You Think You've Changed Your Mind [1/2] - The Social Network - Eduardo/Mark
Title: You Think You've Changed Your Mind [1/2]
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark
Word Count: 5326
Rating: NC-17
A/N: For the notagain_again prompt "Characters have, or suddenly develop, a psychic/telepathic bond". My title is taken from the lyrical wizardry of Don't You Want Me Baby, because I'm hardcore like that. Part two should be posted in a couple of days.
Summary: Mark wakes up with the ability to hear Eduardo's thoughts. It would have been a lot more helpful when they were still talking to each other.
Mark's eyes snap open in the darkness and he clutches at his chest, fingernails scratching at the cotton of his t-shirt. He expects to find a dagger, but there's nothing. No blood, just pain. It's like electricity and fire, hot blue on the inside of his eyelids.
Stumbling from bed, Mark fumbles for the phone. I'm having a heart attack, he diagnoses, followed swiftly by, I think I'm dying.
It's interesting. Terrifying, and painful, but interesting.
His fingers knock his cell phone to the floor and he drops to his knees to chase it. His breath wheezes; he sounds like an old man. Clutching hold of his phone, his fingers are useless as he tries to press the right keys. Touch screen. Bad idea.
He slumps back against the wall and holds onto his phone like a stress ball. Eyes closed, he tries to remember how the clean flood of oxygen feels. His medicals all check out - but none of that matters, really, when it feels as if someone is trying to hollow out his chest with an instrument that isn't sharp enough for the job. It's torture.
And, suddenly, it's over.
The pain releases as if yanked away, and he opens his eyes looking for a rescuer: there's no one there. He is sitting on the floor in the corner of his bedroom clinging to his phone like it's a security blanket, and he is utterly alone. There is nothing but a wounded, empty ache in the centre of his chest, and he's pretty sure that that's an emotional response rather than a physical one. It's kinda odd. He's never felt that before.
It takes him too long to be able to uncurl his limbs, as stiff as tree roots, and crawl back into his bed. The sheets are cold and tangle around his legs, and he lies awake for forty minutes staring across his bedroom in the dark, feeling his own mortality and an aching loneliness that has never plagued him before.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of Eduardo for the first time in months.
*
He's a blank mess the next day, but no one comments on it. They're probably used to their zombie-eyed, sullen boss by this point, and Mark barely notices that nobody notices that he's a mess; he's not used to paying attention to them either.
His chest doesn't hurt any more, not that stabbing pain, but as he sits behind his desk flicking through document after document there's something heavy in the air around him. Fog, maybe, except the room is clear and he's certain this is in his head. His heart. Somewhere between the two.
He leaves work early that evening.
He goes home and sits by himself, watching dumb comedies that don't amuse him at all. He doesn't code; he doesn't want to. He never doesn't want to code. This might be the first time in his life that the sight of a computer makes his stomach churn. He thinks he's ill. It might be fatal.
And then he thinks, God, this is delicious, which is really weird since he hasn't eaten anything in at least three hours and there is no food in his apartment. Doesn't seem to matter. His mouth still salivates and his stomach grumbles in earnest delight. Mark stares down at it in silent accusation. He's not sure what's going on here. He is, however, absolutely certain that he doesn't like it.
*
After a week of aching chests and random thoughts and lying in his bed clinging to a pillow because he feels so stupidly lonely that he might cry, he goes to see his doctor. They spirit him through every single test that they can think of, and he's just about as healthy as a man in his mid-twenties with a terrible diet, no desire to exercise and a cruel sleeping pattern can be.
"There's some unusual activity in your brain scan," the doctor says when he pushes him on the matter. "But it really is nothing to worry about at all."
"What's going on?" Marks asks. "Tell me exactly."
They bring him the scans and walk him through every coloured blip. High activity, bright colours, but nothing dangerous. Definitely nothing fatal. The doctor panders to his ego, suggesting that it might be an explanation for how he has managed to achieve so much, and Mark ignores him. There's something going on here, even if this doctor won't agree.
"Is there a car waiting?" he asks his assistant when they're waiting in the elevator. "There's that meeting with Thomas and Jessica. I'm going to be late if we don't rush."
His assistant stares at him for a moment, before she looks down to investigate her Blackberry. "Your schedule is clear for the day," she says. "Who are Thomas and Jessica?"
It's a good question. Unfortunately, he has no idea what the answer might be. "You're my assistant. It's your job to know that kind of thing."
She looks like she might have just swallowed a spoonful of salt, and he feels bad about that, but not bad enough to apologise. Or elaborate. Or do anything other than spend the rest of their trip in frowning silence, while she makes frantic phone calls trying to work out if there's a meeting that he's supposed to be attending. There's nothing, just a yawning gap in his schedule that he was going to spend glaring over the shoulders of Facebook's programmers.
In the end, he doesn't do that.
He leaves the office. He turns off his phone. He finds a park.
There are flowers and grass and an ice-cream stand. It's the kind of place that shouldn't exist in the middle of a city, but he finds a park bench and is glad for the quietness that surrounds him. A statue dedicated to some great man or other rears in the background, and he ignores it. He stares ahead of himself without seeing a thing.
He is thinking about going home; he is thinking about slipping off his tie and taking a shower, or maybe a bath, and then making something to eat, stir-fry probably - there's food in the fridge. He can glance over the accounts on his laptop once he's in bed.
All of which are really weird, because he's not really thinking about any of that stuff at all. That is not the kind of thing that Mark Zuckerberg thinks about. He's feeling like a pod person right now, like he's been replaced without knowing it, except he's still inside his own head and he knows that this stuff is wrong - that it's not him.
And then there's the other thing.
The weird thing.
(yes, weirder than thinking thoughts that he would never think.)
These thoughts, these not-his thoughts, are coming through in a not-him voice.
More specifically, they're coming through in an Eduardo-style voice.
Ordinarily, that wouldn't be that weird, because Mark has had an Eduardo voice in his head for a long time, one that comes out once in a while to express its displeasure when he's gone too long without sleep. And, yeah, that makes him sound crazy. He's not. For years, he was so used to Eduardo nagging and looking after him that it's taken hold. Even now.
Yet that's not the kind of thing that he's talking about any more. These aren't his own thoughts coming through in a faux-Eduardo tone.
