fic: playing in the rain is worth catching cold.
Title: Playing In The Rain Is Worth Catching Cold
Author: savetomorrow
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Word Count: 3,325
Rating: PG-13, I guess.
Warnings: What's plot, precious? What's plot, eh? Seriously, there is practically no plot whatsoever. Also too many figures of speech and an overdose of feelings.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the (lack of) plot. Title is from Michael Tolcher's song Sooner or Later.
Summary: It’s scary, the first time Eduardo realises Mark looks at him the same way he looks at Mark, because he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s deliriously happy and completely terrified at the same time. It’s like he has magic in his hands, all the possibilities it brings, but he’s not quite sure he wants to use it, because it could be beautiful, it could be fucking amazing, or it could make everything come crashing down.
Sometimes it’s worth the risk.
A/N: a tsnsecretsanta fic for kathy_williams. I hope you enjoy your post-movie angst, girl! ♥ I was going to draw, at first, but then I was like "nah, fuck it, I shall write" which was a truly horrible life decision because I haven't actually posted any fic before ever and now I'm dying from anxiety. So yes. Dear kathy_williams, I wish you all the best for the year 2012, and I also hope you don't entirely hate this fic.
Also, a massive thank-you and all my love to na_shao for putting up with my texts -- which were mostly of the "let me die"/"murder me now"/"seriously, kill me" variety -- and providing me with love and music and all things wonderful and telling me that I don't suck at everything. Get well soon, my love. ♥
And a bucketload of thank-yous to antistar_e, yellowwolf5 and hitlikehammers for listening to my whining and/or offering to help me. You are all amazing. ♥
And last but not least: thank you so much, jcmwrites for organizing tsnsecretsanta and putting up with my emails.
***
Everything is shades of grey. The only splash of colour is a narrow line of bright blue in the sky, making its way through the grey like a slowly spreading puddle of paint. It looks out of place, Eduardo thinks, almost like someone cut the clouds with a knife and now the blue is bleeding out.
That’s exactly how Eduardo feels: out of place. He should’ve just left after the meeting - he should’ve run the fuck away from there, really - but when Mark asked him if they could talk for a minute, Eduardo thought he saw something new in those light blue eyes, something like hope, and he’s never been good at saying no to Mark, anyway. So now Mark is looking at him from across the table, chewing on a hoodie string, and they’re both holding Starbucks cups, and it’s almost sickeningly familiar, almost like nothing bad ever happened at all. Still, Eduardo knows he doesn’t belong here anymore, maybe he never did. He’ll be back in Singapore soon, things will go on in Palo Alto without him just like they have for the past two years, and Mark probably won’t even remember having coffee with him.
Eduardo almost jumps when cold fingertips brush his.
Mark pulls his hand back lightning-fast, pushes it into his hoodie pocket. “Sorry,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Eduardo almost feels like laughing, almost feels like pointing out how funny it is that Mark is sorry for touching Eduardo’s hand but not sorry for breaking his heart. Though it’s not really funny at all.
“You wanted to talk about something?” Eduardo asks, trying to sound as distant as possible, looking down at his fingertips. “I have an early flight to catch tomorrow, so if you could just--“
“Wardo.”
Eduardo squeezes his coffee cup far too hard. “You probably shouldn’t call me that. We’re not,” he looks up, remembering all too well how much it hurt when he looked into Mark’s eyes from across the deposition table, and it should hurt less now but it doesn’t, “we’re not friends anymore, Mark. You know that.”
Mark shifts again, biting his lip, the hoodie string falling gracelessly from his mouth. “Yeah, yes, I know that. It’s just… do you think we could be, though? Friends, I mean. Well, not necessarily friends, if that’s not- if you don’t want to. But, I mean, we could see each other sometimes. That sounded stupid, ignore that. Wait.” Mark blinks, again and again. Eduardo knows it means he’s thinking really hard, and he used to find that fascinating, he used to think it was thrilling, watching Mark’s eyes when he was thinking. Maybe it still is, a little bit, but Eduardo is pulled out of his trance by Mark’s next words. “Do you ever miss me at all?”
“What?” The Starbucks cup is just a crumpled up piece of cardboard now, the untouched coffee running down Eduardo’s fingers. “Do I ever- what? Are you kidding me?”
