fic: tsn; sweet on you (NC-17) (2c/3)

[mooging]

(continued from here)

//


Mark resorts to email to finish that conversation, because there are reasons he invented a mode of communication that doesn't involve face-to-face contact, and one of those reasons is that there are just some things -- most things -- that Mark would prefer not to have to look at someone when he talks about.

This is one of those things.


to: chris.hughes@facebook.com
from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: this conversation never happened

If there's something bothering Eduardo, do we need to talk about it? I can't do that. Does he expect me to do that?

I just

I like him and I want him to be okay.


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: where are my filing cabinets when I need them

He is okay, you idiot.

We've all got things we don't like to talk about. You don't have to talk to him about it - just let him know you would do, if he wanted.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: seriously how do you know these things

How do I do that?


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: because I am a real person and not a code-writing facsimile of a sham, unlike some (you).

I don't know, you're the one sleeping with him.

Seriously, Mark, this is not beyond you, I promise.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: that use of brackets was really subtle, well done

I am not convinced.


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: I am going back to work now. This is my last word on the subject.

Eduardo is not a delicate flower. He is a regular guy. We all have our baggage.

JUST. TALK. TO. HIM.

and give me a raise, because Jesus fucking Christ.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: your face looks all squashed

what's up? I can see you through your wall.

because it's glass, not because I've developed x-ray vision.

although, hang on.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: false alarm

nope, no x-ray vision.

the drawer was slightly open.

what's up??? is it eduardo? can I help?

seriously though. if i can i will.

I AM JUST AS GOOD AT RELATIONSHIP ADVICE AS CHRIS, OKAY.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: the drawer was open, why did I hire you?

No. You are not.

But thank you.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! X INFINITY

MARK DID YOU JUST TYPE THANK YOU

I KNOW YOU DID BECAUSE YOU SENT IT TO ME

EDUARDO HAS CHANGED YOU

I AM SO PROUD

YOU ARE DOING SO WELL MARK KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK :DDDDD


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: go away, Dustin

Dustin, go away.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com:
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: shan't

SAYING IT TWICE DOESN'T WORK MARK REMEMBER BEETLEJUICE?

obviously not.

//

Despite what Chris might think, Mark has no idea how to start this conversation, or what to say when he does, so one night, leaning against Eduardo on the sofa as they're sort of idly, lazily, watching tv and Mark's pretending not to think about code, he just blurts, unprompted, "When I was little, I got trapped in the bathroom at school."

Eduardo turns to look down at him, a smile tugging at his mouth, like he doesn't know quite how Mark wants him to react. "Yeah?"

"It was recess," Mark says, "and I was six, and the doors to the bathrooms were too heavy for me to pull open, and one of the older kids left me in there and I couldn't get out."

"Okay?" says Eduardo. "You should know I need to see pictures of you as a six year old as soon as possible now, but I don't think that's where you're going with this story." He twines his hand in with Mark's, because he is that kind of person, because Mark is telling him something that Eduardo thinks might be a painful memory, and Eduardo wants to hold his hand through it. Which, okay, it wasn't one of the best moments of Mark's life, but that's not the point of this endeavor. He squeezes Eduardo's hand back anyway.

"I mean," Mark says, "someone came to find me when they realised I was missing, but I still - I had nightmares about it, afterwards, for a while." He keeps his eyes trained on the television. While this isn't as traumatic a memory as Eduardo's expression suggests, it's still not, like, a shining beacon of delight or anything, but again, not the point. Mark says, carefully, awkwardly, "And after FaceMash, people sent me notes in class to tell me I was a dick. And sometimes I dream about typos crashing the site. And - " Next to him, Eduardo has gone very still, like he's finally realised what Mark's doing. Mark is pretty sure he's gone, like, puce with embarrassment, because this is so far out of his comfort zone he might as well be in a synchronized swimming team, but he chokes back all his reticence and thinks about Eduardo shaking in his sleep, Eduardo's hand in his right there on the couch, and just gets it out. "And, I'm trying to - Wardo, you can tell me about it, if you want."

There is a very long silence, in which Mark can't look at Eduardo and is also busy trying to forget how much like a Reese Witherspoon movie he just sounded. He's also trying to forget that Dustin made him watch Legally Blonde, like, five times one weekend by forcibly holding him down during the blur of studying for midterms, but that's an ongoing trauma and not the relevant one right now.