He's almost certain that they are Eduardo's thoughts coming through in Eduardo's voice, and Mark thinks that maybe he's just qualified for the X-Men.
"Huh," he says under his breath. The silence of the park doesn't answer.
*
Maybe finding out that he has the telepathic ability to listen in on his ex-best friend's thoughts when he's in a completely separate city should be a bigger deal than it is, but Mark takes it in his stride. He doesn't let anyone else in on the secret, because it's really none of their business and because he can't think of anyone that would be interested in Eduardo's mundane thoughts anyway, but he does a little bit of digging. The best thing about computers is that they're easy to talk to if you know the right language. Mark is fluent.
It's not much of a surprise to discover that Eduardo had a business lunch with a pair called Thomas and Jessica yesterday. It's actually a relief, because now he has positive proof that he isn't going crazy - he's just going psychic. Or something. That's the part that he hasn't worked out yet.
It's actually exciting, having a new project to work on, a new puzzle to work out.
It's less exciting that it's Wardo that is at the heart of it, because Mark's main survival technique since the lawsuits has been not to think about him, not to remember any of it at all. If Eduardo's thoughts these days are anything to go by, he uses the same technique. Mark doesn't hear anything about himself. It makes him cranky.
He gave Eduardo exactly what he wanted in the settlement, didn't he?
Eduardo should be thinking about him.
A lot.
He's earned it, hasn't he? Instead, all that he hears about is the monotony of Eduardo's life: people he meets and meals he has and movies he watches during long haul flights. It's like listening in on the dullest reconnaissance tapes in existence. There's nothing important here, and Mark is disappointed by that. He doesn't believe in fate or anything like that, but he'd like to think that there's more to do with this new development than listen to Eduardo's grocery lists.
Sitting in his office, staring at his computer screen, Mark taps a pen against his pursed lips as he thinks.
And then he makes a mistake.
Mark would say that he isn't the sort of person to make mistakes, not ever, or at least not often. He's logical and levelheaded and he doesn't allow his emotions to interfere with his actions.
Looking up Eduardo's current phone number and calling him right away is neither logical nor levelheaded. It's almost certainly emotional. If Mark isn't careful, he's going to have to start reconsidering his self-assessment.
He hangs up before it even rings twice, then slumps in his chair and stares at his phone as if it is the sole source of his problems. It is, really. If Alexander Graham Bell had slacked off a little more often, none of this would be happening.
He feels confused, and curious, and then his phone starts ringing in his hand.
Shit. Shit.
He doesn't pick up, not yet; he just stares at the offending piece of technology with a blank expression. Irritation begins to gnaw at the back of his mind, and he thinks it must be Eduardo's, not his own, so takes a breath and answers the phone.
"Yes?" he says.
"Hello?" Eduardo's voice is like an intravenous hit of nostalgia. Mark's mouth twitches. He might be smiling. "I just missed a call from this number."
He should probably be saying something right now.
"It was an accident," he says. The wave of confusion starts again. "My phone was in my pocket. It must have called you by itself."
Mark? What the hell? sounds in his head.
"You have my number?" Eduardo asks. He doesn't ask who this is - Mark takes that as a victory, at least. At least Eduardo recognises him. "How did you get that?"
Mark frowns and stares ahead of him. The burble of Eduardo's thoughts speaks to him across the miles, questions and irritation and something that's a little bit like hope. It's hard to make sense of everything going through his mind; it's fast and non-linear and it's bit and pieces of a context he can't quite make sense of.
After listening in, he realises that Eduardo is waiting for an answer. "Uh," he supplies. "I found it online. You should be more careful."
Indignation, sharp and hot. "You're saying it's my fault you tracked down my number?"
"If you don't want people to be able to contact you, you shouldn't leave your details online. It's common sense."
"What did you want, Mark?"
That's a good question. A really good one. Through the buzz of every firing neutron, Mark focuses and thinks, Can you hear this?
He waits.
Eduardo?
Along the phone line, he hears an annoyed huff. "I'm going to hang up now. Are you even allowed to contact me?"
Mark swallows and frowns so hard that Eduardo must be able to sense it. "Can you hear anything?" he asks before Eduardo can hang up.
"Leave me alone, Mark," Eduardo sighs. It sounds like a plea.
Mark allows him to hang up and listens to the tone long after he's gone. He can hear thoughts burbling in his head like a heavy brook, and he tries to get a handle on it, to tame it somehow. There's too much, and most of it isn't complimentary.
Except there's one sentiment, one that hangs around saying it was good to hear his voice. That's the thought that cuts through the irritation and frustration to make Mark think that maybe the phone call was a good idea after all.
He's going to take back any bad thoughts about Alexander Graham Bell. The guy was definitely onto something.
*
He wakes up in the middle of the night, his eyes snapping open to stare at the dusky ceiling above him. It isn't pain this time that drags him from sleep.
Beneath the covers, his cock is hard as a rock, forming a tent in the material. His lips part in delight as a shiver runs right through him.
Oh god, oh god, oh my god, echoes through his head. It's not his voice.
He's pretty sure that he's listening in on Eduardo's sex life now.
And he doesn't think he's been this turned on in a long time.
Experimentally, his hand drifts until he can take hold of himself, the palm of his hand hot against his skin. He rolls onto his front, hips raised to accommodate his thrashing hand and leaking erection, and in the dark it's almost like all of this is real. He can hear Eduardo's voice and feel his desperation and it's almost as if he's in the room with him, trapped beneath him, taking it when Mark's hips twitch into his own hand.
Oh, fuck, yes, Mark hears. The only sounds in his bedroom are his own heavy breathing and the slide of his hand against his flesh. So good, yes.
He wishes he could see. He wants to be able to see Eduardo's face right now, to see the way it must flush and the way his pupils must be blown and black. Better than Erica, better than any of the girls he's been with in the past - Wardo, just Wardo. He holds in a groan by biting hard on his lower lip, listening as Eduardo's thoughts spin further and further out of control, reduced to nothing but feeling.
He comes at the same time as Eduardo does many miles away, his body tensing and breaking apart as he grunts and spills onto the bed sheets below. Panting for air, he tips to the side and allows his brain to fall into silence, numb static filling the airwaves.
*
It's obviously not a normal thing to do. If someone like Dustin or Chris had been given this ability, they wouldn't be using it for eavesdropping jerk-off sessions.