Mark frowns, teeth digging harder into his bottom lip, hands clearly twitching in his hoodie pocket. “Well, it’s nice that you think I would joke about this, but some of us actually-“
“Some of us actually what?” Eduardo asks, now angry instead of just shocked, and he doesn’t even realise he’s raising his voice until people turn to look at him. He couldn’t care less, not right now. “Don’t you fucking dare-You have no idea what you put me through! You think you can just buy me a cup of coffee and be my best friend again? You’re smarter than that, Mark, you know that’s not how it goes. You broke my- you broke everything, okay? You put me through so much shit, you don’t even know. You don’t get to walk back into my life like nothing happened because we both know you stabbed me in the back and you’re not even sorry about it. So, you know, thanks for the coffee, I’m leaving.”
Mark’s eyes are impossibly wide, his lips slightly parted, like he can’t quite believe Eduardo just said all that. For a few bittersweet seconds it feels like some kind of a victory, but as soon as he turns his back to Mark, Eduardo just feels tired.
“You know,” Mark says then, his voice steady and quiet, and Eduardo freezes. “You’re right. I have no idea what I put you through. I was kind of hoping you’d tell me. You should tell me.”
Eduardo shakes his head. This is too much, this is just too fucking much. So he walks away. Mark doesn’t follow him. It’s Mark’s turn to be the one who’s left behind. And it should feel good, it should feel great, but it doesn’t, and Eduardo pretends he doesn’t know why. He pretends he doesn’t recognise the ache under his ribs. It’s been two fucking years since the depositions, and he’s not supposed to be feeling like this anymore.
The clouds are slowly knitting back together, covering the splash of bright blue like it never even existed, and Eduardo wishes all things would fade and change and disappear as easily as the colours of the sky.
The thing is, you can wish all you want but nothing really changes.
***
Singapore is always alive and crowded, and Eduardo loves it. It’s all crazy traffic and bright colours and loud music. There are people running across the streets like rabbits chased by foxes, fast and half-blind, mumbling apologies when they bump into someone. Yes, Singapore is always alive and crowded, and there should be no room or time for heartache.
It’s a whole fucking series of should be and shouldn’t be, things Eduardo should or should not think or wish or feel, but it all comes (crashing, crashing) down to one thing.
One thing with curly hair and dimples that don’t appear as often as they should and bright blue eyes.
Eduardo should hate Mark, he should fucking loathe him. He did, maybe, for a while, when all he could think about was You’re gonna get left behind and .03% and Jealous of Eduardo?. But that kind of hate doesn’t last; it fades fast, because the body gets tired of holding such a strong feeling inside and the mind wants to make room for other things, better things. And eventually Eduardo started missing all the little things that made Mark so wonderfully fascinating; all the little things that Eduardo liked - loved, fucking loved - about him. And, god, it was painful to realise he didn’t, couldn’t, have that anymore. It still is.
And now Mark is trying to, what, fix things? Eduardo doesn’t even know what the hell Mark is trying to do, but he doesn’t want to - can’t, won’t -- let himself hope, not again, not this time, because hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.
He wishes he could find someone else, fall in love with someone else.
There are people who want Eduardo, he knows that. Sometimes they’re young women with jet black eyelashes and long legs, flirting with him at the bar, sexy and confident in their short skirts and high heels. Sometimes they’re just girls, barely past the age of 20, glancing at him shyly when he walks by and then blushing adorably if he happens to look back. Sometimes they’re older ladies, in their 40’s or even 50’s, staring at him with wistful eyes because he reminds them of the boys they used to date.
And sometimes they’re men. Eduardo has learnt to recognise the lust in their eyes, and even if it’s still a bit new, still a bit strange, it sends shivers down his spine and he’s brave enough to let himself smile back.
That’s as far as it ever goes, though. Smiling, buying drinks, maybe a chaste kiss if Eduardo’s feeling really good. He did sleep with someone once - a beautiful girl whose hair smelled like chocolate - but, in the morning light, the girl’s eyes were blue like the Caribbean Sea, a far too familiar colour, and Eduardo never called her after that one night.
Yes, there are people who want him, and sometimes he wants them back, but he doesn’t go home with them. He has dozens of phone numbers, written on crumpled up pieces of whatever paper someone happened to have in their pocket, but he never looks at them twice. Maybe he wants to, but he just can’t.
Sometimes all he wants to do is push a girl up against a wall and kiss her breath away or wrap his arms around a guy’s waist so tight it hurts, but he knows who he would end up thinking about, and it just feels all wrong and fucked up.
Eduardo can never put enough distance between himself and Mark. It doesn’t matter if they live in different countries, on different continents, even on the opposite fucking sides of the planet. It’s never enough, because Eduardo’s heart is stupid, that traitorous little thing, and can’t let go.
So yes, there are people who want Eduardo. And there’s only one person Eduardo wants to want him.
