still another day, part 3/4 (mark/eduardo)
from here.
*
He goes back to hers, soon.
It’s less than a week - and his hotel bill is going to be phenomenal but he doesn’t care, when he gets to see her.
She smiles at him when she opens the door. Her hair is down and she’s not wearing make-up and he thinks she’s beautiful.
She’s smiling and so he returns it, pulls her into a hug he can’t help, eyes shutting.
He sits down on her couch and looks around, as she talks.
“I’ve got to finish something, Dustin just texted me, but - you know - you can look around, or something, if you want. Shouldn’t take long.”
He smiles at her, and walks into her kitchen -
And there, next to the microwave, is a box of Cheerios.
He’s never seen her eat any sort of cereal, never any kind of breakfast except for a bagel, once, and he feels a lump in his throat.
He walks back into the living room, holding up the box.
She quirks a smile at him. “They were on sale.” He knows what that means, though, and she knows it.
His mouth opens and shuts and he just smiles helplessly at her.
She puts the laptop aside. “Let’s have some, then.” She grins at him.
He pours two bowls and brings her one and they eat cereal at three in the afternoon on a Sunday and he thinks idly that he’s never been happier than when he’s with her.
She looks up and catches his eye and just looks, chewing thoughtfully.
“I - thank you,” he tells her, looking down, and he sets them aside. “It -”
“I know,” she says, simply, and that’s the beautiful thing about her. She always knows.
He closes his eyes. “I just - you’re incredible.”
“Hey.” She puts a hand on top of his, rubbing over his knuckles lightly. “You don’t need to thank me. You don’t need to give up the childhood you never had, either, though. You can do all of the things you want to do.”
It’s the closest he’s ever heard her get to inspirational, and so he nods, thinks about it.
He knows what she means - she wants him to tell off his father, to do something for himself instead of for everyone else.
And she’s right, is the beautiful thing - she’s absolutely fucking right, he needs to do more of the things he’s too afraid to do.
He smiles, and feels lighter than he has in a while.
*
He goes into the Facebook offices to pick her up for lunch, the next day.
He’s in flip-flops, for the first time in - well, ever, so far as he can remember.
Dustin asks him if there’s anything wrong, but Mark takes one look at him and smirks. “Look at those fuck-you flip flops.” It’s said in something like a joking tone, and he laughs, tosses his head back.
She smiles like he’s done something more than just laugh at the joke she’s made, and she reaches out, grabs his hand.
The thing is - she gets it, gets that it’s a big deal for him to wear them, but also that he doesn’t want it to be acknowledged, at least not publicly.
“Baby steps,” she whispers to him, and kisses his knuckles.
It’s entirely friendly, except that it isn’t.
He doesn’t know what to do, but he feels lighter than he has in a long time. He’s holding Marci-Lynn Zuckerberg’s hand and they’re going to go to lunch together.
He’s happy, and he looks at her, smiles.
He’s happy, and he’s going to hold onto it for as long as he can.
*
He goes to her house that night.
They sit on her couch and he’s eating another bowl of Cheerios while she types at her computer. It’s pathetically domestic, and he doesn’t want it to end.
Finally, she smiles, and turns to look at him, eyes flicking to his slightly rumpled shirt. “You look - good, like that,” she says, turning a light pink.
He finishes chewing, looks down, and it’s a combination of the Cheerios and the clothes and Mark, as she always is, comforting in a way he didn’t think she could be again, that makes him set down the bowl, lace his fingers together. “What about you?”
She frowns at him, before smirking. “I always look good, Wardo.”
“What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” he asks, looking at her, swallowing, thick. He needs to know, needs her to say - something, to answer him liked he answered her.
(He’ll be able to tell if she lies - and if she does, that’s it. He’s gone, because he’s not getting fucked around again.)
She stares at him for the longest moment, and then - “Fuck it,” she whispers, and leans forward, kissing him, soft.
He reacts on instinct, arms reaching up to wrap around her, fingers tangling in her hair. He bites at her lower lip, soft, and she pulls away, resting her forehead against his.
He wants to apologize - for what, he doesn’t know, but he can feel her heart beating too quickly against his own - and he feels like he’s taken advantage of her, almost.
She pulls away quickly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Satisfactory?” she asks, and her voice is something like weak, breathy.
He feels something hot go up his spine, and he nods. “You - you shouldn’t be scared of doing that,” he tells her, and he knows that this might mean different things to the both of them but he’s got to try, hasn’t he?
