fic: or somewhere in between (Mark/Eduardo, Prompt 60) Part 2 of 2

[oflights]

or somewhere in between
Mark/Eduardo, Prompt 60, for serenatechair
Part One + warnings


When he leaves Singapore, he feels like he’s saying a more permanent goodbye than ever before, and it is a dark, foreboding feeling. The hope sits heavy inside him, overwhelming and consuming, and Eduardo misses Singapore and the comforts of sadness as soon as their plane takes off.

It is a little over 18 hours to Montreal, nonstop. Sean hadn’t wanted any stops, and Eduardo had agreed, mostly because he’s not sure he could force himself to get on a plane a second time. He is scared, he’ll admit that, but he doesn’t know what he’s scared of: confirming what logic is still telling him is true (dead, Mark has to be dead), or confirming that it’s not.

What if Mark’s alive he thinks, and then he has to shut his eyes, force himself to furiously recite the alphabet backwards, in English, Portuguese, and Spanish, until he stops thinking the thought. It’s as hard to imagine as it is to deal with. He can’t let himself imagine it.

And yet they’re in Montreal, after 18+ hours, tracking down Michel Marleau. Sean is excited, validated, Eduardo can tell, and Eduardo trails after him because he needs to, but holds himself back at the same time. He cannot be excited. His heart cannot handle it.

Marleau doesn’t seem to be going to any great lengths to hide himself, and Sean and Eduardo track him down to a large complex full of very skinny young men with rubber caps on their heads. “He’s trained Olympians,” Sean whispers unnecessarily, and Eduardo ignores him, stares at Marleau like he’s a ghost.

Marleau has graying temples and a peppery goatee; his nostrils flare slightly when Eduardo and Sean come into view, watching the practice session unashamedly. “Can I help you?” he calls, and Sean just waves amicably.

“We can wait,” he chirps, and Marleau purses his lips and keeps training, barking things in French at the skinny young men.

Eduardo cannot actually watch the diving. He averts his eyes, looking down at the smooth tiled floor surrounding the gigantic pool. The air smells like chlorine and cold, and Eduardo works hard not to shiver.

Their reception is not a welcome one when Marleau finally sees all of his divers off and then saunters over to Eduardo and Sean, a towel thrown over his shoulder even though he hadn’t gotten wet. He repeats, “Can I help you?” and he barely has an accent, just a hint, like Eduardo’s. Mark speaks French Eduardo thinks, and he shivers.

“This is Eduardo,” Sean says, and then his lip curls slightly. “I’m Sean Parker,” and Marleau visibly pales, ducking his head.

“I’m very busy,” Marleau tells them. “I have a dinner meeting in less than an hour and I have to wash up and change-”

“Maybe you don’t know who I am,” Sean says, which makes Eduardo want to roll his eyes. “But we-”

“I know who you are, and I am busy,” Marleau says flatly, and he looks at Eduardo now, dark eyes narrowed, but not in anger. “How can I help you? Quickly, please.”

“If you know who I am, you know why I’m here,” Sean throws back easily. It’s amazing how he can turn the crazy on and off; Eduardo would be proud (of himself, of course, he’s the one that got Sean to really shape up, after all) if he could spare any thought to it. “Unless you want to talk about how you actually do moonlight as a therapist in San Francisco.”

Marleau snorts, and starts, “Diving is a very harrowing sport. Some psychological help would not be-” and Eduardo cuts him off, almost involuntarily.

“Please,” Eduardo says. His voice is wrecked, has been since Sean showed up in Singapore, and he is quiet because he does not trust himself. He has stopped calling Chris and Dustin, started avoiding calls to his mother and his friends, because he does not trust himself not to tell them, make it real.

And then Marleau says, “I don’t know where he is,” and suddenly, it’s very, very real.

Eduardo’s knees nearly buckle. His breathing goes harsh and shallow, and his limbs feel numb. It’s shock, terror and elation all at once, and Marleau is the one to grab him and keep him steady, because Sean is bent over a bit, breathing almost as hard as Eduardo. He recovers faster, though, schooling himself more than Eduardo can ever hope to, and he stands up straight, looks Marleau in the eyes, and says, “Well, you’re going to help us find him,” in a tone that brooks no argument.

Marleau swallows hard, keeps hold of Eduardo like he’s afraid he’ll fall if he lets go (and Eduardo is afraid of that, too, really), and says, “I’ll cancel my dinner meeting.”

“Do that.”

Mark is alive.

Just like Eduardo had had to learn to handle the sadness, had to force himself to deal with the hope, he has to slowly come to terms with this fact as well. It is harder than any of the others.

Mark is alive, and very likely to be in Canada, though not Montreal, Marleau promises them. He had recovered in Montreal, assumed a new identity there, and then took off as soon as he was well again. Marleau truly doesn’t know where he is, but noted the difficulties and risks of crossing the Canadian border again, and claims that it’s likely Mark would stay in Canada for simplicity’s sake.

“He likes South America, but wanted to be somewhere cold,” Marleau tells them over glasses of tart wine. Sean swears under his breath and Eduardo covers his mouth with his hand.

Mark is alive, and Marleau does not know where he is. He does not know who would know where he is; nobody knows that he had survived the fall-he did not fall, Eduardo knows now. He dove. It makes his heart hurt, a brilliant, beautiful hurt.

“There has to be a way to find him,” Eduardo says, and Marleau shifts in his seat and says, “West. It’s likely he went west. And north, too, for the cold-”

“That’s not good enough,” Eduardo snaps, and he stands up from Marleau’s scrubbed wooden table, running his fingers through his hair. Now Sean is the quiet one, calm with vindication and accomplishment, but Eduardo cannot rest now. For all that he doesn’t know how to handle this, he does know one thing, now: Mark is alive, and he has to find him. It is not even a question now. He has to find him, because there is no better proof-this hope needs somewhere to go, and he needs somewhere to crash-land from the high of it. He needs Mark now.

Eduardo watches Marleau, who is watching his wine. There is a reason for that, and as Eduardo comes closer to the table, leans over Marleau, and says, “Tell me, now,” with something like a completely unironic growl in his voice, Marleau shudders and the reason becomes clear.

“I did sign a contract-”

“I swear to God-”

“But he never really thought people would come looking,” Marleau finishes, with a small, sad smile. That makes Eduardo sad, too, and Sean looks down at the table, shoulders slumped in disappointment. Eduardo does not have time for that. He just glares at Marleau, until he sighs. “I know his new name. That should be enough to track him down, if you’re good at that.”

“We are,” Eduardo insists, glancing at Sean, who is still looking down.

