TSN: 'Like'
Title: 'Like'
Author: thedeepeekay
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing, Characters: Eduardo, Mark
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Any characters mentioned here belong to their respective creators; the names of any real people mentioned refer to fictionalised versions of these people. No money is made and no offense intended.
Length: 3248 words
Summary: Mark is rumored to adopt a child named 'Like', and Eduardo has a habit of breaking things.
Author's Note: This was supposed to be a prompt based on the news that an Israeli couple has named their daughter Like after Facebook's Like-button, but it outgrew the comment box, and I'm sure there's some kind of rule against prompts you can't fit into one comment, so I let it grow some more to be a fic instead. I fail at prompting. Gilly, stop laughing.
Written: May 2011
'Like'
Eduardo knows better than to listen to gossip sites. He isn't sure how they come about their stories, but he suspects it involves sugar- and other highs, throwing darts at a wall with bits of paper with various scandals written on them, and then playing Whisper Down The Lane from one end of the floor to the other. Or just copying what someone else has thought up, no verification necessary. So when he stumbles over a report that eccentric billionaire Mark Zuckerberg is allegedly going to somehow acquire a child and plans on naming them Like Eduardo dismisses it as canard. Not even Mark is that obsessed with his creation. Well, he probably is, if Mark were more religiously inclined he'd start a cult in his own honor, but he'd never be willing to cut back on Facebook time for a child.
Then other sites take up the story though. (And why, why, why do people think they need to send him those links? Do they want him to ban them from his contact list?) And then Eduardo catches a picture of Mark and the headline 'Like' Zuckerberg? in the side column of a newspaper. Not one of the most reliable ones, but not quite a tabloid either. That's when Eduardo starts looking, because he is a shareholder and ergo has a vested interest in Facebook, and the company's reputation would suffer if Mark finally outed himself as the inhuman asshole that he is. And the thing is, it's all over the place. In different mutations, sure - the gender of the child changes, if it's even given, the way of acquisition, whether or not Mark has the child already or is still waiting for it.
But the fact it, it's all over the web, the papers, on tv. ValleyWag is running another version of the story every day for a week.
And nowhere in sight is any kind of official or unofficial statement from Mark or Facebook refuting anything.
Which.
Eduardo knows Chris isn't working at Facebook anymore or even living in California, but there's got to be someone else doing his job now, right? Someone who knows you have to react to those kind of stories and not just ignore them until they go away? Because it is a hoax. It has to be. Mark wouldn't know what to do with a child. And even if his pregnant, dying one-millionth friend bequeathed her unborn child to him in a fit of insanity, and Mark and his ego decided to keep it, he wouldn't name it Like.
He wouldn't.
People wouldn't let him.
(When has Mark ever cared about what people think of him, as long as they are impressed?)
There's got to be someone to keep Mark from doing something that stupid.
Mark has people in his life who care about him, and they won't let him.
People who are not working for him and as a result scared of him and/or terminable and don't dare tell him no.
And who are not Dustin, who's nice and all, but ultimately crazy enough to encourage this madness.
And whom he might listen to, because he knows they don't just want something from him and who know when not to put up with his crap and who are not his family (because Mark knows when to ignore that ringtone) and will keep talking at him even when he pretends he's wired in and can't hear them (he can; Mark may seem absentminded but he always knows what's going on around him), and.
Fuck.
Who does he think is going to be the voice of reason here, Parker?
Once he gets home from work that evening he starts browsing the web, reading through every site about Mark and 'Like' he can find, researching all the ways a name can ruin a kid's life, and after the fourth beer he draws up an algorithm to calculate the likelihood of some variation of this absurdity being true.
5,43%.
That's almost nothing, right?
After the fifth beer he's at 8,26%.
Which is still very unlikely.
He calls Mark (he only has the number for business reasons, his assistant added it to his contacts, he never even thought about using it before).
