You Think You've Changed Your Mind [2/2] - The Social Network - Eduardo/Mark
Title: You Think You've Changed Your Mind [2/2]
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark
Word Count: 5595
Rating: NC-17
Previous Parts: Part One
Summary: Mark wakes up with the ability to hear Eduardo's thoughts. It would have been a lot more helpful when they were still talking to each other.
It's nine o'clock by the time Eduardo's thoughts start to drift out of his dream, groggily waking up and working out what's going on. That doesn't help matters. Mark is sitting in a cafe, his legs tired from walking so far, and it's still too loud here. He can barely hear the waiter when he places his order.
He can feel Eduardo's worry and impatience growing, and he knows he has to make a move soon. The thought of going back to the hotel room makes his coffee taste bitter; his head pounds at the memory of how bad it had felt to be that close to him. He won't be able to function. How would he hold a conversation with Eduardo anyway, if he can't hear what is being said over the buzzing of his thoughts?
Yet he can't leave. Eduardo's thoughts are worried enough about waking up alone; if he goes straight to the airport to run as far away as he can get, that's the metaphorical equivalent of kicking any potential thing they could have here right in the balls. It's a miracle that he ever persuaded Eduardo to bring him up to his hotel room last night. He's not going to get a second chance (third chance or fourth chance or whatever they're on right now) if he screws it up.
So he can't leave town, despite the boom of the thoughts in his head. And he can't go back, or he thinks the boom might become literal.
He pulls out his phone and taps at the keys, sending a message to let Eduardo know that he can't come back for a while. What the hell? Eduardo thinks in response. A few moments later, his phone buzzes with a text: What's going on? U ok?
He tells him that being near him gives him a headache. Predictably, his phone starts ringing as soon as he feels Eduardo's swell of righteous anger.
"I give you a headache?" Eduardo snaps without bothering with 'hello'. "What the fuck?"
"Look, I can explain."
"This is low even for you." His voice is like a flame-thrower. "What- I- What is that even supposed to mean? I mean, what is this about? Humiliating me again? Last time wasn't enough? I trusted you."
"Wardo..." Mark rubs at his temples and tries to think clearly. Eduardo's emotions are clouding his own: he doesn't know how Eduardo makes it through the day without tumbling into a heap and crying at least twice. It's too much. "I'm not being an asshole. It's the truth. For the past few days, I've been able to hear your thoughts. All of them. I don't know how it started, but after last night everything has become louder."
There is a long, undefined silence. Mark knows that Eduardo is still there, because he can hear his thoughts and his irritated confusion. "Mark, this isn't-"
"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to tell you the truth."
"You're not-"
"I am." He takes a breath. This could take a while.
Fifteen minutes later, they are still arguing over the phone. Mark had been hoping to avoid resorting to the tricks of stage magicians, but by this point he's frustrated enough that he wishes there was a way to punch Eduardo through the phone. "Alright," he sighs. "Think of a number, any number." He cuts Eduardo off when he starts to protest. "Just do it."
It comes through loud and clear. "1302," Mark says. "Again." He only pauses for a second. "89. Again. 127,403. Again. -739. Okay?"
"This is ridiculous," Eduardo says.
It's got to be a trick, how the hell is he doing that?
"I told you - I can hear it." He pinches the bridge of his nose. By now, his coffee has gone cold. "Last night, something happened. It got stronger, after we had sex. When I woke up this morning, my head felt like it was splitting open because you were too loud."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll just think quieter, shall I?"
"I'm not saying it's your fault; I'm telling you what happened. I'm half-way across the city now and you're still echoing in my head, louder than before. I can't switch it off."
There's a quiet moment on the end of the line, and Eduardo thinks, I can't believe I'm going along with this, before he says, "Are you trying to say you can't be in the same room as me?"
A week ago, a day ago, that wouldn't have mattered to Eduardo. Maybe that's progress. "I'm going to fix it," he promises. "There's got to be a way to switch it off again."
"It's your brain, not a computer," Eduardo says.
There's an ache in his chest and Mark can't tell which of them it belongs to. "I'll fix it," he repeats.
He doesn't know how to hang up the phone, how to go on from here - so they stay on the line, offering empty sentiments, until Mark doesn't think they've ever been further apart.
*
I could hit you on the head, Eduardo suggests in an email.
Mouth twitching, Mark replies, That probably wouldn't help.
He mentally hears Eduardo's reply before he receives it in his inbox. It works in the cartoons.
I'll buy you a safe. You can drop it on my head.
Just for good measure, he arranges for a standalone safe to be delivered to Eduardo's apartment. When it arrives, the wave of second-hand amusement is so strong that Mark starts giggling alone in his office.
*
When he comes into work the next morning, Dustin is sitting on his desk and Chris is parked in his chair. They are both dangerously close to his computer.
"So," Dustin says.
"So," Chris repeats.
"Is this an intervention?" Mark asks. He dumps his backpack in the corner near the door. "Because that didn't work out too well last time."
"Less of an intervention, more of an interrogation," Dustin says. "You and Eduardo."
Mark's eyes narrow. He wonders if there is anything forbidding him from setting fire to his employees when they get too nosy, even if said employees are his friends.
"Don't give us the evil-eye." Dustin raises his hands in surrender. "You guys have been on the phone a lot. We would be blind if we didn't notice."
"I could arrange that."
"C'mon. What's going on? Did you apologise?"
Mark glares some more. It makes him feel better. "I started to understand his point of view," he says.
Dustin and Chris both snort in laughter.
He glares some more and knows that he's going to get a stress headache from all of this.
"Seriously. What happened?"
Mark shrugs. It's not as if he can tell them the telepath thing; they wouldn't even believe that he had acquired a sense of compassion, never mind anything more than that. Eduardo still barely believes it, despite all the tricks and evidence that Mark places before him. It occurs to Mark that he ought to get some friends that actually trust him.
"We talked," he says. "There's not much more to it than that."
They look at each other and wait for a moment - and Mark thinks that they will probably call Eduardo for the 'real' story soon. He's not sure if they even kept in touch. They screwed him over as well, after all, accomplices to the crime.
"Don't you have work to do?"
They filter away, giving him a punch on the shoulder as they do (and why do people do that? Mark's never going to get it). He sits down behind his desk once they're gone, stares at his email inbox, and wonders if he ought to warn Eduardo that things might be about to go public.
*
It's roughly midnight when he starts being hit with increasingly graphic images in the Eduardo-owned part of his brain. His fingers freeze on the keyboard halfway through a word.
Eduardo is in his brain. That much has actually become normal to him.
Eduardo is thinking about fingering himself. Less normal.
Eduardo is fingering himself and thinking about Mark. Definitely not normal.
