the long way back
the social network (mark/eduardo)
title from this song, inspired by the last stanza of ulysses because i am a douche
Mark can still count on one hand the number of times Eduardo's refused him anything.
It would be an overstatement to say Mark thinks of Eduardo all the time. There are periods, sometimes weeks long, when Wardo doesn’t cross his mind at all until he comes up in paper work or a business meeting. Other times, in rare moments of boredom, when his mind isn’t filled with code and site issues, it’s far too easy to note how much his life has changed with Wardo’s absence. He’s aware of the loss of Eduardo in a way that he had never been of his presence, like a limb, suddenly amputated, which experiences the occasional phantom pain.
On one such occasion, he's poking disinterestedly at the salmon on his plate as a god-awful jazz band is screeching on, when he hears a burst of surprised, delighted-sounding laughter.
He drops his fork, looks up suddenly.
Mark can't see his face, but Eduardo's hair is still unmistakable. He's styled it a little differently but it still has that absurd poof that he'd always taken a sick pleasure in mussing with his pillow right before Eduardo left for a date or for econ study group.
This isn't supposed to happen. Mark does his research-- before deciding which three or four of the dozens of galas like this one he'll force himself to attend each year, he finagles the guest lists, partly to keep his hand in hacking, partly to avoid this situation exactly. It's not that he's afraid of seeing Eduardo it's just that--
He's with someone-- a floppy haired guy a few years younger than them, one of the honorees of the gala. Dustin has been sending him invites to his site for months. He had them rerouted to junk mail. He's bigger around the shoulders now, his suit fitting better than any he'd worn in school. Mark can't really tell, but he'd guess it's expensive. He seems at ease, making small talk with the people at his table, letting his date lead the conversation, chipping in occasionally. Mark had turned down Tanya's offer to find him a date-- he's yet to get that desperate-- and he'd avoided the eager eyes of everyone sat near him, preferring to engage with his beer and his Blackberry.
It should feel like a victory-- he's the one who was actually invited, the one who everyone, including the guy Wardo's with, are dying to meet. Instead, he is acutely aware that he's slightly inebriated, that he's wearing chucks amidst a sea of patent leather and a Gap button-up, despite the invite saying formal dress only.
He drinks his way through a keynote speaker, watching Eduardo's back in a manner which is probably as creepy as it is focused. Wardo's shoulders are relaxed, loose. He mustn't know Mark's there yet.
After the wait-staff arrive to clear their plates, Mark watches Wardo's date lean over, mouth unnecessarily close to his ear, then head to the bar, two empty glasses in hand. How chivalrous.
The empty chair he leaves beside Eduardo is an irresistible demand.
Mark drains his drink, then drifts toward the table helplessly. "You weren't invited," he says to Eduardo's back. His voice is steady even if his hand is damp around his empty glass.
Eduardo freezes. The conversation at the table dies abruptly. All heads but Wardo's turn to stare at him. Mark can't imagine how this must look to other people but he's grown accustomed to wondering stares.
"I'm a plus one." Eduardo doesn't ask how he knew. He still doesn't turn around. Mark feels a twitch of irritation.
"Could I talk to you for a second," he says to the back of Eduardo's head. "Alone."
He's not nervous. Even after everything, there's a precedent here. Mark can still count on one hand the number of times Eduardo's refused him anything.
Sure enough, Wardo moves slowly, but he gets up, buttoning the middle button of his blazer as he inclines his head politely at the people he was speaking with. Mark's tempted to clear his throat, just to move things along, but he doesn't want to push things, not when he has actual things to say.
Instead, he adds, "About shares," for the sake of the business types watching. It's seems a plausible enough excuse.
Eduardo heads to the far wall of the ballroom without looking at him, leaving Mark to follow after him. He leans against the wall, studying Eduardo's face--he still looks young, one overlarge nose shy of qualifying for Winklevii status in the looks department, but there's something about his eyes that's different, older. He stands as far away from Mark as possible while still keeping the conversation private.
"So," Eduardo says, a polite, empty look on his face. He’s putting on a show. "What is it about shares that's so important you couldn't have your lawyer call mine? You planning on trying to dilute mine again? Cause we both know you won’t get away with it this time.”
Mark nods jerkily. He expected this. Getting Eduardo actually speaking to him was as far as he'd planned and he fumbles for words now, blurts, "Why are you here—you had to know I was invited."
Eduardo regards him speculatively for a long moment. He bites his lip, trying to stem the flow of words that have risen up to pour of his mouth, and fights to return eye contact. It's something he actually practices now-- usually on strangers in line at the supermarket, but still.
It's not until he ducks his head that Wardo responds. "It was important to a friend of mine that I be here. It's a big night for him and he asked me to come." Some things never change. "And anyway, you hate these things. I figured my odds were good." He spreads his arms as though presenting Mark to an audience. "I guess that's life on the edge."
"He's lucky to have friend like you," Mark says flatly. He half-hopes it doesn't come across as sarcastic. "You've really got a skill at picking people up right as they're hitting it big don't you?"
Wardo's face contorts briefly in shock before it settles back into a polite mask. He's become a much better liar since the lawsuit. His voice is still rich with outrage as he hisses between clenched smiling teeth. "Yeah, that must be it. Because you were such a winner when we met. Mess of a freshman, hiding in his dorm room, afraid to talk to girls, skipping class to play video games. If I'd wanted better friends, don't you think I would've gone out and found some?"
He remembers of course, being at some asinine college party in freshman year, back when he'd been willing to put in just enough effort to actually show up at that sort of thing. He'd inevitably ended up squeezed into a couch in the corner, staring into a plastic cup of beer while Wardo-- though he was still Eduardo back then-- had drifted off into the party. It was him who'd invited Mark, incessantly until he'd agreed to come but as soon as Mark stepped into the party, he'd frozen up, hovering behind Eduardo as he greeted friends, pretty girls and tall polo-wearing guys, like a little brother who'd snuck into a big kids' party. Mark didn't know any of them and if the conversations they were having with Eduardo were anything to go by he had no interest in getting to know them.
If that was what Eduardo wanted in a friend, then there was no reason for him to be there.
"Eduardo," he'd said stiffly and reached a finger out to tap on his shoulder, withdrawing as Eduardo turned from his conversation to face him, a wide open grin on his face. "Let's go."
