fic: tsn: more than the recommended amount (2/2)

[mooging]

(part one!)

//

Eduardo wakes up as early morning light is lighting up the room, the curtains not drawn to block it out. Mark is sprawled all across his side, one of his legs pressed between Eduardo's, one of his arms flung across Eduardo's chest. His mouth is open against the pulse point in Eduardo's throat. Eduardo freezes stock still in the bed, not wanting to wake Mark up too.

As cautiously as he can without dislodging Mark's grip, he puts the back of one hand against Mark's forehead. His temperature has gone way down. Eduardo breathes out, relieved, even though he knew Mark would be fine. He just -- he worried.

Now Mark's immediate health is no longer as urgent an issue, there's room in Eduardo's head for all the other things he's been trying to ignore. Top of that list is that if Mark wakes up right now, Eduardo is going to have to explain a number of things he'd really rather not. Like, why he's in Mark's bed. Like, why he's hard against Mark's thigh when Mark was sick and huddling for warmth, oh god, Eduardo is actually the worst person in the whole world.

It takes Eduardo a full ten minutes to slide ungracefully out of the bed to the floor, slipping inch by inch so he doesn't wake Mark up. He's fully dressed, shoes and all, so he just creeps for the door, and feels hot with the shame of it, with sneaking out before Mark wakes up.

Does it count as a walk of shame if you didn't actually have sex? Eduardo doesn't know. He just knows he can't stay in bed with Mark, however innocently, and want him if Mark might not want him back.

"Wardo?" Chris blearily raises his head from the couch as Eduardo pulls Mark's bedroom door carefully shut behind him. "Where are you going?"

Eduardo spins round, pressing a finger to his lips. "Shh," he hisses, panicked, really not up to discussion of any kind. "Mark's asleep."

"Okay," Chris says, clearly not yet properly awake, and Eduardo slips out of the dorm without another word.

Not even the winter morning air hitting his face makes him feel any better. He's a mess. His mouth tastes like something might have decomposed in it while he wasn't looking and his head is thumping.

He can still feel Mark's weight along his side; remember what it was like to have Mark's breath sweep along his chest, stealing inside the open flap of his undone collar. Mark had held Eduardo's shirt in a loose fist just under Eduardo's ribs, his chin digging into Eduardo's shoulder, and Eduardo keeps playing the memory over and over again, all the way back to Elliot.

I love you, Mark had said, the night before, and this morning Eduardo left him alone in bed.

Admittedly that might be taking it a little out of context, and Eduardo can't be sure how much Mark will remember when he finally wakes up, or how much of it he meant at the time, but still. Eduardo is an awful person.

He can't bear to think about it by the time he gets back to his dorm. He's shivering with guilt when he gets in the shower, tips his face up to the stream of water like it's going to wash his conscience clean. Nonetheless, at the back of his mind, there's still the nagging thought that maybe he doesn't have anything to actually feel guilty about. Maybe Mark did mean it. Maybe he does remember. Maybe, if Mark had woken up first, he'd have stayed right where he was, and not slipped out of bed to leave Eduardo waking up alone and feeling stupid.

Eduardo's throat feels tight with it all, anxiously closed up. He pulls on the last good clean clothes he has -- he really needs to do some laundry before he goes home for break -- and splashes some cold water on his face, still burning hot.

He's clearly not going to feel better until he's talked to Mark about this. He can't just sit and stew about it all by himself; that's going to get him nowhere. He has all the information from his end: the only variable left unknown, the one that matters, he can only get by talking to Mark. Right. He'll just brush his teeth, and then head back over to Kirkland. Maybe he'll pick up some breakfast for everyone on the way. Bagels can only help any situation. And then, well, he'll just find the nerve and ask Mark if he meant it, or tell Mark how he's been feeling, or -- something, Eduardo will do something, and he can get out of this hot state of inertia and feel better and then maybe, if things go well, make out with Mark until they both have to catch planes home.

Never let anyone say Eduardo is not an optimist when he puts his mind to it.

He kick-starts this brilliant plan into action by brushing his teeth. It kind of takes more effort than he was expecting. His arm kind of aches with it, which is weird, because he may have slacked off exercise for a while to get enough work done for finals, but he didn't think he was this excessively out of shape.