Then he explains it to Mark. He doesn't even say his name (because he figures that would be the end of the conversation), or hello, he just starts talking (and he's only rushing because he wants to get everything out before Mark hangs up on him, not because he wants to get this over with or is agitated or anything).
He couldn't care less about what Mark is up to these days, if he's completely lost his mind now or just decided to not even try to pretend anymore, and they are not talking again, they are not, but this, it's child cruelty, child abuse, and it's going to ruin the kid's life, first there'll be mocking, the other children on the playground will show little Like the thumbs-up and throw sand at him or her before they can even speak, and then verbal mocking with mean little songs, and then actual mobbing, with slushies and wedgies and stolen lunch money and, teenagers are cruel, Mark, cruel, and then there'll be depression, and therapy, and just because he can afford it doesn't mean it's okay, and he'll end up with an emo teenager dressed all in black and wearing eyeliner and writing poems about death, in a paper journal because the kid'll avoid computers like the plague, it'll eventually end in a tragic suicide, a life wasted, ended way too young, and the child will sign the note 'Dislike', and if nothing else, Mark, if that doesn't touch you, then at least think about how the press will eat that up, think about what kind of damage this will do to Facebook!
Eduardo's voice might have gotten a bit squeaky towards the end because he was running out of breath, but he's said it, and now Mark can hang up on him and hopefully nothing bad will happen.
Mark doesn't hang up on him though.
There's a moment of silence on the line, and then Mark replies. Calm, even, collected, without hesitation or a break for Eduardo to get a word in sideways should he want to. Mark has not knocked up an underage intern who is now demanding five billion or she'll sue him, neither is he planning on adopting a baby from Africa in a desperate attempt to improve his image, nor is he cloning himself to grow the perfect and only acceptable heir to take over his empire after his death and continue his legacy (that strange noise in the background by the way is Dustin choking with laughter, shut up, Dustin, he knows you started that particular rumor). But if he were? A simple phone call wouldn't stop him.
And this feels like talking to him, Wardo.
It's Eduardo who ends the call. He wanted to buy a new phone anyway. (He thought he'd gotten his tech-smashing problem under control, but he should have known talk- not talking to Mark would make him relapse.)
He grabs the bin and picks up the sharp-edged bits of plastic. He has to stop once to put a band-aid on where he cut himself when he was fiddling the SIM card out of the wreckage (there's an, are, there are important numbers on there). He spills what's left of his sixth beer down the drain and collects the empty bottles by the door because he's ecologically aware and recycles. Then he takes a too-hot shower until the water has drowned out the roaring in his ears and all he feels is lightheadedness and the burn of his reddened skin, washes down two aspirin with a liter of water, and goes to bed.
The next day he's hung over, but at least he looks miserable enough that people stop mentioning Mark and instead ask him if he's sick. He says something about migraines, too much work and not enough sleep, and everybody nods sympathetically as if they were actually listening to him and then proceeds to drop more papers in front of him, send over another compilation of data, or tell him whom he has to meet with and talk to personally. At least he's got something to keep him occupied.
Two months later, reports start showing up that Mark Zuckerberg got (is going to get) a kitten and named it 'Like', sorry about the baby scare, our bad.
The doorman in his building asks him if he's having a stroke when he tells Eduardo he heard it's a Sphynx, which are weird-looking but said to be very intelligent, and Mark is having little Facebook hoodies tailored for it.
Eduardo does not think about whether or not it's true. Or grind his teeth. Anyway, it's a cat, cats have ridiculous names all the time. And they are independent animals who can be left alone for some time. Longer than a baby at least.
Maybe (probably) Mark will forget to feed it and it'll eat all his Red Vines and shred his fucking Facebook hoodies and piss on his laptops when he doesn't change the sand in the litter box. Well, probably not the last part. But Eduardo can hope.
The gossip sites aren't what they used to be anymore. The first story was at least inventive.
He almost wants Mark to get that cat now, just to see what kind of havoc it would wreck.
Anyway, no one actually knows anything or can quote someone other than a source 'close to Zuckerberg that doesn't want to be named'.