***
Two weeks after Do you ever miss me at all? -- that’s what he calls it, because that’s the most significant part, the part that he keeps replaying, the soundbite he’s going to keep forever - Eduardo gets a text from Dustin, out of the blue, in the middle of a sleepless night.
mark is all kinds of miserable, u know. not enough mcr songs in the world 2 describe his angst. srsly, wardo, plz talk 2 him.
Each letter is an accusing black against the light blue of the screen, and Eduardo feels a stab of guilt. It’s been a long time - far, far too long - since Eduardo last talked to Dustin, but it’s still as easy as it ever was to tell when the jokes are just a mask, when they’re just a brave face Dustin puts on.
Another text arrives less than a minute later.
i hate this :(
For once, Eduardo replies immediately.
i hate this, too.
***
It’s exhausting and stupid and possibly a little masochistic - okay, maybe more than just a little - but there’s another meeting, an excuse to go back, and once again Eduardo finds himself in Palo Alto. His stomach twists into knots as soon as he sees Mark, but he makes himself stay calm, makes his voice stay steady when he greets people he’s never even met before.
Then, as everyone is leaving, Eduardo grabs Mark’s hoodie sleeve - touching only the fabric; careful not to close his fingers around Mark’s wrist - and pulls him aside. For a moment they just stare at each other, because Eduardo doesn’t remember what he was going to say and Mark is frowning a little and maybe Eduardo kind of wants to press his thumb into that tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows, smooth it out.
“We should talk.”
Mark snorts. “Yeah, the silence is getting kind of awkward.”
“That’s not what I-“
“I know, Wardo.”
And this time the nickname doesn’t make Eduardo angry, doesn’t make him dig his fingernails into his palms or lash out at Mark. It does make his chest hurt a little, but it’s a pleasant, featherlight ache, like getting back something you didn’t quite know you missed.
“Dustin thinks you’re miserable,” he says, allowing himself to smile a little.
Mark rolls his eyes. “I’ve noticed.” He pulls a purple, crumpled up post-it from his hoodie pocket, holds it up. Dear Mark, the note says, you look like shit, please call suicide hotline, accompanied by Eduardo’s phone number, in Dustin’s loopy handwriting. “I guess he thinks I don’t remember your number anymore,” Mark says, quietly, to the floor.
Eduardo wants to touch Mark’s chin, make him look up. Instead, he coughs a little awkwardly, biting his lip, and says, “Want to get some coffee?”
Mark’s lips curl into an almost-smile. “Yeah, but try not to abuse the coffee cups this time.”
“I believe it was just one cup,” Eduardo says, with the smallest of grins. And it doesn’t feel quite right - feels too easy, feels like they’re too nice to each other after too little time - but at least they’re getting somewhere.
They walk past Dustin on their way out, and he smiles widely at them, like a human jack-o’-lantern, forming a heart shape with his fingers.
***
After that, they start learning how to be around each other again.
It’s far from easy. There are things Eduardo doesn’t want to talk about, there are things Mark never brings up, and there are memories neither of them wants to touch. There’s a constant feeling of déjà vu, because they used to be close, they used to be best friends, and it’s like they’ve been here before, but at the same time they know it’s never going to be like it was before, they’re painfully aware of that. Sometimes Eduardo feels like they’re running after something that doesn’t exist anymore, chasing the ghosts of good old times. Sometimes they both get tired of it, and they yell at each other and pick at wounds that haven’t properly healed yet and dig up things that haven’t been buried deep enough. They live on opposite sides of the Earth - it would be so easy to just drop it, say I can’t do this anymore, it’s not worth it, just accept that they tried and it didn’t work out, and they would never have to see each other again. But somehow, even after the worst fights, one of them always calls or sends an email, and they try and fix things one more time. And one more time after that, and then one more time after that, because they’ve come a long way from where they were and they’re not turning back now.
They’re not turning back now.
***
Eduardo knows he wants more than what he used to have with Mark, more than friendship, just more. It’s not a crippling feeling; it’s just kind of… there, always, like breathing, like a heartbeat. He can’t really remember a time when it wasn’t, when he didn’t think Mark was beautiful or when he didn’t want to kiss him. It’s just always there, in every cell of his body, that never-ending chorus of I want him I want him I want him.
It doesn’t go away, doesn’t fade like the colours in the sky.
***
At some point, though - and this is the important part, the part where Eduardo lets himself hope again - at some point, somewhere along the fighting and the forgiving, Mark starts looking at Eduardo, really looking at him.