Come to think of it, he's still really warm. His head kind of hurts too --- oh.

He's not just hot with guilt.

He's sick.

Well, this wasn't part of the plan at all.

//

In a spectacular display of unfortunate timing, Eduardo spends the next three days feverish and sweating through his bed sheets. He's glad, in his more sensible moments, that term is already over, that he's not missing any classes, because there's no way in hell he'd have been able to get up for them.

Chris brings him some chicken soup and Lucozade after Eduardo sends a plaintive text for help on day two, when he's pretty sure he has sweated enough to be at risk of actual dehydration.

"How's Mark?" Eduardo asks, hoarse-voiced, as Chris sets the food down on his desk.

"Fine," Chris says. "He's fine, I swear. He's slept it off. He's working on theFacebook again. It looks really good, Wardo. I think it's going to be really good."

"Of course it is," Eduardo murmurs, rolling over, half-asleep again already. "It's Mark's."

Twenty-four hours later, Eduardo wakes up better, just like that. His first lucid thought is that he wants to burn his sheets and be done with them for good, rather than having to touch them again to get them in the washing machine, but right after that, he thinks, good, Chris was telling the truth.

Not that he thinks Chris would have lied properly, not about Mark, not to him, but Chris has always been au fait with the economics of the truth when it'll do the most good. He is going to have a terrifyingly successful career one day.

Eduardo hadn't expected it, not really, but it still sort of stings that Mark never came to see how he was. Eduardo had run across campus at three in the morning when he heard about Mark. Mark didn't even send him a text for three days. Eduardo doesn't know whether he's hoping Chris had been economical with the truth and Mark hadn't quite been well enough to visit, or whether he's hoping Mark was fine and just -- what? Didn't notice? Didn't care? Didn't ask?

Eduardo stops that particularly masochistic train of thought right there and goes to take a shower. He stands under the water until he feels human again, and then he throws on the only clean clothes he has -- old jeans; a worn-out blue shirt he usually only wears to study in -- and heads over to Kirkland.

Mark is the only one there when Eduardo opens the door. He's just coming out of his room, and he's wearing his rattiest pair of jeans, his most threadbare t-shirt, and he's the best thing Eduardo has ever seen. He's missed Mark, he realises hard; it's been three days and Eduardo has missed him more than the virus had hurt, a bone-deep need he hadn't fully been aware of until right now, having Mark back.

"Hey," Mark says, shuffling over to the mini-fridge. "Chris said you were sick."

Chris said you were sick. Eduardo is pretty sure that is Mark-Speak for Are you feeling better?

Mark did know, then, at least.

"Yeah," Eduardo says, coming inside properly and leaning against the door. "Better now, though."

Mark straightens up without taking anything out of the fridge. "Good," he says, and he sounds a little uncomfortable. Eduardo's heart sinks, just like that, with that one word. What does Mark remember? Is he just avoiding emotional confrontation? Does he know Eduardo snuck out on him?

"What about you?" Eduardo asks, quickly, before Mark can say anything else. Maybe, if he just keeps talking, Mark won't be able to tell him they're through as friends. "You were really ill, Mark." He can't help it, adds, quietly, "I was worried."

Mark isn't meeting Eduardo's eyes. He shrugs. "I'm fine," he says, addressing the space just to the right of Eduardo's head. "I -- I didn't mean to worry you."

"You didn't mean -- " Eduardo repeats, completely taken aback. "Mark, you -- " He stops, makes himself a breath in. Mark has jammed his hands in his jean pockets, hunched his shoulders, obviously uncomfortable. It's not like Mark has never apologized to Eduardo before, but this time seems to have cost him something extra. It's like he thinks Eduardo is the one about to turn on his heel and walk out on their friendship. It's like Mark remembers -- and he's embarrassed.

Eduardo is incredibly glad he's got something holding him up right now.

Mark could be embarrassed because he meant it or because he didn't, and Eduardo has an extremely vested interest in finding out either way.

He walks to the couch on unsteady legs, drops down onto the cushions with some relief. "Mark," he says, his heart hammering, "I think we need to talk."

