fic: that secret that you know, but don't know how to tell (part 1/3)
fic: that secret that you know, but don't know how to tell (part 1/3)
fandom: the social network
pairing: mark/eduardo, noncon mark/sean
warning: this piece contains triggers for noncon. please, please read with caution. thank you!
notes: written for the tsn_kinkmeme prompt (an excerpt) : "Come on, Sean's every expression just screamed rape!face, and I'm dying to see how Eduardo handles Mark after he's been broken like a wild foal."
title is from bon iver's "blood bank"
They’re pretty fucking drunk. Sean’s making another round of margaritas, and he hands Mark a joint when he comes back and Mark smokes it, because why fucking not. The girls leave at 1:30, and when Sean comes back from the kitchen for the next time, he carefully sets down his drink and straddles Mark on the ratty, uncomfortable sofa.
“Hey,” Sean says, grinning, and Mark pulls him down into a kiss. They’ve never done this, but Mark’s crossfaded as fuck and it feels heady, good- I’m kissing Sean Parker. Sean laughs and kneels in front of him, and Mark groans, head falling back, clutching at the sofa. Sean is really, really good at giving head.
He comes quickly, and laughs, legs spread, shirt still on, and before he can even process it he’s flat on his back. Sean’s on top of him, and he laughs, and Mark’s so drunk, and somehow he’s got his hand rubbing the curve of Mark’s ass before he can even say anything.
“Whoa, Sean, just wait,” Mark says, shaking his head and nearly falling off the couch.
“I don’t wanna wait,” Sean says, and pushes a finger inside, dry. Mark makes an embarrassing noise and jerks, and he can’t really understand why Sean isn’t stopping.
“Sean, Sean, Sean-”
“Shh, Mark, it’s okay, just, it’s okay-” he laughs, and suddenly he seems a lot less drunk than Mark. He has two fingers inside and it hurts.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know-” Mark says, voice rising, high and panicky, and he tries to scuttle away but Sean pins his wrist with one hand.
“Hey. Hey. I gave you head, Mark,” Sean says, and his eyes are glinting, and his fingers are still inside of him, and Mark’s shaking his head, desperately.
“Yeah, but Sean-”
“No yeah but Sean,” Sean repeats, mockingly, and he twists his fingers. Mark chokes on his breath.
“No, Sean. No. I don’t want-” Sean covers his mouth, and Mark’s breath is coming in panicky little gasps through the cracks between Sean’s fingers, and fuck, he’s scared.
Sean is burning hot, and his hand smells like limes, and it’s weird that that’s what flashes through Mark’s mind when Sean is pushing into him. He closes his eyes and code’s running behind his eyelids, and he tries to focus on it, make it stop, make it make sense, but Sean thrusts particularly hard and it slips away. This doesn’t happen to people like him- and he doesn’t just mean men versus women, but people like him in particular - nerdy skinny Jewish boys who have enough trouble getting people to have sex with them anyway. He never ever expected to be in this situation, and he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to do- even as it’s happening, he can feel himself start to justify it, reason it away- they were drunk and Sean didn’t- he didn’t- God, it fucking hurts! - and what is he gonna do, anyway, accuse his own company shareholder of rape?
Sean uncovers his mouth so he can brace himself and Mark shocks himself by babbling nonsense, panicky shit, like Sean and no and please and I don’t want. Sean just groans, and Mark thrashes because Sean is coming inside him. He’s never really felt weak, not really, not even when he was flanked by the Winklevi. He knew he could hack them, steal their information, steal their life, but now he feels it acutely, the way Sean can hold him down with one hand, how incredibly inadequate and skinny and pathetic he is. He closes his eyes and indulges in the fantasy he hasn’t had since he was eight, the one where he’s wearing a superhero bodysuit and he fills it out, too. Where he saves cats from trees and people highfive him in the street. He stopped dreaming it the summer he got a computer and the rest of his friends got baseball bats.
