BloodBrothers 1/2 (Eduardo/Mark, R)

[ohxshebleeds]

Title: BloodBrothers
Author: Kurt Couper
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Eduardo/Mark
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
Summary: Set Post-TSN. "Don't make me choose between sanity and you." And his voice is so quiet and he feels so broken and unfixable and raw. "Because I might just pick you." Mark hasn't been handling life without Wardo very well. Too much drinking and coding has somehow led Mark in the hospital.

Author's Note: First TSN fandom fic. Lovelovelove this fandom.

Prologue

He's sitting at his desk, warm beer bottles scattered throughout and a cold one in his hands. He's not a big quality guy, hell, he lives off Ramen-the off brand, grocery version too, when he's not at the Caff but one day it will be nice to drink something that doesn't just come in a 24 pack. But beer's beer and he's working on a two day buzz. Or Binge, whatever. He's not going into semantics over this.

He's probably this drunk because he hasn't thought to eat something. Eduardo isn't here to force food into his sight. He went home for the weekend, mumbling something about family business and caralho and merd or something. Wardo says that word a lot, mainly to him. Mark realizes he should probably pick up Portuguese because it's similar to Spanish, being a Romance language and all, and he already is fluent in the most popular daughter's of Latin. Then he could maybe understand the dynamics of the Saverins, but Mark's just good at learning languages, not using them to understand...things. That's why he likes code. It's straight forward, he can even do it while inebriated, and there's no hidden meanings, nothing he has to try to figure out.

Reluctantly he gets up from coding to get a beer from the fridge; there's no food in there, well, any that's edible anyway. He tries to think about the last time he ate, probably at lunch with Wardo before he left two days ago. He mentally shrugs because, hey, beer is liquid bread. He doesn't get how people get hungry and feed themselves. He's only ever hungry when Wardo mentions how he hasn't eaten or sometime when he's around, like a contact hunger buzz. There are never hunger pains or noises or whatever the fuck other humans have. But he has Eduardo, so it's the next best thing.

In fact, his mother thinks the sun shines from Eduardo's ass. She just adores him and thinks he's the best thing to ever happen to Mark. They chat every so often and although Mark has discussed "BOUNDRIES" with them both, because it's just too weird your best friend and your mother emailing and whatnot. But it saves him from feeling too guilty when he's forgotten to call her and he can hear Wardo's "No he's fine, Karen. Just wired in, you know" and "Yes mam, I'll try to get him outside, but you know how he is..." and then they talk about the weather or Wardo's grades and Mark just groans and rolls his eyes.

He's never really cared much about friendship before. He's had friends, people he talks to in class and people he games with online and people in-between. But then it's freshman year and this thin, lanky kid comes into his life and he can't even really remember how it all happened or even why, but now he can't imagine Wardo not being in his life and even how he really survived before him. Like, he's not good with words or emotions, or anything terribly human, but Wardo is what has been missing in his life. He knows he...that he needs him in his life. He knows that when Wardo is having a bad day then all he wants to do is cheer him up, even if it's unconventional and normally with booze and video games or like that one time where Mark hacked into this girl who turned Wardo down's school profile and stole some of her pictures to make a horrid fairytale where a robot dragon barbequed her and then knight!Mark and knight!Eduardo roasted marshmallows over her. And he never can get the stupid grin off his face when he makes Wardo truly laugh, loud and vicious and a bit ungracefully. Sometime he snorts or makes some weird throat glottal noise; it would annoy Mark if it was anyone else. And Mark doesn't know what that means, but he chokes it up to best friend because he, well, he loves him, he guesses and that's all there is to it.

Before Mark can even back away from the fridge, Eduardo is in the doorway, head leaning against the frame and dark circles under his eyes. He always is...in a funk after he visits his parents and Mark never knows how to deal.

"Beer?" But Mark doesn't wait for an answer; he's already throwing one at the Brazilian.

And it's a few hours later and the 24 pack is almost empty, but there's cheap vodka in the freezer for emergency. He's learned well.

There hasn't been much talking, just playing video games while watching some movie on mute. A sex scene's on and Mark stares a bit too long and catches Wardo's profile at the corner of his eye and-

"Fuck yes!" Wardo screams because he finally beat Mark at Mario Kart.

It's only taken 5 months.

Mark grumbles something under his breath and gets the last of the beers. He's warm right now and the booze is flowing so nicely in his blood. He takes his hoodie off once he's back at the couch and he's listening to what Wardo's saying, really... Okay, not really, but he looks so kick puppy like, and he gets an idea.

"Take your shirt off," Mark commands, interrupting Wardo mid sentence.

"Wait. Mark-what?"

Mark's already gone to the kitchen and back and huffed.