Whom is he kidding. Mark is going to fill a water bowl with Mountain Dew, put down a box of leftover Chow Mein, and then be in the office for three days. The cat is going to get sick, or starve, or get into a sugar frenzy and jump around on the phone until it manages to call animal welfare all by itself, and there'll be pictures of Mark's abused kitten being rescued and carried out of the house, and people will hate Mark, and see if Eduardo cares!
Then Mark gives a statement (which he's only watching because he was zapping trying to find some kind of action movie, something with explosions, and now his remote isn't working anymore, or maybe just the finger with which he's trying to press the button, so he can't change channels).
He looks like he doesn't give a damn about the press conference even though he called it himself and doesn't bother to look up from the speaker's desk he's standing behind the whole three minutes it lasts (he's probably got a tablet hidden there and is working because the press doesn't deserve his full attention), and he's not reacting to the microphones shoved into his face, just speaks in that monotone voice of his.
Mark has not adopted a kitten and called it Like, hairless or not, and any reports on the matter are figments of their writers' evidently very limited imagination.
He is currently negotiating with a zoo in China about buying an albino tiger cub, and that he will name Like. He didn't want to say anything until all the necessary paperwork was dealt with, but realizes as a public figure he has a responsibility to put these rumors to rest, and at the current state of affairs he's optimistic it's only a matter of days before everything is settled and he can sign the papers to make him the legal owner of a 7-month old tiger called Like.
Pause.
Unless someone stops him.
Then Mark looks directly into the cameras, with that intense, infuriating, not-giving-an-inch glare of his.
Phone calls won't cut it.
He purses his lips and the corners of his mouth turn upwards, and he might as well shark-grin into the cameras and laugh at Eduardo.
The clip cuts off, and Eduardo… gapes. Then he fumes and paces and runs his hands through his hair until it stands on end (he must look like a madman and thinks it's appropriate). He might or might not throw a bottle at the tv (it slips out of his hand).
He picks up his phone and starts dialing. (This is exactly what Mark wants.) He ends up throwing it against the wall. (Clearly he should get one of those contracts where they give you a new phone every couple of months.)
His hands are sticky with hair product. (Maybe the bottle didn't really slip.)
Who does the fucker think he is!
Eduardo opens his laptop and taps at the keys with his gel-covered fingers, opening a new browser window, then notices what he's doing as the website of Changi Airport loads, and he puts his sticky hands on the screen and pushes it off the table. (Is there an insurance for this, remote-destruction though ex-best friend?)
He's not going to let Mark push his buttons anymore, he's not! Eduardo is done. He's got a life away from all that crap now, from that old baggage, the hurt (left behind, 0,03 percent, not part of Facebook) and guilt (you've gotta move out here, Wardo, I need you) and accusations (why is he setting up meetings, you are in New York, you froze the account, you could have destroyed everything, I was your only friend).
He's done.
He's built himself a life away from it all. He's not going to get dragged into this.
He's not.
He can't.
Because nothing has changed, nothing will ever change, and Eduardo can't do that again, can't let himself get, get, shattered again, like his laptop, because he's already too much glue and rubber bands, and they are both of them so very good at destruction.
He ends up buying a ticket directly at the airport, the counter high enough to keep him from smashing anything. He must look nervous, because the stewardess keeps offering him drinks persistently, but he sticks to water; his head is muddled enough and he already has a headache, had it all through check-in and boarding, has it the whole flight, through customs (no luggage, he's not planning on staying long), and finally feels it flash bright white through his whole body as he stands in Arrivals and can't believe what (who) is suddenly right in front of his eyes.
The netbook Mark drops all by himself though.
Okay, Eduardo might have hit it, but Mark could have held on to it harder. And it's probably for the best, if the proof to how exactly Mark knew he was coming when Eduardo hadn't even notified his assistant he was leaving the country was on that computer. And Eduardo needed to do something to wipe that smug little smirk off Mark's face, raised high arrogantly, as he's just standing there, the hand not holding the netbook stuffed into his pocket, and not moving to at least offer Eduardo the courtesy of a greeting (they'd both know he wouldn't mean it).