"What?" he'd said, still smiling. "We just got here. Becca's a computer science student too, maybe you have some classes together." The girl had long braided hair, wisps falling out of it around her face in a sort of dark halo and when she smiled there was a slight gap in between her front teeth. She looked familiar.
"I doubt it." Both Eduardo's and the girl's smiles had wavered. "Let's go," he'd repeated.
"Mark man," Eduardo turned away from the girl, ducking his head close to Mark's in an attempt at discretion. Mark remembers feeling a stirring of satisfaction until Eduardo had said, "You just got here. Why don't you at least try to talk to people? Maybe you'll make some friends."
"Why would I want to be friends with these people? They're idiots." He could see the look coming on Eduardo's face, but he had kept talking, raised his chin in challenge. "They bore me."
In the weeks that he'd known Eduardo, they'd yet to fight or even bicker properly. Eduardo backed away from every argument Mark tried to bait him into and it had been slowly driving him crazy, but he could tell from the steely glint in Eduardo's eyes that he was about to get what he came for.
Instead, Eduardo had taken a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and said, "Fine, do whatever you want, Mark. Be miserable, avoid fun like the plague. But I'm having a conversation with Becca." Then he had turned away, effectively ending the conversation.
Mark had moved through the crowd at the party, cringing at the feeling of so many strange people brushing against him, half-hoping and half-dreading finding Eduardo again. He'd felt something cold and wet splash against his leg and looked down to see a stain on his jeans, beer pouring from a cup dropped by the couple making out heavily in the doorway. He was tempted to just abandon ship and head back to the dorms, but Eduardo getting the last word was unacceptable, so when Mark saw him moving toward the kitchen, he navigated his way in the same direction. He'd figured he could come in under the guise of cleaning his jeans and began preparing biting things to say, but as he turned the corner of the hall, nearing the kitchen, he slowed and the words died in his throat.
Eduardo was leaning against the kitchen counter in front of the sink, sipping a beer, and talking quietly with a guy Mark was pretty sure was on some sort of sports team, judging from the school colours he'd been wearing. He'd also been wearing a backwards baseball cap and the snort that Mark let out had been overpowered by the guy's voice.
"Who's that guy you brought, Ed? The small geeky one." He'd had a drunken grin on his face, a friendly arm slung over Eduardo's shoulders. "Heard he was a dick to Becca. Thinks he's better than everyone-- Zuckerman or whatever?" Eduardo had huffed a laugh and Mark froze in the hallway. He'd released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, a big rush of air that stung as it came out. The jock had laughed along, "What a fag."
Mark had straightened up then, turning to go. He remembers moving quickly, though his limbs had been strangely heavy, trying to avoid whatever Eduardo'd say next. Then he'd heard a dull thump, like someone being shoved. God knows he'd gotten familiar enough with it during high school.
"Hey-- what the hell?" The jock didn't sound so amused anymore.
"Shut up, man." Eduardo was drunk, Mark could tell. In the brief time he'd known him, he'd never heard Eduardo so much as raise his voice.
"He's a million times smarter than you, asshole. He'll own your ass one day. And he's my-- Mark's my friend, so--"
Mark had turned on his heel then, gotten moving again and headed back to the living room, stain long forgotten. He remembers feeling terrified that Eduardo had known he was there, that maybe he'd said what he did because he knew Mark was listening or that he'd walk out of the kitchen and see Mark there, eavesdropping, and they'd both have nothing to say.
Someone had taken his seat, so he'd stood against a wall, chewing on the inside of his cheek, replaying the scene over in his mind, willing the flush in his cheeks to disappear, until Eduardo appeared beside him, bleary eyed and saying, "You're right, these people are idiots. Wanna go play Halo?"
Mark had ducked his head in assent, reluctant to meet Eduardo's eyes just yet. They were heading out the door as Eduardo had turned to him, face and voice full of genuine concern, and asked, "Hey man, what happened to your pants?"
"Is that really what you think?"
Mark shrugs. People have begun to drift out of their seats, standing and schmoozing in small clusters around the ballroom.
"There you are." The kid appears out of nowhere. Mark watches him hand Wardo a drink, fingers lingering as the glass exchanges hands. He wonders if it's still a vodka lime, the closest thing Wardo can get to a Caipirinha outside of Brazil. Wardo flashes a private, grateful grin that transfixes Mark briefly. He'd remembered it differently.
"You okay, Ed?" the kid asks and Mark's mouth twitches in derision. It's a pedestrian nickname-- they'd mocked the frat boys who'd called him that in school. Wardo nods, pointedly avoiding Mark's attempt to catch his eyes.
Mark bounces on his heels. His sneakers squeak and they both turn to look at him briefly.
Eduardo takes a deep breath and says, "Mark, this is David. He founded--"
"I know who he is." His eyes flick to Wardo's companion for the first time. "Micro-blogging-- that's adorable."
He nods, seeming amused but not offended, and if Mark's got one skill that's not Facebook-related, it's being as off-putting as possible. He takes it as a challenge.
"Mark," Wardo begins and there's a warning in his voice. It spurs him on.
He keeps his voice conversational when he asks, "So are you fucking Wardo?"
He must be drunker than he'd thought.
"I'm sorry?" Wardo's-- date asks, with a sudden, forced politeness. You should be, Mark thinks.
"I said are--"
"He knows what you said Mark, and you know it's none of your fucking business." Wardo is angry, protective. They're definitely having sex. "This conversation is over. Lovely seeing you as always," he spits and turns away, a hand at his date's elbow. That could have gone better. Then again, it could have gone worse. Wardo could've not spoken to him at all.
Fresh off the exchange, Mark knows that now he should call his car and return to the office, deal with the issues they've been having with networks lately. He should.
Instead he lingers in the ballroom, allowing people to come over and attempt to engage him in conversation, until one question about whether they’re planning to put ads on the site has his eyes flicking over to where David and Eduardo stand, heads bent together, Wardo’s hand on the small of his back.
"I have to use the bathroom," he says, sidestepping the conversation entirely.
It's quieter inside the bathroom, the noise of the attendees transformed into a dull humming. He hoists himself onto the marble counter. There are mirrors everywhere and he watches his feet dangle from the countertop as he calls the car service that's third on his speed dial.
The operator says they'll have a car there in half an hour. "Make it fifteen minutes," he says. "I'm an excellent tipper."