"Your shirt, off" and he's already shirtless and sitting across from him, legs crossed and a knife in his hand. Mark tries not to realize how smooth and tan Eduardo's skin is. Mark is so pale and pasty, lack of vitamin d and whatnot.

Curious, drunk, Wardo wants to see where this is going. But before it's too late he sees Mark coming at him with the knife and making a small cut on his chest, a bit below his pec.

"What the fuck, Mark?!"

"I've always wanted to do this," is all he gets back in reply.

Because he has, wanted to do this. He read about it a few months ago, in his Cultures in Africa class that he had to take to fulfill his GenEd requirement.

"It's an Azande ritual," he supplies as he passes the kitchen knife to Wardo. "Now, me."

He's always been interested in less advanced cultures. Because he can't imagine knowing what he knows now and still picking a different life style, one of hunting and gathering, no internet, no video games. He wants to know what they must think of him and if they think he's as delusional as he thinks they are.

"It's called Bloodbrothership. It's a ritual between two men of different clans who depend on each other for the 'necessities of life'," Mark continues, quoting his textbook. Wardo knicks him and he groans a bit while chewing his bottom lip but then he smiles and takes a swig of beer. There's a fuzz in his brain and he's kind of just really happy right now. "Great, now we need to ingest it. They use wood..." This gets a slight raise of the eyebrows from his counterpart, but Mark just reaches for the cheetos that are in arms length. "Here," and he swipes the blood dribbling down his chest on the orange puff and shoves it in Wardo's mouth. "They believe that the blood will stay in the stomach forever."

Eduardo chews the cheeto and grimaces as he swallows. He hates junk food. But he's drunk-always a two beer queer as Dustin calls him- and it's not as bad as he remembers and it's not the blood that makes him eat another one. But he does the same to his chest, soaking up a bit of the blood and then handing it to Mark.

"They're better than a friend, even a real brother."

And Eduardo has a stupid grin on his face and he's just in awe from listening to Mark speak. Mark likes that, that look on his face. "So now what?"

"Now we tell the blood in our stomachs that if we ever do anything to dishonor each other or friend break-up or betray one another or whatever, that the blood will have be forced to kill us."

Eduardo tips his beer neck to that and takes a big swallow of warmish liquid.

"Mark-you...I." He takes a breath and holds it for no more than three seconds, but Mark is counting it because it seems like so long. " I'm really happy we're friends," and Eduardo puts his hand over Mark's cut and presses hard, the force stopping the blood from trickling from the wound anymore. Mark can feel his heart pumping strong and wonders if it’s as loud as he thinks it is. But all of he can feel and smell is Eduardo, the scent of the sweet ocean rolling over him like waves, pulsing with his heart.

Mark shrugs out of the intimacy of it all, "Two outta three?" Mark says, throwing the game controller at Eduardo. But his chest is still warm from where Wardo's hand was and he still has this stupid feeling in his stomach.

Chapter 1

It's been a year since the depositions. One fucking year. Since his best friend sued him. Since he kicked his best friend out of Facebook. Whatever the fuck you wanna call it because he's heard people talk and a lot of it was more graphic. More details.

He's not sure which is worse, the position of the suing. But he's not good at relating so he can't imagine Eduardo's chest caving in as much as he does every time he thinks about it. It was never personal, it was business, but Wardo didn't take it that way and it's been too damn long and Mark just...misses him like crazy. Sometimes when they see each other at conferences or meetings or whatever, Eduardo will look right through. It's probably worse than anything because it means Mark never meant anything. Not in the end or the scheme of things. Hatred would be better, a snide look, a snort, eyes burning holes in Mark's flipflops. Dustin and Chris don't look at him the same anymore.

Sometimes when Mark is wired in, eyelids untouched from sleep for days and he's a bit delusional and he'll think of something funny and just turn his head to look to tell EDUardo and he'll realize he's not there and then the world will crash around him and it take a few seconds to breathe again before he can feebly return to what he was doing.

He always continues what he's doing. Only because it's the only way he can deal. If he thought about the situation too long... well, he doesn't want to think about what he'd do. Dustin and Chris worry about him, he knows and gets that, but it's easier to just not think about Wardo, until well, he does and then it's so sharp and real and violent that it shakes him. Leaves him a little worse for wear. His hand are always a bit shakier, his skin runs clammy. He feels like his stomach is churning fire and it needs to escape. But-but there's always code to immerse himself in.

He doesn't let the irony shake him.

But it's been a year since Eduardo left with whatever intangible things he took besides the millions. And Mark can barley admit to himself that he's not the same. He doesn't like to admit it to anyone, least himself, but... there's something missing. It's not so much that there's a whole in him, but he feels smaller. He feels like everything is compressed and he doesn't...