So another computer lies in shambles at their feet, and Mark finally stops looking so damn superior (déjà vu) and instead gapes at Eduardo stupidly, his mouth actually falling open.
(What, didn't see that coming, Mark? Really?)
And Eduardo doesn't remember leaning in, leaning down, and sticking his tongue into Mark's still-gaping mouth, but he must have, because there he is, head lowered just enough, nose grazing Mark's slightly stubbled cheek, lips pressed to Mark's with almost bruising force, breathing hotly against Mark's skin, hot, wet, angry puffs, Mark, who isn't moving, isn't breathing at all, who is frozen in front of Eduardo, eyes opened wide in shock and eyebrows high on his forehead.
(Didn't see that one coming either? Neither did Eduardo.)
It's just a few seconds, then a jolt runs through Mark, his eyes narrow again, hard slits of cold, sharp stone, like flint, the hand that held the netbook comes up to push Eduardo away, the thin, bony fingers pressing against Eduardo's chest, and Mark's head moves back in what's more of a cringe backwards than an actual pulling back, instinct kicking in, and bites down on Eduardo's tongue, jaw clamping shut in shock or intend to do harm, hard enough to draw blood either way.
Eduardo flinches, because, ou, and.
(Fuck. What is he doing? What is he even doing?)
It's his eyes then that widen in shock or guilt or pain, a hurt noise escapes him and travels in vibrations along his tongue, caught between Mark's teeth (heartbeats or seconds or minutes, what does he do now), into Mark's mouth…
And suddenly, somehow, inexplicitly Mark's lips relax against his, soft and pliant and inviting, the pressure gone, and Mark's tongue flicks carefully at the burning little cuts bleeding copper into his mouth, breathes out and into Eduardo in a warm exhale. The hand on Eduardo's chest stops pushing and tangles itself into his shirt instead, tightly, as if Mark needed something to hold onto, to hold himself upright, and that other, hidden, until now hidden hand creeps out of the pocket of his sweats and onto Eduardo's back, a hot weight through the layers of his shirt and jacket, pressing down, pressing in, pressing close, and Eduardo couldn't move away if he wanted to, but that's fine, it's okay, he can stay right here, they can stay like that, in the middle of SFO, plastic and broken circuits around them, pictures of them doubtlessly going online right now from all those people with camera phones pointed at them who probably don't even know who they are, and Eduardo, he doesn't need to break anything else, he finally really doesn't care anymore.
There are fingers digging into his back and pulling on his front that are holding him together, there are curls brushing against his head that is not aching anymore, not one bit, eyes staring into his, and for once they are really, truly looking at each other, even though they are too close to focus, a nose pressed against his, Mark's breath on his skin, and he's breathing Mark in, how can something he never had be so familiar, and their mouths fit against each other, no pressing or bruising or pulling, they just fit, open and moving like a slow dance, and Mark's tongue on his, around it, dancing, caressing, deliberate and leisurely and tender, mapping and exploring and tasting even though the sweet metallic taste of blood overshadows all else that might be there, and he doesn't care, not about anything but this, because there's something deeply, blatantly symbolic about Mark literally licking his wounds.
Broken and makeshift mends, glue and rubber bands, grating against each other in an eruption of sparks and splinters and fingernails-on-chalkboard, both him and Mark, and despite of that, maybe because of that, they fit, somehow, they fit the way they always tried to but never managed, the way two wholes can't come together no matter how hard you push, will just both shatter from the pressure, but break them and lose enough pieces and reshape them and they may not look like it, from apart, but suddenly, when you put them together, suddenly they click, and fit, not perfectly, not flawlessly, there'll still be rubbing and grating and sparks, but good enough, good enough to form a whole again, and Eduardo has missed being whole.
He's done with breaking and being broken, and he thinks (knows) so is Mark. Now it's time to mend.