Maybe they would, Mark reasons as he sits in a meeting that he's probably supposed to be paying attention to. It could be nothing more than a side effect. Being inside someone's mind (or having them inside your mind, it's not quite clear how this is actually working yet, but the grammar behind it probably doesn't matter too much) during sex makes it inevitable that there would be some feelings. Erotic feelings. It's biology, or something like that.
That doesn't really explain the images in Mark's mind or the way that thinking of Eduardo bent over, ass-up, nearly gets Mark hard again. He crosses his legs beneath the table and doesn't allow his expression to so much as twitch when the woman beside him glances over. Nothing's wrong here. If he doesn't acknowledge it, nothing is wrong.
He makes it through the meeting through the genius application of his ability to zone out, allowing Eduardo's thoughts to take over his mind rather than paying attention to his own. It's an odd form of meditation, but it takes him out of himself. It's a vacation in his own body.
"I need to take the day off," he tells his assistant once the meeting is over.
She looks down at his schedule, eyes widening. "But-"
"Someone else can cover for me," he states. The days when he was Facebook have passed, now. It's all slipping out of his hands. If he dropped dead tomorrow, not that he's planning to, the company would be fine without him. Everything would go ahead without a hitch. Maybe that's an accomplishment.
Really, it makes him want to slip in some hostile lines of code in case of his untimely departure.
Or maybe not. Because that would endanger Facebook and Mark thinks he's already shown everyone that knows him that there's nothing he values more in the world than his site.
There's a stone in my shoe, Eduardo thinks. Mark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to watch his assistant fly into a panic as she makes short-notice arrangements and rearrangements to fix the afternoon for his departure. He should probably give her a raise.
It takes him an hour to be ready to leave the office, and when Dustin asks him where he's off to he shakes his head. He doesn't think he knows (not yet, not consciously, not so he'll admit it).
It's easy to get to the airport, easy to board a flight, easy to travel as long as he's not thinking in anything other than Eduardo's voice. It's what comes next that is going to be the hard part.
*
Eduardo is currently in Chicago for a week while he visits old friends that Mark has never heard of. There are some meetings as well, long and boring. Mixing business and pleasure. Practical. Never resting, but still drawn to people. Mark remembers that.
Hearing the patter of Eduardo's thoughts while on the plane is more entertaining than the in-flight movies. He closes his eyes and does nothing more than listen, wondering if this is becoming an obsession. He's been told in that past that he has an obsessive personality, prone to addiction. He's focused, that's all.
With Eduardo, after all this time, it might be more complicated than that.
He makes it back to Eduardo's hotel while Eduardo is still at dinner, so he goes to the hotel bar while he's waiting. Might not be such a good idea. His blood feels like it's fizzing already, like there's something running through his veins that just won't sit still. That feeling is definitely from him, not Wardo; lurking behind the nervousness, he can feel the relaxed amusement that probably means that Eduardo is out for dinner with friends.
There is a degree of jealousy mixed in with those nerves. All in all, it's not a pleasant feeling.
The second hand on the clock is moving at a ridiculously slow pace. He wonders if it needs a new battery.
He has a plan. It involves waiting for Eduardo to go up to his room, and allowing him to settle in, and then going up to talk to him once his thoughts are calm and relaxed. Mark hasn't actually thought of what he actually wants to talk to him about, or even why he's here, but he has enough of a plan to get him to the door. After that, it's all bound to fall into place.
Eduardo, however, seems unwilling to cooperate with his plans. At around ten thirty, Mark feels a wave of confusion blast into him, moments before Eduardo taps on his shoulder. "Mark?" he says. He sounds as if this is the unlikeliest thing to have ever happened to him. "What are you doing here?"
Very good question.
There's no good answer.
"I have to talk to you," Mark says. With a frown, Eduardo nods urgently. Mark doesn't have anything to follow that up with.
"What is it?"
Mark swallows. "Can we go up to your room?"
What the hell? Eduardo thinks. "I think we should talk here. Mark, are you okay?"
He's not. He's starting to understand that he's really, really not okay, but this isn't the right place for that kind of epiphany. Not in public, and not with Eduardo's concerned eyes on him. He can feel the mixture of worry and annoyance that Eduardo is feeling right now - he wonders what emotion will win out when he knows the whole story.
"Please," he says, even if the word is foreign currency to him. "I don't want to do this here."
There must be something in his voice, something especially pathetic, because Eduardo curses inside his head and then allows Mark to follow him to the elevator. They don't talk during the journey, and the elevator seems to take forever to go up. Mark's eyes glance to the side at every opportunity to steal glances at Eduardo, like a man starved of oxygen.
He's wearing one of his ridiculous suits, and his head is tilted back to watch the glowing numbers above the door as they count off the floors. It exposes his lean neck, the skin golden and warm, and Mark's eyes are drawn to the angle of his Adam's apple.
I'm here to fuck him, he realises, and it's not much of a revelation.
Eduardo has a large suite and when they enter Mark takes the time to look around. Eduardo watches him with arms crossed over his chest, frown on his face. The silence is heavy. Mentioning the weather doesn't help. Mark has never been good at small talk.
"Mark, you didn't fly all the way out here to talk about the rain," Eduardo says.
"You have a point."
"So?"
Mark blinks a few times. He wonders if this is what it feels like to look at an oncoming truck.
He's sick, Eduardo thinks. He's dying. He's here 'cause he's dying.
His eyes are as big as a cartoon characters and his breathing is heavier than it has to be. His hands have been shoved deep into his pockets.
"I'm okay," Mark blurts. "I'm not ill or anything. I'm healthy. Mostly."
Eduardo nods, and takes a step further into the room. Mark is the one in the centre, acting as if he owns the place; Eduardo is the one hanging near the door, as if he might need to escape at any moment.
"You're here to tell me you're healthy?" Eduardo states.
"I don't know how to do this." Mark presses his lips together in concentration. "I left work today because I wanted to come and find you."
"You called me last night," Eduardo reminds him, "Out of the blue, and now you're here. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on." His eyes are wide and earnest. Mark can hear his thoughts and feel his concern. It's enough to make him feel drunk, because none of this can really be happening.
He walks towards Eduardo, closing the large space between them with all of the grace of a confused zombie. "Wardo," he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish that or what to say. His name is going to have to be enough.