“He assumed the identity of an old Harvard classmate that passed away a few months back,” Marleau says, and Eduardo has no idea, can’t remember anyone from Harvard, really, even though he had been there longer. It feels wrong and strange that Mark would, and thinking about it drives Sean’s point home again: he doesn’t really know Mark. He just wants to. “I told him that creating a completely new identity was safer, but he didn’t want to be reborn; he only wanted to start new.”

“The name, please,” Eduardo says, and Marleau sighs.

“Stuart Singer. That really is all that I know-west, and north, and Stuart Singer. That is a lot, even if it doesn’t seem like much.”

It’s not a lot, but it’s enough. Anything is enough right now, and the hope is not just hope anymore but confidence, determination. They can do this, they can find him and-and Eduardo doesn’t know what happens then. He has no idea. The thought is terrifying and exhilarating.

“Thank you,” Eduardo says, already heading for the door. Sean is trailing slowly after him, almost sluggish, and Eduardo feels impatient, does not want to wait. He is looking for a cab back to their hotel, where Sean can use his laptop to start tracking Stuart Singer-Mark, Eduardo thinks, thrilled and sick with it.

He is not expecting Sean to be reluctant, but doesn’t let it take the wind out of his sails. “I don’t know if we should do this,” Sean says, rubbing the back of his head, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I mean, he really didn’t think anyone would look for him-he might be pissed off if I find him.”

Eduardo stares at Sean, resisting the urge to shake him. “Since when do you give a fuck about pissing anyone off?”

“It’s different now, though, if he didn’t want to be found,” Sean tells him, almost plaintive. “Why would he not want to be found if he did this just for Facebook? I don’t-the Mark I knew would want me to find him. That’s what I always thought. That’s why I did this. But if he didn’t-God, it’s funny, but now I can finally believe that he could kill himself.”

“But he didn’t,” Eduardo says, and yeah, he really wants to shake Sean. He doesn’t know why Sean’s words are upsetting him so much; he shouldn’t care, really, what Sean thinks about it, because he never has before. This isn’t a question of whether they should find Mark or not; the question is if they can, if he can. Eduardo is sure that he can. He doesn’t see any other option for him, not one that’s good enough in comparison.

“I just don’t get it,” Sean says quietly, and he is shaking his head, backing off. “I’m not-I’m out, Eduardo.”

“You’re a coward,” Eduardo tells him. “You’ve always been a coward, I’ve always known that.”

Sean gives him a wry sort of smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m a coward.” He visibly swallows and says, “How could he think I wouldn’t find him? It doesn’t make sense.”

Eduardo doesn’t know what to say to that. He still doesn’t understand their relationship, can’t understand the hurt Sean is obviously feeling. He hadn’t really thought about Sean’s pain, hadn’t thought of it as true. But it’s clear here, for the first time, more than in the girls and the drugs and the rants. “So go back to Amy, and your housekeeper,” Eduardo says, and it’s a kindness, really; Sean screws himself back on, straightens his shoulders and nods, a small grin playing on his face.

“Yeah. Sorry, Eduardo, but Canada isn’t-I can’t-California’s the place to be,” Sean tells him, grinning valiantly.

Eduardo gives him the tiniest smile he can, almost real. “Okay, Jed Clampett. See you around.”

“Later.”

And then Eduardo’s alone, and he finds he doesn’t really mind it. It feels almost fitting-once, long ago, Sean had taken something away from him. Now Eduardo’s going to get it back.

The thing is, Eduardo doesn’t actually know the first thing about finding anyone. So he does what most people with money do: he imports someone else’s services.

“I need you to find someone very important to me,” Eduardo tells the private investigator fresh off the plane from Brazil, referred to him by a cousin. He thinks the promised fee more than establishes Mark’s importance, while the nondisclosure clause in the contract assures discretion and Mark’s safety. Eduardo wants to find Mark, not expose him. He wants to help him, and protect him, and he can admit to liking the idea of having Mark all to himself for a while. As much as it makes him hurt to think of Mark alone and apart, it is a distant hurt, one that he can curl around and carry without feeling the weight. Mark won’t be alone for long; Eduardo knows that.

And it is not very long at all before his investigator finds a town for him. Eduardo hangs around Montreal, pretending to be a tourist for a while, not scared but anxious, anticipatory. He can feel Mark now, can feel that their time is coming, and he is excited. He doesn’t know what is going to happen when he finds Mark. He just knows that he has to.

So when the investigator brings him the name of a town east of Vancouver, tucked away in mountains with a population of less than a thousand, Eduardo doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t have a distinct address but calls the investigator off; he can make the last step on his own.

Vancouver is wet when he arrives. Eduardo rents a car because the drive is more than a few hours, well outside Greater Vancouver, and the tires squeak and hiss under him as he goes. It’s a chilly spring, soaked and blooming, and Eduardo is glad for spring. He doesn’t want to think of Mark in a Canadian winter. He wants him warm, and if he isn’t warm enough, he wants to warm him up.

He follows the investigator’s advice: in a small town there are many public places, places that are necessary to go to at least once or twice a week. Find them, wait there, and watch. A post office, a bank, a grocery store-he’ll have to show up some time, and it’s easy when there’s one of each in the town.

Except the investigator doesn’t know Mark. Eduardo wanders around a market for a long time, and he can imagine Mark never leaving his house, making arrangements to remain as isolated as possible. It’s a painful truth, and he doesn’t let it discourage him, just tries to adapt to it.

And there, he sees a teenager loading up a grocery delivery, hefting a large case of Red Bull into a beat-up old van. Eduardo follows him, up a twisting wet road that goes up, up, and the elevation is an adjustment, especially when he can still hear the Pacific not very far behind him.

And there is a house, well out of town, square and compact and beautiful, really. It makes Eduardo’s heart clench, as he parks over frosty wet gravel and watches the delivery. The house is nestled in a pocket of brilliant, dripping green, poised to burst into color. Eduardo is ready for it, looks at the trees with that heartbreaking, painful, wonderful hope that he can no longer control. He takes a deep breath.

The door to the house is an oaky deep green, and it swings open after the delivery boy shouts, “Hi Mr. Singer!” Eduardo stays in the car, hands tight against the steering wheel, his heart pounding, but Mark doesn’t appear in the open door. Instead, a massive dog covered in curly brown fur bounds out, barking joyously, running at the delivery boy from down the short steps of the walkway. The delivery boy stands his ground, which is more than Eduardo could probably manage, and drops his box of groceries to wrap his arms around the enormous dog’s body as he’s basically tackled.

And Eduardo is watching this, and he feels warm inside as he hears the delivery boy greet the dog, and he could almost smile. The warmth is still there when he hears, “Chewie, come on, leave him alone!” from up the walkway, and turns to look. His breath catches in his throat, and his heart pounds, and he was not expecting to feel this breathlessly happy.

