Coffee
title: Coffee
pairing: Mark/Eduardo
rating: PG-13
summary: Those little things are the only things to be counted for. And Mark still can't sleep.
disclaimer: Don't own nothing here.
word count: 704
You used to hate the caffeinated beverage in your Harvard days, especially the distinct aroma that hover in the morning dorm halls. Maybe what you really hated was its popularity in the student body, but you never bothered to figure that out.
Back then, your all-nighters were never alone. When you took off your headphones for a midnight snack, you would see other illuminated screens with never-ending lines of code on your way to the fridge. You stood in the middle of the room, munching on your apple while observing the lights in the fish tank. When the fish finished swimming a full circle, you would go back to the laptop.
Afterwards, you worked non-stop until it was precisely 5:30 AM, when your cell phone rang, and caller ID displayed Eduardo. A five-second call and five minutes later, your dark-haired friend showed up with fresh eye bags and shaky hands. You noticed Eduardo’s eyes were still attentive and likable when he said “hi”, even when they were bloodshot and sleep-deprived, and you envied that. Then you two would talk until Eduardo had to go get another dose of caffeine at the coffee house downstairs.
It had been a mutual understanding that Eduardo would never drink one sip of coffee when you were around. He respected that rule till the last day that he could claim to be your friend. But you could always detect the slightest trace of its scent, even when you were wired in and madly programming, even when the smell was well-masked by Eduardo’s cologne.
You had never told Eduardo about this little thing. You kept it hidden, like a jot note written on the back of a sticky note, carefully slipped in a file called “Eduardo Saverin”.
Through the hundreds of times that Eduardo had come to Kirkland House, you had collected information, bit by bit. The footfalls on the floorboard, the tell-tale scent, the warm greetings. By the end of freshman year you could tell Eduardo was coming by the second he set foot on the first flight of stairs. Nobody knew of this, either. Not that it mattered anymore, now.
Then there were the days of the lawsuit, the mindless doodles on the notepad - a masterful disguise of the mind. You had told the Winklevi that the majority of your attention was back at the Facebook headquarters, and that was true, except when Eduardo was in the room. A part of your brain would still be taking in information, sucking in every detail. Like the way Eduardo turned away from the table, the way he averted his eyes, the way he crossed his fingers and bit his lips. Then these little things would be carefully filed under “Eduardo Saverin”, just like the old days, but never quite the same.
There was nothing like sitting across from him at a long glossy table to make your liability known. There was no need to apologize, you thought. It was simply a choice of self-interest from the start, but somehow you had become a witness against yourself.
You still believed you could tell, with everything that you had known by heart. About Eduardo, his scent, his gait, and hundreds of the other trivialities that you refused to admit you cared about. The useless notes stashed in an old file, things that would perhaps never be of use again since Eduardo would never come back. Things that you refused to toss out, like the T-shirt he got you for your nineteenth birthday. What you once were but not anymore. You sealed their remains in a plastic bag and kept them like a specimen, along with some other untold feeling, however futile it was.
You’d refused to acknowledge their significance, so they’d become insignificant. All you had was the file you created, your arbitrary observations, the silly details, the vivid memories that you were glad you recorded, but kind of wished you did not. Would they have changed anything, then? Maybe they wouldn’t, but you’d always rather not say.
So you shut your eyes, and tell yourself to be quiet now. The digital clock says it is 5:30 in the morning again, and really, all you have is three hours of sleep left.
_end
note: just some scrambles that I came across in the past two days. this is unbeta'd and I haven't written any fics in months, hopefully there are't too many mistakes.
pairing: Mark/Eduardo
rating: PG-13
summary: Those little things are the only things to be counted for. And Mark still can't sleep.
disclaimer: Don't own nothing here.
word count: 704
You used to hate the caffeinated beverage in your Harvard days, especially the distinct aroma that hover in the morning dorm halls. Maybe what you really hated was its popularity in the student body, but you never bothered to figure that out.
Back then, your all-nighters were never alone. When you took off your headphones for a midnight snack, you would see other illuminated screens with never-ending lines of code on your way to the fridge. You stood in the middle of the room, munching on your apple while observing the lights in the fish tank. When the fish finished swimming a full circle, you would go back to the laptop.
Afterwards, you worked non-stop until it was precisely 5:30 AM, when your cell phone rang, and caller ID displayed Eduardo. A five-second call and five minutes later, your dark-haired friend showed up with fresh eye bags and shaky hands. You noticed Eduardo’s eyes were still attentive and likable when he said “hi”, even when they were bloodshot and sleep-deprived, and you envied that. Then you two would talk until Eduardo had to go get another dose of caffeine at the coffee house downstairs.
It had been a mutual understanding that Eduardo would never drink one sip of coffee when you were around. He respected that rule till the last day that he could claim to be your friend. But you could always detect the slightest trace of its scent, even when you were wired in and madly programming, even when the smell was well-masked by Eduardo’s cologne.
You had never told Eduardo about this little thing. You kept it hidden, like a jot note written on the back of a sticky note, carefully slipped in a file called “Eduardo Saverin”.
Through the hundreds of times that Eduardo had come to Kirkland House, you had collected information, bit by bit. The footfalls on the floorboard, the tell-tale scent, the warm greetings. By the end of freshman year you could tell Eduardo was coming by the second he set foot on the first flight of stairs. Nobody knew of this, either. Not that it mattered anymore, now.
Then there were the days of the lawsuit, the mindless doodles on the notepad - a masterful disguise of the mind. You had told the Winklevi that the majority of your attention was back at the Facebook headquarters, and that was true, except when Eduardo was in the room. A part of your brain would still be taking in information, sucking in every detail. Like the way Eduardo turned away from the table, the way he averted his eyes, the way he crossed his fingers and bit his lips. Then these little things would be carefully filed under “Eduardo Saverin”, just like the old days, but never quite the same.
There was nothing like sitting across from him at a long glossy table to make your liability known. There was no need to apologize, you thought. It was simply a choice of self-interest from the start, but somehow you had become a witness against yourself.
You still believed you could tell, with everything that you had known by heart. About Eduardo, his scent, his gait, and hundreds of the other trivialities that you refused to admit you cared about. The useless notes stashed in an old file, things that would perhaps never be of use again since Eduardo would never come back. Things that you refused to toss out, like the T-shirt he got you for your nineteenth birthday. What you once were but not anymore. You sealed their remains in a plastic bag and kept them like a specimen, along with some other untold feeling, however futile it was.
You’d refused to acknowledge their significance, so they’d become insignificant. All you had was the file you created, your arbitrary observations, the silly details, the vivid memories that you were glad you recorded, but kind of wished you did not. Would they have changed anything, then? Maybe they wouldn’t, but you’d always rather not say.
So you shut your eyes, and tell yourself to be quiet now. The digital clock says it is 5:30 in the morning again, and really, all you have is three hours of sleep left.
_end
note: just some scrambles that I came across in the past two days. this is unbeta'd and I haven't written any fics in months, hopefully there are't too many mistakes.