V2.0: fic(&mix) (1/2)
rating: pg-13/light r
summary: Chris and Dustin try to fix Mark and Eduardo. Problems arise.
“I'm not asking you to talk to him,” Chris had left on your voicemail, almost as if he knew that there would be no way for you to argue with the automated system. “I'm just asking you to consider what he has to say to you and try to not kill him in front of any photographers if you can possibly help it.”
download here
1. boy done wrong again - belle & sebastian
2. i gave you all - mumford & sons
3. when i want/non-musical silence - jimmy eat world
4. make this go on forever - snow patrol
5. district sleeps alone tonight - the postal service
6. prodigal - onerepublic
7. theory of the crows - the national
8. confessions - city & colour
9. sylvia - the antlers
10. mended - the autumn film
- the boy done wrong again
hang your head in shame and cry your life away
are you okay now?-
You got the first call at about eleven, just after your assistant has passed a pile of papers your way and made you your coffee. You'd never admit it, but you miss the way that college coffee used to taste - never good quality grounds even when you could afford it, but strong enough to keep you awake for hours on end. But there was Chris on the other end of the line, asking you to come back and you're not sure if any amount of coffee is going to convince yourself that you're actually awake.
“Don't hang up,” was the first thing that he said as soon as your assistant had passed you the phone with a wide-eyed expression and a terrified, “You might not want to take this call, sir”.
But that was over a week ago and you're still not quite sure why you agreed to his “You don't have to say yes right away, but at least try coming back for a while.” You're trying to convince yourself that you hope Mark's had some kind of hideous non-life-threatening accident and isn't at the office, but you know that you want to see at least a glimpse of him, hope that he looks as terrible as you feel.
It's almost a blessing when you step out of the airport and can finally begin to make your way into a taxi. You've never quite grown used to the flying sensation, never been quite able to handle that internal grimace when you've been told to make yet another business trip. Chris had phoned you before you had stumbled blearily onto your plane earlier that morning, the queues to check-in just beginning to form as your phone buzzed angrily in your top pocket. It had been good hearing from him, even as the two of you stuttered your way through the standard structure of some sort of conversation. Your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since the beginning of the week, almost as if Dustin and Chris are terrified that they won't ever get the chance to speak to you again if they don't keep in constant contact. Part of you is flattered, but you resent that it's over two years too late.
“I'm not asking you to talk to him,” Chris had left on your voicemail, almost as if he knew that there would be no way for you to argue with the automated system. “I'm just asking you to consider what he has to say to you and try to not kill him in front of any photographers if you can possibly help it.” The end of his message is spoken in a slightly-raised voice, almost as if he's trying to force a joke from the remnants of the relationship that you and Mark share. You've heard the same tone playing from your co-workers' laptops whenever Mark's done something bad enough to warrant being on the news again. No matter how hard you've tried, you can't seem to escape him.
“I'm on my way,” is all that you say when you've dialled Dustin's number, knowing that he'll probably have Chris standing right by his shoulder. Dialling Chris primarily would be a bad idea; there's no doubt that he'd probably suspect you of having done something that needed his help. Over the past week, you've dialled that number more than you ever did in the past two years and you've still been greeted with the same harassed tone. It's nothing that you remember from college, but you don't doubt that working in close proximity with both Dustin and Mark has ultimately taken its toll upon Chris' sanity. You don't doubt that it would have done the same to you, if you'd attended all of the business meetings that Chris e-mailed to you with the header, 'Important:' and the footnote, 'It would be helpful if you attended this.'
You never did.
Dustin's still on the other end of the line, babbling away about things you aren't concentrating on and you both know this, but he doesn't show any signs of hanging up any time soon. That's one thing that you remember well about Dustin; his ability to talk about nothing in particular for hours on end. Once, it had been amusing. Now, you have no idea what to think. You're not sure whether you should be flattered or annoyed by this, not sure if you should trust any of them ever again.
“I have to go now, have to sort out things back home,” is an easy way of getting rid of Dustin and suddenly he's silent, cut short in the middle of a sentence and left hanging at the other end of the line. He's smart though, Dustin, sharper than any of you ever gave credit for, apart from Chris, possibly. You're not sure whether to simply hang up now or to give some kind of response to Dustin's awkward pause in conversation, not sure whether you actually want to reassure Dustin that it's not all his fault because you know him and he's probably having some internal meltdown about whether he may or may not have caused the end of the company.