But he does. It is a sweet, sharp happiness, lancing through him, pulsing with his blood, because there is Mark, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, his arms crossed over his chest. His hair is curly and damp already from the mist in the air, and he has a beard, brown and short against his skin but still surprisingly healthy. It makes Eduardo choke in a mix of delight and affection and ridiculous fondness, and he puts his hand over his mouth and is not surprised to feel his own wet cheeks.

If the crying thing was ever appropriate, it is right now.

Mark doesn’t see him at first. He is talking to the delivery boy, hefting in boxes and bags, paying him with colorful money. He pets his dog absently to calm him down, scratches behind his ears as if he does it constantly, without even thinking about it, and Eduardo watches and wants, loves fiercely without much sense.

When the delivery boy starts back to his van, calling out his thanks, Mark turns to go back towards the house and then freezes. Eduardo freezes too, despite the fact that his brain and his heart are both screaming at him to move, to go to him. His body won’t budge, and he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen now. He doesn’t even know what he wants to happen. Once he knew Mark was alive the only objective he’d ever had in mind-the only possible outcome-was finding him, seeing him again. He hadn’t planned for more. He couldn’t actually imagine more. Eduardo doesn’t know what the next step is. He is afraid to take the wrong one.

Maybe Sean was right he thinks, and it is the ridiculousness of that sentiment, coming from him, that finally stirs Eduardo into motion.

No. Sean was not right. And this doesn’t end here, Eduardo knows. It doesn’t end with Mark alone; that is not an ending Eduardo can accept, could ever accept, in any situation.

Eduardo gets out of the car. He sees Mark take a few steps back towards his front door, and Eduardo bites his lip and tries to approach him slowly. He doesn’t know what Mark is thinking, doesn’t even really know what he himself is thinking. He doesn’t know what to say. He looks at Mark and his cheeks are still wet, and Mark is staring at him, eyes wide and bluer than Eduardo had remembered. He looks older than the picture of a sad boy that Eduardo had developed in his head; with his beard, he looks like a man, but his posture is that of a defensive teenager, and he is still the perfect size for Eduardo to wrap up in his arms.

“Um,” Mark says eventually, tightening his hands around the paper bag in his hand. The crinkle cuts through the foggy air and Eduardo stops again; the dog cocks his head to the side and looks at Eduardo curiously, steadfast at Mark’s side, coming up nearly to his hip and making him look smaller than he really is. “Um, the ice cream’s going to melt.”

Eduardo has never pictured how this moment will go, so he is not sure why he is surprised, why a chuckle is shocked out of him, loosening his chest. He sniffs and wipes his face, still has no clue what to say, and Mark’s shoulders relax a little.

“Do you want to come inside?”

Eduardo nods. There is no other answer in him but to nod. Mark nods, too, and mutters, “Come on, Chewie,” and turns back towards the front door, taking steady steps back up the stairs. His bare feet make slapping sounds on the wet wood, and Eduardo wants to tell him to put on shoes. The impulse is familiar and it hurts, a bit. He had never stopped wanting to care, even when it hadn’t been his place to anymore, even when it was better for him not to.

He doesn’t give in to the impulse. He follows Mark and the dog silently up the stairs, chuckling again when the dog stops at the front door and seems to watch Eduardo carefully as he goes in and shuts the door behind him, sniffing his legs. He can hear the dog follow him, close enough to feel his panting breath at the back of his legs, and he stops and gives in to another impulse, patting the dog tentatively on his massive head and falling into step with him as Mark guides them into a small, rustic kitchen.

Mark puts the ice cream in the freezer but leaves the rest of the groceries where they are, still strewn about the front hallway in way that makes Eduardo’s fingers itch. He wonders if it would be completely inappropriate to start putting Mark’s groceries away for him, and decides that there’s probably very little he could do in this situation that would be inappropriate.

He’s about to step out and grab the first bag when Mark breathes out a noisy sigh, leaning heavily against a stone counter and looking at Eduardo. “Are you going to say something?” Mark asks, and Eduardo wonders if he thinks he’s going to expose him, wonders how he can tell him that he’d never do that, until Mark continues, “Because I have no idea what to say, so I would really appreciate some conversational guidance. You were always better at this than I am.”

Eduardo immediately feels better, even if he doesn’t necessarily think that Mark’s right about him. Eduardo has never really been good at his. He has never said the right thing at the right time. If he had, things would be different, he knows it. It would not have been Jamie on the couch with Mark and Charlie; it would have been him. They would not be having this encounter in a small cottage northeast of Vancouver; they would have a home together, and whatever reasons Mark had had for the bridge, Eduardo would have made sure that they were not enough to actually go through with it.

And Eduardo is not better at this, but the fact that Mark still believes he is makes him feel better. The idea that Mark has any kind of faith in him, after years of missed chances, wasted opportunity, makes Eduardo feel amazing.

Eduardo will not miss any more chances.

He says the first thing that occurs to him. “What the fuck is on your face?” He is not surprised when it comes out thick with tears, and he sniffs and is okay because Mark is smiling, and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“You don’t like it?” Mark asks, stroking a hand over his face thoughtfully, lips tilted up and head tilted down.

Eduardo sniffs again and chokes out a chuckling, “No. Did it take you four months to grow it?”

Mark narrows his eyes at him, and they are so blue, bluer than he remembered. Mark is a lot more than he remembered; it’s wonderful. “It didn’t. It took me like-whatever, okay, not all of us can be wild and Brazilian and robust.”

“God, Mark,” Eduardo says, and there is finally more laughter than tears in his voice. His eyes have dried. “You’re so-”

“I can shave it,” Mark tells him, and it sounds slightly nervous, his hands fluttering at his sides. He glances over at Chewie, who has collapsed into a large pile by his food bowl, eyeing Eduardo warily through the fur hanging over his eyes. Eduardo feels warm inside, no longer in shock but good. Mark is here, alive, and Eduardo feels good about it.

He says, “I can help,” softly, on another impulse, and this one clearly takes Mark aback. He looks at Chewie, now dozing, and bites his bottom lip. Eduardo does not take it back, though he feels considerable relief when Mark nods slowly.

“Okay.”

“Let’s put your groceries away first,” Eduardo says gently, and Mark nods again, his hands finally stilling, visibly trying to relax.

He is uncomfortable, Eduardo knows, as they slowly but efficiently carry in brown paper sacks and unload them in the kitchen. Eduardo doesn’t blame him. He thinks that he would be uncomfortable, too, if he weren’t so goddamn happy, so ridiculously relieved.

