Turn On The Bright Lights
Title: Turn On The Bright Lights
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 912
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark
Warnings: Mark POV. I KNOW. IT IS MADNESS.
Disclaimer: This fic is about the fictional Eduardo Saverin and Mark Zuckerberg, not the real people, but they're still not mine, alas. If they were, they'd be living together and cuddling and watching reality TV just like Andrew Garfield wanted.
Summary: This is why Mark and Eduardo don't take the subway.
Author's Notes: metafisica prompted Eduardo/Mark -- broken down train, because she understands my soul. Title from the Interpol song NYC.
"This is why we don't take the subway, Mark," Eduardo yelps into the black emptiness of the car. "Because it's old and it's dangerous and it breaks down, Mark, holy shit, and leaves you stranded for hours."
Mark can see Eduardo's point but, as ever, he's letting his imagination run away with him. "It's-"
"For hours," Eduardo repeats, and now he's clutching at the sleeve of Mark's fleece like a child, and frankly, that's just embarrassing.
"We're not going to be trapped for hours, Wardo. I've never heard of anyone stuck in a subway tunnel for more than an hour."
"An hour? Jesus Christ."
Mark can barely see Eduardo in the blackness, but he can feel him tugging at his hair which Mark has noticed he only does in times of great distress. Like with the animal cruelty accusations, and that one time during the depositions, and-but Mark stops himself there. They made a vow not to talk about the depositions any more and Mark finds that if he starts thinking about them, he starts talking about them, and that would be breaking the rule. And Mark's kind of okay with things how they are.
"Wardo, you're being ridiculous," he says instead. "We'll just sit here for a bit and then everything will be fine."
The lights flicker on and then off again, and Eduardo lets out a noise that's akin to a wounded deer. "Jesus, can't they at least get the lights to work? If the lights would work then it wouldn't be so bad, but when it's so dark like this you don't know what might-"
"You're babbling, Wardo," Mark says. "Just be quiet. I can't listen to you for the next hour. It's giving me a headache."
"You're right, you're right. It's just-"
Mark sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just what?"
"I don't-" Eduardo stops. Wraps his hand around Mark's wrist. Mark's still not used to how Eduardo just gets to touch him now, just touch him whenever he wants, and apparently? Eduardo wants to touch him a lot. "I don't really like-It's just really-I mean, you can't see anything."
It takes Mark a moment to parse. "The dark," he says, bluntly. "You don't like the dark."
"Not the dark, just- just when I can't turn a light on if I wanted to."
Mark blinks. "Well, that's-irrational."
He feels as well as hears Eduardo's sigh. "Yes, Mark. That's why it's called an irrational fear."
"Well, okay," Mark says, and frowns. "But isn't it the same dark as when you're at home, in bed?"
"Yeah," Eduardo says, "It's the same dark, but there I could-I could turn the light on if I wanted to. And besides, there's other-distractions. Here it's just me and the dark."
Mark can feel the blush rising to his cheeks. Eduardo doesn't need to say it, but he knows what he's thinking about when he says "distractions". Neither of them have brought it up since the first time it happened but it's only when the lights go off that he-that they-Mark shakes his head to dispel the thought but it doesn't work and he's suddenly acutely aware of Eduardo's fingers digging into the inside of his wrist.
"Distractions," he says softly.
"What?" Eduardo replies.
"Distractions. You said, there's usually distractions. By which you meant me."
"Uhh-yeah. I guess." His grip on Mark's wrist loosens a little, and Mark feels Eduardo's index finger stroking small circles over his pulse point.
"Well," he says, and swallows hard. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yeah-yeah, Mark," Eduardo says, shifting in his seat, "You're here."
"So."
"So…"
"So." He shrugs. "I'll distract you."
Eduardo makes a soft noise in the back of his throat as Mark shifts his body until he's facing him, slides a hand over his slim thigh. "Mark, are you-"
"Wardo," Mark says, "I've already told you to be quiet."
It's in all the papers the next morning, albeit buried on page 8 in most of them ("and thank God for that," Eduardo says, pouring Mark's orange juice). "Facebook founders in subway rescue," Mark reads. "Co-founders of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg and Eduardo Saverin were yesterday trapped in a Seventh Avenue line tunnel for an hour and a half before being rescued by New York City Transit Authority workers. A spokesperson for Mr Zuckerberg said that both he and Mr Saverin were unharmed and had fully recovered from their ordeal."
He turns the paper around to show Eduardo.
"Oh, God," Eduardo groans.
"It's not that bad," Mark says, buttering his toast.
"Not that-Jesus, Mark, I look like I've been dragged through a bush backwards, my hair's everywhere."
"At least you're not trying to cover up a hickey," Mark replies mildly.
"Is that why you're tilting your head at-oh my God, Mark, you can still see it, it's right there, you can still-Oh, they're going to have a field day with this at the office," Eduardo groans, pressing his palm to his forehead. "Can you imagine what Chris is going to say? He'll be unbearable. And I'm surprised we haven't heard from-"
Right on cue, Mark's phone lights up and vibrates itself off the table to the strains of the Dead Kennedys.
Eduardo watches it fall, and then looks up at Mark. "-Dustin," he finishes with a sigh.
Mark feels his mouth twitching. "Forget Dustin," he says. "Just imagine what your father's going to say."