He's been drinking more. And frequently. It didn't occur to him that it was a problem because it's the only thing that works anymore, to get him away from the screen. A few years ago, Just Wardo was all he needed. But now, now it takes some chemical reactions. Some cells to lose their membrane and welcome all the blurred lines it can get. The hangovers were always hell, but then he thinks he deserves it a bit and he's always had masochistic tendencies or why else would he be friends with Dustin. But then one morning two months ago he woke up in the lobby of a cheap hotel and Chris was pissed and trying to damage control and paid the staff a few grand to keep it quiet. So he went to the doctor to keep Chris happy and they put him on some sort of anti-depressant. The doctor and the bottle were clear about not mixing them with booze and it worked for awhile. Well, for a few weeks. But he's not looking to be stable. He knows there's too much pleasure in being miserable, to poke and prod at a bruise. He knows there's a choice between happiness and torture, but he knows deep down in his bones if he deserves anything at all, then its misery.

Especially today.

He's been drinking since noon. It's...four or something now. Chris/Dustin/His assistant...Someone told him not to come in because they know and they get it. But they don't really because if Mark isn't here coding and putting all of his energy into something else, he might just be at home, drinking and thinking. And now he just needs to drink and not think and that's easy to do when he's wired in. And he's only put a bit of shit vodka in his redbull; he just needed the edge off and to keep the stupor close and rippling, but not forcefully roaring over him.

And then, he sees some fucking intern with a bag of cheetos. His hands start shaking, but he keeps calm and dives back into code. He tries not to let little things bother him; that's just inefficient. But ever since the stupid dilution and the Azande ritual...well, the orange snack food has been a sore reminder of what he's lost. Chris and Dustin know this, don't know why, but he's had a few outbursts before, mostly at forced grocery trips and stupid company meetings. For lunch, his assistant brings in some sandwich from the canteen, a random energy drink and a bag of cheetos. He throws the tray at her and "GET THE HELL OUT." His hands can't even hide the shaking and Chris comes in and tries to calm him down. There's fire in his blood or something of the sort. He pushes him away and decides he needs to just be somewhere else, fresh air or water on his face or something. His assistant gives him these eyes of pity and he just can't fucking take it, so he walks faster. But as he passes the canteen, he sees it. It's ridiculous and stupid and he thinks God's punishing him.

Fuck that, he knows it.

"They want to do an ad campaign with us," he hears someone talk and then he realized he asked this random programmer what the deal was. "I mean, they don't get that we don't do that, but hey, free cheezy poofs," and he throws a bag at Mark. The whole dining area is just in a sea of orange product placement.

But Mark can't see anything anymore. His vision has blurred and everything is spinning a bit and he's cold and hot and he thinks he's going to vomit fire. It was so long ago, but it meant something. And he's always wondered when Eduardo's blood will become active in his stomach and spread his death like a flower blossoms, subtle and beautiful. He's been waiting.

It's come.

He thinks about going on a firing rampage, and making everyone leave and get out of his fucking sight. But he's dangerously thinking calm right now and he knows Chris would have to PR the shit out of it and it just wouldn't be worth it. He turns to this programmer: "I'm leaving and when I get back, I want all this shit out of here, okay?" His words seem over enunciated and spread out and separated.

But that's that. Anticlimactic and he's still shaking and he needs to get out of this fucking office so he can just breathe. But once he's out of the building, his knees give and he's holding onto a brick wall and emptying out pure bile and booze. But he wipes his mouth roughly-he's a goddamn CEO of Facebook-, the taste is stale and his throat is raw, and the double whiskey he ordered will aggravate it but he's more than okay with that right now.

-----

He would say that he can't feel anything, but that's a goddamn lie. That's what people say but it doesn't make any sense. His body is heavy and everything is pulsing and throbbing and he doesn't know where he's at and he hears beeping and beeping and it's chewing at his brain and he just wants to vomit again and maybe just die. He feels another deep pulse of pain radiate from his innards out. Yeah, death sounds good about now.

He still hasn't opened his eyelids but everything's bright, he can tell that. And smells sterile.

"Mark?" he hears his name and he thinks it's Dustin and he doesn't want to answer because he feels like absolute shit and he hates it when people see him like this. "Mark, Mark? Are you awake?" There's a bit of hysteria, not too much, but it's laced and it worries Mark a bit.

"What?" But it's just gurgles of noise because his throat just won't work. And he opens his eyes and all he sees is white and he doesn't understand. There are blobs near him and he can hear things like he's in a Charlie Brown strip with wahwahwah and then the world is spinning again and it all goes dark.

And he doesn't know if he was dreaming before or hallucinating, but now he sees Eduardo. There's nothing specific about the background, it's dark and cold and he thinks he can see his breath. Eduardo looks tall as he's standing next to him, looking down with his face tight and angry. Mark thinks he's lying down but he can't really tell. Everything is still jumbled and tight.

