Fic: anomie (the social network, mark/eduardo)
Title: anomie
Author: pirateyes
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: the social network. mark/eduardo.
Words: 1740
Disclaimer: Not a word of truth to any of it. Well maybe a word, but I couldn't tell you which one.
Summary: power dynamics. christmas eve. reflection. sad mark is sad, etc.
Notes: I feel like I keep wanting to incorporate all the same elements into every SN fic I write. sorry if there's repetition of themes, etc. but I'm still just trying to get a foot hold on all the potential for these characters before I figure out how to get them together happily ever after.
anomie.
an·o·mie or an·o·my
n.
1. Social instability caused by erosion of standards and values.
2. Alienation and purposelessness experienced by a person or a class as a result of a lack of standards, values, or ideals
Being a genius in the 21st Century wasn’t exactly a big fucking deal. Intelligence was such a useless thing to be impressed by. Carrying integers and Rubik’s Cubes weren't going to get him a girlfriend or buy him that vintage Duesenberg so he could say “boy, that’s a real doozy” to the valet guy, emphasis boy, while tossing him the keys. Intelligence wasn’t going to lead to a better life.
-
the cursor blinks in the search bar.
whoareyou. 29 year old grad student from miami. likes cats and beck. photo album shows a predilection for overusing the peace sign. boring.
next.
42 year old mother of three. Annie. just finished cooking shortbread for the holid-
god these people.
next.
37, man, gay, just married. nice but way too many status updates.
next.
The screen slams shut. Danielle is looking at him. His newest assistant determined to test the limits of his patience.
He stares at her. She stares back, raises an eyebrow. He opens the screen back up, the cursor resumes it's blinking. Everyone has an opinion then.
"It's Christmas Eve, Mark."
"I'm aware of that." He moves the mouse pad around with his right hand in the guise of doing something and flicks his by-the-day calendar with his left, pointedly.
Danielle sighs and moves around the desk to look at it. There's a cartoon of a garishly line-drawn figure standing under a piece of mistletoe with an equally unattractive curly haired figure, lips puckered. The caption reads, fuck off, I'm Jewish.
"Did you have this calendar commissioned just for you?" Danielle asks, ripping the page off. The clock reads 10:32, so the day's almost over, but still. Patience tested.
"Your predecessor gave it to me last year," he says as he types a single E in the search bar and then backspaces it quickly before she can see it.
Danielle walks around the desk the other way and stands there folding the little calendar page with deft, precise lines. "That was nice of her," she says.
"I fired her," Mark replies. He types E again and pauses with his finger over the key. Half an inch to the left is embarrassing but acceptable, familiar territory. Half an inch down is suicide.
Danielle is smiling at him, he isn't looking at her but he can feel it, like she's trying to infect him with holiday cheer or something. "I'm glad I didn't get you anything then."
His finger falls onto the d with a will of its own, the rest of the name pulled from his fingers by the merciless will of muscle memory.
"Goodnight cruel world," he whispers caustically, hitting the enter key. The search results flicker to life. He exhales.
"Goodbye," Danielle says. Mark starts, looking up at where she's standing, watching him. He'd sort of forgotten she was still there, fingers poised on paper.
"'Scuse me?" he says.
"It's not goodnight, it's goodbye."
He sits back. "The semantic difference being what?"
"One's more permanent, for one thing," Danielle says, another fold.
It's never escaped his attention that he has the power to delete any of the profiles that he skims past everyday, delete parts of people's lives that they can never get back.
-
"-the power to change lives," Sean is saying, frosted glass of crimson drink in hand as he smiles slick charm at the blue suit, brown suit, black suit in front of them. Mark sees stone-cold faces and eager eyes. He often feels lately like his life has become a desaturated Dr. Seuss story.
One suit,
two suit,
black suit,
blue suit.
"I should call Wardo," Mark says as the men file out of the bar and Sean turns that grin at him.
"It's late in New York," Sean says, "and we need to cheers to a job well done." A server appears out of nowhere and shoves fresh drinks in their direction.
"Not done yet," Mark says but he chugs back half the glass in one go.
"C'mon, we own them. We're the reason they can spy on their daughters' social lives. They're more afraid of us than we are of them."
"As much as I appreciate the spider analogy and I certainly have no interest in changing Facebook for any amount of money, I'm not planning to resort to scare tactics."
"You growing a conscience on me now?" Sean asks. He's joking but he looks almost annoyed and Mark feels a rock in his stomach as he realizes that Sean was willing to throw it all away with Napster just to make a point. Mark's already surpassed that.
"What if I am?" he asks, looking steadily across the table and maybe he didn't intend it but it's as much a challenge as anything.
