in the morning i'll be with you {mark/eduardo}
title: in the morning i'll be with you
pairing: mark/eduardo
rating: pg
summary: He shifts carefully, untangling their limbs so he can face Mark who reciprocates, or at least tries to--Eduardo captures Mark's lips before he can even breathe a hello, smiles into it.
disclaimer: i own nothing. absolutely nothing. a work of fiction.
notes: just a sleepy, lazy, sunday morning fic, for this prompt! expect a lot of fluff and pretty feelings (i hope, at least!) and pleasantries of that sort. the title comes from "skinny love" by bon iver.
word count: 2,116
+bonus (unrelated) mark/wardo omegle convo
at the bottom of the page, woo
It’s strange, he thinks. Mark has never been one to romanticize a situation beyond proportion, to attach gratuitous connotations to actions, motives, or god forbid feelings- and yet. The way he traces the light dip in Eduardo’s spine says something else entirely, but its infinitesimal gestures like this that speak volumes when his quick words seem too inadequate. It’s a rare occasion that his words don’t align, but one he easily surrenders to: he finds it more and more difficult to fight off something this transparent, this tangible.
It’s easy, mostly because it’s Eduardo. (In truth, it’s always been Eduardo, but he knows it’s better to keep these kinds of things quiet on his part.)
The only reason that Mark is awake is because their windows catch each lazy sunrise in all the right angles so that the rays permeate the mountains of soft sheet, sink into their skin. Every movement he conducts takes an effort, a meticulous orchestration of limbs (the way he fits around Eduardo’s bare spine and his own innate gracelessness both call for it), striving not to perturb the perfect lull of the moment.
He breathes, relief, exhaling the air he realizes he’d been withholding; Eduardo hasn’t stirred. Mark takes this as a sign to keep on, allowing his hands to explore the contours of Eduardo’s warm back, slow but certain, his for the sampling. All of this and more as he takes in the tranquility of Eduardo’s features like it’s some kind of revelation: the way Eduardo’s tufts of hair are uncharacteristically tousled against his pillow, the smoothed lines of his brow, the softness of his mouth. Mark regards his every feature with a kind of attention that he knows Wardo deserves; but it’s less to compensate and more because he genuinely wants to. And Mark never really has to say it; Eduardo just has his strange ways of always being one step ahead of him in that spectrum.
He can only hope that Eduardo won’t stir when he leans into the crook of his neck to plant a small kiss, the moment is too perfect to mar, it’s too, they’re just-
“Hi, Mark,” Eduardo stirs, all smiles and sleepy syllables. He shifts carefully, untangling their limbs so he can face Mark who reciprocates, or at least tries to-Eduardo captures Mark’s lips before he can even breathe a hello, smiles into it.
It’s just a thought, really, but Mark starts to get the impression that they’re just right where they should be.
+ + +
They spend the morning drifting in between reverie and reality together, confined to the bed in what they could only hope was not just some transient early morning spell. Maybe it’s just the heat that gets to them as the sun rises, filling the vastness of their living quarters and prompting a slick sheen over their bodies as they kiss beneath the sheets. What ever it is, they craft an unpredictable cadence with their movements: restless attempts at contact are punctuated by small pauses and stillness, sleepy repartee.
“I could get used to this,” Eduardo lies flat on his back, holds his hand against the light so it filters through his fingers, illuminates the tiny splattering of freckles Mark has only just discovered. When he turns, he’s rubbing the slumber from corners of his eyes, perhaps feeling a bit young (it’s written in how every word he says is escorted by echoes of laughter and his flitting gaze) on account of his honesty.
It’s strange, the way the hollow room fills up quickly with the sound of Eduardo’s words so that even the steady whirring of the city below seems to dissipate until it’s just them, being. It’s just that Eduardo walks this fine line between familiarity and the unforeseen, and maybe Mark’s just thinking too much, but he thinks it’s nice, it sounds nice, they sound nice (or something like that, Mark stumbles with words).