Mark seems to ready himself to speak a few times, sucking in a breath and then letting it out slowly with a slump of his shoulders, staying quiet as he rearranges his vegetable drawer three times. Eduardo lets him, does not prod; he is sure that Mark must have dozens of questions for him, because he has dozens of questions for Mark, but he is in no rush. He doesn’t want to rush Mark, either. Now that he’s found him, now that Mark’s alive and here in front of him, Eduardo feels like he has time to take this slow, to do this right. There is some doubt, maybe, as to what he’s actually doing, because he doesn’t know what Mark will allow, what he wants, but he knows he has to do something. He will not miss any more chances.

When the groceries are out of sight, Eduardo dares to take Mark by the elbow and pull him away from the vegetable crisper, shutting it gently closed with his foot and shutting the fridge after it. He lets go of Mark’s elbow and sighs a little when Mark leans into him, not away. “Okay,” Mark says, soft, looking up at Eduardo with his thousand-yard stare. Bluer than he remembered, and Eduardo despairs of his subpar imagination, hopes he never has to imagine these eyes again.

He guides Mark to a bathroom, even though this is Mark’s house, even though he doesn’t really know where he’s going. There’s a staircase with only a bedroom and bath above, spacious and open in a way that reminds Eduardo of the Facebook offices. He wonders if Mark gets homesick, and immediately knows that that’s a stupid thing to wonder: of course he does.

The bathroom has a long counter running the length of it with two sinks, a spacious shower with a bench across from it covered in frosted glass. Eduardo wants Mark in the shower, with a heated stirring in the pit of his gut, but he contents himself with easing Mark against the counter instead. When Mark doesn’t get the hint, or maybe ignores it in his uncertainty (which Eduardo cannot blame him for, really), Eduardo sighs a little, and leans in close. He puts his hands on Mark’s hips, questioning but not tentative, and feels Mark suck in a breath.

Eduardo says, “Can I?” and waits for Mark’s slight nod, the barest inclination of his neck, to hoist him up onto the counter with his hands. He smiles when Mark’s hands fly up to Eduardo’s shoulders, as his breathing comes a little harsh through his nose.

Mark says, “Oh,” like he wasn’t expecting this, and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe that’s been their problem, all these years-Mark didn’t know that this is what he’s always wanted so desperately. It’s always been just Mark, close and under his touch, his to know and feel and finally understand.

Eduardo doesn’t want there to be any confusion anymore. He is frightened, but not of what he wants; as always, he is frightened of it not being what Mark wants. There is no room for denying himself or his feelings anymore, he won’t waste his time with Mark that way, but it’s very possible that Mark will push him away here, and Eduardo hopes he is strong enough to handle that.

He thinks he is strong enough to handle anything but losing Mark again.

But Mark doesn’t seem to be doing any pushing. Instead, he is pulling Eduardo closer, his hands drifting up from his shoulders so that his arms can wrap around Eduardo’s neck. He says, “Oh,” again and then leans in, and Eduardo meets his eyes just as he realizes that he was avoiding them.

Mark is biting his bottom lip, still out of his depth, but his face is close enough that his beard brushes against Eduardo’s skin. It’s not a terrible feeling, and Eduardo closes his eyes to feel it, bows his head and does not move away. Mark sighs and then gives a small, unsure chuckle.

“I have no idea what we’re doing right now.”

“I’m helping you shave,” Eduardo says definitively, keeping his eyes closed, either in cowardice or reverence or sheer relief.

“Wardo,” Mark says flatly, and Eduardo isn’t prepared for how that feels, the rush in his chest and the frantic beat of his heart, the sharp intake of breath from Mark that tells him he knows what that meant.

“Please,” Eduardo whispers, opening his eyes and locking them with Mark’s, not looking away until Mark nods slowly.

‘Helping’ turns out to be loosely defined, though, because Mark just lets Eduardo shave him, not moving to do anything, relaxing against the wall and allowing Eduardo to palm his face and spread shaving cream across it. His lips keep quirking into a smirk or a smile, even when Eduardo tells him to be still, and his eyes dance with sharp, familiar humor, like he is on the edge of mocking Eduardo. Eduardo doesn’t care. He swallows hard and carefully runs a razor over Mark’s cheeks, biting his lip to keep from smiling at the soft, pale skin he uncovers, quivering with the desire to kiss it. Wanting Mark like this isn’t new, just like wanting him in all those other, more innocent but no less passionate ways isn’t new, but having it be so possible, so tangible right in front of him, takes his breath away.

At one point, heavy thudding paw steps alert them to Chewie’s presence in the doorway, and Mark groans a little and leans around Eduardo, half his face clean-shaven. “Chewie, get out or cover your eyes,” he says sternly, and Eduardo chuckles and rinses the razor in one of the sinks.

“We’re not having sex,” Eduardo says, and Mark grins at him wryly, the ridiculous picture of a 19-year-old smartass, and Eduardo wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at Mark and not see him as he once was, if only for a moment.

“Right, and there’s not anything even vaguely pornographic about this.”

“I promise that my intentions are pure,” Eduardo tells him, putting his hand to his heart, not even lying that much. He had not brought Mark in here for sex; he doesn’t even think that, if they do have sex, it will even be about sex. He just wants Mark close. He wants to touch him, aches to touch him, in a way that is beyond sex.

Mark snorts, shaking his head. “I’d really rather they weren’t,” he says, his tone even with just a hint of shyness behind it, evident in the way he ducks his chin after. Eduardo cups the bare side of his face again, tilting it up and holding it steady, and feels himself go hot with pleasure at the very real look of want in Mark’s eyes, the sensation of his skin beneath Eduardo’s fingers.

Eduardo licks his lips and watches Mark trace the movement with his eyes. He says, “Let me finish,” with promise in his tone, and he is nearly trembling in anticipation as he resumes shaving Mark.

Chewie pads back out, clearly bored, and Eduardo chuckles. He wants to ask about him, wants to ask so much, but the words aren’t there yet, and he is okay with just this right now. More than okay, really, as he finishes with gentle strokes of the blade across Mark’s face, never removing his other hand from where it’s cradling Mark’s face.

When he is finished, Mark moves his cheek against Eduardo’s touch, very slightly, like he’s not even aware of it. Eduardo gently pats Mark’s face down with a washcloth, reluctant to move his hands. He replaces them quickly, two hands this time cupping Mark’s face, his thumbs moving across Mark’s cheekbones. He looks younger now, though his eyes are dark and penetrating, caught on Eduardo’s, until his eyelids drift closed and he seems to relax in a sigh.

“That feels good,” Mark says, and Eduardo is only a little embarrassed about how happy that makes him.

“Good. You look so-”

“My clever disguise is gone,” Mark says in a rush, eyes opening again, always ready to play a moment off. Eduardo frowns at him.