It’s scary, the first time Eduardo realises Mark looks at him the same way he looks at Mark, because he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s deliriously happy and completely terrified at the same time. It’s like he has magic in his hands, all the possibilities it brings, but he’s not quite sure he wants to use it, because it could be beautiful, it could be fucking amazing, or it could make everything come crashing down.
Sometimes it’s worth the risk.
***
It’s raining, small drops falling fast from the almost-black sky, when they kiss for the first time.
They’re in Singapore, for once, and Mark is jet lagged, resting his head on Eduardo’s shoulder. They were going to watch whatever’s on TV, browse through all the channels just for fun, but Mark is half-asleep and Eduardo can’t really focus on anything but the soft curls tickling his neck and the rhythm of Mark’s breathing.
“Wardo,” Mark mutters then, yawning. “You still haven’t told me.”
Eduardo watches as Mark tries to blink the sleep from his eyes. “What?”
“What I put you through. You should tell me.” Mark shifts, his chin digging into Eduardo’s shoulder, his lips half an inch from Eduardo’s ear. “You can tell me.”
“Someday,” Eduardo promises under his breath, turning his head, the tip of his nose brushing Mark’s. At such a close distance, Mark’s eyes are nothing but endlessly blue blurs - beautiful, so fucking beautiful -- and Eduardo’s arms wrap themselves around Mark’s waist, fast, as if pulled by invisible strings, and Mark laughs softly into the fabric of Eduardo’s shirt.
“What are we doing?” Eduardo whispers, just a little breathless, a little dazed.
Mark smiles, running his fingers down Eduardo’s arm, over his prominent wrist bone and into his palm, tracing the soft lines there. “Starting something fucking amazing.”
Somewhere between Mark’s warm breath on his face and Mark’s tongue sliding effortlessly into his mouth, Eduardo thinks people are wrong when they say being in love is like being in a room with no air, they’re so wrong, because there is enough air; Eduardo just doesn’t remember how to breathe it in.
***
Mark has to go back to California, as always.
It’s different now, though, because Eduardo gets to pull him close and kiss him goodbye, and Mark rests his hands on Eduardo’s hips and smiles against his lips.
It’s different now, because there’s a bag of Red Vines on Eduardo’s bedside table, with a note that says, so you don’t forget what my mouth tastes like.
It’s different now, because they both know they will make this work. No matter what, they will make this work.
***
Dustin texts Eduardo again.
a plague o’ both your houses for making me worry!!!1!!1 also congratz. 8D when u get married i will so be ur best man and chris can be a bridesmaid and there better be shitloads of cake.
For the rest of the day, Eduardo walks around with a smile on his face.
Yeah, this time around, they’ll make it work.
***
Three too-long weeks later, Eduardo flies to California again. He doesn’t really like flying - the shaking, the weird feeling in his ears, the constant noise - but he forgets all about planes when Mark takes his hand, fingers digging lightly into his palm like they did on that rainy night in Singapore.
“Missed you,” Eduardo says when they’re in Mark’s bedroom, shedding clothes as fast as they can, laughing like they’re teenagers again. “Missed you so fucking much.”
“I know, Wardo,” Mark says, pressing Eduardo into the mattress. “Missed you, too.” And there’s nothing but love and honesty in his words, and it makes him look so fucking beautiful.
Eduardo whispers a soft I love you into Mark’s mouth, pushing the words in with his tongue, maybe half-hoping they go unheard. Mark pulls back, though, and his eyes are so wonderfully bright with something that isn’t tears, something that’s more like liquid wonder scattered across his irises.
Mark kisses his own I love you into the damp skin of Eduardo’s chest, as if hoping it will sink through the flesh and bones and into the heart he once broke. Maybe Eduardo’s voice cracks just a little when he gasps those same words into Mark’s ear - again and again, a broken record - and maybe his fingers shake just slightly when they dig into the pale skin of Mark’s back, but Mark just laughs, soft and quiet, catching Eduardo’s lips with his own.
Many more I love you’s are whispered in the dark of the night, as Mark’s breathing becomes uneven and Eduardo’s legs tremble and the faint light from the window is beautifully blue on their sweaty skins.
Afterwards, Mark sleeps peacefully, his arms wrapped tight around Eduardo’s waist, his lips slightly parted against the skin of Eduardo’s neck. When Eduardo presses a gentle kiss into his hair, he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, more of a purr than a snore.
In the second before he falls asleep, Eduardo hopes he gets to hear that soft purring sound every night for the rest of his life.
Mark’s toes brush his ankle, and it feels like a promise - a permanent kind of happiness.
