there's oceans in between us (but that's not very far)
title: there's oceans in between us (but that's not very far)
pairing: Mark/Eduardo
author: reogulus
rating: PG-13
wordcount: 1,300
disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not used for profit.
summary: Whatever they had, he never did give it a name.
notes: Written for this prompt on tsn_kinkmeme as a part of late fill-a-thon. The fill is here on the overflow post. The "fingers over partition" idea came from an ancient post on mark_eduardo , and I just used it because I happened to catch it in my memory. If anyone could point me to the source of that comment, I'd love to give it credit.
Title from Blurry by Puddle of Mudd.
The first time it happened, there were lights and noises and stoned people. And then it became quiet, discreet, but never without liquor. Eventually he kissed you on his toes and you stopped pretending to be drunk. He remained as responsive as he could ever be.
It was the closest thing to a chronicle of the no man’s land in your relationship that neither you or him had ever crossed. You never did give it a name. When you sat across from him at the deposition tables, it was the reason behind every unanswered question, the witness to every lie.
***
The female associate sitting beside Mark’s lawyer raised an eyebrow when you said that you read about Mark and Erica’s break-up on his blog at 1AM. Sy leaned forward, his mouth slightly parted, as if he was about to ask something. But Mark tugged at his elbow, and the senior litigator sat back without a word. You paused for half a second, trying to catch the tiniest shift in Mark’s calm composure. Nothing stood out. But it was almost nice to see that the tacit understanding did not stop with the fucking.
Gretchen nodded for you to continue. So you talked, the words flowed out effortlessly because this was not your story, not yet.
***
He only ever blogged about two things, coding and girls, the latter always in locked entries and you were his only mutual friend. To be honest, it was the lack of a lock symbol beside Erica Albright’s name that drew you back to the screen. Then you shut the laptop and went in the shower for a second time, just to be as prepared as possible.
Half an hour passed before his name appeared on the screen of your buzzing cell. You deleted the text as soon as you read it, threw the Macro textbook aside and grabbed your jacket on your way out.
You didn’t expect to see a busy night at Kirkland - for a Tuesday, anyway. The smell of beer and tuna was stronger than usual but you didn’t care. His face was flushed, his eyes fervent. He wrapped his fingers and lips around the cold, hard beer bottle and you almost forgot to say hi to Dustin.
He said he needed you and you were there for him, but he also wanted something else. Naturally, you had questions, concerns, disagreements, but those never survived the process of elimination at the end of the day.
So, cup him through his jeans, or write the algorithm on his window? Consider this carefully. He said he needed the algorithm, but he hadn’t said no to sex either. There could be two steps to the solution of this situation, and you hated yourself for hoping.
You picked up the white marker. For you, it wasn’t just giving. It was giving in.
***
The servers crashed. And that was the end of the night according to you, for the court reporter and her typewriter.
That’s not what happened.
If Gretchen hadn’t brought up Erica and the Ad Board, you would most certainly be sure that Mark was speaking to you while looking at Gretchen.
***
He had a way of being brutally honest, always using his words the way a knife would draw blood. Every time he lied, his voice lacked poignancy like a poorly concealed blade. Like how he just muttered something to Dustin and Chris about getting some Red Vines at 7-Eleven, and followed you out the door.
Now you stood with him, in the dim light of the hall. He cocked his head and looked at you, but the ardent light in his eyes was fading. He inched closer, alcohol in his breath, held himself still, waiting for the heat to build up under your heavy jacket. The servers were down, the massacre was over and the consequences wouldn’t catch up to them until dawn. Your breathing quickened. You knew exactly what he wanted to do.
“A celebration, then?” You croaked, turned around to avoid his eyes and walked down the stairs. He followed you without a word. He followed, precisely three steps behind you, to your dorm. You turned the key in your lock with slightly shaking fingers. With him, it always felt like the first time.
When you pinned him against your door and kissed him, his eyes were screwed shut. By the time the kiss broke and you pulled the hoodie over his head, the light was back in his eyes, fervent and smug, with a sadness he couldn’t bother to hide.
“Don’t think about her.” You mouthed against his ear, stripping off your trousers. I’m here for you. You have me.