You hang up, ignoring the brief pang of guilt that you feel and focus on the world outside your window. Nowhere's ever felt like home to you and this city causes a sort of discomfort inside, makes your skin prickle. You don't want to say that it's because Mark lives here, don't want to give the impression that you even care that he's here but-
The taxi's finally stopped outside the office and somehow it looks smaller than it did the last time that you were here, less impressive. The whole city seems that way, the pavements cracked and covered in litter. It once seemed enough. Now, you're not so sure.
- I gave you all
and you rip it from my hands
and you swear it's all gone -
He looks at you and you think to yourself angrily, nothing has changed. He is still looking through you, eyes looking just to the side of your head instead of actually at you.
“I should go,” you throw out into the silence, aware that Dustin and Chris are still standing there, still looking shocked at the realisation that the two of you will never be friends again, will never share the same room comfortably ever again. You did this, you think, you have done this.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes are still the same shade of grey - or was it blue? He never focused on you long enough for you to ascertain which of the two it was. He looks more like the Mark that you'd first met when you came to Harvard; you recognise the dark shadows under his eyes and the sharp junctions of his face all too well.
“Wardo's come to check on how the company's doing and to-” Dustin starts and Chris clears his throat, fixing him with one of his trademark glares. The air seems thick with tension in a way that you didn't think was possible outside of B-grade films watched in a room an era ago. It's almost eerily reminiscent of the last time that you were here - you're surrounded (in case you snap again, your mind tells you) by hipster interns wearing clothes they can scarcely afford, doing the job that they love to hate.
You want to take it away from them. You want to rip the ground from underneath their feet, want to destroy any faith that they ever had in the people they call their friends.
Chris and Dustin are making the kind of faces that you're used to - the unsure, fake smile faces that you've come to recognise as an everyday occurrence since the lawsuit. Sometimes, when your father's phoned and your mother's tried to make her apologies, you think of it as the 'Shock Value' face, an expectation that no-one fails to fulfil.
No-one in this room knows how to react. It's almost as if they've never been in a room with two people who hate each before.
And so you're making your excuses, fleeing pathetically to the next room, trying not to meet his eyes. You've made it your mission not to type his name into any search bars ever and to turn away whenever someone mentions his name but here he is, chewing on a Red Vine as carelessly as before.
Naturally, he follows you into the other room.
“Go away, Mark,” is all that you can say before he's stepping close to you and you can finally see his face and oh Christ is he still not sleeping?
Somewhere in your mind, you haven't quite realised that this is Mark that you are talking to. Obviously he ignores you.
“Sean's gone,” he throws out carelessly, almost as if he knows how this feels to you. Probably does. Part of you wants to unpack your bags and say that you'll never leave again, but the other part of you is saying that you shouldn't have had to go first, shouldn't have had to have been kicked out for him to see this stupid mistake right in front of his face.
So this is what Chris was talking about.
You're trying not to sigh because you both know that that's your first sign of weakness, the first clue that you've begun to consider what he's saying. You don't want to hear him out. You don't want to give him a chance.
He hands you a pile of papers, trying to meet your eyes but you won't let him, don't want to see the toll that the past two years have had on him, don't want to feel anything but hate for him. Coming back was clearly a mistake, you know that now, you swear that you'll be on the next plane back but truthfully you don't know when your next trip to the airport will be. He just has to stay away from you and remember to function, Eduardo.
You take the papers without glancing at them, knowing that you'd agree to the slightest change in the blink of an eye if it would just make all of this just go away.
“Wardo, I-” he pauses and you look up without meaning to, placing your hands in your pockets and trying not to look like you care at all because you don't, you don't care about any of this, it's just a minor inconvenience.
“We need you back here as soon as possible,” he finishes and you're disappointed but relieved. He has no excuses, he has no words and you have no reason to listen to him, no reason to see him ever again after this minor hiccup is over and done with.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods and leaves, your eyes still on his back, not even daring to look down at the papers, not wanting to consider anything that he has to say.
You stay up all night avoiding those papers and you're burning old photographs at four in the morning while everyone but the person that you want to speak to most in the world is sleeping peacefully but it doesn't solve anything, doesn't stop your hands from shaking as you tear and tear at the words that mean nothing to you now. You're hurting and he's never known quite how much those words dug into your chest, made you want to turn and run till you were away from everyone, away from everything. Signed agreements mean nothing in comparison to the feeling in your stomach of wanting to be sick whenever you see his face.
