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mooging
a fic/mix prequel to what not to do when your boss is dating the guy he's had erased from his memory: a user's guide by c. hughes
Not necessary to read this in order to read the main fic, nor is it necessary to read either to listen to the mix. idk. FEELINGS. MUSIC. MEMORY WIPES. It's all going on under the cut.
on the night you left I came over
and we peeled the freckles from our shoulders
our brand new coats so flushed and pink
and I knew your heart I couldn't win
cause the seasons change was a conduit
and we left our love in our summer skin
02. What the Snowman Learned About Love // Stars
how the heart bends and summer she sends
a sky that refuses to die
with weeds of the sea that wrap round our knees
and a sun too hot to go down
you come around
you come around
you come around
Mark doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about what actually erasing Eduardo would be like. It won't be like developing Facebook, those first few days of eyes-down focus, looking up to find the day moving on without him, long shadows across his room in place of the short. That was all process, not outcome.
This is all endgame.
Mark knows, deep down alongside you have no idea what this is going to mean to my father, he cannot see Eduardo look at him and not know him. He's going to have to unknow him in return.
Facebook was a race to the finish; for Eduardo, Mark wants to go back to the start.
This is all endgame.
Mark knows, deep down alongside you have no idea what this is going to mean to my father, he cannot see Eduardo look at him and not know him. He's going to have to unknow him in return.
Facebook was a race to the finish; for Eduardo, Mark wants to go back to the start.
trouble
oh trouble, set me free
I have seen your face
and it's too much, too much for me
04. He Dreams He's Awake // Stars
sunrise
oh sunrise
when will you ever come
sunrise
oh sunrise
when will the light be gone
it won't let me go
"I was your only friend," Eduardo says, torn open on the other side of the deposition room table. "You had one friend."
Mark didn't understand then, embarrassed and stung, watching Eduardo perform, but it's I was your only friend. Everyone else got on board for Facebook; Eduardo bought his ticket for Mark.
After the depositions, Eduardo didn't want to remember Mark at all.
"My father won't even look at me," Eduardo says, choked up, and Mark shakes, and won't be sorry to forget this.
Mark didn't understand then, embarrassed and stung, watching Eduardo perform, but it's I was your only friend. Everyone else got on board for Facebook; Eduardo bought his ticket for Mark.
After the depositions, Eduardo didn't want to remember Mark at all.
"My father won't even look at me," Eduardo says, choked up, and Mark shakes, and won't be sorry to forget this.
what can I compare you to, a window the sun shines through
maybe the silver moon, a smile rising
the magic of the fading day, satellites on parade
a toast to the plans we've made to live like kings
06. Title and Registration // Death Cab For Cutie
cause behind its door there's nothing to keep my fingers warm
and all i find are souvenirs from better times
before the gleam of your taillights fading east
to find yourself a better life
It's somewhere around three in the afternoon, hour four of the migraine, and Mark is lying on his back in bed with his curtains closed, the crook of his right elbow thrown over his eyes. It's almost pitch black this way, Boston winter dusk outside, but it's still lighter than Mark can bear.
"Mark?"
Mark makes a noise that could be assent, and tries not to move. His bed shifts as Eduardo lies down next to him. Mark knows it by the sudden flush of secondhand body heat against Mark's side, can't open his eyes to look at him.
It doesn't really matter to Mark if there's someone with him or not, because he's too mired in pain to really be that aware of his surroundings when he gets like this, but Eduardo always stays with him anyway. Mark is aware, peripherally, that people think Eduardo mothers him, and, all right, so Eduardo kind of checks that Mark's eaten, or slept, but it's not like he feeds him. It's just - a step up from friendship, kind of. Mark's not sure. It's different, but he's vague on the how. He's not good at vague, so he just doesn't think about it.
He didn't think about it. Everything's jumbled up in Mark's head, halfway through the procedure, and he's having problems sorting out what he's thinking from what he thought.
It's harder than he was expecting, to forget Eduardo.
The migraine rolls back, Mark sinking back into then, and he groans with it, turning onto his side. Eduardo turns too, and pushes his fingers through Mark's hair, rubs gently just above his hairline. This is the kind of thing Mark means. They weren't -- they weren't a them, but they were like this.
"Shh," Eduardo says, as Mark shudders, squeezes his eyes more tightly closed. Eduardo keeps smoothing his fingers over Mark's temples, keeps quiet, and, slowly, Mark manages to fall asleep.
"Mark?"
Mark makes a noise that could be assent, and tries not to move. His bed shifts as Eduardo lies down next to him. Mark knows it by the sudden flush of secondhand body heat against Mark's side, can't open his eyes to look at him.