***
the end.
Author: savetomorrow
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Word Count: 3,325
Rating: PG-13, I guess.
Warnings: What's plot, precious? What's plot, eh? Seriously, there is practically no plot whatsoever. Also too many figures of speech and an overdose of feelings.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the (lack of) plot. Title is from Michael Tolcher's song Sooner or Later.
Summary: It’s scary, the first time Eduardo realises Mark looks at him the same way he looks at Mark, because he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s deliriously happy and completely terrified at the same time. It’s like he has magic in his hands, all the possibilities it brings, but he’s not quite sure he wants to use it, because it could be beautiful, it could be fucking amazing, or it could make everything come crashing down.
Sometimes it’s worth the risk.
A/N: a tsnsecretsanta fic for kathy_williams. I hope you enjoy your post-movie angst, girl! ♥ I was going to draw, at first, but then I was like "nah, fuck it, I shall write" which was a truly horrible life decision because I haven't actually posted any fic before ever and now I'm dying from anxiety. So yes. Dear kathy_williams, I wish you all the best for the year 2012, and I also hope you don't entirely hate this fic.
Also, a massive thank-you and all my love to na_shao for putting up with my texts -- which were mostly of the "let me die"/"murder me now"/"seriously, kill me" variety -- and providing me with love and music and all things wonderful and telling me that I don't suck at everything. Get well soon, my love. ♥
And a bucketload of thank-yous to antistar_e, yellowwolf5 and hitlikehammers for listening to my whining and/or offering to help me. You are all amazing. ♥
And last but not least: thank you so much, jcmwrites for organizing tsnsecretsanta and putting up with my emails.
***
Everything is shades of grey. The only splash of colour is a narrow line of bright blue in the sky, making its way through the grey like a slowly spreading puddle of paint. It looks out of place, Eduardo thinks, almost like someone cut the clouds with a knife and now the blue is bleeding out.
That’s exactly how Eduardo feels: out of place. He should’ve just left after the meeting - he should’ve run the fuck away from there, really - but when Mark asked him if they could talk for a minute, Eduardo thought he saw something new in those light blue eyes, something like hope, and he’s never been good at saying no to Mark, anyway. So now Mark is looking at him from across the table, chewing on a hoodie string, and they’re both holding Starbucks cups, and it’s almost sickeningly familiar, almost like nothing bad ever happened at all. Still, Eduardo knows he doesn’t belong here anymore, maybe he never did. He’ll be back in Singapore soon, things will go on in Palo Alto without him just like they have for the past two years, and Mark probably won’t even remember having coffee with him.
Eduardo almost jumps when cold fingertips brush his.
Mark pulls his hand back lightning-fast, pushes it into his hoodie pocket. “Sorry,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Eduardo almost feels like laughing, almost feels like pointing out how funny it is that Mark is sorry for touching Eduardo’s hand but not sorry for breaking his heart. Though it’s not really funny at all.
“You wanted to talk about something?” Eduardo asks, trying to sound as distant as possible, looking down at his fingertips. “I have an early flight to catch tomorrow, so if you could just--“
“Wardo.”
Eduardo squeezes his coffee cup far too hard. “You probably shouldn’t call me that. We’re not,” he looks up, remembering all too well how much it hurt when he looked into Mark’s eyes from across the deposition table, and it should hurt less now but it doesn’t, “we’re not friends anymore, Mark. You know that.”
Mark shifts again, biting his lip, the hoodie string falling gracelessly from his mouth. “Yeah, yes, I know that. It’s just… do you think we could be, though? Friends, I mean. Well, not necessarily friends, if that’s not- if you don’t want to. But, I mean, we could see each other sometimes. That sounded stupid, ignore that. Wait.” Mark blinks, again and again. Eduardo knows it means he’s thinking really hard, and he used to find that fascinating, he used to think it was thrilling, watching Mark’s eyes when he was thinking. Maybe it still is, a little bit, but Eduardo is pulled out of his trance by Mark’s next words. “Do you ever miss me at all?”
“What?” The Starbucks cup is just a crumpled up piece of cardboard now, the untouched coffee running down Eduardo’s fingers. “Do I ever- what? Are you kidding me?”