You'd give anything not to feel like this. Would throw away the shares that keep you breathing but not living. Never living.
- don't call me foolish 'cause I'm not
just be the lover when I want
if I'm hated well it's not my fault I swear -
Someone's passing around glasses of wine (how civilised, Mark, really?) but the four of you have all taken bottles of beer, chipping the lids off onto a pile. You don't doubt that everyone was surprised when you agreed to come into work after hours to celebrate the success of the new site set-up; even you were. Dustin's murmuring things to Chris about the end of an era and he's nodding back at him, cheeks flushed and a small smile, but his eyes are flickering to you occasionally, still worried. The side of your body burns from the close proximity to Mark; he's lounging casually on the sofa next to you, back towards you, legs hanging over the edge. You know that he's bordering on drunk - it doesn't matter how silent he is, the constant glances that he makes up at you are evidence enough of the fact that he's still as bad at coping with alcohol as he was in college. It's slightly grating on your nerves but this is Mark's territory, Mark's scene, so you'll never say a thing. Not unless he starts it.
Part of you is aware that something is more than likely to happen tonight, whether you're going to finally argue with Mark or let the three of them know exactly how you feel. You've always been the emotional one of the group, the side of you that disagreed with every single one of your business deals that cut out a broke company. The side of you that your father always picked out. The side of you that he still picks out.
You will always blame Mark for the fact that your father looks at you and sees a disappointment.
The side of your arm is brushing against Mark and he's leaning into you and you're trying to fight back disgust. It's not like it's anything different than you've known - he's always been a careless drunk; FaceMash proved that, but you'd expected Chris to control his actions. That's what they're all doing these days, protecting the heart of the company.
“We need you, Wardo,” Mark suddenly repeats from before, but he's looking up at you like he's talking about himself. Chris is subtly listening in the background, arm slung around Dustin's shoulder and legs stretched out across the floor and you're not sure whether to be embarrassed or intrigued. “FaceBook needs you.”
You risk it and look down at him, see that he's managed to position himself across your body and is peering up at you intently, eyes screwed half-shut in concentration. He's drunk and you're furious.
“You're not FaceBook, Mark.”
He reaches out with his hand into the air and nearly overbalances onto the floor, hoodie riding up slightly to reveal a hint of sharp, sharp hipbones.
You swallow.
“That's what you don't get, Wardo,” he's saying distantly but maybe you should put down the bottle of beer that you've just opened because his voice sounds like it's foggy in your ears. Maybe that's just you. Somewhere across the room, Dustin's laughing and gesturing wildly at the two of you as Chris just watches, somehow still able to read the situation through an alcohol-haze.
“I've got to go, Mark,” you say and you're talking in general, hoping he understands, even though he's never understood anything. You have to take a second to keep your balance when you've got to your feet and you tell yourself you're looking back to the sofa to make sure that you haven't dropped anything, not because you want to see Mark's face (it's the same as the depositions; stony, silent, shut-down).
It doesn't register in your mind that Mark is walking behind you until you reach the end of the corridor near the back entrance, feeling your way along the walls in the dark. Nothing about the design is in any way familiar to you; it's too modern to show that once upon a time, you had a say in what went on in here. It's too Mark.
“You always were the passive-aggressive one,” he says calmly and your heart beats faster, though you're not sure whether it's from Mark's presence or his words. He's standing close behind you and you're left wondering where this Mark came from, where the awkward boy who used to jump at human contact went. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's him, but you find yourself pushing him against the wall, both of you flinching as the impact hits you both harder than you expected. He's hot beneath your hands, hair standing up from where he's been tugging at it with his hands.
Eyes wide underneath heavy-set brows and you're leaning in to bite at his lip, his breath heavy upon your skin and you're thinking, so this is what gets under his skin. His breath hitches as you trail fingertips across his face and grab at his hoodie until he's pressed flush against you, making you aware of the height difference between you now more than ever. He's hard against you and you're pretending that you aren't, pretending that you're embarrassed about this but still going on with it. You're not quite sure who you're lying to.
“It's-” he's trying to speak and you're silencing him with your mouth, not wanting to hear his voice, not wanting to know who it is that you're kissing, afraid that someone, anyone, is going to walk in on you at this moment. You're half-hoping either Chris or Dustin will come down the corridor and save you from doing whatever you're doing, whatever you're planning on doing, but somehow this seems like the only thing that will solve things tonight. There's no reasoning with Mark, after all, and it's not as if he'll care come morning. He's never cared. He never will care.