Mark is on the phone after only hesitating for a couple of seconds.
Eduardo's voice, when he answers, is out of breath but sunny as hell. "I was wondering if you were listening," he says.
"I'm always listening." Mark hears the sound of Eduardo's breathing, heavy and clouded, and remembers the noises he had made during their night together, every moan and whimper. "Are you doing it now?"
Eduardo chuckles. Mark shuffles where he's sitting; his erection is uncomfortable by this point. "Yeah. Yes. I'm - I'm doing it."
"Shit." Mark closes his eyes. "I should be there."
"Brain explosions," Eduardo reminds him - and then he moans, and it really is the filthiest thing that Mark has ever heard. "Do it. Touch yourself."
Mark's mouth feels dry. He glances at the door to his office. There's no one else here at this time of night. The office is wide and white and empty.
He reaches down and undoes the button of his jeans with one hand, his phone pressed so tightly to his ear that it hurts. He ought to put it on speaker, but he needs to feel the contact. It might be nothing more than a slim piece of technology, but right now it's all he has.
"Are you doing it?" Eduardo asks. "Talk to me."
"Yeah," he says. He isn't sure what he's supposed to say; dirty talk and phone sex don't come naturally when you're socially stunted. "I have my hand in my pants."
Eduardo hums, and Mark can feel him imagining it. "You're at your office?"
"I had to stay late. Where are you?"
"Some hotel room. I'm in bed, on my front, and I've got my fingers inside myself. I'm thinking about you."
"I know what you're thinking. I can hear it."
"Just go with me on this," Eduardo suggests. Mark closes his mouth. "I'm thinking about what we could be doing if you were here."
"What, no you're not. You're thinking about how to turn me on."
"Mark."
"It's not a criticism. It's working."
"God, I wish you were here. So I could throttle you."
"That's less of a turn-on."
"Who knows - you might be into it." Eduardo starts chuckling, low, intimate and right in Mark's ear. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he can feel the warmth of Eduardo's breath. "It's hard to fuck myself when you keep making me go off-track."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're interrupting."
"Participating."
"You take over then."
"I don't know what to say," Mark admits. "I'm awkward about all of this, because I wish I was there instead of talking about what I would be doing if I was there. What's the point in thinking about fucking you when I can't?"
Eduardo makes a sound, high-pitched and strangled, and even though he feels Wardo's embarrassment right after it's just about the hottest thing he's ever heard. Eduardo says his name, whispering it, and Mark squeezes himself in his jeans.
"I want to be there," he says. "I wish I could get on a plane and head right over there and just-" He strokes himself and looks up at the ceiling as he thinks about it. The ceiling is white and bland - looking up, he could be in any room in the world. He could be right there with Wardo. "Do you think we'll even make it to a bed? When we finally get to see each other again, I mean."
"No," Eduardo pants. "On the floor, near the door."
"We'll get carpet burn."
"I'll put up with it," Eduardo says, laughing again before he breaks off into a moan. "God, we're not going to be able to walk for days."
"Bruises everywhere," Mark agrees. The image of Eduardo's warm skin bruised and marked because of him makes him grip his cock too tightly; it's almost painful. "They'll think we've gone missing. Everyone. Because I won't let you leave - not for a while. A week, maybe. Me and you and a hotel room and a lot of sex."
He hears Eduardo's breath shiver and he strokes himself as he talks. His heart is racing, and even if he's worried about what he's supposed to say he has the pulse of Wardo's thoughts there to guide him. By this point they've devolved into a general soundtrack of encouragement and praise; yes and fuck and oh god oh god oh shit.
"I like thinking about your mouth," he says, because he wants to keep talking when it makes Wardo fall apart like this. "I do that a lot, actually. I'm sure I could sue you for loss of productivity or something. It's distracting. Just - I think about fucking it. About whether or not you'd let me do that, just push you to your knees and make you take it."
Wardo's long moan suggests that he isn't entirely opposed to the idea, not one bit.
"I don't think I could be gentle. I mean, I'd start off that way. I would try. But once we started, once I know how it felt… Do you think you'd be able to take it? If I just let go and started fucking your throat, would that work? Do you think you'd choke on it?" Eduardo answers with a high-pitched whine. It doesn't sound anything like any word that Mark can imagine, but he can visualise Eduardo lying there on his front, his fingers up his ass while he jerks frantically on his cock. It makes his eyes shudder closed again and his hips thrust up into his hand. The distance is killing him.
"Anything," Eduardo moans. The sound of his voice is like lightning. "Mark, I'll do anything you want."
Mark has time to grunt with embarrassing abandon before he comes over himself, sticky jizz splashing over his sweatshirt.
"Mark?" Eduardo asks. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah." He has to take a moment before he can answer. "I just finished."
Eduardo makes a sound that must be a goddamn whimper, and it makes Mark think that he could come all over again. Eduardo says his name like it's an expletive, and then says, "Keep talking. I'm close now."
And it's still hard to know what to say, but he can use Eduardo's thoughts as a guide to see what works and what doesn't. To be honest, at this point pretty much anything works. He says Wardo's name a couple of times in a row, and each time it seems to push him even closer, until Mark can feel him wavering right on the edge.
Come for me, he wants to say, but maybe that's too dodgy-porno. Instead he opts for merely saying Wardo's name again, and apparently that's enough because this moan is way louder than the one before it, and Mark's spent cock twitches as he feels Eduardo orgasm in another city altogether.
Breathing down the phone, he wonders if this is all they're going to have now. Phone calls and dirty promises of when when when. For years following the lawsuit he had survived just fine without being in the same room as Eduardo, without even being in the same city. It shouldn't be this hard.
"Talk to you tomorrow," he promises when they sign off.
Sticky and still frustrated, it isn't enough.
*
One week later, in the middle of the afternoon, the burble of thoughts in his head stops. Dead.
He's in the middle of a meeting at another company (he's always in the middle of meetings these days; life has never been this boring) when his spine goes straight and his eyes goes wide and he listens, listens, listens: there's nothing.
He doesn't move, like a rabbit in the centre of a clearing, even as he hears other people at the table checking if he's alright. His mind pulses with silence.
Something isn't right.
Standing up, he allows protests to fall on deaf ears as he leaves the room, out into the hallway and over to the secretary's desk. He picks up her phone without asking and dials a number he knows off by heart, even if he has no real reason to. How many times in the past few years has he failed to dial it?
It rings three times before Eduardo answers, rolling off his name with barely disguised amusement.
"You've stopped thinking," Mark says. He blinks like a lizard and enjoys the sound of Eduardo's breathing. "It went silent. What happened?"