Sean meets his gaze for a long moment, then laughs. "You're the boss," he says and throws back his drink. Mark's teeth are already aching so he switches to beer after that and drinks until the corners of his mind go hazy and he starts thinking in code. He fingers his phone in his pocket all night but he never makes the call.
-
Mark can see everything that happens in the office from his desk, part of the benefit of glass walls and a central position, but right now most of the lights are off and there's nothing to see beyond these walls.
Danielle is using deft fingers to pull tiny pieces of paper into place. "And the other?" he asks her.
She stops, looking at him and frowning. "Sorry?"
"You said for one thing. That implies that there's another."
"Oh, well, that's what makes it a joke, isn't it? Goodbye, cruel world," she invokes the original drama in the phrase that Mark had left out, gesturing with her hands where Mark keeps his carefully pinned to the keyboard. "The irony is implicit because-"
"Real goodbyes are never good," Mark finishes. He hasn't looked at it yet but the image on the screen is screaming in the periphery.
Danielle almost looks sad then as she says, "exactly."
Mark shakes off the feeling threatening to take up residence under his skin and smirks at her. "Anyone ever tell you that you think too much?"
"I'm in good company then," she says and they share a look until Mark looks down to the clock.
"It's late."
"Fine, fine. I'm leaving," she says, hands up, letting the mood be light. The paper in her hand is now a small origami frog and she sets it on the edge of his desk before turning to leave.
"See you tomorrow," she says at the door.
"You don't work tomorrow," Mark says, looking from the little folded frog to the calendar, now on December 25th.
"Is that a fact?" Danielle asks, almost amused.
"It is."
She seems to hesitate, then says, "Goodnight, Mark."
He blinks as she exits and then forces himself to look back to the screen, tries to pretend it's just business as usual.
-
He looks older. Sitting across the table in a clean, pressed suit with lines by his eyes matching the barely-there pinstripes down his chest.
Mark doesn't think it's possible to age visibly in the span of six months. At least he hopes not, because otherwise he'll probably be victim to it too. And if he ages then they might stop ID-ing him at the liquor store down the road from his office and then they might stop noticing his name and then when they see his flip-flops and sweatshirt at 12am on a Tuesday in December the soft pity in their eyes will never turn to respect.
But Eduardo wouldn't care about those kinds of things.
They're out of the meeting early for once and when it's all over Mark rests his head against the back of the elevator. The doors are almost closed when a hand stops them and Eduardo steps in, facing him. Mark moves to stand upright but just as the elevator starts to fall Eduardo is two steps forward pressing a hand into Mark's chest, holding him to the wall.
"What are you doing?" Mark says, swallowing but not breaking eye contact. Eduardo's face is dark, hard to read, and Mark's out of practice.
"Tell me to stop." Eduardo says, hand and body pressing in further, movements sharp like the pressed angles of his shirt collar. Mark is still wearing his soft black hoodie.
Stop, Mark thinks. But he isn't even sure what Eduardo's doing yet, he doesn't have the right data set, he isn't about to decide anything yet.
He sighs. "We're probably going to settle. You don't have to-"
Eduardo's kissing him. He's stealing Mark's next inhale and pressing it against his lips with warm, damp pressure until Mark has no choice but to open his mouth to gasp it in. Eduardo's tongue comes out to meet his in the briefest teasing moment and then it's all over and Eduardo's body is just a shadow on the wall. Mark feels too warm and terrifyingly, embarrassingly hard.
"I don't want your money, Mark. I want-"
"My dignity?" Mark asks, breathing as deep and discreetly as possible. He can feel his body actually shaking with emotion, either anger or something else, he has no idea how to tell.
Eduardo shakes his head as if to clear it, clenching and unclenching his hands. "My name. I want what you promised me."
Mark finally stands up straight at that. "Your name on the masthead," he says. Daddy issues rearing their ugly head again. Nothing's changed, then. Or everything has.
"Something like that." Eduardo says. He turns and they both watch as the elevator falls the last two floors to the lobby. The doors start to open and Mark feels unexpectedly panicky, reaches a hand to do... something.
"Wardo-" he says. Eduardo keeps moving forward but turns his head a bit and his eyes look damp.
"Goodbye, Mark," he says.
-
Eduardo's Facebook profile is dull, untouched. It says absolutely nothing about him.
Mark contemplates adding in some details, an interest or two, but it's all lost from his memory, if he ever knew them to begin with. Every heading he looks at says less and less about the Eduardo he knew.
Mark wonders what would happen if he hit just a few keys and erased the profile completely, as if it had never even existed, he wonders what would change.
