fic: Hope You Guess My Name (TSN Mafia AU, Mark/Eduardo) [1/2]
Title: Hope You Guess My Name
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: R
Word count: 12,500
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence
Summary: Mafia AU. In which Mark is busy and Eduardo has to make some decisions about his future. This city may never be the same again.
Notes: Overlaps with the second half of Gimme Shelter in the Sympathy For The Devil-verse, and it probably won't make sense without reading that one first. Lots of love to merisunshine36 for the beta and co-writing and constant, non-stop enabling.
"I suppose you want to say 'I told you so,'" Eduardo says.
Mark doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say to the sight of Eduardo, stripped down to his boxers, with a map of Mark's failures written all over his skin. There are bruises on his ribs, though the doctor has said that the twins were careful not to break them, a mostly-healed cut on Eduardo's temple. There are other wounds too, Mark imagines, ones hidden away. "No," Mark says. "No, I don't."
Eduardo doesn't look at Mark as he pulls his shirt, his pants back on. They've barely said more than five words to each other since Eduardo got back. Mark doesn't have anything to say.
If this had happened a week ago, Mark would have been allowed to touch Eduardo, would be allowed to remind himself that Eduardo is still alive, still alive and here with Mark. Mark's not sure what he's allowed to do now. Technically, this is Mark's bedroom, but right now it's really Eduardo's while he recovers. Most of Eduardo's stuff is still here anyway, like he never even left. Their things intermingle in the closet, on the bookshelves, on the bathroom counter, tucked away into corners to be forgotten. After living together so long, there was no way it could have been a clean break.
"What are you doing here?" Eduardo says, a sneer underneath his words, even as his face remains cold. With his clothes back on, he looks even more distant, untouchable. "You made it clear that you never wanted to speak to me again."
"That's not what that was," Mark says. "I was just-- You can keep the room if you want." He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them in his pockets.
Eduardo snorts. "Okay," he says. "I'm only here at your pleasure. I get it." He winces when he lifts an arm above his shoulders. Mark wants to press a hand against the large bruise between Eduardo's shoulder blades, wants to feel it underneath his palm. "You didn't have to come here to hold it over my head."
Mark flinches. Eduardo's hurt, and Eduardo's angry, and Mark expected both of those things, but he still feels it like a slap in the face. "I have work to do," he says shortly, turning away.
"Have fun with that," Eduardo says. He doesn't watch Mark as he leaves.
---
Mark isn't lying. He does have a lot of work to do. The Winklevii are clearly feeling threatened if they're targeting Eduardo of all people. Eduardo doesn't even know where Mark's money is much less any of the details of how he got it. The Winklevii managed to get Billy Olson to flip months ago, but that must have been the last leak if they're starting to target people not even in the business. Mark doesn't really like traitors. Billy learned that the hard way, and most of the people who work for Mark have learned from his example.
Amy has a few reports on how the drug trade is holding up, what's selling well and what isn't, showing up in Mark's office just after two looking a little concerned. She doesn't ask about it, and that's one of the reasons Mark likes her. She's smart, conscientious and careful on the job. Amy's explanation of her report is brief and to the point, just the way Mark likes it. Sean recommended her as a sort of olive branch between them, and Mark had to admit that she was on top of her shit, making sense out of Mark's badly organized notes, putting together a good team of lieutenants to help her keep track of which product is going where. It was something of a relief. Mark and Sean didn't exactly part on the best of terms, especially after Sean got in trouble with the law for human smuggling. There are lines that even Mark won't cross, and Sean waltzed right over one.
Mark spends a few hours talking to Marilyn about the legal ramifications of taking over the houses adjacent to them, what sorts of paperwork they'd need, whose arms they'd need to twist, how to best to cover the paper trail so that it isn't as obvious that Mark is buying up all the property in the area. Marilyn, as always, gives her best non-bullshit advice, and Mark has always liked her because she tells him what he needs to hear instead of what she thinks he wants to hear.
Chris has heard some rumblings from City Hall about the next election, whether or not Mayor Winklevoss is going to go for his fifth term and beat the last record for most terms served as mayor of Boston, or if he's going to step aside and let one of the twins run the city instead. All signs seem to point towards the idea that the mayor will just run for reelection again, but if it's still up in the air, it's up in the air. They'll have to be ready for whatever comes down. Mark and Chris spend an hour discussing scenarios, both good and bad. Chris has always had a good head for this kind of stuff, the way people and systems move around each other, and Mark is always willing to listen to his advice.
No one is watching Eduardo, though Dustin is keeping him company upstairs. He shoots Mark infrequent e-mails about Eduardo's mental state, usually things like he just made a bad pun about securities!!! and i don't think he wants to kill himself just yet. Mark isn't sure he trusts Dustin's medical opinions on the matter. As far as Mark can tell from the few times they've been around each other, Eduardo seems-- Eduardo seems almost normal. He's working on his laptop, and he's eating food without needing prompting, and he hasn't run away yet. Mark is willing to count that as a success.
After work, Chris drags him off to The Hive, ostensibly so that Mark can unwind. It's probably one of Mark's favorite places in the greater Boston area, just a hole in the wall with good beer, good wings, and a couple of ancient pool tables, and he loves that he owns it, that it's his. It's within walking distance from the house, tucked into a back alley where it's not obvious. Despite Chris' insistence that he didn't have any ulterior motives in making Mark come out tonight, he keeps trying to get Mark to agree to see a therapist or something like that, even though that's really stupid. Mark isn't the one who got the crap beaten out of him. So Mark plays some darts and tells Chris to fuck off, and Chris fucks off.
---
When Mark gets home, Eduardo is drinking by himself in the second floor kitchen -- vodka straight from the bottle. He looks tired. His hair is a mess, and he's wearing one of Mark's baggier t-shirts like he doesn't even notice that he is. Mark grabs a shot glass out of the cabinet and holds it out. Eduardo helpfully fills it for him. His hands are surprisingly steady, but some of the vodka still sloshes over the side.
"You know, you're a real piece of work," Eduardo says. He doesn't sound drunk yet, just angry. "What the fuck were you doing this time? Breaking kneecaps? Shaking down little old ladies?"
Mark tosses back the shot, feels the burn as it travels down his throat. It's good vodka, expensive. "The little old ladies we shake down keep shotguns under the register and aren't afraid to use them," Mark says. He loosens his tie. He doesn't want to have to deal with Eduardo while wearing a monkey suit, but he's willing to roll with it.
Eduardo laughs, but it sounds weird, harsh and rasping. "I'm really not drunk enough for this conversation," he says, but he still lets Mark take the bottle out of his hands. Up close, his bruises look even worse, gross and discolored underneath Eduardo's tan skin.
