[oneshot] time to start giving back
Title: time to start giving back
Pairing: mark zuckerberg/eduardo saverin
Rating: pg13 for language
Genre: mild romance, angst, slice-of-life
Warnings: swearing
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: quick and dirty fill for marycontraire, who wanted fic about the north face fleece jacket! 704 words.
He still has the jacket.
It's disgustingly sentimental, and he would never admit it to anyone (which is why it's buried underneath piles of old Harvard hoodies in a suitcase shoved deep inside his closet), but the jacket's still there. And maybe it's because Eduardo had always been at Kirkland while he was coding and eating tuna straight out of the can, because years later, that suitcase still smells faintly of the cologne he'd started wearing in sophomore year after his father had said something about it the summer before.
Mark doesn't want to still remember these things-he'd love nothing more than to completely forget about the jacket and Wardo's dad and the old, familiar Kirkland walls, the navy blue duvet that wrinkled every time Eduardo sank down onto it to watch him code, what Wardo's old cologne smells like. He doesn't want to think about Palo Alto and the pale planes of Wardo's back when he peels the wet fleece and his white shirt off like they're second skins; he doesn't want to remember feeling like a voyeur even though Wardo had to have known that Mark was still in the room. He's composed himself enough by the time Eduardo's gotten fresh clothes on his back that he doesn't bat an eyelash when a dripping bundle's dumped in his arms, when he hears a choked excuse about how he can't bring soggy shit onto the plane with him.
And later, it's not like it's the first time Mark's worn Eduardo's clothes-he's taken his crumpled dress shirts before when all his clothes were in the wash (or if he was too busy with work and Facebook to haul his laundry basket down to the basement). So it's only natural that, when the washer breaks down and the last jacket in the closet is Wardo's, the one he hasn't come back to retrieve, yet, Mark shrugs it on. It smells like him-cologne, yes, but also something specifically and inherently Eduardo, like blended coffee, maybe, mixed in with a tinge of orange, like the ones his mom would always ship up to Boston during the picking season. The best part about it is that no one notices-he can wear Wardo's jacket and think about him and thumb the fleece lining, and no one would care, no one would judge him for it, not even Sean.
There was never really any give and take in their relationship-unless, Mark thinks, you counted the fact that Mark always took and Eduardo had always given. He files all his errant feelings about Wardo away in the back of his brain after he signs those contracts because he's too selfish to show how emotionally invested he is in anything except his work. And he guesses that was why they fell apart-because he'd never been willing to give an inch, ever: uncompromising, unyielding Mark who just took, and took, and took until Eduardo'd smashed his Macbook Pro into the side of his desk and every illusion he'd built up for himself to justify his actions shattered with that cracking screen.
Before he turns to leave, Wardo's eyes flick down to his chest, see the familiar logo there, the zipper that never did go up all the way because Dustin had drunkenly fucked it up that one time. His eyes kind of soften for this one, hopeful moment and Mark almost tries to reach out and grab his hand, but he wills himself to stop at the last second because Sean is there, everyone is there, and he can't be weak about this. And then you better lawyer up, asshole, and Wardo's eyes are shuttering off all emotion towards him-and he's leaving, the only real friend Mark ever had going, going-gone.
But he still has the jacket. Years later, he still has it.
Mark pulls his email up on a browser, deletes the sterile, half-written apology emails in his inbox and starts a new draft. All it says is a bland, trivial Hey, did you ever want that North Face jacket back? I can have it sent to you., but he thinks-if he still knows Wardo like the back of his hand-he thinks Wardo might know what he means.
fin
Pairing: mark zuckerberg/eduardo saverin
Rating: pg13 for language
Genre: mild romance, angst, slice-of-life
Warnings: swearing
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: quick and dirty fill for marycontraire, who wanted fic about the north face fleece jacket! 704 words.
He still has the jacket.
It's disgustingly sentimental, and he would never admit it to anyone (which is why it's buried underneath piles of old Harvard hoodies in a suitcase shoved deep inside his closet), but the jacket's still there. And maybe it's because Eduardo had always been at Kirkland while he was coding and eating tuna straight out of the can, because years later, that suitcase still smells faintly of the cologne he'd started wearing in sophomore year after his father had said something about it the summer before.
Mark doesn't want to still remember these things-he'd love nothing more than to completely forget about the jacket and Wardo's dad and the old, familiar Kirkland walls, the navy blue duvet that wrinkled every time Eduardo sank down onto it to watch him code, what Wardo's old cologne smells like. He doesn't want to think about Palo Alto and the pale planes of Wardo's back when he peels the wet fleece and his white shirt off like they're second skins; he doesn't want to remember feeling like a voyeur even though Wardo had to have known that Mark was still in the room. He's composed himself enough by the time Eduardo's gotten fresh clothes on his back that he doesn't bat an eyelash when a dripping bundle's dumped in his arms, when he hears a choked excuse about how he can't bring soggy shit onto the plane with him.
And later, it's not like it's the first time Mark's worn Eduardo's clothes-he's taken his crumpled dress shirts before when all his clothes were in the wash (or if he was too busy with work and Facebook to haul his laundry basket down to the basement). So it's only natural that, when the washer breaks down and the last jacket in the closet is Wardo's, the one he hasn't come back to retrieve, yet, Mark shrugs it on. It smells like him-cologne, yes, but also something specifically and inherently Eduardo, like blended coffee, maybe, mixed in with a tinge of orange, like the ones his mom would always ship up to Boston during the picking season. The best part about it is that no one notices-he can wear Wardo's jacket and think about him and thumb the fleece lining, and no one would care, no one would judge him for it, not even Sean.
There was never really any give and take in their relationship-unless, Mark thinks, you counted the fact that Mark always took and Eduardo had always given. He files all his errant feelings about Wardo away in the back of his brain after he signs those contracts because he's too selfish to show how emotionally invested he is in anything except his work. And he guesses that was why they fell apart-because he'd never been willing to give an inch, ever: uncompromising, unyielding Mark who just took, and took, and took until Eduardo'd smashed his Macbook Pro into the side of his desk and every illusion he'd built up for himself to justify his actions shattered with that cracking screen.
Before he turns to leave, Wardo's eyes flick down to his chest, see the familiar logo there, the zipper that never did go up all the way because Dustin had drunkenly fucked it up that one time. His eyes kind of soften for this one, hopeful moment and Mark almost tries to reach out and grab his hand, but he wills himself to stop at the last second because Sean is there, everyone is there, and he can't be weak about this. And then you better lawyer up, asshole, and Wardo's eyes are shuttering off all emotion towards him-and he's leaving, the only real friend Mark ever had going, going-gone.
But he still has the jacket. Years later, he still has it.
Mark pulls his email up on a browser, deletes the sterile, half-written apology emails in his inbox and starts a new draft. All it says is a bland, trivial Hey, did you ever want that North Face jacket back? I can have it sent to you., but he thinks-if he still knows Wardo like the back of his hand-he thinks Wardo might know what he means.
fin