A bowl of candies sits next to the sink. He takes a handful and pops them into his mouth one by one, until his cheeks are bulging. It's probably incredibly insanitary. He's drunk enough that he doesn't care.
He's just settling down to wait out the car's arrival when the bathroom door swings open and, because nothing in Mark's life has ever been particularly lucky, Eduardo steps in. His jacket's open, the highest button on his shirt undone where it wasn’t before. He sighs, runs a hand over his face and holds it there for a moment, as though he's trying to fall asleep in his hand.
Then he spots Mark.
“Yeheneesefingstu," Mark slurs in a rush, forgetting his mouthful of candy.
Eduardo blinks at him.
He chokes the remaining candy down and repeats, a little hoarsely, "You hate these things too." Eduardo's still staring. "You-- said earlier that you know I hate stuff like this. I know that about you too."
"Yeah Mark, I guess you do." It's patronizing, but at least the anger from before seems to have drained him. His eyes are tired.
They're silent and still for a moment. Him and Wardo and a bathroom. Again.
"You know, I actually thought that you needed me," Wardo starts bitterly. "That's why I-- you were so brilliant. I thought you just needed help connecting to people." He makes a sound that might pass for a laugh. "Turns out you're better at it than anyone." His fists are clenching at his side, like he wants to hit something, maybe a mirror, maybe Mark.
Eduardo used to touch him all the time-- a guiding hand at his back, an encouraging clap on the shoulder. It had been unbearable for Mark at first, uncomfortable and invasive, but Eduardo had been gently persistent. He somehow knew how far to push it and never seemed to expect any contact in return, so Mark had learned to tolerate the touches. There were some moments now when he even missed them.
The touching had been, as far as he could tell in retrospect, a subtle way of gaining attention, of reminding the person you're touching that you're there.
"What if I said that I was sorry. Would you still--"
"You won't say it though. Because you aren't. Sure, you're sorry I got angry at you and you're sorry I sued you. Maybe you're even sorry I'm not around anymore.
But you're not sorry you did it."
"I made you a billionaire, Wardo. You're telling me you wouldn't have done the same thing, if this were a bizarro world where you were somehow in my position?"
Eduardo is shaking his head, looking wrecked in way Mark's only seen a couple of times before. “I wouldn’t have. Not even for a billion dollars.”
Mark looks at him, his open face, the miserable slant of his brows, and realizes that he’s telling the truth. He waits for the rush of derision that is his usual reaction to naïve idealism, but it doesn’t come. Instead he feels ill.
He pushes himself off the counter, drops onto the floor. It takes fewer steps than he'd expected to get close to Eduardo, but he moves slowly, afraid a sudden movement will send him out the door. He doesn’t know how to be careful with Eduardo. He’s reaching out, and the movement is as foreign as Eduardo’s suddenly become. He’s made this mistake before, back at school, back at square one.
"Aw, you're worried," Erica grins. It’s their third date. Before the Phoenix club or Facebook or Facemash, when things were simpler, boring even.
"I'm not worried, I'm-- curious," he corrects. Erica's friend sips her drink, looking bored. "He's probably just running late."
But that's not Wardo-- if he was going to be so much as five minutes late, he would've sent at least three apologetic emails.
"Look, why don't you check on him and we'll order the food," Erica offers. "Club sandwich, like always?"
It really would only take fifteen minutes to check. He nods once at her and once at her friend and then he's out of his chair, the door, the bar.
Their laughter follows him out.
He's careful on the way to Wardo's dorm, knowing he might pass Eduardo on the way and not wanting to admit to going looking for him. He doesn't care that much. It’s embarrassing that he wouldn’t show up when Erica’s gone to the trouble of fixing him up with her friend. She’s got this cracked idea that the four of them could double date.
But there's no sign of Wardo on the stairs or in the hallway. The door to his room opens as soon as he twists the handle and there's Eduardo, sitting in the dark.
He's wearing the same dress shirt he'd had on Thursday and there are deep circles under his eyes.
"Mark, hey buddy," he blinks, then summons a smile, a bitter Xerox of his usual grin-- the one so wide it seems as if it's trying to climb off his face. His voice is hoarse. "Sorry, I didn't answer your email."
Mark can tell Eduardo is unhappy-- and completely wasted, if the smell of stale rum is anything to go by. He finds himself with the unfamiliar urge to comfort Eduardo somehow.
"I'll come back later," Mark says instead. Comfort isn't something he's equipped for.
"No-- stay," Wardo reaches a long arm out, his fingers slightly clammy around Mark's wrist. "Just for a bit."
Mark lets himself be pulled onto the bed with Eduardo. They sit in silence for awhile, punctured only by their uneven breathing. Mark gets caught up in matching his exhales to Wardo's inhales so that he’s surprised when Wardo finally speaks.
"My father," Eduardo says and everything suddenly makes sense. "He called to let me know he's disappointed in me. Again."
He breathes in, long and shaking, breaking the pattern Mark's created. His hand is still around Mark's wrist. "I'm not distinguishing myself here. My family's wasted all this money on me and I--"
He falls silent, a beat and then he's slumping down, his forehead resting against Mark's shoulder. He huffs unhappily.
"Maybe," Mark attempts, "you should spend less energy caring what other people want?" He knows Wardo needs something from him, but he's unsure as to what. He takes a random stab, hopes it’s in the right direction.
"I can't be you, Mark." Wardo laughs a little. "And besides what I want is-- I like giving people what they want."
He lifts his head off Mark's shoulder and stares blankly at the wall, his eyes huge and wet. He bites his lip. Mark watches the indentation he creates in his bottom lip fade.
"I can't help it," Eduardo murmurs. Mark's never seen him like this. He thinks he might hate Eduardo's father.
Mark leans sideways then, closing the small space between them, and kisses Eduardo, careful and holding for about half a minute, until Wardo gasps a little and opens his mouth against Mark's.
The kiss deepens, a swipe of Mark's tongue soothing the bite mark on Eduardo's lip and it gets sloppier. Despite the taste of liquor, Wardo kisses like he does everything else, enthusiastically and with a bit of sweetness. It's addictive and when he pulls away minutely to catch his breath Mark can't help but try to follow his mouth.