It doesn't really matter to Mark if there's someone with him or not, because he's too mired in pain to really be that aware of his surroundings when he gets like this, but Eduardo always stays with him anyway. Mark is aware, peripherally, that people think Eduardo mothers him, and, all right, so Eduardo kind of checks that Mark's eaten, or slept, but it's not like he feeds him. It's just - a step up from friendship, kind of. Mark's not sure. It's different, but he's vague on the how. He's not good at vague, so he just doesn't think about it.
He didn't think about it. Everything's jumbled up in Mark's head, halfway through the procedure, and he's having problems sorting out what he's thinking from what he thought.
It's harder than he was expecting, to forget Eduardo.
The migraine rolls back, Mark sinking back into then, and he groans with it, turning onto his side. Eduardo turns too, and pushes his fingers through Mark's hair, rubs gently just above his hairline. This is the kind of thing Mark means. They weren't -- they weren't a them, but they were like this.
"Shh," Eduardo says, as Mark shudders, squeezes his eyes more tightly closed. Eduardo keeps smoothing his fingers over Mark's temples, keeps quiet, and, slowly, Mark manages to fall asleep.
you went so far away
and I want to come there too
I want to be with you
08. Celestica // Crystal Castles
follow me into nowhere
woven with the utmost care
have they cleansed you with chloride
and scrubbed behind the knees
has your body been hollowed by the breeze
Mark wakes up in another memory, another day. It’s morning -- or was morning; Mark still hasn't quite got the hang of tenses here -- and Eduardo is asleep on Mark's bed. Mark comes into consciousness hunched over in his desk chair with cramp in his back and a terrible taste in his mouth.
Mark remembers this morning. It's the morning after the first time Eduardo crashed at Mark's, the pair of them up too late drinking too much cheap beer. Mark had explained how CourseMatch worked even though he knew Eduardo wouldn't follow the details, and Eduardo had leaned over Mark's shoulder to see, kept his hand on the back of Mark's chair, his thumb just brushing Mark's neck. He'd fallen asleep on Mark's bed before Mark had finished talking, sprawled out on top of Mark's sheets, and Mark had meant to stay up and code but obviously didn't quite manage it. The crick in Mark's neck is familiar as he tries to stretch it out. So is the way Eduardo snuffles and rolls over, pressing his nose between the pillow and the wall.
Mark has been accused of many things, over the years, but the one thing he feels most guilty of is having spectacularly appalling timing.
I can't, he thinks, now, looking at Eduardo loose-limbed in sleep, at the wrinkles down the back his shirt. I can't forget you.
He goes to the crappy suite bathroom and stands under as hot a stream of water as the shower will provide -- apparently memory doesn't change water temperature, which is just great -- and tilts his face up until his cheeks sting, his lips burn. There has to be a way out of this, he thinks. He thinks, I want to call it off.
The shower stops running, and Mark's chest goes tight, just for a second. He holds his breath, not entirely certain if he's making this happen, if he should be waiting for something more.
The water starts running again.
Mark is not making anything happen at all.
He's never been good at feeling powerless.
"Can you hear me?" he shouts at the ceiling, dripping wet and suddenly furious. "Can you hear me, I want to call it off!"
No-one is listening; the shower turns into a rainstorm, sleet and freezing wind, and Mark is nineteen years old and running across the icy quad to Eduardo's dorm to see him again after their first winter break apart.
Mark remembers this morning. It's the morning after the first time Eduardo crashed at Mark's, the pair of them up too late drinking too much cheap beer. Mark had explained how CourseMatch worked even though he knew Eduardo wouldn't follow the details, and Eduardo had leaned over Mark's shoulder to see, kept his hand on the back of Mark's chair, his thumb just brushing Mark's neck. He'd fallen asleep on Mark's bed before Mark had finished talking, sprawled out on top of Mark's sheets, and Mark had meant to stay up and code but obviously didn't quite manage it. The crick in Mark's neck is familiar as he tries to stretch it out. So is the way Eduardo snuffles and rolls over, pressing his nose between the pillow and the wall.
Mark has been accused of many things, over the years, but the one thing he feels most guilty of is having spectacularly appalling timing.
I can't, he thinks, now, looking at Eduardo loose-limbed in sleep, at the wrinkles down the back his shirt. I can't forget you.
He goes to the crappy suite bathroom and stands under as hot a stream of water as the shower will provide -- apparently memory doesn't change water temperature, which is just great -- and tilts his face up until his cheeks sting, his lips burn. There has to be a way out of this, he thinks. He thinks, I want to call it off.