Eduardo laughs, a light chuckle that flows through the phone lines. "I put tin-foil on my head," he explains.
Mark closes his mouth. Opens it again. Closes it.
"What?"
"Tin foil. You know, like in the movies? To stop the aliens from reading my thoughts?"
"I'm not an alien."
"But it did stop you." Eduardo laughs again. "Seriously? You really can't hear anything."
Mark frowns. "I thought you were dead."
"Alive and kicking. I look like an idiot right now, but... I can't believe that actually worked." By this point, Mark thinks that Eduardo's laughter is bordering on obnoxious. It's not his fault that his unasked for powers have ridiculous rules.
"Can you get over here?" he asks. "I'm in meetings all day, important ones, but are you free? Get on a plane. I want to see you."
"I'm not busy," Eduardo says. "I'll get the next flight out."
"I'll meet you at the airport," Mark promises. His mind is spinning, thoughts unable to fix on anything other than the promise of Eduardo's presence. At her desk, the secretary is staring at him with polite curiosity from behind her glasses. He does her best to ignore her.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"'cause I seem to remember having some issues last time you promised that."
Mark breathes through his nose and closes his eyes, but it's not enough to block out memories of Eduardo, soaking wet and angry. Memories are difficult things these days, spiky and black. "I promise," he says, "okay? Drop it."
"Mark-"
"I'll be there. Let me know the time and I'll be there. Don't pick a fight."
Even if they hang up in frustration, Mark's blood still fizzes with excitement. They're being foolish. There's no way of knowing how this is going to work or if Mark is going to be deafened and driven mad as soon as Eduardo comes too close. This is goddamn tin foil, and he shouldn't be placing the sanctity of his mind in something so fragile.
Yet it's Eduardo. Wardo. How is he supposed to resist?
The day passes too slowly, and he checks his watch at every opportunity. It's a miracle that he manages to pay attention to the details of the meetings, important as they are, and he can tell that his assistant's patience wears thin. That doesn't mean he cares. He pays her enough to deal with the irritation that apparently comes with looking after him.
He can't be late. Not this time.
Eventually, snail-slow, the clock's hands crawl to the right time and he is released, spilling out of the building and into a car where a driver more experienced than himself can race through the traffic. The airport is too busy, with crowds bunched in front of him out of nothing more than malicious glee. Darting through (and, perhaps, nudging people out of his way with slightly more force than necessary) he makes it to the arrivals bay just in time to see a new stream of people coming in. Too many people. He wants to delete them all.
With a woolly hat and pom-poms adorning his head, Wardo is difficult to miss. He is weighed down with no luggage and when he sees Mark his entire face seems to burst into delighted surprise.
He doesn't run towards him, though. He walks at the same leisurely and elegant pace. Mark thinks that maybe they're missing out on the perfect rom-com moment.
Once they're reunited, it only takes ten minutes before they have locked themselves into the toilets of the VIP lounge, and Mark has his trousers by his ankles and his face pressed against the door as Wardo fucks him fast and hard, pom-poms shaking. There's an awkward waddle in his step by the time he leaves the airport. With his best friend back at his side he doesn't give a damn.
*
He 'loses' his phone and they find a hotel room. Between room service and hundreds of television channels, they don't have to leave the room for days.
Wardo keeps his hat on at all times, and eventually Mark learns not to tease him about it if he wants to keep his head. It looks hand-made and the knit is chunky, blasting in bright red and blue. Flaps hang down by his ears leading to strings embellished with fluff. On the inside, every inch is lined with crunchy tin foil, the only thing standing between Mark and the deafening sound of Eduardo's thoughts.
"I miss it," he admits to Eduardo when they're on the couch together, watching Aliens with sleepy eyes. Eduardo is leaning against his side and Mark's arm is around his shoulders; he didn't even have to attempt an uncool yawn-and-stretch manoeuvre to get it there. "Your thoughts. It's strange not having them in my head."
"I kind of like it," Eduardo answers. "The privacy, I mean."
Mark frowns. "When I can hear what you're thinking, it's easier to deal with you," he says. Eduardo elbows him in the ribs for that. "I'm not saying that to be an asshole."
"What do you mean, 'deal with me'?" Eduardo asks. When he shifts his head, the pom-pom on the top wobbles.
"Being around you. You're difficult." Mark gets the feeling that this is one of those conversations he should never have started. "You're demanding and confusing. When I can read what you're thinking, at least I know what it is you want from me."
"Demanding?" Eduardo sits up straight. Mark's arm falls back to his side, barren. "Please tell me you're joking."
Mark blinks. On the television screen, a man is stabbed through the chest with an alien tail. He thinks that might be symbolic. "Why would that be a joke? It's not funny."
"Exactly. God, Mark." There's something dangerous about the way that Eduardo is looking at him right now. Mark wants to reach out and get rid of that ridiculous hat, even if the sound would make him ache. Eduardo's eyes narrow. "Would things have turned out differently if you'd been able to hear my thoughts all along? Would you still have done it?"
For them, there's no need to clarify what it is. It's the black hole that they won't talk about.
"Is that even relevant?"
"I'm making it relevant." He gives a laugh, a dry chuckle that sounds like chalk. "You would have, wouldn't you? Even knowing what I was feeling, you would have gone right ahead."
Mark looks down at his hands. "I had to protect Facebook."
"You crushed me." Voice rising, shaking, Eduardo abruptly stands up from the sofa. He leaves a warm patch where he should be sitting. "I don't think you even care."
They can't get into this again. If they do, Eduardo will walk out and Mark will let him. There's no agreeing over this. Not ever. "I care," he says. "I could have done it better. I appreciate that. But - "
Eduardo responds by kicking over one of the chairs so that it clatters to the ground. If there was a computer around, Mark imagines he would smash it. "I don't know why I let you do this," he says. It's hissed out like a threat, but Mark can't claim to understand it.
"Should I lie?" he asks. "Is that it? I can't tell you that I didn't do the right thing. You were killing it. If I had read you then, maybe I could have done it in a better way. I could have explained it."
"But you would still have stabbed me in the back."
Mark shrugs with one shoulder. He wants to unleash his tongue and tell Wardo that the reasons he was cut out where everything to do with his incompetence and nothing to do with Mark's lack of empathy - but he can hold himself back. He can recognise where there is a line, and they're both already too close.
"Wardo," he sighs, as if the name might be enough to placate him.
He's rewarded with the stamping of feet and the slam of a door as Eduardo retreats into the bedroom. Left alone, Mark supposes they ought to take it as an accomplishment that it took them this long to fight about it. He covers his face with his hand and counts the seconds, wondering when Eduardo will come begging for an apology.
*
He spends the night on the couch.
