the first time in months that he hasn't had to push away nagging worries.

fic: we could rewrite history, if only you and me (andrew/jesse)

2011-03-23T07:19:30Z

Title: We could rewrite history, if only you and me
Pairing: Andrew Garfield/Jesse Eisenberg
Rating: PG (pre-slash)
Summary: High school AU. He can’t look at Mrs. Eisenberg and see his best friend’s mom anymore, the mom who used to bring him and Jesse fresh cookies whenever they had to hole up in Jesse’s room to study chemistry. Instead, he sees Mrs. Eisenberg, his potential future boyfriend’s mother who might run him out of town if he so much as harms a hair on her son’s head.
Note: “Change the World” by Anberlin lends the title. I’ve been planning a high school AU for a while and tonight I had this random urge to actually write something in that ’verse. So then I wanted to write Andrew and Jesse’s first date but it never got to that. Instead, you have pre-first date Andrew meta. ~1,500 words.

This shouldn’t be any different than any other time Andrew’s come over to Jesse’s house. He’s knocking on the door, rapping his knuckles against the same spot on the wood that he’s worn down over the last year or so. He’s stepping on the same wooden plank that creaks under any significant weight, shifting a little bit from foot to foot in anticipation of being let in. He’s trying not to seem so excited, which isn’t new either.

Mrs. Eisenberg pulls open the door, greets him as kindly and enthusiastically as always, “Andrew, hello! Come in, come in.”

But Andrew hesitates a bit, maybe trips a little over the threshold because all of this is different now. He can’t look at Mrs. Eisenberg and see his best friend’s mom anymore, the mom who used to bring him and Jesse fresh cookies whenever they had to hole up in Jesse’s room to study chemistry. Instead, he sees Mrs. Eisenberg, his potential future boyfriend’s mother who might run him out of town if he so much as harms a hair on her son’s head.

(Not that she knows about the potential future boyfriend stuff. He and Jesse are keeping that under wraps for now.)

This whole going on a date with his best friend thing is already not working out, even though he wants it to, wants it so badly to work out. He fears that if it doesn’t and this night ends disastrously, there won’t be any more shared lunches, borrowed novels or stolen pens. There won’t be any more movie nights or bus rides to New York or video game ass-kickings. There won’t be anything left of the relationship he’s clung to the last year and a half and it will be his entire fault because he couldn’t even talk to Jesse’s mother without almost, quite literally, tripping over himself.

He must look like he’s seen a ghost or something because Mrs. Eisenberg wraps a hand around his arm and asks him if he’s ok.

And then he stammers, “N – no, I mean, yes – yes! I’m fine, really. Totally fine, thank you,” mentally kicking himself because he obviously had to make matters worse.

She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow to extreme heights, utterly convinced that something is terribly, terribly wrong with him. “Do you need something, Andrew?”

He shakes his head exaggeratedly and points at the staircase in front of them. “I’m, um, just going to – you know, go? Yeah? Is that ok?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” She releases his arm and gently pats his shoulder. He doesn’t allow himself to wince. “You know you can talk to me.”

“I do know and I very much appreciate that, Mrs. Eisenberg –”

“Amy.”

“– but I promise you that everything is fine. If it’s all right, I am just going to –” God, he can’t even say that he’s going to go see Jesse without feeling like he’s crossing some kind of line. It’s not normal to pick up your date by going into his bedroom, for fuck’s sake. He should just wait in the sitting room and it’ll –

But he can’t, because then she’d think something’s up and they don’t want her, or anyone for that matter, to find out.

So he makes himself stop being such a coward and straightens up, shoots her as disarming a smile as he can muster and says, voice steady, “I’ll go see Jesse now.”

It actually seems to work because she smiles, bats her hands at him, insists, “Go, go, go! Stop cramping my style,” and physically pushes him onto the first stair.

He doesn’t bother to resist. It takes him five seconds to run up all the steps and when he reaches the landing, he doubles over, clutching his side. He’s never come up so fast before, and there’s another thing that’s different.

Once he catches his breath, he walks down the hall to Jesse’s room, passing Hallie Kate’s open door on the way. She yells, “Hey, Andrew!” at him and Andrew yells back his own greeting and that’s about as customary as anything. Then he reaches Jesse’s closed door and isn’t sure whether or not to knock and he’s back at square one, panicking about what to do without making this awkward.

He could knock, which he doesn’t think he’s ever done, and make sure Jesse’s decent (oh God he doesn’t even care about decency when it comes to Jesse anymore and that’s a problem because they haven’t even touched that way yet) before he comes in. That would set off Hallie Kate, though, because she’d hear him knocking and find it wholly uncharacteristic and think it necessary to come out of her room and investigate. She’s oddly intuitive for an eight-year-old, that girl.

Or he could walk in, which he always does, and act like today really is no different from any other day. Date or not, it’s still just them, Andrew and Jesse, out to take the world by storm, one outing at a time. They’re still two best friends hanging out, picking up conversations in random places because they know each other well enough to fill in the missing pieces.

But when Andrew is about to put his hand on the door knob and throw caution to the wind, something occurs to him: It’s not just hanging out. It’s going out on a date and adding a new dimension to their relationship and stepping out of their comfort zones. It’s not – this isn’t – what they’re trying to do here isn’t something you see in real life. You see it in movies, best friends turned lovers turned spouses, the almost always present subplot of a romantic drama. There’s no real life example off which Andrew can base his attempts. All the people he knows that are in relationships were always acquaintances first, never best friends. His parents met at a pub in London where his dad tried to order Budweiser and the barkeep, instead of telling him they didn’t serve American lagers and recommending something better, made a fool of him. His mom rescued him from further embarrassment, ordered them both Budvar and the rest is history. They didn’t meet at school and establish a best-friendship and then decide to start dating. Nope. Without a model, it’s like he and Jesse are destined to fail.

And it’ll all be Hollywood’s fault for planting the idea in Andrew’s head that what they are trying to accomplish will actually work.

He sighs and sits against the wall, knees drawn up so he can hide his face in them. What was he thinking when he asked Jesse out at lunch the other day? (He probably wasn’t, actually. He was probably too distracted by his gut-wrenching desire to lick ranch dressing off Jesse’s lips to thoroughly evaluate the consequences of his spontaneous query of Jesse’s feelings for him.) But, really, it’s not like he could have stopped it from happening at some point. He’s felt things for Jesse for so long that it’s about time he did something about it. Thankfully, Jesse responded positively, albeit in sputters and blushes and lip-bites, and now they’re here. Well, now Andrew’s here, freaking out because this could ruin everything if they don’t get it right.

Jesse’s door creaks open and Andrew jumps up, narrowly missing banging his head against the wall. He swallows hard looking at Jesse, hand tightly wrapped around the doorknob, spine held abnormally stiff. Maybe they really are in the same boat. Maybe they are actually both here, freaking out about ruining everything.

“Hey,” Andrew says, proud that he doesn’t immediately start stammering.

One corner of Jesse’s mouth lifts. “Hey.”

Andrew tucks both his hands into the pockets of his jeans and then pulls one out to scratch the back of his head. “Are you ready to go?”

Jesse surprises him then. He smiles fully, blindingly, eyes suddenly so ridiculously bright that Andrew momentarily wishes he had shades. (But that’s stupid. Not only is it excessively cliché to think that way but it’s also tragically counterproductive. If he were to shield himself from Jesse’s eyes, he’d miss out on what’s probably Jesse’s most attractive feature.) Jesse closes the door to his room, nods toward the stairs and says, “I hope you have something good planned,” and it’s like he doesn’t fear this new thing at all.

Then Andrew figures it out. They’re not restarting their relationship on a different level. They’re adding to their current relationship, building off their dynamic to slowly insert the romance they both want.

Andrew’s chest tightens when Jesse raises a questioning eyebrow at him. He almost can’t find the breath to say, “I’ve never had anything better planned in my whole life.”

fic: what goes unnoticed (andrew/jesse)

2011-02-19T01:26:50Z

Title: what goes unnoticed
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Andrew Garfield/Jesse Eisenberg
Summary: No one’s skilled enough, but Jesse, lining up his shoulder with Andrew’s, is aware of every miniscule movement, attuned to everything he does and doesn’t. (BAFTAs)
Note: Ugh, cheesy title. I tried something else with this fic. I don’t know if I like it because it decided to be bipolar halfway through, but my Pookie, sheep_mambo, and yellowwolf5 finally convinced me that I could go ahead and post it, even after a week of it sitting on my hard drive. (Read: no girlfriends were harmed in the making of this story – because they don’t exist in this ‘verse.) ~2,800 words.

8:08 pm

Were anyone else watching, the slight slump of Andrew’s shoulders – that lasts a fraction of a second, like all the other quick reactions that occur before he pulls a mask back on – would go unnoticed.

No one’s skilled enough to see the wrinkle of black fabric or the clench of the jaw or the protrusion of the neck muscle or the downward tug of the mouth.

No one’s skilled enough to hear the quiet whine or the disappointed snap of the thumb and pointer or the muted stamp of the foot.

No one’s skilled enough to know that even though Andrew knew he didn’t stand a chance against Geoffrey Rush he still wished for a miracle, that by some slim chance the British Academy would choose him for the honor of Best Supporting Actor.

No one’s skilled enough, but Jesse, lining up his shoulder with Andrew’s, is aware of every miniscule movement, attuned to everything he does and doesn’t.

No one’s skilled enough, but Jesse, discreetly clutching Andrew’s hand on the arm rest, is conscious of every hope and fear, cognizant of every thought and non-thought.

No one’s skilled enough, but Jesse, sneaking a brief glance at Andrew’s eyes, is familiar with the heartbreak and with every sense of failure he finds in them.

8:39 pm

This time anyone should be able to see it – even though it all happens in about ten seconds.

There’s the snapping shut of Andrew’s mouth, in the middle of a sentence that started with “Jesse, I might just –”

There’s the wrapping of both hands around the seat of his chair.

There’s the kick of feet against the row in front of them.

There’s the sharp turn of the head away from the aisle.

There’s the frantic back and forth of his eyes searching out Jesse’s.

There’s the harsh exhalation through his nose.

There’s the wild blinking back of tears.

There’s the heartbreak –

      the sorrow

           the disbelief

                the frustration

                     the realization that Tom Hardy isn’t even there to accept the award.

There’s the aborted attempt to lean into Jesse’s side.

There’s a quick drawing in of the legs.

There’s a shake of the head.

There’s a lift of the arms.

There’s a hiss of two almost identical palms slapping together.

There’s a wide grin.

There’s a congratulatory “he is a wonderful man, certainly – genuinely deserving.”

There’s a recognition of an extended apologetic hand.

That’s what everyone sees.

8:45 pm

The camera captures their section – and thankfully the seating arrangements were done well enough to keep the cast and crew in their own corner – getting up to congratulate Sorkin, Andrew stretching his long limbs to slap the man on his back and then jostle Jesse’s shoulders.

But when the focus isn’t on them anymore, when no one but maybe Emma is looking at them, Andrew ducks his head.

His arm is still snuggly sandwiched between Jesse’s back and the chair even though they’re sitting down.

His fist clenches Jesse’s jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric permanently.

His fingers bruise Jesse’s side even through all the material between them and his bare skin.

His lips brush butterfly soft against Jesse’s ear.

His voice cracks when he says, “This is going to be it,”

“Two weeks and nothing else,”

“There won’t be any more guarantees between us,”

“We’re going to have to work at this.”

His whole body pulls away, a strange cold seeping into Jesse’s skin.

His eyes focus on Jesse’s.

His eyebrows lift in challenge.

His hand lands heavily on Jesse’s knee.

His smile blinds.

His head turns.

His expressions fade.

8:57 pm

No one sees Andrew backstage but Jesse and Tilda Swinton, who politely steps ahead of them to give them some space before they’re assaulted by photographers and cameramen.

So no one witnesses the thirty seconds of emotion that burst out of Andrew but Jesse.

Jesse has to hold him by the elbow.

Jesse has to draw him into a hug.

Jesse has to pat his back,

      massage his shoulders,

           rub his neck.

Jesse has to whisper into his ear, “Hey, it’s ok, these don’t matter, they’re just awards, you’re going to win them all one day.”

Jesse feels the clutch of his fingers.

Jesse feels the dry heave of his stomach.

Jesse feels the scrape of his nails at Jesse’s waist,

      the open press of his mouth on Jesse’s neck.

Jesse feels the vibrations of his voice.

Jesse has to – even though he’s wary of such public privacy – kiss the side of his neck.

Jesse has to push him away,

      has to hold his face,

           has to wipe his unshed tears.

Jesse has to promise him, “It’s not going to change anything. I’m not going to change anything.”

Jesse has to let him go.

Jesse has to pretend that he hasn’t just seen him on the verge of a breakdown.

Jesse has to watch him put on a fake smile for everyone when Tilda Swinton hands him back the Statuette and the flashes of cameras start to go off relentlessly for two full minutes.

10:16 pm

Too many things are going on right now.

The lights are flickering, the floor is vibrating, the air is being sucked out, the walls are closing in.

People are crowded around each other, forming clusters and even a few quartets.

The music is so loud and Jesse has lost Andrew.

He finds Emma speaking to the other Emma, the more famous one with the pixie haircut, and quickly introduces himself before asking, “Have you seen Andrew?”

Emma, the one with the blonde hair, the one with the red – pink, scarlet, whatever – dress, shakes her head, contorts her lips a weird way. “Not since the last time I saw you.”

Jesse nods and turns away so quick that he doesn’t even answer Emma’s question of “where do you think he might be?”