Mark crosses the room to lean back against the window. "You're not breaking up with me, right?" he says, dryly. It's clearly a joke but it hits Eduardo in the gut anyway, right in the guilty part of him that's watching the cold mid-afternoon sun catch in the edges of Mark's curls.

Mark is looking in Eduardo's direction but not at Eduardo, like he wants him in his line of sight but can't quite bring himself to look him in the eye. Mark isn't great with making eye contact with everyone, but he's never had a problem with Eduardo before. Eduardo swallows hard, worst person in the world, and powers through.

"Um," Eduardo starts, which isn't the most auspicious of beginnings. "How much do you remember from when you were sick?"

Mark shrugs one shoulder, instantly further on his guard. Eduardo laces his fingers tight together to stop himself obsessing about the tense lines on Mark's face, the wariness of his eyes.

"Not a lot," Mark says, but he sounds evasive. "I was pretty out of it."

Eduardo nods. There's something about the way Mark can't keep his hands still, his fingers opening and closing down by his sides like he's itching for a keyboard, for something sure, that makes Eduardo think there's more to that than Mark is giving him.

He pauses.

"Wardo?" Mark asks. He sounds -- Eduardo doesn't know what he sounds like; he's never heard that note in Mark's voice before. Uncertainty, maybe. The sound of a breath before a gamble.

Oh god, maybe.

Eduardo takes his chance. "You said you love me," he says, and his voice cracks on it, his face heating up instantly. "I said it back, but I don't know if you heard me. I think you could have been asleep."

He pauses again, just in case Mark wants to answer the question Eduardo isn't asking, but Mark stays deadly, deathly silent. His mouth has thinned out like he's keeping something back, but Eduardo has no idea if it's something good or bad. The only way out is through, he thinks.

"I just wondered," he continues, scooting forward to the very edge of the couch cushions, looking up at Mark framed by clear, clean sunlight, trying not to lose his nerve right when it matters, "if -- if you meant it."

Mark breathes out slowly. His hands have stilled by his sides.

Oh god, oh god, this is the most terrifying thing Eduardo has ever had to do.

Mark is staring at him, unreadable. Eduardo is normally pretty good at interpreting Mark but right now he legitimately has no idea what Mark is thinking.

At any rate, Mark hasn't punched him or left the room or given any indication that he wants Eduardo to stop talking right the fuck now, so Eduardo's going to take that as a good sign and just keep going.

"Because," he pushes, treacherously tremulously, and stops. He holds on hard to all the hope he can muster, looks right at Mark, and jumps. "I mean it," he says, rough and sincere. "I do. Love you. And -- "

Eduardo takes a deep breath, stomach roiling with nerves. "And if you meant it too," he says, forcing himself not to look away from Mark's face, "then that -- that would obviously be, you know. Good."

The possibility of it, just the hypothetical way this could unfold, sneaks into his mind unbidden, makes him smile helplessly up at Mark. "More than good," Eduardo adds, softly. "It'd be amazing, Mark, if -- but only if you wanted -- "

Mark is still determinedly not looking at him.

Eduardo suddenly prickles hot with nerves. He needs Mark to answer him, right now. He needs to know right now, abruptly done with wondering, with waiting, with keeping it all back. He wants Mark, and he wants to know if Mark wants him too.

Maybe, he thinks, his chest painfully tight. Maybe.

"Mark?" Eduardo prompts.

"I remember," says Mark, at exactly the same time. His arms are folded tight across his chest but he glances up from the floor to look Eduardo hard in the eye, almost like he's angry, like he's taking the biggest step of his life. "And, yes. Yeah, Wardo, I meant it."

It strikes Eduardo dumb, yeah, Wardo, I meant it, not quite sinking in, and all he can do is watch, fascinated, as Mark turns a slow, dull red, the colour flushing all the way down to the collar of his t-shirt.

"Well?" Mark demands, with a real edge to his voice, when Eduardo still hasn't said anything after a couple of seconds.

Yeah, Mark said, and Eduardo still is having trouble processing that, admission and permission all at once after all this time he's spent wanting both.