He hears Eduardo let out a shaky breath.

"All right," Eduardo says. "I'll tell you about it."

Mark tries not to panic, because this is, after all, what he is supposed to want. "Okay," he says, trying to arrange his face into something that hopefully looks supportive and encouraging and not just terrified and out of his depth. "Good."

Eduardo laughs, which is not what Mark was expecting, so he laughs sort of nervously back.

"Not right now, Mark," he says, smiling properly at him. "We don't have to do this all in one night."

"Oh thank god," Mark says, all on one breath. "Because I have no idea what I'm doing."

Eduardo is looking so fondly at him that Mark almost can't stand it. "I know," Eduardo says, amused. "It's like watching a dog walk on its hind legs."

"Shut up," says Mark, still hugely embarrassed by the whole thing. "I'm trying, okay."

"You really are," says Eduardo, and Mark kicks him in the shin, and Eduardo kicks him back. He's smiling; Mark thinks this has gone pretty well, considering. Eduardo says, "I know, okay? It's okay."

"Good," says Mark, again, sort of gruffly, and clears his throat. "Go get me some pie."

He's found the need for pie comes in swings and balances. First there comes need, then the need to never see a pie again as long as he lives, but pie always wins out in the end.

Mark pokes Eduardo when he isn't getting up fast enough.

Eduardo laughs again, and extricates himself from Mark's limbs, all shamelessly tangled up around him on the sofa. "God, you're so demanding."

"Shut up," says Mark. "Don't pretend you're not secretly my feeder."

Eduardo spreads his hands wide. "You caught me," he says. "One day soon you'll never be able to get off my sofa again."

Mark throws a cushion at him, and doesn't say, that might not be too bad.

//

Thanksgiving rolls around, and Mark can't bring himself to be away from the office twice in two months, so he tells his mom he'll be home for Hanukkah, and stays in California. Eduardo doesn't go to Miami because he says business is good -- which is it is, Mark can't deny, the shop has been busier than ever and Mark is falling back into the no, not the pies, anything but the pies side of the pastry-lovers circle of torment -- but Eduardo tells him this like he's expecting Mark to call him out on something, and Mark frowns, but doesn't push it. Dustin and Chris have both gone to their respective family homes, and so they have their own little Thanksgiving in Eduardo's apartment. Eduardo cooks the turkey and most of the sides, and Mark stands about making cranberry sauce and disparaging, entirely unmeant, remarks. They drink wine from Brazil, which Mark says goes against the entire point of the day, and Eduardo tells him to shut up and embrace both sides of Eduardo's cultural heritage, and Mark just rolls his eyes and they clink glasses over the dinner table.

There's candlelight and everything, because Eduardo is ridiculous, and afterwards they loll back on Eduardo's small couch and watch holiday specials of sitcoms until they start falling asleep. They have lazy, slow sex in Eduardo's bed, both of them really too full and too sleepy to fully commit to the idea but unwilling to get their hands off each other, and Mark comes almost peacefully, pressing inside Eduardo and quietly resting his head against Eduardo's shoulder, Eduardo's hand warm on his back, gently insistent, urging him on.

They fall asleep spooned around each other -- Mark is the big spoon -- and Mark is too tired to realise that this is the first time they've fallen asleep like this, rather than just woken up curled that way.

If Mark were a normal person, he thinks, looking back, this would have been the moment he realised how he felt. But Mark is Mark, and so instead of having any sort of revelation or epiphany or movie-friendly swellings of music in his head, he just throws an arm over Eduardo's waist, and Eduardo makes a sleepy noise of recognition and appreciation, reaching his hand up to twine in with Mark's fingers, and they both drift into sleep.

//

When Mark goes to work once everyone is back from the Thanksgiving break, he feels slightly green from the amount of leftover pie he's had. Dustin accosts him, and Mark is too vaguely nauseous to shrug him off effectively.

Dustin peers at him. "What's wrong with your face?"

"Pie," says Mark, too over-fed to avoid this conversation. "There is too much pie."

Dustin says, in this small, respectful voice, like this is something so awe-inspiring he can't give it volume, "There's still pie?"

"Don't say that word," Mark beseeches. "I will vomit on your shoes."