(And when he thinks about it, he probably wouldn’t have responded kindly anyway because, really, if he had any idea of where Andrew might be, he wouldn’t have sought out Emma.)

Dozens of people stop him as he twists his way through the crowd, hands laid on his shoulder like they belong there, fingers spread on his suit and claiming him for at least a greeting. Jesse doesn’t like being rude but his colleagues are too oblivious to recognize the man on a mission face he’s pulling.

It takes him ten minutes before he bursts out the side doors of the Great Room and onto the balcony.

Thankfully, that’s where he finds Andrew, arms braced on the railing, head ducked low.

Jesse takes a quiet, deep breath and steps up to him. “Hey.”

Andrew tenses at his touch, tries to shy away. “Jesse.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“You found me.”

Nodding, Jesse slips his hand to the back of Andrew’s neck and squeezes it. “You might get sick. All the rain and cold – it’s not good for you.”

“I am Spiderman. I don’t get sick.”

Leave it to Andrew, in the midst of turmoil, to make light. “Andrew . . .”

“Leave it, Jesse. I’m fine.”

“You weren’t fine before and you’re less fine now.”

Andrew grunts, shrugs Jesse off and pulls away. “You can go now.”

A knot rises in Jesse’s throat but he swallows before it can impede him. “You don’t have to hide from me,” he says, ignoring all of Andrew’s attempts to keep him at a distance because it’s illogical to let things fall apart now after all they’ve been through. His fingers catch on the ends of Andrew’s jacket and he manages to crowd his space again, sidled up close between Andrew and the railing.

“I’m not hiding,” Andrew whispers. He tips his head down and Jesse can see the redness in his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

Sighing, “Why is this hurting you so much?” Jesse frames Andrew’s face in his hands like he did backstage and strokes his fingers at the edge of his hairline.

Andrew doesn’t have an answer for him.

11:41 pm

Jesse’s hotel room is dark.

He lies in bed, stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, listening to the water gushing into the sink, waiting for Andrew to come out of the bathroom.

There’s a weight the size of one of those BAFTA Statuettes on his chest.

11:59 pm

“I don’t get it.”

They’re sharing a pillow. Their noses touch. There is an inch of space between their mouths.

Andrew doesn’t want to confess whatever is bothering him but he’s not closing his eyes or pushing Jesse away yet, so that’s got to mean something.

When Andrew says, “I’m tired,” Jesse’s lips dry a little because of the breath that passes through Andrew’s.

He understands that Andrew’s tired. He understands that he has three hours to sleep off over thirty hours of almost constant action so that he can hop on a plane, take a fifteen-hour flight to Los Angeles and shoot for another eight hours before he can sleep in his own bed again. He understands all of that and that he doesn’t want to talk.

But Andrew isn’t one to get upset about awards and Jesse isn’t one to let this kind of thing go, so he asks again, “What’s wrong?”

“Jess, please, nothing’s wrong.” Andrew’s voice is whiny. “I’m just exhausted and you’re being quite unkind to me at present.”

“I apologize for hurting your feelings but I can’t let you fall asleep without telling me why you’re suddenly so out of whack about awards. Awards, Andrew. This isn’t like you.” Beneath his hand, Jesse feels the way Andrew’s spine moves when he lets out a breath.

“It’s not about the awards, Jesse.”

Jesse rolls his eyes but immediately regrets it, seeing Andrew’s face close off. “Don’t do that. Please. Andrew. Just tell me.”

Groaning, Andrew sits up and scoots back until he can lean against the headboard. Jesse’s not sure whether or not to join him, so he just stays where he is, staring up at him. “Can I ask you something?”

Jesse blinks. Even though Andrew’s the one being interrogated here, he concedes. “Yes.”

“What’s going to happen after the Oscars?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to go back to New York and forget all of this?”

“All of what?”

“You know what I mean.”

Shaking his head, Jesse sits up, crosses his legs Indian style and faces Andrew, one hand covering Andrew’s for all of two seconds before Andrew shakes it off. “All of what, Andrew?” he repeats.

The dull anger that had seemed to consume of all Andrew’s emotions quickly dissolves into melancholy and Jesse closes the distance between them as soon as he puts two and two together. It’s not like earlier tonight, when all Andrew seemed to want was Jesse’s comfort; now he just tries to push him away.

But that’s just not something Jesse will allow him to do, so before Andrew can make him fly across the room with a hard shove, he plants his knees on either side of Andrew’s thighs and holds Andrew’s shoulders tightly. He leans forward, presses their foreheads together, and murmurs, because he finally gets it, “Are you afraid that the Oscars will be where it ends for us too?”

Andrew gulps, so loud that Jesse’s eyes momentarily flit down to his bobbing Adam’s apple, and then Andrew half shakes his head and half nods it, all while saying, “Yes,” and, “That’s not what I want.”

Jesse talks as softly and gently as he can without making Andrew strain to hear him. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”

12:29 am

They’re sharing a pillow. Their noses touch. There’s an inch of space between their mouths.

Jesse talks and Andrew’s lips roll in and his tongue darts out.

Jesse talks and Andrew’s eyelids flutter.

Jesse talks and Andrew’s index finger lands on his lips.

Jesse talks and Andrew’s nose makes a whistling sound as he laughs.

Jesse talks and Andrew’s hand tangles in his hair.

      and Andrew’s legs entwine with his.

           and Andrew’s body forces him onto his back.

                and Andrew’s hips press forward.

Jesse talks and Andrew’s mouth finally keeps him from saying anything else.

Jesse talks – if you consider breathy strings of curses talking – and he knows no one’s ever seen Andrew like this before.

3:07 am

“Jess.”

Jesse groans and rolls onto his side, away from Andrew’s cold hands. “No.”

Soft laughter rings out. “Jess, come on. I have to go.”

“No,” he mutters, rubbing his cheek against his pillow and throwing his leg over the one Andrew discarded however long ago.

Andrew sighs, really close behind him, and then the bed dips and an icy palm is pressed to his shoulder. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

Exhaling quietly, Jesse rolls onto his back and blinks up at Andrew, seeing him through blurry eyes. The corners of Andrew’s lips are pulled downward, his brow meeting in the middle. His fingers press firmly against Jesse’s jaw and Jesse’s eyes close for just a second.

“My flight is in an hour and a half, Jess. I’m already late.”

Jesse nods and pushes himself up on his elbows, smacking his lips and yawning. “I know, I’m sorry. You need to go.”

“When’s your flight again?”

“11.”

Andrew sits down next to Jesse and hugs him, Jesse flailing back without balance before Andrew shifts a little and straightens him up. Eventually, Jesse gets his arms around him and tucks his face into Andrew’s neck, which smells like the Prada bottle he saw on Andrew’s bathroom counter when he was in LA for the SAG Awards. It hadn’t been used yet but Jesse’s olfactory receptors are always overworking themselves, forcing him into having one of those really good sensory memories. He hums and pulls Andrew closer.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, then?”

“Who knows?”

In warning, “Jess,” and Andrew bites Jesse’s earlobe.

Jesse whimpers, shakes his head and stammers, “No – no – y – yes, two weeks. Two weeks, I’ll see you.”

A giggle – because Andrew’s a little girl sometimes and likes to laugh in high-pitched tones – resonates in Jesse’s ear. Then Andrew pulls away, kisses Jesse quickly and releases him. He doesn’t look like he wants to spend fifteen hours on a plane when he stands up but he’s in comfortable clothes, at least.

“I’ll call you after filming’s wrapped for the day.” Andrew’s standing at the foot of the bed now.

Jesse’s not sure how that happened so fast; he’d only closed his eyes to blink. “Yeah, ok. I’ll text you when I land in New York.”

A smile breaks out across Andrew’s face – how could he even be smiling at this hour, Jesus – and he says, “Go back to sleep.”

“Andrew?” The blanket pools in Jesse’s lap.

“Hmm?”

“At the risk of sounding cliché . . . Everything’s going to be ok.”

Andrew bites the corner of his lip and rounds the side of the bed, clutching his bag to his shoulder as he leans over to kiss Jesse one more time. Jesse tilts back his head, lets Andrew’s mouth slant over his for a few seconds because he doesn’t want the inevitable to happen. He doesn’t want to watch Andrew leave and he doesn’t want to remind himself that they’ll see each other again in two weeks. He just wants to relish this moment, where Andrew’s still here and they’re still touching and there’s no future to worry about.

But the problem with inevitable things is that they actually have to happen. Andrew stops kissing Jesse and he tells him goodbye again and Jesse hugs him and kisses him one more time. Then Andrew ruffles Jesse’s hair, a heartbreaking little frown on his lips, and says, “I will talk to you tonight.”

Jesse swallows hard and ducks his head. “Ok,” he says, and his voice wavers and betrays him.

“Hey, come on.” Andrew tips Jesse’s chin up and flashes a quick smile. “It’s going to be ok. Didn’t you just tell me that?”

Nodding, “Yeah,” Jesse wraps his fingers around Andrew’s wrist. He lets him go after a few seconds and gently pushes him away. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Sleep,” Andrew warns, and then he’s standing at the door, smiling sweetly (or sadly, depending on how you look at it) and waving like an idiot. He says, “Bye, Jess,” and turns.

Then he’s gone but not before Jesse notices that his Ween hoodie is tied around the straps of Andrew’s bag – clearly there’s no way they won’t be ok.

media fic: And I want to tell you so much (I love you)

2011-01-17T02:53:38Z

Title: And I want to tell you so much (I love you)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Prompt: For the following tsn_kinkmeme request: Mark may have kept all those little notes Eduardo left him during college. The ones that say things like, 'Eat something and stop drinking Red Bull. I refuse to take you to EMS again' and 'I did your washing. I expect sexual favours as compensation' in Eduardo's prim and proper handwriting.
Note: I’ve never done a media fic before but I loved putting this together, even though it took up over nine hours of my life. It was fun. If I weren't so tired, I'd try to write a drabble for all 26 of these dates. Maybe some day. I don’t think my handwriting would ever match what could be Eduardo’s, but I did my best. I hope you don’t mind two wholly different fills, anon!

And, yeah, the receipt I used is for Krystal. I couldn’t find another one in my house. I didn’t want to screw with continuity but it was my only good option. ;_;

I’m also pretending Joshua Radin’s “One of Those Days” was not written in 2008 because apparently I didn’t plan appropriately last night. ;_;

Stuck inside Mark’s Intro to Psychology book on September 17, 2002.

Set on Mark’s stomach after Eduardo, Dustin and Chris dumped him on his bed on October 1, 2002.

Slipped under Mark’s door in the early hours of October 2, 2002.

Crumpled in Mark’s fist after happy-faced Eduardo’s breakfast was paid for on October 13, 2002.

Squeezed between the index and middle fingers of Mark’s right hand on November 1, 2002.

Crudely drawn in Mark’s CS notebook on November 2, 2002.

Found under Mark’s bed the morning of November 27, 2002.

Rescued from the floor at Trader Joe’s on February 2, 2003.

Circled in highlighter on the front page of the Crimson on April 28, 2003.

Folded carefully five times in an envelope postmarked Brazil on June 20, 2003.

Adhered to Mark’s forehead the morning of September 15, 2003.

Slid discreetly across the table on a double date while the girls were in the bathroom on October 23, 2003.

Propped against a water bottle on Eduardo’s nightstand on Halloween morning 2003.

Laid on top of Mark’s keyboard in the middle of the day on November 19, 2003.

Paper-clipped to Mark’s “New Co” sketches on December 11, 2003.

Tucked into Mark’s hoodie pocket at 6:53 AM on December 26, 2003.

Left on top of Mark’s suitcase at some point in the morning on January 2, 2004.

Stashed inside Mark’s bookbag after being found on his desk on February 3, 2004.

Placed on Mark’s face after Eduardo shook him awake the evening of February 14, 2004.

Hidden inside a Whole Foods bag on March 29, 2004.

Noted by Eduardo, emoticon-d by Mark and written across in highlighter by Dustin in April 2004.

Arrived inside a box full of so many things on September 15, 2006.

Crumpled in a manila folder that held settlement papers on June 21, 2009.

TSN crack!meme

2011-01-07T22:38:55Z

So I was talking to Kelly today and it was interesting. We got off on a tangent about Jesse and Andrew donating sperm to Emma so she could be their surrogate mother if they decided to go off and be gay together, right?

And so I got to thinking and figured it would be awesome if there was a crack meme in this fandom. tsn_kinkmeme is obviously still thriving, so I don't wanna detract from it and all the amazing requests and fills that are within its (currently) 12 pages.

But I think we all have a desire to request totally outlandish things in an anonymous manner, so, I bring you the THE SOCIAL NETWORK CRACK MEME.

Because these faces are cracky enough on their own.

{ rules }

- be polite
- request as much as you want (but do consider keeping a 1:1 prompt to fill ratio; aka for every prompt you post, try to fill a request so that we don't have many unfilled prompts)
- feel free to post anonymously (or not!)
- in the subject line, at least put the pairing (you can put a two/three/four/five word summary in it too, just follow the first comment)
- crossovers are allowed, as long as the actors or characters from TSN are represented in the prompt
- all pairings are allowed
- RPF/S is encouraged

[i'd catch a grenade for ya]

2010-12-18T09:13:54Z

Jesus Christ, I should be asleep. But I worked on this story for over four straight hours and I had to proofread it so I could just post it tonight.

So here you go.