Her face lightens, almost imperceptibly, and she’s reaching for him again, pulling him close by his shirt. She stops with her forehead pressed against his again, breathing, sharp through her nose. “I - is this - what you want?” she asks, sounding broken.
He nods, and whispers, “Please.”
He hears her let out a soft whimper that he’s positive she’ll deny later and he’ll never forget, and then she’s kissing him, again, harsh this time, and he can barely think. She bites at his lip, this time, maneuvering herself so she’s straddling him, kiss turning softer, now, more delicate. “Wardo,” he hears her sigh, and she pulls away to look at him, eyes half-shut. “I - fuck,” she whispers, and sits up on him, running a hand through her hair. She’s trembling, he can feel it, and he reaches out a hand, running it down her arm, grabbing her wrist.
“Hey,” he says, smiling at her, soft, and his heart is racing but she’s more important, right now.
(She’s always more important, he thinks before he can stop it.)
She lets out another soft noise and presses her face into his shoulder, breathing quickly. “I’m okay,” she whispers, and it doesn’t sound convincing.
“You sure?” he asks, rubbing her back, now. She’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her, and he wants to protect her, more than anything else.
(He’s always wanted to protect her.)
She lets out a whimper, bites at her lip, and pulls away. “Shit, I’m - I’m sorry.”
He frowns at her, stopping himself from “You’re sorry for that but not for -”. “Why?” because he can’t say anything else.
She licks her lips and stares at him. “I - that’s not how that was supposed to go.”
He snorts. “We can try again, if you want.”
She laughs, and he feels some of the tension evaporate between them.
“How was that supposed to go, then?” he asks, more serious now.
She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t - supposed to - to fucking need to calm myself down or whatever the fuck.” Her words sound almost traitorous.
He feels a rush of affection go through him at this. “Calm yourself down?” he asks, ignoring the way it sounded - as though she’d wanted to do that for a while.
She smirks, as though she knows what he’s thinking. “Yes, calm myself down. I -” and she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I just -”
“What does it mean?” he asks, before he can stop himself, and winces.
She looks up at him, deadly serious for once, and there’s no teasing in her eyes, nothing but honesty. “Whatever you want it to mean,” and it’s soft - as though she’s afraid of him to break her heart (but he’s projecting, he has to be - because Mark’s not afraid of anything).
He lets out a soft growl, twisting them so she’s straddling him again. “Don’t say that.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Her voice is less than a whisper, and she’s leaning in again.
“Because -” He’s cut off when she kisses him, grabbing his shirt, pressing her chest against his. “Fuck - Mark, Mark,” he hisses, backing away from her.
She makes a noise of frustration. “Do you not want this?” she asks him, hands resting on his shoulders. “Because - because - I want you,” and he knows how difficult it is for her to say that.
He swallows, harsh, and shakes his head. “Want - want you,” he says, rough.
He hears another soft noise out of her and she’s grabbing his hips, pulling them together, kissing him again - and before she had to have been holding back because now - now this is teeth and tongue and her soft gasps in the darkened room. She shifts, pressing her hips against his, and - “Holy shit, Mark,” he sighs, hand tangling in her hair.
She smiles, a real smile, arms wrapping around his neck, moving lower to nip at his jaw. “In the good way?” she asks, smirking against him.
And then he’s gone, holding her tight against him, and she’s gasping against his neck and he flips them over, hovers over her.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
She smiles. “Get on with it,” and he can’t hold himself back, after that.
She’s wide-eyed beneath him, almost reverent, and she traces her fingers down his jaw, swallowing, thick. He swallows her moans, and when she comes he can’t help but follow.
“Mark,” he whispers, and she sighs, presses close against him.
“Wardo,” and she sounds happy.
Mark falls asleep, half on top of him, and he smiles down at her, kissing the top of her head. He has a startling thought - I’ve never been this happy - and pushes it down, shaking his head. He can’t - won’t - let himself think like that, can’t - not with her. He doesn’t know what this is - if it means anything, is anything .
She shifts toward him, brow creasing, and he smiles.
It’s really fucking uncomfortable, though, and he kisses her shoulder, shaking her. “Come on,” he whispers, “let’s get to bed.”
She shakes her head, wrapping an arm tighter around him. “Mmm - no,” and she sighs.
He swallows, thick, feeling something he’s not ready to name, and pulls at her arm. “Come on.”
With only a bit of grumbling, she follows, leaning against him, yawning. “Wardo,” she sighs, pressing her face against his neck. “Mmm, Wardo, don’t leave, okay? You can’t leave.”