"If you vomit pie, I might not mind," Dustin says. Mark sits down in Dustin's chair and puts his head in his hands.

"Please don't say that word," he says.

"Which word?"

"The p-word."

"Penis?"

Mark finds enough non-nauseated strength to glare at Dustin from between his fingers.

"Why would you be saying that?" he says. "Let's assume there's already a moratorium on saying that."

"You weren't clear."

"I'm always clear."

"You are murky."

"Pie," Mark groans. "Don't say pie."

Dustin sits down on the edge of his desk, pulling his legs up so his feet dangle off the floor.

"You have a boyfriend who bakes you stuff," he says. "I am a nice person with many good qualities and yet I am single, can't cook and will eventually starve to death alone in my apartment. How is this fair?"

"What happened with the girl from the bar?"

"That was a month ago," Dustin says. "Like sands through an hourglass, so are the days of our lives - "

"Dustin."

Dustin shrugs. "It didn't work out."

"I suppose I should say I'm sorry," Mark offers, but Dustin doesn't look too broken up about this, so he doesn't give it too much real feeling.

"You should," says Dustin. "She was a good cook."

"Maybe you should just start going to cooking classes in your free time," Mark says. "Then you wouldn't need to validate yourself with other people's food."

"I am not a teenage girl," says Dustin, and Mark looks up from his hands again to give him an incredulous eyebrow raise.

"Legally Blonde," he says, because this is a pain that will not ease, and Dustin shoves a dramatic, emphatic finger in his face.

"I reject your negativity," he declares. "That film has valuable life lessons to teach."

"Yeah," says Mark. "About perms."

"I knew you liked it really!" Dustin crows, and Mark puts his head back down again.

"Alternatively," Mark says, mostly to get off the topic of terrifying romantic comedies, "you could just proposition someone you already know can cook."

Dustin considers this. He picks up a box of paperclips from his desk and lobs it across the office at Chris, who is leaning over an intern's desk and having some earnest, helpful conversation with them. Chris is like that. He has earnest conversations with interns. Mark doesn't have any conversations with interns, because apparently he scares them, which, okay, maybe he does encourage that a little bit, but only because then they're not set up for disappointment when they want to talk to the youngest billionaire in the world and they get distracted, code-hungry, red-eyed, under-caffeinated Mark. He's doing them a favour by steering clear. Chris does not see things this way.

The box of paperclips bounces off the back of Chris's head, because, irritatingly, Dustin has always had perfect aim when he's wanted to.

The interns like Dustin, too.

"Oi, Chris!" Dustin shouts, and Chris, back stiffening, turns round with the air of a man facing down inevitability with extremely bad grace. He seems aggrieved rather than startled; Mark thinks that's pretty much Chris all over.

"What, Dustin?"

Dustin doesn't bother to lower his voice. "If you were my boyfriend, would you bake me stuff?"

"No," says Chris, immediately, and turns back to the intern.

Dustin turns back to Mark, heaving a huge, exaggerated sigh.

"Boyfriend?" says Mark.

Dustin shrugs. "Hey, you're doing the guy thing, Chris is doing the guy thing, I figure maybe I'm missing out on something."

At this point, one of the human resources staff walks past, the one that wears unnecessarily tight sweaters all the time like she thinks she's in Mad Men, and Dustin's head actually turns to watch her every step of the way. Mark will admit she's not, like, a troll, but he doesn't tend to think about his employees like that. That's not what they're there for.

"Yeah," says Mark. "Hey, Dustin. Your hetero is showing."

Dustin grins. "Seriously though," he says, "I'd totally go gay for cake. Not for pay, though, I have some standards."

"Your standards worry me," Mark tells him.

"My standards are awesome," Dustin says. "Chris could cook me feasts. I would never be hungry again!"

Mark says, "You'd go gay for Chris?"

"Dude," says Dustin. "Chris is a fucking awesome cook, remember?"

Admittedly, if it hadn't been for Chris that first summer in Palo Alto - and, okay, a lot of the time after that - there is a good chance Mark might have actually gotten scurvy, but -

"Eduardo's better," Mark says, not really thinking that all the way through, and then, preemptively, when Dustin's face instantly lights up, "Fuck off."

Dustin gives Mark this look like he has taken a puppy away from him. "You are so sweet it is hurting my teeth," he says, which is definitely the first time anyone has ever called Mark sweet before.