“You don’t need a disguise,” Eduardo tells him, and he means a lot of things. He means not with me and he means I’ll protect you and he means thank you, and these are all things that he can’t say, because Mark will probably never invite them, or even accept them. Mark frowns back and shifts a little, dislodging one of Eduardo’s hands, and Eduardo tries not to feel bereft.

“I don’t-why are you here, Eduardo?”

“Why do you think?” Eduardo says, and he is careful not to snap, trying to be patient, but the question just seems so ridiculous to him. Where else would he be, in a world where Mark had died and then come back?

Except Mark didn’t come back. He is here, and he is Stuart Singer now, and he looks like a baby without the beard but he is still a sad, hated man who had to fake his own death, for reasons that Eduardo is sure he will never completely understand. This is why he has to be patient, and he steps back and sighs, dropping his hand from Mark’s face and immediately feeling chilled.

“British Columbia is a long way for sex,” Mark says, and Eduardo nearly laughs out loud. Instead, he swallows hard and gives Mark his most wounded look, not to manipulate but to make him understand.

“You have no idea,” Eduardo says. “You have no clue what it was like, Mark, okay, so don’t make jokes-”

“Shh, come here,” Mark says, and he reaches out and pulls, even though Eduardo would’ve gone, will always go now. He pulls Eduardo in and this time uses his legs, too, hooking them around Eduardo’s thighs in a way that makes his breath catch. “Come here,” he says again, and he leans in and meets Eduardo halfway, kisses him slow and open-mouthed. He kisses like he has no idea that Eduardo’s brain is practically short-circuiting, that this is like multiple dreams coming true at the same time. His cluelessness, and the casualty implied by it, makes Eduardo groan into the kiss, part in frustration and part in bliss, and he deepens it, arms going around Mark and pulling him closer, always closer, until there is nowhere else for him to go. Eduardo doesn’t want there to be anywhere else for Mark to go except right here, in his arms.

Mark makes the kiss desperate, then, his tongue thrusting quick into Eduardo’s mouth, running along his teeth as his fingers press into Eduardo’s skin. He hums, and Eduardo swallows the sound up, runs his hand up into Mark’s head of curls and strokes through them. He wants to climb onto the counter with Mark and knows there’s no space, and Mark’s legs are flexing around him restlessly like he wants the same thing. It feels good to think that, to know that Mark wants this, too, even if he still can’t understand how badly Eduardo wants it.

His cheeks are wet again, and he is not surprised, though Mark clearly is. Mark pulls back, and his face kind of crumples when he looks at Eduardo, though he quickly ducks his head to hide it. “Are you going to cry every time we do this?” Mark asks, trying to be funny again, but Eduardo is long past feeling humor about these kinds of tears, just because of what they mean now.

“You don’t get it,” Eduardo starts hoarsely, but then Mark’s head snaps up and it seems he finally does, or almost does; he looks miserable, biting his bottom lip, his eyes clouded with a sadness that makes Eduardo’s arm go tight around him, rubbing his fingers against his scalp.

“Just don’t cry, okay,” Mark says, and now his voice sounds strangely thick, and Eduardo never, ever wanted that. “I don’t-I feel bad enough as it is, and now you’re here and I don’t-I never thought-”

“I’m crying because I’m happy,” Eduardo whispers, which is not the whole truth but maybe the simplest version. Happy seems to be an inadequate adjective, insufficient to the complexities of what he’s really feeling, but it makes the lines in Mark’s newly-pink face soften. Eduardo traces them with a thumb, and then follows the thumb with his lips, kissing soft and gentle across Mark’s face. He sighs when he feels Mark’s fingertips on his cheeks, wiping the wetness away and then cradling the back of his head, palm steady and gentle. “I’m so happy that I get to kiss you, and you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Mark repeats, dry and flat again, and Eduardo just wants to kiss him until it sounds truer. He finds his mouth again and tries to infuse the kiss with this feeling, arms tightening when Mark shivers against him. He wants to make Mark warm.

It is this thought that makes him pull Mark off the counter. It’s his intention to just carry Mark to the bed, and it feels right and ridiculously hot in his head, but Mark finds his footing on the ground and Eduardo loses his courage. He doesn’t relinquish his hold, though, and they stumble backwards together, Mark leaning up to keep kissing, Eduardo concentrating on not stepping on his bare toes.

In the bedroom Mark sees himself in a mirror, over Eduardo’s shoulder, and he stops and leans back down. Eduardo turns and holds him from behind, watches him put a palm to his own cheek and look at himself, and he kisses his neck lazily, unable to help it. “I look so naked,” Mark says, a laugh in his voice, and Eduardo puts his hands at Mark’s waist.

“That sounds good,” he says, rightly predicting a blush, and he kisses up the pink skin to scrape his teeth along Mark’s jawline. Mark smiles though, too, small and kissable, and then turns in Eduardo’s hold.

“You should be naked,” he says, and then he narrows his eyes a bit, his hands going to Eduardo’s belt. “I want you naked,” Mark says more firmly, and his gaze is hot and demanding and needy all at once. There is a choice in the statement, but for Eduardo there is no choice at all, and he starts unbuttoning his shirt only a split second before Mark’s normally nimble fingers start fumbling with his belt buckle.

His upper half is bare and his shoes and socks are toed off when Mark slips his hand into his opened pants, cups him boldly and shakes a wrecked sound from deep in his chest. Mark’s eyes are bright with what might be wonder, if Eduardo dares to think it, and he chokes out a breathless, “Wardo,” like he’s the one being touched, the one for whom this is hard to believe, and Eduardo wants to pinch them both, confirm that this is not a dream. He has always been Mark’s to touch, he wishes that they both had known that, that he had been able to admit that years ago. They have wasted time, wasted life and unreal death, and Eduardo has to be amazed that this is happening.

“I’m here, Mark,” Eduardo says, and Mark’s fingers tighten, making him choke. He pushes Eduardo’s pants down and looks at him, and Eduardo’s dick twitches in his hand and under his heated gaze.

“You’re here,” Mark says, and he strokes Eduardo slowly in his hand.

Eduardo can only stand it for so long, can only deal with not touching Mark himself for a few wonderful, heat-stirring moments, and he reaches for Mark’s waistband and starts to undo his jeans. Mark keeps touching him determinedly, fingertips skating up through Eduardo pubic hair, stroking around his stomach and thumbing at his navel, and Eduardo’s breath hitches and his own touches falter. But he hurries on, pushing Mark’s underwear down with his jeans, guiding him to step out of them and move closer to the bed. He could stand here and let Mark touch him and look at for as long as he likes, but he needs to touch Mark too, needs to see him and feel him.