He nods, ignoring the way his chest tightens, so familiar. “I won’t,” and he shifts her into bed, ready to leave - but she grabs at his arm, pulling him down. She curls into him, tangling their legs together on purpose.
He swallows, and he thinks, again - This is the happiest I’ve ever been.
Tomorrow, he’ll be scared, let himself be scared - but for now, he has Mark asleep next to him, and that’s nice.
*
It takes him a while to get used to this having, after so long of just wanting. He wakes up and looks at her, and when she smiles he feels less fear, more acceptance - I can have this. He’s allowed, now, to have her - and he kisses her on the top of the head before breakfast, and the way she leans into him, if only for a moment, comforts him.
*
(“I have to go to Singapore,” he tells her, one day.
She freezes, and her hands are shaking a bit. “When?” She tries to keep her voice neutral.
“I - soon.” He doesn’t explain; she doesn’t need him to. She doesn’t want him to. (God damn it.)
She nods, turns away from him, her body angled away from his. “Better get going, then.” Her voice is emotionless, unaffected.
He almost reaches for her, she sees it out of the corner of her eye, but he retracts at the last second. “Do you not want me to go?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that she doesn’t know how to categorize.
She shrugs. “It’s really up to you whether you go or not.” She hears his voice in her head - a whispered I want you that had sounded like so much more in her mind - and shuts her eyes, shaking her head.
“I - okay,” he says, and swallows audibly. “I just - I have to straighten up some things before I go, you know.”
She shrugs again.
“I’ll be back,” he tells her, and rests a hand on her arm, almost but not quite pulling her toward him.
She turns and all but falls into his arms, stifling a sob - she’s not crying, fuck, she’s just - not ready for him to leave her again. “Goodbye,” she says, and he pulls away to look at her, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not leaving yet.” He smiles, pushes a piece of hair out of her face. “I’ll go on Friday, okay? I just thought you should - you might want to know.”
She nods, trying not to let the relief show on her face. “Will you be back in time for the party?” she asks, looking up at him.
He frowns at her. “Of course.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and he’s not going to leave her yet but she feels a nearly uncontrollable need to hold him, or to be held by him. “I - come to bed?” she asks, and it sounds like a line but it’s not, she just - wants him, needs him. There are near-tears in her eyes, and she knows he’s staring at her. She should probably look up at him, but instead presses her face into his chest, letting out a soft sigh.
She feels him swallow, and then he nods, lacing their fingers together. “Come on,” he whispers, and she feels an overwhelming need for him, to feel him in the most physical of senses.
She all but drags him up the stairs, pressing him down against the sheets. He smiles at her, soft and warm, and she leans down, kissing him, pulling him up, toward her.
“Please,” she whispers, and it’s broken, cracked, a release of everything she feels when she’s around him and everything she’s too scared to ask for.
He flips them, and he’s over her now, hovering above her, looking down at her with nothing but want in his eyes.
She swallows, and starts undoing his shirt, button by button, slow. She tangles their legs together, again, running her foot up the inside of his calf, and leans up, kissing him, pushing his shirt off of his shoulders.
“Want - want you,” she sighs out against his lips, sitting up fully, arms going to his shoulders, fingernails lightly scratching his chest.
He pushes back against her, pulling her shirt up and over her head, and he pushes her back to the bed, kissing her more harsh, now, thick, unsaid words hanging in the air between them.
It’s desperate - Mark’s nails scratch at him and she leaves a dark bruise on his neck that he knows won’t go away for days.
“Fuck - please,” she says, and finally he fucks her, properly, until her eyes are rolling back inside her head and she’s pushing back against him with every movement.
He buries his head in her neck, breathes her in, and needs like he never has before.
*
(After, she pillows her head on his chest, eyes shut. “I don’t want you to leave,” she could say, probably should say, but she’s told him how much he means to her and still, he’s leaving.
(This is why I can’t tell him, she thinks, almost desperate.)
He falls asleep next to her, and she listens to the night as it goes on.
He’s leaving the day after next, she tells herself, and she wants to keep him with her for those two days. Her fingers itch, like they do when she hasn’t been at a computer for a while, but she wants something else, now - she wants to feel him, to memorize him like she never has with another person; she wants to know him like she knows her code.
She shakes her head, and listens to his heart beating under her ear. “Wardo,” she whispers, and then, louder, “Wardo. Wake up.”
