Work Text:
1.
The network doesn't crash.
The network doesn't crash because Mark listens to Eduardo.
"Mark," he says, and gives him a look that says, We've had our fun. You've had your fun.
He gives him the trademark look of annoyance in return, but Eduardo doesn't back down.
"Mark, come on. You've had a rough night."
He's thinking, I should have never given you the algorithm. I should have been a better friend. Or worse friend. One of those.
He's pretty sure Mark knows that.
He shuts it down.
He's still staring at the screen when the other guys say their goodnights. He has this glint in his eye, a glint of wonder, or madness, or both. Eduardo thinks sometimes that he could destroy them all if he wanted. It's kind of a crazy thought. But people have had crazier thoughts. And maybe some of those people were right.
Eduardo rests a hand on his shoulder. And it's not how he would usually touch him. Usually, it's fleeting and casual, just to get his attention. Mark doesn't flinch away from the contact though. And Eduardo doesn't break it as Mark gets up and turns around to face him.
Eduardo's a little buzzed by now, he guesses. Mark is a lot buzzed.
Mark's hand is on his chest now, fingers lightly grazing the bare skin where his shirt's unbuttoned.
And he says, "Mark," quiet but like a warning, like a sharp, nervous exhale. But he leans down so that Mark can kiss him properly, one hand curling around the back of his neck automatically. (And shit, he realises, this is actually happening. And it's happening now.) And it's enough encouragement for Mark to slide his tongue in and Eduardo just gives gives gives. Eduardo's making all these soft sounds in the back of his throat, and Mark is so, so quiet. Calm, like he does everything. Also, methodical. Because then his hands are travelling down down down. And shit. Mark bites down on his lip, almost like a Be quiet. They just look at each other for a totally sober second. Then Mark is dropping to his knees. And oh. Oh.
Afterwards, he watches him sleeping, slightly curled into Eduardo's chest. He brushes a hand over his curls, thinks that he's never seen him look so content.
Or maybe he's projecting. Maybe he's not.
*
They're in the dining hall the next morning. Mark's sitting next to him, and they aren't touching but his hand is resting right next to Eduardo's on the table. He doesn't seem to be in a rush to go anywhere or do anything, not like he usually is, and he's definitely more present somehow even if he still doesn't say much in response to whatever Chris and Dustin are arguing about or Eduardo's passing comments; it's so different, it's kind of startling. To Eduardo, at least. And that's enough in a way nothing's really been for a long time. Of course, he's Mark, so he's acting like nothing's changed at all.
"I'm sorry about Erica," Eduardo says, because he hasn't before.
Mark doesn't shrug, or look at him, or change his expression. He barely glances up at all.
He says, "I'm not."
2.
Sean Parker never makes the meeting.
Facebook fails. They make a couple million dollars before usership starts to break down like countless other sites' had before and they start losing advertisers.
Eduardo says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over, like he's trying to comfort him after the death of a child. Which it is, technically.
"It's...just a website," is what Mark eventually says.
"Mark," Eduardo says, worriedly, and he's still holding on to his hand like he's some lost child, and he can feel everything in his touch so acutely — can feel his warmth and his affection and his stupid nervousness, an unneccessary undercurrent, really, but one he's still inexplicably grateful for.
"Are you going through the five stages, dude? Do I need to start charting this?" Dustin says.
"Shut up, Dustin," Mark says.
But then he takes a deep breath, and continues, trying not to look directly at Eduardo's huge, concerned eyes. (And he's still holding his goddamned hand. Apparently he gets even more touchy in times of distress. Mark files that away for future reference.)
"I'm serious. It's just a website. Just one website. There'll be other things."
"Are you sure?" Eduardo says, and it looks like he's scanning his face for any sign of doubt...or an impending breakdown. And he is way too close to him right now.
He seems to find what he's looking for, though. He pulls away and lets go of Mark's hand.
Mark instantly misses the contact. He wonders how much Eduardo would touch him if he did have a breakdown.
Dustin pats him on the back before he leaves. "Sorry, man. It was fun while it lasted."
And yeah, it was.
*
Eduardo doesn't go back to Miami for a couple weeks. He stays in Mark's guest room, helps them clear out the offices. He's there by Mark's side on the last day, when he flips the switch to turn off all the lights and leaves for the last time.
He's still there a month later — and Mark's gotten used to it, but sometimes he looks up, from the TV or his cereal, and wonders why.