Eduardo’s hand drags across Mark’s warm back as he says this, diverting him away from his thoughts, stirs him back here, present. The pads of Eduardo’s fingers trace languid, slow circles on the skin there until all Mark can feel is the gradual burn of friction and closeness and electricity and proximity-all of it, all at once.
Mark arches just slightly so Eduardo can better reach, and he thinks it ridiculous, just ridiculous-the way Eduardo moves sinuously, the way he explores Mark like he’s been forever acquainted with every little curve, dip, every soft spot (when Eduardo breathes something incoherent or Portuguese-Mark isn’t sure which it is-into his neck, he retreats instinctively with cagey eyes), some kind of cartographer to the skin of Mark’s body.
He feels the weight of the mattress shift as Eduardo retreats reluctantly from his side, spindly form curling back, upright. Even as he pulls himself up, his fingertips map out Mark’s bare arms, tracing, ceasing, curling upon finding their purchase. They coil into Mark’s forearm, grip, tight. The smile that surfaces is genuine and unwavering, reaches his eyes. “I really, really could.”
It’s difficult to keep up with Eduardo when it’s the two of them like this; Mark’s a person of many words, sharp words, and yet. (And yet he’s rendered speechless because it’s the two of them, like this.)
Mark recovers effortlessly the moment he finds his voice again, only it’s too soft and less distinct, twelve hours of disuse threading through each lazy syllable.
“Only you would be masochistic enough to force yourself into believing that, Wardo.” The corners of his mouth contort into a faint smile regardless as he shifts beneath Eduardo’s weight, eyes grazing his outline against the stark white walls, accentuating everything. His fingers feel around blindly for a moment-Eduardo is everywhere, obstructing his peripheries-and with some effort, secures his finding. He tugs the sheet over the two of them so that Eduardo’s spine crafts a perfect curve in their fortress of sheet.
It’s just intuition (something he picks up on here and there, being around Eduardo who is all things instinctive and visceral, the complementary color to Mark’s dissolving stoicism), but he swears he can feel Eduardo grinning. The tips of their noses brush suddenly as Eduardo dips his body against Mark’s for a fleeting moment, and they blink simultaneously as he’s suspended there, close. If there’s one thing that Mark has learned, it’s that Eduardo has this inclination toward diminishing the space between them in all but a matter of seconds and without warning. In any case it’s the face he’s known for so long, but never really known until every speck of detail is there, lucid.
“It’s not masochism if it’s all being reciprocated,” Eduardo kisses Mark’s mouth chastely at first, his words blurring into the bow of his lips just as Mark’s teeth lock softly onto the bottom. They recreate this perfect rhythm as Eduardo’s hips sway against Mark’s in the descent, presses lightly so that they’re flush against each other, a perfect fit. “Thought you’d know the difference.”
Mark’s cheeks are alight, burning with a conspicuous shade of violent red and discourage when Eduardo recoils to a place where he can’t reach, at least not with the burden of his hips, his weight. He’s pinned to the mattress; he allows the lines of his brow to harden into place, his shallow breathing to fill the space between them. They breathe like this for a few moments, stillness washing over their restless limbs like some tacit armistice.
“Delusional,” Mark laughs, but it’s easy. He tries to shroud the deviant affection that seeps into his words, his countenance, everything, not wanting to comply so simply, not here, not now (at least not with his pride, but speaking honestly, the answer has never been more unequivocal).
He wonders how much longer they can prolong the morning, span its lazy hours with these soft kisses, hazy eyes and scattered words, commit these small details to memory (as to recreate, once, twice, ad infinitum).
+ + +
When he wakes again, the morning comes to him in hazy bits and pieces, prompts a smile like it’s out of the blue. The other side of the bed is vacant-all that’s left is the tangle of twisted sheets, a ruffled white pillow that captures and preserves the indents of Mark’s features from overuse, or something. Eduardo stretches his too-long limbs and cranes his neck, skimming his foot along the wooden floor, hushed. He catches a small glimpse of Mark’s figure hunched over the stove and thinks for a moment. The fact that Mark’s in the kitchen inherently places the two of them in a very precarious situation.