Title: That’s What Friends Are S’posed to Do
Rating: R
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Summary: Being sick makes Eduardo a little suicidal. And homicidal. Not that he tries anything. He just wishes he was dead because it’s that bad. And he wishes others wouldn’t try to make it better. Mark’s just trying to be a good friend. (In which Eduardo’s a little manic, he’s in the fetal position a lot and Mark’s a good best friend.)
Prompt: Sick!Eduardo. Preferably something worse than a random cold, but as long as there's Eduardo and he's sick I'm good. ~~Maybe fever!sex?.~~ From the kink meme, here.
Notes: This turned into almost 4,300 words of sick!fic full of fluff. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Also, no, I wasn’t referring to The Chicken – just a chicken. I listened to two Mark/Eduardo fanmixes and Bruno Mars’ Doo-Wops and Hooligans album three and a half times through. The title is from “Count on Me” by Bruno Mars. When I finished at 3:26 AM, I’d been working on this story for about four straight hours and I tweeted this: I'M FINISHED. AND OF COURSE THE LAST SONG I WOULD HEAR WOULD BE “THE LAZY SONG.”

It’s January and they’re starting new classes and Eduardo sits next to a guy in his Advanced Statistics class that coughs every three minutes. He doesn’t notice until fifteen minutes into lecture that the guy’s pretty punctual with his interval, so it’s not like he can just get up and move. The thing about sitting in the front row is that he can’t do anything remotely rude or the professor would notice, so he just scoots over a little in his seat, trying to be discreet about his revulsion.

The next morning, the choice to stay put for an hour and a half haunts Eduardo; he sleeps through his alarm, through his 8 AM, and then through most of the morning. For some reason, he can’t drag himself out of bed. His whole body aches and even moving a single inch to draw his covers up to his neck makes him groan in pain. It’s almost as if he’s experiencing that post-workout muscle tiredness that he used to get after PE in high school. He can’t stand it.

By noon, though, he manages to make it to his Mythology class. The girl he sits next to looks at him warily, mouth downturned and eyebrows drawn. He’s a sight in his two coats and suit, surely. The box of tissues he’s carrying doesn’t help his cause either, for the girl immediately shuts her laptop and moves down a few rows in front of him.

If there’s anything good about this cold, it’s that at least he can have the whole back row to himself, since no one wants to sit next to some freak who’s writing with his right hand and holding Kleenex to his nose with his left. Add to that the fact he’s hacking his lungs out into the elbow of his jacket and it makes even more sense why they choose to leave him alone in the back of a lonely auditorium.

By three o’clock, it’s a miracle Eduardo’s even standing. Snow has steadily been coming down for an hour and he’s shaking so hard that his teeth are chattering as he trudges across campus to his room. The box of tissues he’d been carrying earlier had long ago emptied and he has to use his gloves (thankfully he’s wearing two pairs) to keep snot from dribbling all over his face. He’s never been this sick before and he hates it, hates the looks people give him, looks that scream get away from me, freak and Jesus, he’s going to sneeze so hard all of Harvard will get sick, we need to make an anti-Eduardo-virus injection. He wishes he knew the guy he’d sat next to in Stat yesterday, just so he could go up to him and cough in his face and show him that he shouldn’t have even been in class, motherfucker.

+

It’s nine o’clock in the evening when Eduardo becomes conscious again. He’d passed out on his bed as soon as he pulled off his bag, so he must have been asleep for a good six hours. Yawning, he tries to stretch his arms over his head but they hurt too much to bend, and it’s not just because he’s still wearing all the layers of clothes he put on to go to class. It’s that bone tiredness again, and he rolls over to face the wall. Curled up on his side, he somehow manages to pull the covers over himself and go right back to sleep, shivering even though the heater in his room is blowing air hot enough to melt ice.

+

The next time Eduardo wakes up, it’s three in the morning and someone’s pounding on his door. He grumbles something unintelligible into his wet pillowcase – had he been crying or something, God, it’s so damp – and rolls onto his back. The pounding intensifies; it starts to match the ache in his forehead. He could probably use some Excedrin but he doesn’t want to move.

All he wants to do is die, actually. There’s a strange comfort in knowing that if he were to die, he wouldn’t feel so horrible anymore. With that in mind, he closes his eyes against the too-bright light seeping in through the door crack and falls asleep again.

+

On Thursday, he doesn’t go to class at all. He gets out of bed around nine, struggles to keep himself upright and hauls ass to the bathroom so he can piss, brush his teeth and shower. Once he’s back in his room, ready to dive under all his sheets, his stomach turns and he has to run back down the hall to empty its barely-there contents into the toilet. He slips down the wall after, breathing hard and struggling to swallow. It takes him ten minutes to get to his room, and when he does, he calls Chris.

He can barely talk, but he leaves a three-word voicemail that he hopes gets his point across: “Sick. Need help.” He coughs for good measure, then snaps his phone shut, stuffs it under his pillow and briefly wonders if maybe hanging himself is really that out of the question before he drifts off.

+

By the time Chris has called him back and promised to help him, Eduardo’s delirious. It’s three in the afternoon and he’s spent the last two and half days sleeping more than 30 hours; he should be fine by now but Chris mentions on the phone that no one gets better just by sleeping. “You have to eat and take medicine, too, or you’re just rolling around in your virus-infected sheets with no defense,” he says, and Eduardo can see why Chris got into Harvard now. It makes perfect sense.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to try it, though. If he threw up when he hadn’t even eaten in over two days, there’s no way his stomach would even consider holding antibiotics or chicken noodle soup.

Chris tries to feed him, though. He holds a bowl of chicken broth under Eduardo’s nose, shakes a yellow vial of pills over his head, tries to get him to understand, “Wardo, you can’t get better without any of these things.”

If Eduardo could say anything to Chris without feeling like he was talking through cotton, he’d say, “Maybe I don’t want to get better. Maybe I just want to die. Maybe you should fuck off.” Since he can’t, he narrows his already squinted, watery eyes and pulls the covers over his head. Not even under there can he escape Chris’s gaze, though, which is quite annoying. He kind of wants to kill him.

He shouldn’t have even called Chris. He should’ve just called Mark. Mark wouldn’t have cared enough to help him, even if he was on his deathbed.

Eduardo kind of wants that right now, even though it’s not the most sensible approach to this – this illness. He doesn’t even want to know the name for the combination of symptoms (fatigue, fever, headache, muscle weakness, sore throat, lack of appetite, vomiting) he’s experiencing.

+

In the evening, well past six, Mark lets himself into Eduardo’s room. He’s carrying his book bag, which undoubtedly holds his laptop, and wearing an actual jacket for once. Seeing that gives Eduardo hope that he’s not crazy for shivering so hard; it must be really cold outside if Mark’s actually wearing something warmer than a hoodie.

“You look terrible,” are Mark’s words as he closes the door behind himself and takes a few steps toward Eduardo’s bed. He seems to double-think his actions and backtracks.

“And you’re just –” Eduardo covers his mouth with his comforter to cough. “– a sight for –” Cough. “– sore eyes.” He squeezes his eyes shut and fists his hands in the sheets. An invisible hand wraps around one of his lungs and he can’t breathe for a minute, struggling to make the pain go away. When it fades, he opens his eyes to find Mark’s face hovering over his own, actually looking mildly concerned.

Well, fuck. So much for the Mark-doesn’t-care-about-you-so-he-won’t-help plan. If the crease between Mark’s eyebrows means anything, then Mark is very worried. Eduardo whimpers.

“Is everything ok, Wardo?” Mark asks, the puff of his breath making Eduardo shake some more. Of course nothing’s ok. He’s been in bed for almost two days and he’s only getting worse, so he shakes his head twice. “What do you need?” He shrugs because he doesn’t really need anything. He just wants to sleep, and if sleeping leads to death, he’d be ok with that.

But Mark doesn’t know any of that. He’s rightfully oblivious as he crosses to Eduardo’s closet and pulls out a bin that’s clearly labeled MEDICINE in his mom’s handwriting (as if he’d forget what was in there), one Eduardo’s barely ever had to open in all the time he’s been away at school. That Mark is even opening it now is ridiculous. He’s probably been avoiding medicine for too long for it to even help anymore, so it’s pointless. Mark pulls out the Nyquil, fills the dose cup to the brim and holds the menacingly green thing out. Eduardo stares at it warily then closes his eyes, grunting that he doesn’t want it.

“You have to take it, Wardo. Come on, don’t be such a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby,” he whines, trying to melt into the mattress and hide from the unrecognizable monster that Mark Zuckerberg has become.

Mark makes a noise of utter exasperation – it almost sounds like a chicken, which Eduardo would laugh at if his facial muscles weren’t also sore – and moves up the bed, right by Eduardo’s ribcage, making the mattress dip uncomfortably. “Take it or I’ll pour it over your Armani.”

Eduardo’s eyes fly open, wider than he’s let them get in days. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says – but then he’s interrupted by a coughing fit and all the malice he intended disappears.

“Oh, but I would.” Mark smiles smugly.

Eduardo blinks through tears. Conceding, “Fine,” he props himself weakly onto his elbow and takes the proffered medicine. As soon as it’s in his mouth, he gags, but he forces it down and smacks his lips afterward, nauseous. “Fuck,” he mumbles and falls onto his back, eyes closed and fingers in a death grip around his comforter again. “That tastes horrible.”

Mark says, “Not nearly as horrible as you look, believe me,” and then he’s off the bed and Eduardo can hear him rolling out his desk chair, unzipping his book bag and turning on his laptop.

“Ha ha,” Eduardo mumbles sardonically, and before Mark can even reply, the sound of his fingers quickly tapping out his login information lulls Eduardo to sleep.

+

It’s midnight. Eduardo thinks his sleeping cycles are very fond of the multiples of three because every time he looks at the clock it’s either three, six, nine or twelve. Fuck, even in sickness his brain’s making some mathematical connection. He hates himself.

He rolls onto his side, hiding a yawn in his pillow, and cracks open his eyes to find Mark sitting at his desk, shoulders hunched and spine rigid. He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining things and once he’s blearily confirmed Mark’s presence, he opens his mouth to talk. Instead, he coughs. Something in his throat irritates him and he coughs some more, sits up so he can grab his pillow and cough into its comfort. Mark’s weight dips the mattress in a matter of moments, and when Eduardo lowers his shield, a water bottle is thrust into his hands.

“Drink,” Mark demands, neutral voice but betraying eyes.

Eduardo does as he’s told because he can’t say “no” to Mark and actually mean it. He’s not genetically coded for that sort of thing.

Mark looks pleased with himself when Eduardo swallows half the bottle and Eduardo glares, mumbles, “Well, aren’t you smug.” All Mark does is shrug, then he’s back at Eduardo’s desk, back to coding, back to the enthralling world of Thefacebook. Eduardo watches him for thirty minutes, drifting in and out of sleep and having five-minute dreams that seem to last hours. The Nyquil must be taking its full effects because he swears there’s a white elephant sitting in the corner of his room, long trunk tipping over his trashcan.

“Am I supposed to be hallucinating, Mark?” Eduardo’s on his side, bundled in his sheets like a burrito, and Mark looks over his shoulder at him, a frowned etched into his face. It doesn’t look right on him. Eduardo wants to erase it.

“I don’t think so.”

“Just making sure. There’s an elephant with an Aladdin hat knocking over all the trash. Can you pick it up?”

+

For once, when Eduardo rolls over in the morning, a multiple of three doesn’t greet him. In fact, nothing greets him but a faceful of white sock. He gasps and moves so quickly that he knocks his head against the wall.

“Fuck,” he groans, sitting up and cradling his head, fingers digging into his scalp in an attempt to massage out the pain. He doesn’t notice how hot his skin feels, unable to focus on anything but the intensity radiating through his head. “Jesus Christ.”

Mark hasn’t stirred yet. He looks peaceful when Eduardo finally lowers his hands and opens his eyes, looks like he actually belongs here, sprawled across the foot of Eduardo’s bed with his head where Eduardo’s legs must have been before he woke up.

Sighing, he leaves the room without disturbing Mark and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, piss and shower all over again. Just another morning in the sick life of Eduardo Saverin. He even throws up, practically for good measure.

He doesn’t even know why he bothers to care for his hygiene when he’s so obviously ill.

Mark still isn’t awake when Eduardo climbs back into bed. He’s shifted, though, full body now stretched across the mattress, feet tucked under Eduardo’s pillow. He can’t possibly be cold if he’s wearing only his shorts and t-shirt, and the warmth he seemingly exudes gives Eduardo the crazy idea that he should slip under Mark’s arm and sleep.

He doesn’t debate it for too long. He takes his pillow, moves it to the other side of the bed and snuggles into Mark’s side, covers thrown over the both of them.

+

Mark wakes Eduardo up at eleven by laying a cold hand on his forehead. Eduardo jerks and tries to bury his face in his pillow but Mark’s fingers hold him by the jaw.

“You’re burning up,” he whispers, voice laced with sleep, eyes droopy. Eduardo isn’t even ashamed of thinking about how fuckable Mark looks when he’s barely conscious. It’s been a few weeks, ok, he’s allowed to fantasize. “You should probably go to the health center, Wardo.”

“No,” Eduardo grumbles. He tries to shake Mark’s hand off but Mark isn’t having that. He’s holding him tight enough to bruise. “Ow, Mark.”

“It’s Friday and you’ve been sick for days. You haven’t even eaten anything. And I’m not one to criticize but at least I get food in my system.”

“Because I make you eat.”

“Well, I’m making you go to the doctor.”

“Don’t wanna.” Eduardo finally bats away Mark’s hand and pulls a blanket over his head. “Go away.”