Eduardo takes an automatic step backwards when Mark infringes on his personal space (what the hell? he thinks) but he goes still when Mark reaches out to grab hold of his arms. He flinches when Mark leans towards him; Mark can feel Eduardo's breath against his mouth.
Is he trying to kiss me? Don't be stupid, Eduardo thinks.
Mark's heart is pounding and he can feel nerves and excitement fighting in the pit of his stomach. There's no horror; there's no disgust. Eduardo isn't running for the door yet, even though Mark is so close that Eduardo's face is fuzzy in front of him.
Mark's hand shifts carefully to Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo flinches again in surprise, but he still doesn't pull away. He says Mark's name - whispers it, actually - and then Mark can't put it off any longer. He darts forward like a lightweight boxer, in and out before anything can register. His hand lingers on Eduardo's face even after the one-second kiss is over.
There is nothing in his head but static. Eduardo says his name again, and this time he is the one to lean forward and press his lips against Mark's. It isn't much longer, but this time Mark has the time to appreciate the softness of Eduardo's mouth and the way that he yields to him. He pushes forward, more demanding now, and Eduardo responds equally.
When they part lips, Mark breathes in Eduardo's scent and closes his eyes as he tries to hold himself together.
(We can't do this, Eduardo is thinking, over and over.)
His fingers sink into Eduardo's hair; it's as thick as it looks, and stiff with too much product. "I came here to do this," he says. "I left work and I got on a plane and I came half-way across the country to do this."
Eduardo softens against him with the next kiss, every muscle in his body seeming to go lax under temptation. Stumbling backwards, Mark manages to lead him with him across the room, hitting into furniture and tripping over each other's feet, but they manage to find the couch with its expensive embroidered fabric.
Mark lands on it heavily and Eduardo climbs onto his lap without breaking the contact between their mouths. He feels like fire in Mark's hands, dangerous and ever-moving. His thoughts are a fractured mess (yes, oh- god that's good) but Mark can feel his arousal mixed with his confusion; every single one of Eduardo's emotions is exposed to him, made clear, and he wishes that he'd had this back in college. Everything would have been easier.
His hand rests at the small of Eduardo's back as he breaks away from his mouth to explore along his jaw instead, over the barely-there stubble to his neck. "Mark," Eduardo says, soft as a whisper, while his fingers tangle in the curls of hair at Mark's nape. "Wait, Mark. What are we doing?"
Mark laughs in a puff of air through his nose, and doesn't move away from Eduardo's neck. He wants to suck a hickey there, something dark and ugly for everyone to see tomorrow. The thought makes his erection ache; he can feel his blood rushing south.
"What does it look like we're doing?" he asks. "Don't ask stupid questions. You're smarter than that."
Eduardo puts his hands on Mark's shoulders and shoves him against the back of the couch. He holds him at arms' length, frowning at him, and Mark can hear his thoughts buzzing as he tries to work out what to say. "I need to stop," Eduardo says eventually, after several stops and starts.
"You're worried that something is going to go wrong. That this is going to ruin things, which is great and all, but there really isn't anything left to ruin. We've already done all the damage we can." He'd laugh if it was funny, but it tastes like vinegar. "Stopping now, talking now, it isn't damage control. It's short-sighted."
Eduardo makes a sound that isn't anything like a laugh, and he looks away from Mark towards the side of the room. There's nothing there, just a standing lamp. When Eduardo starts to stand up, Mark holds onto him, arms tensing, and listens to the doubts running through his head.
"That wasn't an insult. It was insulting, but not an insult. That was an accident."
Eduardo stops trying to get off of him at least, but he's still debating whether or not to ask Mark to leave. Okay, fine. Mark still has a superpower on his side.
"Wardo, I'm not here to be a jerk. That bit just happens." He sees the corner of Eduardo's mouth twitch before he looks down, fighting a smile. "This is a chance. That's what I'm saying. The most logical thing to do is take it and see what happens."
(Don't let him play you, not again.)
"This isn't a trick. I promise."
(Don't listen don't listen don't listen.)
"Wardo," Mark says, because he's running out of words, "please."
It works. That one, single word - it works.
Wardo kisses him again.
Maybe it tastes like forgiveness.
*
Eduardo's body is warm and pliable as the sun comes up outside, shining through the window onto his sleeping skin. Mark's hand rests on his shoulder blades, his fingers stroking back and forth. He can't sleep. There's too much going on in his head, and it's getting louder by the second.
It's like the volume has been turned up to eleven. Every sleeping thought, flickering dream, it's all echoing like fireworks inside his brain. His head pounds in time with his pulse.
The bed is warm, but it's too much and Mark has to break away. He slips out into the colder air of the hotel room, his bare feet padding against the wooden floor as he heads to the bathroom. It's around twice the size it has to be, and every surface is sparkling, and as Mark closes the door and sinks against it the sound in his head dulls, just a little.
In the mirror, he looks as if he has a hangover: dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, damp hair. "Shit," Mark whispers. He presses his hands against his forehead, but it doesn't help. "Shit, shit, shit."
Something has gone wrong. Last night was the most amazing thing to have ever happened to him, with the feeling of Eduardo's body around him and the open trust ringing in his head, but it's as if they've smashed all the windows and broken all the doors. Now there is endless noise and a throbbing headache.
He breathes through his nose and tries to will it away. There has to be a freaking volume control on this thing, something to turn it down, because he thinks his head might explode and that isn't necessarily a case of being over-dramatic. Earlier this week, he became a telepath. He's seen Scanners. He's not ready to go all Cronenberg yet.
He pushes himself up the door, one slow inch at a time, until he is upright again. The noise in his head still thumps like he's at a dance rave; he thinks Eduardo is dreaming about puppies. Puppies have no reason to be this loud.
His hand finds the door handle and he holds onto it until his knuckles go white. He can't think; he needs some air, some space, some piece and quiet.
Gone out. Back later.
He leaves the post-it note stuck to the bed-post and creeps out, getting changed as he heads to the door, hopping into his trousers as he goes. When he gets a few blocks away from the hotel, the sound in his head begins to dim, but it's still louder than it ought to be. It's like Eduardo is right there, speaking directly into his ear with a megaphone in hand.
He has to leave when he wants to stay and sort everything out. His feet feel like traitors, but the worst of it hasn't hit yet. He doesn't know what he's going to do when Eduardo starts to wake up.