"You are so over-invested in this that it is hurting my soul," Mark says back.

//

It's not really something Mark's ever really given much thought to before, the idea of being in love. He sort of assumes it's probably not everything the movies promise, because, after all, if he can make it to his mid-twenties without feeling it, it's probably not that big a deal. He's seen Dustin throw himself over the arm of the sofa in their Harvard suite, pining dramatically for some girl who handed him back his pen in the library when he dropped it at her feet, or the girl in Mark's art history class who was also in Dustin's gen ed class and who Dustin had decided was his soulmate and destined to bear his children, but, like, even Mark knew that wasn't real love, just the closest approximation an infatuated college boy could get. He's never really thought it would apply to him, at least not yet, mostly because he's never broken away from his computer long enough to maintain that sort of connection with someone, and, also, the last time he was in an actual relationship with someone, she called him an asshole and left him sitting alone in a bar, so.

And it's not like Mark has any illusions about his desirability, either. He knows the most meaningful relationship in his life is with a website. He knows he's always going to prioritize code over companionship. He knows he says things that turn people away, okay, he's not stupid. But then - and this is the part Mark is really, really having trouble with - Eduardo doesn't seem to mind.

Sometimes, when Mark looks at him, it's like an actual ache. And, right, that's absolutely ridiculous, and far too chick flick for words, and it makes Mark wire in so fast his keyboard should probably catch fire, but there's nothing he can do about it. It's just what happens. And Mark doesn't know if it's love, because he doesn't know what that feels like, but it's definitely something.

"You okay?" Eduardo asks him one evening, when Mark has been staring into the middle distance in a vague sort of feelings-related panic for an apparently noticeable amount of time. "Hey, Mark. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," says Mark, snapping back into the room, looking at Eduardo with his stupid big concerned eyes and his stupid mouth and his stupid, stupid hair. "Yeah, I'm okay, let's watch the movie."

Eduardo doesn't look convinced, but Mark smiles at him, and Eduardo smiles back like he can't help it, which is so exactly how Mark feels that it makes him have to swallow past his suddenly dry throat.

"All right," says Eduardo, getting up from the couch to flick on the dvd player, "but this is the last time I am watching The Matrix. Next time I get to pick."

"Pfff," says Mark, "I am not watching Little Miss Sunshine again, Wardo. I get it. Everyone's a special, special snowflake. It doesn't matter how many times you tell me, I will never feel all the feelings about it, okay?"

"You are heartless," says Eduardo, coming to sit back down.

Mark shrugs, and Eduardo puts an arm around his shoulders as Trinity ninja-kicks her way through the opening of the movie, and Mark shifts in closer to him without thinking, and tries to just stop over-analyzing.

Eduardo falls asleep halfway through the film, because he gets up at stupid hours of the day and works on his feet for the rest of it, and Mark mutes the tv and reaches for his laptop, and starts fiddling around with the photo album layout he's still not happy with, but he stops, after a minute, because Eduardo snuffles in his sleep, and presses his face closer against Mark's neck, and Mark has to stop coding, just for a second, because he has to push the hair back off Eduardo's forehead in case it dangles in his eyes and wakes him up.

And, whatever this is, it's terrifying. Mark starts to code hard, jittery, blocking everything else out until Eduardo stirs, sometime around one, but then, even with his pulse racing, he hits CTRL+S, and lets Eduardo pull him sleepily by the wrist to bed.

//

The party does eventually happen, but it's been long enough that it becomes a Pick Your Own Winter Event thing rather than a celebration of fall, or whatever it was that Dustin was pushing for a couple of months back.

Eduardo does cater it, alongside the regular buffet tables of chips and dips and other generic party food that Mark has his assistant provide. Eduardo brings along cupcakes with white and blue frosting, and sugar cookies iced background white with Eduardo's loopy, messy handwriting spelling out in black icing whirls, what's on your mind? Mark stares down at all this and then stares at Eduardo, wide-eyed, and Eduardo grins up at him from where he's crouching down to unpack the bakery boxes, and something clutches in Mark's chest. He leans down to kiss him, right there in front of everyone on the main floor, and Eduardo makes a surprised, pleased, sound, and kisses him back.

By the first hour of people abandoning their desks and flocking to the punch bowl, all the cupcakes are gone. Dustin is hovering protectively around the cookies.