Author: thedeepeekay
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing, Characters: Eduardo, Mark
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Any characters mentioned here belong to their respective creators; the names of any real people mentioned refer to fictionalised versions of these people. No money is made and no offense intended.
Length: 3248 words
Summary: Mark is rumored to adopt a child named 'Like', and Eduardo has a habit of breaking things.
Author's Note: This was supposed to be a prompt based on the news that an Israeli couple has named their daughter Like after Facebook's Like-button, but it outgrew the comment box, and I'm sure there's some kind of rule against prompts you can't fit into one comment, so I let it grow some more to be a fic instead. I fail at prompting. Gilly, stop laughing.
Written: May 2011
'Like'
Eduardo knows better than to listen to gossip sites. He isn't sure how they come about their stories, but he suspects it involves sugar- and other highs, throwing darts at a wall with bits of paper with various scandals written on them, and then playing Whisper Down The Lane from one end of the floor to the other. Or just copying what someone else has thought up, no verification necessary. So when he stumbles over a report that eccentric billionaire Mark Zuckerberg is allegedly going to somehow acquire a child and plans on naming them Like Eduardo dismisses it as canard. Not even Mark is that obsessed with his creation. Well, he probably is, if Mark were more religiously inclined he'd start a cult in his own honor, but he'd never be willing to cut back on Facebook time for a child.
Then other sites take up the story though. (And why, why, why do people think they need to send him those links? Do they want him to ban them from his contact list?) And then Eduardo catches a picture of Mark and the headline 'Like' Zuckerberg? in the side column of a newspaper. Not one of the most reliable ones, but not quite a tabloid either. That's when Eduardo starts looking, because he is a shareholder and ergo has a vested interest in Facebook, and the company's reputation would suffer if Mark finally outed himself as the inhuman asshole that he is. And the thing is, it's all over the place. In different mutations, sure - the gender of the child changes, if it's even given, the way of acquisition, whether or not Mark has the child already or is still waiting for it.
But the fact it, it's all over the web, the papers, on tv. ValleyWag is running another version of the story every day for a week.
And nowhere in sight is any kind of official or unofficial statement from Mark or Facebook refuting anything.
Which.
Eduardo knows Chris isn't working at Facebook anymore or even living in California, but there's got to be someone else doing his job now, right? Someone who knows you have to react to those kind of stories and not just ignore them until they go away? Because it is a hoax. It has to be. Mark wouldn't know what to do with a child. And even if his pregnant, dying one-millionth friend bequeathed her unborn child to him in a fit of insanity, and Mark and his ego decided to keep it, he wouldn't name it Like.
He wouldn't.
People wouldn't let him.
(When has Mark ever cared about what people think of him, as long as they are impressed?)
There's got to be someone to keep Mark from doing something that stupid.
Mark has people in his life who care about him, and they won't let him.
People who are not working for him and as a result scared of him and/or terminable and don't dare tell him no.
And who are not Dustin, who's nice and all, but ultimately crazy enough to encourage this madness.
And whom he might listen to, because he knows they don't just want something from him and who know when not to put up with his crap and who are not his family (because Mark knows when to ignore that ringtone) and will keep talking at him even when he pretends he's wired in and can't hear them (he can; Mark may seem absentminded but he always knows what's going on around him), and.
Fuck.
Who does he think is going to be the voice of reason here, Parker?
Once he gets home from work that evening he starts browsing the web, reading through every site about Mark and 'Like' he can find, researching all the ways a name can ruin a kid's life, and after the fourth beer he draws up an algorithm to calculate the likelihood of some variation of this absurdity being true.
5,43%.
That's almost nothing, right?
After the fifth beer he's at 8,26%.
Which is still very unlikely.
He calls Mark (he only has the number for business reasons, his assistant added it to his contacts, he never even thought about using it before).
Then he explains it to Mark. He doesn't even say his name (because he figures that would be the end of the conversation), or hello, he just starts talking (and he's only rushing because he wants to get everything out before Mark hangs up on him, not because he wants to get this over with or is agitated or anything).