Eduardo still isn't speaking to him in the morning.
*
He corners him over breakfast, as much as one can corner anybody at a round breakfast table. "Are you going to have to sue me before we speak again?" he asks.
Eduardo leans back in his seat and looks up at him with an unwavering gaze. "You haven't learned anything."
"That's because I already knew everything." He takes a seat at the table before Eduardo can try to tell him not to. Leaning forward, he wishes he knew how to get Eduardo to let it go. "I don't know what you want from me."
"Compassion, Mark. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes, I know - "
"You hurt me. Badly. And no matter what you think was the right thing to do for the website, you should still feel like shit." Eduardo pauses to take a breath, as if he has been running for hours. He clutches the handle of his spoon as if he is considering using it as a weapon. "I want you to feel awful. Like you're breaking up inside."
"I don't do that," Mark says.
Eduardo closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. "I wish you could listen to me."
"No, I'm listening. I get it. You felt bad and you think I should feel just as bad. Karma. I'm not saying that I wasn't a douche. I'm saying I don't regret it, and don't think I should have to."
"You are such an asshole," Eduardo hisses between clenched teeth. The bobble on his hat wobbles in annoyance.
Mark grabs every scrap of courage that he has (along with every inch of humility) and reaches out for Eduardo's hand. Wardo won't let go of the spoon he's clutching, but he doesn't shake Mark away. "I wish you hadn't been hurt," he says. "I could've done things differently, explained it at the time. If I had, maybe we'd be okay. Maybe none of this would have happened."
Wardo's eyes are ridiculously big, and everything is reflected in them. Mark longs to reach out and ease the hat off of his head; deafening or not, he wishes he could hear the reassuring drum of Eduardo's never-ending thoughts.
"Sometimes I think I'm never going to get over it," Eduardo admits. "I think that I'm never going to stop being this angry."
Mark nods. He's heard all of the internal debates that Eduardo has had with himself; he wonders if Eduardo can imagine the extent to which he listens in on him. "Can you try?" he asks. "I want to be with you, but we can't keep fighting over this. It won't work."
Slowly, Eduardo nods. He won't look at Mark, staring down at his breakfast instead, and Mark can see the way that his chest heaves with every breath. "I'm trying," he says. "Really, I'm trying hard to forgive you."
Maybe he's asking too much; maybe stabbing your best friend in the back is supposed to be an ending. "We've got a second chance here. I can read your thoughts. I'm not saying that there's a larger plan at work here, or that this was 'supposed' to happen, or anything like that. I'm saying that whatever happened to me means that we get to have a second shot. If we want. If you want."
Wardo's eyes are wet when he nods his head. His emotions have always been turbulent and close to the surface. Mark doesn't know how he manages to cope with it. "I want," he says. "Of course I do, Mark."
Mark's hand tightens on Wardo's hand. "Good," he says. He nods, as if this is a contract that they've managed to settle. He waits for a moment, until Eduardo bows his head and carries on with his breakfast. It feels like maybe they've made a breakthrough.
For good measure, he reaches out to tug on the end of one of his hat's tassels.
It makes Wardo laugh in surprise. Definitely worth it.
*
Sharing a bed takes a lot of getting used to, with twice the number of limbs to handle and the multiplied heat of two bodies. The smooth warmth of Eduardo's skin makes it worth it, and the heavy pulse of his breathing is its own brand of lullaby. Gradually, they fall into each other.
Half-asleep, he nuzzles his cold nose against the nape of Eduardo's neck. His hand tightens around Eduardo's waist, and Eduardo's hair tickles against his skin with every breath. He smells like shampoo and clean skin.
With a sleepy groan, Mark presses closer against Eduardo's unconscious body, even as his thoughts try to surface, dimly aware that something in this situation isn't right, a puzzle piece that isn't working. He groggily blinks his eyes open and stares at the back of Eduardo's head in the dim half-light of their hotel room.
Eduardo's head.
His hair.
His hatless hairy head.
With a flash of realisation he sat up sharply, hands rising to his head in order to combat the pain from Eduardo's thoughts - but there is nothing. There isn't a sound inside his head but his own panic. Looking down at the bed, he can see where Eduardo's hat has slipped off during the night. Now it lies on the pillow, watching him with amusement as the tin foil inside glints.
Mark sticks his finger in his ear and wiggles. It doesn't help.
"What's going on?" Eduardo mumbles, gradually surfacing. He rolls over onto his back so that he can watch Mark, his eyes still half-closed.
"I can't hear you." He looks down at Eduardo's sprawled form; it's like there's a distance, now. "What are you thinking? Right now, tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm wondering why the hell you're freaking out this early in the morning," Eduardo says. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. I want to help."
Of course he does, he's Wardo, but that doesn't mean he can. "It's gone." That's supposed to be a good thing, he knows that. With Wardo's tin foil trick, it's not even as if he's been using it for at least a week now. "I can't hear you any more."
Wardo's eyebrows rise in surprise, and he reaches out to press his hands against the sides of Mark's head. His fingertips are soft against Mark's temples. Nothing comes through.
"Did you do something?" Wardo asks. His eyes scan frantically over Mark's face as if he's looking for something, a wound or a scar to explain it all. "How can it just stop? It can't do that."
"It did." Mark reaches up to hook his fingers over Wardo's hand. "It started out of nowhere too. It was painful, then."
"You're not in pain now? We should go to a doctor," Wardo says. Mark raises an eyebrow at him in response. "Well. I don't know what we would say, exactly, but this is weird. This whole thing has been weird. Maybe it's good that it's gone like this. We don't have to deal with it any more. I can stop wearing those stupid hats."
"I liked those hats."
"I can shower without wearing a tin-lined swimming cap," Wardo says. He hoists himself forcibly into Mark's lap, limbs flailing and insistent in a way which means that there is nothing that Mark can do other than lie down and let him do what he wants. As it turns out, what he wants to do is take hold of Mark's wrists and pin them down on the mattress. Even knowing that he could break away if he wanted to, Mark stays right where he is. "This is a good thing. Trust me."
"I never said I didn't trust you. When did I say that?"
Mark could go on, protesting his innocence, but Wardo leans down and shuts him up with the press of his full lips. Nothing passes between them, not a single thought, but Mark can still feel the physical press of Wardo's body and the reassuring clasp of his hands. Mark tilts his head back, eases his mouth open, and allows his hands to smooth over Wardo's skin.
Panic still flutters in his chest. He doesn't know what he's doing any more; he hardly remembers how to be around Wardo, how to handle him without the instruction manual of his thoughts.
Yet Wardo's lips are very expressive. No mind-reading required there.
He doesn't go back to work for days.