Eduardo's lips quirk up, just a bit, his eyes seeming less miserable, and they breathe warm puffs of air onto each other's wet lips. One of his big hands comes up to cup Mark's cheek and, caught up in the warmth, Mark leans mindlessly into it, like a fucking cat or something.
Fresh off the shame of that, he leans further forward, presses a wet kiss to the corner of Eduardo's jaw.
"Wardo," he hears himself gasp, "Wardo, I want--" He scrapes his teeth down the skin of Eduardo's neck, fingers scrabbling frantically at the hem of his dress shirt. Wardo's body is arching around him and everything is remarkably perfect until his fingers slip under the waistline of Eduardo's slacks and--
He freezes, tenses and shoves Mark hard, the first time he's ever been less than physically tender with him. Mark's body is all feelers and totally unprepared, he tumbles off the bed, onto his ass and the floor.
"God, Mark." Eduardo seems distressed, possibly angry. "You have a girlfriend."
On the floor, sprawled out helplessly, Mark stays carefully still. His tailbone aches.
"What were you thinking?" Eduardo bites down hard on his lip, which is still a little swollen, like he's punishing himself, and Mark wants to climb back onto the bed, push him down and--
He shrugs. "I was trying to make you feel better."
And despite Eduardo's sudden overreaction, if the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the pink flush spreading across his neck and cheecks are anything to go by, it worked.
"Maybe don't try so hard next time," Eduardo snaps, voice uncharacteristically hard.
When Mark doesn't move, he sighs. His voice is gentler when he says, several moments later, "Go back to your girlfriend, Mark."
But Mark doesn't go back to the bar to explain things to Erica and her friend. Instead, he makes it as far as the second floor bathroom before he's jerking off, quick and hard, one hand over his mouth, biting down on his lip. He comes alarmingly fast, a few pumps of his dick, the noises Eduardo had made ringing in his ears, and he's coming into his hand, "wa--" ghosting out of his mouth.
He washes his hands and shuffles back to his dorm, stays up late coding and not thinking about how he'll never be able to face Eduardo again.
It ends up being something he doesn't have to think about because he wakes up the next morning to a pounding headache, a high fever and a voicemail from Erica saying she'd come down with something and was he okay.
He groans and face plants into his pillow and when he wakes next it could be days or minutes later. The curtains are drawn and the dorm is silent-- he guesses everyone's in class. His eyes adjust to the dark and there's Eduardo sitting in his computer chair. Mark startles.
Eduardo draws a breath and Mark thinks for one extended, mortifying second that he's going to try to talk about the other night.
"You look like shit, buddy," he says instead.
Mark actually laughs. It comes out high and nervous-sounding. "I feel like shit." His arms shake as he props himself up to a sitting position. Eduardo frowns.
"When's the last time you ate?" Mark can't actually remember. He shrugs.
Wardo procures a spoon and styrofoam bowl from out of nowhere. "I figured. Snuck it out of the caf."
It's chili. When Mark smells it his stomach gives a plaintive growl. He gets suddenly ravenously hungry and begins shoveling it into his mouth. It's as though someone's plugged him in-- he feels instantly better.
They sit there, silence broken only by the sound of him inhaling food, until Wardo leans over and presses a palm against his forehead. Mark freezes, spoon hanging from his mouth.
"No fever." He keeps his hand in place, an odd smile playing on his lips. "Guess it was just a 48 hour thing."
Mark nods and Wardo drops his arm, spins around in Mark's chair. "Guess so," he echoes and it's like the other night never even happened. Mark should be relieved. He is relieved.
And if Wardo falls ill the next day, gets a fever and sleeps for two days, it's nothing they ever have to talk about.
Back in the bathroom, he reaches out, places a hand against the lapel of Eduardo's jacket, not touching skin. Wardo flinches, but he doesn’t move away. Mark can feel his heartbeat, rapid and stuttering, from under his ribs.
Then he opens his mouth. "Wardo, don't go home with him. We'll go out to a bar, I'll buy you a couple drinks, it'll be like--"
"Mark, no." He flings Mark’s hand off, takes one huge step back until he’s right against the mirrored wall.
"Please." The word sits unnaturally on his tongue, leaves a sour taste behind. Begging goes against his very nature. It's almost painful.
In contrast, he can't stop saying Wardo's name. It tumbles up his throat, past his lips, out of his mouth, unbidden, like he's making up for lost time. "Wardo, I--"
"I've gone home with him a dozen times before and I'm gonna do it again tonight."
Mark’s mouth snaps shut and he shoves his outstretched hand back into his pocket, cheeks hot. Eduardo doesn’t look triumphant, not like Mark would be if their positions were reversed. He looks shaken and tired and unfamiliar. He looks at Mark like he doesn’t know him at all.
“Wardo I—” Don’t know you either. Didn’t do anything wrong. Miss you. His throat tightens. He doesn’t say anything.
“Go back to your office, Mark,” Eduardo’s voice shakes, his posture full of restraint. He brushes past Mark on his way out the door. Mark stumbles and he looks back, hand on Mark’s shoulder to steady him, instinctively about to apologize before he pauses. Snorts a hysterical-sounding laugh. “Take care of yourself.”
Then he’s releasing Mark and disappearing through the bathroom door. Mark can still feel the print of his hand burnt into his shoulder.
He realizes he’s breathing heavily, his chest stuttering out and in unusually quickly. He stands in the middle of the bathroom for a full minute, dazed until his phone buzzes in his pocket.
A car. Yes.
Mark weaves through the crowd in the ballroom, head down, resolutely not looking for Wardo. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t-- the empty feeling in his stomach is the fault of the caterer, not Eduardo’s sad mouth and his wounded eyes.
He’ll go home tonight, not back to the office. He’ll sleep well knowing he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be. He’ll wake up early tomorrow morning and--
He remembers the fluttering beat of Wardo’s heart beneath his hand, remembers his eyes flicking back to Mark as he left the bathroom, spine snapped straight, and something rises within him. His blood starts racing. His mind is clear despite the drink and the shame.
He hails his car and presses the first button on his speed dial as he climbs in.
"Tanya. Yes, I know what time it is. Make a note on the books. We're putting ads on the site."
it's finished omg. I sort of never want to look at it again. This would not exist without invaluable help from two of my favourite people on the internet. I know referencing Tennyson in fanfic makes me a bit unbearable but w/e I DO WHAT I WANT.
the social network (mark/eduardo)
title from this song, inspired by the last stanza of ulysses because i am a douche
Mark can still count on one hand the number of times Eduardo's refused him anything.