He stirs, nodding, and tangles a hand in her hair, almost lazy with the movement. “What do you want?” He sounds tired, comfortable, and that’s how she always wants him to sound around her - like he’s happy, like he belongs with her.
(He does belong with her - but that’s a thought that she shoves to the side.)
“Come to work with me tomorrow,” she whispers, smiling, and kisses his jaw.
He sounds more awake when he answers. “What?”
She shrugs, and sucks a light mark onto his neck. “I just - I want you to - to come in. I don’t want you to be - here, and me to be there. You’re - you’re leaving. You can do things - I have a laptop for you to use, you can talk to Chris and Dustin if they aren’t busy. I - only if you want to, though, of course.”
Wardo smiles, and it’s a real smile, one that stretches the sides of his face. He laughs, kisses her, hard, and she settles against him, hand on his hip, tracing lazy patterns. “Sounds fantastic,” he tells her, and she smiles so hard it hurts.
*
Wardo holds her hand when they walk in, the next day, and he’s wearing a t-shirt - not anything dressy, not close, a t-shirt and jeans. He looks nervous, immensely so, but she knows what this means to him, what it signifies, and she kisses him next to his ear, smirks.
“Remember - you’re Eduardo Saverin, bitch,” she says, and he’s surprised into a laugh, tossing his head back, neck long and - well.
We’re at work, she tells herself, and has to swallow, look away. Later.
And with the promise of later comes - well.
She turns a light pink and Eduardo, tactfully, doesn’t comment on it but holds her hand a bit tighter.)
*
Being at work with Mark isn’t bad.
Eduardo’s surprised by how easy it is - she sets up a pseudo-office for him in hers, and he types along with her, working on various things that he can’t put off any more.
She looks at him, at noon, and says, “Lunch?” and that’s so much of a change from what he knew before that he’s startled into a smile, and a nod.
They eat together, and Mark kicks his shin under the table and smiles at him over a tuna wrap and he thinks that they might have been the perfect couple, once.
(Once upon a time, that’s all that they have - but that isn’t true, is it, because they have now, they do. The problem is that it’s broken, shattered beyond complete repair, and he can feel something shifting - for better or worse, he doesn’t know and is afraid to find out.)
He’s not dressed up and Dustin tells him he looks like A real Facebook employee and Mark turns pink again and Eduardo raises an eyebrow.
And when they get home, Mark jumps him as soon as they get inside, presses him up against a wall, tells him she wants him, needs him, and Eduardo comes so hard he sees stars.
He spends the afterglow with his face pressed against Mark’s neck, and they don’t say anything, just breathe, and it’s the nicest he can remember feeling in a long time (ever, if he’s really honest).
Mark falls asleep with an arm wrapped around him and her legs tangled with his and he’s happy.
He has to leave, but he’ll come back - he couldn’t stay away, not if he tried.
*
And so Eduardo goes to Singapore.
He doesn’t want to leave, holds on to Mark, too tight, before the plane leaves, and the words “I’ll miss you,” the words “I’ll be back soon,” stick in his throat.
Her face is unreadable when they pull away, and she reaches up a hand, tracki9ng the side of his face. “Have a nice time,” she says, and she almost sounds like she’s worried about something.
He swallows. He wants to reassure her, but he can’t - he’s fucking terrified of what she might say, of her caring too little, of letting her have too much power over him.
It’s always been him making the first move, aside from beginning this - this thing that they’ve started, and so he’ll let her move this to the next level, as it were, if she wants to.
(He doubts she will, even if she does feel like he does - but he’ll let her have control of this, of everything.
He’ll leave and when he gets back he’ll stay in his hotel unless (until?) she asks him to her house)
*
Mark, surprisingly, calls him a few days after he gets there. He’s about to leave the office and he picks it up, not paying attention to the caller ID. “Hello?”
“How’s Singapore?” she asks him, and she sounds tired - it’s two in the morning for her. Shit. He feels guilty even though he wasn’t the one to call her.
“Why are - it’s late over there, Mark.”
He hears her sigh, soft. “You’re right. It is.”
“Did you - did you wait until it was a good time for me?” he asks, and his tone is affectionate, amused, but he’s touched.
She’s quiet for a long moment, and he’s about to apologize, to backtrack - but as though it’s too late for her to substitute it for anything else, “Yes.”
He closes his eyes. “I really appreciate it, Mark.”
“Don’t mock me.” Her voice is tight, wary.