Mark frowns, teeth digging harder into his bottom lip, hands clearly twitching in his hoodie pocket. “Well, it’s nice that you think I would joke about this, but some of us actually-“
“Some of us actually what?” Eduardo asks, now angry instead of just shocked, and he doesn’t even realise he’s raising his voice until people turn to look at him. He couldn’t care less, not right now. “Don’t you fucking dare-You have no idea what you put me through! You think you can just buy me a cup of coffee and be my best friend again? You’re smarter than that, Mark, you know that’s not how it goes. You broke my- you broke everything, okay? You put me through so much shit, you don’t even know. You don’t get to walk back into my life like nothing happened because we both know you stabbed me in the back and you’re not even sorry about it. So, you know, thanks for the coffee, I’m leaving.”
Mark’s eyes are impossibly wide, his lips slightly parted, like he can’t quite believe Eduardo just said all that. For a few bittersweet seconds it feels like some kind of a victory, but as soon as he turns his back to Mark, Eduardo just feels tired.
“You know,” Mark says then, his voice steady and quiet, and Eduardo freezes. “You’re right. I have no idea what I put you through. I was kind of hoping you’d tell me. You should tell me.”
Eduardo shakes his head. This is too much, this is just too fucking much. So he walks away. Mark doesn’t follow him. It’s Mark’s turn to be the one who’s left behind. And it should feel good, it should feel great, but it doesn’t, and Eduardo pretends he doesn’t know why. He pretends he doesn’t recognise the ache under his ribs. It’s been two fucking years since the depositions, and he’s not supposed to be feeling like this anymore.
The clouds are slowly knitting back together, covering the splash of bright blue like it never even existed, and Eduardo wishes all things would fade and change and disappear as easily as the colours of the sky.
The thing is, you can wish all you want but nothing really changes.
***
Singapore is always alive and crowded, and Eduardo loves it. It’s all crazy traffic and bright colours and loud music. There are people running across the streets like rabbits chased by foxes, fast and half-blind, mumbling apologies when they bump into someone. Yes, Singapore is always alive and crowded, and there should be no room or time for heartache.
It’s a whole fucking series of should be and shouldn’t be, things Eduardo should or should not think or wish or feel, but it all comes (crashing, crashing) down to one thing.
One thing with curly hair and dimples that don’t appear as often as they should and bright blue eyes.
Eduardo should hate Mark, he should fucking loathe him. He did, maybe, for a while, when all he could think about was You’re gonna get left behind and .03% and Jealous of Eduardo?. But that kind of hate doesn’t last; it fades fast, because the body gets tired of holding such a strong feeling inside and the mind wants to make room for other things, better things. And eventually Eduardo started missing all the little things that made Mark so wonderfully fascinating; all the little things that Eduardo liked - loved, fucking loved - about him. And, god, it was painful to realise he didn’t, couldn’t, have that anymore. It still is.
And now Mark is trying to, what, fix things? Eduardo doesn’t even know what the hell Mark is trying to do, but he doesn’t want to - can’t, won’t -- let himself hope, not again, not this time, because hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.
He wishes he could find someone else, fall in love with someone else.
There are people who want Eduardo, he knows that. Sometimes they’re young women with jet black eyelashes and long legs, flirting with him at the bar, sexy and confident in their short skirts and high heels. Sometimes they’re just girls, barely past the age of 20, glancing at him shyly when he walks by and then blushing adorably if he happens to look back. Sometimes they’re older ladies, in their 40’s or even 50’s, staring at him with wistful eyes because he reminds them of the boys they used to date.
And sometimes they’re men. Eduardo has learnt to recognise the lust in their eyes, and even if it’s still a bit new, still a bit strange, it sends shivers down his spine and he’s brave enough to let himself smile back.
That’s as far as it ever goes, though. Smiling, buying drinks, maybe a chaste kiss if Eduardo’s feeling really good. He did sleep with someone once - a beautiful girl whose hair smelled like chocolate - but, in the morning light, the girl’s eyes were blue like the Caribbean Sea, a far too familiar colour, and Eduardo never called her after that one night.
Yes, there are people who want him, and sometimes he wants them back, but he doesn’t go home with them. He has dozens of phone numbers, written on crumpled up pieces of whatever paper someone happened to have in their pocket, but he never looks at them twice. Maybe he wants to, but he just can’t.
Sometimes all he wants to do is push a girl up against a wall and kiss her breath away or wrap his arms around a guy’s waist so tight it hurts, but he knows who he would end up thinking about, and it just feels all wrong and fucked up.
Eduardo can never put enough distance between himself and Mark. It doesn’t matter if they live in different countries, on different continents, even on the opposite fucking sides of the planet. It’s never enough, because Eduardo’s heart is stupid, that traitorous little thing, and can’t let go.
So yes, there are people who want Eduardo. And there’s only one person Eduardo wants to want him.