He starts making small needy sounds as he leans around Mark and pushes his shirt up, kisses his neck and whimpers, “Let me, please, I need-” and blurts out a groan when Mark lets him go to raise his arms over his head. He pulls Mark’s t-shirt up and off and then tugs his whole body against him, rubbing his hands down his ribs and trying to heat his pale skin. Mark always looks cold to him, chilled to the touch, and Eduardo watches as pinkness follows his hands, a trail of warmth over his skin. He cups his hands over Mark’s ass and pushes their hips together, and Mark moans in his throat and tips his head forward. Their cocks bump, hard and starting to leak, and Mark opens his mouth against Eduardo’s collarbone and moans again.

He pushes Eduardo back onto the bed, clinging and going with him, straddling his waist. Eduardo brings his thighs up to cradle Mark’s ass, presses his fingers into his hips and grinds him down in near desperation. Something about the position, being on Mark’s bed, has made him frantic, and it takes Mark to slow him down, Mark’s fingers in his hair and his eyes wide and locked on his. He rolls his own hips and nudges back, makes Eduardo’s thighs slide down again and then stretches out above him. Mark pushes kisses against Eduardo’s chest and rolls them onto their sides, hooking a knee over Eduardo’s leg. They are close, so close, and Eduardo palms them both and breathes Mark in, takes his little hitching breaths as Eduardo rubs his cock, the smell of his sweat beading at his hairline, the sounds he makes and the widening of his eyes as he leans in and presses his forehead against Eduardo’s shoulder. He takes it all and holds it and keeps it, kisses the top of Mark’s bowed head and promises them both that it’s for keeps, whatever happens after this.

They get off within seconds of each other, hot between their bellies and all over Eduardo’s hand, Mark’s fingers pressed tight into Eduardo’s wrist. Mark rolls in, ignoring the mess, fitting them together front-to-front and hissing as their sensitive, softening cocks brush. Eduardo loops an arm over and kisses his head, leans down when Mark tilts his face up and kisses him again on the mouth.

They kiss lazily for a while, breaking to breathe and then leaning in quickly again, until Eduardo’s mouth starts to feel sore and Mark’s lips look puffed and red. He licks over them, pecks his cheek, and drops his head down onto the bedspread with a dopey smile. Mark returns it, though it’s a little more wry.

“Grab a pillow,” Mark says, and Eduardo hums and shakes his head.

“I’m comfy.”

“Idiot.” Mark sits up and tugs Eduardo up the bed by his arms, glaring at him playfully when Eduardo goes limp and allows himself to be dragged, and he settles them both against a pile of pillows, tugging the covers out from under them. Eduardo watches Mark fuss awkwardly with no small amount of fondness, and he pulls Mark in with a hand at the back of his head and kisses him, wet and happy.

Mark sighs and relaxes into the kiss, drifting out of it slowly and dropping his head to rest on Eduardo’s outstretched arm. He tucks his face in towards Eduardo’s armpit, and Eduardo circles his arm around to pet Mark’s hair, sinking his fingers in and lightly twisting curls between his fingertips.

“Where did you come from?” Mark asks in a mumble, and Eduardo blinks but doesn’t stop playing with his hair.

“Hm?”

“Did you fly from Singapore?”

Eduardo shakes his head, leaning in and kissing the top of Mark’s head again. “No, Montreal. Why?”

“That’s still a long flight,” Mark says, and he blinks owlishly up at Eduardo, then narrows his eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Eduardo thinks about it and then shrugs. It’s been a while since he’s eaten but he doesn’t want to leave this bed, or allow Mark to. “A little? Not that much, though. I’m too comfortable to get up.”

“I’ll make you something,” Mark says, and when Eduardo looks at him warily, he tips his chin up. It looks slightly ridiculous with Eduardo’s hand still in his hair, and Eduardo can’t smother his smile, which of course Mark takes as a personal affront. “I can cook, now. A little. Stop looking at me like that.”

“No,” Eduardo says, and Mark glares. Maybe it’s the recent orgasm, but Eduardo thinks he’s never seen Mark look less threatening and more adorable. This must show on his face, because Mark shoves him, looking grumpy, and it startles a laugh out of Eduardo. Mark goes to shove him again and Eduardo catches his hand in his, twines their fingers together. “I’m not hungry, Mark, but I’m sure you can cook well.”

“Are you tired?” Mark asks, eyes darting quickly over Eduardo’s face and then focusing roughly on his ear, not meeting his eyes. Eduardo recognizes his nervousness and squeezes his hand for reassurance.

“Hey,” he says, and Mark still won’t meet his eyes, has always had trouble with that. “It’s okay, you know? You don’t have-we don’t have to talk now, if you don’t want to.” When Mark gives him a flat, disbelieving look, he tries to smile. “I’m serious. We can just-I just want to be with you.”

“Be with me?” Mark repeats, and Eduardo nods, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles and then bringing them up to kiss.

“Yes. Just be with you.” The weight of why he wants that so badly threatens to settle heavily around them, but he pushes it away with another kiss, and Mark helps by opening up under his mouth. He licks against Eduardo’s teeth and then pulls back, face a little unclouded and eye contact coming a little easier, but something else set in his jaw, too.

“You should eat. Come to the kitchen with me, I have to feed Chewie anyway.”

And Eduardo’s heart just swells; he nods and gets up, however reluctant to leave the warmth of this bed, even as Mark never leaves his side, keeps touching him as he tugs on his underwear and accepts a sweatshirt from Mark’s dresser. The sweatshirt is soft and smells of Mark, and Eduardo hugs himself in it, finally not fearing the cold.

Mark feeds Eduardo first, and then his dog. Eduardo tries not to think of how surreal it feels to be eating well-prepared scrambled eggs and watching Mark empty a can into a large food bowl, rolling his eyes when Chewie comes bounding in. Eduardo watches the dog eye the bowl and then look up at Mark, his tongue lolling out, and Mark rolls his eyes again and rinses off his hands.

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re as big as a horse. That’s more than enough.” Chewie bumps his nose against Mark’s legs in what might be gratitude, before diving at the food and burying his face in it. Eduardo chuckles around his eggs, grins at Mark’s look, and turns the grin on Chewie.

“What kind of dog is he? I’ve never seen one so big.”

“He’s a Newfie,” Mark says, drying his hands and then joining Eduardo at the table, looking down at his hands. “A family around here had to move to the city and they couldn’t take him, so they left him at the shelter in town. I wanted-I mean, I had Charlie back in Palo Alto, and I just wanted-and he’s a water rescue dog, so I guess I just liked the irony.” Eduardo’s bite of eggs suddenly sticks in his throat, and Mark makes a small, unhappy noise and reaches for his hand. He hesitates halfway there and Eduardo grabs the hand, clasps it across the table, and starts to feel better.

“You didn’t name him?” Eduardo asks, and Mark smiles a little and shakes his head.