Mark yanks the blanket out of Eduardo’s grip and glares. “You’re going to die if you don’t do something about this.”

“I’m doing something about this. I’m sleeping.”

“Wardo, come on.”

“Since when were our roles reversed, huh?”

Hurt flickers over Mark’s fully-opened eyes but then they’re hooded again, like nothing was ever wrong, and Eduardo’s chest tightens. “I guess you know how I feel all the time now. Only, you know, annoying as you can be, I actually kind of appreciate it. You could at least appreciate my attempts, huh?” Mark scrambles to get off the bed and pull on his clothes as Eduardo watches him quietly, chewing on his lip. He doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the tremble in Mark’s hands.

“Mark,” he whispers, trying to stop Mark from zipping his jeans all the way. The only thing he manages to do is make Mark’s fingers fumble. “Stay. I do appreciate it, ok? I’m sorry.”

“I have class. I’ll be back later.”

“You don’t have to go to class,” Eduardo pleads, swallows around the lump in his throat. His voice is hoarse but he forges on, unashamed to admit, “I could really use your body heat.”

Mark freezes with one arm through his jacket. He looks manic, clothes in disarray, hair mussed, jacket falling off his shoulder.

“Please,” Eduardo adds. As soon as Mark’s shoulders slump all the way forward, he knows he’s won.

+

Waking up with his face in Mark’s chest is really weird. They’ve never slept together before, not in the literal sense, and Eduardo isn’t really sure what to do about it. He rubs his cheek against the worn cotton of Mark’s shirt, trips his fingers up his torso until they catch in his collar. His knuckles brush against his clavicle and his skin’s so warm that he closes his eyes and falls asleep to Mark’s heartbeat again. It’s the best course of action.

+

Eduardo’s room is plunged in the dark, blackness weighing on his chest, making him short of breath. Mark’s not in his bed anymore and he freaks out, scrambles to turn on the lamp on his nightstand. Gasping, he grabs his phone and checks his messages. There are some from days ago that have gone unanswered because he hasn’t really been keeping up with his phone, but he’s not paying those any mind. Mark’s name is what he’s looking for, in blocky white letters on a black backdrop. His hands are shaking as he pushes buttons.

When he finally lands on Mark’s message, he sighs. Went for food and a shower. Be back later tonight. Its timestamp is 5:52 and it’s currently 6:30. Eduardo is so relieved that when he pulls his pillow back under his head, he actually doesn’t fall asleep.

Fever and all, he’s actually feeling a lot better. At least his nose isn’t running anymore.

+

When Mark comes back around eleven, Eduardo’s in bed, tucked into so many covers that he could be mistaken for a fat person.

“You haven’t left, have you?” Mark’s smirking, dumping his book bag into Eduardo’s chair.

“I went to the cafeteria and had some soup, actually,” Eduardo corrects him, voice muffled by the cotton, irritated inflection lost in the barrier.

“And how was that?”

“Terrible, but I made myself finish it.”

“That’s good.” Eduardo watches Mark pull off his jacket and jeans and realizes that Mark isn’t planning to code tonight. He hides his smile.

“You aren’t working on Thefacebook?”

“I already did what I needed to finish today, so no.” Mark slips in next to Eduardo and his mouth is just centimeters away. Then he wraps his fingers around Eduardo’s neck and Eduardo sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re still really warm, Wardo.”

Eduardo only shrugs in response, inching closer until their noses bump. He puts a trembling hand on Mark’s cheek, leans in and takes his lips slowly into his own. They kiss with gentleness that’s uncharacteristic of their typical relationship, which is frantic and focused more on release than pleasure. That’s not to say that they haven’t paused to take it in once in a while, just that they’re mostly too busy to get it on like Boys II Men suggest.

Mark makes a sound in the back of his throat and Eduardo kisses him a little harder, teeth scraping against his bottom lip. Mark pulls his hand through Eduardo’s hair and tugs him closer still, both of their mouths sliding smoothly over the other’s. A shiver goes down Eduardo’s spine.

Mark takes that as a cue to roll them over so his weight’s holding Eduardo down, legs between Eduardo’s. His lips trail down to Eduardo’s neck, teeth catching on his skin, tongue lapping at dried sweat, and Eduardo can’t keep himself from groaning and writhing. He’s taller but Mark’s heavier and his shifting doesn’t do much of anything but rub their crotches together.

God, but even with Mark so warm on top of him, he’s still shivering. It’s like nothing he does can make it stop, and he wraps his arms tightly around Mark’s back, clutches at his shirt and tries to bring him as close as possible. But that doesn’t work either and Eduardo can’t even figure out the chemistry of this at all.

“Mark,” he whimpers, nails scraping Mark’s shoulders hard through his shirt. Mark hisses in response. “Mark, I can’t – I don’t think – I’m so fucking cold. I can’t do this.”

Mark’s assault on his neck ceases and he leans back to nose Eduardo’s cheek, kiss his jaw. “Face the wall, Wardo,” he says into his ear, voice terribly low but so smooth.

Eduardo swallows and nods, not sure how that will help. He waits for Mark to get off and then rolls onto his side, covers around his neck again, body trembling hard. He presses a hand to his own forehead to gauge its hotness and draws it back with a sigh.

One of Mark’s hands slips under the waistband of his sweatpants and he jerks, startled. “What are you doing?” he hisses, looking over his shoulder at Mark, who has a condom between his teeth. Eduardo blinks. “Are you kidding?”

Mark tears the packet open and shakes his head. “Trying to help.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“You wanted to die yesterday.”

“Shut up, smart ass. I don’t want to die anymore.”

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to fuck you. It should help you feel warm again.”

And that actually makes so much more sense of anything that’s happened in the last few days that Eduardo sighs and turns back to the wall.

Once Mark has Eduardo’s sweatpants at his knees and two fingers inside Eduardo, Eduardo can see through his bleary eyes Mark’s logic. He moans and throws a hand back, fumbling for something of Mark’s to hold onto, anything, just something to wrap his fingers around. Mark hooks deeper into Eduardo as he shifts closer, and Eduardo moans, fisting his hand instead and bringing it back to his side of the bed so he can pound it on the mattress.

“Mark,” he breathes out shakily, hips lifting up some, allowing Mark to press his fingertips against Eduardo’s prostate. “Fuck, Mark. Mark.”

Mark’s lips brush Eduardo’s ear as he shushes him and kisses the hinge of his jaw. He slips a third finger into Eduardo, leans over to kiss Eduardo’s mouth and swallow his groan, and then stretches him a little more before he pulls back completely. Eduardo gasps, trembling in anticipation. When Mark wraps his hands around Eduardo’s hips and he pushes inside him, Eduardo almost loses it. He bites his lip so hard that he can taste copper in his mouth.

As Mark pushes in and out, Eduardo awkwardly half on his side and half on his stomach, his fingers are soft at Eduardo’s hips. He must be making a conscious effort not to bruise Eduardo but Eduardo can’t stop moving and he needs Mark to ground him with a rough touch, needs the bruising. He tries to say that, tries to swallow his pants and moans and incoherent words to tell Mark that he wants all the traces he could possibly leave behind, but he chokes on saliva. He has to jerk away and Mark gets the hint almost immediately, grabbing Eduardo and lining his cock up with that spot that could finally end the delicious pain.

Eduardo rolls his hips back, thrashes because he doesn’t want to stop this yet. Mark’s finally all around him and he’s finally feeling warm and he can’t let that go.

“Don’t,” he manages, breaking the word into two syllables, letting it drift in the little space between himself and the wall. He’s not sure if Mark catches it because all he can hear is Mark’s breath in his ear, hard and shallow. It’s almost like they’re in Mark’s room, hiding from Dustin and Chris, trying not to make any noise that might arouse suspicion.

Mark hasn’t said anything and Eduardo suddenly wants him to say his name, wants to hear how it rolls off his tongue when’s he’s so close to finishing. Another thing he wants to voice but can’t find the words to say without choking.

But it turns out Mark doesn’t need Eduardo to ask him. He touches the back of Eduardo’s ear with his nose, closes his hands tightly over Eduardo’s hips and whispers, “Eduardo, God.”

It doesn’t take Eduardo much else. He manages to get a hand on his cock, to stroke himself a few times, and then his semen splatters all over his shirt and sheets, which they’ve somehow managed to keep on. Mark follows shortly after, shaking inside Eduardo and breathing into his ear.

Once Mark pulls out and rolls onto his back, Eduardo pushes himself into a sitting position and throws off the covers. He tugs his sweats to his waist again but he doesn’t think, with all the sweating they’re both doing, blankets are a good idea.

“Mark?” he whispers, easing himself onto his side and sliding a hand over the mattress. His fingers push against Mark’s ribs and then crawl up to his chest.

It’s a minute of Eduardo rubbing Mark’s skin before Mark finally acknowledges him. “Hmm?”

“I think it worked.”

Even in the dark Eduardo can see a smile tug at Mark’s lips. “I’m always right, aren’t I?”

[can't get your memory off of my mind]

2010-12-16T00:06:00Z

Title: Can’t get your memory off of my mind
Rating: PG-13 (barely)
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo (implied)
Summary: He sighs deeper, realizing that when Mark told him he wasn’t coming back to Harvard, he fulfilled his own prophecy. He left Eduardo behind.
Word Count: ~1,500
Note: I felt like if I didn’t post this now, I’d never post it. Wrote it Sunday night, left it to marinate. Not even sure it has a plot, but here you go. Title from “The Haunting” by Anberlin.

Harvard’s in the full swing of things in October.

Eduardo hasn’t seen Mark in two months and it’s weird being in Cambridge without him around.

It’s not that he’s miserable. His schedule’s great and he doesn’t even have Friday classes. For once he can call himself an upperclassman and not feel like he’s cheating someone of a title. And girls actually flock to him now that Mark’s not at his side all the time (though that could actually be a combination of Mark’s absence and his membership in the Phoenix, where girls eat out of his hands left and right).

He should be happy within the gates of an institution older than its country, three thousand miles away from all things facebook.

But all those things he should be are never the things he is. His father can attest to that.

+

Eduardo has a roommate now. Before the semester began, the housing office offered him the same room from the previous year, but Eduardo denied it, requesting instead a double. He didn’t think he could live on his own anymore, not when he was constantly plagued by the ghosts of his not-so-distant past

(hooded jackets, knotted curls, sticky sheets, invisible grins, stifled moans of markmarkmark)

and so he contacted Brennan, a fellow Economics major he’s known since freshman year. They put in a mutual request and now they’re sharing a two-room suite in Eliot, windows overlooking the courtyard.

(At least twice a day, Eduardo passes Kirkland and has to avert his gaze. If he doesn’t, muscle memory will act and lead him up the steps to the building’s front door. It’s hard, after walking this same path every day for a year, to train his legs not to do what they were once so accustomed to doing.)

Brennan’s a nice guy. He never intrudes or makes a lot of noise. If he’s in the living room watching TV, he’ll put the volume low enough so only he can hear the words and so Eduardo can only hear the TV’s hum. On the weekends, he brings back girls for both of them. By the end of the night, their bedroom doors are locked and even with a girl in his arms, Eduardo can’t stop thinking.

He wishes he’d done the whole roommate thing from the beginning. He probably wouldn’t be where he is now, in love with the least sentient person on the planet.

+

It’s past eleven at night and the water beneath the bridge is pitch black. Occasionally, white foam wraps around rocks to break up the running water’s dark façade. Eduardo’s been staring at the Charles for so long that he doesn’t even notice it anymore.

There are other places he could be right now. He could be on Mt. Auburn Street, holed up in a smoky, dark room playing strip poker, or he could be at an AEPi party, stirring the bad punch with a ladle.

He could also be in a dorm room across campus where this girl he met a few nights ago lives. She’d promised him unbarred entry and a no-questions-asked policy that made his head spin at the time.

But none of those places sound appealing, so he’s on the bridge, vaguely wondering how crazy he’d have to be to dive into the murky depths of the river.

Mostly, he’s thinking about Mark again. It’s a common occurrence, happening at least six times a day, but he can never make himself stop it. Suddenly, now seems like a fantastic time to give him a call.

The phone rings for twenty seconds before the automated voicemail picks up, announcing the 914 area code that Eduardo doesn’t think Mark will ever change. After almost six months on the west coast and decidedly moving facebook to Palo Alto for good, any normal person would change their phone number to reflect their new residence but Mark’s never been a normal person. He’ll probably have the same number for the rest of his life, just for familiarity’s sake.

Or just to be a nonconformist.

Eduardo doesn’t leave a message. It’s eight in California. Mark’s probably still coding, even though it’s been an hour since the office closed. A missed call should be notice enough to call Eduardo back.

Sighing, Eduardo sets his cell phone on the weathered brick and hangs his head. He catches a glimpse of a couple walking away from him, the girl’s hand pressed firmly into the guy’s back pocket and the guy’s arm wrapped possessively around the girl’s waist.

He sighs deeper, realizing that when Mark told him he wasn’t coming back to Harvard, he fulfilled his own prophecy. He left Eduardo behind.

+

At three A.M., Eduardo’s phone’s shrill ringtone echoes in his room. He tumbles onto the floor in an attempt to silence it, entangled in sheets like he just fell into a movie scene, and when he answers the call, “Hello?” all he can hear is his breath mirrored back at him.

Five seconds later, a simple “hi” is his response. Mark.

(rough fingers, dark eyes, chapped lips, warm skin)

That fucker.

“Mark. Man. It’s late.” He pushes himself to his feet and staggers over to his bed. Cradling the phone between his shoulder and cheek, he rubs one hand across his eyes and the other down his thigh.