Part Two
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark
Word Count: 5326
Rating: NC-17
A/N: For the notagain_again prompt "Characters have, or suddenly develop, a psychic/telepathic bond". My title is taken from the lyrical wizardry of Don't You Want Me Baby, because I'm hardcore like that. Part two should be posted in a couple of days.
Summary: Mark wakes up with the ability to hear Eduardo's thoughts. It would have been a lot more helpful when they were still talking to each other.
Mark's eyes snap open in the darkness and he clutches at his chest, fingernails scratching at the cotton of his t-shirt. He expects to find a dagger, but there's nothing. No blood, just pain. It's like electricity and fire, hot blue on the inside of his eyelids.
Stumbling from bed, Mark fumbles for the phone. I'm having a heart attack, he diagnoses, followed swiftly by, I think I'm dying.
It's interesting. Terrifying, and painful, but interesting.
His fingers knock his cell phone to the floor and he drops to his knees to chase it. His breath wheezes; he sounds like an old man. Clutching hold of his phone, his fingers are useless as he tries to press the right keys. Touch screen. Bad idea.
He slumps back against the wall and holds onto his phone like a stress ball. Eyes closed, he tries to remember how the clean flood of oxygen feels. His medicals all check out - but none of that matters, really, when it feels as if someone is trying to hollow out his chest with an instrument that isn't sharp enough for the job. It's torture.
And, suddenly, it's over.
The pain releases as if yanked away, and he opens his eyes looking for a rescuer: there's no one there. He is sitting on the floor in the corner of his bedroom clinging to his phone like it's a security blanket, and he is utterly alone. There is nothing but a wounded, empty ache in the centre of his chest, and he's pretty sure that that's an emotional response rather than a physical one. It's kinda odd. He's never felt that before.
It takes him too long to be able to uncurl his limbs, as stiff as tree roots, and crawl back into his bed. The sheets are cold and tangle around his legs, and he lies awake for forty minutes staring across his bedroom in the dark, feeling his own mortality and an aching loneliness that has never plagued him before.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of Eduardo for the first time in months.
*
He's a blank mess the next day, but no one comments on it. They're probably used to their zombie-eyed, sullen boss by this point, and Mark barely notices that nobody notices that he's a mess; he's not used to paying attention to them either.
His chest doesn't hurt any more, not that stabbing pain, but as he sits behind his desk flicking through document after document there's something heavy in the air around him. Fog, maybe, except the room is clear and he's certain this is in his head. His heart. Somewhere between the two.
He leaves work early that evening.
He goes home and sits by himself, watching dumb comedies that don't amuse him at all. He doesn't code; he doesn't want to. He never doesn't want to code. This might be the first time in his life that the sight of a computer makes his stomach churn. He thinks he's ill. It might be fatal.
And then he thinks, God, this is delicious, which is really weird since he hasn't eaten anything in at least three hours and there is no food in his apartment. Doesn't seem to matter. His mouth still salivates and his stomach grumbles in earnest delight. Mark stares down at it in silent accusation. He's not sure what's going on here. He is, however, absolutely certain that he doesn't like it.
*
After a week of aching chests and random thoughts and lying in his bed clinging to a pillow because he feels so stupidly lonely that he might cry, he goes to see his doctor. They spirit him through every single test that they can think of, and he's just about as healthy as a man in his mid-twenties with a terrible diet, no desire to exercise and a cruel sleeping pattern can be.
"There's some unusual activity in your brain scan," the doctor says when he pushes him on the matter. "But it really is nothing to worry about at all."
"What's going on?" Marks asks. "Tell me exactly."
They bring him the scans and walk him through every coloured blip. High activity, bright colours, but nothing dangerous. Definitely nothing fatal. The doctor panders to his ego, suggesting that it might be an explanation for how he has managed to achieve so much, and Mark ignores him. There's something going on here, even if this doctor won't agree.
"Is there a car waiting?" he asks his assistant when they're waiting in the elevator. "There's that meeting with Thomas and Jessica. I'm going to be late if we don't rush."
His assistant stares at him for a moment, before she looks down to investigate her Blackberry. "Your schedule is clear for the day," she says. "Who are Thomas and Jessica?"
It's a good question. Unfortunately, he has no idea what the answer might be. "You're my assistant. It's your job to know that kind of thing."
She looks like she might have just swallowed a spoonful of salt, and he feels bad about that, but not bad enough to apologise. Or elaborate. Or do anything other than spend the rest of their trip in frowning silence, while she makes frantic phone calls trying to work out if there's a meeting that he's supposed to be attending. There's nothing, just a yawning gap in his schedule that he was going to spend glaring over the shoulders of Facebook's programmers.
In the end, he doesn't do that.
He leaves the office. He turns off his phone. He finds a park.
There are flowers and grass and an ice-cream stand. It's the kind of place that shouldn't exist in the middle of a city, but he finds a park bench and is glad for the quietness that surrounds him. A statue dedicated to some great man or other rears in the background, and he ignores it. He stares ahead of himself without seeing a thing.
He is thinking about going home; he is thinking about slipping off his tie and taking a shower, or maybe a bath, and then making something to eat, stir-fry probably - there's food in the fridge. He can glance over the accounts on his laptop once he's in bed.
All of which are really weird, because he's not really thinking about any of that stuff at all. That is not the kind of thing that Mark Zuckerberg thinks about. He's feeling like a pod person right now, like he's been replaced without knowing it, except he's still inside his own head and he knows that this stuff is wrong - that it's not him.
And then there's the other thing.
The weird thing.
(yes, weirder than thinking thoughts that he would never think.)
These thoughts, these not-his thoughts, are coming through in a not-him voice.
More specifically, they're coming through in an Eduardo-style voice.
Ordinarily, that wouldn't be that weird, because Mark has had an Eduardo voice in his head for a long time, one that comes out once in a while to express its displeasure when he's gone too long without sleep. And, yeah, that makes him sound crazy. He's not. For years, he was so used to Eduardo nagging and looking after him that it's taken hold. Even now.
Yet that's not the kind of thing that he's talking about any more. These aren't his own thoughts coming through in a faux-Eduardo tone.
He's almost certain that they are Eduardo's thoughts coming through in Eduardo's voice, and Mark thinks that maybe he's just qualified for the X-Men.
