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

[mooging]

(continued from here)

//

Mark is not exactly keeping a closer eye on Eduardo, or anything ridiculous like that, but when the bakery is back open and Eduardo is back to a level of health that won't scare people away from eating things he's made, Mark does maybe spend a few more hours coding vigilantly in the window seat than he has been doing.

Eduardo eyebrows at him from behind the counter, but Mark ignores it. Eduardo goes about setting out his displays and serving customers and running the horrendously loud coffee machine with this little fond smile on his face, and Mark times his glances up from his incredibly well-disguised position behind his laptop to when Eduardo is not looking over at him. Because Mark is not keeping an eye on him. He's just. He's looking, which is not the same thing.

One of the things Mark notices during his period of not keeping an eye on Eduardo is that towards the end of the week, Eduardo starts limping slightly.

Mark narrows his eyes at him as he comes over to the couch on Saturday evening.

"You're limping," he accuses.

"Yes," Eduardo says.

"Why?"

Mark's bedside manner may not be the best, but it certainly gets to the point.

"I've been standing up for a week," Eduardo says, propping his feet up on Mark's lap, avoiding the laptop already perched on Mark's knees. "I limp at the end of every week, Mark, there's only so much good shoes can do."

"That's stupid," Mark tells him. "Your job is crippling you."

Eduardo runs his fingers through the curls at the nape of Mark's neck. Mark leans into it for a second.

"Don't try to distract me," he says. "We're talking about you."

"No," Eduardo says, "you're talking about me, I'm just putting up with you."

Mark frowns at him, and grabs his feet.

"Okay," says Eduardo. "Now what?"

Mark has not given anyone a foot rub for a while, because ew, feet, and other such intellectual thoughts, but his mom used to get sore feet and he's always been good with his hands, so he's had some practice, and, okay, so that's an anecdote he doesn't need to share with anyone, but what he does need to do make Eduardo feel better.

Mark has never really been this concerned about someone else's feelings before. It's a little disconcerting.

"Fuck," says Eduardo, heartfelt and guttural, as Mark digs his fingers into the part of Eduardo's foot where the arch starts to meet the heel. Eduardo tips his head back, closing his eyes. "Oh my god. Keep doing that."

Mark absolutely refuses to get hard from touching Eduardo's feet.

Mark drags his knuckles along the inside arches, and Eduardo arches back too. "Christ."

Mark doesn't even say anything lame like actually, my name's Mark but only because he's busy looking at Eduardo's face screwing up like he's not sure whether to pull away from Mark's hands or push against them, the flush rising on his cheeks.

"Your ankles are swollen," Mark tells him, instead. "Jesus Christ, Wardo, what do you do all day?"

"I stand up," Eduardo tells him, flexing his feet under Mark's touch. "I know this is a foreign concept to you, but some people have these things called feet, and they use them to move around."

Mark pokes his sole in indignation, and Eduardo flinches. Mark files that away for a second, so he can say, "I stand up too; I am not a completely sedentary human being," and then when Eduardo starts to reply, Mark pokes him again.

Eduardo giggles.

He actually giggles.

"Oh my god," says Mark, because this might actually be the best thing he has discovered about Eduardo to date, if the defensive line Eduardo's mouth has formed is anything to go by. "You're ticklish."

Eduardo starts to pull his feet away from Mark's hands, but Mark holds them down.

"No," Eduardo lies. "Of course not."

"Except you are," Mark says, and he does it again, the hint of fingertips on the sole of Eduardo's foot, and Eduardo fists a hand in the comforter, laughing, swearing at him, but he doesn't try to pull away.

Mark has never had anything else like this in his life; it feels slightly like he's stuck in a giant pinball machine with Eduardo at the controls. He pitches from turned on to giddy, and he has Eduardo's feet in his hands, and Eduardo is sprawled out and laughing helplessly and breathily all over the place, and Mark needs to man the fuck up and tell him he loves him -- because he's pretty damn sure Eduardo loves him back.

//

Mark is not the most reticent person when it comes to making his opinions known, but this feels a little different. He doesn't know if there's some kind of etiquette to these things. Have they been together long enough for it to be okay for him to say it? If he says it now, will Eduardo be okay with it? Would it be like putting ads on the site too early and putting people off?

Mark hates relationships, and conventions, and himself.

There's also the small matter that he's not exactly the best conversationalist, and he's doubly bad at talking about his feelings. Chris is a good man and will never mention it, but there was one time in Kirkland when Mark was wasted that he apparently felt it was of the utmost importance that he let Chris and Dustin know how much they meant to him -- when he was sober again, Mark decreased their value out of sheer embarrassment and dismay, but they both ignored him -- and was sick on the couch in the process. Dustin has no such compunctions about bringing this incident up.

Mark definitely doesn't want to vomit on Eduardo in the middle of telling him he loves him.

Even Chris and Dustin have said I love you to each other, but Mark thinks that's probably more bromantical than anything else. Dustin's don't really count, because he is Dustin, he tells Starbucks baristas he loves them if he's tired enough, but Chris's I love you was also under extenuating circumstances, because he had inadvisably opened the cupboard under the sink in Kirkland on one of his cleaning benders, and there was, like, an actual hoard of silverfish in there, and Chris had an actual conniption fit and stood on the coffee table and Dustin was surprisingly adult and reassuring even as he went into battle with a roll of toilet paper and an alarmingly practiced war cry.

Chris was really good about the endless mockery that followed, probably because he was aware how stupid it was to stand on the coffee table like he was a girl and the silverfish were mice, which was probably a good thing, because Mark is pretty sure Dustin still hasn't let it go, if his names on the Pacman leader board are anything to go by. Dustin. The Dustinator. Eat This, Silverfish. Mark despairs a bit, but the top spot is still held by Chris. Beat this, Moskovitz.

Anyway. Chris had said I love you, kind of fervently, as Dustin had dropped sweatily and victoriously down onto the couch and Mark had picked his way through the pulverized silverfish corpses to get them all beers, and Dustin had shrugged, and said he knew, and then Chris had let him win at Mario Kart for the next twenty four hours.

Mark would not let anyone else win at Mario Kart. Eduardo has never lost at Mario Kart anyway, so that's no help. Eduardo is not fazed by insects. That's no help either.

And it's not like there's a guidebook on how to do these things. Is there some sort of universally accepted way this is supposed to go that Mark doesn't know because he was too busy building the end result, click here for in a relationship with? There is no click here to say I love you without sounding like a douche. Maybe he should look into that.