He only says it aloud to an empty room one morning. Eduardo pokes his head back into the kitchen.
"Sorry? Didn't catch that."
"I asked...what are you still doing here? I mean, it's been weeks. I think it's pretty clear I'm not going to try to commit suicide or anything. There's really no reason for you to be here."
Eduardo looks genuinely confused.
"Mark, do you think...? Mark, I wasn't here for Facebook. I was here for you."
"Yeah, maybe in the beginning. But things change. And aren't you mad at me, anyway?"
"Jesus. Mark." He actually looks kind of angry then. "It wasn't your fault. It probably was my fault, actually."
"Wardo — No. You did what you thought was best."
"And so did you," he snaps at him. "Why are we even having this conversation?"
"Because we're — we were business partners."
"Mark, I wasn't ever just your business partner."
"Maybe it would've been easier if you were."
"Okay, maybe I am worried about your mental condition now." Eduardo grabs his wrists, and forces him to sit down (that whole touching-as-comfort thing again, his brain registers uselessly).
"Mark, look at me." Mark does, figures resistance is futile. He's glad he does though, because Eduardo is smiling. Really smiling, and it reminds him of his old dorm room at Harvard and themed AEPi parties and the time when Facebook was just a few lines of code that they would nurture into something great — and when they...when they were relatively the same. But maybe, maybe, in the end, their relationship, as turbulent and intense as it could be, wasn't doomed to the same fate as Facebook.
It kind of feels like a relief to a worry he didn't know he had. It almost makes him want to smile back. And he does, a little. Eduardo absently touches a finger to one of his dimples; that makes him smile more.
Then, he's wrapping his arms around Mark, and Mark just relaxes into his embrace, rests his chin on Eduardo's shoulder.
He says into his hair, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
*
He kind-of, sort-of moves in a month after that. He's still sleeping in the guest room, but his DVDs are lined up neatly next to Mark's in the living room and he makes one grocery list instead of two and Mark lets him pay for all of it sometimes. He starts working on something new, and he can feel Eduardo's soft gaze from the kitchen whenever inspiration hits and he's hurriedly reaching for his laptop, fingers moving lightning-fast over the keyboard.
He's brushing his teeth one night, and Eduardo's standing in the doorway telling him this hilarious story about his new coworkers. And then they just stop, and Mark's turning around, and Eduardo's there, in the way, solid and real and familiar, t-shirt riding up (it could be one of Mark's) and hair tousled, and their mouths find each other like they were made for that purpose. They don't make it to the bed. Eduardo lifts Mark up onto the counter next to the sink, and their bodies align perfectly, and nothing else in the entire world matters then.
Eduardo moves his stuff into the master bedroom after that. Mark codes next to him in bed while Eduardo reads over reports. Sometimes, Eduardo will gently kick at his ankle under the covers until he notices and looks up. He'll rub his back to relieve some tension, or press light kisses against his neck. Mark will just relax for a minute before he gets back to work.
Once, though, he asks, "Are you happy?" His eyes are big and bright and expectant.
Mark tells him, "Yeah. I don't need anything else." It's the truth.
3.
Eduardo kisses him in the hallway.
He runs his still-damp hands into Mark's hair, presses him up against the wall, and Mark's mouth opens with a tiny gasp under his.
He moves back an inch, slightly hesitant, before he asks, "What did you just say?" again. Still soft, but less broken this time.
"I said — I need you out here. I need you." His voice is as resolved as his gaze.
"Okay," Eduardo says.
4.
He starts typing in the search bar. E. He stares at the blinking cursor for a long while, then continues.
Eduardo Saverin
He goes home, passes out in his bed for the first time in weeks, and not on the couch or at his desk at work.
He wakes up to an accepted friends request. And one (1) message.
I hope you know there's a difference between Facebook friends and real friends.
Mark does. He does. But it's a start.
He hopes.
I hoped this could be a start.
He would add a question mark, but he still (still) doesn't like to look uncertain.
I hope so too.
Okay, okay.
Okay. I'll talk to you soon, Wardo.
(Soon happens to be a week after when Eduardo shows up at Facebook headquarters and calls him an idiot. Mark protectively clutches his laptop to himself on instinct, but Eduardo just laughs and takes his headphones off and leans down to kiss the shocked expression off his face, still saying, Idiot, idiot, idiot.
But he doesn't know this yet.)