It would be an overstatement to say Mark thinks of Eduardo all the time. There are periods, sometimes weeks long, when Wardo doesn’t cross his mind at all until he comes up in paper work or a business meeting. Other times, in rare moments of boredom, when his mind isn’t filled with code and site issues, it’s far too easy to note how much his life has changed with Wardo’s absence. He’s aware of the loss of Eduardo in a way that he had never been of his presence, like a limb, suddenly amputated, which experiences the occasional phantom pain.
On one such occasion, he's poking disinterestedly at the salmon on his plate as a god-awful jazz band is screeching on, when he hears a burst of surprised, delighted-sounding laughter.
He drops his fork, looks up suddenly.
Mark can't see his face, but Eduardo's hair is still unmistakable. He's styled it a little differently but it still has that absurd poof that he'd always taken a sick pleasure in mussing with his pillow right before Eduardo left for a date or for econ study group.
This isn't supposed to happen. Mark does his research-- before deciding which three or four of the dozens of galas like this one he'll force himself to attend each year, he finagles the guest lists, partly to keep his hand in hacking, partly to avoid this situation exactly. It's not that he's afraid of seeing Eduardo it's just that--
He's with someone-- a floppy haired guy a few years younger than them, one of the honorees of the gala. Dustin has been sending him invites to his site for months. He had them rerouted to junk mail. He's bigger around the shoulders now, his suit fitting better than any he'd worn in school. Mark can't really tell, but he'd guess it's expensive. He seems at ease, making small talk with the people at his table, letting his date lead the conversation, chipping in occasionally. Mark had turned down Tanya's offer to find him a date-- he's yet to get that desperate-- and he'd avoided the eager eyes of everyone sat near him, preferring to engage with his beer and his Blackberry.
It should feel like a victory-- he's the one who was actually invited, the one who everyone, including the guy Wardo's with, are dying to meet. Instead, he is acutely aware that he's slightly inebriated, that he's wearing chucks amidst a sea of patent leather and a Gap button-up, despite the invite saying formal dress only.
He drinks his way through a keynote speaker, watching Eduardo's back in a manner which is probably as creepy as it is focused. Wardo's shoulders are relaxed, loose. He mustn't know Mark's there yet.
After the wait-staff arrive to clear their plates, Mark watches Wardo's date lean over, mouth unnecessarily close to his ear, then head to the bar, two empty glasses in hand. How chivalrous.
The empty chair he leaves beside Eduardo is an irresistible demand.
Mark drains his drink, then drifts toward the table helplessly. "You weren't invited," he says to Eduardo's back. His voice is steady even if his hand is damp around his empty glass.
Eduardo freezes. The conversation at the table dies abruptly. All heads but Wardo's turn to stare at him. Mark can't imagine how this must look to other people but he's grown accustomed to wondering stares.
"I'm a plus one." Eduardo doesn't ask how he knew. He still doesn't turn around. Mark feels a twitch of irritation.
"Could I talk to you for a second," he says to the back of Eduardo's head. "Alone."
He's not nervous. Even after everything, there's a precedent here. Mark can still count on one hand the number of times Eduardo's refused him anything.
Sure enough, Wardo moves slowly, but he gets up, buttoning the middle button of his blazer as he inclines his head politely at the people he was speaking with. Mark's tempted to clear his throat, just to move things along, but he doesn't want to push things, not when he has actual things to say.
Instead, he adds, "About shares," for the sake of the business types watching. It's seems a plausible enough excuse.
Eduardo heads to the far wall of the ballroom without looking at him, leaving Mark to follow after him. He leans against the wall, studying Eduardo's face--he still looks young, one overlarge nose shy of qualifying for Winklevii status in the looks department, but there's something about his eyes that's different, older. He stands as far away from Mark as possible while still keeping the conversation private.
"So," Eduardo says, a polite, empty look on his face. He’s putting on a show. "What is it about shares that's so important you couldn't have your lawyer call mine? You planning on trying to dilute mine again? Cause we both know you won’t get away with it this time.”
Mark nods jerkily. He expected this. Getting Eduardo actually speaking to him was as far as he'd planned and he fumbles for words now, blurts, "Why are you here—you had to know I was invited."
Eduardo regards him speculatively for a long moment. He bites his lip, trying to stem the flow of words that have risen up to pour of his mouth, and fights to return eye contact. It's something he actually practices now-- usually on strangers in line at the supermarket, but still.
It's not until he ducks his head that Wardo responds. "It was important to a friend of mine that I be here. It's a big night for him and he asked me to come." Some things never change. "And anyway, you hate these things. I figured my odds were good." He spreads his arms as though presenting Mark to an audience. "I guess that's life on the edge."
"He's lucky to have friend like you," Mark says flatly. He half-hopes it doesn't come across as sarcastic. "You've really got a skill at picking people up right as they're hitting it big don't you?"
Wardo's face contorts briefly in shock before it settles back into a polite mask. He's become a much better liar since the lawsuit. His voice is still rich with outrage as he hisses between clenched smiling teeth. "Yeah, that must be it. Because you were such a winner when we met. Mess of a freshman, hiding in his dorm room, afraid to talk to girls, skipping class to play video games. If I'd wanted better friends, don't you think I would've gone out and found some?"
He remembers of course, being at some asinine college party in freshman year, back when he'd been willing to put in just enough effort to actually show up at that sort of thing. He'd inevitably ended up squeezed into a couch in the corner, staring into a plastic cup of beer while Wardo-- though he was still Eduardo back then-- had drifted off into the party. It was him who'd invited Mark, incessantly until he'd agreed to come but as soon as Mark stepped into the party, he'd frozen up, hovering behind Eduardo as he greeted friends, pretty girls and tall polo-wearing guys, like a little brother who'd snuck into a big kids' party. Mark didn't know any of them and if the conversations they were having with Eduardo were anything to go by he had no interest in getting to know them.
If that was what Eduardo wanted in a friend, then there was no reason for him to be there.
"Eduardo," he'd said stiffly and reached a finger out to tap on his shoulder, withdrawing as Eduardo turned from his conversation to face him, a wide open grin on his face. "Let's go."