"Huh," he says under his breath. The silence of the park doesn't answer.
*
Maybe finding out that he has the telepathic ability to listen in on his ex-best friend's thoughts when he's in a completely separate city should be a bigger deal than it is, but Mark takes it in his stride. He doesn't let anyone else in on the secret, because it's really none of their business and because he can't think of anyone that would be interested in Eduardo's mundane thoughts anyway, but he does a little bit of digging. The best thing about computers is that they're easy to talk to if you know the right language. Mark is fluent.
It's not much of a surprise to discover that Eduardo had a business lunch with a pair called Thomas and Jessica yesterday. It's actually a relief, because now he has positive proof that he isn't going crazy - he's just going psychic. Or something. That's the part that he hasn't worked out yet.
It's actually exciting, having a new project to work on, a new puzzle to work out.
It's less exciting that it's Wardo that is at the heart of it, because Mark's main survival technique since the lawsuits has been not to think about him, not to remember any of it at all. If Eduardo's thoughts these days are anything to go by, he uses the same technique. Mark doesn't hear anything about himself. It makes him cranky.
He gave Eduardo exactly what he wanted in the settlement, didn't he?
Eduardo should be thinking about him.
A lot.
He's earned it, hasn't he? Instead, all that he hears about is the monotony of Eduardo's life: people he meets and meals he has and movies he watches during long haul flights. It's like listening in on the dullest reconnaissance tapes in existence. There's nothing important here, and Mark is disappointed by that. He doesn't believe in fate or anything like that, but he'd like to think that there's more to do with this new development than listen to Eduardo's grocery lists.
Sitting in his office, staring at his computer screen, Mark taps a pen against his pursed lips as he thinks.
And then he makes a mistake.
Mark would say that he isn't the sort of person to make mistakes, not ever, or at least not often. He's logical and levelheaded and he doesn't allow his emotions to interfere with his actions.
Looking up Eduardo's current phone number and calling him right away is neither logical nor levelheaded. It's almost certainly emotional. If Mark isn't careful, he's going to have to start reconsidering his self-assessment.
He hangs up before it even rings twice, then slumps in his chair and stares at his phone as if it is the sole source of his problems. It is, really. If Alexander Graham Bell had slacked off a little more often, none of this would be happening.
He feels confused, and curious, and then his phone starts ringing in his hand.
Shit. Shit.
He doesn't pick up, not yet; he just stares at the offending piece of technology with a blank expression. Irritation begins to gnaw at the back of his mind, and he thinks it must be Eduardo's, not his own, so takes a breath and answers the phone.
"Yes?" he says.
"Hello?" Eduardo's voice is like an intravenous hit of nostalgia. Mark's mouth twitches. He might be smiling. "I just missed a call from this number."
He should probably be saying something right now.
"It was an accident," he says. The wave of confusion starts again. "My phone was in my pocket. It must have called you by itself."
Mark? What the hell? sounds in his head.
"You have my number?" Eduardo asks. He doesn't ask who this is - Mark takes that as a victory, at least. At least Eduardo recognises him. "How did you get that?"
Mark frowns and stares ahead of him. The burble of Eduardo's thoughts speaks to him across the miles, questions and irritation and something that's a little bit like hope. It's hard to make sense of everything going through his mind; it's fast and non-linear and it's bit and pieces of a context he can't quite make sense of.
After listening in, he realises that Eduardo is waiting for an answer. "Uh," he supplies. "I found it online. You should be more careful."
Indignation, sharp and hot. "You're saying it's my fault you tracked down my number?"
"If you don't want people to be able to contact you, you shouldn't leave your details online. It's common sense."
"What did you want, Mark?"
That's a good question. A really good one. Through the buzz of every firing neutron, Mark focuses and thinks, Can you hear this?
He waits.
Eduardo?
Along the phone line, he hears an annoyed huff. "I'm going to hang up now. Are you even allowed to contact me?"
Mark swallows and frowns so hard that Eduardo must be able to sense it. "Can you hear anything?" he asks before Eduardo can hang up.
"Leave me alone, Mark," Eduardo sighs. It sounds like a plea.
Mark allows him to hang up and listens to the tone long after he's gone. He can hear thoughts burbling in his head like a heavy brook, and he tries to get a handle on it, to tame it somehow. There's too much, and most of it isn't complimentary.
Except there's one sentiment, one that hangs around saying it was good to hear his voice. That's the thought that cuts through the irritation and frustration to make Mark think that maybe the phone call was a good idea after all.
He's going to take back any bad thoughts about Alexander Graham Bell. The guy was definitely onto something.
*
He wakes up in the middle of the night, his eyes snapping open to stare at the dusky ceiling above him. It isn't pain this time that drags him from sleep.
Beneath the covers, his cock is hard as a rock, forming a tent in the material. His lips part in delight as a shiver runs right through him.
Oh god, oh god, oh my god, echoes through his head. It's not his voice.
He's pretty sure that he's listening in on Eduardo's sex life now.
And he doesn't think he's been this turned on in a long time.
Experimentally, his hand drifts until he can take hold of himself, the palm of his hand hot against his skin. He rolls onto his front, hips raised to accommodate his thrashing hand and leaking erection, and in the dark it's almost like all of this is real. He can hear Eduardo's voice and feel his desperation and it's almost as if he's in the room with him, trapped beneath him, taking it when Mark's hips twitch into his own hand.
Oh, fuck, yes, Mark hears. The only sounds in his bedroom are his own heavy breathing and the slide of his hand against his flesh. So good, yes.
He wishes he could see. He wants to be able to see Eduardo's face right now, to see the way it must flush and the way his pupils must be blown and black. Better than Erica, better than any of the girls he's been with in the past - Wardo, just Wardo. He holds in a groan by biting hard on his lower lip, listening as Eduardo's thoughts spin further and further out of control, reduced to nothing but feeling.
He comes at the same time as Eduardo does many miles away, his body tensing and breaking apart as he grunts and spills onto the bed sheets below. Panting for air, he tips to the side and allows his brain to fall into silence, numb static filling the airwaves.
*
It's obviously not a normal thing to do. If someone like Dustin or Chris had been given this ability, they wouldn't be using it for eavesdropping jerk-off sessions.