He smiles at his phone, stupid with a rush of affection, and gets into his car. “I’m really not.”
He hears a soft intake of breath, and the rustling that can only be her sheets - and, okay, fuck, he shouldn’t get so turned on at the thought of her in her bed - but how can he not, when - when it’s two in the morning and Marci-Lynn Zuckerberg, the girl with a thousand other responsibilities, is talking to him in her bed?
He starts the car and Mark laughs, soft and sweet. “What are you doing?”
“Going back to my apartment.”
She has something odd in her voice when she responds. “Oh. I - of course.”
He smiles. “What about you?”
He hears her turn over - never before has he realized just how loud sheets are - and she sighs again, almost too soft for him to hear. “Lying down.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “Do you want me to let you go, so you can sleep?”
She laughs. “No, I - I like talking to you.” She makes a noise of triumph. “How far is your apartment?”
“Five minutes. Why?”
“Can we - can you get on Skype?” She sounds wary, again.
He grins. “I can.”
“All right. I’ll talk to you soon, Wardo.”
“Of course.”
*
(It doesn’t take him even ten minutes to get to her.
She’s lying down, sheets pulled up to her arms, and his face appears, smiling at her over continents and oceans.
She can’t help the feeling of warmth that spreads through her chest, or the helpless smile that makes its way onto her face. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” He’s lying down, too, she can tell, propped up on one arm.
She mirrors his position, smile fading only a bit.
“I - how’s Facebook?” he asks her, and looks down a bit, at his blanket.
She smiles. “It’s - fantastic, really. We had a problem but we finished it relatively quickly - I think even Chris was impressed, which is certainly a feat.”
He’s smiling again, looking at her properly. “That’s wonderful, Mark.”
She nods, and then - “And how are you? How’s Singapore?” because he never answered her earlier.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t feel the same.”
She frowns. “What do you mean?” and her heart rate picks up, because - because if he’s saying what she’s hearing -
He swallows and she forces herself to stop thinking, to pay attention to him. “It doesn’t feel - the same, being back here. Before, right after - I thought that this was a perfect place. I didn’t know many people then and I don’t know many now. I thought it was the best situation for me.”
“And now?”
He looks up at her, and they stare at each other for a moment. “It’s just - not enough, anymore.”
Does it feel like home?
She wants to ask but the words stick in her throat. It’s two in the morning and she loves him but she can’t say it, won’t say it - she won’t let herself give in like that.
He makes a noise and shifts, and - okay, he’s not wearing a shirt.
She lets out a squeak that he raises an eyebrow at but doesn’t comment on, and she’s eternally grateful for his constant manners because - fuck.
It’s not as though she’s mesmerized by him (though she sort of is). It’s just - him. There, and she knows what that skin feels like, has marked it with teeth and tongue, and he’s lying in his bed and she’s in hers and it’s not the same, not nearly enough but too much at the same time.
Her chest constricts and she doesn’t know if it’s from emotion or something else.
He seems to pick up on the change and he leans forward, impossibly close to the camera, reaching out almost as though to touch her. “Mark? Are you okay?”
His voice is authoritative, commanding, and Mark forces herself to hold onto that, to latch as much as she can, and she nods, once, sharp.
He sounds sad when he responds, pulls his hand away. “I - you’re scaring me.”
She looks up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t - Mark, I think - is there something wrong?”
She closes her eyes, and she can imagine, for a moment -
Yes, there is.
I’m sick.
I’m -
But she can’t finish the thought, because Wardo is across the world and she doesn’t know if he’d come back if she needed him.
(She doesn’t need him.)
She smiles, a sad smile, and shakes her head.
“I’m just tired.”
“I should let you go,” and there’s an unspoken question mark at the end of it.
She shakes her head, feeling immensely pathetic, but it’s nearing three in the morning and she’s lonely, so lonely. “I - will you stay with me? Talk about - something?”
It hurts, that he’s so far from her, but she’ll take what she can get, the next-best thing.
He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, and she waits for him, with even, measured breaths.
And he nods, smiling, looking lost and broken. “I will.”
“Are you okay?” she asks, instead of a response, because she’s worried, about him - she always worries.
He sucks in a breath, harsh, and nods. “I’m fine, Mark.”
“Good.”
They lapse into silence.
She can feel Wardo’s eyes on her, searching for something - she doesn’t know what - and her own eyes slip shut, breathing turning more even.
“Good night,” she whispers, just before she drifts off, pressing her face into the pillow, sighing.