“I’m returning your call,” Mark says. In the background, Eduardo picks out the squeak of rusty springs and distant, muffled laughter. “I can always call you tomorrow.”

“I have class at eight, Mark. I shouldn’t even be awake right now.”

“We don’t have to talk, then. I can call you tomorrow.”

“It’s midnight on the west coast. It’s three here.”

“I forget about time differences.”

“If you called more, maybe you wouldn’t.”

Mark doesn’t say anything for a long time. Eduardo shakes his head at himself, smacks his forehead and lies back with an arm draped over his eyes. Thing is, he knows he’s right. Time wouldn’t be an issue if Mark weren’t such a distant person – literal distance aside. If Mark would just let Eduardo in, everything would be so much simpler.

But nothing with Mark can ever be simple. Eduardo exhales. “So did you just get back from the office?”

“No, I got back two hours ago.”

“And you just now decided to call me?”

“Yes.”

“Does the term ‘missed call’ mean anything to you at all?”

“Wardo, if you had left a message telling me to call you back as soon as possible, I might have called you sooner. As it is, at least I’m not busy at the moment and you actually have half my attention.”

Sighing, “Where’s the other half?” he slips his hand under his shirt and scratches his stomach. Goosebumps rise on his skin.

“I don’t think that question deserves a serious response.”

Eduardo can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Well, I miss you.”

“At least someone does.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just glad to know you do, Wardo.”

“You make no sense whatsoever.”

“You’re employing too much logic for someone who just rolled out of bed.”

“I guess you’re right.” A smile stretches Eduardo’s face so wide it hurts his cheeks. It’s too late for bright smiles but he can’t really help this one. “But be embarrassed that I, who woke up five minutes ago, can find the holes.”

“Well, no, because you’re rested. I’ve been coding all day. My brain has turned off its prefrontal cortex and I’ve now got alcohol in my system.”

Eduardo’s face immediately relaxes. “Is that why you’re calling me?”

“No. I was just going to say –” Mark’s voice sounds distant for a moment as he audibly shifts around, “that I still think you should come to Palo Alto.”

“You needed liquid courage for that?”

Mark’s sigh is barely noticeable in his words. “I know you’re miserable out there on your own. You should transfer to Stanford if you really want to finish your degree and work for facebook in your downtime. Tell me that’s not a good idea.”

“I appreciate you looking out for my wellbeing, Mark, but I’m not,” Eduardo says, closing his eyes tightly. If only Mark would put things more nicely.

“Not what?”

“Not miserable at Harvard.”

“You told me you missed me.”

“I do miss you but that doesn’t mean I’m miserable. I was miserable in New York when I missed you but I’m not miserable in Harvard while missing you. It’s just a matter of your absence weighing on me.”

“That’s sweet, Wardo, but my absence wouldn’t weigh on you if you were in California.”

“That’s not gonna happen, Mark. This is Harvard you’re asking me to leave for Stanford. Are you insane?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Stanford.”

“Stanford is not what my father wants – it’s not what I want.”

“You both want Harvard?”

Eduardo freezes. He’s tempted to say, “I want you,” but it’s not the time for that. Not the place either. He can’t go to California just to be somewhere near Mark. Instead of answering, he sighs and hopes Mark can maybe read into it.

“I think you don’t want to get left behind.”

A few seconds after Mark says it, Eduardo ends the call, turns off his phone and rolls onto his back. There’s only so much obliviousness he can stand before he gets tired of it.

(reluctant hellos, garbled declarations, missed words, hurried goodbyes – )

mix: retrace (locked in these memories)

2010-12-15T06:42:25Z

Notes: So, after a month of adding and removing songs to a playlist on iTunes called "[M+E] 1", I finally finished my first ever fanmix. I spent a lot of time deliberating who this mix would focus on and, after reading between the lines of almost 20 songs (no, the mix's not that long; I cut it down substantially), I concluded that clearly I'd had Eduardo in mind all along. At first, the songs don't scream his name at you but after you read the specific lyrics I've picked out for each song, you'll see where I was going with this!

Hopefully.

Anyway, on to the story behind the music. It's fairly simple: Eduardo reminisces. It starts with facebook's move to Palo Alto and continues with the slow (or rapid, however you want to look at it) disintegration of his and Mark's relationship. Somewhere between "Answer Me" and "Constant Knot" is the climax of the film (A.K.A. the break-up scene) and "No One to Share the Blame" is the beginning of the lawsuit. "I Believe You, Liar" ends the suit but also marks Eduardo coming to terms with Mark's actions. The final two songs bring Eduardo to the point where he wants Mark back in his life, in spite of all the horrible things that have happened. He understands Mark's reasons, dislikes them, but wants Mark anyway. I added the bonus track at the last minute because I wanted the mix to have some kind of hopeful note. Otherwise, the ending's ambiguous enough that you might think Eduardo just spends the rest of his days wondering about what could have been. And, no, I couldn't have chosen a more creatively titled song. ♥

(side note: "No One to Share the Blame" is probably best taken as a Mark interlude, though I think the first verse is very Eduardo)

With that, I introduce you to . . .

{ all deliberate speed | mae }

Sound off, we're going to LA
You wanted to be the one who makes it happen so
Sound off, we're going to LA
If it's going to be, then we've got to give
But it's got to be enough for me

{ weekends | the perishers }

You don't know me, but I'm sitting next to you
Every morning, on the bus or on the tube

{ can't take that away | the friday night boys }

I remember conversations before I gave up on me
And if it's any consolation, I remember everything
And you can't take that, no, you can't take that away

{ answer me | tiny animals }

You won't even know what hit you at all
Answer me, I promise I'll be brave
Would you miss me if I went away?

{ constant knot | city and colour }

How do I end up this way,
A constant knot in my gut,
Tied with uncertainty and lust?
A classic case, I suppose,
A haunted man who can't outrun his ghosts.

{ no one to share the blame | josh gracin }

I can count 100 reasons why
But 99 would still be shy
Of a good excuse for why you're gone
The truth will burn you when you know you're wrong

{ no way to be | teddy thompson }

I'm on your back
I've got no patience
Defensive stance
It's just frustration

{ someone to save you | onerepublic }

Let's start from the very start
'cause I can see by your eyes, you're wasted
Your energy comes and goes
You taking your time, and, no,
Nothing can change what's happened

{ i believe you, liar | washington }

All the things you've said
And things you've done
I remember, in memoriam
You said that you did
But you did not

{ swans | unkle bob }

I'm lost in my dreams
And I want you to know
That I can't let you go

{ retrace | anberlin }

Oh, how I find every subtle thing screams your name
It reminds me of places and times we shared
Couldn't live locked in these memories
Now I'm chained to my thoughts again

bonus track

{ the end | jason reeves }

In the end, I see it's all up to me
To figure out where I should be
I'm gonna find a way from here

download .zip here
individual song uploads available upon request

cannot believe i wrote this, you better be happy, pookie!

2010-11-24T07:54:44Z

Title: I’m not scared but I’d like some extra spare time
Pairing: Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss
Rating: R, for incestual leanings and quasi-porn
Note: Title from “Picture of Success” by Rilo Kiley. Written for sheep_mambo. ~1,000 words. Currently unrevised, had to get it posted, like, now.

People drink way too much in England. It feels like every nook and cranny of their host family’s home holds a wine cooler or a cabinet full of liquor – though that’s probably pushing it. But Cameron suspects there is alcohol with every meal, in some form. Pancakes taste oddly sharp in the mornings and the cook never hesitates to offer him and Tyler a beer at lunch. Wine is the drink of choice at dinner, and if Cameron and Tyler hadn’t developed tolerances long ago, they would find themselves fairly intoxicated every evening.

They’re pretty much just lucky that their father taught them the basics of wine-drinking at a young age or they’d probably be screwed.

At the table the night before the match against the Dutch, glasses aren’t set out for either of them. They’re given tea to accompany their meal instead; it’s just a little weird, but Cameron’s especially thankful. He has no desire to experience any kind of impairment the next morning.

Tyler, though, seems to have other plans in mind. He comes into Cameron’s room before midnight, toting a bottle of Redlands. “We’re not getting drunk,” is the first thing he says, a smile spreading across his face as he pushes the door closed. “But I thought you could blow off some steam. It’s been a while.”

Shutting his book, Cameron sits up all the way in bed and pats the space next to him. “I shouldn’t endorse this.”

“Oh, who are you kidding?” Tyler pulls off his sweatshirt, the hem of his Crew shirt coming up with it, and tosses it at Cameron’s face.

Huffing, “I’m not kidding,” Cameron balls the sweater up and hurls it back at Tyler, who skillfully dodges it. The curtains across the room shake with the sweater’s impact and Cameron glares. “Your irresponsibility is disconcerting.”

Tyler climbs into Cameron’s bed, uncorks the bottle and passes it to Cameron. When Cameron takes a swig, Tyler mocks, “Your gullibility is disconcerting,” and takes the bottle back.

Cameron sighs, leaning back against his pillows and scratching his nails across his stomach. The ceiling’s a rather intimidating structure; he’d call it Victorian if such a thing existed. Mostly, it’s tall and vaulted, almost black even with two lights on. “The houses here are so weird,” he muses, sparing Tyler a quick glance.

“I get to feeling like that girl from The Haunting, like when the ceiling was turning into faces.” Tyler laughs quietly but Cameron can smell the wine on his breath already, wonders if he started drinking without him. “Remember all those nightmares you had?”

Cameron glares and elbows Tyler in the side, punches his arm for good measure. “Shut up.”

Voice high pitched, Tyler says, “Oh, Tyler, the wallpaper’s going to eat me, let me sleep in your bed,” and reaches across Cameron to set the bottle on the nightstand.

Cameron seizes Tyler’s shoulder then and pulls him down. He manages to wrap his arm around Tyler’s neck and shove his hand into Tyler’s hair. Grabbing a fistful of it, he growls into Tyler’s ear, “I never slept in your bed – and I never asked to do it because I was afraid either.” Tyler is laughing and his Adam’s apple is bobbing and Cameron is trying really hard not to watch the smooth contraction of muscle in Tyler’s throat. “I did no such thing!” he reiterates, wanting Tyler to stop.

The only thing Tyler does is wrench around so violently that Cameron suddenly finds himself halfway off the bed, waist straddled by Tyler’s powerful thighs.

Panting, “Jesus Christ, Tyler,” Cameron uses a hand to propel his body back into a sitting position so he’s no longer balanced over the floor. His nose is barely two inches from Tyler’s now and this isn’t what he wanted tonight. He just wanted to relax until he fell asleep. “Tyler, come on. Get off.”

But Tyler doesn’t oblige him. His eyes are dark where they’re usually light, his cheeks are red, and then his lips are wet against Cameron’s, soft and pliable and there. Cameron sighs, yet he can’t even breathe.

“Sorry,” Tyler whispers when he finally realizes that Cameron can’t do this if there’s no oxygen circulating throughout his body. He rolls over, lets Cameron lay down. “Sorry.”

Ten seconds later, Tyler’s on Cameron again, two hundred pounds crushing him into the mattress without any concern. “Ty–” Cameron tries, breaking the kiss for a brief moment but Tyler’s not having that. He slips his tongue past Cameron’s teeth and Cameron can taste everything – the hint of minty toothpaste and the overpowering tang of wine threaten to give him some sort of sensory overload. There’s a lot more take than give, a lot more Cameron telling himself that they have to be up early tomorrow and a lot more Tyler not giving a fuck that Cameron doesn’t want this now.

Tyler notices at some point that Cameron’s not nearly as eager to get things going and he sits back, rubbing the back of his hand across his lips and looking so wounded. Cameron’s breath comes in pants as he watches Tyler reach for the wine and take a swig. He can’t really take watching Tyler do anything because it’s way too enticing, especially now, all his motions jerky and languid at the same time. It makes no sense but then Cameron’s wrapping his fingers around Tyler’s wrist and shaking his head.

“You can’t get drunk,” he whispers – pleads. “Tomorrow, Tyler, you can drink all you want. But not tonight. You can’t tonight.”

Tyler’s eyes are still dark, even in the light of the lamp on the nightstand, but they seem to soften a little, just right around the edges. Then Cameron can’t see his eyes anymore because Tyler’s ducking and moving away, shoulders slumped, making Cameron feel like a jerk for refusing.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tyler mutters, bed creaking when he gets up in search of his sweatshirt.

Cameron sighs and props himself on his elbow, starts chewing on his bottom lip. Once Tyler’s at the door, doorknob, not a bottle, in hand, Cameron promises, “Tomorrow.”

For just a few moments, Tyler hesitates and looks back to Cameron. He nods, says, “I’m holding you to that,” and disappears, all in ten seconds.

[never thought that you would be the one acting like a slut when i was gone]

2010-03-06T23:36:48Z

I've had this song stuck in my head since last night. I woke up with it in my head, too. Sigh. "Kiss N Tell" by Ke$ha is what I'm talking about.

You really shoulda kept it in your pants
Hearing dirty stories from your friends
Maybe you shouldn't, oh, oh
Kiss 'n tell

That's random, though. The real point of this post is the anonymous meme thing floating around. Do it!

Post anon and tell me:
1. One secret.
2. One compliment.
3. One non-compliment.
4. One love note, but it does not have to be for me.
5. Lyrics to a song.
6. How old you are.
7. How long we've been friends.
8. And a hint to who you are.

Jordan hasn't played yet. :(

Edit: It would help if I enabled anonymous posting, huh?