"You're pathetic," Mark hear Eduardo's voice, but he can't see his lips moving. "You're pathetic and you deserve this."

There is a sharp pain in his chest and his breathing feels labored and then he doesn't remember anything again until hours or minutes or days and all there is blackness until there isn't anymore and there's another voice. It's male and he feels as if he should know this, but he can't.

"...much longer until..." is all he hears, the throbbing in his body going straight to his ears so the voice is covered by the sound of blood pumping hot and forceful and irregular.

-------
It goes in and out (mostly out) for weeks, it seems. Well, he has no sense of time. No sense of anything really. He's still not exactly sure where he's at or what's happened and why his body feels like he was put into a mulcher or that his limbs aren't bending, but all he gets is little bits of consciousness. He feels safe, he guesses, and mostly warm, but sometimes cold. And sort of comfortable, he guesses, for the pain he's in and the lucidity of his thoughts. He can hear voices he knows and remembers and he can feel a hand on his or whatever. But that's about it. The rest of time is blackness and then dreams or nightmares. Normally about Eduardo, normally vivid and sometimes violent and once Eduardo was actually a giant chicken that kept chasing Mark and pecking at him. So he's not giving much credibility to whatever this is. But it still hurts when he hears these things and they just echo and echo and echo. He still feels small and pushed down too much, whatever that means.

-----

Everything's foggy and dull and blurry, but he can point out specific features this time as he opens his eyes. He can see glasses and white clothes and red hair and...a stethoscope?

"Oh good, you're awake," he hears and tries to process. Things are becoming more vivid and bright under these unflattering lights. He looks down and sees his pale arm connected to tubes and one arm in a cast. It's heavy and he can't move it; he's already tried. He doesn't understand.

"I don't-What? ...Where am...," his voice was suppose to be steady, but it's a bit static and it cracks at the end.

There's the fucking beeping again and Mark is trying to focus on it because his world is starting to shift again.

"You're in the hospital, Mr. Zuckerberg." The words come out slowly and there's a bit of a New England accent. He looks like someone Mark knew when he was younger. As he tries to place it he realizes that the doctor's still speaking. "- involved in an accident and have been in a coma for two weeks." Mark doesn't think he can process this information because he can hear the words and he can see his mouth moves but now they just don't make any sense. He can't remember any of this. He can't... "You woke up from your coma five days ago, but with the pain medicine and the damage, you've been in and out of consciousness."

The stress of it all hits Mark at one time and he feels everything hurt at once. His eyes are wide and wild and he doesn't think he is breathing and with his free hand, he tries to pull out some cords because this just doesn't make sense. He's trying to move but he has no strength and he just knows this is a joke and wants to get up and walk away because Chris is punishing him for being an asshole. He gets it, he gets it. He wants to laugh. Because he gets it; jokes over. Get him out of here! But all of a sudden, there's a pinprick and he finally sees a nurse beside him. A male nurse. Who's a big and strong and holding him down. His eyes are gray and dark Mark feels his mouth open and his head drop back and a cold wash flow over him.

This is something like he's never been on before and he experimented a few times with Wardo in college. There are colors, everywhere, bright under his eyelids and explosions and cold. Lots of cold. And it's a bit euphoric and he feels like there's yellow washed around him. Bright yellow emitting from his pores.

Eduardo is there again, but it's different this time. He's next to him, flying with him on this cosmic high. And there's no tight faces or fierce eyes. Just shadows under his eyes and a warm feeling in his unbroken hand because Eduardo is holding it. And... he feels like he did when FaceMash was up and running and his heart could explode and he didn't feel small or pushed down or like things were trapped up tight in a box.

He feels Wardo squeeze his hand and everything gets real. All these emotions are bubbling to the surface, the ones he doesn't think about and keeps quelled with booze and coding. But his subconscious is fucking with him and finally breaking free and the yellow is turning dark and murky and he claws harder onto Wardo. Because he misses him. So fucking much. So much that he doesn't care if it's the drugs that makes him see/hallucinate/dream these things, but he wants it. He wants all he can get because otherwise...he'll never have this again. He thinks he feels wetness on his cheek, but everything is cold again.

....

He wakes up again and Chris and Dustin are there. Things are less blurry then they have been. He's still not too sure what's happened, but he must be healing.

"Hey buddy," Dustin smiles, too wide. Chris is beside him, looking a little haggard. "Hey Mark."

They have food with them, hospital food of course, and he's not really hungry, but he knows that he should probably eat. So he lets them help him up to a sitting position, his breath catching when he accidently hits his leg. He then realizes that his leg is in a cast and he gets frustrated.

"It's okay, Mark. You're healing. You'll be out in no time," Chris says with a smile and hands him a piece of torn buttered roll.