"What?" he'd said, still smiling. "We just got here. Becca's a computer science student too, maybe you have some classes together." The girl had long braided hair, wisps falling out of it around her face in a sort of dark halo and when she smiled there was a slight gap in between her front teeth. She looked familiar.
"I doubt it." Both Eduardo's and the girl's smiles had wavered. "Let's go," he'd repeated.
"Mark man," Eduardo turned away from the girl, ducking his head close to Mark's in an attempt at discretion. Mark remembers feeling a stirring of satisfaction until Eduardo had said, "You just got here. Why don't you at least try to talk to people? Maybe you'll make some friends."
"Why would I want to be friends with these people? They're idiots." He could see the look coming on Eduardo's face, but he had kept talking, raised his chin in challenge. "They bore me."
In the weeks that he'd known Eduardo, they'd yet to fight or even bicker properly. Eduardo backed away from every argument Mark tried to bait him into and it had been slowly driving him crazy, but he could tell from the steely glint in Eduardo's eyes that he was about to get what he came for.
Instead, Eduardo had taken a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and said, "Fine, do whatever you want, Mark. Be miserable, avoid fun like the plague. But I'm having a conversation with Becca." Then he had turned away, effectively ending the conversation.
Mark had moved through the crowd at the party, cringing at the feeling of so many strange people brushing against him, half-hoping and half-dreading finding Eduardo again. He'd felt something cold and wet splash against his leg and looked down to see a stain on his jeans, beer pouring from a cup dropped by the couple making out heavily in the doorway. He was tempted to just abandon ship and head back to the dorms, but Eduardo getting the last word was unacceptable, so when Mark saw him moving toward the kitchen, he navigated his way in the same direction. He'd figured he could come in under the guise of cleaning his jeans and began preparing biting things to say, but as he turned the corner of the hall, nearing the kitchen, he slowed and the words died in his throat.
Eduardo was leaning against the kitchen counter in front of the sink, sipping a beer, and talking quietly with a guy Mark was pretty sure was on some sort of sports team, judging from the school colours he'd been wearing. He'd also been wearing a backwards baseball cap and the snort that Mark let out had been overpowered by the guy's voice.
"Who's that guy you brought, Ed? The small geeky one." He'd had a drunken grin on his face, a friendly arm slung over Eduardo's shoulders. "Heard he was a dick to Becca. Thinks he's better than everyone-- Zuckerman or whatever?" Eduardo had huffed a laugh and Mark froze in the hallway. He'd released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, a big rush of air that stung as it came out. The jock had laughed along, "What a fag."
Mark had straightened up then, turning to go. He remembers moving quickly, though his limbs had been strangely heavy, trying to avoid whatever Eduardo'd say next. Then he'd heard a dull thump, like someone being shoved. God knows he'd gotten familiar enough with it during high school.
"Hey-- what the hell?" The jock didn't sound so amused anymore.
"Shut up, man." Eduardo was drunk, Mark could tell. In the brief time he'd known him, he'd never heard Eduardo so much as raise his voice.
"He's a million times smarter than you, asshole. He'll own your ass one day. And he's my-- Mark's my friend, so--"
Mark had turned on his heel then, gotten moving again and headed back to the living room, stain long forgotten. He remembers feeling terrified that Eduardo had known he was there, that maybe he'd said what he did because he knew Mark was listening or that he'd walk out of the kitchen and see Mark there, eavesdropping, and they'd both have nothing to say.
Someone had taken his seat, so he'd stood against a wall, chewing on the inside of his cheek, replaying the scene over in his mind, willing the flush in his cheeks to disappear, until Eduardo appeared beside him, bleary eyed and saying, "You're right, these people are idiots. Wanna go play Halo?"
Mark had ducked his head in assent, reluctant to meet Eduardo's eyes just yet. They were heading out the door as Eduardo had turned to him, face and voice full of genuine concern, and asked, "Hey man, what happened to your pants?"
"Is that really what you think?"
Mark shrugs. People have begun to drift out of their seats, standing and schmoozing in small clusters around the ballroom.
"There you are." The kid appears out of nowhere. Mark watches him hand Wardo a drink, fingers lingering as the glass exchanges hands. He wonders if it's still a vodka lime, the closest thing Wardo can get to a Caipirinha outside of Brazil. Wardo flashes a private, grateful grin that transfixes Mark briefly. He'd remembered it differently.
"You okay, Ed?" the kid asks and Mark's mouth twitches in derision. It's a pedestrian nickname-- they'd mocked the frat boys who'd called him that in school. Wardo nods, pointedly avoiding Mark's attempt to catch his eyes.
Mark bounces on his heels. His sneakers squeak and they both turn to look at him briefly.
Eduardo takes a deep breath and says, "Mark, this is David. He founded--"
"I know who he is." His eyes flick to Wardo's companion for the first time. "Micro-blogging-- that's adorable."
He nods, seeming amused but not offended, and if Mark's got one skill that's not Facebook-related, it's being as off-putting as possible. He takes it as a challenge.
"Mark," Wardo begins and there's a warning in his voice. It spurs him on.
He keeps his voice conversational when he asks, "So are you fucking Wardo?"
He must be drunker than he'd thought.
"I'm sorry?" Wardo's-- date asks, with a sudden, forced politeness. You should be, Mark thinks.
"I said are--"
"He knows what you said Mark, and you know it's none of your fucking business." Wardo is angry, protective. They're definitely having sex. "This conversation is over. Lovely seeing you as always," he spits and turns away, a hand at his date's elbow. That could have gone better. Then again, it could have gone worse. Wardo could've not spoken to him at all.
Fresh off the exchange, Mark knows that now he should call his car and return to the office, deal with the issues they've been having with networks lately. He should.
Instead he lingers in the ballroom, allowing people to come over and attempt to engage him in conversation, until one question about whether they’re planning to put ads on the site has his eyes flicking over to where David and Eduardo stand, heads bent together, Wardo’s hand on the small of his back.
"I have to use the bathroom," he says, sidestepping the conversation entirely.
It's quieter inside the bathroom, the noise of the attendees transformed into a dull humming. He hoists himself onto the marble counter. There are mirrors everywhere and he watches his feet dangle from the countertop as he calls the car service that's third on his speed dial.
The operator says they'll have a car there in half an hour. "Make it fifteen minutes," he says. "I'm an excellent tipper."