"If you want to have this conversation, we can have it," Mark says. He puts the vodka bottle on one of the far counters, out of Eduardo's reach.
"No. That's not what I want," Eduardo says. He grabs a fistful of Mark's tie, dragging him closer.
Eduardo kisses like he wants to tear Mark apart, all aggressive tongue and teeth. His mouth tastes like the vodka, almost as intense as the shot itself, and his other hand wraps around the back of Mark's neck, holding him still.
Eduardo leads Marks upstairs to the bed they've shared for the past four years, and Eduardo peels off his clothes, exposing the rest of the bruises. His eyes are fixed on Mark's face, bright and intent. Mark puts his hands on the long curve of Eduardo's neck, presses his fingers against the pulse point to feel the steady flutter of Eduardo's heart underneath his fingertips. Eduardo doesn't let Mark linger there.
They wrestle off Mark's clothes and end up on the bed. Eduardo hands are warm, vividly alive against Mark's body.
"I'm still angry at you," Eduardo says. He's on top of Mark, knees bracketing Mark's thighs. His fingernails are digging into Mark's hips, leaving bright red crescents behind. Mark will probably have his own set of bruises tomorrow, but he doesn't really care.
"I know," Mark says. He kisses Eduardo again, cups Eduardo's cheek with one hand. He thinks about how fragile human bodies are, and how resilient they can be. He thinks about blood vessels, about arteries and veins, about neurons and nerve endings and pain receptors.
They've done this so many times that it's easy, routine. Eduardo's fingers are slick with the lube from the bedside table, opening Mark up while Mark is on his knees and elbows, forehead pressed against the mattress. Eduardo is rougher than he normally is. The slight burn of his cock is as perfect as always, though, filling Mark up. Eduardo never seems to know how much Mark can take, never seems to know how much Mark is willing to take. He always touches Mark like he thinks Mark is made of glass, like he's always holding something back.
Mark is willing to take whatever Eduardo wants to dish out, because Eduardo is here. He's a complete fucking moron, and he's got the bruises to prove it, but he's alive, and Mark wants all of it, the panting breaths, the angry hands, the short, quick thrusts.
Afterwards, Eduardo leaves to take a shower, and Mark changes into his usual pajamas. Eduardo comes out of the bathroom wearing just a towel. His hair is sticking up.
"What was this?" Mark asks. He doesn't think he's ever really understood what was going through Eduardo's head besides the basics, whether he was happy or sad or angry, but now Mark doesn't think he even has that.
"Nothing," Eduardo says. "It's nothing." His face is blank and cold. "I was tired of feeling bad for myself."
Mark's not surprised, but it does make a cold, sick feeling settle in his chest. "How is that working out for you?" he asks.
"Get out of here, Mark," Eduardo says, and it's like everything is leaking out across his face, anger and pain and exhaustion.
Mark gets out of there. He walks downstairs, the floorboards creaking underneath his feet. Their couch has been worn in after years and years of abuse, and it dips in the middle, comfortable. Mark pulls a ratty old blanket over himself and curls up before falling asleep.
---
He's bleeding when they throw him at Mark's feet.
Edward Majors, the person who tipped the Winklevii off to Eduardo's location. Mark used to know him by reputation, a long time ago. Low level drug dealer, likes being a snitch for favors. He's a short man, about the same height as Mark, and he's dressed in a way that seems to mean that he gives a shit. Mark knows his type -- weaselly, constantly asking for respect instead of demanding it. He's the kind who would break before you broke his first finger, who would give up his mother as soon as you put a knife in front of his face. The kind who thinks he's tough when he has no fucking idea.
They're in Mark's basement, stone floor underneath their feet, a single lightbulb over their heads. It smells like mold, like old, wet things, but it's familiar and comforting. Mark's spent a lot of time here. Dustin grins, and his smile is all teeth.
"Softened him up for you, boss," Dustin says. "He's really talkative now." He puts away his knife.
Mark's not here to talk. Mark is here to make an example. Most criminals are stupid, he's learned, but they do respond well to examples.
"Please, I didn't know who he was," Majors pleads as he stumbles to his feet. "All they gave me was a description, not a name." His eyes are wide, frantic. It's almost not even worth it. There's no challenge in breaking Majors further. He's not even worth scraping from the bottom of Dustin's shoes.
Still. Example.
Mark isn't as big or as strong as the Winklevii, but he has learned how to throw a punch over the years. Majors grunts and doubles over in pain as soon as Mark's fist connects with his ribs. Mark's knuckles hurt afterwards; it's been a while since he's handled something like this personally. "You really shouldn't say that like it makes a difference," Mark says. "It doesn't."
Majors collapses, coughing up blood. It splatters red against the concrete. Mark's a big fan of symmetry. He wants to put every mark, every bruise, every cut that Eduardo has onto Majors' body. He wants to leave Majors locked up here for days without medical attention. He wants to beat Majors' face in and hear him scream.
The room is quiet with the exception of the Majors' heavy, wheezing breaths. Dustin and Chris know better than to interrupt. Mark kicks Majors in the stomach. He watches as more blood dribbles onto the floor from Major's lips.
It's not enough.
---
In the morning, Eduardo comes downstairs with dark bags underneath his eyes. His hair is falling limp onto his forehead. The bruises are still bright on his face. He looks like shit. Mark wants to kiss him, to lick into his mouth and taste the remnants of sleep. Eduardo would probably punch him for trying, and while Mark could take the pain, he'd rather not deal with it.
"Chris made sure the bank knows you're out on sick leave," Mark says. It's a quiet, cool, gray sort of day, and the light that pours in through the windows is pale and almost white. There's a chance of rain or flurries today. Mark can see it in his mind's eye, intermittent flakes drifting from the sky.
Eduardo looks at Mark, his eyes still drooping with sleep, confusion written all across his face. There are times when Mark wonders if Eduardo is capable of putting walls up, if there are any pieces of himself that he's ever been able to hide. "Oh," Eduardo says, "I hadn't even thought of that."
Mark shrugs. That's what he pays Chris to do, to consider all the angles Mark has missed. "You look like shit," Mark says, because he doesn't believe in lying, and Eduardo looks like he was run over by a very large car.
Eduardo laughs like they're maybe still friends, like he's forgotten that he hates Mark right now. "That's what happens when you can't get any sleep. Nightmares. I don't suppose you know what that's like." Eduardo has always been a restless sleeper, easily disturbed into wakefulness.
"I could--" Mark says, and his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. "If you need someone there at night."
Eduardo stops and stares at him, and something raw and hurting passes over his face. "I can't even fucking believe you," he says. "After all that..." He glances away, like he can't even look at Mark. It feels like that's been happening a lot lately.