***
Two weeks after Do you ever miss me at all? -- that’s what he calls it, because that’s the most significant part, the part that he keeps replaying, the soundbite he’s going to keep forever - Eduardo gets a text from Dustin, out of the blue, in the middle of a sleepless night.
mark is all kinds of miserable, u know. not enough mcr songs in the world 2 describe his angst. srsly, wardo, plz talk 2 him.
Each letter is an accusing black against the light blue of the screen, and Eduardo feels a stab of guilt. It’s been a long time - far, far too long - since Eduardo last talked to Dustin, but it’s still as easy as it ever was to tell when the jokes are just a mask, when they’re just a brave face Dustin puts on.
Another text arrives less than a minute later.
i hate this :(
For once, Eduardo replies immediately.
i hate this, too.
***
It’s exhausting and stupid and possibly a little masochistic - okay, maybe more than just a little - but there’s another meeting, an excuse to go back, and once again Eduardo finds himself in Palo Alto. His stomach twists into knots as soon as he sees Mark, but he makes himself stay calm, makes his voice stay steady when he greets people he’s never even met before.
Then, as everyone is leaving, Eduardo grabs Mark’s hoodie sleeve - touching only the fabric; careful not to close his fingers around Mark’s wrist - and pulls him aside. For a moment they just stare at each other, because Eduardo doesn’t remember what he was going to say and Mark is frowning a little and maybe Eduardo kind of wants to press his thumb into that tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows, smooth it out.
“We should talk.”
Mark snorts. “Yeah, the silence is getting kind of awkward.”
“That’s not what I-“
“I know, Wardo.”
And this time the nickname doesn’t make Eduardo angry, doesn’t make him dig his fingernails into his palms or lash out at Mark. It does make his chest hurt a little, but it’s a pleasant, featherlight ache, like getting back something you didn’t quite know you missed.
“Dustin thinks you’re miserable,” he says, allowing himself to smile a little.
Mark rolls his eyes. “I’ve noticed.” He pulls a purple, crumpled up post-it from his hoodie pocket, holds it up. Dear Mark, the note says, you look like shit, please call suicide hotline, accompanied by Eduardo’s phone number, in Dustin’s loopy handwriting. “I guess he thinks I don’t remember your number anymore,” Mark says, quietly, to the floor.
Eduardo wants to touch Mark’s chin, make him look up. Instead, he coughs a little awkwardly, biting his lip, and says, “Want to get some coffee?”
Mark’s lips curl into an almost-smile. “Yeah, but try not to abuse the coffee cups this time.”
“I believe it was just one cup,” Eduardo says, with the smallest of grins. And it doesn’t feel quite right - feels too easy, feels like they’re too nice to each other after too little time - but at least they’re getting somewhere.
They walk past Dustin on their way out, and he smiles widely at them, like a human jack-o’-lantern, forming a heart shape with his fingers.
***
After that, they start learning how to be around each other again.
It’s far from easy. There are things Eduardo doesn’t want to talk about, there are things Mark never brings up, and there are memories neither of them wants to touch. There’s a constant feeling of déjà vu, because they used to be close, they used to be best friends, and it’s like they’ve been here before, but at the same time they know it’s never going to be like it was before, they’re painfully aware of that. Sometimes Eduardo feels like they’re running after something that doesn’t exist anymore, chasing the ghosts of good old times. Sometimes they both get tired of it, and they yell at each other and pick at wounds that haven’t properly healed yet and dig up things that haven’t been buried deep enough. They live on opposite sides of the Earth - it would be so easy to just drop it, say I can’t do this anymore, it’s not worth it, just accept that they tried and it didn’t work out, and they would never have to see each other again. But somehow, even after the worst fights, one of them always calls or sends an email, and they try and fix things one more time. And one more time after that, and then one more time after that, because they’ve come a long way from where they were and they’re not turning back now.
They’re not turning back now.
***
Eduardo knows he wants more than what he used to have with Mark, more than friendship, just more. It’s not a crippling feeling; it’s just kind of… there, always, like breathing, like a heartbeat. He can’t really remember a time when it wasn’t, when he didn’t think Mark was beautiful or when he didn’t want to kiss him. It’s just always there, in every cell of his body, that never-ending chorus of I want him I want him I want him.
It doesn’t go away, doesn’t fade like the colours in the sky.
***
At some point, though - and this is the important part, the part where Eduardo lets himself hope again - at some point, somewhere along the fighting and the forgiving, Mark starts looking at Eduardo, really looking at him.