QAF Fic: Adjustable Heads, Or the One Where Justin Doesn’t Know Any Better, Brian/Justin

2008-07-06T05:50:07Z

Title: Adjustable Heads, Or the One Where Justin Doesn’t Know Any Better
Author: learnthemusic
Rating: R
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Warning(s): Post 513; language; some smut
Word Count: 1359

Summary: It’s long. It’s hard. He may even go as far as to say it’s enticing.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own QAF. Never have, never will. It belongs to CowLip.
Author’s Note: I was taking a shower and wondering about the title. That’s how this came to be. I hope you enjoy it!

-

It’s long. It’s hard. He may even go as far as to say it’s enticing.

But it’s expensive. And Justin’s never really had to buy anything like it because it was always done for him. He’s not even old enough to have to pay for this kind of thing, anyway.

Then again, he’s desperate and, though he may be short of cash, sometimes you gotta have the biggest of things, you gotta splurge.

So, Justin sighs, scrunches his eyes shut and grabs it, feeling like a weight has finally lifted off his shoulders.

-

Or, maybe not.

The minute Justin gets rid of his paycheck that night, he realizes he doesn’t have any food in his studio and won’t have any money until he manages to sell a painting. And that may prove more difficult than it sounds because, at the moment, nothing but blank canvases adorns his stretchers. There’s not even a possibility that he’ll coat them anytime soon.

Now he’ll starve. All because he couldn’t keep his dick from acting for him.

-

You can’t really blame him; it’s difficult in New York and no matter what the Internet says, work is not easy to come by. Most of the time, Justin finds himself doing the oddest of jobs at the oddest of times just to keep a roof (a ceiling, whatever) over his head. And it’s hard. So excuse him if he thinks he deserves a break every now and then.

That’s all the splurging was. A break from difficulty, okay?

-

“Are you a fucking retard?”

Justin sighs, wipes the sweat from his brow. There’s tension in his shoulders and he’s beginning to wish that voice was coming from behind him and not from a telephone. “How many times will I have to tell you I regret it?”

“As many as it takes for me to understand why you would pay for that in the first place.”

“I can’t try to return it.”

“I’d hate to be the poor fucker who witnesses such a spectacle.”

“It’s not like you’ve never had to do it,” he mumbles, sliding, with his back, down the wall and running his fingers through his hair. When he gets the money, he thinks, he’ll chop most of it off again.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sunshine. If anything needs fixing, a repairman does it for me.”

Groaning, Justin hits his head against the plaster, dust sprinkling onto his forehead from the ceiling. “Probably because you’ve fucked him.”

“Do you want me to call Ben and ask him about it?”

“I just want to forget it.”

“After you spent so much on it? I’d hope it was the most unfuckingbelievable thing in the universe.”

“Your support is now officially unwelcome.”

“What, you want me to mock you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then what?”

Justin closes his eyes, sighs and says, “Can you come?”

Chuckling, “Is that what you’ve resorted to? How is that gonna help?”

“That kind of shit is getting really old, really fast.”

“You set yourself up for it.”

“Brian.”

“How am I going to help you with it? You’ve already made your mistake. And I’m not that handy.”

“It’s your fault I did it.”

“What the fuck?”

“If you were here, I would have had reason not to.” There’s a tinge of exasperation in his voice, exhaustion creeping into his muscles though it’s mid-afternoon.

“You think I would have stopped you from paying for it?”

“Brian Kinney is the voice of reason, is what they always said.”

“Who is ‘they’ and where can I find them?”

“Maybe you would have made me realize I have no inspiration.”

“How would I even realize that?”

“You’re the motherfucking voice of reason!”

“Justin, calm the fuck down. When was the last time you ate anything substantial?”

Probably longer than he’s aware. “Two days ago.”

“And you haven’t mooched off your friends?”

“I still had some Pop-Tarts left. I ran out this morning.”

“You have no money left at all?”

Justin groans.

“Do you want me to wire you some cash?”

“Are we in a fucking movie?”

“Look, I don’t know how flying up there is going to help.”

“Whatever.”

“Go take a nap. You’re grumpy.”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Clicking the phone off, Justin gets to his feet and walks out of the bathroom. His unmade couch is looking a little more inviting than it had the night before.

-

The truth: he has no inspiration because he hasn’t sold anything since he stepped off the plane a year ago; he managed to get the studio apartment because Brian was thoughtful (or regretful) enough to loan him some money before he left.

The lie: no one buys masterpieces.

-

“What’re you doing here?”

Brian smirks, sticking a hand into his coat pocket and lifting his other into view. “I’m bringing you some food.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Justin folds his arms across his chest. “I thought you couldn’t help me.”

“I decided you needed to eat.”

“Why are you here?”

“Did you take a nap? Because if you didn’t, it would explain your attitude.”

“You just woke me up from it.”

“Oh,” says Brian, not stating, not asking, just watching Justin, almost distrusting. It’s making him paranoid. “Are you going to let me in?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Brian’s lips twist into a scowl and he pushes past Justin anyway. “So, where is it?”

Bolting the door and sighing, Justin turns to watch Brian set the takeout bag on the small table, wrinkling his nose when the scent of the food reaches his nostrils. The smell of Thai has probably never meant so much to him. “I really missed you,” he whispers, leaning his back against the door and letting his arms drop to his sides.

“I hope you don’t expect me to return the sentiment,” Brian jibes, smiling and shrugging off his coat, exactly what Justin expects and nothing less.

But Justin’s quick to reach him, mashing their lips together and clawing at Brian’s neck with one hand while the other snakes down his chest, fingers popping the buttons of his jeans while their teeth clash and their tongues duel. Brian’s hands tug at Justin’s overgrown hair when he gets to his knees and takes his dick into his mouth, both Justin’s hands gripping Brian’s waist. He’s fast about it, licking and swirling his tongue until Brian grunts, shudders and pulls Justin’s head closer, almost choking him if he hadn’t lost his gag reflex years ago. Justin’s fingers dig into Brian’s skin, keeping him steady when he can’t hold off any longer.

-

“That’s what you paid for?” Brian asks, glaring and crossing his arms over his chest in repulsion. Justin nods, his shoulders slumping. “That’s what’s kept you from food for so long?”

“It was a good idea at the time. I thought it would make it easier.”

Brian sighs, “You are such a fucking retard,” before turning the handles and pushing the flank around it, water spraying directly into the middle of the bathtub in different patterns. “How much was it?”

Groaning, “Fifty bucks at Home Depot.” Brian widens his eyes at him. “It was the only one that wasn’t handheld. Besides, the old one needed to be replaced.”

“At the expense of your health?”

“Whatever. I’m fed now.”

Blinking deliberately, Brian rolls in his bottom lip and turns up the heat. “You’re lucky, too.”

Justin smiles, steps closer to Brian. He’s near enough now to see the drip of sweat down his neck and his tongue gently licks at it. His arms wrap around Brian’s chest, pulling their bodies together enough that Justin is sure Brian knows without having to tell him. “You’re hot when you worry about me.”

“It’s a shame it doesn’t happen a lot, huh?” Brian turns in Justin’s arms, grips his hips in his palms and presses their foreheads together, lips brushing lightly at the bridge of Justin’s nose and against his eyelids.

-

When Brian leaves two days later, Justin’s too tired to get out of bed.

-

The truth: he sells five paintings in three months; it’s a start.

The lie: he knows better.

END

Unfinished GG Fic: Lips of an Angel, Rory/Jess

2008-06-26T20:33:55Z

This was the most heartbreaking fic to abandon. I've put so much stock into this fic since its beginning in 2006. But it's time to get rid of it. It was my baby for the longest time, which is the worst part. I hope you like this one.

Working Title: Lips Of An Angel
Author: learnthemusic
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Rory/Jess, Lorelai
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Never have, never will. I would be honored to, though.
Summary: “Everyone’s concerned. And I’m sick of it. Just stop being concerned and leave me the hell alone.” Post-series. Incomplete.

A/N: It’s about time I gave up on this one. I started this in August 2006, so you can only imagine. If you want any clarifications, please don’t hesitate to ask. I still have the story somewhat outlined in my head and I can give you all my plans. Sorry for any mistakes.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” It weakens you to listen to the softness in his voice and reassures you when you feel the hint of anger behind it. He’s sitting across the room at the kitchen table, his head resting on his forearms, which are folded on the tabletop. This is the first thing he’s said since you dropped the bomb on him twenty minutes ago.

The knot in your throat worsens and you waver, not expecting the predictable question. But everyone says the same thing and you’re confused as to why you let that hit you so horribly despite all the previous practice. You attempt to swallow past the godforsaken bulge and find yourself choking slightly. His head pops up, fretful, but you wave him off as tears continue to accumulate behind your eyes.

Finally, you settle your nerves and take a seat on the recycled couch in the small living room. And you love how simply can he live (he would never be able to live in that lavish apartment you shared with your ex-boyfriend). You inhale a shuddering breath before looking over to his lowered head and trying to meet his eyes. He refuses and you refocus your attention on the high coffee table before you.

“I—I—I—”

“You what?” he snaps, his body straightening at the table and you close your eyes, startled.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper and keep your eyes directed at the coffee table. “I just… We’re finally right, you know? I didn’t want us to end now. It took us so long to get here and I knew this was going to ruin it and every guy I’ve dated usually dumps me when I tell him. But you’ve lasted the longest. I usually tell the guys after a month and they dump me either because they felt I betrayed them or they don’t want to deal with it. And I’m so, so sorry.”

The tears surmount you now and you try to push your way through them. “I’d much rather shoot myself in the head then die while I’m still with you.” The last two syllables end in a high-pitched tone as sobs wrack through your body and you begin to shake. “I’m so, so sorry,” you manage to choke out one last time. Your body hunches over and you rest your arms on your knees and your forehead on your arms.

“You shouldn’t have assumed that,” he whispers from across the room. You lift your head momentarily, nodding in agreement, before muffled tears prevail your body once again.

You don’t even notice when the cushion next to you sinks, let alone when he scoops you into his arms and your face is smashed into his chest, his arms encircling your shoulders.

“I’m so, so sorry,” you sob into his chest. And you know this is the worst feeling you’ve ever felt in your life.

---

It takes an hour before you can calm down and you haven’t made a sound since. He’s sitting on the coffee table in front of you and you know he wants you to say something but you don’t know where to start.

“I should go,” is one beginning but what if he wants you to stay? What if he doesn’t care about it? What if he just wants to be with you through this?

Well, you’re just not ready to be undertaken yet. Rejection has become vital to your well-being and you don’t know how you’d react to the first acceptance you’d receive since your family found out four years ago.

A gentle touch shatters your reverie and you find yourself being forced to look into his deep hazel-brown eyes. The tears threaten again as you prepare yourself for his answer and you try to swallow past the reemerging lump in your throat.

“I’m not always a jerk,” he whispers gently as he presses his forehead to yours. Those annoying tears fall and you shake your head, refusing to believe him.

“You don’t want to—” but he cuts you off before you have the chance of finishing as he cradles your face with both his hands and wipes your tears away gently with the pads of his thumbs.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he whispers and leans forward to kiss you sweetly. You’re so astonished you can’t think or respond and you just shake your head as best as you can.

He’s going to regret it and you know it.

----

It’s a warm mid-July night as you step out of the elevator, trembling. You wish you hadn’t left that sweater on your bed at home and you scold yourself.

You approach the door to his apartment and lift your jittering right hand to knock on the wooden door. As you wait, you rub your hands up and down your arms.

You’ve knocked three times now and are becoming impatient. Your body is still rickety, your teeth are chattering and you seek the warmth of his apartment.

The door swings open just as you are about to knock once again and he ushers you inside. Just as he’s leaning down to kiss you, he notices your shivering form and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you towards the black leather couch the both of you picked out two months ago.

He pulls your fleece blanket off the head of the couch as you take a seat. You wrap the blanket tightly around your form and he leans down to kiss your forehead lightly.

“I’ll be right back,” he announces as he disappears into the hallway leading to two rooms and a bathroom.

You are still rubbing your hands up and down your arms when he reappears in front of you, a bottle of Tylenol and a digital thermometer in hand.

“Here,” he says as you open your mouth to welcome the unwanted thermometer. He seems impatient while you wait for the device to beep. When it finally does, he takes it out of your mouth gently, shaking his head and frowning as he reads the digital numbers.

You’re still shuddering as he crosses the living room toward the kitchen.

“Let me get you some water,” he mutters. You nod and inhale rapidly, trying to satisfy the need of air in your lungs. He comes back with a glass of water and hands it to you, unscrewing the bottle of Tylenol as you take the water. You unearth your left hand and wait for him to deposit two caplets in your palm before dumping the pills in your mouth and swallowing them with the water.

He takes the empty cup from you and places it on the coffee table then sits down, draping an arm around your shoulders and hugging you to him. You try to take in the scent of him but your lack of oxygen prevents you.

“Third fever in a week,” he notes, trying to make a point. And you understand. Of course you understand; it is your problem. So you just nod, not wanting to argue.

“I know,” you whisper breathlessly. Tears of frustration fill your eyes and you want the pain to end. You feel your lungs contract and you sit up straight and bend over, coughing as you try to catch your breath. A fist pounds lightly on your back and it helps tremendously. He pulls you into his body again and you let your head loll back against his broad shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers into your ear worriedly. You nod, still catching your breath. “Good.” He presses a kiss to your temple and you hum in return.

It’s silent for a few minutes as another chill rocks your body. Finally, he says firmly, “You need to see a doctor.” You shake your head vigorously. There was no way you would do that.

“No,” you whisper.

“You should,” he counters.