"Whatever," Mark says. It's for Eduardo's benefit in the end. If he doesn't want Mark's help, then Mark doesn't have to give a shit. Mark can sleep on the couch, and Eduardo can keep showing up in the morning looking like shit. Mark has plenty of other shit he can work on instead. All he has these days is work.
"I wasn't-- that wasn't a no," Eduardo says, a quick flash of emotion passes over his face. "I'll see you tonight, then." He focuses on making himself some coffee, and he doesn't look at Mark again for the rest of the morning.
Mark still feels like he's won something, but he doesn't know what.
---
Dustin and Chris have cleared most of Mark's schedule, but Mark does have a list of decisions he has to make, like which areas they should try to expand into, which businesses they want to talk to specifically, who they want to sway to their side. They're especially busy now that the Winklevosses are angry about Judge Summers. Now that they've expanded to this point, Mark doesn't have to handle all that much personally, which is both a blessing and a curse. He misses knowing everything about everything, and he misses being low to the ground, able to follow Sean around town and pick up the tricks of the trade one at a time.
Still, by the end of the night, he's exhausted. There are some delicate phone calls that he needed to make personally, and it took some extensive coaching from Chris to understand what he needed to say and how he was supposed to say it.
Eduardo is in bed before Mark, and it's so bizarrely familiar that the last week feels like it passed in a strange dream, like Eduardo didn't freeze the account, and Mark didn't get mad at him, and the Winklevii hadn't gotten involved where they really don't belong. Eduardo sleeps the same as he always does, curled up on his side of the bed, a hand tucked underneath his pillow.
Mark climbs into bed tired, worn out, his eyelids drooping shut. He listens to the steady sound of Eduardo's breathing, and he curls a hand around Eduardo's wrist before he falls asleep.
---
Mark wakes as soon as he feels Eduardo's fingers dig into his arm. Eduardo's still in the nightmare, eyes squeezed tight, his breath shallow. He looks like he's hurting, like he's in pain. He must have looked like this when the Winklevii were working him over. They must have been able to see every little bit of what he was feeling.
"Hey," Mark says, shaking Eduardo's shoulder. "Wake up."
Eduardo's eyes jerk open, and he shoves Mark away. "Who--" He looks around, gets his bearings. "Mark," he says. His eyes are bright, reflected moonlight. His skin looks strangely pale. Maybe that's the dream, draining all the color out of him.
"You had a nightmare," Mark says. Eduardo never used to have nightmares, Mark remembers. He was a fairly light sleeper, which was a little inconvenient considering the hours Mark keeps, but Eduardo seemed to get over it as time went on. By the end, he almost slept like the dead.
"Yeah, I figured that out," Eduardo says. "Thanks." His breathing is still too short, and he's still clutching Mark's arm. Mark thinks about kissing him again, about pressing their lips together so Eduardo won't think he's still in there with the twins, so that he knows for a fact that he's with Mark.
He doesn't do anything. He just listens as Eduardo's breath evens out, waiting for Eduardo to say more.
"If you want to know," Eduardo says eventually, "I dreamt it was you, that you were the one holding the knife." There's something in his voice, it's almost an accusation.
Mark closes his eyes. He pulls his arm away.
---
"We're going to have to do something about the Italians. They're getting restless," Dustin says. He has his feet kicked up onto Mark's desk, hands on his stomach, the way he usually sits in Mark's office. Some people look confused when Dustin sits in on one of Mark's meetings, raising their eyebrows at how relaxed he looks around Mark. Dustin finds it really hilarious, so he'll usually play it up a bit by fiddling with Mark's pens or by juggling paperweights, just to fuck with their heads.
"The Winklevii aren't going to be able to hold onto them much longer," Mark says, reading through some of the spreadsheets Ian has sent him. "They know that. The Winklevii know that. We can wait them out until we're in a better position to negotiate."
Dustin's pretty good at handling the Italians most days. He's better with the Irish, but he's still pretty good at taking care of things whenever Mark needs some errands done in the North End. Mark has controlled most of the business on this side of the river for a while, expanding out from Cambridge into Charlestown and Somerville. He has some parts of Allston, pieces of Fenway, but that's just a slice of the pie. It's almost nothing at all.
"They want to talk face-to-face," Dustin says, "and they want to talk to you specifically."
Mark snorts. "Everyone wants to talk to me specifically. It makes them feel important." Eric had a run-in with the Italians last year. He came out of it alive and intact, but Mark had to smooth some things over personally. He really hates having to do that. Celuzza had been happy to help out, slapping Mark on the shoulder and talking about how he was all grown up now and no longer a complete fucking jackass, but Mark doesn't like owing him anything. Mark doesn't like owing anyone anything.
Dustin laughs, really laughs. There aren't a lot of people who can't get away with laughing in Mark's face, but Dustin is one of them. He abuses the privilege as much as he possibly can. "Contrary to popular belief, they really don't need you to feel important."
"Mayor Winklevoss is important. They're a bunch of cloistered assholes who are only clinging onto their section of the city because no one's ever going to be able to kick them out. They really should fuck off back to Providence, but that's never going to happen."
"So what do I say to them?" Dustin asks.
"That I'm busy for the foreseeable future," Mark says. It's not actually a lie.
---
Eduardo's awake this time when Mark gets into bed. He was looking better today, more like himself, smiling at Dustin's jokes and having quiet, intense conversations with Chris. Mark likes that, even if Eduardo still won't look at Mark most days, won't acknowledge that Mark exists unless he has to.
"Why did you break up with me?" Eduardo asks, point-blank, while they're face-to-face on the bed. He looks apprehensive. Mark can smell his breath. He can see the individual pores on Eduardo's face. It feels almost like a physical ache to keep himself this far away.
"Why did you freeze the account?" Mark asks. He's turned the moment over and over again in his head, and it still makes no fucking sense. If Eduardo wanted out, there were plenty of less passive-aggressive ways of going about it, and if he wanted to send Mark a message, it was an incomprehensible one.
Eduardo sighs and rubs his face with his hands. The bruises on his forearms are fading, yellows and greens. "i saw-- You were so fucking obsessed with this whole Winklevoss thing, and it was fucking terrifying. I couldn't-- You stopped listening to me," he says. "I needed to get your attention."
Mark stares at him, tries to figure out what he's saying. "I never listened to you," he says. "Not about this."
Eduardo's eyes are huge and round, dark and deep. "Sometimes I really fucking hate you, Mark," he says. He sounds tired. Eduardo really does need his sleep.