- the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything -
You're making your way up to your apartment with Mark following close behind and all you can think is that he watched you stand there with your breath crackling in your throat like the dry flames that you used to destroy the memories of a former life in the night before and never said a word. He reaches out a hand to you and you can hear him speaking almost distantly but all that you can think is, 'would we be better if we spoke in code?' because that's what it all boils down to, something that you never even had a chance of competing against. And yet, you're beginning to doubt that you hate him. It's something that hits you hard and leaves you questioning everything you feel but you're beginning to think that you understand everything that he does with every failed explanation that he starts, every start of some half-assed apology.. You don't want to and you hate admitting that you do, but code is to him as he is to you, in the general ratio of things. Maybe you've had more to drink than you think you have - forgiveness is something that Mark will never deserve, will never earn.
You're struck by the realisation that somewhere along the line, Mark has grown up. Has changed, even. It's startling to realise the difference between the photographs that they show of you on revolving news stories and the faces staring back at you in the elevator reflection as you make your way up to your apartment silently. It's not something that is instantly visible - you sincerely doubt that even the tabloid newspapers scoping his every move have noticed the transition from his previously gawky teenage self to this current- whatever he is. You're not sure what you feel, not sure who you're pushing onto the bed beneath you, not sure whose neck you're peppering in dirty, dirty marks that your father would be so ashamed to see. His body is sharper than it's ever been before. Too sharp, you want to think, but that's not how you're supposed to think, not how you're supposed to feel.
You're still angry and you both know that, but it didn't stop him from giving you that look when you walked out of the office and he was waiting behind you, doesn't stop him clenching his fists possessively against your collarbone when he's barely conscious. He's so tired that you have to force yourself to clutch him and not just lie down beside him (you cannot break this pattern, this heart will break you if you let it).
Two years ago, you never would have imagined yourself ever talking to Mark Zuckerberg ever again, let alone doing whatever the two of you are doing.
His shirt is somewhere on the floor and you're fairly certain that you've ripped the neckline straight down the centre but it doesn't seem to matter at this moment, doesn't seem to quite hit home until he's raising his hips to slide down his jeans, looking more vulnerable than he ever has before. Than he ever did at the depositions. This is what you wanted, you tell yourself, and you almost convince yourself. His hands tremble slightly when you pull back from his mouth, eerily reminiscent to how he used to tremble after eight Red Bulls during a night-long coding session. You'd have to drag him away from his computer before he'd even consider bed, had to take the battery home with you just so he didn't sneak back on as soon as you'd left. The thoughts keep you clutching at his shoulders as he pushes against you, his “It's ridiculous to be jealous of an inanimate object, Wardo,” the motivation to unbutton your shirt and you'd known he was teasing, how could you not, but sometimes it felt like it was the truth, felt like you were battling for his attention and you never won. And Sean Parker, fuck, Sean Parker, because you'd been too young to go through your first lawsuit but there the two of you were, staring each other down over a stupid site and you'd trade the money back if it just meant that you'd have your best friend back again.
You're old enough now to know that sex doesn't have to be affectionate, doesn't even have to be caring, but this is nothing like you'd ever imagined yourself doing. It's harsh and it's violent, the way that he's arching his back up to claw at your back, your hands gripping so hard on his pale, pale skin that there's bound to be bruises in the morning and oh God, you hope that Chris and Dustin don't hear about this. He's leaning towards you, mouth open, but you will not kiss him again. That is the one thing that you will not do.
“Wardo-” He's lying beneath you, vulnerable and desperate, all you ever wanted, and all you can do is try not to cry as he chants his mantra across your skin, looks into your eyes finally and Christ, his eyes are grey, they're grey, and he looks as if he's about to cry, almost as if he knows that he disgusts you. Because he does, he does, this means nothing to you, will never mean anything to you.
“Eduardo,” you correct him and he's half-sobbing as your hands are leaving angry red marks upon his hips, his shoulders, anywhere that you can reach. Don't hurt me, you hear in the repetition of your name and the harsh intakes of breath that he's taking but all that you can think is you hurt me, you hurt me, you hurt me and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
You're not quite sure which is more honest.
“Stay,” he says, reaching for you across the bed, and you find yourself choking on the air that you're breathing.