She hears the rustling that means he’s sitting up, moving, but she’s too far gone to protest.
“Good night, Mark,” he says, and she thinks that this may be the most peaceful moment she’s ever had.
*
When she wakes up, there’s a message for her, from him.
I didn’t turn off the camera for a long time.
You look happy when you sleep.
It’s lovely.
(But you’re always lovely.)
Eduardo
She tries to ignore the way her chest tightens, a helpless smile on her face.
She tries to ignore it, and fails.)
*
He finishes his business as quickly as he can, and then goes back home.
The flight is long, exhausting, and he should check into his hotel room but he doesn’t want to - remembers the way Mark’s voice broke when she asked him Stay until I fall asleep, the way she’d looked, asleep, unguarded and peaceful. The way her voice had sounded, saying good night, warm and comfortable, as though they’ve had years instead of only this.
He goes to her house, and it starts to rain, light, as he turns up. He rolls his eyes and walks to the front door, letting himself in with the key Mark pressed into his hand just before he left.
It’s late; it’s midnight, and the clock strikes just as Eduardo walks inside.
“Mark?” he falls, and feels incredibly strange about this all - Mark’s not going to want him here, Mark’s probably asleep already.
He walks, though, to Mark’s room, a path that he knows by heart, and he stops when he hears the unmistakable sound of typing, too-fast and rhythmic.
He stops at the door, and has to smile.
He smiles because that’s Mark, sitting there, and her shirt is too big for her and her hair is tied up behind her head. She’s wearing her glasses and squinting at the screen, but when he says something she jerks, looks up at him.
“Mark,” he says again, and it’s hesitant, now - because this is unfamiliar territory, this whole thing.
She smiles, and it’s a grin, one that shows off her dimples. “Wardo,” and she stands up, walking toward him, holding her arms out. “You - you weren’t supposed to be back yet.”
“I didn’t need to be there,” and he wraps her into a hug, holding her tight, breathing her in. He’s comfortable in a way that he wasn’t in Singapore, and he feels more at home here than he did there, the place that he lived for years.
She sighs against his shoulder and goes up onto her tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek. “I’ve missed you,” she says, and looks up at him.
“I missed you, too,” he tells her, honest.
She lets out a soft sound and kisses him, hard, hands grabbing at his neck, pulling him closer. He backs them up until she’s pressed against the wall, and his hands are on her hips, shifting underneath her too-large shirt.
“Wardo,” she gasps, sighs into his shoulder, “I - Wardo.”
His fingers dance at the edge of her sweatpants, and he smiles, kisses her forehead, a gesture too intimate, if her wrinkled frown is anything to go by.
“Fuck me,” she says, soft, and he’s been gone for a week but it feels like a lifetime.
*
Mark takes control, this time.
She smiles down at him and kisses him, soft and slow, and she has a leg on either side of his hips. She shifts his shirt off, bit by bit, kissing each inch of exposed skin, and every muscle in him is screaming to return the favor, to do the same to her - but her fingertips are shaking against his skin and so he holds still, lets her finish.
She whispers words against him, and he doesn’t know what she’s saying but she won’t tell him.
She kisses him, harsh, and he feels I want you, whispered against his lips. He lets out a groan, grabs her hips, pulls her against him, and her eyes flutter shut; she nods.
Everything goes into a haze, after that. Mark takes things slowly, and Eduardo’s content to let her take charge. She kisses him breathless and slowly, slowly gets his trousers off, works himself into her, shifting down on him.
“Fuck,” she says, and “I can’t,” and “Wardo,” breathed out on a sigh.
And he loves her but he won’t say it because it’s now, isn’t it, it’s too much for now.
Her hands are all over him, tracing his skin, and his stomach clenches with the effort of keeping still and her fingertips are there, tracing over the faint muscles, fingernails scratching, light.
He comes with a shout and she follows, quick, eyes screwed up, biting down on her lower lip. She shifts and he rolls them over, kisses her until she’s panting against his mouth.
She seems sad, after, and curls into him, face pressed against his shoulder.
He lets her, keeps her there, because he wants that, too, wants her to feel comfortable with him, like this.
It’s an immeasurable amount of time before she speaks, and her voice is honest like it never is when she’s awake.
“Come to the party with me,” she says, hesitant.
He smiles. “Of course.”
“I mean as a date,” and her words seem to catch on her tongue but she forces them out.