"You didn't want to be a part of it," Mark says. "So you weren't." He doesn't know where this conversation went off track, but it apparently has somewhere along the line.
Eduardo sighs. "Yeah, I'm getting that." He shifts away from Mark, closes his eyes, turns to face the other direction. There are five inches between their bodies. This shouldn't be significant, not really, but it still feels like a canyon between them, impossible to cross.
As far as Mark knows, the nightmares don't come again that night.
---
In the morning with the sunlight lighting up Eduardo's face, Mark says, "You didn't want to be a part of it, and I wanted to give you wanted." He takes a deep breath. "You know, if they'd asked for a ransom, I would have paid it." He would have torn this city to the ground if he needed to. He would have pried all of Tyler's fingernails off with a pair of pliers. He would have stuck electrodes on Cameron's balls and turned on the power. He would have done whatever it took to get Eduardo back.
Eduardo blinks, eyes focusing on Mark's face. "You never answered my question," he says. His voice is still fuzzy with sleep. They're still in bed, still close enough to touch.
"When you froze the account, I thought it meant that you were leaving, that you wanted out. I wanted to end it before you could." He remembers the cold burn of rage he felt when Ian, their newest financials person, had told him about the account. Mark remembers the way he and Eduardo had yelled at each other in the hallway for an entire half hour before Eduardo had stormed off in a huff. Mark had gotten Chris to pack up most of Eduardo's clothes and leave the suitcase outside, as clear a message for Eduardo as Mark could make it. If Eduardo didn't want to be there, Mark wasn't going to keep him there. "It was stupid, I was drunk, and I was angry. I didn't think it through."
"That's pretty obvious," Eduardo says. He sits up and rubs his eyes. Mark stares at the place where Eduardo's t-shirt rides up, exposing some of the bruises. He wants to lick it. Eduardo continues, "Just so we're on the same page, that's really not what I wanted at all." There's this tension underpinning his voice, something that Mark doesn't understand.
"Okay," Mark says. "So what do you want now?"
Eduardo closes his eyes, tilts his head back so that all Mark can do is stare at the long line of his throat. "I'll get back to you as soon as I figure that out," he says.
---
It feels like things are better after that, though Mark isn't sure what happened or why. They're still sleeping together, though they haven't had sex since that second night. Eduardo's nightmares surface every few nights at first, then once a week. They don't disappear completely, but they're better. On the nights when Eduardo has nightmares, Mark will shake him awake, and Eduardo will nod mutely, eyes sleepy and unfocused, and they don't ever talk about it. Mark doesn't want to know.
During the days, Mark works downstairs on the first floor. When they took over the entire house, the first floor apartment became the hub of their activity, easily separated from the bedrooms upstairs. They converted the master bedroom on the first floor into Mark's office, and the kitchen became Dustin and Chris's domain (mostly because Dustin wanted to be near the refrigerator). The others come and go, stopping off in the living room whenever they have an extra hour or two, delivering news and messages and reports.
Narendra's information has been good so far. Mark isn't a fan of trusting rats, but Narendra was pretty up-front from the very beginning that he might turn around and fuck over Mark in the future, too. Right now, he's useful, and when he stops being useful, well-- Mark has the necessary procedures put in place to handle that. Mark has a whole city-wide information network set up, but he's been careful to make sure that everyone can be verified against everyone else, just to make sure they're all still toeing the line.
Word on the street is that the twins let Eduardo escape because he didn't have any useful information, and it was meant to be "a sign of good will between ourselves and Mr. Zuckerberg." Mark doesn't believe it for a second, but he understands that they have to save face. Mark wouldn't put it past them to make another attempt on Eduardo, but he thinks it's good that it'll dissuade anyone else from getting any ideas.
Eduardo spends his days haunting the upper levels. He's got a lot of vacation time saved up, and Mark figures that he might as well use it up now rather than later. He doesn't know how Eduardo feels about it. They don't talk about it. They don't talk about much at all. When Mark goes back upstairs for the night, he'll find Eduardo writing in a notebook, scribbling words into it, or he'll find Eduardo at the kitchen table, laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. He's up to something, but Mark is strangely reluctant to ask about it. If Eduardo wants to tell him, he'll tell him.
On one of the days, Eduardo even disappears out the back door while Mark is in a business meeting. Dustin's the one who interrupts to tell Mark all about it, already half freaked out. Mark is mostly too pissed off to be freaked out by it, and he stays that way long after Eduardo shows up again at five pm.
"What the fuck was that?" Mark asks. Eduardo's face has healed enough that saying he got into an unfortunate accident with a pole isn't as much of a stretch as it used to be, so public appearances aren't that much of an issue, but the Winklevii could have been lying in wait for Eduardo to show his face again. They know where Mark lives, after all.
Eduardo raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I was just at the library," he says. "It was perfectly fine." The library is only a ten minute walk away from Mark's house through mostly busy streets, on the other side of Central Square.
"Dude, you shouldn't have left like that," Dustin says. He really shouldn't have. Mark was tempted to go to Narendra to see if the Winklevii had somehow gotten hold of Eduardo again, and fuck it if he's ever going to owe Narendra anything else in his entire life. "You could have taken one of us with you."
"I can't even go outside anymore without being babysat? What the fuck is this?" Eduardo says. "I'm not being kept prisoner here, am I?" It feels like an argument they've already had, about how Mark worries too much about Eduardo, and about how Eduardo is being stupid by sticking his head into the ground and ignoring the fact that things are dangerous, really dangerous. Mark hates this argument. It usually ends with Eduardo throwing something against a wall because he doesn't think Mark's actually listening to his arguments, even though Mark is listening to his arguments and just thinks they're stupid.
"You're not," Mark says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're free to leave whenever you want." If Eduardo doesn't want to stay, Mark isn't going to keep him here. That's as true as it's always been.
Mark turns around and walks back to his office, listening to Eduardo's heavy footsteps on the stairs.
---
That night before they fall asleep, Eduardo says, "You were worried." He sounds weirdly fascinated with the idea, like it's something special and amazing, like he doesn't believe that Mark is capable of something like that.
Mark snorts. "Did you just figure that out?" They're curled up on the bed, facing each other, the five inches between them still there.
There's something on Eduardo's face, an emotion that Mark can't quite read. "A little," he says. "You know, the stuff in your head isn't as obvious to everyone else around you as you seem to think it is."
"I was worried," Mark says, just to make sure everything is clear between the two of them. He feels like he's ten again and getting a lecture from his mom on how to properly interact with other people.
Eduardo laughs, a real smile forming on his face. "You could also start listening to what people say instead of jumping to conclusions while you're at it," he says. He shifts closer. Three inches between them now, still not touching, but Mark knows it's an improvement.