Mark does not want to take the coward's way out or anything, but he thinks maybe if he just waits, the right moment will make itself known.

Never in his life has he been more grateful for the ability to wire in.

//

Eduardo cooks a lot. Which, okay, is like saying Mark codes a lot, because they do have jobs, but Eduardo cooks as well as bakes. Mark sometimes watches him standing in his little apartment kitchen with a tea towel over his shoulder because he is worryingly laissez-faire about fire hazards when he's not at work, doing something complicated with a pan and little spice bottles that have come out of his neatly organized spice rack, and then it's like Eduardo can feel Mark staring in some disbelief at his back, because he turns round and grins at him, and tells him if he's got time to stare, he's got time to help, and ropes him into putting the laptop down and getting out plates.

Sometimes he goes and puts his arms around Eduardo's waist while he's stirring pasta sauce, or rests his head in the crook between shoulder and neck while Eduardo is stir-frying vegetables so that Eduardo bends at an odd angle to pat Mark's cheeks and tell him if he gets burning oil in his eyes and goes blind and can't code then it's his own fault and he can't come crying to Eduardo, and Mark tells him he doesn't cry, and Eduardo laughs all cheerfully and tells him he's seen Mark at the end of A.I., and not to pretend otherwise. Mark insists that was a trick of the light, and Eduardo flips vegetables and adds in soy sauce, and smiles down at the pan.

These are little moments Mark had never thought about having before, the ones he doesn't tell anyone about. He'd always thought about a relationship as maybe having sex on tap with someone you liked enough to keep around, and who liked you enough to, say, tolerate the immense amount of coding you did and who didn't mind always being second-best. Mark didn't really think he could have a relationship like this, like Eduardo kissing crumbs off Mark's lips and curling into Mark's side when they watch movies on the sofa, like Mark falling asleep with his head on Eduardo's chest while Eduardo runs an absent, sleepy hand through his curls, like -- like fucking pony cookies, and Eduardo giving him a key, and if Mark's entirely honest with himself, he didn't know if he'd want it.

Eduardo is like nothing Mark has ever known before, definitely nothing Mark would have ever thought he wanted, but he does. He wants.

There are times, when he's awake in the middle of the night and tired enough that his keyboard looks blurry, he's so scared he will fuck this all up. He doesn't even know how to say I love you properly. He's used to putting everything second, but he knows, code-deep, he knows, that he doesn't want Eduardo to be second-best.

And then he stops worrying, when he thinks that, because that's probably half the battle right there, and Mark is not good at only doing things halfway. So. He waits for his moment.

One Sunday, Mark is woken up by the smell of something delicious floating through into the bedroom, and he's instantly hungry before he's even remembered what day it is, or thought to check the time. It's ten am, the clock tells him. The last thing Mark remembers, it was ten pm and Eduardo had dragged him into the bedroom, exhausted, and lain down with his face pressed into the crook of Mark's neck, an arm flung across Mark's chest. Mark had said he wasn't a fucking teddy bear, no real heat to it, and Eduardo had muttered something inaudible, and fallen asleep. Mark remembers thinking he was never going to get to sleep, that he had too much to do, that he would give Eduardo half an hour to be asleep enough that he wouldn't disturb him by getting up, but now it is mid-morning and Mark has been out for twelve whole hours, and Eduardo is cooking. The food smell is more a seven pm smell, onions and garlic and some kind of meat. Mark goes through into the warm kitchen with bed-hair, not bothering to put anything else on over his boxers, to find Eduardo fully dressed and stirring a pot of stew.

"Hey," says Eduardo, smiling at Mark over his shoulder.

"What's that?" says Mark, master of morning conversation.

"Lunch," says Eduardo. "It's traditional. It's also mostly traditional for Saturdays, but Sundays are my day off."

Mark scratches the back of his neck, pillow-creased. "Okay," he says, and sits down in one of the kitchen chair, rubs sleep out of his eyes while Eduardo drains a dish of beans and tips them into the pot, lifts the wooden spoon to his mouth for a taste.

"I have to take inventory," he tells Mark, when Mark is slightly more conscious. "Can you stir this?"

Mark is definitely physically capable of stirring a pot of food, but also needs more precise information before he can commit to not ruining whatever it is Eduardo is cooking. Not that he's going to share that information with Eduardo. Eduardo was witness to the Great Grilled Cheese Disaster of early November, and doesn't need any more kitchen-based ammunition to tease Mark about, gently derisive, all elbows and sweetly mocking mouth.

"How often?" he says, looking warily at the pot on the stove.

"As often as you think," Eduardo say, smiling like he's trying not to laugh, which Mark feels is definitely unfair. "Occasionally. Not too much."

"That is disgustingly unhelpful," Mark tells him.

Eduardo shrugs. "The food's not disgusting."

"You're disgusting."

Disgusting has stopped being a real word by this point.

Eduardo comes over and kisses him, morning soft, like maybe Mark's mouth needs waking up too. He puts his hands on Mark's shoulders, looks him in the eye.

"You'll be fine," he says. "Pretend it's code. It needs as much of your attention as you can give it, but sometimes you just need to let it breathe."

Mark is still slightly too asleep to take all this flowery greetings-card nonsense in. Code doesn't breathe. He sometimes doesn't notice himself breathing while he's coding either. "Is there a way I can make this explode?" he asks. No-one would put that on a greetings-card.

"If I thought you could burn it," Eduardo says, "I wouldn't have asked."

"Your confidence in me is inspiring," Mark grumbles. "Bring me my laptop."

Eduardo goes off to the sofa and comes back with Mark's laptop, and his headphones too. Mark doesn't say thank you, but Eduardo says, "You're welcome."

"Whatever," says Mark. "Go count things."

Eduardo heads downstairs to the bakery, and Mark brings up the profile update he's been working on, in his spare time. It's like things are coming full circle, almost, or like one of those time-passing montages in movies that Eduardo likes to watch when he can't sleep, the ones where nothing really happens but people feel a lot of feelings about inconsequential things, and Eduardo lies back against Mark on the couch with a blanket over their tangled legs and Mark watches Eduardo's chest rise and fall as his breathing evens out, late night steady, and something indie plays quietly on the movie's soundtrack. It's not really like that at all in Mark's life, because his job means that things change constantly, and something is always happening, and he doesn't like to feel any of the feelings as intensely as low budget movies would like him to do, but here he is, in Eduardo's kitchen, working on his next profile update, and it's almost spring, and Mark's in love, and Eduardo would like him to stir a pot of unnecessarily nice-smelling stew for their lunch.