Sean’s panting above him, done, and he pulls out and sits up. Mark feels cold and sweaty and sick. Sean pats him on the thigh, and says, “Don’t make this into a bigger deal than it is.”
Do I do that? Mark thinks. Out loud, he just exhales. Sean leaves the room, and Mark stands up, and stumbles into the kitchen, and misses Wardo. Eduardo would have-- he shakes his head and vomits into the trashcan.
----
It's been three days, and Mark has mostly managed to ignore what happened. There’s no physical evidence, he's not a girl, and Sean acts normal, a little nicer, a little more considerate than usual. Mark still can’t make eye contact with him, but luckily, he's never been renowned for social skills. Yeah, maybe he’s had a couple nightmares. Maybe more than a couple, but he’s determined to put it out of his mind and focus on what’s important: Facebook. The company comes first, and Sean is good for the company.
A couple days later, Eduardo comes out from New York.
“Wardo, you have to see it, it looks amazing-”
“Mm, I’m sure it does.” Eduardo’s sitting, legs out, on Mark’s bed in Palo Alto, while Mark paces around him, gesturing with a beer. His hoodie sleeves slip up as he talks, and Eduardo catches his wrist in midair.
“What’s this?”
“-it’s going to completely revolutionize picture-sharing- what?”
Mark glances down. Eduardo’s staring at his wrist, and Mark remembers the bruises just as he sees them.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I fell.” And God, why is that what he chooses to say, like he’s some domestic abuse victim on Lifetime?
“You fell, Mark, these are fingerprints-”
“Eduardo, can we focus on the topic at hand? Pictures. Tagging. It’s genius.”
Eduardo grabs his other wrist. Mark winces.
“Shit, Mark- who did this?”
“Wardo! Please! It doesn’t matter.” He’s getting flustered, and Wardo knows all his tells- babbling, pink cheeks, excessive hand gestures.
“Mark.”
“So I had sex with a girl, do you know how crazy the girls are out here? Wardo, it’s not important-”
“Yeah right,” Wardo laughs, still holding Mark’s wrist. “Every time you have sex with a girl you drunk-text me after.”
“You assume I only fuck girls while drunk.”
“I assume correctly.”
“Ha, ha. Now let’s talk pictures.”
Eduardo rubs a thumb gently over the bruise, but lets his hand go.
---
Mark should have known better. Eduardo never gives up on anything.
He’s showering, because Eduardo is practically forcing him to bathe, and he strips off his T-shirt in his bedroom.
Eduardo opens the door silently, and Mark jumps when he turns and sees him, standing there, staring, and shit, Mark forgot about the bruises on his hips, the bite mark on his shoulder, the scratch down his arm, red and deep and angry.
“Mark,” he says, voice low, shutting the door behind him, and Mark holds his shirt in front of him protectively.
“Wardo-”
“You fell on that too?” he asks, eyes fixed on Mark. Mark swallows nervously.
“Wardo, can we just not-”
“What happened?” Mark doesn’t answer, and Eduardo steps in front of him, takes him by the arm. Mark flinches away, and Eduardo notices.
“What happened?” he asks again.
“I had sex,” Mark gets out, after a second, and closes his eyes. Shit. Shit.
“Goddamnit, Mark,” Wardo says roughly, like he knows already what happened, and Mark takes a step backward.
“I- I-”
“Who?”
He’s never been good at lying to Eduardo.
“Sean,” he whispers, and Eduardo’s face goes hard.
“You-”
“Eduardo, it was one time, we were drunk-” and he can't even tell who he's defending.
“You wanted it? Tell me you wanted to. Did you?” His questions are flat, clipped, and Mark shouldn’t- he can’t-
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, and feels rather than see Eduardo leave the room.
From outside he hears a crash, and he stumbles out after him.
Eduardo’s in the kitchen, and there’s a broken pitcher of gin and tonics on the floor.