A bowl of candies sits next to the sink. He takes a handful and pops them into his mouth one by one, until his cheeks are bulging. It's probably incredibly insanitary. He's drunk enough that he doesn't care.
He's just settling down to wait out the car's arrival when the bathroom door swings open and, because nothing in Mark's life has ever been particularly lucky, Eduardo steps in. His jacket's open, the highest button on his shirt undone where it wasn’t before. He sighs, runs a hand over his face and holds it there for a moment, as though he's trying to fall asleep in his hand.
Then he spots Mark.
“Yeheneesefingstu," Mark slurs in a rush, forgetting his mouthful of candy.
Eduardo blinks at him.
He chokes the remaining candy down and repeats, a little hoarsely, "You hate these things too." Eduardo's still staring. "You-- said earlier that you know I hate stuff like this. I know that about you too."
"Yeah Mark, I guess you do." It's patronizing, but at least the anger from before seems to have drained him. His eyes are tired.
They're silent and still for a moment. Him and Wardo and a bathroom. Again.
"You know, I actually thought that you needed me," Wardo starts bitterly. "That's why I-- you were so brilliant. I thought you just needed help connecting to people." He makes a sound that might pass for a laugh. "Turns out you're better at it than anyone." His fists are clenching at his side, like he wants to hit something, maybe a mirror, maybe Mark.
Eduardo used to touch him all the time-- a guiding hand at his back, an encouraging clap on the shoulder. It had been unbearable for Mark at first, uncomfortable and invasive, but Eduardo had been gently persistent. He somehow knew how far to push it and never seemed to expect any contact in return, so Mark had learned to tolerate the touches. There were some moments now when he even missed them.
The touching had been, as far as he could tell in retrospect, a subtle way of gaining attention, of reminding the person you're touching that you're there.
"What if I said that I was sorry. Would you still--"
"You won't say it though. Because you aren't. Sure, you're sorry I got angry at you and you're sorry I sued you. Maybe you're even sorry I'm not around anymore.
But you're not sorry you did it."
"I made you a billionaire, Wardo. You're telling me you wouldn't have done the same thing, if this were a bizarro world where you were somehow in my position?"
Eduardo is shaking his head, looking wrecked in way Mark's only seen a couple of times before. “I wouldn’t have. Not even for a billion dollars.”
Mark looks at him, his open face, the miserable slant of his brows, and realizes that he’s telling the truth. He waits for the rush of derision that is his usual reaction to naïve idealism, but it doesn’t come. Instead he feels ill.
He pushes himself off the counter, drops onto the floor. It takes fewer steps than he'd expected to get close to Eduardo, but he moves slowly, afraid a sudden movement will send him out the door. He doesn’t know how to be careful with Eduardo. He’s reaching out, and the movement is as foreign as Eduardo’s suddenly become. He’s made this mistake before, back at school, back at square one.
"Aw, you're worried," Erica grins. It’s their third date. Before the Phoenix club or Facebook or Facemash, when things were simpler, boring even.
"I'm not worried, I'm-- curious," he corrects. Erica's friend sips her drink, looking bored. "He's probably just running late."
But that's not Wardo-- if he was going to be so much as five minutes late, he would've sent at least three apologetic emails.
"Look, why don't you check on him and we'll order the food," Erica offers. "Club sandwich, like always?"
It really would only take fifteen minutes to check. He nods once at her and once at her friend and then he's out of his chair, the door, the bar.
Their laughter follows him out.
He's careful on the way to Wardo's dorm, knowing he might pass Eduardo on the way and not wanting to admit to going looking for him. He doesn't care that much. It’s embarrassing that he wouldn’t show up when Erica’s gone to the trouble of fixing him up with her friend. She’s got this cracked idea that the four of them could double date.
But there's no sign of Wardo on the stairs or in the hallway. The door to his room opens as soon as he twists the handle and there's Eduardo, sitting in the dark.
He's wearing the same dress shirt he'd had on Thursday and there are deep circles under his eyes.
"Mark, hey buddy," he blinks, then summons a smile, a bitter Xerox of his usual grin-- the one so wide it seems as if it's trying to climb off his face. His voice is hoarse. "Sorry, I didn't answer your email."
Mark can tell Eduardo is unhappy-- and completely wasted, if the smell of stale rum is anything to go by. He finds himself with the unfamiliar urge to comfort Eduardo somehow.
"I'll come back later," Mark says instead. Comfort isn't something he's equipped for.
"No-- stay," Wardo reaches a long arm out, his fingers slightly clammy around Mark's wrist. "Just for a bit."
Mark lets himself be pulled onto the bed with Eduardo. They sit in silence for awhile, punctured only by their uneven breathing. Mark gets caught up in matching his exhales to Wardo's inhales so that he’s surprised when Wardo finally speaks.
"My father," Eduardo says and everything suddenly makes sense. "He called to let me know he's disappointed in me. Again."
He breathes in, long and shaking, breaking the pattern Mark's created. His hand is still around Mark's wrist. "I'm not distinguishing myself here. My family's wasted all this money on me and I--"
He falls silent, a beat and then he's slumping down, his forehead resting against Mark's shoulder. He huffs unhappily.
"Maybe," Mark attempts, "you should spend less energy caring what other people want?" He knows Wardo needs something from him, but he's unsure as to what. He takes a random stab, hopes it’s in the right direction.
"I can't be you, Mark." Wardo laughs a little. "And besides what I want is-- I like giving people what they want."
He lifts his head off Mark's shoulder and stares blankly at the wall, his eyes huge and wet. He bites his lip. Mark watches the indentation he creates in his bottom lip fade.
"I can't help it," Eduardo murmurs. Mark's never seen him like this. He thinks he might hate Eduardo's father.
Mark leans sideways then, closing the small space between them, and kisses Eduardo, careful and holding for about half a minute, until Wardo gasps a little and opens his mouth against Mark's.
The kiss deepens, a swipe of Mark's tongue soothing the bite mark on Eduardo's lip and it gets sloppier. Despite the taste of liquor, Wardo kisses like he does everything else, enthusiastically and with a bit of sweetness. It's addictive and when he pulls away minutely to catch his breath Mark can't help but try to follow his mouth.