Without being able to hear them, he needs to learn to read Wardo's thoughts all over again.
.end
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark
Word Count: 5595
Rating: NC-17
Previous Parts: Part One
Summary: Mark wakes up with the ability to hear Eduardo's thoughts. It would have been a lot more helpful when they were still talking to each other.
It's nine o'clock by the time Eduardo's thoughts start to drift out of his dream, groggily waking up and working out what's going on. That doesn't help matters. Mark is sitting in a cafe, his legs tired from walking so far, and it's still too loud here. He can barely hear the waiter when he places his order.
He can feel Eduardo's worry and impatience growing, and he knows he has to make a move soon. The thought of going back to the hotel room makes his coffee taste bitter; his head pounds at the memory of how bad it had felt to be that close to him. He won't be able to function. How would he hold a conversation with Eduardo anyway, if he can't hear what is being said over the buzzing of his thoughts?
Yet he can't leave. Eduardo's thoughts are worried enough about waking up alone; if he goes straight to the airport to run as far away as he can get, that's the metaphorical equivalent of kicking any potential thing they could have here right in the balls. It's a miracle that he ever persuaded Eduardo to bring him up to his hotel room last night. He's not going to get a second chance (third chance or fourth chance or whatever they're on right now) if he screws it up.
So he can't leave town, despite the boom of the thoughts in his head. And he can't go back, or he thinks the boom might become literal.
He pulls out his phone and taps at the keys, sending a message to let Eduardo know that he can't come back for a while. What the hell? Eduardo thinks in response. A few moments later, his phone buzzes with a text: What's going on? U ok?
He tells him that being near him gives him a headache. Predictably, his phone starts ringing as soon as he feels Eduardo's swell of righteous anger.
"I give you a headache?" Eduardo snaps without bothering with 'hello'. "What the fuck?"
"Look, I can explain."
"This is low even for you." His voice is like a flame-thrower. "What- I- What is that even supposed to mean? I mean, what is this about? Humiliating me again? Last time wasn't enough? I trusted you."
"Wardo..." Mark rubs at his temples and tries to think clearly. Eduardo's emotions are clouding his own: he doesn't know how Eduardo makes it through the day without tumbling into a heap and crying at least twice. It's too much. "I'm not being an asshole. It's the truth. For the past few days, I've been able to hear your thoughts. All of them. I don't know how it started, but after last night everything has become louder."
There is a long, undefined silence. Mark knows that Eduardo is still there, because he can hear his thoughts and his irritated confusion. "Mark, this isn't-"
"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to tell you the truth."
"You're not-"
"I am." He takes a breath. This could take a while.
Fifteen minutes later, they are still arguing over the phone. Mark had been hoping to avoid resorting to the tricks of stage magicians, but by this point he's frustrated enough that he wishes there was a way to punch Eduardo through the phone. "Alright," he sighs. "Think of a number, any number." He cuts Eduardo off when he starts to protest. "Just do it."
It comes through loud and clear. "1302," Mark says. "Again." He only pauses for a second. "89. Again. 127,403. Again. -739. Okay?"
"This is ridiculous," Eduardo says.
It's got to be a trick, how the hell is he doing that?
"I told you - I can hear it." He pinches the bridge of his nose. By now, his coffee has gone cold. "Last night, something happened. It got stronger, after we had sex. When I woke up this morning, my head felt like it was splitting open because you were too loud."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll just think quieter, shall I?"
"I'm not saying it's your fault; I'm telling you what happened. I'm half-way across the city now and you're still echoing in my head, louder than before. I can't switch it off."
There's a quiet moment on the end of the line, and Eduardo thinks, I can't believe I'm going along with this, before he says, "Are you trying to say you can't be in the same room as me?"
A week ago, a day ago, that wouldn't have mattered to Eduardo. Maybe that's progress. "I'm going to fix it," he promises. "There's got to be a way to switch it off again."
"It's your brain, not a computer," Eduardo says.
There's an ache in his chest and Mark can't tell which of them it belongs to. "I'll fix it," he repeats.
He doesn't know how to hang up the phone, how to go on from here - so they stay on the line, offering empty sentiments, until Mark doesn't think they've ever been further apart.
*
I could hit you on the head, Eduardo suggests in an email.
Mouth twitching, Mark replies, That probably wouldn't help.
He mentally hears Eduardo's reply before he receives it in his inbox. It works in the cartoons.
I'll buy you a safe. You can drop it on my head.
Just for good measure, he arranges for a standalone safe to be delivered to Eduardo's apartment. When it arrives, the wave of second-hand amusement is so strong that Mark starts giggling alone in his office.
*
When he comes into work the next morning, Dustin is sitting on his desk and Chris is parked in his chair. They are both dangerously close to his computer.
"So," Dustin says.
"So," Chris repeats.
"Is this an intervention?" Mark asks. He dumps his backpack in the corner near the door. "Because that didn't work out too well last time."
"Less of an intervention, more of an interrogation," Dustin says. "You and Eduardo."
Mark's eyes narrow. He wonders if there is anything forbidding him from setting fire to his employees when they get too nosy, even if said employees are his friends.
"Don't give us the evil-eye." Dustin raises his hands in surrender. "You guys have been on the phone a lot. We would be blind if we didn't notice."
"I could arrange that."
"C'mon. What's going on? Did you apologise?"
Mark glares some more. It makes him feel better. "I started to understand his point of view," he says.
Dustin and Chris both snort in laughter.
He glares some more and knows that he's going to get a stress headache from all of this.
"Seriously. What happened?"
Mark shrugs. It's not as if he can tell them the telepath thing; they wouldn't even believe that he had acquired a sense of compassion, never mind anything more than that. Eduardo still barely believes it, despite all the tricks and evidence that Mark places before him. It occurs to Mark that he ought to get some friends that actually trust him.
"We talked," he says. "There's not much more to it than that."
They look at each other and wait for a moment - and Mark thinks that they will probably call Eduardo for the 'real' story soon. He's not sure if they even kept in touch. They screwed him over as well, after all, accomplices to the crime.
"Don't you have work to do?"
They filter away, giving him a punch on the shoulder as they do (and why do people do that? Mark's never going to get it). He sits down behind his desk once they're gone, stares at his email inbox, and wonders if he ought to warn Eduardo that things might be about to go public.
*
It's roughly midnight when he starts being hit with increasingly graphic images in the Eduardo-owned part of his brain. His fingers freeze on the keyboard halfway through a word.
Eduardo is in his brain. That much has actually become normal to him.
Eduardo is thinking about fingering himself. Less normal.
Eduardo is fingering himself and thinking about Mark. Definitely not normal.
Mark is on the phone after only hesitating for a couple of seconds.