“You fucking -” Eduardo breaks off, glass crunching under his feet and punches Sean in the face. Sean falls to the ground.
“What the fuck?”
“Eduardo!”
“You really think you’re gonna get away with this?” Eduardo’s saying, eyes alight, and he kicks Sean in the stomach. Again, and again, until Dustin grabs his arm and holds him back.
“Mark, have you been telling lies again?” Sean says nastily from the ground, clutching his face, curled in fetal position, and Eduardo growls and nearly lunges out of Dustin’s arms.
“Don’t you fucking talk to him. Don’t you fucking talk, period. You better start fucking running, you motherfucker, because I’m coming after you with as many policemen as I can fucking get. You hear me?”
“Fuck you, you don't know shit,” Sean chokes out, and Eduardo hits Dustin in the chest and gets free and kicks Sean again.
“Fucking- piece of- shit-”
“Eduardo!” Dustin screams. “Jesus!”
“Wardo, please,” Mark says, choking on it, voice high like that night when he’d begged Sean to stop.
Eduardo stops, panting, and Sean is spitting out blood.
“Get out,” Eduardo says dangerously, shaking all over.
----
Mark wires himself in after Sean leaves, shuts the door of the bedroom and sits on the floor with his back against the bed, laptop against his knees. He’s shaking, and when he touches his arm with his other hand it’s cold.
Why can’t Eduardo leave well enough alone? It’s over. It’s done. He’s not gonna get pregnant, and they’re just bruises, and it’s Sean. It’s no big deal- and even as he thinks it a lump rises in his throat. He swallows frantically and closes his eyes.
he was the one who kissed- so drunk- and Sean did give him head-
He pushes the laptop onto the floor and buries his head in his knees. His breath is coming in painful, choky little gasps, and dimly he hears knocking.
“Mark,” Eduardo calls, and Mark curls further into himself. He hates this so much. He hates it. The way he can feel his body now, in a way he couldn’t before, feel how fucking weak he is, and the computer won’t let him escape anymore like it used to, because Sean comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes-
- he shudders and recoils, heart in his throat-
“It’s me,” Eduardo says, taking the hand away. “It’s me.”
Mark doesn’t look up. Eduardo sits on the bed.
“Mark,” Eduardo says after a minute, gently, trying to keep his voice steady. “Mark, we have to go to the police, okay?”
“Fuck no,” Mark says petulantly, muffled into his knees.
Eduardo draws in a shaky breath. “I know you don’t want to, but we -”
Mark lifts his head up halfway, spits out, “We don’t have to do anything. It was me. And I’m choosing not to press charges. That's my choice, not yours.”
Eduardo slides off the bed, next to Mark’s hunched form. “Mark, c’mon-”
“No! Wardo, it’s- it’s over. I can handle it. It's fine.”
Eduardo swallows hard and swallows again and then he sobs, draws a hand over his eyes and it comes away wet. Mark looks down, and it hits him then, how young they are. Eduardo’s just a kid crying into his knees. They’re so fucking out of their depth.
Is this just what happens in California, in Palo Alto? Is this how people are? Nothing happens like this at Harvard.
“Goddamnit, Mark,” Eduardo says between gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Mark just stays still, eyes blurring as he stares determinedly at a loose thread on his pants.
“I should have been here, I should have- fucking - just, fuck.” Eduardo’s voice is hoarse.
“It’ll look bad,” Mark says after a minute. “It’s not good PR. And before you say anything, you know it’s true, and Facebook is the-”
“I don’t give a shit about PR,” Eduardo says predictably, and he shakes his head at Mark incredulously, eyes red and bloodshot. Mark squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t care- Mark, come on-” he breaks off and Mark shoves his face into Eduardo’s shoulder. He’s breathing too hard again, sharp little exhales that hurt, and Eduardo wraps a hand around his back, warm, and holds him as he shakes.