"They're not just for you," Mark says, smirking, and Dustin says, "I know," sounding sad and aggrieved, and Mark leaves him alone to guard them like them like a maternal dinosaur or whatever it is Dustin thinks he's doing.

Chris and Eduardo have been talking for a while, on the other side of the room, while Mark has been attempting to enter into the spirit of the thing to show willing and also dropping in and out of his office, running early end of year diagnostics. He shoots glances at them occasionally, looking at Chris holding an incredibly spiked cup of punch and grinning, and Eduardo throwing his head back to laugh at something Chris has said, unreserved. Mark thinks it should be strange, to see Eduardo here in the Facebook offices, but it's not. It feels good. Chris says something else, and Eduardo turns to look at Mark, teasing, giddy, and Mark goes back into his office, burning hot.

He thinks about the beginning of August, grumpy and stagnant and seeing Eduardo walk out of the bakery kitchen for the first time, friendly, oven-gloves over his shoulder. He thinks about Eduardo pressing him down against his kitchen floor and getting him off without even undoing his jeans, about Eduardo sweat-wrecked and pleading on Mark's couch, about Eduardo touching the back of his hand to Mark's forehead and taking him to bed, gentle, even though Mark had been withdrawn and on edge. He thinks about Eduardo falling asleep against him on the sofa, about Eduardo kissing him sleepily on Thanksgiving night. He feels funny, dizzy, and he wires in for a bit, but it doesn't go away.

He goes back out to the party -- there are now no more cookies, and Dustin is looking green but content in the corner, talking to the tight-sweater girl from HR -- and looks over at Eduardo. He's lit up, animated, telling Chris some story that involves increasingly dramatic hand gestures, and it makes Mark smile, just looking at him.

One of the interns goes over and says something apparently admiring about the cupcakes, and Eduardo goes a little pink, and thanks them, smiling. He's standing by the big Facebook Wall, all the marker pen notes, and it's like -- it's like the two most important things in Mark's life, together, unexpected and amazing. Mark hasn't touched the punch, but he feels overwhelmed.

And, abruptly, Mark can't go one more minute without blowing Eduardo, which is sort of unfortunate seeing as they're in company. Mark doesn't have the best manners, he's been told, but he's pretty sure you shouldn't fellate your boyfriend in the middle of the office party.

He goes over to where Chris and Eduardo are still having their worryingly lengthy conversation and just interrupts them. Chris will get over it.

"I need Wardo for a second," he says, and Chris smiles sort of long-sufferingly and Eduardo blinks at him, but follows Mark over to the edge of the office when he inclines his head like follow me, okay. Once they're sufficiently out of the way, Mark grabs Eduardo by the hand and leads him into the second floor bathrooms, and when Eduardo turns to him with an eyebrow raised like he knows exactly what Mark's thinking, Mark says, "Shut up," and shoves him into a stall, locking the door behind them.

"Mark," says Eduardo, on a groan, when Mark runs his palm down Eduardo's side, hard, "we can't - there's a party out there - we can't."

Mark presses up against Eduardo to bite just behind his ear in the way that always makes Eduardo shiver, and works his hand in between them to unzip Eduardo's pants. The noise of the fly is like punctuation between Eduardo's hesitation and his want.

"Fuck," he says, as Mark dips his hand just under the waistband of Eduardo's boxers, his pupils blown already, "Mark, fuck - we can't - here -"

Mark looks him straight in the eye. "If I say we can, we can," he says, firmly.

Eduardo bucks his hips up when Mark doesn't move his hand, but he says, "Someone could come in," which is pretty hypocritical for someone who blew Mark in a shop with the door open.

"Fuck it," says Mark. "I'm CEO, bitch," and he drops to his knees.

He gets Wardo off in under five minutes, easily, mouthing at him through his boxers until he whimpers, and then just swallowing him down. Eduardo bites his hand to keep from being too loud, but the stall door creaks when he can't keep his hips still. Someone comes in when Eduardo is flushed red and panting, but Mark doesn't stop, and Eduardo's eyes almost roll back in his head with the effort of staying quiet. When the bathroom door swings shut again, Mark pulls off to kiss the juncture between Eduardo's hip and thigh and Eduardo says, shaky and desperate, "Mark, fuck, please," and Mark sucks him back down until he comes.