Eduardo's voice, when he answers, is out of breath but sunny as hell. "I was wondering if you were listening," he says.
"I'm always listening." Mark hears the sound of Eduardo's breathing, heavy and clouded, and remembers the noises he had made during their night together, every moan and whimper. "Are you doing it now?"
Eduardo chuckles. Mark shuffles where he's sitting; his erection is uncomfortable by this point. "Yeah. Yes. I'm - I'm doing it."
"Shit." Mark closes his eyes. "I should be there."
"Brain explosions," Eduardo reminds him - and then he moans, and it really is the filthiest thing that Mark has ever heard. "Do it. Touch yourself."
Mark's mouth feels dry. He glances at the door to his office. There's no one else here at this time of night. The office is wide and white and empty.
He reaches down and undoes the button of his jeans with one hand, his phone pressed so tightly to his ear that it hurts. He ought to put it on speaker, but he needs to feel the contact. It might be nothing more than a slim piece of technology, but right now it's all he has.
"Are you doing it?" Eduardo asks. "Talk to me."
"Yeah," he says. He isn't sure what he's supposed to say; dirty talk and phone sex don't come naturally when you're socially stunted. "I have my hand in my pants."
Eduardo hums, and Mark can feel him imagining it. "You're at your office?"
"I had to stay late. Where are you?"
"Some hotel room. I'm in bed, on my front, and I've got my fingers inside myself. I'm thinking about you."
"I know what you're thinking. I can hear it."
"Just go with me on this," Eduardo suggests. Mark closes his mouth. "I'm thinking about what we could be doing if you were here."
"What, no you're not. You're thinking about how to turn me on."
"Mark."
"It's not a criticism. It's working."
"God, I wish you were here. So I could throttle you."
"That's less of a turn-on."
"Who knows - you might be into it." Eduardo starts chuckling, low, intimate and right in Mark's ear. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he can feel the warmth of Eduardo's breath. "It's hard to fuck myself when you keep making me go off-track."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're interrupting."
"Participating."
"You take over then."
"I don't know what to say," Mark admits. "I'm awkward about all of this, because I wish I was there instead of talking about what I would be doing if I was there. What's the point in thinking about fucking you when I can't?"
Eduardo makes a sound, high-pitched and strangled, and even though he feels Wardo's embarrassment right after it's just about the hottest thing he's ever heard. Eduardo says his name, whispering it, and Mark squeezes himself in his jeans.
"I want to be there," he says. "I wish I could get on a plane and head right over there and just-" He strokes himself and looks up at the ceiling as he thinks about it. The ceiling is white and bland - looking up, he could be in any room in the world. He could be right there with Wardo. "Do you think we'll even make it to a bed? When we finally get to see each other again, I mean."
"No," Eduardo pants. "On the floor, near the door."
"We'll get carpet burn."
"I'll put up with it," Eduardo says, laughing again before he breaks off into a moan. "God, we're not going to be able to walk for days."
"Bruises everywhere," Mark agrees. The image of Eduardo's warm skin bruised and marked because of him makes him grip his cock too tightly; it's almost painful. "They'll think we've gone missing. Everyone. Because I won't let you leave - not for a while. A week, maybe. Me and you and a hotel room and a lot of sex."
He hears Eduardo's breath shiver and he strokes himself as he talks. His heart is racing, and even if he's worried about what he's supposed to say he has the pulse of Wardo's thoughts there to guide him. By this point they've devolved into a general soundtrack of encouragement and praise; yes and fuck and oh god oh god oh shit.
"I like thinking about your mouth," he says, because he wants to keep talking when it makes Wardo fall apart like this. "I do that a lot, actually. I'm sure I could sue you for loss of productivity or something. It's distracting. Just - I think about fucking it. About whether or not you'd let me do that, just push you to your knees and make you take it."
Wardo's long moan suggests that he isn't entirely opposed to the idea, not one bit.
"I don't think I could be gentle. I mean, I'd start off that way. I would try. But once we started, once I know how it felt… Do you think you'd be able to take it? If I just let go and started fucking your throat, would that work? Do you think you'd choke on it?" Eduardo answers with a high-pitched whine. It doesn't sound anything like any word that Mark can imagine, but he can visualise Eduardo lying there on his front, his fingers up his ass while he jerks frantically on his cock. It makes his eyes shudder closed again and his hips thrust up into his hand. The distance is killing him.
"Anything," Eduardo moans. The sound of his voice is like lightning. "Mark, I'll do anything you want."
Mark has time to grunt with embarrassing abandon before he comes over himself, sticky jizz splashing over his sweatshirt.
"Mark?" Eduardo asks. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah." He has to take a moment before he can answer. "I just finished."
Eduardo makes a sound that must be a goddamn whimper, and it makes Mark think that he could come all over again. Eduardo says his name like it's an expletive, and then says, "Keep talking. I'm close now."
And it's still hard to know what to say, but he can use Eduardo's thoughts as a guide to see what works and what doesn't. To be honest, at this point pretty much anything works. He says Wardo's name a couple of times in a row, and each time it seems to push him even closer, until Mark can feel him wavering right on the edge.
Come for me, he wants to say, but maybe that's too dodgy-porno. Instead he opts for merely saying Wardo's name again, and apparently that's enough because this moan is way louder than the one before it, and Mark's spent cock twitches as he feels Eduardo orgasm in another city altogether.
Breathing down the phone, he wonders if this is all they're going to have now. Phone calls and dirty promises of when when when. For years following the lawsuit he had survived just fine without being in the same room as Eduardo, without even being in the same city. It shouldn't be this hard.
"Talk to you tomorrow," he promises when they sign off.
Sticky and still frustrated, it isn't enough.
*
One week later, in the middle of the afternoon, the burble of thoughts in his head stops. Dead.
He's in the middle of a meeting at another company (he's always in the middle of meetings these days; life has never been this boring) when his spine goes straight and his eyes goes wide and he listens, listens, listens: there's nothing.
He doesn't move, like a rabbit in the centre of a clearing, even as he hears other people at the table checking if he's alright. His mind pulses with silence.
Something isn't right.
Standing up, he allows protests to fall on deaf ears as he leaves the room, out into the hallway and over to the secretary's desk. He picks up her phone without asking and dials a number he knows off by heart, even if he has no real reason to. How many times in the past few years has he failed to dial it?
It rings three times before Eduardo answers, rolling off his name with barely disguised amusement.
"You've stopped thinking," Mark says. He blinks like a lizard and enjoys the sound of Eduardo's breathing. "It went silent. What happened?"
Eduardo laughs, a light chuckle that flows through the phone lines. "I put tin-foil on my head," he explains.