About an hour passes with Mark trying to guess what occasionally means in relation to cooking times, and if it's possible to be bad at stirring something, and then Eduardo comes back up the stairs a little dusty from the top shelves of his cupboards, and lifts the lid of the pot with a playfully judgmental eyebrow raise, and Mark is actually slightly nervous, which is stupid. This whole day is stupid. Mark is stupid, and Eduardo's face is stupid, and Mark needs to come up with better adjectives, or out of denial.

Eduardo doesn't say anything, but he smiles to himself, and Mark pretends he wasn't watching and goes back to coding. He listens to Eduardo moving around at the kitchen counters, chopping something ominously green in Mark's peripheral vision, putting rice on to boil. Mark codes harder, and Eduardo hums something tuneless and indistinct, and it's Sunday, and everything feels slow.

Eduardo starts to serve lunch up when Mark's stomach starts rumbling, and comes over to physically remove his laptop from him.

Mark starts, a token, expected protest, "I - " and Eduardo stops him right there, says, "You saved it, don't even try that."

"But I - " Mark tries again, half-heartedly, and Eduardo tugs him up out of his chair and tells him to go put a t-shirt on or something, because he knows Mark is going to drop burning stew on his chest and then bitch about it forever.

Mark mutters, "I don't bitch about things, I'm not Dustin," and Eduardo just smiles contradictorily at him, and shoves him out of the room.

When he comes back into the kitchen, saying something crass and easy along the lines of, "You don't normally want me to put clothes on," Eduardo is sitting at the table waiting for him.

Mark slides into the chair opposite and picks up his fork, poking at the stew in a deliberate and entirely fake show of distrust.

"Hmm," he says, trying to sound dubious, and Eduardo snorts, and kicks Mark under the table.

"Shut up and eat it," he says, and Mark says, "Fine," like he's conceding something, and forks up a mouthful under Eduardo's watchful, grinning, gaze.

"Oh my god," he says, like he's on one of those alarming food network shows where the presenters make a big deal out of some dish that looks really atrocious, but Mark's declaration is entirely, embarrassingly, genuine. It is the kind of good that makes Mark want to renounce red vines and just funnel this into his face forever instead. "Oh my god."

"Good?" says Eduardo, like he has zero doubts about his cooking prowess, which should be irritating, but - isn't.

"Stop making words," Mark says, mouth full. "Eating now."

Eduardo laughs, full-bodied, tipping his head back, and starts eating too.

When Mark has put enough food in his face to be able to deal with how good it is and regain some semblance of social awareness, he looks up and asks, "What is it?" which makes Eduardo laugh again, in the middle of chewing, putting his hand over his mouth.

"It's called feijoada," he says. Mark watches his mouth shape the word, likes the way Eduardo's voice thickens when he slips into Portuguese.

"Is that Portuguese for really, really good?" he asks.

"Pretty much," Eduardo says. "It's the Brazilian national dish."

"Beats turkey jerky," says Mark, and Eduardo says, dry, "I'm glad it meets with your approval."

"You should be," Mark tells him, and Eduardo kicks him again.

Maybe this is the right moment? Mark is warm, and happy, and Eduardo is grinning at him, and he cooked, and, okay, okay, Mark is going to go for it.

He looks at Eduardo over the table and says, "I love - " and then actually legitimately chokes, like his own body has decided this is actually too ridiculous and has prevented him from going any further by stopping masticated meat in his throat.

Eduardo gets him a glass of water and watches like he's actually concerned while Mark hacks and splutters and slams back the water until his esophagus has stopped spasming.

"Okay?" Eduardo asks, while Mark wipes, humiliated, at his streaming eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "But I've changed my mind."

"About what?" Eduardo asks, and Mark even likes the way he holds his fork as he takes another bite, half rice, half feijoada, because Eduardo likes things in balance. Except, Mark has noticed, he likes all of Mark.

Mark says, "About the stew, I don't love it at all."

Eduardo says, comfortably, "Lies and blasphemy," and Mark takes another bite himself, and thinks about saying it again, saying it right, but he can't get it out a second time.

Mark would like to know exactly when he became this sham of a human being, but he thinks he's got a pretty clear grasp on that cake-covered timeline already

Afterwards, Mark dries the dishes under duress and shamelessly ogles Eduardo's forearms as he rolls his shirt-sleeves up to wash the giant stew pot. Eduardo keeps up a running commentary of how Mark should be drying the dishes, with a glint in his eye, and Mark ignores him because he is an adult and can definitely not dry plates badly, and points out imaginary bits of stew stuck to the pot to make Eduardo get his arms wet again.

Eduardo says, as Mark is about to sack out on the couch and idle with the profile update some more, "I made caipirinhas, if you want some," and Mark groans.

"Stop speaking Portuguese," he says, flopping down onto the couch cushions. "I am too full to have sex with you."

"Oh yeah?" says Eduardo, raising an eyebrow in a way that can only spell trouble and/or orgasm in Mark's immediate future.

"Yes," says Mark, turning his face into the side of the couch. "Go away."

Eduardo lifts Mark's feet up so he can sit down too, and then leans over, with obvious intent.

"Go away," Mark repeats, childishly, helplessly. "I am too full for this."

"I'm not doing anything," says Eduardo, which is a lie, because he is pushing up the hem of Mark's t-shirt, sliding a warm hand onto Mark's stomach.

Mark makes this little unbidden noise, a sort of choked moan. "I'm not a cat," he says, as Eduardo rubs circles onto Mark's skin. "Go - "

"Away?" asks Eduardo, not stopping.

"Yes," says Mark, but he rolls his hips up to mean no.

Eduardo leans down closer, putting his mouth on the hollow of Mark's throat. "Vai embora?" he asks. "Vai embora, por favor?"

Mark groans. "That's cheating too," he accuses, and Eduardo smiles against his skin and says, "Yep."

"Ugh," says Mark, rolling properly onto his back. "Fine. But I'm not doing any of the work."

"I cooked," says Eduardo, teasing, dipping his hand lower so Mark's breath stutters.

"Yeah, well, I washed the dishes."

Eduardo slides his hand over the front of Mark's boxers. "You dried the dishes," he says. "It's not the same thing."