Part two can be found here
summary: Chris and Dustin try to fix Mark and Eduardo. Problems arise.
“I'm not asking you to talk to him,” Chris had left on your voicemail, almost as if he knew that there would be no way for you to argue with the automated system. “I'm just asking you to consider what he has to say to you and try to not kill him in front of any photographers if you can possibly help it.”
download here
1. boy done wrong again - belle & sebastian
2. i gave you all - mumford & sons
3. when i want/non-musical silence - jimmy eat world
4. make this go on forever - snow patrol
5. district sleeps alone tonight - the postal service
6. prodigal - onerepublic
7. theory of the crows - the national
8. confessions - city & colour
9. sylvia - the antlers
10. mended - the autumn film
- the boy done wrong again
hang your head in shame and cry your life away
are you okay now?-
You got the first call at about eleven, just after your assistant has passed a pile of papers your way and made you your coffee. You'd never admit it, but you miss the way that college coffee used to taste - never good quality grounds even when you could afford it, but strong enough to keep you awake for hours on end. But there was Chris on the other end of the line, asking you to come back and you're not sure if any amount of coffee is going to convince yourself that you're actually awake.
“Don't hang up,” was the first thing that he said as soon as your assistant had passed you the phone with a wide-eyed expression and a terrified, “You might not want to take this call, sir”.
But that was over a week ago and you're still not quite sure why you agreed to his “You don't have to say yes right away, but at least try coming back for a while.” You're trying to convince yourself that you hope Mark's had some kind of hideous non-life-threatening accident and isn't at the office, but you know that you want to see at least a glimpse of him, hope that he looks as terrible as you feel.
It's almost a blessing when you step out of the airport and can finally begin to make your way into a taxi. You've never quite grown used to the flying sensation, never been quite able to handle that internal grimace when you've been told to make yet another business trip. Chris had phoned you before you had stumbled blearily onto your plane earlier that morning, the queues to check-in just beginning to form as your phone buzzed angrily in your top pocket. It had been good hearing from him, even as the two of you stuttered your way through the standard structure of some sort of conversation. Your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since the beginning of the week, almost as if Dustin and Chris are terrified that they won't ever get the chance to speak to you again if they don't keep in constant contact. Part of you is flattered, but you resent that it's over two years too late.
“I'm not asking you to talk to him,” Chris had left on your voicemail, almost as if he knew that there would be no way for you to argue with the automated system. “I'm just asking you to consider what he has to say to you and try to not kill him in front of any photographers if you can possibly help it.” The end of his message is spoken in a slightly-raised voice, almost as if he's trying to force a joke from the remnants of the relationship that you and Mark share. You've heard the same tone playing from your co-workers' laptops whenever Mark's done something bad enough to warrant being on the news again. No matter how hard you've tried, you can't seem to escape him.
“I'm on my way,” is all that you say when you've dialled Dustin's number, knowing that he'll probably have Chris standing right by his shoulder. Dialling Chris primarily would be a bad idea; there's no doubt that he'd probably suspect you of having done something that needed his help. Over the past week, you've dialled that number more than you ever did in the past two years and you've still been greeted with the same harassed tone. It's nothing that you remember from college, but you don't doubt that working in close proximity with both Dustin and Mark has ultimately taken its toll upon Chris' sanity. You don't doubt that it would have done the same to you, if you'd attended all of the business meetings that Chris e-mailed to you with the header, 'Important:' and the footnote, 'It would be helpful if you attended this.'
You never did.
Dustin's still on the other end of the line, babbling away about things you aren't concentrating on and you both know this, but he doesn't show any signs of hanging up any time soon. That's one thing that you remember well about Dustin; his ability to talk about nothing in particular for hours on end. Once, it had been amusing. Now, you have no idea what to think. You're not sure whether you should be flattered or annoyed by this, not sure if you should trust any of them ever again.
“I have to go now, have to sort out things back home,” is an easy way of getting rid of Dustin and suddenly he's silent, cut short in the middle of a sentence and left hanging at the other end of the line. He's smart though, Dustin, sharper than any of you ever gave credit for, apart from Chris, possibly. You're not sure whether to simply hang up now or to give some kind of response to Dustin's awkward pause in conversation, not sure whether you actually want to reassure Dustin that it's not all his fault because you know him and he's probably having some internal meltdown about whether he may or may not have caused the end of the company.