"Okay," Mark agrees.
Part 2
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: R
Word count: 12,500
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence
Summary: Mafia AU. In which Mark is busy and Eduardo has to make some decisions about his future. This city may never be the same again.
Notes: Overlaps with the second half of Gimme Shelter in the Sympathy For The Devil-verse, and it probably won't make sense without reading that one first. Lots of love to merisunshine36 for the beta and co-writing and constant, non-stop enabling.
"I suppose you want to say 'I told you so,'" Eduardo says.
Mark doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say to the sight of Eduardo, stripped down to his boxers, with a map of Mark's failures written all over his skin. There are bruises on his ribs, though the doctor has said that the twins were careful not to break them, a mostly-healed cut on Eduardo's temple. There are other wounds too, Mark imagines, ones hidden away. "No," Mark says. "No, I don't."
Eduardo doesn't look at Mark as he pulls his shirt, his pants back on. They've barely said more than five words to each other since Eduardo got back. Mark doesn't have anything to say.
If this had happened a week ago, Mark would have been allowed to touch Eduardo, would be allowed to remind himself that Eduardo is still alive, still alive and here with Mark. Mark's not sure what he's allowed to do now. Technically, this is Mark's bedroom, but right now it's really Eduardo's while he recovers. Most of Eduardo's stuff is still here anyway, like he never even left. Their things intermingle in the closet, on the bookshelves, on the bathroom counter, tucked away into corners to be forgotten. After living together so long, there was no way it could have been a clean break.
"What are you doing here?" Eduardo says, a sneer underneath his words, even as his face remains cold. With his clothes back on, he looks even more distant, untouchable. "You made it clear that you never wanted to speak to me again."
"That's not what that was," Mark says. "I was just-- You can keep the room if you want." He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them in his pockets.
Eduardo snorts. "Okay," he says. "I'm only here at your pleasure. I get it." He winces when he lifts an arm above his shoulders. Mark wants to press a hand against the large bruise between Eduardo's shoulder blades, wants to feel it underneath his palm. "You didn't have to come here to hold it over my head."
Mark flinches. Eduardo's hurt, and Eduardo's angry, and Mark expected both of those things, but he still feels it like a slap in the face. "I have work to do," he says shortly, turning away.
"Have fun with that," Eduardo says. He doesn't watch Mark as he leaves.
---
Mark isn't lying. He does have a lot of work to do. The Winklevii are clearly feeling threatened if they're targeting Eduardo of all people. Eduardo doesn't even know where Mark's money is much less any of the details of how he got it. The Winklevii managed to get Billy Olson to flip months ago, but that must have been the last leak if they're starting to target people not even in the business. Mark doesn't really like traitors. Billy learned that the hard way, and most of the people who work for Mark have learned from his example.
Amy has a few reports on how the drug trade is holding up, what's selling well and what isn't, showing up in Mark's office just after two looking a little concerned. She doesn't ask about it, and that's one of the reasons Mark likes her. She's smart, conscientious and careful on the job. Amy's explanation of her report is brief and to the point, just the way Mark likes it. Sean recommended her as a sort of olive branch between them, and Mark had to admit that she was on top of her shit, making sense out of Mark's badly organized notes, putting together a good team of lieutenants to help her keep track of which product is going where. It was something of a relief. Mark and Sean didn't exactly part on the best of terms, especially after Sean got in trouble with the law for human smuggling. There are lines that even Mark won't cross, and Sean waltzed right over one.
Mark spends a few hours talking to Marilyn about the legal ramifications of taking over the houses adjacent to them, what sorts of paperwork they'd need, whose arms they'd need to twist, how to best to cover the paper trail so that it isn't as obvious that Mark is buying up all the property in the area. Marilyn, as always, gives her best non-bullshit advice, and Mark has always liked her because she tells him what he needs to hear instead of what she thinks he wants to hear.
Chris has heard some rumblings from City Hall about the next election, whether or not Mayor Winklevoss is going to go for his fifth term and beat the last record for most terms served as mayor of Boston, or if he's going to step aside and let one of the twins run the city instead. All signs seem to point towards the idea that the mayor will just run for reelection again, but if it's still up in the air, it's up in the air. They'll have to be ready for whatever comes down. Mark and Chris spend an hour discussing scenarios, both good and bad. Chris has always had a good head for this kind of stuff, the way people and systems move around each other, and Mark is always willing to listen to his advice.
No one is watching Eduardo, though Dustin is keeping him company upstairs. He shoots Mark infrequent e-mails about Eduardo's mental state, usually things like he just made a bad pun about securities!!! and i don't think he wants to kill himself just yet. Mark isn't sure he trusts Dustin's medical opinions on the matter. As far as Mark can tell from the few times they've been around each other, Eduardo seems-- Eduardo seems almost normal. He's working on his laptop, and he's eating food without needing prompting, and he hasn't run away yet. Mark is willing to count that as a success.
After work, Chris drags him off to The Hive, ostensibly so that Mark can unwind. It's probably one of Mark's favorite places in the greater Boston area, just a hole in the wall with good beer, good wings, and a couple of ancient pool tables, and he loves that he owns it, that it's his. It's within walking distance from the house, tucked into a back alley where it's not obvious. Despite Chris' insistence that he didn't have any ulterior motives in making Mark come out tonight, he keeps trying to get Mark to agree to see a therapist or something like that, even though that's really stupid. Mark isn't the one who got the crap beaten out of him. So Mark plays some darts and tells Chris to fuck off, and Chris fucks off.
---
When Mark gets home, Eduardo is drinking by himself in the second floor kitchen -- vodka straight from the bottle. He looks tired. His hair is a mess, and he's wearing one of Mark's baggier t-shirts like he doesn't even notice that he is. Mark grabs a shot glass out of the cabinet and holds it out. Eduardo helpfully fills it for him. His hands are surprisingly steady, but some of the vodka still sloshes over the side.
"You know, you're a real piece of work," Eduardo says. He doesn't sound drunk yet, just angry. "What the fuck were you doing this time? Breaking kneecaps? Shaking down little old ladies?"
Mark tosses back the shot, feels the burn as it travels down his throat. It's good vodka, expensive. "The little old ladies we shake down keep shotguns under the register and aren't afraid to use them," Mark says. He loosens his tie. He doesn't want to have to deal with Eduardo while wearing a monkey suit, but he's willing to roll with it.
Eduardo laughs, but it sounds weird, harsh and rasping. "I'm really not drunk enough for this conversation," he says, but he still lets Mark take the bottle out of his hands. Up close, his bruises look even worse, gross and discolored underneath Eduardo's tan skin.