"Fuck, Wardo," Mark says, shifting, "I - don't care about - the - the - "

Eduardo is mouthing at the top of Mark's thigh, cupping Mark through his boxers. Mark is too full, and too turned on to keep talking.

"About the what?" Eduardo asks, because he is a constant source of misery in Mark's life and will not just get him off already so Mark can maybe nap for a couple hours and then code through the night.

Mark is breathless already, which is dignified. "About the fucking dishes, okay," he says, tetchily, and then, "Jesus, fuck," when Eduardo pushes the waistband of Mark's boxers down and spits on his palm, starts jerking Mark off in earnest. Mark tries not to choke on his tongue.

"How can you move?" he asks, clutching at the couch cushions, at Eduardo's shoulder. "How can you eat so much and still be able to do - fucking hell - anything?"

Eduardo just smirks, which, well, fuck him, and leans down to kiss him, and his mouth tastes like feijoada and a slight burn of alcohol - Mark must remember to have some of the caipirinhas too -- and Mark makes this incredibly dignified whine, and cants his hips up.

Eduardo twines the fingers of his free hand in with Mark's, held over his head against the couch arm. He strokes the curve of Mark's palm, thumbs over the veins in his wrist at the same time as the vein on Mark's dick until Mark is twitching, and swearing at him, full, and stupid, and needing. He has sensitive hands.

"You are such a cheat," he says, thrusting into Eduardo's grip in case it makes him take the fucking hint already, and Eduardo grins at him and bites a little at his earlobe -- and, okay, Mark is so full and so over-sensitive that it feels like he's been drugged or something, and so he cannot be responsible for any lack of stamina he might display by just coming all over Eduardo's hand.

"Shut up," he grumbles, as Eduardo grins smugly down at him. "I am not reciprocating. I am lying here. Go away."

"You said that before," Eduardo reminds him, leaning down against him regardless of the mess on Mark's stomach, "but I don't think you meant it."

"I did," Mark lies, but he tips his chin up obligingly so Eduardo can kiss him, and then he shifts a thigh in between Eduardo's legs and flexes, and Eduardo groans into Mark's mouth.

It turns out that Mark is not too full for this after all.

//

The feijoada leaves endless leftovers, that Mark watches Eduardo portion out and freeze with some bemusement, and then its component ingredients leave fucktons of food in the fridge. There's barely any room for the orange juice. Mark does not care about this especially, but Eduardo gets weirdly intense about vitamin C, and vitamins in general, and starts getting fidgety and rearranging the fridge if there isn't enough space in it when in any sensible person's opinion (Mark's), if Eduardo had fewer squashable healthy items in there and more, say, cans of Red Bull, he would also be able to stop frowning into a refrigerator and have more sex, which is clearly a superior lifestyle choice.

Mark's phone goes at about one in the afternoon the day after the feijoada feast, and he gets it out of his pocket, his concentration broken, irritated and squinting at the screen.

It's an event notification that Mark definitely did not program in.

STEP AWAY FROM THE KEYBOARD, it says. IT IS LUNCHTIME NOW.

Mark spends a moment with his mind still locked in lines of code, debating the possibility that he's started hallucinating, and then a second alarm makes his phone vibrate again.

I MEAN IT, MARK. I HAVE GOT TO GET RID OF THIS FOOD. YOU ARE NOT BRINGING THIS BACK WITH YOU, THERE IS NO SPACE IN THE FRIDGE.

Mark thinks about padding barefoot from the bathroom to the bed last night, catching Eduardo looking guilty for no good reason and leaning away from the bedside table on Mark's side of the bed. He'd meant to say something at the time, but Eduardo had reached up and tugged him down onto the mattress by the towel around his hips, and it hadn't seemed important anymore.

His phone goes a third time.

DO NOT GO BACK TO WORK BEFORE EATING SOMETHING. CHECK YOUR BACKPACK RIGHT NOW.

Mark unzips the front pocket of his backpack, and there's a familiar-looking Tupperware box staring him down inside.

Mark goes to heat it up in the microwave in the break-room, and walks back to his office by Dustin's desk, deliberately. Dustin follows with his nose, like a cartoon bloodhound, until Mark cracks a grin and slams the office door in his face.



from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: WHAT IS THAT AND WHERE CAN I GET SOME

MARK THAT SMELLS LIKE STEWY HEAVEN

LIKE IF HEAVEN HAD SWAMPS THEY WOULD BE MADE OF THAT STEW

LIKE WILLY WONKA'S CHOCOLATE FACTORY ONLY IT WOULD BE DUSTIN MOSKOVITZ'S ANGELIC FOOD EMPORIUM AND EVERYTHING WOULD BE EDIBLE AND YOU COULD NOT SLAM A DOOR IN MY FACE BECAUSE I COULD JUST EAT MY WAY THROUGH TO YOU AND YOUR OBSCENELY DELICIOUS CARE-PACKED LUNCHES WHICH I AM NOT COMMENTING ON OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF MY HEART BECAUSE I AM A GOOD FRIEND OF THE KIND THAT WOULD SHARE FOOD WITH ANOTHER FRIEND IF THEY WERE FOODLESS AND I HAD TUPPERWARE-CRADLED DELIGHTS. HYPOTHETICALLY.

UGH WHY IS YOUR LIFE THIS WAY I AM A MUCH NICER AND HUNGRIER PERSON

THE ONLY SWAMPS IN MY LIFE ARE FILLED WITH EVEN HUNGRIER CROCODILES.

GIVE
ME
BACK
MY
STEW
SWAMPS

I WILL SET MY SWAMPY CROCODILES ON YOU.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: go feed dustin

You know what happens when he doesn't get regular meals.


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: I am not his keeper

You are the last person who should lecture people about food.

And also I am not responsible for Dustin's eating habits. Dustin is responsible for Dustin's eating habits.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: he's talking about hungry swamp crocodiles again

do I need to remind you about that halo weekend? because I would have thought you would be the one to remember that.


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: the fucking swamp crocodiles

if he was better at halo that wouldn't have happened. I still don't think it was unfair that I won because he couldn't stop for food and I am capable of eating whilst gaming and also possess superior halo skills.

and superior skills in most things.

and am just better.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: I am not the passive-aggressive dubious relationship outlet you are looking for

he also wants a swamp of stew.

please just make sure he is not making one on his desk. I mean, I don't actually care, I just don't want any more emails about fictional reptiles.


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: crisis averted

he's had a sandwich. there are no reptiles in the coding area, repeat, no reptiles in the coding area. go about your business.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com; chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: I am terminally single

please fire chris so he can be my personal chef.