“Hey, hey,” he’s saying, into Mark’s hair, and Mark gasps wetly against Eduardo’s shirt, breath gradually slowing.
“It’s going to be fine, okay? But- but Mark, we need to talk to the police-”
“Wardo! I told you already. No. I can’t. I can’t-” he pulls away and grabs at his laptop. God, it feels like everything he’s saying is some cliched line from a soap opera, and he hates Sean for making that happen. When he imagines, though, going into a police station- sitting down on a chair and saying, out loud, what he barely even remembers- he shakes his head. No. That’s not going to happen.
Eduardo leaves after a couple minutes, and Mark crawls up onto the bed and falls into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, he wakes up late, with a headache. The door’s closed, and there’s a blanket thrown over him. Outside, he can hear voices, muffled, Dustin’s voice rising in concern, Eduardo murmuring low, and when he opens the door he sees Eduardo, Dustin, and Chris huddled in the kitchen. They go silent when they see him, and he nods at them, pours himself a bowl of cereal, and starts typing.
After three hours, he’s already sick of it, the way they walk on eggshells around him, how Dustin asks hey, hey, Mark, do you want- in this voice like Mark’s going to start tearing his hair out and beating the floor at any point.
“Dustin!” he says sharply, after Dustin’s third whispered inquiry if Mark wants a sandwich. “I don’t have a fucking terminal disease! Sit down and code the tagging. Now.”
Dustin backs away, hands outstretched, and when he’s wired in and it’s fucking quiet, Mark lets himself breathe. Walks into the kitchen, and grabs a can of tuna. He saws the top off with their ancient can-opener, and briefly considers pushing its sharp edge into his wrist. He’s been doing that, a little, lately- just thinking about it. He knows what Eduardo would say, which is why he’s not going to tell him. And he’s not going to do anything, really. The shitty thing about being this smart is that even when you feel terrible, you can step back. See the bigger picture. It would be impractical to commit suicide. Illogical. He has such a bright fucking future ahead of him.
Eduardo comes up behind him, and Mark ignores him and grabs a fork.
“I made an appointment at the Stanford Hospital,” he says, and Mark spins around, because, what?
“I hope that means you need a checkup, Wardo, because I’m not going,” Mark says firmly, but the top of the can falls out of his hand and clatters onto the floor.
Eduardo sighs and bends down to pick it up. “I know you don’t want to, Mark, but I’m being practical, okay? You need to see if there’s anything - wrong.”
“Wardo, I have three bruises and a scratch. I’m not actually a five year old. Can we just put some Neosporin on it and call it a fucking day?”
Eduardo just looks at him, and no matter how rude Mark is he can’t get rid of that doe-eyed pitiful stare. Wardo can see right through him, he’s always been able to, and right now Mark hates it.
“C’mon. That’s not what I mean.”
Mark takes a bite and chews, smacking his lips, deliberately annoying. “I’m not going,” he says around a mouthful.
“Mark-” Eduardo looks painfully uncomfortable. “You could have caught something.”
Mark walks past him without answering.
Eventually, he goes, because there's only so much of Eduardo's passive-aggressive Jewish-mother bullshit he can take. Eduardo drives, and Mark fiddles with the radio, blasting screamo in the rental car until Eduardo shoots him a look. Mark grins to himself. He misses that, Eduardo being irritated at him. Even before the thing with Sean, Eduardo had been too nice this summer, intent on not ruining his infrequent visits with the arguments that made up the majority of their conversations back at Harvard.
They pull into the parking lot, and there it is again- that sad little Bambi look. Mark’s smile fades.
“Zuckerberg?”
Eduardo stands up, and drags Mark up with him. “Go,” he hisses, and pushes him toward the waiting nurse.
“We’re just going to do a blood test today, alright, Mr. Zuckerberg?” the nurse says as they’re walking, and he ignores her and sneaks a look back at Eduardo. He’s slumped in a chair, hand over his face. He looks exhausted.