Mark is fidgeting like he wants to run the fuck away from this conversation and never look back but he's standing his ground, chin tipped up like a challenge. He hasn't looked away from Eduardo yet, staring him down like he thinks Eduardo's going to cut and run now that Mark has opened himself up for it to hurt.

Bolting is literally the last thing on Eduardo's mind right now.

"You mean it?" Eduardo says, stupidly, and he sounds blown apart, his voice coming out nothing like it normally sounds.

Mark nods, jerky and determined, still holding Eduardo's gaze.

"Mark," Eduardo says, no idea where he's going with that, but just hearing Eduardo say his name makes Mark twitch forward towards him. It's like a magnetic reaction, lightning chasing after thunder. Eduardo throws thought and caution and every other sensible idea in his body completely out of the window and gets to his feet so fast it makes his knees hurt, backs Mark up against the window and kisses him.

Mark's whole body curves into the kiss, his hands coming up at once to bracket Eduardo's face, and he makes this amazing little exhale of a noise when Eduardo licks along his lower lip, gets him to open his mouth. Eduardo can't settle his hands. He's trying to keep them steady on Mark's hips, keep Mark pressed against the glass, but his pulse is racing so hard he's dizzy and Mark is right there, this expanse of Mark flush against him, and Mark said yes and Eduardo's hands roam up, following the bowstring lines of Mark's sides, the curve of his ribs.

They pull apart for long enough that they can both heave a breath in and then Mark pulls Eduardo back down to his mouth, impatient. Eduardo's mouth feels bruised, just from this, because this is not a nice first kiss. This is Mark squirming between Eduardo and the window at his back, pressing himself closer to Eduardo when there's patently no closer he can get; this is Eduardo clutching at every part of Mark he can get his hands around, digging his fingers in tight like he thinks Mark might change his mind if he lets go. if Eduardo had any lingering doubts about Mark feeling the same awful way as he does, the love so deep it's mean, this is shooting them all to pieces.

Mark won't stop moving under Eduardo's hands. He's hooked a knee around Eduardo's legs, dragging him in, and there's a perfect arc of negative space between his spine and the window. Eduardo runs the flat of his palm up the line of Mark's back until his fingers meet the base of Mark's skull where it's pressed against the glass, pushes until Mark's head rests in the palm of his hand. Mark groans when Eduardo does that, and his hips jolt forward like he can't help himself. Eduardo has to stop kissing him, then, has to lean his forehead against Mark's and say, "Holy shit," in this raggedy, gut-punch of a voice he's never heard before.

"Fuck," Mark agrees. He's almost panting, which is even more gratifying than Eduardo had imagined it would be, and they're still close enough together that Eduardo can feel Mark's every unsteady exhale against his own wet mouth. His hands have settled on Mark's hip, thumbs digging in hard just beneath Mark's hipbones, and he can't help tightening his grip when Mark swears again, shifts so Eduardo's thigh presses more firmly between his own.

Eduardo has to tear himself away to sit back down on the couch at that, because otherwise this is all going to end really, humiliatingly, two kisses early, and he's spent long enough wanting this that he refuses to come at the first hurdle.

So to speak.

Mark flops down beside him -- right beside him -- like even the distance between the couch and the window is too great for them to be apart right now, which Eduardo fully, whole-heartedly understands.

Eduardo runs a hand through his hair and tries to think of something to say that isn't get your face back on my face right this instant. "Um," he tries, "are you sure you're feeling better?"

Mark turns to face him full on, fixes him with an incredibly derisive look. It's ruined somewhat by the way his thigh is pressing against Eduardo's, insistently there, in Eduardo's space, but Mark doesn't let that stop him. "Wardo," he says, and he doesn't sound nearly as sharp as he normally does either, which Eduardo is taking no small delight in knowing he caused. "Is that really what you're thinking about right now?"

"I'm always thinking about you," Eduardo answers, honestly.

Mark rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean that," he says, and stops. "I meant," he starts. "I -- fuck," he says, and fists his hands in Eduardo's shirt collar, yanks their mouths back together.

Eduardo has made Mark Zuckerberg lose his train of thought.

Eduardo, basically, has won.