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com; mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: not terminally enough

I may put arsenic in the next sandwich.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: seconded

I would give you an alibi


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: it's like fatal attraction but with sandwiches. DON'T BE A BREAD BOILER, CHRIS, THE BREAD WILL GO ALL SOGGY BUT I WOULD EAT IT ANYWAY AND THAT WOULD BE HORRIBLE.

no-one appreciates me


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com; mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: you are revolting
do you know what I would appreciate, dustin?

some peace and quiet.


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: I will knock your heads together

make up

shut up

I am busy.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: which heads?

LOLLLLL KIDDING PLEASE DON'T HURT ME

CHRISTOPHER I WILL SELF-FLAGELLATE FOR YOUR LOVE

?????


from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com; mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: THIS IS A RECORDED EMAIL; CHRIS IS BUSY POURING CHLOROX INTO HIS EYES.

never say anything like that again, dustin, and we can be friends again

I may make you sign something to that effect


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
subj: BUT YOUR EYES ARE TOO PRETTY TO BE CHLOROXED DDD:

anything you say, christopherrrrr, you are the light of my life


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: I am going to fire you both and just hire monkeys

shush now. working.


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com; chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: I'M THE KING OF THE SWINGERS, YEAH

THE JUNGLE VIP

I'VE REACHED THE TOP

AND HAD TO STOP

AND THAT'S WHAT'S BOTHERING ME

from: chris.hughes@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com; dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: OH OOHBEE DOO OOH OOH

I WANNA BE LIKE YOU OOH OOH

I WANNA TALK LIKE YOU

WALK LIKE YOU

TOO OOH OOH


from: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com
to: chris.hughes@facebook.com; dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
subj: I hate both of you, you are ideally suited.

but for the sake of completion (DUSTIN THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT WHY DO I EVEN KNOW THIS)

YOU'LL SEE IT'S TRUE OOH OOH

AN APE LIKE ME EE EE

CAN LEARN TO BE

HUUUUMAN TOO


from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com; chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR.


//

The phone reminders keep coming, most days, and it becomes a little pattern, something entirely too sickening for Mark to really have expected to like, but he does, like an easy way out in code when he could push it further, guilty that it's out of character, and then defiant and pleased about it anyway.

EAT MY PIE, is one of the reminders Eduardo sets up, and Mark actually genuinely chokes laughing. Dustin is there for that one, and gives Mark this look like he has surpassed even his ability for judgment on Mark's intrepid adventure into a relationship, and instead just gapes wordlessly and a little proud as Mark brings out a slice of apple pie from his backpack, and a little plastic fork to eat it with.

He does, of course, make up for this uncharacteristic show of silence and support by leaning in fast like fucking Scooby Doo or something to inhale half the slice in one gulp before Mark can get it to his mouth, and Mark stabs the back of his hand repeatedly with the plastic fork.

A much better instance of Mark's food being stolen happens when Eduardo makes pizza one night, since apparently Mark has discovered the holy grail of boyfriends -- and Eduardo leans in and bites the corners off the piece Mark is already biting into. It's slightly too Lady and the Tramp for Mark's comfort, and when he says this, Eduardo laughs, and steals more of Mark's piece despite already having eaten his own, and asks when the fuck he ever watched a Disney movie in his life.

Mark says, "Dustin," in a tone that cannot even compare to the pain of having Dustin bodily sit on his legs and force him to watch Disney movies to bring joy and happiness to his stunted, keyboard-based existence (a direct quote), and Eduardo laughs some more, and suggests they watch more cartoons, if it means he can steal Mark's food and get away with it. Sharing pizza slices sort of works out, because Mark eats his point-first, like a regular person, and Eduardo eats his from the crust in, which Mark points out is an abomination. Eduardo shrugs, and says he likes having the best bit to look forward to; Mark likes having the best bit now.

The slices of leftover pizza that Mark finds in a Tupperware box in his backpack the next day have a little cartoon dog drawn out in a swirl of tomato purée on the tops, and Mark is so determined that Dustin will not see and comment on this that he gulps them down fast enough to get indigestion.

He texts Eduardo am I Lady or the Tramp? and Eduardo sends back, well, you're no Lady, and Mark finds himself surfing the kids section on Netflix before he's fully aware of what he's doing. Dustin has apparently stepped his stalking game up, because five minutes later, while Mark is in the middle of deleting his browser history, his phone bleeps with I FUCKING KNEW YOU LIKED DISNEY MOVIES REALLY OMG MARK DO YOU AND WARDO SHARE SPAGHETTI?????????

Pizza, Mark sends, feeling charitable, and then, less altruistically, which you don't get, because you are single and chef-less.

WHY DO YOU SAY SUCH HORRIBLE THINGS TO ME DDDDDD: Dustin replies, and Mark grins despite himself, and forwards it to Eduardo.

Mark had forgotten that he is dating a sap, and the next time they have pizza, Eduardo sends in a slice for Dustin. It has a D on it, in olives, and a little tomato purée smiley face. Mark hands it over in silent horror, and Dustin eats it so close to Mark's face that Mark actually gets a little flecked with pizza spit.

"Tell your boyfriend I love him," Dustin proclaims, cheerfully, on his way back to work, and Mark thinks, not before I tell him I do.

//

It is actually making Mark anxious, now, that he hasn't said it yet. He's not used to keeping something in. He thinks about being drunk and angry and blogging, and ranting on the internet about Erica Albright's bra size, and then about more recently being drunk at New Year's, I've never been this happy, but he also thinks that he really doesn't want to be drunk when he says this, but he still can't quite get it out sober.

There must be a middle way, somewhere. There must be something Mark can do. He's always been a little bit better at gestures, like not commenting when Dustin fell asleep on Chris's lap in the middle of finals. That was a pretty big gesture right there.

One night, Mark has pushed his laptop aside so he can make out with Eduardo on the couch, and Eduardo is writhing against him in this ridiculous, eager way, and Mark pulls back for a second, panting, weighing up his options. He could make Eduardo wait, get him on his back and begging, but Eduardo's eyes are dark and lidded, his mouth licked wet, and he's hard in his jeans without Mark even having laid a hand on him yet, and Mark thinks, fuck it, there'll be other times, and shoves him flat out on his back, and kneels between his thighs, getting Eduardo's jeans undone with one hand and keeping another on his chest, possessive, positioning.