PART TWO
fandom: the social network
pairing: mark/eduardo, noncon mark/sean
warning: this piece contains triggers for noncon. please, please read with caution. thank you!
notes: written for the tsn_kinkmeme prompt (an excerpt) : "Come on, Sean's every expression just screamed rape!face, and I'm dying to see how Eduardo handles Mark after he's been broken like a wild foal."
title is from bon iver's "blood bank"
They’re pretty fucking drunk. Sean’s making another round of margaritas, and he hands Mark a joint when he comes back and Mark smokes it, because why fucking not. The girls leave at 1:30, and when Sean comes back from the kitchen for the next time, he carefully sets down his drink and straddles Mark on the ratty, uncomfortable sofa.
“Hey,” Sean says, grinning, and Mark pulls him down into a kiss. They’ve never done this, but Mark’s crossfaded as fuck and it feels heady, good- I’m kissing Sean Parker. Sean laughs and kneels in front of him, and Mark groans, head falling back, clutching at the sofa. Sean is really, really good at giving head.
He comes quickly, and laughs, legs spread, shirt still on, and before he can even process it he’s flat on his back. Sean’s on top of him, and he laughs, and Mark’s so drunk, and somehow he’s got his hand rubbing the curve of Mark’s ass before he can even say anything.
“Whoa, Sean, just wait,” Mark says, shaking his head and nearly falling off the couch.
“I don’t wanna wait,” Sean says, and pushes a finger inside, dry. Mark makes an embarrassing noise and jerks, and he can’t really understand why Sean isn’t stopping.
“Sean, Sean, Sean-”
“Shh, Mark, it’s okay, just, it’s okay-” he laughs, and suddenly he seems a lot less drunk than Mark. He has two fingers inside and it hurts.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know-” Mark says, voice rising, high and panicky, and he tries to scuttle away but Sean pins his wrist with one hand.
“Hey. Hey. I gave you head, Mark,” Sean says, and his eyes are glinting, and his fingers are still inside of him, and Mark’s shaking his head, desperately.
“Yeah, but Sean-”
“No yeah but Sean,” Sean repeats, mockingly, and he twists his fingers. Mark chokes on his breath.
“No, Sean. No. I don’t want-” Sean covers his mouth, and Mark’s breath is coming in panicky little gasps through the cracks between Sean’s fingers, and fuck, he’s scared.
Sean is burning hot, and his hand smells like limes, and it’s weird that that’s what flashes through Mark’s mind when Sean is pushing into him. He closes his eyes and code’s running behind his eyelids, and he tries to focus on it, make it stop, make it make sense, but Sean thrusts particularly hard and it slips away. This doesn’t happen to people like him- and he doesn’t just mean men versus women, but people like him in particular - nerdy skinny Jewish boys who have enough trouble getting people to have sex with them anyway. He never ever expected to be in this situation, and he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to do- even as it’s happening, he can feel himself start to justify it, reason it away- they were drunk and Sean didn’t- he didn’t- God, it fucking hurts! - and what is he gonna do, anyway, accuse his own company shareholder of rape?
Sean uncovers his mouth so he can brace himself and Mark shocks himself by babbling nonsense, panicky shit, like Sean and no and please and I don’t want. Sean just groans, and Mark thrashes because Sean is coming inside him. He’s never really felt weak, not really, not even when he was flanked by the Winklevi. He knew he could hack them, steal their information, steal their life, but now he feels it acutely, the way Sean can hold him down with one hand, how incredibly inadequate and skinny and pathetic he is. He closes his eyes and indulges in the fantasy he hasn’t had since he was eight, the one where he’s wearing a superhero bodysuit and he fills it out, too. Where he saves cats from trees and people highfive him in the street. He stopped dreaming it the summer he got a computer and the rest of his friends got baseball bats.