They sprawl down across the couch cushions, a messy pile of tangled limbs and pushed-up shirts, Mark's legs bracketing Eduardo's. Mark also ends up with his neck at an awkward angle against the arm of the couch but he doesn't move or complain, just cranes up to get back to Eduardo's mouth.

"You'll hurt your neck," Eduardo gasps, inanely, and Mark manages to find a scathing look dialed way up from his normal level of scorn, somewhere between what the fuck and why are you talking. Eduardo grins at it, ducks his head and presses his mouth against the hollow at Mark's throat. Mark's hands settle on the waistband of Eduardo's pants and Eduardo breathes out fast, a little wanting exhale against Mark's skin.

Mark laughs.

"Okay there, Wardo?" he says. He sounds flippant again, but there's no hiding anything when they're pressed this close. Even if they weren't piled so close together that Eduardo could feel how seriously Mark is taking this, Eduardo knows Mark better than he knows anyone and Mark's fingers are restless, uncertain, at the base of Eduardo's back.

"Shut up," Eduardo tells him, steady as anything, and Mark tugs at the bottom of Eduardo's shirt, slides his hand inside it and flat up Eduardo's spine. Eduardo shivers helplessly. Fuck, this is really happening.

Eduardo's hands are spanned wide across Mark's hips, holding him down, which comes in useful when he sucks a bruise hard into the side of Mark's throat and Mark bucks up, two quick jerks.

"You okay?" Eduardo teases, soft, and looks up to see Mark flush a hot, bright red.

Eduardo has to pause for a second, then, just to look at the way Mark's eyes have gone almost entirely black, at his mouth, god, and there's no reason why he has to look away anymore.

"Wardo." Mark shifts underneath him, rocks his hips up against Eduardo's. "Wardo, would you just -- "

Eduardo dips his head to kiss him again, open-mouthed and dirty almost immediately, and Mark makes this noise that Eduardo needs to hear again, like, right the fuck now, actually, so he fumbles one hand up under Mark's t-shirt. He spreads his fingers wide across Mark's stomach, rubs circles at the edge of Mark's ribs with his thumb. Mark arches into it, instantly responsive, and Eduardo feels hot all over, like he might burn out of his skin.

They could have had this the whole time, could have been doing this for so long already that Eduardo feels he's got so much time to make up for, so much time he could have had Mark shifting beneath him like this and didn't that, now he does, he might never let him up again. Mark's hands are sweaty against Eduardo's back, and Eduardo's breath is coming fast enough that he feels dizzy with it, and, actually, staying here forever kind of seems like an incredibly viable life plan.

"Wardo," goes Mark, again, and he sounds a little desperate and there is abruptly approximately zero blood left in Eduardo's head at all.

"Fuck, Mark," Eduardo groans, and Mark's hips buck up again, his legs falling wider open. Eduardo is finding it harder and harder to catch his breath.

He sits back a bit to give himself the space to get his hands on the top of Mark's awful baggy jeans. "Okay?" he asks, just to be sure.

Mark glares up at him. "Yes," he snaps. Mark doesn't like to be reminded that he needs something, and Eduardo could have guessed that not even sex would be an exception. "Would you -- get on with it, god."

Eduardo does, can't make Mark wait when he's been asked outright: he dips his head, kisses the strip of Mark's stomach he can see between his jeans and his rucked up tee. Mark shudders, all over.

"WardoFuck.

"I'm still," Eduardo blurts, out of nowhere, surprising himself, "um, I've never -- " He breaks off, holding his breath like this will be a deal-breaker. Still, he kind of feels like he'd be tricking Mark if he got into his pants and let him think Eduardo had one single clue what he was doing.

"Me neither," Mark interrupts. He sounds more put out that Eduardo's stopped moving than anything else, and Eduardo breathes out, like a restart. "Don't care. Keep going."

Eduardo can't help smiling, has to press his face to Mark's stomach to hide it, a terrible maelstrom of unbidden feelings battling up a squall inside him. No one else has touched Mark like this. Mark hasn't let anyone else see him like this.

No one but Eduardo.