Eduardo comes with a hand in Mark's hair and Mark's name on his lips, panting something in Portuguese that definitely doesn't sound appropriate for wider use, and that is it, there is Mark's gesture.

Because, as much as Mark hates to agree with Dustin at all, languages are hot.

Mark swallows, and decides he should take up language classes or something. In all the spare time that he has.

Okay, fine. Plan B.

//

"So," Eduardo says, "essentially you want me to teach you dirty Portuguese."

"Yes," says Mark.

Eduardo shrugs. "Sounds like a plan."

//

Eduardo straddles Mark's thighs and maps out his body, leaning down all dark-eyed and serious to kiss at the crook of Mark's elbow, the curve of his neck, the top of his chest, o cotovelo, o pescoço, o peitoral, and then Mark shifts and pants and flips them over so Eduardo is on his back and Mark can show him just how good his memory is, sucking hickeys into Eduardo's skin, muttering peitoral, pescoço, cotovelo until Eduardo shudders, and pins Mark back down.

"Fuck," Eduardo whispers, later, as Mark is shuddering hard, on the edge. "Caralho." He bites at Mark's jaw, mouths up behind his ear. "Say it."

"Caralho," Mark grits out, and Eduardo smiles wide and pleased against his throat, and says, "Good," and Mark comes all over his hand.

They have matching bruises, the next day, waking up and wincing in the exact same ways, and Mark follows Eduardo into the shower to run his hands over every one of them, and whispers the Portuguese in a sleep-rough voice, inaudible over the running water. Eduardo shivers like he can hear it anyway.

It's like looking at his first coded script running by itself, like stepping back from a whiteboard and looking at Friendster, MySpace, NewCo in his own marker pen thick handwriting -- a first step, the first pushed key. Mark presses his mouth to the bitten echo of it on Eduardo's skin, and thinks, more.

//

"Actual Portuguese?"

Mark nods.

Eduardo touches the tips of his fingers to the hickey near where collarbone becomes shoulder, tugging absent-mindedly on the neck of his shirt.

"Okay."

//

Mark is good with languages, programming and otherwise, but Portuguese is proving problematic. He's got high-school Spanish, so he can thicken up his voice, shape his mouth around the Latin pronunciation, but his "r"s come out slightly French, and he thinks he might be veering towards Russian at some point. Eduardo is endlessly patient, which Mark finds incredibly annoying, because if he were teaching someone such a base part of himself, like code, and they didn't fucking get it, he would not just smile at them and lace his fingers through theirs and get them to try it again. He would stop teaching them.

Eduardo does not stop teaching Mark.

When it's the middle of the night and the code is stuck in Mark's fingertips, on the tip of his tongue, behind a mental corner he can't peer around, he sets his laptop aside and reaches for the phrase book. He drums his fingers on the edges of the pages, like typing, because he works best with his hands, remembers better that way, with his fingers moving. He learns the tourist crap like com licença, onde fica o banheiro? and then introductory stuff in case he's somehow involved in a conversation about himself while haphazardly trying to buy bread. It is at this point he starts eying the phrase book with some aggravation, but he learns it anyway, for the sake of doing the thing properly; eu sou dos Estados Unidos, as if that wouldn't be patently obvious from his mangled, accent heavy, pronunciation -- and then, rendering the whole exercise potentially pointless, me desculpe, mas eu não entendo Portugûes completamente, você fala inglês?

It does not particularly matter to Mark whether the person he is having this extended hypothetical conversation with speaks English or not: that is not the point of this endeavor. He learns it anyway, muttering it to himself under his breath as he showers, mutters the other phrases as he works, or when he can't sleep, and sometimes he feels Eduardo smile against his shoulder blades, pressed up behind him in the bed.

That is the point.

He gets Eduardo to test him, drawing up his own vocab lists like he's back in high school and stumbling over por and para; the French passé simple; the Latin subjunctive. Mark has a great short term memory, so Eduardo starts asking him random words when he thinks he's catching him off guard, and Mark fires the English back to all sorts of things, to o açúcar if Eduardo is still rinsing his hands from piping frosting swirls onto cupcakes, to você tá cansado if he thinks Mark is dragging at the end of an evening, to bom dia in a whisper, pillow-close, when Mark wakes slowly up on a weekend morning.

It's like learning code for the first time, something new opening itself up for him to wade through. It feels like he is opening himself up, like he is stepping towards a different him, word by word. It's frightening, but code scared him, when he was a high school fresher and awed by it still, and now he is CEO and co-founder of Facebook, the youngest billionaire in the world.

When the code is slow in coming at work, sometimes, he forces himself to take a break, pull himself out of the frustration of endlessly repeating lines of already discarded work and pick up the phrase book, so worn in so little time that the spine is starting to crack. He types that out instead, learning the keyboard accent shortcuts, and it feels like he's coding Eduardo, the lilt of his voice at Mark's fingertips, like his keyboard gives out octaves and pitch rather than letters. It helps him think.

Chris comes in one afternoon to ask for something and sees Mark with his nose in the phrase book, and he goes away and brings Dustin to look.

"Oh," says Dustin, in this funny sort of voice, as they both stand behind Mark's shoulder and watch him switch between irritating tourist Portuguese sentences and lines of code, mixing the two, but Mark ignores them. He remembers looking over at Eduardo standing by the Facebook Wall; this feels like that, like he's got two things to call his own and he's knitting them together.

Chris comes and squeezes his shoulder before he takes Dustin out of the room again, and Mark glances up to roll his eyes out of habit and tell Chris to fuck off, and when he looks back at the computer screen, he reads both languages as one, run together.

//

Dustin perches on the edge of Mark's desk while Mark is taking his Eduardo-mandated lunch break and picks up the Portuguese phrase book, thumbing through it.

"Huh," he says, as Mark is halfway through a mouthful of cafeteria tuna salad -- there were no leftovers that morning, and Mark's phone alert had said GO TO THE CAFETERIA, LAUREN WILL TELL ME IF YOU DON'T, and Mark hadn't doubted that or the obviously terrifying repercussions in the slightest -- and Mark looks up, in a way he likes to think is not unduly paranoid.

"What?"

Dustin rifles through the pages again and then rests the spine on his palm and lets the book fall open where it wants, where the spine has broken, over-used.

"Huh," he says again.

If there is anything more alarming than Dustin's voice being completely even, Mark does not want to know about it.

"Dustin," he says, again, letting the edge creep into his voice, "what is it?"