Sean’s panting above him, done, and he pulls out and sits up. Mark feels cold and sweaty and sick. Sean pats him on the thigh, and says, “Don’t make this into a bigger deal than it is.”
Do I do that? Mark thinks. Out loud, he just exhales. Sean leaves the room, and Mark stands up, and stumbles into the kitchen, and misses Wardo. Eduardo would have-- he shakes his head and vomits into the trashcan.
----
It's been three days, and Mark has mostly managed to ignore what happened. There’s no physical evidence, he's not a girl, and Sean acts normal, a little nicer, a little more considerate than usual. Mark still can’t make eye contact with him, but luckily, he's never been renowned for social skills. Yeah, maybe he’s had a couple nightmares. Maybe more than a couple, but he’s determined to put it out of his mind and focus on what’s important: Facebook. The company comes first, and Sean is good for the company.
A couple days later, Eduardo comes out from New York.
“Wardo, you have to see it, it looks amazing-”
“Mm, I’m sure it does.” Eduardo’s sitting, legs out, on Mark’s bed in Palo Alto, while Mark paces around him, gesturing with a beer. His hoodie sleeves slip up as he talks, and Eduardo catches his wrist in midair.
“What’s this?”
“-it’s going to completely revolutionize picture-sharing- what?”
Mark glances down. Eduardo’s staring at his wrist, and Mark remembers the bruises just as he sees them.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I fell.” And God, why is that what he chooses to say, like he’s some domestic abuse victim on Lifetime?
“You fell, Mark, these are fingerprints-”
“Eduardo, can we focus on the topic at hand? Pictures. Tagging. It’s genius.”
Eduardo grabs his other wrist. Mark winces.
“Shit, Mark- who did this?”
“Wardo! Please! It doesn’t matter.” He’s getting flustered, and Wardo knows all his tells- babbling, pink cheeks, excessive hand gestures.
“Mark.”
“So I had sex with a girl, do you know how crazy the girls are out here? Wardo, it’s not important-”
“Yeah right,” Wardo laughs, still holding Mark’s wrist. “Every time you have sex with a girl you drunk-text me after.”
“You assume I only fuck girls while drunk.”
“I assume correctly.”
“Ha, ha. Now let’s talk pictures.”
Eduardo rubs a thumb gently over the bruise, but lets his hand go.
---
Mark should have known better. Eduardo never gives up on anything.
He’s showering, because Eduardo is practically forcing him to bathe, and he strips off his T-shirt in his bedroom.
Eduardo opens the door silently, and Mark jumps when he turns and sees him, standing there, staring, and shit, Mark forgot about the bruises on his hips, the bite mark on his shoulder, the scratch down his arm, red and deep and angry.
“Mark,” he says, voice low, shutting the door behind him, and Mark holds his shirt in front of him protectively.
“Wardo-”
“You fell on that too?” he asks, eyes fixed on Mark. Mark swallows nervously.
“Wardo, can we just not-”
“What happened?” Mark doesn’t answer, and Eduardo steps in front of him, takes him by the arm. Mark flinches away, and Eduardo notices.
“What happened?” he asks again.
“I had sex,” Mark gets out, after a second, and closes his eyes. Shit. Shit.
“Goddamnit, Mark,” Wardo says roughly, like he knows already what happened, and Mark takes a step backward.
“I- I-”
“Who?”
He’s never been good at lying to Eduardo.
“Sean,” he whispers, and Eduardo’s face goes hard.
“You-”
“Eduardo, it was one time, we were drunk-” and he can't even tell who he's defending.
“You wanted it? Tell me you wanted to. Did you?” His questions are flat, clipped, and Mark shouldn’t- he can’t-
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, and feels rather than see Eduardo leave the room.
From outside he hears a crash, and he stumbles out after him.
Eduardo’s in the kitchen, and there’s a broken pitcher of gin and tonics on the floor.