He chews the roll until its soft mush in his mouth and swallows. He has this hatred for himself blooming in his stomach. He is growing angry and he doesn't know why.

"What happened?" he blurts out, ignoring the food that Chris is handing him. "I don't understand why I'm here and I just..."

There's a beep beep beep beep and it's getting faster and Dustin puts his hand on his arm. "Dude, it's cool. We'll tell you, but you're about to blow up," and he nods to a monitor that's checking his blood pressure. He rolls his eyes and tries to calm himself. He looks around and notices the shit artwork.

He really hates that stupid fucking picture of that sailboat. It's pointless and mundane and...

"You were drunk, they said," Chris starts and Mark immediately goes through his memories. They all blend into drunken strands of time. "And you were, uh, crossing the street and a car hit you." He can't remember this at all. It's more like a story he once read and it never really mattered. There was a character, he got hit by a car, and now Mark is somehow here instead. He wonders if he screamed or just stared into the head lights. Shaking his head to forcibly clear it, he looks at Chris.

"How's facebook?" like it just occurred to him and it did. It's not like he has amnesia, but his thoughts aren't right and it takes a while to remember things or get things straight or something. Like he forgot his mother's middle name earlier. He's not too sure why he thought about it but it seemed really important at the time. He got distracted about wondering if Eduardo would remember her middle name and then he remembered Eduardo's mother's middle name and then Mark hated himself a bit more and then it came to him- Allison.

"There we go. Our boy's back." And Dustin's smiling and rubbing Mark's hair like he's a dog.

Chris steps in quickly-"It's good. No crashes since you've been... incapacitated. People have been worried, but they're glad to know you're getting better."

A nurse comes in and looks pleased that Mark's awake and coherent. "Drug time!" she smiles and watches to make sure he swallows them down. Mark's not dumb. He wants the oblivion because he can't think right now.

"Don't worry," she says as she takes the water cup from him. "Your brain is still recovering from the hit. So it's going to take some time before everything's settled." She smiled and he wonders how she could tell his frustration. Mark has always been quick. He's always been able to think analytically and separately. But the world is jumbled right now.

"I think it'd be best if you boys left. Give your friend some time to rest and heal."

They tell him that they'll be back soon and Dustin makes promises of some red vines that he knows he can't keep because Chris is giving him a tight look. Mark can't help but think he's missing something. But thankfully, the drugs kick in soon and he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.

....

Eduardo is there again and he's eating something, crunching loudly and annoying Mark. He hasn't been very nice lately. The things he said has burned and incinerated and when Mark wakes up he feels even more constricted.

"This might all make sense if you could remember," and he's taunting now.

They're in a bar, something shitty with bad lighting and the smells of booze so intense that Mark needs to breathe through his mouth so he doesn't get sick. He frequented these in college, well, they did. But now Eduardo is sitting on the bar, his legs crossed and empty glasses surrounding him. The dynamics are different.

"Want one?" he asks Mark and offers him whatever is in the bag. Mark reaches in, because he doesn't really have a choice and hasn't had since it all started, and before he puts it in his mouth, he feels something dripping down his arm.

It's blood. And cheese. And...Cheetos.

There's a cruel laugh, making Mark's stomach turn and flip viciously, violently.

"Remember now?"

....

Beeping wakes him up and nurses rush in and they're a bit frantic. The energy in the room pulses and Mark swears he can see it. Every molecule, silver and static. Everyone's blurs again, fuzzy and round. Nothing sharp. Not like the sharp pain in his chest.

He looks down and sees red and realizes that he must have pulled out his IV. It's messy and too bright against his gown, even though it's night because everything is dark and he's starting to feel hot.

A nurse is able to thrust a trash can in his face before he vomits. The liquid is hot and scorching his throat and mouth and it dribbles down his nose and his eyes water as he coughs.

"Azande,' he whispers.”Bloodbrothers. Wardo." Because he now remembers. The before of it all. "Cheetos"

Everyone is swirling again and he feels a pressure against his forehead. It's steady and cool and calming.

He dreams of waves, crashing turbulent on the beach. There's a storm and it's lighting up the night sky so vividly that even though Mark can tell it's a dream, it frightens him. He tries to count between the strikes of lightening, but gets tangled up in the freezing water instead. It feels so real that he can smell the ocean air saturating his lungs.

....

Time has no meaning for him anymore. It's light and dark, and light and dark, but mainly just dark and filled with his subconscious. It's easier that way. He knows he should be conscious, especially when he knows there are people there. His assistant stopped by and left flowers; they smell too sweet. Dustin came by a few more times without Chris. There are others. He can mostly feel them, not differentiate them from the masses in his head. But it's easier to just ignore and bask in the fuzziness. He's starting to appreciate the warm, aloof blanket that coats his brain and lets him dream of blackness.