He couldn't care less about what Mark is up to these days, if he's completely lost his mind now or just decided to not even try to pretend anymore, and they are not talking again, they are not, but this, it's child cruelty, child abuse, and it's going to ruin the kid's life, first there'll be mocking, the other children on the playground will show little Like the thumbs-up and throw sand at him or her before they can even speak, and then verbal mocking with mean little songs, and then actual mobbing, with slushies and wedgies and stolen lunch money and, teenagers are cruel, Mark, cruel, and then there'll be depression, and therapy, and just because he can afford it doesn't mean it's okay, and he'll end up with an emo teenager dressed all in black and wearing eyeliner and writing poems about death, in a paper journal because the kid'll avoid computers like the plague, it'll eventually end in a tragic suicide, a life wasted, ended way too young, and the child will sign the note 'Dislike', and if nothing else, Mark, if that doesn't touch you, then at least think about how the press will eat that up, think about what kind of damage this will do to Facebook!
Eduardo's voice might have gotten a bit squeaky towards the end because he was running out of breath, but he's said it, and now Mark can hang up on him and hopefully nothing bad will happen.
Mark doesn't hang up on him though.
There's a moment of silence on the line, and then Mark replies. Calm, even, collected, without hesitation or a break for Eduardo to get a word in sideways should he want to. Mark has not knocked up an underage intern who is now demanding five billion or she'll sue him, neither is he planning on adopting a baby from Africa in a desperate attempt to improve his image, nor is he cloning himself to grow the perfect and only acceptable heir to take over his empire after his death and continue his legacy (that strange noise in the background by the way is Dustin choking with laughter, shut up, Dustin, he knows you started that particular rumor). But if he were? A simple phone call wouldn't stop him.
And this feels like talking to him, Wardo.
It's Eduardo who ends the call. He wanted to buy a new phone anyway. (He thought he'd gotten his tech-smashing problem under control, but he should have known talk- not talking to Mark would make him relapse.)
He grabs the bin and picks up the sharp-edged bits of plastic. He has to stop once to put a band-aid on where he cut himself when he was fiddling the SIM card out of the wreckage (there's an, are, there are important numbers on there). He spills what's left of his sixth beer down the drain and collects the empty bottles by the door because he's ecologically aware and recycles. Then he takes a too-hot shower until the water has drowned out the roaring in his ears and all he feels is lightheadedness and the burn of his reddened skin, washes down two aspirin with a liter of water, and goes to bed.
The next day he's hung over, but at least he looks miserable enough that people stop mentioning Mark and instead ask him if he's sick. He says something about migraines, too much work and not enough sleep, and everybody nods sympathetically as if they were actually listening to him and then proceeds to drop more papers in front of him, send over another compilation of data, or tell him whom he has to meet with and talk to personally. At least he's got something to keep him occupied.
Two months later, reports start showing up that Mark Zuckerberg got (is going to get) a kitten and named it 'Like', sorry about the baby scare, our bad.
The doorman in his building asks him if he's having a stroke when he tells Eduardo he heard it's a Sphynx, which are weird-looking but said to be very intelligent, and Mark is having little Facebook hoodies tailored for it.
Eduardo does not think about whether or not it's true. Or grind his teeth. Anyway, it's a cat, cats have ridiculous names all the time. And they are independent animals who can be left alone for some time. Longer than a baby at least.
Maybe (probably) Mark will forget to feed it and it'll eat all his Red Vines and shred his fucking Facebook hoodies and piss on his laptops when he doesn't change the sand in the litter box. Well, probably not the last part. But Eduardo can hope.
The gossip sites aren't what they used to be anymore. The first story was at least inventive.
He almost wants Mark to get that cat now, just to see what kind of havoc it would wreck.
Anyway, no one actually knows anything or can quote someone other than a source 'close to Zuckerberg that doesn't want to be named'.