“You fucking -” Eduardo breaks off, glass crunching under his feet and punches Sean in the face. Sean falls to the ground.
“What the fuck?”
“Eduardo!”
“You really think you’re gonna get away with this?” Eduardo’s saying, eyes alight, and he kicks Sean in the stomach. Again, and again, until Dustin grabs his arm and holds him back.
“Mark, have you been telling lies again?” Sean says nastily from the ground, clutching his face, curled in fetal position, and Eduardo growls and nearly lunges out of Dustin’s arms.
“Don’t you fucking talk to him. Don’t you fucking talk, period. You better start fucking running, you motherfucker, because I’m coming after you with as many policemen as I can fucking get. You hear me?”
“Fuck you, you don't know shit,” Sean chokes out, and Eduardo hits Dustin in the chest and gets free and kicks Sean again.
“Fucking- piece of- shit-”
“Eduardo!” Dustin screams. “Jesus!”
“Wardo, please,” Mark says, choking on it, voice high like that night when he’d begged Sean to stop.
Eduardo stops, panting, and Sean is spitting out blood.
“Get out,” Eduardo says dangerously, shaking all over.
----
Mark wires himself in after Sean leaves, shuts the door of the bedroom and sits on the floor with his back against the bed, laptop against his knees. He’s shaking, and when he touches his arm with his other hand it’s cold.
Why can’t Eduardo leave well enough alone? It’s over. It’s done. He’s not gonna get pregnant, and they’re just bruises, and it’s Sean. It’s no big deal- and even as he thinks it a lump rises in his throat. He swallows frantically and closes his eyes.
he was the one who kissed- so drunk- and Sean did give him head-
He pushes the laptop onto the floor and buries his head in his knees. His breath is coming in painful, choky little gasps, and dimly he hears knocking.
“Mark,” Eduardo calls, and Mark curls further into himself. He hates this so much. He hates it. The way he can feel his body now, in a way he couldn’t before, feel how fucking weak he is, and the computer won’t let him escape anymore like it used to, because Sean comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes-
- he shudders and recoils, heart in his throat-
“It’s me,” Eduardo says, taking the hand away. “It’s me.”
Mark doesn’t look up. Eduardo sits on the bed.
“Mark,” Eduardo says after a minute, gently, trying to keep his voice steady. “Mark, we have to go to the police, okay?”
“Fuck no,” Mark says petulantly, muffled into his knees.
Eduardo draws in a shaky breath. “I know you don’t want to, but we -”
Mark lifts his head up halfway, spits out, “We don’t have to do anything. It was me. And I’m choosing not to press charges. That's my choice, not yours.”
Eduardo slides off the bed, next to Mark’s hunched form. “Mark, c’mon-”
“No! Wardo, it’s- it’s over. I can handle it. It's fine.”
Eduardo swallows hard and swallows again and then he sobs, draws a hand over his eyes and it comes away wet. Mark looks down, and it hits him then, how young they are. Eduardo’s just a kid crying into his knees. They’re so fucking out of their depth.
Is this just what happens in California, in Palo Alto? Is this how people are? Nothing happens like this at Harvard.
“Goddamnit, Mark,” Eduardo says between gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Mark just stays still, eyes blurring as he stares determinedly at a loose thread on his pants.
“I should have been here, I should have- fucking - just, fuck.” Eduardo’s voice is hoarse.
“It’ll look bad,” Mark says after a minute. “It’s not good PR. And before you say anything, you know it’s true, and Facebook is the-”
“I don’t give a shit about PR,” Eduardo says predictably, and he shakes his head at Mark incredulously, eyes red and bloodshot. Mark squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t care- Mark, come on-” he breaks off and Mark shoves his face into Eduardo’s shoulder. He’s breathing too hard again, sharp little exhales that hurt, and Eduardo wraps a hand around his back, warm, and holds him as he shakes.