It's like he settled into this depression and decided to make it his home and now there are just walls of drugs instead of bricks that used to be there and he's okay with that. Because there is no wolf in this story to blow anything down.

He doesn't know why he's still here, why they are still keeping him. The doctors cluck when they see his charts and the nurses sigh when they change his bandages. His body doesn't thump as much as it did before and he kind of just wants to be home, lost in his own sheets because he has black out curtains and he just wants complete darkness. There is nothing alive in him anymore that desires sun or vitamin d or the sight of life. He just wants bleak things, everything gray and black and dark and cold. Cold has always been inviting to him and now it's just pleading his name.
Maybe it's the depression.

Maybe it's the drugs.

But maybe Eduardo's blood is soaking through his body and killing him slowly, making everything dead from the inside out. Maybe the doctors know that and they just don't know how to break it to him.

.....

He feels warm again and he's in that in-between stage. It's dark. No bright colors floating this time, and he hears a low voice and realizes that it's coming from the body lying beside him.

"You have to fight, Mark," and it's Wardo. And he smells like fabric softener and seashells at a cold beach and home. "I don't know... why you... but you have to be strong."

He's lying on his side, curled up around Mark's form and he fits so perfect that there's a space all of a sudden in his chest that just... combusts or implodes or something. There's something different about this, but he doesn't have time to think (thank you, pills) because Wardo wraps his hands around his one and plays with his fingertips. Everything is soft.

"You need to fight so you can get bett-"

Mark can't shift his body, but he positions his face as much towards the Brazilian as he can. "What's there to fight for?" And it's just so simple to Mark. Why doesn't Eduardo see this? He's normally so good at seeing things like Mark does. "You're here. Not there."

Wardo brings Mark's fingertips to his mouth and runs them across his lips. They are warm and moist. He looks so tired, more troubled then he ever remembers seeing him. Even during the dilution. Mark doesn't like this.

His voice is thick and Mark almost doesn't catch it: "What are you talking about?"

Mark feels loopy again, swirly and blurred into the sheets. He feels like if someone were to look at him right now, there would be no separation between him or Eduardo or the sheets. They're all connected with the thread. No lines, just soft cloud-like curves.

"You're here," and he leads both of their hands to his own head and taps. "And right now, I'm here too. But when-when I'm not in here-when I'm out there and it's bright and sharp and real- you aren't-there. With me." His eyes are feeling heavy and he doesn't want the darkness to take him away again. He wants to make this clear because he's sorry and maybe Eduardo will stop saying such hurtful things if he makes it all clear. It's easier with drugs. Everything's always easier with drugs. "And I need you with me. Because I miss you. And I need you. I've always needed you and- Even if you aren't real and in my head and make me feel..."

"What? Makes you what?" Wardo prods and nuzzles his face further into the mattress, interrupting Mark's train of thought.

"You're always yelling and hating and I feel like you put me into boxes and boxes until I'm so small and everything will get lost because there's no labels... but then I get times like this and it's nice because it will never be like this again. I'll wake up and you'll be back half way across the world and I just- I can pretend. I can pretend that you are here. With me. Drugs can pretend..." Eduardo takes a deep breath and exhales slowly and Mark finally notices that it's not his hands that are shaking. Mark thinks he sees tears brimming in Wardo's eyes and his teeth go to worry his bottom lip. "Don't cry. I don't think I said things right. You're never the one that cries now." And he's starting to go cold again.

"Mark, mark... mark," and he's whispering and he sounds like he's getting further away. But Mark is trying so hard to keep this. To not go away. He never gets to control these things. "I'm real," and he takes Mark's hand and puts it against his chest, firm and warm and he can't remember a Eduardo touching him with such tenderness before. There's no contempt. It feels so real.

And then Mark sees Wardo unbutton the first few buttons on his shirt. It's then when he realizes he's in a suit, which was crisp but the lines are starting to settle from the impressions of him and the best. But then Mark's not looking at wrinkles, but at a small scar a bit below Wardo's heart. "I'm real, I'm real, I promise, just..." and Mark's rubbing the slick scar tissue and he feels like he's going to vomit because Eduardo's been cruel but he's never like this and it hurts worse.

Because this memory was always his and now dream!Wardo stole it and is mocking it and-

"I'll be here. I promise," he hears Wardo say, but all he can hear is this ringing in his ears as if he's stood up too fast and all the blood went somewhere. It's missing from where it should be.

"I've always been here. I promi-"

The world is pulsing again and he can't breathe and he wishes sometimes that Eduardo wouldn't hurt him where it really twinges and burns. His lips are moving, but Mark can't read them and can't hear them because his eyes are fluttering and the ringing is getting louder and louder and it’s deafening and shocking and he's so cold, but his hand, his hand is warm.