You hang up, ignoring the brief pang of guilt that you feel and focus on the world outside your window. Nowhere's ever felt like home to you and this city causes a sort of discomfort inside, makes your skin prickle. You don't want to say that it's because Mark lives here, don't want to give the impression that you even care that he's here but-
The taxi's finally stopped outside the office and somehow it looks smaller than it did the last time that you were here, less impressive. The whole city seems that way, the pavements cracked and covered in litter. It once seemed enough. Now, you're not so sure.
- I gave you all
and you rip it from my hands
and you swear it's all gone -
He looks at you and you think to yourself angrily, nothing has changed. He is still looking through you, eyes looking just to the side of your head instead of actually at you.
“I should go,” you throw out into the silence, aware that Dustin and Chris are still standing there, still looking shocked at the realisation that the two of you will never be friends again, will never share the same room comfortably ever again. You did this, you think, you have done this.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes are still the same shade of grey - or was it blue? He never focused on you long enough for you to ascertain which of the two it was. He looks more like the Mark that you'd first met when you came to Harvard; you recognise the dark shadows under his eyes and the sharp junctions of his face all too well.
“Wardo's come to check on how the company's doing and to-” Dustin starts and Chris clears his throat, fixing him with one of his trademark glares. The air seems thick with tension in a way that you didn't think was possible outside of B-grade films watched in a room an era ago. It's almost eerily reminiscent of the last time that you were here - you're surrounded (in case you snap again, your mind tells you) by hipster interns wearing clothes they can scarcely afford, doing the job that they love to hate.
You want to take it away from them. You want to rip the ground from underneath their feet, want to destroy any faith that they ever had in the people they call their friends.
Chris and Dustin are making the kind of faces that you're used to - the unsure, fake smile faces that you've come to recognise as an everyday occurrence since the lawsuit. Sometimes, when your father's phoned and your mother's tried to make her apologies, you think of it as the 'Shock Value' face, an expectation that no-one fails to fulfil.
No-one in this room knows how to react. It's almost as if they've never been in a room with two people who hate each before.
And so you're making your excuses, fleeing pathetically to the next room, trying not to meet his eyes. You've made it your mission not to type his name into any search bars ever and to turn away whenever someone mentions his name but here he is, chewing on a Red Vine as carelessly as before.
Naturally, he follows you into the other room.
“Go away, Mark,” is all that you can say before he's stepping close to you and you can finally see his face and oh Christ is he still not sleeping?
Somewhere in your mind, you haven't quite realised that this is Mark that you are talking to. Obviously he ignores you.
“Sean's gone,” he throws out carelessly, almost as if he knows how this feels to you. Probably does. Part of you wants to unpack your bags and say that you'll never leave again, but the other part of you is saying that you shouldn't have had to go first, shouldn't have had to have been kicked out for him to see this stupid mistake right in front of his face.
So this is what Chris was talking about.
You're trying not to sigh because you both know that that's your first sign of weakness, the first clue that you've begun to consider what he's saying. You don't want to hear him out. You don't want to give him a chance.
He hands you a pile of papers, trying to meet your eyes but you won't let him, don't want to see the toll that the past two years have had on him, don't want to feel anything but hate for him. Coming back was clearly a mistake, you know that now, you swear that you'll be on the next plane back but truthfully you don't know when your next trip to the airport will be. He just has to stay away from you and remember to function, Eduardo.
You take the papers without glancing at them, knowing that you'd agree to the slightest change in the blink of an eye if it would just make all of this just go away.
“Wardo, I-” he pauses and you look up without meaning to, placing your hands in your pockets and trying not to look like you care at all because you don't, you don't care about any of this, it's just a minor inconvenience.
“We need you back here as soon as possible,” he finishes and you're disappointed but relieved. He has no excuses, he has no words and you have no reason to listen to him, no reason to see him ever again after this minor hiccup is over and done with.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods and leaves, your eyes still on his back, not even daring to look down at the papers, not wanting to consider anything that he has to say.
You stay up all night avoiding those papers and you're burning old photographs at four in the morning while everyone but the person that you want to speak to most in the world is sleeping peacefully but it doesn't solve anything, doesn't stop your hands from shaking as you tear and tear at the words that mean nothing to you now. You're hurting and he's never known quite how much those words dug into your chest, made you want to turn and run till you were away from everyone, away from everything. Signed agreements mean nothing in comparison to the feeling in your stomach of wanting to be sick whenever you see his face.