Eduardo freezes, stiffens, and Mark pulls away quickly, shaking her head. “I mean - if you want to, of course, just - because, you know, there’s not anyone but you, for me, and I hope it’s the same on your end but it’s all right if it -”
He kisses her, and it’s every cliché in the book but she smiles against his lips, pulls him close again.
“I’d love to be your date,” he says, and she relaxes against him, into him, arms pulling him close, legs twisting around his, tangling together.
(He never wants to move.)
She pulls away the barest amount to stare at him, wide-eyed. “Only if you want to,” and it comes out as almost a plea - for what, he doesn’t know.
“I do,” and he laces their fingers together, brings her hand up to his lips, kisses each of her fingertips. “I - I’d love to.”
(It’s their first date - they’ve been fucking for a month and a half but this is the first sign that it might be something more, might be something real.)
Mark smiles. “I - good. I’m glad. I’m - happy.” The last part comes out almost hesitant, as though she’s ashamed.
Eduardo kisses her, and feels her smiling against him, and so is he. He whispers this, against her neck, and sucks a bruise onto her shoulder. Her hands tangle in his hair and pull him up to her, and he’s too tired for a second round but she isn’t - and her hands pull at his hair when he licks at her, hands digging into her thighs.
After, she lets him hold her, and her back is to his chest, and her breathing is steady, even.
“I really am happy,” she says, guarded, and he closes his eyes.
“So am I,” he says, right before he drifts off.
(He’s never been this happy.)
*
He wakes up the next morning to Mark smiling at him, hand on his thigh, and she moves her lips to his ear, whispers, “Why don’t we spend the weekend in bed?”
He looks at her, and cocks an eyebrow, and nods, sharp, standing up.
She reaches out for him, lets out whine. “No, you - this is counterproductive.”
He smirks at her, kissing her nose. “Brushing my teeth.”
“Oh,” and she gets up behind him, grabbing his hand, lacing their fingers together. They brush their teeth side by side and it’s so pathetically domestic his heart can barely handle it.
She turns to him, when they’re through, and kisses him, threading a hand in his hair. She hopes up on the bathroom counter, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I’m really not dead-set on the bed,” she says.
He raises an eyebrow, smirking, and leans over her, sucking at her neck, leaving what he’s sure will be a dark mark there. “Think I could fuck you up here?” he asks.
She shudders, pressing into him, and he takes that as a yes.
She’s strangely responding - usually she tries to hold back, tries to shield herself, but now she lets go, lets out soft gasps that reverberate around the room, and when he finally slides into her, she gasps, moans, loud, grabbing at his shoulder and holding on tight.
“Fuck - oh, fuck, fuck me,” she hisses through her teeth, and he kisses her, stealing the rest of her words, slamming into her until she’s an incoherent mess.
She comes with her nails digging into his shoulders and her legs wrapped tight around him, and he can’t help but come nearly immediately after her, a nearly inaudible Mark making its way through his teeth.
She smiles and tangles a hand in his hair, and when he comes to she’s looking at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Wardo,” and it feels like something heavy between them. She grabs his hand, and he’s still nearly panting.
She smirks. “You’re going to need more stamina than that if you want to fuck me again,” and she walks into the bedroom, coming out a minute later in - well, fuck, in Eduardo’s boxers and his shirt.
She’s so tiny, and he feels a mixture of arousal and protectiveness that he doesn’t know what to do with.
She licks her lips and, all right, she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Breakfast?” she asks, falsely innocent, and he follows her, laughing, rolling his eyes.
*
They eat breakfast in bed - Mark made pancakes and Eduardo made another batch after she burned hers. Mark’s sitting next to him, her hip pressed against his, and she turns her head, smiles.
He kisses her, and she tastes like syrup and orange juice.
She lets out a soft sigh into his mouth, and he slowly peels his shirt off of her, inch by inch, until she’s squirming next to him and he can’t help but kiss her again, heated, heavy, and she’s moaning into his mouth, wanton.
He takes his time, with her, traveling down her body, and her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him down without forcing him, and when he finally gets there she lets out a shout, hips tilting up just the tiniest bit.
It doesn’t take long for her to come and she’s still shaking when she pulls him back up, kissing him harsh, fierce.
“Stay,” she breathes out, almost without meaning to, and he thinks, almost delirious, I never will.
*
They don’t surface for the rest of the weekend, and sometimes it’s soft, nice-it’s Mark’s hands pressing against his skin, feather light touches, and other times it’s fucking, rough and hard, it’s Mark not being able to control her sounds and Eduardo loving that.