“I’m not going to,” you reiterate.

“You have to find out what’s going on!” he pleads, standing up in front of her. You continue to shake your head as he drones on. “What if this is just the beginning? You won’t know how to deal with it. You have to find out what’s going on.”

“You think I don’t know what’s going on?” you say in a soft voice, standing up and letting the blanket drop onto the couch.

“I don’t,” he confirms and you look at him incredulously.

You close your eyes for a moment of consideration before pushing past him, your breath hitching in your throat. He makes no move to follow you as you pull open the front door and walk out to the hallway. The door shuts slowly behind you and you make your way to the elevator, pressing the down button repeatedly.

It’s getting harder to breathe while the elevator takes its slow time to reach this floor. All you can think about is the disbelieving look you saw on his face. The picture is burned into your mind’s eye. You attempt breathing deeply but it does not help in the very least.

A shrill beep shakes you out of your thoughts as the elevator doors slide open. Stepping inside and pressing the button for the lobby, you hear the sudden opening of a door.

Frantically, you push the button with the two arrows pointing at each other, the one that signals for the doors to close. However, an arm stops the action of the elevator and you inhale deeply, preparing yourself for the confrontation.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, his breath ever so slightly labored, making him seem even more perfect in more ways than one (though if you ever caught yourself assuming that long ago you would’ve drowned yourself in a lake). Your eyes close for a moment and you wish he’d disappear. “I’m just concerned.”

Your eyes fly open and you throw an icy stare his way. “Everyone’s concerned.” You spit the last word out with venom you didn’t know you possessed while looking at him incredulously. “And I’m sick of it,” you continue. “Just stop being concerned and leave me the hell alone,” you whisper the last six syllables and push him out of the elevator, pressing the ‘close’ button.

“Rory,” you hear him coax as he stares at you pleadingly.

“Don’t,” you murmur, shaking your head, your eyes brimming with tears. He leans his head to the side, confused. “This hurts enough without you around. You’re making it worse.”

The doors seal and you sigh, tears tipping over.

And you can’t seem to figure out what this is going to lead to.

(Or you just don’t want to.)

---

The shrill ring of the phone greets you as you unlock the door to your apartment. You shut the door hurriedly. Dumping the keys on the end table near your coat rack, you rush to pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” you answer breathlessly, attempting to conceal the fact that you have been crying.

“Rory—” The click of the ‘end’ button resonates in your ear as you set the phone in its base.

It had been difficult to turn your cell phone off when he had called during the drive away from his apartment building. But his concern for your health (along with everyone else’s) is wearing on your nerves. And you don’t want to take it anymore. The relationship should have finished months ago (two, to be exact).

He is just so enticing and semi-understanding that he makes it impossible for you to resist him.

You turn back toward the door, remembering to lock it before enclosing yourself in the master bedroom of your renovated townhouse.

Tears restart their journey down your face as you lay under the covers of your bed. Your second home phone is sitting on your nightstand and its strident ring riles you. You want to throw the receiver against the wall as the ringing ends. Instead, you pick it up and dial.

“Hello?” is the ever-happy answer. A deep inhale is heard on your side of the conversation (that has not begun).

“Hey Mom,” you whisper tearfully. You know her eyes are widening on the other end. Neither of you have talked to each other since you started seeing your boyfriend.

“Rory, how are you?” “How are you?” you wonder. Is that all she has to say?

“Not so good,” you answer ruefully. “We fought, it didn’t go too well.”

“You mean—”

“Yeah,” you cut her off, not wanting to hear his name at the moment. You know what’s coming.

“You two are still together?” Yep, exactly what you were thinking.

“I don’t know if we are now, but yeah. We have been. Why wouldn’t we be?” And all of this comes out so calmly it surprises you. The last conversation you had with your mother ended in a screaming match about how he’d treated you long ago and how he’d leave you once he found out. She never was optimistic when it came to your relationships.

“I just thought he’d leave you once he found out,” she says, disbelieving.

“Well, you were wrong,” you snap, the calmness you felt at the start of the conversation evading you entirely. “He’s different, Mom. You have got to believe that.”

“Then why did you guys fight?”

“He wants me to go to the doctor, but I won’t. What’s the point of going? I already know what she’s going to tell me. So I left, he had nothing to do with me leaving. I’m just sick of people being concerned for me,” you put emphasis on ‘concerned’.

“Still seems like a jerk,” your mother says under her breath. You sniffle but nod.

“He can be,” you whisper, wiping tears from your eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks, breaking a slightly uncomfortable silence.

“No,” you reply tearfully. A tear leaks out the corner of your eye and you raise a hand to smear across your face.

“Do you want me to come?” It doesn’t take a lot of mulling over before you answer.

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” You nod but before you hang up you plead for her to stay on the line.

“He won’t stop calling, and I don’t want to talk to him and I’d totally appreciate it if you stayed on the phone—”

“Save your breath, sweets. I’ll stay on the phone. I just have to call you back on my cell before I leave, okay?” You nod, forgetting she can’t see you.

“Okay,” you whisper, settling the phone in between your shoulder and your ear as you turn over on your side, staring at the wall. “Can you stay over for a few days?” She hums on the other end and you can hear a door open. Yep, she’s going to stay.

“Well, I can try,” she says mock-reluctantly. This brings a smile to your face, as you realize not everything has to change. “If you really want me to.”

“I really want you to,” you put emphasis on ‘really’, nodding your head vigorously.

“Really, really?” A zipper zips in your ear.

“Really, really,” is your answer. You sniffle and close your eyes.

“Fine,” she drags out the syllable. “Hey, hon?”

“Yeah?” you say groggily.

“Let me call you back on my cell, I’m almost out the door.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you in a minute.” Your thumb presses the ‘end’ button and you wait for the phone to ring again. Almost as if she read your mind, y press the ‘talk’ button when the phone resounds in your ear.

“Hey.”

“Don’t hang up.” You inhale deeply and shut your eyes. Just let him say what he has to say, you tell yourself.

But you do just as he told you not to and the phone chimes almost immediately. Hesitantly, you depress the ‘talk’ button.

“Mom?”

“The phone was busy.” A sigh of relief escapes your lips.

“He called.”

“Oh. Well, I’m almost out of the Hollow. I’m passing the Diner now.” You nod.

“Have you talked to Luke?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “We haven’t talked in a long time. Not since you came up here in December.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her sympathetically. You knew the diner owner and your mother were meant for each other the moment they met. However, since the disastrous ultimatum your mother offered him four years ago, the two became estranged.

“It’s not your fault.” A sniffle scrunches up your nose and you reach over to the lamp on your nightstand to turn it off.

“You should put your phone on speaker. You don’t want to get a ticket for talking on your phone while driving.”

“Toy PWD!” A smile comes to your face.

“Are you trying to abbreviate that in semblance to DUI?”

“Gee, I wonder how you knew.”

“Well, I’d tell you if you put me on speaker,” you urge. A click sounds in your ear and you can hear the usual sounds of the road.

“Fine,” she drags the syllable into two words. “Happy?” A yawn escapes your mouth and you try to muffle it by keeping your lips closed. “Tired?”

“Mmhmm.” Your eyes fall shut and you snuggle further into your blankets.

“Go to sleep, then. I’ll just listen to music softly, ’kay?”

“Yeah,” you say in the midst of another yawn. “Did I give you a key?”

“Yes, you did. Now go to sleep.”

---

“Rory!” You jump at the sound of a scream in your ear.

“What?” you say groggily. You rub your eyes with the heel of your left hand.

“I’m here.”

“Who?”

“Hon, your mother.”

“Oh!” You sit up quickly and rub the side of your face. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“I know. You fell asleep. It happens. I’m coming up the front steps, Sweets.” You jump out of your bed and run toward the front door, unlocking it and swinging it open. The phone falls to the floor as you rush at your mother, hugging her unyieldingly. Tears leak out of your eyes and you kiss her cheek as she pulls back slightly to look at you.

“I missed you so much,” you cry, burying your face into her shoulder as you pull her toward you.

“Me too, Sweetie.” The embrace lasts for another minute before your mother suggests going inside the house. “Tell me everything,” she orders softly.

And you realize ‘everything’ is too much and the situation makes it worse.

----

“You’ll call me, right?” You find yourself standing by your mother’s Jeep as she loads her lonely bag into the back of the car.

“Do you have to go?” is the whine that escapes your mouth. Your mom looks at you with sympathetic features and you wish you could wipe that off her face. No sympathy (or pity) is needed.

“It’s Saturday, Hon. I’ve been here since Wednesday night. The Inn is calling my name. I miss it, I miss Sookie’s crazy antics.” Your face falls and she comes over to envelope you in her arms, kissing your cheek. “You have to call me and tell me how you are in a few days.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, returning the hug.

“You have a fever and a cold. That is not fine.” You sigh and pull away. Your mother pouts.

“I’ll call,” you relent. “But I won’t be happy about it. I’m just going to reprimand you for leaving.” A smile graces your mother’s features.

“I love you, kid. But my Inn misses me and your Philadelphia Inquirer should be missing you. We know this town has to learn about things other than the local goings on. You know how much you love world news.”

“And you’re saying this about Philadelphia? What about Stars Hollow?” You set your jaw as you await her answer. She seems to consider the question for a while.

“That’s another question for another day.” You send a glare her way. “Promise you’ll call.”

Heaving a sigh, you nod, extending your right pinkie. Your mother links it with hers. “I promise,” you put emphasis on the last word, not knowing if you’ll adhere to your vow.

Your mother pouts slightly before pulling you into a hug and you let yourself hold on a little while longer.

“I’m gonna miss ya, kid.”

You will never really let that imply as much as it should.

----

Your fingers are trembling, a week and four days later, as they push the soft buttons. The number is still fresh in your memory, as if you’d only called a few minutes ago. But you know that’s not true. That’s as misleading as Santa Clause in your book.

However, you’re still reluctant in dialing, despite the tears rushing down your face and the irregular beat of your heart. You know it’s not your fault. You just have trouble convincing yourself of the authenticity in that last statement.

Finally, you’re pressing the phone to your ear and the ever-annoying ring of the phone is drowned out for the first time in your entire life. All you can think about is what is to come, something that you would much rather evade than confront. It really isn’t your fault that you were born a coward.

A dodger.

“Hello?” This answer jolts you out of your distracting thoughts and you attempt to focus on the task at hand.

“Uh…” you drift off, knowing this was a mistake. He probably doesn’t care.

“Who is this?” Has he really forgotten so quickly?

“It’s me,” you whisper, regaining your confidence.

“Rory,” he sighs, your name rolling off his tongue smoothly.

“Hi,” you murmur tearfully, tears continuing to glide down your cheeks.

“What’s going on?” he asks concernedly and just because you’re in a funk does not mean concern will avoid you. “Are you okay?”

“Nah—not really.” You sniffle before commencing. “I was, uh, wondering if you would care.”

“About what?” However, you answer in sobs and quickly end the call as you slide down the wall of your bathroom, dumping your head into your raised knees.

---

“Rory, please open up.” He’s been in front of your bathroom for what seems like ages. However, after saying something for the first time in an hour, you jump, tears flying around. You’re just trying to ignore him and dwell in yourself. He’s preventing that.

“Go home,” you cry, sprawling your legs out before you as you wipe your most recent tears from your face. “Please.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong. I’ll wait all night until you do.”

And the worst thing about it? You know he will.

---

His face is peaceful; his five o’clock shadow is noticeable with the faint light emitting from the bathroom and his eyes are twitching beneath his eyelids. Watching him for the last two minutes is the only thing keeping you from bursting into tears again.

You really have missed him.

Deciding to talk, you crawl out of the bathroom to his form, lying against the wall. Slipping your body underneath his limp left arm, you rest your head against his warm shirtfront and place your right hand over the buttons of it.

It surprises you to find he hasn’t startled and you can’t help but tear up once more.

Your sobs seemed to have woken him, for he’s pulled you onto his lap and you’re sobbing into his neck, balling his nice dress shirt in your fists. One of his hands is busy combing through your unkempt hair while the other rubs your back.

It’s the most peace you’ve felt the entire day.

---

The hall is dark, your neck hurts and you’re comfortably pressed into your ex-boyfriend’s chest. The faint scent of fabric softener infuses your nostrils and you almost forget that a thin sheet of tears cried hours ago adorns your cheeks. Almost.

It is enough, that thought, to work you up again and you try to suppress the waterworks unsuccessfully. Your body convulses as you sob into his damp chest. Your fingers claw at his sides and you can feel your saliva seeping into his shirt.

Surely he’s saying something as his arms envelope you but you can’t hear it. It’s a new trait you acquired since you hung up on him yesterday morning; selective hearing.

Sobs intensify as he tries to smother you in his hold and you remember the only other time he ever did hold you. Two months, one week and two days ago to date.

</div>

Unfinished GG Fic: Untitled, Rory/Jess

2008-06-26T20:22:03Z

Working Title: None
Author: learnthemusic
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Rory/Other, Rory/Jess, Rory/Logan implied
Disclaimer: Just the fic, not the show.
Summary: A college rave she never told her boyfriend about. Post-series. Incomplete.

Author’s Note: I don’t know how I came up with this. And I have no idea where I was going with it. Here’s another unfinished ficlet. Sorry for any mistakes.

The music pounds in Rory’s ears, deafening her from the sound of glasses shattering against the glossy, cement floor.

Were the ceilings not so high, she would have easily mistaken this space for a four-car garage.