Mark closes his mouth. Opens it again. Closes it.
"What?"
"Tin foil. You know, like in the movies? To stop the aliens from reading my thoughts?"
"I'm not an alien."
"But it did stop you." Eduardo laughs again. "Seriously? You really can't hear anything."
Mark frowns. "I thought you were dead."
"Alive and kicking. I look like an idiot right now, but... I can't believe that actually worked." By this point, Mark thinks that Eduardo's laughter is bordering on obnoxious. It's not his fault that his unasked for powers have ridiculous rules.
"Can you get over here?" he asks. "I'm in meetings all day, important ones, but are you free? Get on a plane. I want to see you."
"I'm not busy," Eduardo says. "I'll get the next flight out."
"I'll meet you at the airport," Mark promises. His mind is spinning, thoughts unable to fix on anything other than the promise of Eduardo's presence. At her desk, the secretary is staring at him with polite curiosity from behind her glasses. He does her best to ignore her.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"'cause I seem to remember having some issues last time you promised that."
Mark breathes through his nose and closes his eyes, but it's not enough to block out memories of Eduardo, soaking wet and angry. Memories are difficult things these days, spiky and black. "I promise," he says, "okay? Drop it."
"Mark-"
"I'll be there. Let me know the time and I'll be there. Don't pick a fight."
Even if they hang up in frustration, Mark's blood still fizzes with excitement. They're being foolish. There's no way of knowing how this is going to work or if Mark is going to be deafened and driven mad as soon as Eduardo comes too close. This is goddamn tin foil, and he shouldn't be placing the sanctity of his mind in something so fragile.
Yet it's Eduardo. Wardo. How is he supposed to resist?
The day passes too slowly, and he checks his watch at every opportunity. It's a miracle that he manages to pay attention to the details of the meetings, important as they are, and he can tell that his assistant's patience wears thin. That doesn't mean he cares. He pays her enough to deal with the irritation that apparently comes with looking after him.
He can't be late. Not this time.
Eventually, snail-slow, the clock's hands crawl to the right time and he is released, spilling out of the building and into a car where a driver more experienced than himself can race through the traffic. The airport is too busy, with crowds bunched in front of him out of nothing more than malicious glee. Darting through (and, perhaps, nudging people out of his way with slightly more force than necessary) he makes it to the arrivals bay just in time to see a new stream of people coming in. Too many people. He wants to delete them all.
With a woolly hat and pom-poms adorning his head, Wardo is difficult to miss. He is weighed down with no luggage and when he sees Mark his entire face seems to burst into delighted surprise.
He doesn't run towards him, though. He walks at the same leisurely and elegant pace. Mark thinks that maybe they're missing out on the perfect rom-com moment.
Once they're reunited, it only takes ten minutes before they have locked themselves into the toilets of the VIP lounge, and Mark has his trousers by his ankles and his face pressed against the door as Wardo fucks him fast and hard, pom-poms shaking. There's an awkward waddle in his step by the time he leaves the airport. With his best friend back at his side he doesn't give a damn.
*
He 'loses' his phone and they find a hotel room. Between room service and hundreds of television channels, they don't have to leave the room for days.
Wardo keeps his hat on at all times, and eventually Mark learns not to tease him about it if he wants to keep his head. It looks hand-made and the knit is chunky, blasting in bright red and blue. Flaps hang down by his ears leading to strings embellished with fluff. On the inside, every inch is lined with crunchy tin foil, the only thing standing between Mark and the deafening sound of Eduardo's thoughts.
"I miss it," he admits to Eduardo when they're on the couch together, watching Aliens with sleepy eyes. Eduardo is leaning against his side and Mark's arm is around his shoulders; he didn't even have to attempt an uncool yawn-and-stretch manoeuvre to get it there. "Your thoughts. It's strange not having them in my head."
"I kind of like it," Eduardo answers. "The privacy, I mean."
Mark frowns. "When I can hear what you're thinking, it's easier to deal with you," he says. Eduardo elbows him in the ribs for that. "I'm not saying that to be an asshole."
"What do you mean, 'deal with me'?" Eduardo asks. When he shifts his head, the pom-pom on the top wobbles.
"Being around you. You're difficult." Mark gets the feeling that this is one of those conversations he should never have started. "You're demanding and confusing. When I can read what you're thinking, at least I know what it is you want from me."
"Demanding?" Eduardo sits up straight. Mark's arm falls back to his side, barren. "Please tell me you're joking."
Mark blinks. On the television screen, a man is stabbed through the chest with an alien tail. He thinks that might be symbolic. "Why would that be a joke? It's not funny."
"Exactly. God, Mark." There's something dangerous about the way that Eduardo is looking at him right now. Mark wants to reach out and get rid of that ridiculous hat, even if the sound would make him ache. Eduardo's eyes narrow. "Would things have turned out differently if you'd been able to hear my thoughts all along? Would you still have done it?"
For them, there's no need to clarify what it is. It's the black hole that they won't talk about.
"Is that even relevant?"
"I'm making it relevant." He gives a laugh, a dry chuckle that sounds like chalk. "You would have, wouldn't you? Even knowing what I was feeling, you would have gone right ahead."
Mark looks down at his hands. "I had to protect Facebook."
"You crushed me." Voice rising, shaking, Eduardo abruptly stands up from the sofa. He leaves a warm patch where he should be sitting. "I don't think you even care."
They can't get into this again. If they do, Eduardo will walk out and Mark will let him. There's no agreeing over this. Not ever. "I care," he says. "I could have done it better. I appreciate that. But - "
Eduardo responds by kicking over one of the chairs so that it clatters to the ground. If there was a computer around, Mark imagines he would smash it. "I don't know why I let you do this," he says. It's hissed out like a threat, but Mark can't claim to understand it.
"Should I lie?" he asks. "Is that it? I can't tell you that I didn't do the right thing. You were killing it. If I had read you then, maybe I could have done it in a better way. I could have explained it."
"But you would still have stabbed me in the back."
Mark shrugs with one shoulder. He wants to unleash his tongue and tell Wardo that the reasons he was cut out where everything to do with his incompetence and nothing to do with Mark's lack of empathy - but he can hold himself back. He can recognise where there is a line, and they're both already too close.
"Wardo," he sighs, as if the name might be enough to placate him.
He's rewarded with the stamping of feet and the slam of a door as Eduardo retreats into the bedroom. Left alone, Mark supposes they ought to take it as an accomplishment that it took them this long to fight about it. He covers his face with his hand and counts the seconds, wondering when Eduardo will come begging for an apology.
*
He spends the night on the couch.
Eduardo still isn't speaking to him in the morning.