"If you want to have this conversation, we can have it," Mark says. He puts the vodka bottle on one of the far counters, out of Eduardo's reach.
"No. That's not what I want," Eduardo says. He grabs a fistful of Mark's tie, dragging him closer.
Eduardo kisses like he wants to tear Mark apart, all aggressive tongue and teeth. His mouth tastes like the vodka, almost as intense as the shot itself, and his other hand wraps around the back of Mark's neck, holding him still.
Eduardo leads Marks upstairs to the bed they've shared for the past four years, and Eduardo peels off his clothes, exposing the rest of the bruises. His eyes are fixed on Mark's face, bright and intent. Mark puts his hands on the long curve of Eduardo's neck, presses his fingers against the pulse point to feel the steady flutter of Eduardo's heart underneath his fingertips. Eduardo doesn't let Mark linger there.
They wrestle off Mark's clothes and end up on the bed. Eduardo hands are warm, vividly alive against Mark's body.
"I'm still angry at you," Eduardo says. He's on top of Mark, knees bracketing Mark's thighs. His fingernails are digging into Mark's hips, leaving bright red crescents behind. Mark will probably have his own set of bruises tomorrow, but he doesn't really care.
"I know," Mark says. He kisses Eduardo again, cups Eduardo's cheek with one hand. He thinks about how fragile human bodies are, and how resilient they can be. He thinks about blood vessels, about arteries and veins, about neurons and nerve endings and pain receptors.
They've done this so many times that it's easy, routine. Eduardo's fingers are slick with the lube from the bedside table, opening Mark up while Mark is on his knees and elbows, forehead pressed against the mattress. Eduardo is rougher than he normally is. The slight burn of his cock is as perfect as always, though, filling Mark up. Eduardo never seems to know how much Mark can take, never seems to know how much Mark is willing to take. He always touches Mark like he thinks Mark is made of glass, like he's always holding something back.
Mark is willing to take whatever Eduardo wants to dish out, because Eduardo is here. He's a complete fucking moron, and he's got the bruises to prove it, but he's alive, and Mark wants all of it, the panting breaths, the angry hands, the short, quick thrusts.
Afterwards, Eduardo leaves to take a shower, and Mark changes into his usual pajamas. Eduardo comes out of the bathroom wearing just a towel. His hair is sticking up.
"What was this?" Mark asks. He doesn't think he's ever really understood what was going through Eduardo's head besides the basics, whether he was happy or sad or angry, but now Mark doesn't think he even has that.
"Nothing," Eduardo says. "It's nothing." His face is blank and cold. "I was tired of feeling bad for myself."
Mark's not surprised, but it does make a cold, sick feeling settle in his chest. "How is that working out for you?" he asks.
"Get out of here, Mark," Eduardo says, and it's like everything is leaking out across his face, anger and pain and exhaustion.
Mark gets out of there. He walks downstairs, the floorboards creaking underneath his feet. Their couch has been worn in after years and years of abuse, and it dips in the middle, comfortable. Mark pulls a ratty old blanket over himself and curls up before falling asleep.
---
He's bleeding when they throw him at Mark's feet.
Edward Majors, the person who tipped the Winklevii off to Eduardo's location. Mark used to know him by reputation, a long time ago. Low level drug dealer, likes being a snitch for favors. He's a short man, about the same height as Mark, and he's dressed in a way that seems to mean that he gives a shit. Mark knows his type -- weaselly, constantly asking for respect instead of demanding it. He's the kind who would break before you broke his first finger, who would give up his mother as soon as you put a knife in front of his face. The kind who thinks he's tough when he has no fucking idea.
They're in Mark's basement, stone floor underneath their feet, a single lightbulb over their heads. It smells like mold, like old, wet things, but it's familiar and comforting. Mark's spent a lot of time here. Dustin grins, and his smile is all teeth.
"Softened him up for you, boss," Dustin says. "He's really talkative now." He puts away his knife.
Mark's not here to talk. Mark is here to make an example. Most criminals are stupid, he's learned, but they do respond well to examples.
"Please, I didn't know who he was," Majors pleads as he stumbles to his feet. "All they gave me was a description, not a name." His eyes are wide, frantic. It's almost not even worth it. There's no challenge in breaking Majors further. He's not even worth scraping from the bottom of Dustin's shoes.
Still. Example.
Mark isn't as big or as strong as the Winklevii, but he has learned how to throw a punch over the years. Majors grunts and doubles over in pain as soon as Mark's fist connects with his ribs. Mark's knuckles hurt afterwards; it's been a while since he's handled something like this personally. "You really shouldn't say that like it makes a difference," Mark says. "It doesn't."
Majors collapses, coughing up blood. It splatters red against the concrete. Mark's a big fan of symmetry. He wants to put every mark, every bruise, every cut that Eduardo has onto Majors' body. He wants to leave Majors locked up here for days without medical attention. He wants to beat Majors' face in and hear him scream.
The room is quiet with the exception of the Majors' heavy, wheezing breaths. Dustin and Chris know better than to interrupt. Mark kicks Majors in the stomach. He watches as more blood dribbles onto the floor from Major's lips.
It's not enough.
---
In the morning, Eduardo comes downstairs with dark bags underneath his eyes. His hair is falling limp onto his forehead. The bruises are still bright on his face. He looks like shit. Mark wants to kiss him, to lick into his mouth and taste the remnants of sleep. Eduardo would probably punch him for trying, and while Mark could take the pain, he'd rather not deal with it.
"Chris made sure the bank knows you're out on sick leave," Mark says. It's a quiet, cool, gray sort of day, and the light that pours in through the windows is pale and almost white. There's a chance of rain or flurries today. Mark can see it in his mind's eye, intermittent flakes drifting from the sky.
Eduardo looks at Mark, his eyes still drooping with sleep, confusion written all across his face. There are times when Mark wonders if Eduardo is capable of putting walls up, if there are any pieces of himself that he's ever been able to hide. "Oh," Eduardo says, "I hadn't even thought of that."
Mark shrugs. That's what he pays Chris to do, to consider all the angles Mark has missed. "You look like shit," Mark says, because he doesn't believe in lying, and Eduardo looks like he was run over by a very large car.
Eduardo laughs like they're maybe still friends, like he's forgotten that he hates Mark right now. "That's what happens when you can't get any sleep. Nightmares. I don't suppose you know what that's like." Eduardo has always been a restless sleeper, easily disturbed into wakefulness.
"I could--" Mark says, and his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. "If you need someone there at night."
Eduardo stops and stares at him, and something raw and hurting passes over his face. "I can't even fucking believe you," he says. "After all that..." He glances away, like he can't even look at Mark. It feels like that's been happening a lot lately.