"I'm your first," he says, against Mark's skin, and he can't help but sound as pleased as he feels. Mark squirms again, his hands opening and closing at Eduardo's shoulders like he's trying not to just shove him down where he wants him. Eduardo wouldn't mind at all.

"Yes, Wardo," Mark says, clearly struggling to sound long-suffering.

"Good," says Eduardo, as he fumbles for the zip on Mark's jeans, and Mark actually moans.

Eduardo is dizzy with it, with what he can do to Mark, with knowing Mark wants him back. His heart is banging against his ribcage hard enough that he thinks Mark must be able to hear its beat. Mark is right here, spread out on the couch under Eduardo's hands. Eduardo could do anything he wanted and he thinks, maybe, he could make Mark beg if he held out long enough, could get Mark out of his mind just for him.

Eduardo runs the heel of his palm down over the v of Mark's open fly, and Mark bucks up like he's been electrocuted, mouth open, swearing hard.

"God, Mark," Eduardo breathes, and he leans down to get his mouth to the bared fabric of Mark's boxers, and --

"Dude!" Dustin yelps, banging through the door. "That is not metaphorical!"

Eduardo falls off the couch.

Mark sits up fast, flushed, and drags one of the couch cushions over his lap. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he snaps. There's a splash of angry colour across his cheekbones, painting him somewhere between furious and embarrassed, but his chest is still heaving. He's still obviously turned on; Eduardo can tell, even from the floor.

Eduardo did that. Despite Dustin's unignorable, atmosphere-ruining presence, it still hits Eduardo like a head rush, pooling hot in the pit of his stomach, and he wishes really, really fervently that he wasn't wearing jeans.

"What did I say about that couch?" Dustin squawks. "Guys, this is not bro."

Mark gives him the finger.

"Oh, god," Dustin continues. "The shock is catching up to me now. My poor, innocent eyes! Mark looks used!"

Mark opens his mouth, presumably about to protest, but Dustin holds up his hand, palm out, melodramatic as ever.

"No!" Dustin yelps. "Nope! Silence, Mark! There are Things I never want to know, and details of Using are firmly in that category. They are probably the only things in that category! Let's all just... leave that category alone."

Eduardo picks himself up from the floor and tugs his shirt back down into place. When he glances up again, Mark is staring at him. Eduardo is pretty sure that if Dustin were not in the room, Eduardo would be being several different kinds of manhandled right now. He is so incredibly okay with that idea.

He flops down on the couch next to Mark, and Mark puts his hand on Eduardo's thigh just like that, like he doesn't even have to think about it. It's proprietary and easy, as though Mark has never had any problems reaching out to people, and it makes Eduardo shiver. Mark wants him.

Dustin makes a strangled noise from the doorway. "Oh god," he says, turning his face into the doorframe. "I didn't think anything could be worse than the pining but I was wrong. So wrong. This is so much worse." He squints sideways at them. "Can you go back to pining?"

Mark moves his hand a little higher up Eduardo's thigh and Eduardo hisses involuntarily, has to knock his hand away before he just drags Mark on top of him and doesn't let him up again regardless of whether Dustin leaves or not. Eduardo's self-control is admittedly pretty much shot at this point but he would prefer not to get off in front of his friends. It's not a particularly high aspiration but it is fairly crucial to his ever being able to look anyone in the eye again.

Mark puts his hand back, single-minded, just above Eduardo's knee. His fingers curve round to Eduardo's inner thigh. He doesn't look over at Eduardo, just tightens his grip, and Eduardo takes an unsteady breath in, and lets himself lean a little more against Mark's side.

Right. Decorum. He can definitely manage that.

Dustin's face is doing something complicated when Eduardo glances back at him. "Ugh," Dustin says. "I don't know whether this is sweet or entirely revolting." He pauses. "I could definitely do without actually bearing witness to the groping."

"Then get out," Mark tells him, flatly. Eduardo laughs, turning to hide his face against Mark's shoulder.

"Wounded!" Dustin declares. "Where is the love for Dustin?"

"Somewhere Dustin isn't," Mark says. His thumb is rubbing along the inseam of Eduardo's jeans. Eduardo doesn't know if Mark is doing that on purpose -- though he suspects Mark does everything on purpose -- but either way, it's more than a little distracting. Mark has stolen the only free couch cushion, and Eduardo shifts, and wishes he had something over his lap.