Maybe they would, Mark reasons as he sits in a meeting that he's probably supposed to be paying attention to. It could be nothing more than a side effect. Being inside someone's mind (or having them inside your mind, it's not quite clear how this is actually working yet, but the grammar behind it probably doesn't matter too much) during sex makes it inevitable that there would be some feelings. Erotic feelings. It's biology, or something like that.
That doesn't really explain the images in Mark's mind or the way that thinking of Eduardo bent over, ass-up, nearly gets Mark hard again. He crosses his legs beneath the table and doesn't allow his expression to so much as twitch when the woman beside him glances over. Nothing's wrong here. If he doesn't acknowledge it, nothing is wrong.
He makes it through the meeting through the genius application of his ability to zone out, allowing Eduardo's thoughts to take over his mind rather than paying attention to his own. It's an odd form of meditation, but it takes him out of himself. It's a vacation in his own body.
"I need to take the day off," he tells his assistant once the meeting is over.
She looks down at his schedule, eyes widening. "But-"
"Someone else can cover for me," he states. The days when he was Facebook have passed, now. It's all slipping out of his hands. If he dropped dead tomorrow, not that he's planning to, the company would be fine without him. Everything would go ahead without a hitch. Maybe that's an accomplishment.
Really, it makes him want to slip in some hostile lines of code in case of his untimely departure.
Or maybe not. Because that would endanger Facebook and Mark thinks he's already shown everyone that knows him that there's nothing he values more in the world than his site.
There's a stone in my shoe, Eduardo thinks. Mark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to watch his assistant fly into a panic as she makes short-notice arrangements and rearrangements to fix the afternoon for his departure. He should probably give her a raise.
It takes him an hour to be ready to leave the office, and when Dustin asks him where he's off to he shakes his head. He doesn't think he knows (not yet, not consciously, not so he'll admit it).
It's easy to get to the airport, easy to board a flight, easy to travel as long as he's not thinking in anything other than Eduardo's voice. It's what comes next that is going to be the hard part.
*
Eduardo is currently in Chicago for a week while he visits old friends that Mark has never heard of. There are some meetings as well, long and boring. Mixing business and pleasure. Practical. Never resting, but still drawn to people. Mark remembers that.
Hearing the patter of Eduardo's thoughts while on the plane is more entertaining than the in-flight movies. He closes his eyes and does nothing more than listen, wondering if this is becoming an obsession. He's been told in that past that he has an obsessive personality, prone to addiction. He's focused, that's all.
With Eduardo, after all this time, it might be more complicated than that.
He makes it back to Eduardo's hotel while Eduardo is still at dinner, so he goes to the hotel bar while he's waiting. Might not be such a good idea. His blood feels like it's fizzing already, like there's something running through his veins that just won't sit still. That feeling is definitely from him, not Wardo; lurking behind the nervousness, he can feel the relaxed amusement that probably means that Eduardo is out for dinner with friends.
There is a degree of jealousy mixed in with those nerves. All in all, it's not a pleasant feeling.
The second hand on the clock is moving at a ridiculously slow pace. He wonders if it needs a new battery.
He has a plan. It involves waiting for Eduardo to go up to his room, and allowing him to settle in, and then going up to talk to him once his thoughts are calm and relaxed. Mark hasn't actually thought of what he actually wants to talk to him about, or even why he's here, but he has enough of a plan to get him to the door. After that, it's all bound to fall into place.
Eduardo, however, seems unwilling to cooperate with his plans. At around ten thirty, Mark feels a wave of confusion blast into him, moments before Eduardo taps on his shoulder. "Mark?" he says. He sounds as if this is the unlikeliest thing to have ever happened to him. "What are you doing here?"
Very good question.
There's no good answer.
"I have to talk to you," Mark says. With a frown, Eduardo nods urgently. Mark doesn't have anything to follow that up with.
"What is it?"
Mark swallows. "Can we go up to your room?"
What the hell? Eduardo thinks. "I think we should talk here. Mark, are you okay?"
He's not. He's starting to understand that he's really, really not okay, but this isn't the right place for that kind of epiphany. Not in public, and not with Eduardo's concerned eyes on him. He can feel the mixture of worry and annoyance that Eduardo is feeling right now - he wonders what emotion will win out when he knows the whole story.
"Please," he says, even if the word is foreign currency to him. "I don't want to do this here."
There must be something in his voice, something especially pathetic, because Eduardo curses inside his head and then allows Mark to follow him to the elevator. They don't talk during the journey, and the elevator seems to take forever to go up. Mark's eyes glance to the side at every opportunity to steal glances at Eduardo, like a man starved of oxygen.
He's wearing one of his ridiculous suits, and his head is tilted back to watch the glowing numbers above the door as they count off the floors. It exposes his lean neck, the skin golden and warm, and Mark's eyes are drawn to the angle of his Adam's apple.
I'm here to fuck him, he realises, and it's not much of a revelation.
Eduardo has a large suite and when they enter Mark takes the time to look around. Eduardo watches him with arms crossed over his chest, frown on his face. The silence is heavy. Mentioning the weather doesn't help. Mark has never been good at small talk.
"Mark, you didn't fly all the way out here to talk about the rain," Eduardo says.
"You have a point."
"So?"
Mark blinks a few times. He wonders if this is what it feels like to look at an oncoming truck.
He's sick, Eduardo thinks. He's dying. He's here 'cause he's dying.
His eyes are as big as a cartoon characters and his breathing is heavier than it has to be. His hands have been shoved deep into his pockets.
"I'm okay," Mark blurts. "I'm not ill or anything. I'm healthy. Mostly."
Eduardo nods, and takes a step further into the room. Mark is the one in the centre, acting as if he owns the place; Eduardo is the one hanging near the door, as if he might need to escape at any moment.
"You're here to tell me you're healthy?" Eduardo states.
"I don't know how to do this." Mark presses his lips together in concentration. "I left work today because I wanted to come and find you."
"You called me last night," Eduardo reminds him, "Out of the blue, and now you're here. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on." His eyes are wide and earnest. Mark can hear his thoughts and feel his concern. It's enough to make him feel drunk, because none of this can really be happening.
He walks towards Eduardo, closing the large space between them with all of the grace of a confused zombie. "Wardo," he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish that or what to say. His name is going to have to be enough.
