Rating:

Teen

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

The Social Network

Relationship:

Eduardo/Mark

Tags:

None

Stats:

Posted on:

2016-08-13

Words:

612

It is not real. It is not real.

It is not real, across the glossy wooden table, dead eyes, daring Mark to avoid them. The sky is pale and cloudy and, around them, they are talking. About him. About Facebook. About four years ago, when both Mark Zuckerberg and Eduardo Saverin were on the masthead, above the other, below the other.

Eduardo is talking about him.

“So I was wondering why he came to me,” he says, “instead of his roommates, Chris Hughes and Dustin Moskovitz – they’re programmers.”

It is not real.

After, Mark takes out his cellphone, sends a text. Where are you staying?

Eduardo sends, minutes later, We shouldn’t be speaking. I don’t care that Dustin gave you my number.

So permission is not granted. Mark finds out, anyway, through faster ways than asking Dustin or Chris, through his laptop wires and the endless network around California and America and the world. He goes to Eduardo’s hotel room.

Eduardo says, “I told you we shouldn’t be speaking,” and shuts the door in his face.

“Eduardo.” Mark knocks anyway. “Eduardo.”

Eduardo says, “Fuck off, Mark.”

Mark continues knocking for what is probably five whole minutes. Eduardo swings the door open again so fast that Mark nearly topples over.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Eduardo says, voice strained, “we are in the middle of a lawsuit. I am suing you.”

“Yes,” says Mark. “I know.”

“What do you want?” Eduardo asks.

It is not real.

Sy says, “You were accused of animal cruelty.”

Mark almost laughs. It feels so long ago, but Eduardo goes pale anyway.

“Jesus,” he mutters, before he recounts the story.

He looks humiliated; Mark has never seen that before. Even on the day, he had been somewhere between bewildered and hysterical. That had been funnier to Mark.

He wonders what this must sound like to everyone else in the room – creating Facebook, forced cannibalism. It sounds like a drama lifted from fiction, but Mark knows it’s real. It’s his and Eduardo’s lives. This is –

“You told your lawyers I was torturing animals?” Eduardo is speaking to Mark now.

Before Mark can answer, Sy says, “No, our litagators are perfectly capable of finding a Crimson article. In fact, when we raised the subject with him, he defended you.”

This must be fiction too, Eduardo’s cold hard glare, Eduardo’s antipathy, Eduardo’s lies.

Mark shrugs and says, “Oops.”

It is not –

After (after, after) Mark says, “I hope you don’t expect me to apologize.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eduardo mutters. He doesn’t turn around.

Mark takes a step forward.

Eduardo spins, grapples Mark’s arms, surges forward. The clack of their teeth echo in the acoustics of the room, making clear the space between them and the walls. Them and the world. Everything is spinning and everything is not because it is just them and their mouths and their hands,

hands scrabbling, fumbling, mouths, lips, tongue, teeth,
the slight way Mark pants into Eduardo’s mouth, Eduardo prying Mark’s zipper open without prying their lips apart,
trying so fucking hard that his teeth are digging into Mark’s bottom lip and Mark does not whine, but

there’s a little bit of,
Eduardo licks the red off,

mutters, “Shit,”

and Mark says, “Fuck,” too, because, fuck, what are they –

skin contact and gasping and gasping and gasping,

Eduardo is so hot against Mark’s thigh and Mark barely touches, wants to get on his hands and knees and,

“Please,” and
“Wardo,” and

“Fuck, yeah,”

“Fuck,

fuck,

fuck – ”

Mark signs.

Eduardo flies to Singapore.

it is not real it is not real it is