Once - and it makes Eduardo want to cry, or hold her - once, it seems like Mark’s trying to memorize him, map the parts that she doesn’t know, doesn’t understand.
Her hands trail down his sides and leave goosebumps in their wake, and she smiles up at him, a real smile, not a smirk, not a façade.
He bites down on his lip and she nods, decisive, and shakes her head up at him. “Don’t - I want to hear you,” she almost-whispers.
And so he lets the noises out, and that seems to spur her on further, until he’s nearly shaking and when she takes him into her mouth he nearly sobs, he’s so on edge.
She swallows, almost primly, and he lets out a growl, dragging her forward, kissing her, and she lets out a happy hum against his lips, smiling.
*
(He’s asleep, or nearly there, later that night.
She whispers his secrets into his skin, sometimes. I’m sorry, she tells his hip, and the resulting twitch sounds like I forgive you.
Don’t leave me, she tells his thigh, lips pressing against the skin, and his hand, warm and sure in hers, promises to stay, if only for now.
Love, she whispers against his collarbone, now, and he’s asleep but she feels him stiffen, almost imperceptibly.
She feels lonely, then, so lonely, and pulls away, presses herself against him, into him, her head on his chest, and tries to make herself feel less like shit.
The longer this goes on, the more she knows it’ll hurt her, to tell Eduardo now. He won’t want to know - he wants her, yes, but as she is, as he knows her to be. He doesn’t want the vulnerable Mark, the one who can barely stand without help, the one who’s not going to be able to function, soon.
She’s being selfish but she’s allowed to be.
Dying, she whispers against his shoulder, just before she falls asleep.
It’s the first time she’s said it and she feels better for having admitted it but not any freer.
Scared, she wants to say, but she still won’t admit that. Not to herself, not to Wardo, not to anyone.)
*
He wakes up the next morning, before her.
Just before he’d fallen asleep, he’d thought he heard a soft love, pressed into the skin against his shoulder - but that’s crazy, because Mark doesn’t love him, because if she did she’d admit it, she’d tell him, because Mark isn’t afraid of anything.
Love, he feels in every part of him, but he won’t be the one to say it, not this time.
*
He spends every night at her house.
He should be in his hotel, at least ostensibly - but halfway through the week he finds himself checking out of his room, going back to Mark’s house as though it’s his own.
It feels like home, now - the sofa where he and Mark watch movies, sometimes, if neither of them are tired or in the mood for sex, the kitchen where they eat meals on occasion (and that one time, on the table - but he doesn’t like to think about that often), the bed that’s come to mean so much more than a bed should - it means Mark, and warmth, and safety.
He lies next to her and he feels like he’s home.
The morning of the party he wakes her up with a kiss on the nose, smiling at her as her eyes open.
“We’re going on a date tonight,” he tells her, because he can, because they are and she was the one to ask him.
She turns a light pink. “You’re right,” and a soft smile quirks at the corners of her lips.
He kisses her smile and she laughs, wraps her arms around his neck.
*
She smiles at him, shy, and holds out her hand for him.
He takes it, holds it tight. She’s wearing - well, she looks fucking stunning. She’s wearing a short black dress and - her hair isn’t styled, it’s curly and tumbles down around her shoulders and it’s all he can do to keep from kissing her senseless.
She smiles, nods toward the door. “Let’s get going, Wardo.”
He follows.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, in the car, and she turns to him, smiles, open-mouthed and happy.
“You’re lovely,’ she tells him, and it doesn’t feel false, now. She drags her eyes up him, biting her lip.
(They’re a bit late to the party, and Mark’s hair is perhaps more disheveled than when they left. He can’t find it in him to have any regrets.)
*
They dance, because that’s what you do at a party like this, and Mark’s hands are on his shoulders and they just sway, back and forth, looking at each other.
She smiles, soft, and kisses him, going up on her tiptoes (but she doesn’t have to reach very far, in her heels).
He smiles back, happy and content.
*
He kisses her, in the parking lot.
The lights around them are bright and she reaches up, pulls him down, just a bit. She licks her way into his mouth and in her heels she’s tall, taller than he’s used to, and she owns it, steps into his space.
It’s raining, light, around them and she smiles against him, and cars could hit them at any moment, kill them both, but she doesn’t seem to care. Her hands are warm on his hips and he sighs back, bites at her lip, soft.
She pulls away, and smiles, heavy-lidded eyes shining in the pale streetlight.
“Home?” she asks.
He nods.
*
continued here.