Eduardo takes an automatic step backwards when Mark infringes on his personal space (what the hell? he thinks) but he goes still when Mark reaches out to grab hold of his arms. He flinches when Mark leans towards him; Mark can feel Eduardo's breath against his mouth.
Is he trying to kiss me? Don't be stupid, Eduardo thinks.
Mark's heart is pounding and he can feel nerves and excitement fighting in the pit of his stomach. There's no horror; there's no disgust. Eduardo isn't running for the door yet, even though Mark is so close that Eduardo's face is fuzzy in front of him.
Mark's hand shifts carefully to Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo flinches again in surprise, but he still doesn't pull away. He says Mark's name - whispers it, actually - and then Mark can't put it off any longer. He darts forward like a lightweight boxer, in and out before anything can register. His hand lingers on Eduardo's face even after the one-second kiss is over.
There is nothing in his head but static. Eduardo says his name again, and this time he is the one to lean forward and press his lips against Mark's. It isn't much longer, but this time Mark has the time to appreciate the softness of Eduardo's mouth and the way that he yields to him. He pushes forward, more demanding now, and Eduardo responds equally.
When they part lips, Mark breathes in Eduardo's scent and closes his eyes as he tries to hold himself together.
(We can't do this, Eduardo is thinking, over and over.)
His fingers sink into Eduardo's hair; it's as thick as it looks, and stiff with too much product. "I came here to do this," he says. "I left work and I got on a plane and I came half-way across the country to do this."
Eduardo softens against him with the next kiss, every muscle in his body seeming to go lax under temptation. Stumbling backwards, Mark manages to lead him with him across the room, hitting into furniture and tripping over each other's feet, but they manage to find the couch with its expensive embroidered fabric.
Mark lands on it heavily and Eduardo climbs onto his lap without breaking the contact between their mouths. He feels like fire in Mark's hands, dangerous and ever-moving. His thoughts are a fractured mess (yes, oh- god that's good) but Mark can feel his arousal mixed with his confusion; every single one of Eduardo's emotions is exposed to him, made clear, and he wishes that he'd had this back in college. Everything would have been easier.
His hand rests at the small of Eduardo's back as he breaks away from his mouth to explore along his jaw instead, over the barely-there stubble to his neck. "Mark," Eduardo says, soft as a whisper, while his fingers tangle in the curls of hair at Mark's nape. "Wait, Mark. What are we doing?"
Mark laughs in a puff of air through his nose, and doesn't move away from Eduardo's neck. He wants to suck a hickey there, something dark and ugly for everyone to see tomorrow. The thought makes his erection ache; he can feel his blood rushing south.
"What does it look like we're doing?" he asks. "Don't ask stupid questions. You're smarter than that."
Eduardo puts his hands on Mark's shoulders and shoves him against the back of the couch. He holds him at arms' length, frowning at him, and Mark can hear his thoughts buzzing as he tries to work out what to say. "I need to stop," Eduardo says eventually, after several stops and starts.
"You're worried that something is going to go wrong. That this is going to ruin things, which is great and all, but there really isn't anything left to ruin. We've already done all the damage we can." He'd laugh if it was funny, but it tastes like vinegar. "Stopping now, talking now, it isn't damage control. It's short-sighted."
Eduardo makes a sound that isn't anything like a laugh, and he looks away from Mark towards the side of the room. There's nothing there, just a standing lamp. When Eduardo starts to stand up, Mark holds onto him, arms tensing, and listens to the doubts running through his head.
"That wasn't an insult. It was insulting, but not an insult. That was an accident."
Eduardo stops trying to get off of him at least, but he's still debating whether or not to ask Mark to leave. Okay, fine. Mark still has a superpower on his side.
"Wardo, I'm not here to be a jerk. That bit just happens." He sees the corner of Eduardo's mouth twitch before he looks down, fighting a smile. "This is a chance. That's what I'm saying. The most logical thing to do is take it and see what happens."
(Don't let him play you, not again.)
"This isn't a trick. I promise."
(Don't listen don't listen don't listen.)
"Wardo," Mark says, because he's running out of words, "please."
It works. That one, single word - it works.
Wardo kisses him again.
Maybe it tastes like forgiveness.
*
Eduardo's body is warm and pliable as the sun comes up outside, shining through the window onto his sleeping skin. Mark's hand rests on his shoulder blades, his fingers stroking back and forth. He can't sleep. There's too much going on in his head, and it's getting louder by the second.
It's like the volume has been turned up to eleven. Every sleeping thought, flickering dream, it's all echoing like fireworks inside his brain. His head pounds in time with his pulse.
The bed is warm, but it's too much and Mark has to break away. He slips out into the colder air of the hotel room, his bare feet padding against the wooden floor as he heads to the bathroom. It's around twice the size it has to be, and every surface is sparkling, and as Mark closes the door and sinks against it the sound in his head dulls, just a little.
In the mirror, he looks as if he has a hangover: dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, damp hair. "Shit," Mark whispers. He presses his hands against his forehead, but it doesn't help. "Shit, shit, shit."
Something has gone wrong. Last night was the most amazing thing to have ever happened to him, with the feeling of Eduardo's body around him and the open trust ringing in his head, but it's as if they've smashed all the windows and broken all the doors. Now there is endless noise and a throbbing headache.
He breathes through his nose and tries to will it away. There has to be a freaking volume control on this thing, something to turn it down, because he thinks his head might explode and that isn't necessarily a case of being over-dramatic. Earlier this week, he became a telepath. He's seen Scanners. He's not ready to go all Cronenberg yet.
He pushes himself up the door, one slow inch at a time, until he is upright again. The noise in his head still thumps like he's at a dance rave; he thinks Eduardo is dreaming about puppies. Puppies have no reason to be this loud.
His hand finds the door handle and he holds onto it until his knuckles go white. He can't think; he needs some air, some space, some piece and quiet.
Gone out. Back later.
He leaves the post-it note stuck to the bed-post and creeps out, getting changed as he heads to the door, hopping into his trousers as he goes. When he gets a few blocks away from the hotel, the sound in his head begins to dim, but it's still louder than it ought to be. It's like Eduardo is right there, speaking directly into his ear with a megaphone in hand.
He has to leave when he wants to stay and sort everything out. His feet feel like traitors, but the worst of it hasn't hit yet. He doesn't know what he's going to do when Eduardo starts to wake up.
Part Two