Nothing, he realizes. Absolutely nothing.
Author: pirateyes
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: the social network. mark/eduardo.
Words: 1740
Disclaimer: Not a word of truth to any of it. Well maybe a word, but I couldn't tell you which one.
Summary: power dynamics. christmas eve. reflection. sad mark is sad, etc.
Notes: I feel like I keep wanting to incorporate all the same elements into every SN fic I write. sorry if there's repetition of themes, etc. but I'm still just trying to get a foot hold on all the potential for these characters before I figure out how to get them together happily ever after.
anomie.
an·o·mie or an·o·my
n.
1. Social instability caused by erosion of standards and values.
2. Alienation and purposelessness experienced by a person or a class as a result of a lack of standards, values, or ideals
Being a genius in the 21st Century wasn’t exactly a big fucking deal. Intelligence was such a useless thing to be impressed by. Carrying integers and Rubik’s Cubes weren't going to get him a girlfriend or buy him that vintage Duesenberg so he could say “boy, that’s a real doozy” to the valet guy, emphasis boy, while tossing him the keys. Intelligence wasn’t going to lead to a better life.
-
the cursor blinks in the search bar.
whoareyou. 29 year old grad student from miami. likes cats and beck. photo album shows a predilection for overusing the peace sign. boring.
next.
42 year old mother of three. Annie. just finished cooking shortbread for the holid-
god these people.
next.
37, man, gay, just married. nice but way too many status updates.
next.
The screen slams shut. Danielle is looking at him. His newest assistant determined to test the limits of his patience.
He stares at her. She stares back, raises an eyebrow. He opens the screen back up, the cursor resumes it's blinking. Everyone has an opinion then.
"It's Christmas Eve, Mark."
"I'm aware of that." He moves the mouse pad around with his right hand in the guise of doing something and flicks his by-the-day calendar with his left, pointedly.
Danielle sighs and moves around the desk to look at it. There's a cartoon of a garishly line-drawn figure standing under a piece of mistletoe with an equally unattractive curly haired figure, lips puckered. The caption reads, fuck off, I'm Jewish.
"Did you have this calendar commissioned just for you?" Danielle asks, ripping the page off. The clock reads 10:32, so the day's almost over, but still. Patience tested.
"Your predecessor gave it to me last year," he says as he types a single E in the search bar and then backspaces it quickly before she can see it.
Danielle walks around the desk the other way and stands there folding the little calendar page with deft, precise lines. "That was nice of her," she says.
"I fired her," Mark replies. He types E again and pauses with his finger over the key. Half an inch to the left is embarrassing but acceptable, familiar territory. Half an inch down is suicide.
Danielle is smiling at him, he isn't looking at her but he can feel it, like she's trying to infect him with holiday cheer or something. "I'm glad I didn't get you anything then."
His finger falls onto the d with a will of its own, the rest of the name pulled from his fingers by the merciless will of muscle memory.
"Goodnight cruel world," he whispers caustically, hitting the enter key. The search results flicker to life. He exhales.
"Goodbye," Danielle says. Mark starts, looking up at where she's standing, watching him. He'd sort of forgotten she was still there, fingers poised on paper.
"'Scuse me?" he says.
"It's not goodnight, it's goodbye."
He sits back. "The semantic difference being what?"
"One's more permanent, for one thing," Danielle says, another fold.
It's never escaped his attention that he has the power to delete any of the profiles that he skims past everyday, delete parts of people's lives that they can never get back.
-
"-the power to change lives," Sean is saying, frosted glass of crimson drink in hand as he smiles slick charm at the blue suit, brown suit, black suit in front of them. Mark sees stone-cold faces and eager eyes. He often feels lately like his life has become a desaturated Dr. Seuss story.
One suit,
two suit,
black suit,
blue suit.
"I should call Wardo," Mark says as the men file out of the bar and Sean turns that grin at him.
"It's late in New York," Sean says, "and we need to cheers to a job well done." A server appears out of nowhere and shoves fresh drinks in their direction.
"Not done yet," Mark says but he chugs back half the glass in one go.
"C'mon, we own them. We're the reason they can spy on their daughters' social lives. They're more afraid of us than we are of them."
"As much as I appreciate the spider analogy and I certainly have no interest in changing Facebook for any amount of money, I'm not planning to resort to scare tactics."
"You growing a conscience on me now?" Sean asks. He's joking but he looks almost annoyed and Mark feels a rock in his stomach as he realizes that Sean was willing to throw it all away with Napster just to make a point. Mark's already surpassed that.
"What if I am?" he asks, looking steadily across the table and maybe he didn't intend it but it's as much a challenge as anything.