Dustin closes the book, runs his thumb along the edges of the pages, and lets it fall open again.

"What?" Mark demands.

Dustin holds the book out to him, not saying anything.

Terms of endearment, it says, and then, in bold, right under that: eu te amo.

Mark snatches the book back, smearing tuna all over the cover.

//


(continued here)


*Rough Portuguese translations:

o cotovelo, o pescoço, o peitoral: the elbow, the neck, the throat
caralho: fuck
com licença, onde fica o banheiro?: excuse me, where is the bathroom?
eu sou dos Estados Unidos: I'm from the US
me desculpe, mas eu não entendo Portugûes completamente, você fala inglês?: I'm sorry, I don't fully understand Portuguese, do you speak English?
o açúcar: sugar
você tá cansado: you're tired
bom dia: good morning
eu te amo: I love you

Comments

[whitedatura.livejournal.com]

Oh hey there I think my brain just short circuited imagining Jesse Eisenberg's hands + foot rub. hnnng. do want. DO WANT.

and Eduardo is sprawled out and laughing helplessly and breathily all over the place, and Mark needs to man the fuck up and tell him he loves him -- because he's pretty damn sure Eduardo loves him back.

Honestly it has been in the back of my mind that they have still not Said The Words even though it is totally freaking obvious that they are disgustingly head over heels in love. I am cackling in anticipation.

omg ew silverfish, I would have shrieked so loudly. Chris, I am with you. I wish my boyfriend was like Dustin. I have a better chance of getting one of my only-mildly-interested cats to kill a bug for me. I love their bromantic I love yous.

Ohhhhh Mark. Eduardo is not second-best. It is so adorable that he worries about that when he really doesn't need to.

"Stop speaking Portuguese," he says, flopping down onto the couch cushions. "I am too full to have sex with you."

XD It is probably bad that it is so funny to me that he literally choked when trying to say I love you.

Eduardo programming alerts into Mark's phone to get him to eat the leftovers, oh my god so cute. Mark taunting Dustin with it. I am dying. Dying.

I am not the passive-aggressive dubious relationship outlet you are looking for
...dead.

...to inhale half the slice in one gulp before Mark can get it to his mouth, and Mark stabs the back of his hand repeatedly with the plastic fork.

I am smiling so hard my face is starting to hurt.

"Tell your boyfriend I love him," Dustin proclaims, cheerfully, on his way back to work, and Mark thinks, not before I tell him I do.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwww jfc I CAN'T HANDLE THIS ANYMORE I MAY DIE OF DIABETES RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.

and it feels like he's coding Eduardo

Oh don't mind me, I'll just be curled up in a ball under my desk whimpering about my heart melting out and making a mess on the carpet.

Terms of endearment, it says, and then, in bold, right under that: eu te amo.
Mark snatches the book back, smearing tuna all over the cover.

Okay, now my heart is doing whatever it is it does after it melts. I can't even describe how revoltingly wonderfully sweet that is.

[ymorton.livejournal.com]

jalkdfjasd.

Sometimes he goes and puts his arms around Eduardo's waist while he's stirring pasta sauce, or rests his head in the crook between shoulder and neck while Eduardo is stir-frying vegetables

this mental image makes my teeth hurt in the most fantastic, wonderful way possible. just, UGGGHHH <333

Mark would like to know exactly when he became this sham of a human being, but he thinks he's got a pretty clear grasp on that cake-covered timeline already.

UGH WHY IS YOUR LIFE THIS WAY I AM A MUCH NICER AND HUNGRIER PERSON

SUCH A GPOY, DUSTIN, I JUST CANNOT.

from: dustinohyeahitsdustin@facebook.com
to: mark.zuckerberg@facebook.com; chris.hughes@facebook.com
subj: :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR.

HOW DO YOU DO THIS T OME HOW

Eduardo shrugs, and says he likes having the best bit to look forward to; Mark likes having the best bit now.

SCREAAAAMIINGGGG

and the full sex like.... really did it for me. is that weird, maybe, ugh, i love boys i love boys i love cake i love this

[ohheykimberly.livejournal.com]

The emails, the fucking emails. The emails the emails the emails. Your Dustin/Chris/Mark srsly bffls shit is the best thing in the entire world, by the way. YOU ARE KILLING ME.

FORGIVE ME I HAD TO ICON THE PIC DUSTIN MADE IT WAS OUT OF MY CONTROL

[moonlitelupines.livejournal.com]

UGH WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN KNOW BUT I LOVE IT AND IT DID THINGS TO ME LIKE GIVE ME ~FEELINGS~ AND THIS ON TOP OF THE FACT THAT MY FRIENDS JUST GOT ENGAGED ON EASTER AND GUUUHHH IS THIS WHAT DIABETES FEELS LIKE?

I would copy and paste things I liked but, you know, you already have the whole thing saved and that would just be like redundant or something. at the very least it would be more than the comment character limit.

I loved this, seriously truly stupidly loved this. What does stupid even mean anymore? I don't know, but it's changed and it's great and omg this fiiiicccc. Why do you get to write a lovely happy au when I'm stuck writing a sad depressing road au of sadness? AAAAANNNNYYYYYWWWAAAYS I'm off to work so I'll keep the rambling to a minimum but this was fab just like I knew it would be <3

[colourmeshocked.livejournal.com]

WHUTWHUTWHUT HEARTS IN EYES

I'M GOING TO COME BACK WITH A MORE VALID COMMENT LATER BECAUSE IT'S NOW 8 IN THE MORNING BUT HOLY HOLY HOLY EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT FROM THE DOMESTICITY TO THE EMAILS TO THE PILLOW FIGHTS TO THE SNOT TO EVERYTHINGEVERYTHINGEVERYTHING AISDJLASUHDLAISHDIALSD!!!

[hellodeer.livejournal.com]

then introductory stuff in case he's somehow involved in a conversation about himself while haphazardly trying to buy bread.

Funny thing is, that could totally happen. dqgljkrhlkrfjks this fanfic kills me with joy

[hold-onhope.livejournal.com]

Okay I was going to hold off on comments until the end BUT

Dustin holds the book out to him, not saying anything.

Terms of endearment, it says, and then, in bold, right under that: eu te amo.

FUCK. FUUUUCK WHAT ARE MY FEELING DOINGGGGG

HNGGGG. Language! Learning Wardo's language! I keep thinking "This can't get any better" and then reading a paragraph and thinking "THIS JUST GOT BETTER!" How does that happennnnn?!