The flyers she found before tonight announced a night of ‘fun, music and dancing’. Then again, a college party can never be amounted to such. There is awaiting alcohol, as well as microphones ready for embarrassment and perverted men luring beautiful women into their sex-addicted clutches.

Honestly, she has never had this much fun. And with her boyfriend in London and her newly-acquired friends turned against her, Rory cannot find anything better than to waste a weekend in an all-night dance club.

“So, what’s your name?” her partner yells almost inaudibly as his fingers dance across the hem of her halter top.

Looking up, Rory feels a smile spread across her face. “Rory,” she replies simply, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against hers.

Nodding, “Keith. Where ya from?”

Blinking back confusion, she shakes her head discreetly and responds with, “What do you mean?” Damn alcohol, she blames.

“What school do you go to?” Keith clarifies, head dropping to her shoulder. His breath tickles her skin and Rory lightly digs her fingers into the flesh of his arms.

“Yale,” she laughs sweetly, trailing her hands up his sides to his shoulders and hooking them behind his neck.

“Lorelai Gilmore?” he wonders, pulling her closer, his lips brushing the angle of her jaw and tongue flicking at her skin.

“Mmhmm.”

Drawling, “Nervous?”

Inhaling shakily, Rory turns her head and catches his smoky, green eyes through the haze produced by the fog machine. “Should I be?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Knees buckling, Rory grips at Keith’s shoulders and stares at him daringly. “No.”

“Then no,” he whispers, licking his lips as she continues to cling to his buff frame.

Maybe it’s the music, she muses. Or the consumption of alcohol. Or the momentary lapse of judgment when that guy offered me a Coke.

It evades her, however, why she would lie so openly about a man she allegedly loves.

See, the fact that a handsome man named Keith is dancing with her cannot be the only existing reason. Maybe it’s the lack of communication or the lack of affection. Hell, possibly the nights spent cyber-sexing have drained her so of her emotions that she needs to feel something real for the first time in a long time.

So when Keith brings her to a private, family bathroom in the back of the club and attacks her, Rory doesn’t protest. She duels with him quite easily, nails tickling the skin of his stomach underneath his polo shirt as his fingers inch the cloth of her top over her breasts.

He pushes her into the wall, not noticing when she yelps into his mouth at the contact of her elbow against the brick. It almost makes her want to cease this before it goes further.

Almost.

Moans arise in Rory’s throat as Keith’s mouth latches around her nipples and his fingers push her denim miniskirt off her hips, into a heap that pools around her bare feet (she’d discarded her heels long ago). She feels him protrude as her nimble hands unlatch the button of his jeans and smiles.

It’s been too long since she’s aroused anyone that even a moan can delight her in a special way.

Becoming aggressive, he bites her. Another moan is his answer.

Now all clothes are discarded, littering the floor of the cramped room, and Rory is wrapped around Keith’s waist as he folds the tip of his condom over blindly. His lips are massaging hers and she can feel herself buck against him as he finally thrusts.

“Oh, God,” Rory moans, fingers raking through his blond hair and breasts pressed into his chest. She urges for a more comfortable position.

She derives her own satisfaction by rubbing the soles of her feet against his bare butt and biting the tongue that darts into her mouth.

“Don’t,” he pants, hands gripping her waist and holding her to the wall. It’s obvious she’s succeeded.

The only bad thing, she realizes as he packs his final blow, is the awkwardness that will set in during her final year of Political Science.

---

“So, how’ve you been?” Logan asks her, voice sounding tinny through the speaker of her cell phone.

Rory sighs and drops her pencil onto his desk, brushing hair away from her face in frustration. “Okay.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. You sure?”

“Yeah. Of course,” hesitating, she chews on her bottom lip guiltily. He still doesn’t know what happened last weekend. “I’m just frustrated about this essay. I can’t think.”

“We can talk later, Ace. It’s getting late over here anyway.”

“Okay,” Rory exhales, still biting her lip, and walks towards the closet.

Simply, Logan states, “I love you.”

Stunned, Rory quickly presses the ‘End’ button and holds it until the phone powers off.

He will never know.

---

Keith is different. He is aggravating but sweet. He is understanding but judgmental. He is forceful but weak.

At times, anyway.

Tonight is one of those nights.

It’s odd, to say the least, that Keith would even contemplate bringing her here of all places. She knows he’s originally from Pittsburgh but that doesn’t justify their current stint in a Philadelphia bar.

He’d come with the excuse of meeting an old high school buddy, one that would launch his career once he graduates at the end of the semester.

And, if she isn’t mistaken, Keith is leading him to her now.

Swiftly stuffing a small handful of peanuts in her mouth, Rory turns to face the men as hers taps her shoulder.

“Rory, this is my old friend, Julian Harkoa. He’s a lawyer in the area.”

“I work with LL and Associates. Nice to meet you.” He extends a hand and Rory firmly grasps it, remembering an inane video she watched in high school on career day.

“Rory Gilmore, nice to meet you.” Exchanging smiles, she recoils subtly and moves near Keith, who wraps an arm around her bare shoulders.

“Rory’s studying Journalism at Yale. We graduate together.”

“Good, that’s good. How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Three months.”

It’s at this point she drowns out the rest of the conversation. Three months of cheating and lying. That’s what her life has amounted to since the semester began and it’s difficult to believe.

To top it all off, it’s been so easy. So easy, in fact, that’s she’s fallen in love with yet another blond-headed man. A beautiful, blond-headed man that loves her just as equally. One that doesn’t mind being a third wheel in her life.

One that loves her just as she is, imperfections and all.

So she glances up at him, watching his jaw move and lips form words as he speaks smoothly. His fingers tap her shoulder and she wraps her arm behind his waist, wishing the other man away for a moment of intimacy.

And Julian does just that.

“Sorry about that,” Keith murmurs, looking down to find her intense gaze burning holes in his face. “What?”

She only smiles and reaches for a kiss. “Nothing.”

---

“Can I have another Miller?”

She’s been sitting here for two hours now. Keith is still speaking with Julian Harkoa and, to say the least, she’s frantic to leave the bar. Guys have hit on her, left and right, and she’s even been invited to bed. Meaningful glances at Keith haven’t drawn him away from his old friend and she forces herself to understand.

He’s catching up. It’s the usual thing to do when meeting someone for the first time since high school. Especially someone who plans on giving you a jumpstart.

“I think it’s time for you to cut off,’ says the bartender as he places the dark bottle on a small napkin.

Rory attempts to smile at his concern and shakes her head. “I’m still waiting for someone.”

“Suit yourself.”

Sighing, she slumps her shoulders and presses the bottle to her lips. The cool liquid cascades down her throat, relieving her anxiety and leaving her less aware of the intensity in her drinking.

“I’d agree but I’m not too sure you would really care.”

It’s chilling, that voice. It’s so close to imagined, she has to pinch herself in order to believe it.

The man sits beside her, flashing a lopsided grin in her direction before snapping the beer from her hands and setting it far out of her reach.

“What’re you doing here, Jess?"

“Well, other than the obvious, why are you here? Looking for the message that will never come?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, actually it is. I own a third of this bar.”

She lets her eyes size him up, looking for any change in appearance from almost a year ago. His jeans are a few sizes too large and his button-down hangs off his frame. His cheeks are hollow and Rory wonders how long ago he ate a full meal.

“Rory?”

Her eyes snap up to meet his and she shudders at the easy roll of her name off his tongue.

“Sorry?”

“How long have you been here?”

Glancing at Keith to see that he’s still chatting with Julian, “Too long.”

From the corner of her eye, she watches him trail her gaze. “Not the monkey, huh?”

---

</div>

Unfinished GG Fic: So Maybe It Was Just a Letter, Rory/Jess

2008-06-26T20:15:14Z

Okay, first of all, it sucks to lose your interest in the fandom that first got you into writing. But, alas, that is what has come for me. This is the first in a series of three unfinished fic/ficlets. Hope you enjoy. Feedback appreciated.

Working Title: So Maybe It Was Just a Letter
Author: learnthemusic
Rating: R
Pairing: Rory/Jess implied.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: After a few months, the pink of her cheeks was the pooling blood at his nose. Canon. Incomplete.
Prompts: This was for ava_leigh_fitz. However, no prompts are incorporated and the story itself is incomplete.

A/N: Sorry it’s unfinished. I lost my muse a long time ago.

I was only sixteen. That’s all I think anyone should ever know about it and that’s all you’ll ever get out of me because, Christ, I was only sixteen.

Wasn’t my fault, never could’ve been my fault because I was sober and he was drunk and wouldn’t give me the keys. But I’ve already told you too much, so fuck off.

---

When I got back to school the following Monday, everyone looked at me like a murderer and some scumbag that didn’t even deserve to live. To them, I was just a dead mosquito on a windowsill.

See, no one understood me then, as punkish as that may sound. It’s the naked truth and I’m sure, in a couple years at the reunion, no one will remember me as that guy, the one that did that, how could he?

None of the teachers ever wanted to listen to me, never asked me how I felt, even though I wasn’t about to go all happy and spill every single thing I was feeling. C’mon, I was depressed not fruity and most definitely not on a new Dr. Phil. Shit, if I’d even tried to talk to anyone, I probably would’ve been arrested. The school cops were constantly trying to find some hard evidence to coin me with.

---

So, when the going gets tough, the tough gets going, right? Actually, I still don’t really understand what that means. Sure, I can attribute it to myself and say I ran from my problems and the problems only worsened, but somehow it makes no sense. ’Cuz I didn’t really run from my problems, they just happened to disappear and managed to become more problematic.

The going got tough, though, all right? I constantly found myself out of place, surrounded by the wrong people and pushed out of my own thoughts by the will of other external forces. It was probably around the time my eyes were always swollen that my mother decided her brother could turn me around.

The transaction was pretty quick, surprisingly enough. I got on the bus, I rode the bus, I didn’t even think of getting off the bus until reaching my destination because I had the right company (and by company, I don’t mean people and I’m not insane) and the right company always got me pretty far. Besides, the drive was under three hours.

It was a happy-go-lucky town, Stars Hollow, small population city of fairy tales and idyllic novels. Kids ran around happily, teenagers shared milkshakes and it almost felt like I’d gone back in time in a flying DeLorean. The town was the textbook-definition of perfect and the number one on lists of family-friendly places.

For years, I did my best to deny that Stars Hollow was the best thing that happened to me.

---

An instant connection, a click, the x-marks-the-spot of my salvation. Her name was Rory Gilmore. She was beautiful, had blue eyes, auburn hair, full lips and the face of an angel. She was the other half of my balance, kept me in check the first couple of months we dated.

Then I was a fucking 18-year-old screw-up that worked in Wal-Mart and skipped school for an extra hundred bucks. That’s probably about the time she found my stash and kind of, well, withdrew herself from me. She was slipping through my fingers like fog in the hills and I couldn’t think of anything to do.

Things obviously worsened because I was more eager to find that corner every afternoon that passed and hardly made it back to Stars Hollow in time to keep my cover. But it did that to me, drew me back, slowed me down, choked me.

It was hopeless for me to escape That Night, even three years later, and as much as I wanted Rory to save me, after a few months the lightning blue of her eyes were flashes of cop lights alongside a New York highway at midnight. After a few months, the pink of her cheeks was the pooling blood at his nose.

Fuck. Brian Landis was my best friend and it was not my fault.

---

She probably thought it was her fault, my leaving, and I always knew she was pretty vain but that had nothing to do with her, whatsoever. It was probably what prompted me not to talk to her whenever I tried to. I just couldn’t swallow past the knot and force myself to reassure her because three thousand miles was a lot of ground to cover and I was certain it would make no difference to her if I apologized.

So I let her ramble instead; I listened and I thought she’d love me forever because the resignation in her voice resonated through my head for months until I could recreate it every night before I went to bed.

I had every reason to think Rory Gilmore was my guardian angel until I met her at her grandparents’ house in Hartford after she turned twenty-one. She wasn’t the Rory I knew or remembered and I didn’t know if I’d ever really know her again. But I showed her my book anyway and I felt that hitch I buried after leaving Connecticut when she told me she was proud of me.

I still had marks, though. She would never have found them, under my shirtsleeves, at the crooks of my elbows, and it made me nervous because everyone but her was able to tell.

I avoided her eyes as best I could the entire time I was there.

---

</div>

It's textbook stuff

Well, this is different. Trying to make a comeback, friends. Don't ignore me!

fic: as of now untitled prince andrew au

i am the worst procrastinator/finally, here is a letter to my TSN Santa

fic: three's a good number (mark/eduardo)

(fic): *insert cheesy title here* (andrew/jesse)

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse), part four

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse), part three

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse), part two

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper I hurt (it only gets worse), part one

fic: the deeper you cut, the deeper i hurt (it only gets worse) masterpost [mark/eduardo]

drabble meme stolen from deviliknow

fic: thinking back, thinking of you (andrew/jesse)

fic: we could rewrite history, if only you and me (andrew/jesse)

fic: what goes unnoticed (andrew/jesse)

media fic: And I want to tell you so much (I love you)

TSN crack!meme

[i'd catch a grenade for ya]

[can't get your memory off of my mind]

mix: retrace (locked in these memories)

cannot believe i wrote this, you better be happy, pookie!

[never thought that you would be the one acting like a slut when i was gone]

QAF Fic: Adjustable Heads, Or the One Where Justin Doesn’t Know Any Better, Brian/Justin

Unfinished GG Fic: Lips of an Angel, Rory/Jess

Unfinished GG Fic: Untitled, Rory/Jess

Unfinished GG Fic: So Maybe It Was Just a Letter, Rory/Jess

(fic): insert cheesy title here (andrew/jesse)