Sean meets his gaze for a long moment, then laughs. "You're the boss," he says and throws back his drink. Mark's teeth are already aching so he switches to beer after that and drinks until the corners of his mind go hazy and he starts thinking in code. He fingers his phone in his pocket all night but he never makes the call.
-
Mark can see everything that happens in the office from his desk, part of the benefit of glass walls and a central position, but right now most of the lights are off and there's nothing to see beyond these walls.
Danielle is using deft fingers to pull tiny pieces of paper into place. "And the other?" he asks her.
She stops, looking at him and frowning. "Sorry?"
"You said for one thing. That implies that there's another."
"Oh, well, that's what makes it a joke, isn't it? Goodbye, cruel world," she invokes the original drama in the phrase that Mark had left out, gesturing with her hands where Mark keeps his carefully pinned to the keyboard. "The irony is implicit because-"
"Real goodbyes are never good," Mark finishes. He hasn't looked at it yet but the image on the screen is screaming in the periphery.
Danielle almost looks sad then as she says, "exactly."
Mark shakes off the feeling threatening to take up residence under his skin and smirks at her. "Anyone ever tell you that you think too much?"
"I'm in good company then," she says and they share a look until Mark looks down to the clock.
"It's late."
"Fine, fine. I'm leaving," she says, hands up, letting the mood be light. The paper in her hand is now a small origami frog and she sets it on the edge of his desk before turning to leave.
"See you tomorrow," she says at the door.
"You don't work tomorrow," Mark says, looking from the little folded frog to the calendar, now on December 25th.
"Is that a fact?" Danielle asks, almost amused.
"It is."
She seems to hesitate, then says, "Goodnight, Mark."
He blinks as she exits and then forces himself to look back to the screen, tries to pretend it's just business as usual.
-
He looks older. Sitting across the table in a clean, pressed suit with lines by his eyes matching the barely-there pinstripes down his chest.
Mark doesn't think it's possible to age visibly in the span of six months. At least he hopes not, because otherwise he'll probably be victim to it too. And if he ages then they might stop ID-ing him at the liquor store down the road from his office and then they might stop noticing his name and then when they see his flip-flops and sweatshirt at 12am on a Tuesday in December the soft pity in their eyes will never turn to respect.
But Eduardo wouldn't care about those kinds of things.
They're out of the meeting early for once and when it's all over Mark rests his head against the back of the elevator. The doors are almost closed when a hand stops them and Eduardo steps in, facing him. Mark moves to stand upright but just as the elevator starts to fall Eduardo is two steps forward pressing a hand into Mark's chest, holding him to the wall.
"What are you doing?" Mark says, swallowing but not breaking eye contact. Eduardo's face is dark, hard to read, and Mark's out of practice.
"Tell me to stop." Eduardo says, hand and body pressing in further, movements sharp like the pressed angles of his shirt collar. Mark is still wearing his soft black hoodie.
Stop, Mark thinks. But he isn't even sure what Eduardo's doing yet, he doesn't have the right data set, he isn't about to decide anything yet.
He sighs. "We're probably going to settle. You don't have to-"
Eduardo's kissing him. He's stealing Mark's next inhale and pressing it against his lips with warm, damp pressure until Mark has no choice but to open his mouth to gasp it in. Eduardo's tongue comes out to meet his in the briefest teasing moment and then it's all over and Eduardo's body is just a shadow on the wall. Mark feels too warm and terrifyingly, embarrassingly hard.
"I don't want your money, Mark. I want-"
"My dignity?" Mark asks, breathing as deep and discreetly as possible. He can feel his body actually shaking with emotion, either anger or something else, he has no idea how to tell.
Eduardo shakes his head as if to clear it, clenching and unclenching his hands. "My name. I want what you promised me."
Mark finally stands up straight at that. "Your name on the masthead," he says. Daddy issues rearing their ugly head again. Nothing's changed, then. Or everything has.
"Something like that." Eduardo says. He turns and they both watch as the elevator falls the last two floors to the lobby. The doors start to open and Mark feels unexpectedly panicky, reaches a hand to do... something.
"Wardo-" he says. Eduardo keeps moving forward but turns his head a bit and his eyes look damp.
"Goodbye, Mark," he says.
-
Eduardo's Facebook profile is dull, untouched. It says absolutely nothing about him.
Mark contemplates adding in some details, an interest or two, but it's all lost from his memory, if he ever knew them to begin with. Every heading he looks at says less and less about the Eduardo he knew.
Mark wonders what would happen if he hit just a few keys and erased the profile completely, as if it had never even existed, he wonders what would change.
Nothing, he realizes. Absolutely nothing.