The shower stops running, and Mark's chest goes tight, just for a second. He holds his breath, not entirely certain if he's making this happen, if he should be waiting for something more.
The water starts running again.
Mark is not making anything happen at all.
He's never been good at feeling powerless.
"Can you hear me?" he shouts at the ceiling, dripping wet and suddenly furious. "Can you hear me, I want to call it off!"
No-one is listening; the shower turns into a rainstorm, sleet and freezing wind, and Mark is nineteen years old and running across the icy quad to Eduardo's dorm to see him again after their first winter break apart.
but in a goodbye bed
with my arms around your neck
into our love the tears crept
just catch in the eye of the storm
and as my heart ran round
my dreams pulled me from the ground
forever to search for the flame
for home again, home again
10. When You Sleep // Cake
when you sleep
when you sleep where do your fingers go
what do your fingers know
what do your fingers show
where do your fingers go
when you sleep
do they tremble on the edge of the bed
or do you fold them neatly by your head
"Hi," says a guy Mark hasn't seen before, walking over to where Mark is awkwardly propping up the wall at an AEPi party. "You look thrilled to be here."
"Yeah," says Mark, trying to look past him. Most of his attention is on trying not to broadcast his hatred over too large an area in case Chris comes back and slaps him round the ears for not trying hard enough. It's taking a lot of effort. He's not really up for conversation. "Overjoyed."
The guy's mouth does something odd, a kind of quirk, like he's not sure whether or not he's supposed to laugh. "It's not that bad," he offers, which Mark finds irritatingly inane.
"You must have indecently low standards," he says, flatly, and feels uncomfortable, and thinks about getting another beer.
The guy laughs, which - people do not normally laugh at things Mark says, not like that. Not when Mark has said something like that.
"I don't know," he says, looking at Mark in a way that makes Mark fidget, unaccustomed to it. "I think my standards are okay."
"Well, you would do, wouldn't you," says Mark, looking at him properly. He's wearing a suit to an AEPi party. Mark thinks, economics, and then thinks, stupid hair. These are his first impressions. "They're your standards."
The guy laughs again, throwing his head right back. Mark watches his eyes crinkle up, and thinks about his mom saying people only smile with their eyes if they mean it. Then he tries to stop thinking about his mom at a party, even a lame one like this.
"I'm Eduardo," says the guy, holding out his hand for Mark to shake. Mark hates this about Harvard. They're all still young enough for this to seem incongruous but the easy way some guys have shaken his hand has broadcast future senator or family money or final club. Mark hates them all, and wants that, wants to be like that, all at the same time. Basically, he just doesn't like touching other people if he can avoid it, and shaking hands is just another way for him not to measure up to someone's social standards.
But then, they've established Eduardo has low standards. Mark can probably raise them a little by introducing himself.
"Mark," he says, taking Eduardo's hand, and Eduardo smiles like Mark has hung the moon.
"Nice to meet you, Mark," he says, and Mark feels himself go pink, looks away for a second to hide it.
When he looks back, the door to the hall is fading out, the edge of memory. The sight of it snaps Mark out of being the kid he was then, slams him back into being himself, the billionaire who's about to lose his best friend.
This is it, then.
Fuck -- fuck, It hits Mark like he's been punched. He exhales, a little ragged sound of breath, grips on to Eduardo's hand like he can hold him close, keep him from slipping away.
"Mark?" says Eduardo, concerned. He puts his other hand over Mark's white-knuckled fingers; lets Mark grip his fingers too tight.
"Don't go," Mark says, and he sounds like he feels, like he might fly apart. "I don't want you to go."
"You did," says Eduardo, and Mark nods, jerkily, but he doesn't know, any more, what he wanted. He doesn't think he wanted this, not really. He can't have wanted this. He can't have, because he wanted Eduardo.
He wants Eduardo, here in the first crappy AEPi mixer he went to, weeks later with Eduardo's legs flung easily over Mark's lap in the dorm, later still, desperate and angry, shouting down the phone in California. Maybe Mark didn't always know what he was asking for then -- you've got to come out here, this is where it's all happening; it's like a Final club except we're the president; it's gonna be out of control, you've got to come back for it -- but he sure as hell does now.
"Meet me," he blurts, desperate, heat prickling up the back of his neck. His voice cracks like the falling floorboards, the lines breaking up the plastered walls. "Please, Wardo."
Eduardo steps in, puts his arms around Mark, draws him in close. Over Eduardo's shoulder, Mark watches the back wall of the room crumble down to nothing.
Mark closes his eyes tight, turns his face in to the side of Eduardo's neck.