Whom is he kidding. Mark is going to fill a water bowl with Mountain Dew, put down a box of leftover Chow Mein, and then be in the office for three days. The cat is going to get sick, or starve, or get into a sugar frenzy and jump around on the phone until it manages to call animal welfare all by itself, and there'll be pictures of Mark's abused kitten being rescued and carried out of the house, and people will hate Mark, and see if Eduardo cares!
Then Mark gives a statement (which he's only watching because he was zapping trying to find some kind of action movie, something with explosions, and now his remote isn't working anymore, or maybe just the finger with which he's trying to press the button, so he can't change channels).
He looks like he doesn't give a damn about the press conference even though he called it himself and doesn't bother to look up from the speaker's desk he's standing behind the whole three minutes it lasts (he's probably got a tablet hidden there and is working because the press doesn't deserve his full attention), and he's not reacting to the microphones shoved into his face, just speaks in that monotone voice of his.
Mark has not adopted a kitten and called it Like, hairless or not, and any reports on the matter are figments of their writers' evidently very limited imagination.
He is currently negotiating with a zoo in China about buying an albino tiger cub, and that he will name Like. He didn't want to say anything until all the necessary paperwork was dealt with, but realizes as a public figure he has a responsibility to put these rumors to rest, and at the current state of affairs he's optimistic it's only a matter of days before everything is settled and he can sign the papers to make him the legal owner of a 7-month old tiger called Like.
Pause.
Unless someone stops him.
Then Mark looks directly into the cameras, with that intense, infuriating, not-giving-an-inch glare of his.
Phone calls won't cut it.
He purses his lips and the corners of his mouth turn upwards, and he might as well shark-grin into the cameras and laugh at Eduardo.
The clip cuts off, and Eduardo… gapes. Then he fumes and paces and runs his hands through his hair until it stands on end (he must look like a madman and thinks it's appropriate). He might or might not throw a bottle at the tv (it slips out of his hand).
He picks up his phone and starts dialing. (This is exactly what Mark wants.) He ends up throwing it against the wall. (Clearly he should get one of those contracts where they give you a new phone every couple of months.)
His hands are sticky with hair product. (Maybe the bottle didn't really slip.)
Who does the fucker think he is!
Eduardo opens his laptop and taps at the keys with his gel-covered fingers, opening a new browser window, then notices what he's doing as the website of Changi Airport loads, and he puts his sticky hands on the screen and pushes it off the table. (Is there an insurance for this, remote-destruction though ex-best friend?)
He's not going to let Mark push his buttons anymore, he's not! Eduardo is done. He's got a life away from all that crap now, from that old baggage, the hurt (left behind, 0,03 percent, not part of Facebook) and guilt (you've gotta move out here, Wardo, I need you) and accusations (why is he setting up meetings, you are in New York, you froze the account, you could have destroyed everything, I was your only friend).
He's done.
He's built himself a life away from it all. He's not going to get dragged into this.
He's not.
He can't.
Because nothing has changed, nothing will ever change, and Eduardo can't do that again, can't let himself get, get, shattered again, like his laptop, because he's already too much glue and rubber bands, and they are both of them so very good at destruction.
He ends up buying a ticket directly at the airport, the counter high enough to keep him from smashing anything. He must look nervous, because the stewardess keeps offering him drinks persistently, but he sticks to water; his head is muddled enough and he already has a headache, had it all through check-in and boarding, has it the whole flight, through customs (no luggage, he's not planning on staying long), and finally feels it flash bright white through his whole body as he stands in Arrivals and can't believe what (who) is suddenly right in front of his eyes.
The netbook Mark drops all by himself though.
Okay, Eduardo might have hit it, but Mark could have held on to it harder. And it's probably for the best, if the proof to how exactly Mark knew he was coming when Eduardo hadn't even notified his assistant he was leaving the country was on that computer. And Eduardo needed to do something to wipe that smug little smirk off Mark's face, raised high arrogantly, as he's just standing there, the hand not holding the netbook stuffed into his pocket, and not moving to at least offer Eduardo the courtesy of a greeting (they'd both know he wouldn't mean it).