“Wardo, I know.” He answered without patience and palmed you through your boxers. You moaned and guided him to your bed, watching him kick off his jeans, watching him straddle you, watching the curve of his neck as he moved to reach your night stand. Everything you thought of as you jerked off alone in this bed for the past three months would never, ever be as real.
Then those slick fingers found their way to that sweet spot, and the emptiness of the wait was but a blur.
Three months was a record for him, actually. You could almost understand why he called her a bitch on the Internet. Almost.
***
You wouldn’t let Gretchen to depose Christy, not only because she was crazy. Sure, she was a witness of your close relationship with Mark, but you never knew if she saw. If she saw, as she looked up at you with you cock in her mouth, that you were breathing hard and stretching your arm over the bathroom partition to find Mark’s fingers.
You remembered the sound of Alice pushing him against the other side of metal board you were leaning on. It still crossed your mind every now and then, but you didn’t allow yourself to hold on to it. Mark never took your hand. For a while you thought it was because you were both with girls and it was no longer open season, and then for another period of time you were so bitter that you couldn’t stop thinking about that night, how Mark never went to Erica to apologize because he’d always been a fucking asshole, how he went over because he just wasn’t over her. Then you filed the lawsuit because you couldn’t bear to wonder anymore.
***
You propped yourself up against the headboard, making a last note in the Macro textbook by the night light. He rolled on his side, the comforter strained between your bodies. Shadows danced across the messy curls splayed on half of your pillow, and you didn’t realize you were stroking his hair until you did.
“Go to sleep.” The tip of your ring finger touched his the back of his neck, and he mumbled into the bed.
“Okay.” You answered softly and turned off the light. He scooted over a bit to give you room.
If you’d known this would be the last time he slept in your bed, you would have just stayed awake.
***
The first time it happened, he was riding you, his hips fitted against your thumbs. I love you, he said, fuck, Wardo, I love you. You bit your lips and choked down the feelings. And then it became quiet, discreet, when you finally broke the silence and said it back with his come running down your thighs, he didn’t say it back either.
Now he looked at you across the tables, eyes wide and passive. Consider carefully, now. Would you see him for who he was, or who he was to you?
For the first time in two years, you turned around and tried.
With him, it always felt like the first time.
pairing: Mark/Eduardo
author: reogulus
rating: PG-13
wordcount: 1,300
disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not used for profit.
summary: Whatever they had, he never did give it a name.
notes: Written for this prompt on tsn_kinkmeme as a part of late fill-a-thon. The fill is here on the overflow post. The "fingers over partition" idea came from an ancient post on mark_eduardo , and I just used it because I happened to catch it in my memory. If anyone could point me to the source of that comment, I'd love to give it credit.
Title from Blurry by Puddle of Mudd.
The first time it happened, there were lights and noises and stoned people. And then it became quiet, discreet, but never without liquor. Eventually he kissed you on his toes and you stopped pretending to be drunk. He remained as responsive as he could ever be.
It was the closest thing to a chronicle of the no man’s land in your relationship that neither you or him had ever crossed. You never did give it a name. When you sat across from him at the deposition tables, it was the reason behind every unanswered question, the witness to every lie.
***
The female associate sitting beside Mark’s lawyer raised an eyebrow when you said that you read about Mark and Erica’s break-up on his blog at 1AM. Sy leaned forward, his mouth slightly parted, as if he was about to ask something. But Mark tugged at his elbow, and the senior litigator sat back without a word. You paused for half a second, trying to catch the tiniest shift in Mark’s calm composure. Nothing stood out. But it was almost nice to see that the tacit understanding did not stop with the fucking.
Gretchen nodded for you to continue. So you talked, the words flowed out effortlessly because this was not your story, not yet.
***
He only ever blogged about two things, coding and girls, the latter always in locked entries and you were his only mutual friend. To be honest, it was the lack of a lock symbol beside Erica Albright’s name that drew you back to the screen. Then you shut the laptop and went in the shower for a second time, just to be as prepared as possible.
Half an hour passed before his name appeared on the screen of your buzzing cell. You deleted the text as soon as you read it, threw the Macro textbook aside and grabbed your jacket on your way out.