"Please," he says again, fraught. "Wardo - "
"Shh," gentles Eduardo, whispering into Mark's ear. Mark is shaking, like he's in shock, and Eduardo asks him, midnight soft, "Meet me here, Mark. Come out to Cambridge."
"Yeah," says Mark, trying to look past him. Most of his attention is on trying not to broadcast his hatred over too large an area in case Chris comes back and slaps him round the ears for not trying hard enough. It's taking a lot of effort. He's not really up for conversation. "Overjoyed."
The guy's mouth does something odd, a kind of quirk, like he's not sure whether or not he's supposed to laugh. "It's not that bad," he offers, which Mark finds irritatingly inane.
"You must have indecently low standards," he says, flatly, and feels uncomfortable, and thinks about getting another beer.
The guy laughs, which - people do not normally laugh at things Mark says, not like that. Not when Mark has said something like that.
"I don't know," he says, looking at Mark in a way that makes Mark fidget, unaccustomed to it. "I think my standards are okay."
"Well, you would do, wouldn't you," says Mark, looking at him properly. He's wearing a suit to an AEPi party. Mark thinks, economics, and then thinks, stupid hair. These are his first impressions. "They're your standards."
The guy laughs again, throwing his head right back. Mark watches his eyes crinkle up, and thinks about his mom saying people only smile with their eyes if they mean it. Then he tries to stop thinking about his mom at a party, even a lame one like this.
"I'm Eduardo," says the guy, holding out his hand for Mark to shake. Mark hates this about Harvard. They're all still young enough for this to seem incongruous but the easy way some guys have shaken his hand has broadcast future senator or family money or final club. Mark hates them all, and wants that, wants to be like that, all at the same time. Basically, he just doesn't like touching other people if he can avoid it, and shaking hands is just another way for him not to measure up to someone's social standards.
But then, they've established Eduardo has low standards. Mark can probably raise them a little by introducing himself.
"Mark," he says, taking Eduardo's hand, and Eduardo smiles like Mark has hung the moon.
"Nice to meet you, Mark," he says, and Mark feels himself go pink, looks away for a second to hide it.
When he looks back, the door to the hall is fading out, the edge of memory. The sight of it snaps Mark out of being the kid he was then, slams him back into being himself, the billionaire who's about to lose his best friend.
This is it, then.
Fuck -- fuck, It hits Mark like he's been punched. He exhales, a little ragged sound of breath, grips on to Eduardo's hand like he can hold him close, keep him from slipping away.
"Mark?" says Eduardo, concerned. He puts his other hand over Mark's white-knuckled fingers; lets Mark grip his fingers too tight.
"Don't go," Mark says, and he sounds like he feels, like he might fly apart. "I don't want you to go."
"You did," says Eduardo, and Mark nods, jerkily, but he doesn't know, any more, what he wanted. He doesn't think he wanted this, not really. He can't have wanted this. He can't have, because he wanted Eduardo.
He wants Eduardo, here in the first crappy AEPi mixer he went to, weeks later with Eduardo's legs flung easily over Mark's lap in the dorm, later still, desperate and angry, shouting down the phone in California. Maybe Mark didn't always know what he was asking for then -- you've got to come out here, this is where it's all happening; it's like a Final club except we're the president; it's gonna be out of control, you've got to come back for it -- but he sure as hell does now.
"Meet me," he blurts, desperate, heat prickling up the back of his neck. His voice cracks like the falling floorboards, the lines breaking up the plastered walls. "Please, Wardo."
Eduardo steps in, puts his arms around Mark, draws him in close. Over Eduardo's shoulder, Mark watches the back wall of the room crumble down to nothing.
Mark closes his eyes tight, turns his face in to the side of Eduardo's neck.
"Please," he says again, fraught. "Wardo - "
"Shh," gentles Eduardo, whispering into Mark's ear. Mark is shaking, like he's in shock, and Eduardo asks him, midnight soft, "Meet me here, Mark. Come out to Cambridge."
I thought I saw your face today
but I just turned my head away
your face against the trees
but I just see the memories as they come
as they come
and I couldn't help but fall in love again
Mark meets Eduardo one autumn afternoon in Cambridge. He doesn't quite know why he's there. He's never done anything like this before. He woke up this morning, and knew he had somewhere to be. One flight, a cancelled meeting and a reset watch later, Mark has lost three hours and gained a table in Starbucks during the lunch rush. There are kids with problem sets camped out with their laptops at the tables all around him, and he watches them, one by one, shove their books away and open Facebook in a separate tab. He feels old, and proud.
"Excuse me?" says someone, from behind Mark. "Just - is anyone sitting here?"