You'd give anything not to feel like this. Would throw away the shares that keep you breathing but not living. Never living.
- don't call me foolish 'cause I'm not
just be the lover when I want
if I'm hated well it's not my fault I swear -
Someone's passing around glasses of wine (how civilised, Mark, really?) but the four of you have all taken bottles of beer, chipping the lids off onto a pile. You don't doubt that everyone was surprised when you agreed to come into work after hours to celebrate the success of the new site set-up; even you were. Dustin's murmuring things to Chris about the end of an era and he's nodding back at him, cheeks flushed and a small smile, but his eyes are flickering to you occasionally, still worried. The side of your body burns from the close proximity to Mark; he's lounging casually on the sofa next to you, back towards you, legs hanging over the edge. You know that he's bordering on drunk - it doesn't matter how silent he is, the constant glances that he makes up at you are evidence enough of the fact that he's still as bad at coping with alcohol as he was in college. It's slightly grating on your nerves but this is Mark's territory, Mark's scene, so you'll never say a thing. Not unless he starts it.
Part of you is aware that something is more than likely to happen tonight, whether you're going to finally argue with Mark or let the three of them know exactly how you feel. You've always been the emotional one of the group, the side of you that disagreed with every single one of your business deals that cut out a broke company. The side of you that your father always picked out. The side of you that he still picks out.
You will always blame Mark for the fact that your father looks at you and sees a disappointment.
The side of your arm is brushing against Mark and he's leaning into you and you're trying to fight back disgust. It's not like it's anything different than you've known - he's always been a careless drunk; FaceMash proved that, but you'd expected Chris to control his actions. That's what they're all doing these days, protecting the heart of the company.
“We need you, Wardo,” Mark suddenly repeats from before, but he's looking up at you like he's talking about himself. Chris is subtly listening in the background, arm slung around Dustin's shoulder and legs stretched out across the floor and you're not sure whether to be embarrassed or intrigued. “FaceBook needs you.”
You risk it and look down at him, see that he's managed to position himself across your body and is peering up at you intently, eyes screwed half-shut in concentration. He's drunk and you're furious.
“You're not FaceBook, Mark.”
He reaches out with his hand into the air and nearly overbalances onto the floor, hoodie riding up slightly to reveal a hint of sharp, sharp hipbones.
You swallow.
“That's what you don't get, Wardo,” he's saying distantly but maybe you should put down the bottle of beer that you've just opened because his voice sounds like it's foggy in your ears. Maybe that's just you. Somewhere across the room, Dustin's laughing and gesturing wildly at the two of you as Chris just watches, somehow still able to read the situation through an alcohol-haze.
“I've got to go, Mark,” you say and you're talking in general, hoping he understands, even though he's never understood anything. You have to take a second to keep your balance when you've got to your feet and you tell yourself you're looking back to the sofa to make sure that you haven't dropped anything, not because you want to see Mark's face (it's the same as the depositions; stony, silent, shut-down).
It doesn't register in your mind that Mark is walking behind you until you reach the end of the corridor near the back entrance, feeling your way along the walls in the dark. Nothing about the design is in any way familiar to you; it's too modern to show that once upon a time, you had a say in what went on in here. It's too Mark.
“You always were the passive-aggressive one,” he says calmly and your heart beats faster, though you're not sure whether it's from Mark's presence or his words. He's standing close behind you and you're left wondering where this Mark came from, where the awkward boy who used to jump at human contact went. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's him, but you find yourself pushing him against the wall, both of you flinching as the impact hits you both harder than you expected. He's hot beneath your hands, hair standing up from where he's been tugging at it with his hands.
Eyes wide underneath heavy-set brows and you're leaning in to bite at his lip, his breath heavy upon your skin and you're thinking, so this is what gets under his skin. His breath hitches as you trail fingertips across his face and grab at his hoodie until he's pressed flush against you, making you aware of the height difference between you now more than ever. He's hard against you and you're pretending that you aren't, pretending that you're embarrassed about this but still going on with it. You're not quite sure who you're lying to.
“It's-” he's trying to speak and you're silencing him with your mouth, not wanting to hear his voice, not wanting to know who it is that you're kissing, afraid that someone, anyone, is going to walk in on you at this moment. You're half-hoping either Chris or Dustin will come down the corridor and save you from doing whatever you're doing, whatever you're planning on doing, but somehow this seems like the only thing that will solve things tonight. There's no reasoning with Mark, after all, and it's not as if he'll care come morning. He's never cared. He never will care.