Mark will never understand this particular piece of timing, and he will only tell Eduardo about it much, much later, but apparently everything important in Mark's life is destined to have less than auspicious beginnings - like the first stir of Facebook, its first flicker of life when Mark was angry and defensive in the Porc's fucking bike room - because right here, on his knees in a toilet cubicle in the Facebook offices, looking up at Eduardo sweaty and wrecked and trying to catch his breath, right here, all the funny, dizzy feeling from earlier clicks into place.

Mark has to catch his breath too, because this is when he finally realises he's maybe more than a little bit in love.

//

Eduardo's flight home for Hanukkah is the following morning, Mark's not till the day after, and Mark waits with him outside the bakery until his taxi turns up.

"So," Mark says, jamming his hands in his pockets.

Eduardo has one wheeled suitcase and a shoulder bag. He's also wearing another fucking suit, obviously, because when Mark gets a cross-country flight, the first thing on his mind is looking smart for the in-flight movie and the overly solicitous flight-attendants. He's rummaging through a pocket of the shoulder bag, distracted. Mark sighs.

"Wardo," he says. "You packed everything. I know, because I was there when you packed it, and I was also there when you repacked it, and when you packed it again to check it against the list you made the second time round. Barring, like, freakish rips in the time-space continuum opening up in that thing, I'm fairly sure you've got everything in there."

Eduardo gives him a Look of the kind that should be shot over the tops of glasses, and Mark sighs again, and relents.

"What the hell can you be looking for?" Okay, so Mark's version of relenting is maybe a little more brusque than most. Sue him.

"Would you shut up for a minute?" Eduardo says, only half joking, still moving stuff around in his bag, frowning.

"God, Wardo, the holidays really make you bossy."

"Mark."

"What?"

Eduardo looks - something. Mark can't decipher it, so he just curls his fingers around the insides of his jean pockets and watches Eduardo shift his weight awkwardly, and doesn't think about how maybe he's being deliberately difficult because Eduardo's about to fly 3000 miles away from him, because that would be ridiculous, and Mark isn't that type of person.

"Um," says Eduardo, and Mark notices he's turning slowly pink, creeping up out of his starched white shirt collar.

"Wardo?"

"I think you should take this," Eduardo says, and he takes hold of Mark's hand and presses something into it, closing his fingers around Mark's. Mark tries to feel the thing in his hand with the tips of his fingers, pressed into a fist by Eduardo's.

It's a key.

Mark looks up, wide-eyed. He doesn't know what - what should he - he's thinking in fragments, hesitant keystrokes, and he doesn't say anything, in case it comes out like that too. He doesn't want Eduardo to think he's hesitant about him. He's really, really not.

Eduardo rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "I mean," he says. "You're leaving later than I am, so you could check on the place for me. Or, if you wanted somewhere closer to sleep, if you were busy at work before you went home."

Mark is still just staring.

"Or, I don't know," Eduardo says, looking somewhere near Mark's feet. Mark wants Eduardo to look at him, because he has less than no chance of understanding what Eduardo's trying to say if he's saying it to Mark's shoes. He knows what he thinks Eduardo is saying, but he doesn't want to be wrong. He doesn't think he's wrong, but then, he rarely does. Chris tells him this is a problem. Mark thinks it's a boon.

"I just thought," Eduardo finishes, "I just - wanted you to have it."

He looks up. Mark is right. Something clutches in his chest, ridiculously, and Eduardo gives him this soft little smile, like Mark's expression is telling him all he needs to know. Which is terrifying, because no-one knows Mark like that, but it is admittedly also really useful, because Mark doesn't know if he's capable of saying anything aloud right now.

Instead, helpless, he gets his other hand around Eduardo's hip and pulls him in, and kisses him right there in the street. The taxi sweeps around the corner just as Eduardo makes a faint, happy sound and brings his hand up to cup Mark's cheek, and Mark hates the taxi driver, and holidays, and Miami, and this new, strange feeling of not having anything to say.

Eduardo pulls away, grinning bashfully at his suitcase as he wheels it to the edge of the sidewalk to load it into the trunk, and Mark uncurls his fingers and looks at the key on his palm.