Mark looks up. The owner of the voice is a guy about his age. He's wearing a suit but he doesn't have a briefcase with him, and his hair has far too much product in it. He's got a hopeful smile, the FT under one arm, and a mug of something with an amount of whipped cream that would make even Mark think twice.
Mark looks around. There are no other free seats.
"Sure," he says, because he's not a complete asshole.
The guy smiles even wider, and sinks down into the opposite chair, crossing his legs out away from the table. "Thanks," he says.
Mark shrugs, and tries to look like he's really involved in reading his newspaper.
"Eduardo," says the guy, and Mark looks up again.
"Sorry?"
"Eduardo Saverin," the guy repeats, offering Mark his hand. He smiles again. "I figure if we're going to share a table, we might as well know each other's names."
Mark is from New York. This does not happen in New York. This is in fact a direct contradiction of all social mores in New York Starbucks.
Eduardo keeps smiling.
"Mark," Mark says, shaking Eduardo's hand. He adds, because the kids around them all have headphones on and it's not like someone's going to call him on why he's not at work, "Zuckerberg."
Eduardo seems to think for a second. "Facebook Mark Zuckerberg?"
Mark nods.
Eduardo settles back in his seat, looking impressed. Mark does not think he himself is particularly impressive, but his site sure as hell is, so. "Wow," says Eduardo, not sounding at all sarcastic. "That's amazing."
"Yeah," says Mark, and Eduardo laughs.
"Nice to meet you, Mark," he says, and Mark thinks, a little taken aback, that he doesn't mean nice to meet you, Mark Zuckerberg; that he might actually mean nice to meet you.
"You too," blurts Mark, like he's nineteen again and averse to shaking hands, and Eduardo raises his mug of diabetes in Mark's direction like a salut, and grins.
"Excuse me?" says someone, from behind Mark. "Just - is anyone sitting here?"
Mark looks up. The owner of the voice is a guy about his age. He's wearing a suit but he doesn't have a briefcase with him, and his hair has far too much product in it. He's got a hopeful smile, the FT under one arm, and a mug of something with an amount of whipped cream that would make even Mark think twice.
Mark looks around. There are no other free seats.
"Sure," he says, because he's not a complete asshole.
The guy smiles even wider, and sinks down into the opposite chair, crossing his legs out away from the table. "Thanks," he says.
Mark shrugs, and tries to look like he's really involved in reading his newspaper.
"Eduardo," says the guy, and Mark looks up again.
"Sorry?"
"Eduardo Saverin," the guy repeats, offering Mark his hand. He smiles again. "I figure if we're going to share a table, we might as well know each other's names."
Mark is from New York. This does not happen in New York. This is in fact a direct contradiction of all social mores in New York Starbucks.
Eduardo keeps smiling.
"Mark," Mark says, shaking Eduardo's hand. He adds, because the kids around them all have headphones on and it's not like someone's going to call him on why he's not at work, "Zuckerberg."
Eduardo seems to think for a second. "Facebook Mark Zuckerberg?"
Mark nods.
Eduardo settles back in his seat, looking impressed. Mark does not think he himself is particularly impressive, but his site sure as hell is, so. "Wow," says Eduardo, not sounding at all sarcastic. "That's amazing."
"Yeah," says Mark, and Eduardo laughs.
"Nice to meet you, Mark," he says, and Mark thinks, a little taken aback, that he doesn't mean nice to meet you, Mark Zuckerberg; that he might actually mean nice to meet you.
"You too," blurts Mark, like he's nineteen again and averse to shaking hands, and Eduardo raises his mug of diabetes in Mark's direction like a salut, and grins.
mix zip.
with thanks again to
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willow314159 for her wonderful donation to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif){kind=small}
help_japanthe story continues! what not to do when your boss is dating the guy he erased from his memory: a user's guide by c. hughes
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-09-14 02:55 am (UTC)The moment when he calls out for them to stop in the shower, and then the END AT THE TABLE WITH THE INTRODUCTIONS!
Beautiful, sad, hopeful and beautiful.
no subject
Date: 2011-09-14 05:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-14 05:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-14 09:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-14 07:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-15 02:14 pm (UTC)it sounds confusing but also more poignant to me: both of them couldn't let go, even if it was too late, but both the people in their memories offered them a way out, and a way to start again. ofc i could be totally off lol and i've never watched eternal sunshine so idk if that's even possible.
no subject
Date: 2011-09-19 04:43 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 10:24 pm (UTC)ALL MY FEELINGS, MOOG. ALL OF THEM. LET ME CARRY YOU AROUND IN MY POCKET FOREVER.
♥______♥
no subject
Date: 2012-05-10 07:58 am (UTC)