...
Mark wakes up to the feeling of stomach acid clawing up his throat. There's no time to aim and it's not like he could really grab anything, so he just turns over the side of the bed as best he could and heaves.

"Aw fuck man," Dustin comments and the commentary startles Mark.

He doesn't say anything, but takes the napkin graciously so he can wipe up some of the mess on himself. He's embarrassed, or not, he's not really sure. He feels awkward that Dustin's here and probably has been for a while by the look of his eyes.

"What do you do when I'm out?" is all he asks, but the taste in his mouth is so stale and bitter. He wishes for the first time in a long time that he was out of this bed and free of casts and tubes and cords so he can take a shower and brush his teeth. He's sure he's only been sponge bathed for however long he's been here. It makes him shudder.

"Oh you know, work a bit, play farmville, look at porn." He grins. "Exactly what I do at the office. The perks of mobile technology!"

Mark huffs because, well, Dustin would. "Let me see that," he commands, never asking, and motions towards the MacBook. It's in his lap in no time and Dustin helps him situate so it is angled so even his broken arm can type. It feels a bit awkward but it's kind of like home. Not like Wardo home, but close. Comforting.

There's a small smile on Dustin's face and Mark's trying not to pay too much attention to it. Things feel different today and things are sharp, but they're not painful. They're just... there.

He puts around, checks facebook, and can let out a breath he didn't know he was holding because it's okay. It hasn't changed and crashed or whatever. It's there and that's good. He checks his email and is overwhelmed with the sheer amount he has. 874 unread messages. This is his personal email, no spam, no work. Just exactly how long has he been in this goddamn hospital?

"How long have I been here?" the words come out quick and it's here not hospital because he hasn't said those words out loud yet.

Dustin thinks about it and he can see numbers role over his face. "Well, you got in here, well, you know. And that was around four weeks ago. 'Cause you were in a coma for the first couple weeks..."

Mark slides a glance at the man across from him. "What do you mean, 'Well, you know',"?

There's this tense pause and Dustin freezes a bit and gives Mark an awkward look, like he's sorry. Either for Mark or himself, he's not sure.

"You don't remember, man?" He puts a hand through his hair."It was- It was the anniversary or whatever you wanna call it... of the dilution."

Things are slow and then things are fast. Way too fast. It's like his memory has finally came through the blockage, but the hole was so small, so everything is so forceful and strong that his heart skips a beat and his breath is caught somewhere deep in his chest. He remembers now and he grips the laptop hard because it's all he has to hold on to.

He remembers going to the bar after he blew up at the office. And staying there until he couldn't remember his name anymore. But he still remembered the significance of the day. The pain. So he's not sure it helped at all. But the bartender stop's serving him because he's been there for hours and hours, so he needs to go to another one, to continue this binge and-

Mark stops breathing.

He remembers.

"I remember."

He was on the sidewalk and he saw the cars coming, but he wanted to drink more. He remembers how cold he felt, even though he was in just shorts and a hoodie and flip flops. He remembers standing at the cross walk and feeling the breeze of the cars roar past him. He was thinking about cars and how fast they were going and how much damage they could really infect his body if he just would walk right into it. It seemed so easy.They couldn't have been going more than 45, the speed limit being 35, but he thought it would be enough. He remembers calculating it, but the numbers were fuzzy and he just gives up. He can't remember how long he just stood there, dazed and drunk and numb and cold, so fucking cold, the edges of reality blurred a bit. He remembered the serenity and calmness that washed over him. Things were making sense in his head. This was right and okay and it was just so easy. An answer he never really knew the question for was being laid in front of him.

And then he just remembers bright lights and car horn blasting in his ear. The lights are just so bright and the noise so deafening and his drunkenness so deep that, well... that's it.

"Mark, God, Fuck dude, are you okay? Mark..." Dustin's on him, slapping him a bit on the cheeks. "You went really pale. I have a trash can if you need to vomit again."

Mark's really glad that Dustin's holding the trash can because he's not sure his shaky hands could have done it.

....

Things are... pale. There have been less and less colors lately. Things are still curves, loose and lucid, but he's getting good at seeing details. His temperature isn't fluctuating all the time. He's getting better at judging time, but not when he's here, wherever that's at. But he thinks the last time he saw Eduardo is less than a week ago. Because he knows the important facts and that's important.

He doesn't know if this is him getting better or worse. Because he feels worse. He feels like he's so far underwater sometimes that the pressure is so great that he'll just... compress and every bone will break and splinter and tear.

He wishes he could see Eduardo more. It used to be every couple hours and now it's less and less and less and pretty soon Mark will be healed and there will be no more Wardo and he'll be alone again. He doesn't like the feeling in his chest when he thinks about it. Because those boxes he's packed in? Well, the movers fucked up because even though they were clearly labeled caution: fragile everything is now jumbled and askew and his good china's broken.