It’s scary, the first time Eduardo realises Mark looks at him the same way he looks at Mark, because he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s deliriously happy and completely terrified at the same time. It’s like he has magic in his hands, all the possibilities it brings, but he’s not quite sure he wants to use it, because it could be beautiful, it could be fucking amazing, or it could make everything come crashing down.
Sometimes it’s worth the risk.
***
It’s raining, small drops falling fast from the almost-black sky, when they kiss for the first time.
They’re in Singapore, for once, and Mark is jet lagged, resting his head on Eduardo’s shoulder. They were going to watch whatever’s on TV, browse through all the channels just for fun, but Mark is half-asleep and Eduardo can’t really focus on anything but the soft curls tickling his neck and the rhythm of Mark’s breathing.
“Wardo,” Mark mutters then, yawning. “You still haven’t told me.”
Eduardo watches as Mark tries to blink the sleep from his eyes. “What?”
“What I put you through. You should tell me.” Mark shifts, his chin digging into Eduardo’s shoulder, his lips half an inch from Eduardo’s ear. “You can tell me.”
“Someday,” Eduardo promises under his breath, turning his head, the tip of his nose brushing Mark’s. At such a close distance, Mark’s eyes are nothing but endlessly blue blurs - beautiful, so fucking beautiful -- and Eduardo’s arms wrap themselves around Mark’s waist, fast, as if pulled by invisible strings, and Mark laughs softly into the fabric of Eduardo’s shirt.
“What are we doing?” Eduardo whispers, just a little breathless, a little dazed.
Mark smiles, running his fingers down Eduardo’s arm, over his prominent wrist bone and into his palm, tracing the soft lines there. “Starting something fucking amazing.”
Somewhere between Mark’s warm breath on his face and Mark’s tongue sliding effortlessly into his mouth, Eduardo thinks people are wrong when they say being in love is like being in a room with no air, they’re so wrong, because there is enough air; Eduardo just doesn’t remember how to breathe it in.
***
Mark has to go back to California, as always.
It’s different now, though, because Eduardo gets to pull him close and kiss him goodbye, and Mark rests his hands on Eduardo’s hips and smiles against his lips.
It’s different now, because there’s a bag of Red Vines on Eduardo’s bedside table, with a note that says, so you don’t forget what my mouth tastes like.
It’s different now, because they both know they will make this work. No matter what, they will make this work.
***
Dustin texts Eduardo again.
a plague o’ both your houses for making me worry!!!1!!1 also congratz. 8D when u get married i will so be ur best man and chris can be a bridesmaid and there better be shitloads of cake.
For the rest of the day, Eduardo walks around with a smile on his face.
Yeah, this time around, they’ll make it work.
***
Three too-long weeks later, Eduardo flies to California again. He doesn’t really like flying - the shaking, the weird feeling in his ears, the constant noise - but he forgets all about planes when Mark takes his hand, fingers digging lightly into his palm like they did on that rainy night in Singapore.
“Missed you,” Eduardo says when they’re in Mark’s bedroom, shedding clothes as fast as they can, laughing like they’re teenagers again. “Missed you so fucking much.”
“I know, Wardo,” Mark says, pressing Eduardo into the mattress. “Missed you, too.” And there’s nothing but love and honesty in his words, and it makes him look so fucking beautiful.
Eduardo whispers a soft I love you into Mark’s mouth, pushing the words in with his tongue, maybe half-hoping they go unheard. Mark pulls back, though, and his eyes are so wonderfully bright with something that isn’t tears, something that’s more like liquid wonder scattered across his irises.
Mark kisses his own I love you into the damp skin of Eduardo’s chest, as if hoping it will sink through the flesh and bones and into the heart he once broke. Maybe Eduardo’s voice cracks just a little when he gasps those same words into Mark’s ear - again and again, a broken record - and maybe his fingers shake just slightly when they dig into the pale skin of Mark’s back, but Mark just laughs, soft and quiet, catching Eduardo’s lips with his own.
Many more I love you’s are whispered in the dark of the night, as Mark’s breathing becomes uneven and Eduardo’s legs tremble and the faint light from the window is beautifully blue on their sweaty skins.
Afterwards, Mark sleeps peacefully, his arms wrapped tight around Eduardo’s waist, his lips slightly parted against the skin of Eduardo’s neck. When Eduardo presses a gentle kiss into his hair, he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, more of a purr than a snore.
In the second before he falls asleep, Eduardo hopes he gets to hear that soft purring sound every night for the rest of his life.
Mark’s toes brush his ankle, and it feels like a promise - a permanent kind of happiness.
***
the end.