5.
They meet in Singapore. Mark's there for a conference, but it's been over for a while, so he feels safe enough going to the hotel bar without getting bombarded with annoying questions or even more annoying advice or the worst: autograph requests (honestly, he's not a pop star or anything — he's sure he's not even in the top ten most famous geeks in the world).
No one pays any attention to him as he heads straight for the bar. He realises that his phone is still off from when he made his presentation. And it's just the kind of thing that slips his mind sometimes. But — but it's nice, being disconnected, being on the other side of the world in a place he knows nothing about.
Mark likes travelling sometimes. He likes having a break sometimes. He might even admit that under certain circumstances.
Eduardo (although he won't know that yet) sits next to him when he's halfway through his first beer.
The first thing Mark registers is that he looks wrecked. It's his face, he supposes. Because his hair is still perfectly coiffed. And he's wearing what Mark knows (from rubbing shoulders with people much more concerned about appearance than him) is a very expensive suit. He looks like he belongs in it though, like it's a second skin. He's not pretending. His movements are smooth and confident.
His face looks a bit haunted, though. His skin is pale and there are bags under his bloodshot eyes. Mark's pretty sure it's not a physical thing though. He knows what it's like to walk around like a zombie after staying up coding for three days. He knows less about what it's like to be emotionally wrecked, feeling like your entire being was just hanging on at the hinges waiting to fall apart completely. He's still handsome though. It's quite a feat to accomplish in that state. But he looks utterly, utterly defeated. He thinks something ridiculous like how a face that pretty shouldn't have any worry lines. He turns away slightly.
Mark buys him a drink though.
"You look like you could use it."
His smile is almost a grimace. But he says, "Thanks, man."
Maybe that should've been the end of it.
"There are lots of Americans here," he says a few minutes later. He says it like it's an unpleasant thing. Mark wonders for a second if he's seeking anonymity too. He probably needs it more than Mark does at this particular point in time.
"Well, you know, it's a hotel."
"Right. I did notice that." His smile is sweeter this time.
"And you're American."
"Brazilian, originally." His words kind of slur, and Mark wonders how many glasses of wine he'd had before at dinner.
He asks him, and Eduardo laughs. "I should have kept count, in hindsight. Or not had so many. One of those."
Mark likes figuring people out sometimes. It's a game. Of course, it's easier when you actually talk to them, which he doesn't really care for. But he likes the challenge anyway.
"So, Brazilian, but moved to America..."
"Miami."
"Did you go to school in Miami?"
"No. Brown. You?"
"Harvard."
"I almost went to Harvard. Maybe we could have known each other." Somehow, by the way he swallows and averts his eyes, Mark doesn't think he associates that with anything good. And that's interesting, at least. He's interesting, somehow.
"Not for long though, I bet. I dropped out."
"Of course you did." And maybe he's looking at Mark like he's something interesting too. Mark doesn't get that a lot from people who apparently have no idea who he is or probably won't care even if they did.
"So, are you in Singapore for a conference or something?"
"No, I live here."
"Oh. Why are you here, in this place we've already established is a hotel, then?"
"I was meeting someone."
"Business meeting then?"
"Oh. No. My father," he explains.
"And do you usually feel the need to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol to speak to your father?"
Mark sees his hand tighten on his glass, a muscle in his jaw tensing.
"Sorry. I didn't —"
"No, it's fine. If you can't be honest with a total stranger, then who can you be honest with?"
"Why did you move here then?"
"It was after a bad breakup."
"You moved halfway across the world because of a breakup? Wow. She must have done a number on you."
"He. And I guess I don't handle that sort of thing particularly well. He, my father, says I'm too trusting. Well, in slightly harsher words than that," he says bitterly, and takes another sip.
"That doesn't have to be a bad thing, expecting people to be honest with you. People should be honest with you."
"People are liars," Eduardo says, smiling, and he's definitely drunk now.
"Running away doesn't help though."
Eduardo just looks at him.
"I'm just being honest. And it's not because I'm a stranger. I'd be honest with you even if I weren't."
And Mark doesn't really know what he means by that.
Eduardo obviously thinks it's some kind of nerd pick-up line or something.
The weird thing is that it works.