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

OMG HI YOU, HI <333

HERE ARE SOME QUICK THOUGHTS.

1) I STILL HAVE NOT COMMENTED ON YOUR SHOEBOX POEM, UGH WHAT AM I, IT IS AMAZING.
2) I am too tired to be allowed on the internet but iluuuuu.
3) I hope you like the rest of this! <333
4) LEARNING WARDO'S LANGUAGE, OH MARK, HE JUST WANTS TO DO THIS RIIIIIIGHT.
5) THANK YOU ILU HOW ARE YOU I MISS YOU.

[kit-kitgoesusa.livejournal.com]

"Oh my god," says Mark, because this might actually be the best thing he has discovered about Eduardo to date, if the defensive line Eduardo's mouth has formed is anything to go by. "You're ticklish."
Mark giving Wardo a foot rub is so sweet and intimate and the fact that Eduardo got defensive was completely adorable and so so funny XD

Dustin's don't really count, because he is Dustin, he tells Starbucks baristas he loves them if he's tired enough, but Chris's I love you was also under extenuating circumstances, because he had inadvisably opened the cupboard under the sink in Kirkland on one of his cleaning benders, and there was, like, an actual hoard of silverfish in there, and Chris had an actual conniption fit and stood on the coffee table and Dustin was surprisingly adult and reassuring even as he went into battle with a roll of toilet paper and an alarmingly practiced war cry.
Best. Anecdote. Ever. O.O This made me, if possible, love your Dustin and your Chris even more! <3
Hahahaha, Starbucks and silverfish will do things to people.. XD

There is no click here to say I love you without sounding like a douche. Maybe he should look into that.
The day this is invented, make sure whoever creates it gives you credit. And let me know when it happens, cause I will throw you a fucking parade.. ^^

Mark tells him he doesn't cry, and Eduardo laughs all cheerfully and tells him he's seen Mark at the end of A.I., and not to pretend otherwise. Mark insists that was a trick of the light, and Eduardo flips vegetables and adds in soy sauce, and smiles down at the pan.
You rock my world, dude, I want the relationships you write.. Write my life, could ya?

"That is disgustingly unhelpful," Mark tells him.
Eduardo shrugs. "The food's not disgusting."
"You're disgusting."
Disgusting has stopped being a real word by this point.
I am so in love with their stupidly childish banter :D
The way you write everyday life for your characters is so relatable and never feels forced.

Mark would like to know exactly when he became this sham of a human being, but he thinks he's got a pretty clear grasp on that cake-covered timeline already.
Hahaha, fantastic, poor Mark, everything is working against him, even his own body ^^
As for the ‘cake-covered timeline’, it made me imagine Eduardo teaching a very strange history-class XD

"Stop speaking Portuguese," he says, flopping down onto the couch cushions. "I am too full to have sex with you."
"Oh yeah?" says Eduardo, raising an eyebrow in a way that can only spell trouble and/or orgasm in Mark's immediate future.
I am continuously confused at how I can be laughing and getting turned on simultanously..
But I am not complaining! This is so wonderful!
Insanely hot couch-session.. O.O

if Eduardo had fewer squashable healthy items in there and more, say, cans of Red Bull, he would also be able to stop frowning into a refrigerator and have more sex, which is clearly a superior lifestyle choice.
*laughs loudly* Mark logic is flawless XD

I AM A GOOD FRIEND OF THE KIND THAT WOULD SHARE FOOD WITH ANOTHER FRIEND IF THEY WERE FOODLESS AND I HAD TUPPERWARE-CRADLED DELIGHTS. HYPOTHETICALLY.
As if it’s at all surprising at this point; I am hopelessly in love with your Dustin ^^ <3

I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR.
Yes! Yessssss!!! Everything I love ties up and the world is beautiful!

Mark had forgotten that he is dating a sap, and the next time they have pizza, Eduardo sends in a slice for Dustin. It has a D on it, in olives, and a little tomato purée smiley face. Mark hands it over in silent horror, and Dustin eats it so close to Mark's face that Mark actually gets a little flecked with pizza spit.
Oh lord, the holy grail of boyfriends doesn’t even begin to cover it..
This was completely hilarious and at the same time so endearing ^^ <3

(forced to cut my comment in two!) X_X

[kit-kitgoesusa.livejournal.com]

"So," Eduardo says, "essentially you want me to teach you dirty Portuguese."
"Yes," says Mark.
Eduardo shrugs. "Sounds like a plan."
*stares, slack-jawed* I think I’m gonna start crying tears of joy..
"Caralho," Mark grits out, and Eduardo smiles wide and pleased against his throat, and says, "Good," and Mark comes all over his hand.
*squeaky sound* How did I deserve such brilliance?! <3

He learns the tourist crap like com licença, onde fica o banheiro? and then introductory stuff in case he's somehow involved in a conversation about himself while haphazardly trying to buy bread.
Yes, this happens to me constantly, I have so very many fans at the supermarket ^^
This whole plot-point, Mark deciding to learn Portuguese, is a stroke of genius!

Dustin holds the book out to him, not saying anything.
Terms of endearment, it says, and then, in bold, right under that: eu te amo.
Dustin, you nosy freak! I will kiss you, sir!

I can’t believe I’ve only got one more chapter to go!
As much as this kills me, I think I’ll have to save the last part for tomorrow.. I wanna savor it!
*flops around in frustration*
Also, it’s midnight and I slept 2-3 hours last night so I’m really tired, and I don’t wanna miss one word due to fatigue!
As always, completely amazing work, you both inspire and intimidate me.

[babysqueezer.livejournal.com]

I wish there was any kind of way for me to make you understand how happy this story has made me. I already sent one tl;dr comment your way, so I won't elaborate this time... just - thank you. Really. It was a pleasure to read.
I hope you'll continue writing for this fandom, if only for the interactions between our Fab Four.

I could reread those emails again and again for all eternity.

[clatter-in-vain.livejournal.com]

How do you do this to me. Foot rubbing? ACE. Portuguese? FFFFF. Terms of Endearment? YESSS.

I love you so much. :'D

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

I am loving this story ridiculously but oh lord, Dustin's emails are making me cry with laughter. ♥!

[that-1-incident.livejournal.com]

The whole thing with him CODING Eduardo by typing the Portuguese is basically brilliant. Brilliant. And the book falling open at the end. WHAT. WHAT. THAT'S PERFECT.