He wants to say it, but he doesn't quite know how. He wishes he could code it out in the space between them, type out the right sequence to let Eduardo know how tight his chest feels when he turns the key over in his hand, the way he feels for the first time like he's got something he doesn't need to prove to anyone, and the contradictory way he wants to kiss Eduardo in front of the whole fucking world. Eduardo pauses with his hand on the taxi door, and Mark wants to slam the door shut and pull Eduardo inside and keep him there, just the two of them and maybe a laptop for later when Mark inevitably gets, like, keyboard-withdrawal, because Miami is really far away and Eduardo gave him a key.

Mark knows the words he could say here, but they don't seem like enough.

Instead, he says, "Have a good trip." He can practically feel Chris despairing of him.

He watches Eduardo's taxi until it pulls out of sight, and it makes him feel like a gigantic loser, but then he remembers their first date, that night in the bar, and Eduardo standing still on the sidewalk and looking after Mark's taxi as it pulled away down the street, and he wonders, in a sudden, hot, burst, whether Eduardo has felt like this the whole time.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, which is probably a good thing, because the way Mark's thoughts have been going, he's probably going to spontaneously switch gender right there on the street and then have to tell Chris he has to draft the most awkward press release of his life, and then he will be dead, because Chris would probably just kill him.

Anyway.

stop being a sad panda now wardo has gone, Dustin has sent, in a remarkable and/or petrifying display of incredibly on-the-nose timing. HALO NIGHT TONITE, NO EXCUSES.

You just spelt night in two different ways, Mark sends. And I'm not a sad panda.

you are the saddest panda, comes the reply. one of the sad lonely pandas that wont mate with anyone. like wardo is your bamboo and you have eaten him all up.

Then: ew ew ew ew ew mental images i hate you

I didn't say anything, Mark points out.

BECAUSE YOUR MOUTH WAS FULL OF WARDO BAMBOO, Dustin sends. DUDE PLEASE JUST COME PLAY HALO SO I CAN GET REALLY DRUNK AND STOP THINKING HORRIBLE ZOO WARPING THOUGHTS.

Mark is buying beer to take over when his phone goes again -

YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON WHO HAS RUINED PANDAS FOREVER

- and again, when he's just got to Dustin's street -

WHAT HAVE PANDAS EVER DONE TO YOU

- and again just as Dustin opens the door to Mark's knock.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Dustin," Mark says, irritably, as Dustin falls on the beer in Mark's hand like some drowning man/lifebelt cliché. "I'm right here, stop fucking texting me about zoo animals."

Dustin has poured half a beer down his throat before he answers. "That one wasn't me," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and padding back through to the living room in his socks. "I am too horrified to type any more. Plus, I am busy shooting Chris."

Mark has only been in the living room for like a minute, and already he can see that Chris's little pixilated character is winning spectacularly.

Dustin follows his gaze to the tv set. "I'm going to make a last minute comeback," he insists. "Like a phoenix, only without the whole burning part first."

Chris raises a hand to Mark, eyes still on the tv screen, like I am going to talk to you about your feelings like the good friend I am but right now I am kicking Dustin's ass, sorry about that, your emotions have waited this long to make themselves a part of your life, they can wait another ten minutes for me to make Dustin cry like a girl. Mark sits ungracefully down on the sofa, and checks his phone.

just taking off, it says. I miss you.

Mark checks to make sure Dustin is definitely completely absorbed in thinking he's bad-ass and completely failing to notice Chris's game character sneaking up behind him with a machine gun before he types back his reply.

I miss you too, he says, because it's easy to be honest when he's typing, because code doesn't lie and Mark is fucking awesome at code.

:) Eduardo sends, and Mark's actual heart does something painful and flippy, and he looks up to see Dustin grinning at him, unbelievably charmed.

"It's okay, Marky," he says. "Bamboo will be back soon."

Mark smacks him round the head with the unopened bottle of beer by his feet, and Chris throws his arms in the air with a cry of victory as there's a death wail from the television, and Dustin slides dramatically off the couch to his knees in loud, melodramatic despair, and Mark slides his fingertips into the top of his jeans pocket like muscle memory, reaching for the brush of a folded napkin, and curls his fingers around the key, metal warm from being next to his body, and smiles.

//


(continued in part three!

Comments

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

I just wrote out my name with his and they totally rhyme - THEN CLEARLY IT IS MEANT TO BEEEE!

Thank you so much, super glad you enjoyed :DDD