Like Mark.

Well, that thought didn't help Eduardo's situation in the slightest. He crosses his legs, and Mark laughs. Dustin slams a hand over his own eyes.

"Nope!" he announces. "I have decided! I am going blind! It is the only way out for me!"

"Out of what?" Chris asks, walking up behind Dustin. He stops in the doorway and takes everyone in for a second. "Oh. Okay. Well, this all seemed fairly inevitable. Well done, Wardo."

Eduardo beams. Next to him, Mark rolls his eyes.

"And I had nothing to do with this?" Mark asks, sarcastic.

"Not a whole lot, no," Chris points out. "Apart from delaying it."

"I refuse to bear witness to any despoiling of this poor couch!" Dustin yelps, before Mark can fire anything back. "I eat on that couch!"

"Hey," Eduardo protests, his self-defense mechanism kicking in late. "If you really want to talk about despoiling the couch, you should be talking to Chris."

"Christopher!" Dustin drops his hand and rounds on Chris. "What is this? Have you been stepping out on our No Nookie On the Couch deal?"

Mark shoots Eduardo this quirk of smile, barely anything, a little sideways glance like he's pleased. Eduardo's heart rate shoots way back up.

Chris shrugs. There's another of this little group's shared traits: the smirk playing with the corners of his mouth, only just this side of infuriating.

"If a tree falls in a forest but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?" Chris asks, probably just to see Dustin fume.

"You mean, if you get some on our couch and no one walks in on you, did it happen?" Dustin demands, rising to the bait. "Yes! Yes, it did happen, and I feel betrayed."

"I think you mean jealous," Mark intejects. "Have you been getting any, Dustin?"

"I," Dustin starts. "There's a girl in my gen ed class -- "

"You haven't," Chris cuts in, grinning.

"Poor Dustin," Eduardo says. There's something giddy about this moment, Mark by his side and his friends bickering nearby. He feels lighter than he has in months. "Forever alone," he adds, and can't keep from smiling.

"I hate you all," Dustin says, without any heat to it. "When I do get a girlfriend, she will be the smartest, hottest and best person, and we will do it on the coffee table all the time, and then you'll be sorry."

"You'll be sorrier," Chris says. "That table splinters like a motherfucker."

"Chris!" wails Dustin, in some horror.

Eduardo bursts out laughing. By his side, Mark is grinning now too, the full watt smile that brings out his dimples, and Eduardo's stomach does some impressive acrobatics at the sight. He puts his hand on top of Mark's, still resting on Eduardo's leg, and locks their fingers in together.

Mark turns to him, letting Chris and Dustin carry on their increasingly high-pitched, faux-indignant conversation in the background. "Wardo?" he asks, eyebrows drawing together.

Eduardo has nothing to say, hopelessly, helplessly, head over heels happy.

"Hi," he says, inanely, grinning, and Mark smiles back, gripping on to Eduardo's hand.




/fin/

IN MY WORD DOCUMENT, I HAVE LEFT THE FOLLOWING NOTE TO MYSELF AT THE END OF THIS. IT SIMPLY SAYS:

[THEN BOYFRANS]

#ACCURATE

Comments

[yunsi.livejournal.com]

Your Dustin is fabulous. This was so adorable and funny and sexy! All of your descriptions of Eduardo's FEELINGS were so great. I want to quote everything back at you b/c the whole thing was perfect but I guess I should restrain myself. "Eduardo has made Mark Zuckerberg lose his train of thought. / Eduardo, basically, has won." cracked me up. And I especially loved the line about "love so deep it's mean" which I thought was very much them.

[moogle62.livejournal.com]

sdhfhjsgfj oh my god, you have no idea how much it means that you think Eduardo's feelings worked. SO MANY EMAILS WERE SENT ABOUT THAT EXACT SUBJECT. WARDO, YOU HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS, HOW DO YOU DO THIS? WHAT ARE THEY ALL? HOW HAVE YOU NOT JUST POPPED? shdgfjdf wardoooooooo.

Thank you so much! ♥