So another computer lies in shambles at their feet, and Mark finally stops looking so damn superior (déjà vu) and instead gapes at Eduardo stupidly, his mouth actually falling open.
(What, didn't see that coming, Mark? Really?)
And Eduardo doesn't remember leaning in, leaning down, and sticking his tongue into Mark's still-gaping mouth, but he must have, because there he is, head lowered just enough, nose grazing Mark's slightly stubbled cheek, lips pressed to Mark's with almost bruising force, breathing hotly against Mark's skin, hot, wet, angry puffs, Mark, who isn't moving, isn't breathing at all, who is frozen in front of Eduardo, eyes opened wide in shock and eyebrows high on his forehead.
(Didn't see that one coming either? Neither did Eduardo.)
It's just a few seconds, then a jolt runs through Mark, his eyes narrow again, hard slits of cold, sharp stone, like flint, the hand that held the netbook comes up to push Eduardo away, the thin, bony fingers pressing against Eduardo's chest, and Mark's head moves back in what's more of a cringe backwards than an actual pulling back, instinct kicking in, and bites down on Eduardo's tongue, jaw clamping shut in shock or intend to do harm, hard enough to draw blood either way.
Eduardo flinches, because, ou, and.
(Fuck. What is he doing? What is he even doing?)
It's his eyes then that widen in shock or guilt or pain, a hurt noise escapes him and travels in vibrations along his tongue, caught between Mark's teeth (heartbeats or seconds or minutes, what does he do now), into Mark's mouth…
And suddenly, somehow, inexplicitly Mark's lips relax against his, soft and pliant and inviting, the pressure gone, and Mark's tongue flicks carefully at the burning little cuts bleeding copper into his mouth, breathes out and into Eduardo in a warm exhale. The hand on Eduardo's chest stops pushing and tangles itself into his shirt instead, tightly, as if Mark needed something to hold onto, to hold himself upright, and that other, hidden, until now hidden hand creeps out of the pocket of his sweats and onto Eduardo's back, a hot weight through the layers of his shirt and jacket, pressing down, pressing in, pressing close, and Eduardo couldn't move away if he wanted to, but that's fine, it's okay, he can stay right here, they can stay like that, in the middle of SFO, plastic and broken circuits around them, pictures of them doubtlessly going online right now from all those people with camera phones pointed at them who probably don't even know who they are, and Eduardo, he doesn't need to break anything else, he finally really doesn't care anymore.
There are fingers digging into his back and pulling on his front that are holding him together, there are curls brushing against his head that is not aching anymore, not one bit, eyes staring into his, and for once they are really, truly looking at each other, even though they are too close to focus, a nose pressed against his, Mark's breath on his skin, and he's breathing Mark in, how can something he never had be so familiar, and their mouths fit against each other, no pressing or bruising or pulling, they just fit, open and moving like a slow dance, and Mark's tongue on his, around it, dancing, caressing, deliberate and leisurely and tender, mapping and exploring and tasting even though the sweet metallic taste of blood overshadows all else that might be there, and he doesn't care, not about anything but this, because there's something deeply, blatantly symbolic about Mark literally licking his wounds.
Broken and makeshift mends, glue and rubber bands, grating against each other in an eruption of sparks and splinters and fingernails-on-chalkboard, both him and Mark, and despite of that, maybe because of that, they fit, somehow, they fit the way they always tried to but never managed, the way two wholes can't come together no matter how hard you push, will just both shatter from the pressure, but break them and lose enough pieces and reshape them and they may not look like it, from apart, but suddenly, when you put them together, suddenly they click, and fit, not perfectly, not flawlessly, there'll still be rubbing and grating and sparks, but good enough, good enough to form a whole again, and Eduardo has missed being whole.
He's done with breaking and being broken, and he thinks (knows) so is Mark. Now it's time to mend.