And Mark never, never does this. But Eduardo is hot and smart (which is kind of unfair, really) and he's been hurt which he doesn't deserve. Mark meets so few genuinely good people that he's learnt how to spot them pretty easily. He's probably been trying to detach himself from things for a long while but Mark doesn't think he'll ever really succeed. He cares about Mark, believes him, thinks he's maybe actually a decent human being after knowing him for an hour.
Mark could maybe believe that too for a while.
They hardly make it out of the elevator on Mark's floor before Eduardo's kissing him hard, one hand fisted in his hair and one unzipping his pants.
*
Mark's already on the plane back when he finds the note in his jacket pocket.
There's a phone number. And underneath:
Eduardo Saverin. It's only fair since I knew who you were the moment I saw you.
Mark smiles.
1.
Wardo's curled up on his side, his breath warm on Mark's collarbone and his hand cool against his chest. Mark wraps his arm tighter around his waist.
"Am I dreaming right now?"
Wardo laughs into his shoulder.
"I don't think so. Have you had dreams about me before?" he asks, cocking his head up to look at him.
"Yeah, I guess so. But I have dreams about people I knew when I was ten years old too. It doesn't mean anything."
"Does this mean something?"
"Yeah. Yes."
"Okay. We're not dreaming then."
We, not you. Mark still has a lot of questions. He'll save them for another time, he decides, as Wardo presses closer against his chest. He just breathes into his hair for a while, tracing ones and zeros lightly over his back.
*
Mark comes home to him sitting on the couch watching the weather channel.
"I made dinner."
And what?
"Wardo, what are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what — what are we doing?" he says, sitting down next to him and looking at him intently.
"I thought I made it pretty clear how I felt last night. And Mark — you said... Mark, we had sex last night."
"Yes, I do recall that. But sex can mean all sorts of things. I mean, what happens now?"
"What happens now? Mark, does it matter?"
Of course it matters. It does.
Wardo takes both his hands now, looks at him seriously. "Mark, do you want me here or not?"
"I — Yes. I do." And it's the truth. That's all he's sure about right now.
"Well, okay then."
Wardo wraps an arm around his shoulders, and he tries to relax.
He wakes up to the shower running in the next room. He sighs and closes his eyes again.
Still not a dream, then. He's starting to wonder if maybe it would be easier if it were.
*
He spends the entire day ignoring calls and his assistant and thinking about the night Wardo showed up at his door.
Mark told him that he loved him. Which is something he'd been figuring out in bits and pieces from the end of the depositions to — now, he supposes. It was just a concept though — a series of what ifs and the ghosts of wasted chances that he'd never have again. It wasn't anything real. It couldn't have been. Well, until Wardo was there, and not just the too-familiar yet wearied voice on the phone that somehow had become the highlight of his life.
Wardo had loved him too. He'd loved him all along. Maybe that doesn't make anything simpler at all. Just the opposite, in fact.
*
The thing is, Mark had called him first.
It was a couple weeks after he'd signed the nondisclosure agreement.
He didn't hang up, but he'd said, "Mark, we probably shouldn't do this," and he'd sounded tired. Worn-out, really. Mark would get used to that. Maybe Wardo would get used to how sad Mark sounded too, even if he never said anything, even if it only came out sometimes in a slightly worried tone that made him think of winters at Harvard.
"We're not doing anything. I just want to talk to you. Where are you anyway?"
Wardo told him, in a tone that suggested that he'd decided it would probably be easier if he just went along with this.
"Seriously?"
"Mark. I needed some space. Not just from you. From everything." He'd been as concise as possible, like he'd thought Mark would appreciate that. He wasn't sure if he did.
"And how long will you be there?"
"For the foreseeable future, I expect."
"Can I call you again in...the foreseeable future?"
"Mark," he'd said, after a pause. Then, "Okay."
"Okay."
Wardo didn't hang up. Like he was waiting on something.
"You understand why I did it, right?" and it had come out all too fast, like he was expecting it to ruin everything (again), but he had to say it anyway.
Wardo had just exhaled softly on the other end, thousands of miles away.
"Yeah, Mark. It didn't hurt any less though."
*
Mark didn't say sorry and Wardo never asked for it, but the next time he saw him, a couple months later, he'd wanted to touch his fingertips to his face. It felt like the earth had tilted on its axis.
Instead, he'd wrapped a hand around the cuff of his shirt, and Wardo'd smiled at him, like it was the first time in years. Mark thought that it probably was.
He'd said, "You're different, somehow."
Mark said, "Yeah."