*
He corners him over breakfast, as much as one can corner anybody at a round breakfast table. "Are you going to have to sue me before we speak again?" he asks.
Eduardo leans back in his seat and looks up at him with an unwavering gaze. "You haven't learned anything."
"That's because I already knew everything." He takes a seat at the table before Eduardo can try to tell him not to. Leaning forward, he wishes he knew how to get Eduardo to let it go. "I don't know what you want from me."
"Compassion, Mark. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes, I know - "
"You hurt me. Badly. And no matter what you think was the right thing to do for the website, you should still feel like shit." Eduardo pauses to take a breath, as if he has been running for hours. He clutches the handle of his spoon as if he is considering using it as a weapon. "I want you to feel awful. Like you're breaking up inside."
"I don't do that," Mark says.
Eduardo closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. "I wish you could listen to me."
"No, I'm listening. I get it. You felt bad and you think I should feel just as bad. Karma. I'm not saying that I wasn't a douche. I'm saying I don't regret it, and don't think I should have to."
"You are such an asshole," Eduardo hisses between clenched teeth. The bobble on his hat wobbles in annoyance.
Mark grabs every scrap of courage that he has (along with every inch of humility) and reaches out for Eduardo's hand. Wardo won't let go of the spoon he's clutching, but he doesn't shake Mark away. "I wish you hadn't been hurt," he says. "I could've done things differently, explained it at the time. If I had, maybe we'd be okay. Maybe none of this would have happened."
Wardo's eyes are ridiculously big, and everything is reflected in them. Mark longs to reach out and ease the hat off of his head; deafening or not, he wishes he could hear the reassuring drum of Eduardo's never-ending thoughts.
"Sometimes I think I'm never going to get over it," Eduardo admits. "I think that I'm never going to stop being this angry."
Mark nods. He's heard all of the internal debates that Eduardo has had with himself; he wonders if Eduardo can imagine the extent to which he listens in on him. "Can you try?" he asks. "I want to be with you, but we can't keep fighting over this. It won't work."
Slowly, Eduardo nods. He won't look at Mark, staring down at his breakfast instead, and Mark can see the way that his chest heaves with every breath. "I'm trying," he says. "Really, I'm trying hard to forgive you."
Maybe he's asking too much; maybe stabbing your best friend in the back is supposed to be an ending. "We've got a second chance here. I can read your thoughts. I'm not saying that there's a larger plan at work here, or that this was 'supposed' to happen, or anything like that. I'm saying that whatever happened to me means that we get to have a second shot. If we want. If you want."
Wardo's eyes are wet when he nods his head. His emotions have always been turbulent and close to the surface. Mark doesn't know how he manages to cope with it. "I want," he says. "Of course I do, Mark."
Mark's hand tightens on Wardo's hand. "Good," he says. He nods, as if this is a contract that they've managed to settle. He waits for a moment, until Eduardo bows his head and carries on with his breakfast. It feels like maybe they've made a breakthrough.
For good measure, he reaches out to tug on the end of one of his hat's tassels.
It makes Wardo laugh in surprise. Definitely worth it.
*
Sharing a bed takes a lot of getting used to, with twice the number of limbs to handle and the multiplied heat of two bodies. The smooth warmth of Eduardo's skin makes it worth it, and the heavy pulse of his breathing is its own brand of lullaby. Gradually, they fall into each other.
Half-asleep, he nuzzles his cold nose against the nape of Eduardo's neck. His hand tightens around Eduardo's waist, and Eduardo's hair tickles against his skin with every breath. He smells like shampoo and clean skin.
With a sleepy groan, Mark presses closer against Eduardo's unconscious body, even as his thoughts try to surface, dimly aware that something in this situation isn't right, a puzzle piece that isn't working. He groggily blinks his eyes open and stares at the back of Eduardo's head in the dim half-light of their hotel room.
Eduardo's head.
His hair.
His hatless hairy head.
With a flash of realisation he sat up sharply, hands rising to his head in order to combat the pain from Eduardo's thoughts - but there is nothing. There isn't a sound inside his head but his own panic. Looking down at the bed, he can see where Eduardo's hat has slipped off during the night. Now it lies on the pillow, watching him with amusement as the tin foil inside glints.
Mark sticks his finger in his ear and wiggles. It doesn't help.
"What's going on?" Eduardo mumbles, gradually surfacing. He rolls over onto his back so that he can watch Mark, his eyes still half-closed.
"I can't hear you." He looks down at Eduardo's sprawled form; it's like there's a distance, now. "What are you thinking? Right now, tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm wondering why the hell you're freaking out this early in the morning," Eduardo says. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. I want to help."
Of course he does, he's Wardo, but that doesn't mean he can. "It's gone." That's supposed to be a good thing, he knows that. With Wardo's tin foil trick, it's not even as if he's been using it for at least a week now. "I can't hear you any more."
Wardo's eyebrows rise in surprise, and he reaches out to press his hands against the sides of Mark's head. His fingertips are soft against Mark's temples. Nothing comes through.
"Did you do something?" Wardo asks. His eyes scan frantically over Mark's face as if he's looking for something, a wound or a scar to explain it all. "How can it just stop? It can't do that."
"It did." Mark reaches up to hook his fingers over Wardo's hand. "It started out of nowhere too. It was painful, then."
"You're not in pain now? We should go to a doctor," Wardo says. Mark raises an eyebrow at him in response. "Well. I don't know what we would say, exactly, but this is weird. This whole thing has been weird. Maybe it's good that it's gone like this. We don't have to deal with it any more. I can stop wearing those stupid hats."
"I liked those hats."
"I can shower without wearing a tin-lined swimming cap," Wardo says. He hoists himself forcibly into Mark's lap, limbs flailing and insistent in a way which means that there is nothing that Mark can do other than lie down and let him do what he wants. As it turns out, what he wants to do is take hold of Mark's wrists and pin them down on the mattress. Even knowing that he could break away if he wanted to, Mark stays right where he is. "This is a good thing. Trust me."
"I never said I didn't trust you. When did I say that?"
Mark could go on, protesting his innocence, but Wardo leans down and shuts him up with the press of his full lips. Nothing passes between them, not a single thought, but Mark can still feel the physical press of Wardo's body and the reassuring clasp of his hands. Mark tilts his head back, eases his mouth open, and allows his hands to smooth over Wardo's skin.
Panic still flutters in his chest. He doesn't know what he's doing any more; he hardly remembers how to be around Wardo, how to handle him without the instruction manual of his thoughts.
Yet Wardo's lips are very expressive. No mind-reading required there.
He doesn't go back to work for days.
Without being able to hear them, he needs to learn to read Wardo's thoughts all over again.
.end