He clears his throat gently though there’s nothing there, buttons his crumpled oxford shirt as he leans against the wooden paneling besides the stove. When Mark looks up, Eduardo’s staring at him skeptically.
“I honestly couldn’t remember what kind you like, but I ran down to the store either way and figured if I bought a bunch of fruit you’d have to like one of them.” Mark shrugs defeatedly (there’s a method to his madness, he swears), there’s chopped strawberries and bananas strewn across the counter as confirmation.
“Trying to win me over?” Eduardo laughs and tears a small corner of the one Mark’s holding limply in his hand (its banana, Eduardo likes banana pancakes), chews wordlessly. He watches carefully, trying to delineate some seal of approval as Eduardo samples his efforts with a vague expression.
Mark pointedly ignores Eduardo’s remark and focuses his attention instead on the less than aesthetically appealing heap of questionably shaped pancakes. It’s not like it’s entirely his fault that he’s never had to use a spatula once in his life. He’s about to carry them to the table when he stops because Eduardo seems to recall something a little too urgently. Something about his suits, a meeting, (“but it’s Sunday,” Mark protests, like it’s something momentous), but by then Mark’s only half-listening.
Eduardo starts again, and he’s this flurry of movements; he’s out of the kitchen and making for the bedroom, his voice resounding through each room.
“Listen, I have-“
“-absolutely nowhere to go,” Mark cuts him off with finality, only mildly taken aback by the audacity that surfaces. Without realizing it, he’s following Eduardo out to the bedroom where he intends to get dressed, but delays, lingers, because Mark’s asking, because Eduardo’s always complying, because, well.
“It’s just-what if you stayed, we-“ Mark needs somewhere to transfix his eyes. He presses his lips tightly together because he’s stumbling with his words again, and all they seem to do is dance seamlessly around their purpose.
“I would,” But Eduardo’s got it all wrong, it feels wrong, those words residing there on the tip of his tongue and the corners of his lips. He catches himself quickly enough to correct himself, markedly perturbed by the recklessness of his words as he drags a hand through his tousled hair, flustered. “No, that’s not-“
-because what they’re suggesting implies the hypothetical, but what Eduardo really means exists only in this moment, presently, now. What ever he conjures must diffuse Mark’s transitory maelstrom of confusion, because the smile that registers is slow with every centimeter ingraining itself in Eduardo’s memory.
“No, I’m staying."
And now, even now, Mark still can't summon the words to affirm, so it's quiet as they hold each others gaze. And yet, it feels oddly okay, like this is how it's supposed to fall into place, because with each glance it's an understood exchange that seems to articulate the subtlety of their mutual surrender. The notion attenuates the loudness of his thought and then it's first with his waist, then with his hands. He tugs Eduardo's wrist calmly, stay.
And it's like this for a while, no dissolution to their lazy morning. It's easy because it's Eduardo's warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of his neck, and even as he shies away, he likes the way they fit, this tangled entity, the way they sound and then he's never gone for long. When he smoothes kisses along the outline of Eduardo's collarbones, he jolts and twists away like the touch is electric, but he just smiles- because maybe, just maybe, Mark has finally figured him out.
The light filters through the sheet over them when they stumble back to bed, but Eduardo lets him take his hand, lets Mark pull him into another dream or two so the feeling can settle into their skin just a little bit longer.
and, end!
i apologize for any errors, i just tend to skim over the entire thing to spare myself from self-depreciating thoughts of the "why do i even write what is this even who let me post this" persuasion. this is more or less a product of too much time on my hands, three songs on repeat for days and one too many endlessly altered and saved word docs. yikes. thank you for reading though!!
lastly, happy new year to you all xo