You didn’t expect to see a busy night at Kirkland - for a Tuesday, anyway. The smell of beer and tuna was stronger than usual but you didn’t care. His face was flushed, his eyes fervent. He wrapped his fingers and lips around the cold, hard beer bottle and you almost forgot to say hi to Dustin.
He said he needed you and you were there for him, but he also wanted something else. Naturally, you had questions, concerns, disagreements, but those never survived the process of elimination at the end of the day.
So, cup him through his jeans, or write the algorithm on his window? Consider this carefully. He said he needed the algorithm, but he hadn’t said no to sex either. There could be two steps to the solution of this situation, and you hated yourself for hoping.
You picked up the white marker. For you, it wasn’t just giving. It was giving in.
***
The servers crashed. And that was the end of the night according to you, for the court reporter and her typewriter.
That’s not what happened.
If Gretchen hadn’t brought up Erica and the Ad Board, you would most certainly be sure that Mark was speaking to you while looking at Gretchen.
***
He had a way of being brutally honest, always using his words the way a knife would draw blood. Every time he lied, his voice lacked poignancy like a poorly concealed blade. Like how he just muttered something to Dustin and Chris about getting some Red Vines at 7-Eleven, and followed you out the door.
Now you stood with him, in the dim light of the hall. He cocked his head and looked at you, but the ardent light in his eyes was fading. He inched closer, alcohol in his breath, held himself still, waiting for the heat to build up under your heavy jacket. The servers were down, the massacre was over and the consequences wouldn’t catch up to them until dawn. Your breathing quickened. You knew exactly what he wanted to do.
“A celebration, then?” You croaked, turned around to avoid his eyes and walked down the stairs. He followed you without a word. He followed, precisely three steps behind you, to your dorm. You turned the key in your lock with slightly shaking fingers. With him, it always felt like the first time.
When you pinned him against your door and kissed him, his eyes were screwed shut. By the time the kiss broke and you pulled the hoodie over his head, the light was back in his eyes, fervent and smug, with a sadness he couldn’t bother to hide.
“Don’t think about her.” You mouthed against his ear, stripping off your trousers. I’m here for you. You have me.
“Wardo, I know.” He answered without patience and palmed you through your boxers. You moaned and guided him to your bed, watching him kick off his jeans, watching him straddle you, watching the curve of his neck as he moved to reach your night stand. Everything you thought of as you jerked off alone in this bed for the past three months would never, ever be as real.
Then those slick fingers found their way to that sweet spot, and the emptiness of the wait was but a blur.
Three months was a record for him, actually. You could almost understand why he called her a bitch on the Internet. Almost.
***
You wouldn’t let Gretchen to depose Christy, not only because she was crazy. Sure, she was a witness of your close relationship with Mark, but you never knew if she saw. If she saw, as she looked up at you with you cock in her mouth, that you were breathing hard and stretching your arm over the bathroom partition to find Mark’s fingers.
You remembered the sound of Alice pushing him against the other side of metal board you were leaning on. It still crossed your mind every now and then, but you didn’t allow yourself to hold on to it. Mark never took your hand. For a while you thought it was because you were both with girls and it was no longer open season, and then for another period of time you were so bitter that you couldn’t stop thinking about that night, how Mark never went to Erica to apologize because he’d always been a fucking asshole, how he went over because he just wasn’t over her. Then you filed the lawsuit because you couldn’t bear to wonder anymore.
***
You propped yourself up against the headboard, making a last note in the Macro textbook by the night light. He rolled on his side, the comforter strained between your bodies. Shadows danced across the messy curls splayed on half of your pillow, and you didn’t realize you were stroking his hair until you did.
“Go to sleep.” The tip of your ring finger touched his the back of his neck, and he mumbled into the bed.
“Okay.” You answered softly and turned off the light. He scooted over a bit to give you room.
If you’d known this would be the last time he slept in your bed, you would have just stayed awake.
***
The first time it happened, he was riding you, his hips fitted against your thumbs. I love you, he said, fuck, Wardo, I love you. You bit your lips and choked down the feelings. And then it became quiet, discreet, when you finally broke the silence and said it back with his come running down your thighs, he didn’t say it back either.
Now he looked at you across the tables, eyes wide and passive. Consider carefully, now. Would you see him for who he was, or who he was to you?
For the first time in two years, you turned around and tried.
With him, it always felt like the first time.