“No, God, are you kidding? I’m not Dustin.” Mark’s smile fades, and Eduardo knows why, but he keeps talking, as if he can power through the sadness that’s clear in his eyes anyway. “I didn’t name Charlie, either. I hate people names for dogs, it’s creepy. He was-he was Jamie’s dog, really, I was just-”

“I met Charlie,” Eduardo says, because Mark keeps looking sadder and sadder, and Eduardo can’t actually deal with that. “He was really cute. Chewie looks like he’d eat him for breakfast.”

Mark snorts. “No way. Chewie is practically a kitten. He’d run away at Charlie’s first bark.” His fingers flex slightly in Eduardo’s hand, and his shoulders are drooping.

Eduardo rubs his thumb across the back of Mark’s hand and says, “I told you, we don’t have to talk about it,” and Mark shakes his head and swallows.

“Are you mad?” Mark says, and for a second Eduardo is transported back to years before, after the lawsuit, the first frosty encounter in which they had tried to pretend to be over everything. Eduardo had said he wasn’t mad then, and he had almost meant it; over the years he started to mean it more, because time does that, but this is different.

There had never really been an anger component to his grief, not even when he’d learned that Mark hadn’t really died. There hadn’t been room in his heart for any anger, or maybe he had just depleted his well of anger towards Mark during the lawsuit, after the depositions. But there is no anger left in him, not now, and he is glad.

He wonders if Mark believes him when he says, “I’m not angry,” because his next question comes fast, a little hoarse.

“And-and what are you doing here?”

Eduardo has to work hard not to get frustrated over that question, because to him it’s so obvious, too obvious to put into words. He thought he had made it clear in his touch, just with his presence, but now Mark looks wounded, distrustful. He sighs and tries to organize his feelings, doesn’t let Mark’s hand go even when he tries to tug it away.

“Where else would I be, Mark?” Eduardo asks, and Mark breathes out harshly, shaking his head.

“Don’t be obtuse, there are lots of places you could be. Singapore, where you live, or San Francisco or New York, where you work, or Miami or Brazil, your home, or anywhere that’s not in Canada, for that matter. Those are all much more likely places for you to-”

“But you’re here,” Eduardo says firmly. “You’re here, not in those places, and you were-you have no idea what it was like to-to lose you. I-I couldn’t-and so when I found out you were alive, there wasn’t any choice. There was nothing else I could do but come here and see you and-and be with you. I want to be with you.”

“That-that doesn’t even make sense,” Mark tells him, and he successfully tugs his hand away, stands up and presses hands flat against the table. “We haven’t even talked for years, you didn’t-do you want to know why? Is that it? It wasn’t because of you, I hope you didn’t think that when I-when you thought I-it wasn’t because of you, or Jamie, or because anyone left, it wasn’t like that. I had to protect Facebook. There, that’s why. I had to protect Facebook, they were going to rip it apart trying to get me out, and if I’d resigned they would have torn it up while I watched. I couldn’t watch, I had to go. It wasn’t because I-it wasn’t some deep, fucked up thing, I just had to do it for Facebook, that’s all. I’m fine, obviously, so you didn’t need to make sure, you didn’t have to track me down and-it’s a really long flight from Singapore, and it’s long from Montreal, too, so this was all just a-”

“Don’t say it was a waste,” Eduardo says. It’s soft, but he might as well have shouted it, for how stricken Mark looks to be cut off. His words are turning over in Eduardo’s mind, bubbling under his skin, too defensive to be honest. Eduardo knows the sound of denial better than anyone; he’ll work on that. “You’re not a waste, Mark, God.”

Mark presses his lips together, looks down at the table. “I just don’t understand. Why didn’t you-if you felt like this before, why didn’t you say something? Why are you here, now, when Mark Zuckerberg’s dead-”

“You’re not dead.” When Mark rolls his eyes, Eduardo raises his voice, blood humming when Mark’s eyes snap to his. “You’re not. You’re alive, you just made me scrambled eggs and you kissed me and you touched me-and I lost that. I lost you, and you have no idea what it did to me. So there wasn’t any choice when I found out you were alive. I had to be with you. I have to be with you, because I know now what it’s like to not have any more chances. I’m never going to miss another chance.”

There had always been the possibility of Mark in the back of his mind, years and years of thinking that they could really fix things, someday, and give it a real try. There was the picture of the dog and the couch and Mark, smiling, not as beautiful as reality but there, driving him, and when he thought Mark was dead that was gone. He will not lose that picture again, not for anything.

Mark is quiet, now, and shaken maybe. He sags back into his chair and lets Eduardo reach over and gently take his hand again, stroking over it. “You’re not mad?” he asks quietly, and Eduardo shakes his head, squeezes his fingers. “I’m glad, I think, that you never told me,” Mark says. “I don’t think I could have even-even thought of the bridge, if we were-if we’d been-”

“I wouldn’t have let you,” Eduardo says, and he clears his throat and amends, “I shouldn’t have let you.”

“I had to, and I can never go back. I had to,” Mark tells him, and his voice is just slightly pleading, begging Eduardo not to ask more or argue. Eduardo nods and squeezes his hand again.

“I would’ve gone with you, then.”

Mark lets out a shaky breath, and Eduardo decides he is not close enough, not at all. He stands and moves around the table, kneels by Mark’s chair and takes both his hands, rests them in Mark’s lap, and breathes.

After, there are questions, not all at once but necessary. There are things that Eduardo will never understand, things he will know about Mark that constantly counter his preconceptions of him, things he knows are misconceptions now. He may not ever fully understand why Mark jumped, besides the Facebook reason. There are things that Mark keeps close to his chest, folded up in him, and in the beginning, he does not know that Eduardo plans to stay. They are not ready for that question yet.

But in the first days, little things pop up just by living with Mark here in the cottage. The first morning, he wakes up with a furry weight on his chest, much too small to be Chewie, and he nearly falls out of bed when he spots the skinny, splotchy cat sleeping curled in a ball on top of him. He jumps enough to startle Mark awake, and he sits up with bedhead and puffy eyes and blinks at Eduardo and the cat.

“Oh,” he says sleepily, and he drops his head back down to the pillow. “That’s Leia. I did name her, whatever, I wanted them to match. Just push her off.”

“You have a cat,” Eduardo whispers, trying not to breathe too hard and disturb the cat. Mark sighs and shifts closer, burying his face in Eduardo’s arm.

“Yeah. She just showed up one day, and I fed her like an idiot, and now she stays here all the time. Just push her off and go back to sleep.”