He had promised he was real, that he's been here the whole time.

Well, Mark shouldn't let the surprise or the truth hurt him as much as it's doing.

His brain must be healing the damaged cells because he's starting to realize that the things he thinks and says doesn't make sense. They used to make sense and it wasn't like he's just started to think differently. He's starting to wonder if this damage might be permanent, whatever they were.

"You'll always be nothing, just fucked up," comes Eduardo's reply. And Mark almost closes his eyes because this makes him happy, this messed up, twisted shit makes his heart twinge. He's not so much it's a good twinge or a bad one, but it feels all the same. But he doesn't want to have this feeling at his heart. He misses Wardo so much, but he never wanted it to be like this.

"Eduardo-not, not...now."

Eduardo walks to him, in his fine expensive suit and his perfectly styled hair. He looks exactly how he looked in the dilution. Mark heart stops a bit. This is not how he wants to remember his best friend, his bloodbrother. He wasn't lying when he told Wardo that the Azande holds the relationship of the bloodbrothers above family, above friends. They were lovers sometimes, because if you were lovers in battle, you will fight harder to survive. But they were more often soulmates. Their bond transcended blood and always won over anything.

"I was your only friend," he spits out, his lips tense and teeth bared.

Mark nods, it's sad and he knows it. He's long accepted this fact. He always hears this repeat in his head.

"I always needed you. You never listened," Mark is replying because he needs to hvae some sort of reply, some sort of ammunition. He wants Wardo to stop. He wants to be alone. He doesn't want it to hurt anymore. "I needed you here; I need you now." He's not sure if he's crying because these times are different; this plain has a different feeling. But he feels as if he's sobbing. "I felt-I feel so alone."

There's less spinning then there used to be. But it sort of tilts and swings and it's a nice feeling, like he's at recess and the kids are pushing him on the swings. But he never had friends in grade school either.

"I didn't know," is the reply Mark hears, but Eduardo's lips aren't moving.

The drugs, man, the drugs, is all Mark can think. And he has this sudden feeling that that's it. There's such a finality that washes over the scene. Like he somehow knows what to do, even though...he doesn't. It's over and gone and done and he just wants to break down. Have some sort of cathartic release.

He'll just have to learn how to accept not having Eduardo in his life.

Without chemicals, because, look where it got him.

....
Mark guesses he's in shock. Not so much in and out, just there and trying to understand things and put them into place when he's conscious. He likes making things work and fit, like code. He hasn't coded in so long and while numbers still stream under his eyelids, it's all jumbled and never formatted correctly and fucked up. It frustrates him. Everything is so frustrating. Because these codes don't make sense and his memory doesn't make sense and his actions don't make sense. Everything is jumbled and the doctor says it's okay, it's normal. Brain trauma does that. Life support does that. The pain pills do that. But it's not for him. Mark has always been smart. Even when he was drinking. Fuck, he invented FaceMash when he was drinking. But he did just find out that he tried to commit suicide, drunkenly. Maybe things have been jumbled up for a while.

Suicide.

The words are so harsh in his head and while normal things are askew and dyslexic, these words are bright and vivid in the space where he closes his eyes. It flashes and reminds and and panics him.

He...He's not really all that shocked that it happened. He never thought he would follow through. Never really wanted to do that. But there's something to be said about being a coward. About the easy way out. Sometimes he'd be shaving in the morning and stair at the four sharp blades and think how there are so many death instruments around. It would be an out of body experience, staring at the blades and thinking about the blood pooling to the surface, but nothing really connecting or affecting him. That it had to deal with death. It makes sense in his head, but he guesses that doesn't mean much anymore.

But things are a whole lot different on this side of things.

"Did you know?" he asks Dustin because he's back. He called Chris, too this time, for backup.

"The guy in the car... he told us his side of the story," Chris speaks up. He's sitting at the end of Mark's bed and the weight shift feels awkward. "That you walked right into-" He pauses again. "That he tried to-". A deep breath. His hand goes on Mark's leg. "We... We didn't want to believe it, man. We never thought...There were signs, but..."

The air is tense and no one says anything because what can you say right now? Nothing will suffice. Mark got drunk and walked into traffic. There. Layman's terms.

Mark just closes his eyes and when he opens them a few seconds later, he sees Dustin's hand on Chris' shoulder.

"We're just happy you're alive," Dustin finishes and his smile is lopsided this time.

Mark doesn't know where he fits into that sentence. He's not too sure he's including himself in that we.

He doesn't say anything for the rest of the day. They leave, eventually.

He doesn't want to be alone. But he doesn't want them.

PART 1 HEREEEE!!!!.
....