Mark kept calling him, and Wardo kept picking up.
*
Then it was three years later, and Wardo was standing on his porch.
He had this weird smile on his face, one that Mark had never seen before, and he was saying, "I keep having these strange thoughts."
"About what?" he asked, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it, gaze trained downward.
"You, mostly. They start pretty much every time I talk to you, and then they start to go away...but then you call me again, talking about fucking code or the latest ridiculous thing Dustin did, and it happens all over again. And then I think maybe it's not so strange at all. Maybe it's everything else that's fucked up. And this thing — this one thing could be different."
"And then what happens?" He was still staring down at his flip-flops.
"Then I forget about it. Usually."
"So what are you doing here then?" he said, looking up a little.
"I don't want to forget about it anymore."
Wardo kissed him then.
Mark kept his eyes closed after, but he had one hand in the front of Wardo's shirt and he pulled him back in gently, until he could feel his breath heavy against his cheek and his heartbeat falling back into an easy rhythm under his fingertips.
Wardo just leaned against him for a moment.
Mark's eyes opened, wide and unblinking.
"I love you." And it wasn't a whisper.
Wardo kissed him again.
*
Mark shows up with Dustin in tow the next evening.
"Wardo," he says, mouth dropping open kind of comically.
"I guess you're not a figment of my imagination then," Mark deadpans.
"Hey, Dustin," he says, giving a half-hearted wave. But Dustin pulls him into an enthusiastic hug, causing Mark to roll his eyes. Then he sits down at the kitchen counter, looking kind of dazed and grinning to himself.
"Dude, why didn't you say something before? I totally have to tell Chris —"
Mark opens the fridge to get some beers and Wardo slides his arms around his waist when his back is turned, presses a quick kiss to his neck.
Mark squirms away from his grip, going red. "Wardo," he says.
Dustin almost falls off his stool. "Oh, my God."
"Oh, come on, Mark. You didn't think we'd keep this a secret forever."
This, Mark thinks, this. He pops the cap off his beer, while deliberately avoiding looking at Eduardo.
When Dustin finally regains his ability to speak coherently, he says, "Tell me everything."
Wardo smiles and sits down and tells him everything. Which isn't a lot, really.
When he finishes, Dustin is just quiet for a second.
Then he says, "You two were totally fucking at Harvard, weren't you?"
Mark says, "No," at the same time Wardo says, "I wish."
They just look at each other for a moment, ignoring Dustin's maniacal laughter.
*
"What are we doing?" Mark says aloud for the first time since the night after he showed up, although it's been the question in every other look he's given him for the past five days.
Wardo answers it this time.
"I wanted to call you but I couldn't find a reason. I think that's how I spent most of the last three years. And I was tired of that. I was tired of living my life around you when you weren't even there. When I was on the other side of the world and we weren't even friends anymore."
"Did you have dreams about me too?"
"Yeah," he confesses. "Some. They were surprisingly peaceful, I think. I remember that I kissed you in some of them. I suppose that meant something."
"Did I ever kiss back?"
"I don't know. The dreams always ended there."
"I hope I did," Mark says quietly.
"I guess I had to come to see for myself." Wardo smiles.
"I still don't know why you thought that wasn't a terrible, terrible idea."
"I was lonely. And I was pretty sure you were too. Or I wanted you to be. Maybe we both sort of deserved that."
"You didn't. Wardo —"
"It's fine. I'm here. I'm here now. If you'll have me, I guess." He gives a strangled sort of laugh at that, looking nervous for the first time he's been here. Mark realises Wardo was probably as scared as he was all this time.
"Wardo," Mark says again, feeling choked up suddenly. He kisses him then, because it's the only thing he can do. It's all he wants to do, too. Kiss him and wake up next to him and come home to him sprawled on the couch with his still-socked feet on the armrest and his unruly hair finally starting to win the battle against all that product. For a moment, it's almost okay that it took them this long to get here. Mark decides, then, that he'll never let anything hurt him again. Not himself or distance or loneliness or that feeling that he's not good enough. Mark hasn't felt strong for a long while; this makes him want to be, though.
He doesn't feel like he's dreaming anymore. This part feels like waking up.
*
Wardo falls asleep in his arms again, looking as young and vulnerable as Mark feels.
He's not sure if actually says it, or if he imagines it or dreams it, but he hears his own voice in his head. And it's saying, Don't ever leave.
Wardo doesn't.