“You have a cat named Leia and a dog named Chewie,” Eduardo says incredulously, and he yelps when Mark pinches him. The cat startles, sits up and stretches languidly on top of Eduardo’s chest, and gives him a very unimpressed look that’s eerily reminiscent of Mark in a snit. “Sorry,” he whispers, and the cat circles around a bit and then curls back up in her spot.

After another day, he learns that Chewie has been warily tolerating Eduardo’s nightly presence in Mark’s bed, but is finally fed up with it. This is evidenced by the fact that he wakes up from a doze to Chewie trying to lie down between them, his considerable weight shoving Eduardo to the side and nearly rolling him off the bed. On the other side, Mark is laughing hard enough to make the mattress shake, and Eduardo sits up on the edge of the bed to stare at him in disbelief.

“What?” Mark says, his face lit up and red. “You were in his spot.” When Eduardo continues to gape, he laughs harder and then sits up himself, petting Chewie’s head and then pushing at him gently. “Come on, boy, get down there and let Wardo sleep. You’re just being a brat, there’s plenty of room for all of us.”

“Jesus,” Eduardo says as Chewie scoots, whining, down to the foot of the bed, giving Eduardo his saddest puppy eyes. “Oh my God, he hates me now.”

“He doesn’t hate you, he doesn’t even sleep with me all the time,” Mark says, pulling Eduardo closer to him and throwing an arm over him. “He’s just a spoiled jerk sometimes. Don’t worry about it. He has a super expensive bed of his own in the corner, anyway.”

Eduardo has to think about them, though, the three of them, Mark and Chewie and Leia, and their little life here. Mark doesn’t ask about anyone back in California or New York; he asks about Eduardo’s job and his friends, sometimes, asks about Singapore, but he never wants to hear about Dustin or Chris or Sean. Eduardo can understand why, can see the sad set of his shoulders whenever he thinks of them. He can’t believe he wondered for a second about homesickness, and he is absurdly fond of the little family Mark has built here, pets that sleep in bed with him and lick his face or cuddle in his lap. It’s love, an easier kind of love than the one Mark has always shied away from (when Eduardo had known him, anyway), and Eduardo is glad that Mark has at least had this.

The comment about Chewie’s bed brings up another question, which winds up leading to the most important one, in the end. Eduardo quietly asks how Mark has been supporting himself, wondering about the pretty basic nature of the house and the lack of fancy electronics that he had come to always associate with Mark. He doesn’t even have a cell phone, just a laptop and a small TV he barely touches.

Mark shrugs. “There’s some money, I’d been stashing some away for a while and then put it in an account under Stuart’s name up here. I’m not a billionaire anymore, obviously, but it’s enough to get by for a while. I can always get a job in town, if I need to.” He rolls his eyes. “Stuart graduated from Harvard, you know, that should be enough to put on a resume.”

“Mark,” Eduardo says chidingly, and Mark shrugs again. But it stays on Eduardo’s mind, the money thing, and later, after having locked Chewie and Leia out of the bedroom so they could have sex without an audience, Eduardo pulls Mark close and brings it up again. “I have money,” he says, tracing vague patterns over Mark’s bare, damp skin and listening to his breathing slow down. “You don’t have to work ever, if you don’t want to.”

Mark snorts softly, looking up at Eduardo with sparkling but careful eyes. “So what, you’re just going to wire me money for bills from Singapore? I’m a big boy, Wardo, I don’t need-”

“I’m not going back to Singapore,” Eduardo says plainly.

It’s a truth that he’d known vaguely before now, an idea that seemed to be obvious but abstract at the same time. Mark sits up, obviously startled, and stares at him, looking as incredulous as Eduardo should maybe feel. “What,” Mark says flatly, and Eduardo holds him close and smiles into his hair.

“I’m not going back. I told you, I want to be with you.”

“But-I have to stay here. I mean-I can’t ever go back, you know, not as Mark Zuckerberg. Mark Zuckerberg is-”

“You’re alive, and you’re here, so that’s where I’m going to be,” Eduardo says, leaning back to meet Mark’s wide eyes. “I want to take care of you.”

“You don’t have to,” Mark blurts out, ducking his head, and Eduardo kisses his forehead and hums in the negative.

“Yes, I do.” Because really, that’s the truth. He could go back to Singapore, and he could live that life again, that good life, that sufficient life. He can’t do it without Mark, though. He won’t live a life without Mark, won’t ever choose that, not now.

“How can you love me that much?” Mark asks in a voice that’s only slightly wet, and Eduardo tightens his hold and breathes him in and wonders how he can properly answer Mark’s question.

There isn’t a proper answer, though, because Eduardo has never been able to really explain it. He says, “I just do,” and Mark sighs, mumbles, “Me too,” into Eduardo’s skin. He feels the words like a brand, hot and searing and wonderful, finally for keeps. He had lived a life for the possibility of this moment, and finally having it is better than he has words to describe.

Some questions are harder than that, even if they have better answers. There are nights when Eduardo presses kisses under Mark’s sad eyes and has to whisper, “Why?” Sometimes this means different things, and Mark gives him different answers. He talks about being hated, about wanting to start over, to be someone else. He talks about the water, about the moments when he had thought about ignoring Marleau’s boat and giving in to the cold, and he shivers and doesn’t protest Eduardo’s arms around him, rubbing over his skin.

There are nights when he volunteers information, about Jamie and Charlie and Randi and his family, his hopes for them. He tells Eduardo that he called him to say goodbye; “I didn’t want you to be upset, or think-I don’t know. I wanted you to have something,” Mark tells him. “Chris had Dustin and Dustin had Chris, Randi had Facebook and Mom and Dad, Sean had Amy, and I-I didn’t know who you had.”

Eduardo feels awful having to tell Mark this, but it needs to be done. “Chris and Dustin are-”

“Together, I figured,” Mark finishes. “I thought they would be.” When Eduardo frowns, he shakes his head. “They’re in love, you know. Maybe you didn’t. But when you’re in love like they are, I don’t know, it was inevitable. Don’t worry about them.”

Eduardo huffs, squeezes Mark tight. “Mark Zuckerberg, the romantic.”

“Bite me, no way,” Mark says. “They’re my friends, I know what’s good for them. They’ll be okay.” The last part sounds only slightly wistful, firming up like Mark needs it to. Eduardo presses his hands into his shoulders and lets him believe, trying to share in it.

There are always questions, some without answers, some neither of them will ever fully understand. There are eight years and four months of life and death between them, and they have only begun to meet in the middle.

But Eduardo has the opportunity now to remember the things that matter: the feel of Mark’s skin under his touch, heating up and pulsing with life, his body always curling towards him and going where he’s led. His mind will always catch on these details, the dip of Mark’s dimples and the curve of his back, and there is no question of why. This is Mark, his now, and they are each other’s, for keeps, and if nothing else, Eduardo can finally understand that.