"Whatever," Mark says. It's for Eduardo's benefit in the end. If he doesn't want Mark's help, then Mark doesn't have to give a shit. Mark can sleep on the couch, and Eduardo can keep showing up in the morning looking like shit. Mark has plenty of other shit he can work on instead. All he has these days is work.
"I wasn't-- that wasn't a no," Eduardo says, a quick flash of emotion passes over his face. "I'll see you tonight, then." He focuses on making himself some coffee, and he doesn't look at Mark again for the rest of the morning.
Mark still feels like he's won something, but he doesn't know what.
---
Dustin and Chris have cleared most of Mark's schedule, but Mark does have a list of decisions he has to make, like which areas they should try to expand into, which businesses they want to talk to specifically, who they want to sway to their side. They're especially busy now that the Winklevosses are angry about Judge Summers. Now that they've expanded to this point, Mark doesn't have to handle all that much personally, which is both a blessing and a curse. He misses knowing everything about everything, and he misses being low to the ground, able to follow Sean around town and pick up the tricks of the trade one at a time.
Still, by the end of the night, he's exhausted. There are some delicate phone calls that he needed to make personally, and it took some extensive coaching from Chris to understand what he needed to say and how he was supposed to say it.
Eduardo is in bed before Mark, and it's so bizarrely familiar that the last week feels like it passed in a strange dream, like Eduardo didn't freeze the account, and Mark didn't get mad at him, and the Winklevii hadn't gotten involved where they really don't belong. Eduardo sleeps the same as he always does, curled up on his side of the bed, a hand tucked underneath his pillow.
Mark climbs into bed tired, worn out, his eyelids drooping shut. He listens to the steady sound of Eduardo's breathing, and he curls a hand around Eduardo's wrist before he falls asleep.
---
Mark wakes as soon as he feels Eduardo's fingers dig into his arm. Eduardo's still in the nightmare, eyes squeezed tight, his breath shallow. He looks like he's hurting, like he's in pain. He must have looked like this when the Winklevii were working him over. They must have been able to see every little bit of what he was feeling.
"Hey," Mark says, shaking Eduardo's shoulder. "Wake up."
Eduardo's eyes jerk open, and he shoves Mark away. "Who--" He looks around, gets his bearings. "Mark," he says. His eyes are bright, reflected moonlight. His skin looks strangely pale. Maybe that's the dream, draining all the color out of him.
"You had a nightmare," Mark says. Eduardo never used to have nightmares, Mark remembers. He was a fairly light sleeper, which was a little inconvenient considering the hours Mark keeps, but Eduardo seemed to get over it as time went on. By the end, he almost slept like the dead.
"Yeah, I figured that out," Eduardo says. "Thanks." His breathing is still too short, and he's still clutching Mark's arm. Mark thinks about kissing him again, about pressing their lips together so Eduardo won't think he's still in there with the twins, so that he knows for a fact that he's with Mark.
He doesn't do anything. He just listens as Eduardo's breath evens out, waiting for Eduardo to say more.
"If you want to know," Eduardo says eventually, "I dreamt it was you, that you were the one holding the knife." There's something in his voice, it's almost an accusation.
Mark closes his eyes. He pulls his arm away.
---
"We're going to have to do something about the Italians. They're getting restless," Dustin says. He has his feet kicked up onto Mark's desk, hands on his stomach, the way he usually sits in Mark's office. Some people look confused when Dustin sits in on one of Mark's meetings, raising their eyebrows at how relaxed he looks around Mark. Dustin finds it really hilarious, so he'll usually play it up a bit by fiddling with Mark's pens or by juggling paperweights, just to fuck with their heads.
"The Winklevii aren't going to be able to hold onto them much longer," Mark says, reading through some of the spreadsheets Ian has sent him. "They know that. The Winklevii know that. We can wait them out until we're in a better position to negotiate."
Dustin's pretty good at handling the Italians most days. He's better with the Irish, but he's still pretty good at taking care of things whenever Mark needs some errands done in the North End. Mark has controlled most of the business on this side of the river for a while, expanding out from Cambridge into Charlestown and Somerville. He has some parts of Allston, pieces of Fenway, but that's just a slice of the pie. It's almost nothing at all.
"They want to talk face-to-face," Dustin says, "and they want to talk to you specifically."
Mark snorts. "Everyone wants to talk to me specifically. It makes them feel important." Eric had a run-in with the Italians last year. He came out of it alive and intact, but Mark had to smooth some things over personally. He really hates having to do that. Celuzza had been happy to help out, slapping Mark on the shoulder and talking about how he was all grown up now and no longer a complete fucking jackass, but Mark doesn't like owing him anything. Mark doesn't like owing anyone anything.
Dustin laughs, really laughs. There aren't a lot of people who can't get away with laughing in Mark's face, but Dustin is one of them. He abuses the privilege as much as he possibly can. "Contrary to popular belief, they really don't need you to feel important."
"Mayor Winklevoss is important. They're a bunch of cloistered assholes who are only clinging onto their section of the city because no one's ever going to be able to kick them out. They really should fuck off back to Providence, but that's never going to happen."
"So what do I say to them?" Dustin asks.
"That I'm busy for the foreseeable future," Mark says. It's not actually a lie.
---
Eduardo's awake this time when Mark gets into bed. He was looking better today, more like himself, smiling at Dustin's jokes and having quiet, intense conversations with Chris. Mark likes that, even if Eduardo still won't look at Mark most days, won't acknowledge that Mark exists unless he has to.
"Why did you break up with me?" Eduardo asks, point-blank, while they're face-to-face on the bed. He looks apprehensive. Mark can smell his breath. He can see the individual pores on Eduardo's face. It feels almost like a physical ache to keep himself this far away.
"Why did you freeze the account?" Mark asks. He's turned the moment over and over again in his head, and it still makes no fucking sense. If Eduardo wanted out, there were plenty of less passive-aggressive ways of going about it, and if he wanted to send Mark a message, it was an incomprehensible one.
Eduardo sighs and rubs his face with his hands. The bruises on his forearms are fading, yellows and greens. "i saw-- You were so fucking obsessed with this whole Winklevoss thing, and it was fucking terrifying. I couldn't-- You stopped listening to me," he says. "I needed to get your attention."
Mark stares at him, tries to figure out what he's saying. "I never listened to you," he says. "Not about this."
Eduardo's eyes are huge and round, dark and deep. "Sometimes I really fucking hate you, Mark," he says. He sounds tired. Eduardo really does need his sleep.
"You didn't want to be a part of it," Mark says. "So you weren't." He doesn't know where this conversation went off track, but it apparently has somewhere along the line.