- the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything -
You're making your way up to your apartment with Mark following close behind and all you can think is that he watched you stand there with your breath crackling in your throat like the dry flames that you used to destroy the memories of a former life in the night before and never said a word. He reaches out a hand to you and you can hear him speaking almost distantly but all that you can think is, 'would we be better if we spoke in code?' because that's what it all boils down to, something that you never even had a chance of competing against. And yet, you're beginning to doubt that you hate him. It's something that hits you hard and leaves you questioning everything you feel but you're beginning to think that you understand everything that he does with every failed explanation that he starts, every start of some half-assed apology.. You don't want to and you hate admitting that you do, but code is to him as he is to you, in the general ratio of things. Maybe you've had more to drink than you think you have - forgiveness is something that Mark will never deserve, will never earn.
You're struck by the realisation that somewhere along the line, Mark has grown up. Has changed, even. It's startling to realise the difference between the photographs that they show of you on revolving news stories and the faces staring back at you in the elevator reflection as you make your way up to your apartment silently. It's not something that is instantly visible - you sincerely doubt that even the tabloid newspapers scoping his every move have noticed the transition from his previously gawky teenage self to this current- whatever he is. You're not sure what you feel, not sure who you're pushing onto the bed beneath you, not sure whose neck you're peppering in dirty, dirty marks that your father would be so ashamed to see. His body is sharper than it's ever been before. Too sharp, you want to think, but that's not how you're supposed to think, not how you're supposed to feel.
You're still angry and you both know that, but it didn't stop him from giving you that look when you walked out of the office and he was waiting behind you, doesn't stop him clenching his fists possessively against your collarbone when he's barely conscious. He's so tired that you have to force yourself to clutch him and not just lie down beside him (you cannot break this pattern, this heart will break you if you let it).
Two years ago, you never would have imagined yourself ever talking to Mark Zuckerberg ever again, let alone doing whatever the two of you are doing.
His shirt is somewhere on the floor and you're fairly certain that you've ripped the neckline straight down the centre but it doesn't seem to matter at this moment, doesn't seem to quite hit home until he's raising his hips to slide down his jeans, looking more vulnerable than he ever has before. Than he ever did at the depositions. This is what you wanted, you tell yourself, and you almost convince yourself. His hands tremble slightly when you pull back from his mouth, eerily reminiscent to how he used to tremble after eight Red Bulls during a night-long coding session. You'd have to drag him away from his computer before he'd even consider bed, had to take the battery home with you just so he didn't sneak back on as soon as you'd left. The thoughts keep you clutching at his shoulders as he pushes against you, his “It's ridiculous to be jealous of an inanimate object, Wardo,” the motivation to unbutton your shirt and you'd known he was teasing, how could you not, but sometimes it felt like it was the truth, felt like you were battling for his attention and you never won. And Sean Parker, fuck, Sean Parker, because you'd been too young to go through your first lawsuit but there the two of you were, staring each other down over a stupid site and you'd trade the money back if it just meant that you'd have your best friend back again.
You're old enough now to know that sex doesn't have to be affectionate, doesn't even have to be caring, but this is nothing like you'd ever imagined yourself doing. It's harsh and it's violent, the way that he's arching his back up to claw at your back, your hands gripping so hard on his pale, pale skin that there's bound to be bruises in the morning and oh God, you hope that Chris and Dustin don't hear about this. He's leaning towards you, mouth open, but you will not kiss him again. That is the one thing that you will not do.
“Wardo-” He's lying beneath you, vulnerable and desperate, all you ever wanted, and all you can do is try not to cry as he chants his mantra across your skin, looks into your eyes finally and Christ, his eyes are grey, they're grey, and he looks as if he's about to cry, almost as if he knows that he disgusts you. Because he does, he does, this means nothing to you, will never mean anything to you.
“Eduardo,” you correct him and he's half-sobbing as your hands are leaving angry red marks upon his hips, his shoulders, anywhere that you can reach. Don't hurt me, you hear in the repetition of your name and the harsh intakes of breath that he's taking but all that you can think is you hurt me, you hurt me, you hurt me and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
You're not quite sure which is more honest.
“Stay,” he says, reaching for you across the bed, and you find yourself choking on the air that you're breathing.
Part two can be found here