“Hey, hey,” he’s saying, into Mark’s hair, and Mark gasps wetly against Eduardo’s shirt, breath gradually slowing.
“It’s going to be fine, okay? But- but Mark, we need to talk to the police-”
“Wardo! I told you already. No. I can’t. I can’t-” he pulls away and grabs at his laptop. God, it feels like everything he’s saying is some cliched line from a soap opera, and he hates Sean for making that happen. When he imagines, though, going into a police station- sitting down on a chair and saying, out loud, what he barely even remembers- he shakes his head. No. That’s not going to happen.
Eduardo leaves after a couple minutes, and Mark crawls up onto the bed and falls into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, he wakes up late, with a headache. The door’s closed, and there’s a blanket thrown over him. Outside, he can hear voices, muffled, Dustin’s voice rising in concern, Eduardo murmuring low, and when he opens the door he sees Eduardo, Dustin, and Chris huddled in the kitchen. They go silent when they see him, and he nods at them, pours himself a bowl of cereal, and starts typing.
After three hours, he’s already sick of it, the way they walk on eggshells around him, how Dustin asks hey, hey, Mark, do you want- in this voice like Mark’s going to start tearing his hair out and beating the floor at any point.
“Dustin!” he says sharply, after Dustin’s third whispered inquiry if Mark wants a sandwich. “I don’t have a fucking terminal disease! Sit down and code the tagging. Now.”
Dustin backs away, hands outstretched, and when he’s wired in and it’s fucking quiet, Mark lets himself breathe. Walks into the kitchen, and grabs a can of tuna. He saws the top off with their ancient can-opener, and briefly considers pushing its sharp edge into his wrist. He’s been doing that, a little, lately- just thinking about it. He knows what Eduardo would say, which is why he’s not going to tell him. And he’s not going to do anything, really. The shitty thing about being this smart is that even when you feel terrible, you can step back. See the bigger picture. It would be impractical to commit suicide. Illogical. He has such a bright fucking future ahead of him.
Eduardo comes up behind him, and Mark ignores him and grabs a fork.
“I made an appointment at the Stanford Hospital,” he says, and Mark spins around, because, what?
“I hope that means you need a checkup, Wardo, because I’m not going,” Mark says firmly, but the top of the can falls out of his hand and clatters onto the floor.
Eduardo sighs and bends down to pick it up. “I know you don’t want to, Mark, but I’m being practical, okay? You need to see if there’s anything - wrong.”
“Wardo, I have three bruises and a scratch. I’m not actually a five year old. Can we just put some Neosporin on it and call it a fucking day?”
Eduardo just looks at him, and no matter how rude Mark is he can’t get rid of that doe-eyed pitiful stare. Wardo can see right through him, he’s always been able to, and right now Mark hates it.
“C’mon. That’s not what I mean.”
Mark takes a bite and chews, smacking his lips, deliberately annoying. “I’m not going,” he says around a mouthful.
“Mark-” Eduardo looks painfully uncomfortable. “You could have caught something.”
Mark walks past him without answering.
Eventually, he goes, because there's only so much of Eduardo's passive-aggressive Jewish-mother bullshit he can take. Eduardo drives, and Mark fiddles with the radio, blasting screamo in the rental car until Eduardo shoots him a look. Mark grins to himself. He misses that, Eduardo being irritated at him. Even before the thing with Sean, Eduardo had been too nice this summer, intent on not ruining his infrequent visits with the arguments that made up the majority of their conversations back at Harvard.
They pull into the parking lot, and there it is again- that sad little Bambi look. Mark’s smile fades.
“Zuckerberg?”
Eduardo stands up, and drags Mark up with him. “Go,” he hisses, and pushes him toward the waiting nurse.
“We’re just going to do a blood test today, alright, Mr. Zuckerberg?” the nurse says as they’re walking, and he ignores her and sneaks a look back at Eduardo. He’s slumped in a chair, hand over his face. He looks exhausted.
PART TWO