Eduardo's lips quirk up, just a bit, his eyes seeming less miserable, and they breathe warm puffs of air onto each other's wet lips. One of his big hands comes up to cup Mark's cheek and, caught up in the warmth, Mark leans mindlessly into it, like a fucking cat or something.
Fresh off the shame of that, he leans further forward, presses a wet kiss to the corner of Eduardo's jaw.
"Wardo," he hears himself gasp, "Wardo, I want--" He scrapes his teeth down the skin of Eduardo's neck, fingers scrabbling frantically at the hem of his dress shirt. Wardo's body is arching around him and everything is remarkably perfect until his fingers slip under the waistline of Eduardo's slacks and--
He freezes, tenses and shoves Mark hard, the first time he's ever been less than physically tender with him. Mark's body is all feelers and totally unprepared, he tumbles off the bed, onto his ass and the floor.
"God, Mark." Eduardo seems distressed, possibly angry. "You have a girlfriend."
On the floor, sprawled out helplessly, Mark stays carefully still. His tailbone aches.
"What were you thinking?" Eduardo bites down hard on his lip, which is still a little swollen, like he's punishing himself, and Mark wants to climb back onto the bed, push him down and--
He shrugs. "I was trying to make you feel better."
And despite Eduardo's sudden overreaction, if the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the pink flush spreading across his neck and cheecks are anything to go by, it worked.
"Maybe don't try so hard next time," Eduardo snaps, voice uncharacteristically hard.
When Mark doesn't move, he sighs. His voice is gentler when he says, several moments later, "Go back to your girlfriend, Mark."
But Mark doesn't go back to the bar to explain things to Erica and her friend. Instead, he makes it as far as the second floor bathroom before he's jerking off, quick and hard, one hand over his mouth, biting down on his lip. He comes alarmingly fast, a few pumps of his dick, the noises Eduardo had made ringing in his ears, and he's coming into his hand, "wa--" ghosting out of his mouth.
He washes his hands and shuffles back to his dorm, stays up late coding and not thinking about how he'll never be able to face Eduardo again.
It ends up being something he doesn't have to think about because he wakes up the next morning to a pounding headache, a high fever and a voicemail from Erica saying she'd come down with something and was he okay.
He groans and face plants into his pillow and when he wakes next it could be days or minutes later. The curtains are drawn and the dorm is silent-- he guesses everyone's in class. His eyes adjust to the dark and there's Eduardo sitting in his computer chair. Mark startles.
Eduardo draws a breath and Mark thinks for one extended, mortifying second that he's going to try to talk about the other night.
"You look like shit, buddy," he says instead.
Mark actually laughs. It comes out high and nervous-sounding. "I feel like shit." His arms shake as he props himself up to a sitting position. Eduardo frowns.
"When's the last time you ate?" Mark can't actually remember. He shrugs.
Wardo procures a spoon and styrofoam bowl from out of nowhere. "I figured. Snuck it out of the caf."
It's chili. When Mark smells it his stomach gives a plaintive growl. He gets suddenly ravenously hungry and begins shoveling it into his mouth. It's as though someone's plugged him in-- he feels instantly better.
They sit there, silence broken only by the sound of him inhaling food, until Wardo leans over and presses a palm against his forehead. Mark freezes, spoon hanging from his mouth.
"No fever." He keeps his hand in place, an odd smile playing on his lips. "Guess it was just a 48 hour thing."
Mark nods and Wardo drops his arm, spins around in Mark's chair. "Guess so," he echoes and it's like the other night never even happened. Mark should be relieved. He is relieved.
And if Wardo falls ill the next day, gets a fever and sleeps for two days, it's nothing they ever have to talk about.
Back in the bathroom, he reaches out, places a hand against the lapel of Eduardo's jacket, not touching skin. Wardo flinches, but he doesn’t move away. Mark can feel his heartbeat, rapid and stuttering, from under his ribs.
Then he opens his mouth. "Wardo, don't go home with him. We'll go out to a bar, I'll buy you a couple drinks, it'll be like--"
"Mark, no." He flings Mark’s hand off, takes one huge step back until he’s right against the mirrored wall.
"Please." The word sits unnaturally on his tongue, leaves a sour taste behind. Begging goes against his very nature. It's almost painful.
In contrast, he can't stop saying Wardo's name. It tumbles up his throat, past his lips, out of his mouth, unbidden, like he's making up for lost time. "Wardo, I--"
"I've gone home with him a dozen times before and I'm gonna do it again tonight."
Mark’s mouth snaps shut and he shoves his outstretched hand back into his pocket, cheeks hot. Eduardo doesn’t look triumphant, not like Mark would be if their positions were reversed. He looks shaken and tired and unfamiliar. He looks at Mark like he doesn’t know him at all.
“Wardo I—” Don’t know you either. Didn’t do anything wrong. Miss you. His throat tightens. He doesn’t say anything.
“Go back to your office, Mark,” Eduardo’s voice shakes, his posture full of restraint. He brushes past Mark on his way out the door. Mark stumbles and he looks back, hand on Mark’s shoulder to steady him, instinctively about to apologize before he pauses. Snorts a hysterical-sounding laugh. “Take care of yourself.”
Then he’s releasing Mark and disappearing through the bathroom door. Mark can still feel the print of his hand burnt into his shoulder.
He realizes he’s breathing heavily, his chest stuttering out and in unusually quickly. He stands in the middle of the bathroom for a full minute, dazed until his phone buzzes in his pocket.
A car. Yes.
Mark weaves through the crowd in the ballroom, head down, resolutely not looking for Wardo. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t-- the empty feeling in his stomach is the fault of the caterer, not Eduardo’s sad mouth and his wounded eyes.
He’ll go home tonight, not back to the office. He’ll sleep well knowing he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be. He’ll wake up early tomorrow morning and--
He remembers the fluttering beat of Wardo’s heart beneath his hand, remembers his eyes flicking back to Mark as he left the bathroom, spine snapped straight, and something rises within him. His blood starts racing. His mind is clear despite the drink and the shame.
He hails his car and presses the first button on his speed dial as he climbs in.
"Tanya. Yes, I know what time it is. Make a note on the books. We're putting ads on the site."
it's finished omg. I sort of never want to look at it again. This would not exist without invaluable help from two of my favourite people on the internet. I know referencing Tennyson in fanfic makes me a bit unbearable but w/e I DO WHAT I WANT.