Eduardo sighs. "Yeah, I'm getting that." He shifts away from Mark, closes his eyes, turns to face the other direction. There are five inches between their bodies. This shouldn't be significant, not really, but it still feels like a canyon between them, impossible to cross.
As far as Mark knows, the nightmares don't come again that night.
---
In the morning with the sunlight lighting up Eduardo's face, Mark says, "You didn't want to be a part of it, and I wanted to give you wanted." He takes a deep breath. "You know, if they'd asked for a ransom, I would have paid it." He would have torn this city to the ground if he needed to. He would have pried all of Tyler's fingernails off with a pair of pliers. He would have stuck electrodes on Cameron's balls and turned on the power. He would have done whatever it took to get Eduardo back.
Eduardo blinks, eyes focusing on Mark's face. "You never answered my question," he says. His voice is still fuzzy with sleep. They're still in bed, still close enough to touch.
"When you froze the account, I thought it meant that you were leaving, that you wanted out. I wanted to end it before you could." He remembers the cold burn of rage he felt when Ian, their newest financials person, had told him about the account. Mark remembers the way he and Eduardo had yelled at each other in the hallway for an entire half hour before Eduardo had stormed off in a huff. Mark had gotten Chris to pack up most of Eduardo's clothes and leave the suitcase outside, as clear a message for Eduardo as Mark could make it. If Eduardo didn't want to be there, Mark wasn't going to keep him there. "It was stupid, I was drunk, and I was angry. I didn't think it through."
"That's pretty obvious," Eduardo says. He sits up and rubs his eyes. Mark stares at the place where Eduardo's t-shirt rides up, exposing some of the bruises. He wants to lick it. Eduardo continues, "Just so we're on the same page, that's really not what I wanted at all." There's this tension underpinning his voice, something that Mark doesn't understand.
"Okay," Mark says. "So what do you want now?"
Eduardo closes his eyes, tilts his head back so that all Mark can do is stare at the long line of his throat. "I'll get back to you as soon as I figure that out," he says.
---
It feels like things are better after that, though Mark isn't sure what happened or why. They're still sleeping together, though they haven't had sex since that second night. Eduardo's nightmares surface every few nights at first, then once a week. They don't disappear completely, but they're better. On the nights when Eduardo has nightmares, Mark will shake him awake, and Eduardo will nod mutely, eyes sleepy and unfocused, and they don't ever talk about it. Mark doesn't want to know.
During the days, Mark works downstairs on the first floor. When they took over the entire house, the first floor apartment became the hub of their activity, easily separated from the bedrooms upstairs. They converted the master bedroom on the first floor into Mark's office, and the kitchen became Dustin and Chris's domain (mostly because Dustin wanted to be near the refrigerator). The others come and go, stopping off in the living room whenever they have an extra hour or two, delivering news and messages and reports.
Narendra's information has been good so far. Mark isn't a fan of trusting rats, but Narendra was pretty up-front from the very beginning that he might turn around and fuck over Mark in the future, too. Right now, he's useful, and when he stops being useful, well-- Mark has the necessary procedures put in place to handle that. Mark has a whole city-wide information network set up, but he's been careful to make sure that everyone can be verified against everyone else, just to make sure they're all still toeing the line.
Word on the street is that the twins let Eduardo escape because he didn't have any useful information, and it was meant to be "a sign of good will between ourselves and Mr. Zuckerberg." Mark doesn't believe it for a second, but he understands that they have to save face. Mark wouldn't put it past them to make another attempt on Eduardo, but he thinks it's good that it'll dissuade anyone else from getting any ideas.
Eduardo spends his days haunting the upper levels. He's got a lot of vacation time saved up, and Mark figures that he might as well use it up now rather than later. He doesn't know how Eduardo feels about it. They don't talk about it. They don't talk about much at all. When Mark goes back upstairs for the night, he'll find Eduardo writing in a notebook, scribbling words into it, or he'll find Eduardo at the kitchen table, laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. He's up to something, but Mark is strangely reluctant to ask about it. If Eduardo wants to tell him, he'll tell him.
On one of the days, Eduardo even disappears out the back door while Mark is in a business meeting. Dustin's the one who interrupts to tell Mark all about it, already half freaked out. Mark is mostly too pissed off to be freaked out by it, and he stays that way long after Eduardo shows up again at five pm.
"What the fuck was that?" Mark asks. Eduardo's face has healed enough that saying he got into an unfortunate accident with a pole isn't as much of a stretch as it used to be, so public appearances aren't that much of an issue, but the Winklevii could have been lying in wait for Eduardo to show his face again. They know where Mark lives, after all.
Eduardo raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I was just at the library," he says. "It was perfectly fine." The library is only a ten minute walk away from Mark's house through mostly busy streets, on the other side of Central Square.
"Dude, you shouldn't have left like that," Dustin says. He really shouldn't have. Mark was tempted to go to Narendra to see if the Winklevii had somehow gotten hold of Eduardo again, and fuck it if he's ever going to owe Narendra anything else in his entire life. "You could have taken one of us with you."
"I can't even go outside anymore without being babysat? What the fuck is this?" Eduardo says. "I'm not being kept prisoner here, am I?" It feels like an argument they've already had, about how Mark worries too much about Eduardo, and about how Eduardo is being stupid by sticking his head into the ground and ignoring the fact that things are dangerous, really dangerous. Mark hates this argument. It usually ends with Eduardo throwing something against a wall because he doesn't think Mark's actually listening to his arguments, even though Mark is listening to his arguments and just thinks they're stupid.
"You're not," Mark says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're free to leave whenever you want." If Eduardo doesn't want to stay, Mark isn't going to keep him here. That's as true as it's always been.
Mark turns around and walks back to his office, listening to Eduardo's heavy footsteps on the stairs.
---
That night before they fall asleep, Eduardo says, "You were worried." He sounds weirdly fascinated with the idea, like it's something special and amazing, like he doesn't believe that Mark is capable of something like that.
Mark snorts. "Did you just figure that out?" They're curled up on the bed, facing each other, the five inches between them still there.
There's something on Eduardo's face, an emotion that Mark can't quite read. "A little," he says. "You know, the stuff in your head isn't as obvious to everyone else around you as you seem to think it is."
"I was worried," Mark says, just to make sure everything is clear between the two of them. He feels like he's ten again and getting a lecture from his mom on how to properly interact with other people.
Eduardo laughs, a real smile forming on his face. "You could also start listening to what people say instead of jumping to conclusions while you're at it," he says. He shifts closer. Three inches between them now, still not touching, but Mark knows it's an improvement.
"Okay," Mark agrees.
Part 2