I'm Alright (I Just Forget You All the Time) (1/4)
Title: i'm alright (i just forget you all the time)
Fandom: The Social Network
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Warnings: heavy angst, depression, drug and alcohol abuse, fleeting suicidal thoughts, and a minor incident involving physical abuse by an OMC
Word Count: 27,500
Summary: "He can't help but think to himself that, no matter what Dustin claims in his typical dramatic, theatrical manner, this isn't a love story. Maybe it's more of a growth story. Maybe this is Eduardo's growth story-his journey, about how he went from the worst place he's ever been to the best one imaginable." Or, after the depositions when Eduardo is at his lowest, the person to help him is the one he least expected.
Notes: Hey all! So I haven't been on here for a while, but it's because I've bene working on this massive thing forthesocialbbang, which has honestly been SO much fun! I got the idea from atsn_springfest prompt that was never filled. It needed to be filled. For science and my own survival. I won't say much else, except for don't let the warnings scare you away. It's pretty angsty in the first half, but you all know I'm a big old sap; the second half sort of melts into a warm and fuzzy pile of fluff. :) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! P.S. Eternal love to the best beta in the universe, Violet.
Fanart:
ART + FANMIX by the lovely, wonderful, flawless am41 (here have a preview because it's gorgeous, and there's more at the link!)
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | ART + FANMIX
//
“i'm alright
I just forget you all the time…
moving on
you might not know enough of me…”
//
Eduardo wakes groggily in the morning. He tries to hold off opening his eyes for as long as possible, and instead, clutches at the sheets wrapped around him for some frame of reference. They feel scratchy and rough, as does the comforter, so it feels safe to assume he’s not in his apartment.
He blinks slowly, the light streaming in from the window seeming obnoxiously bright. His head is already pounding from all the alcohol last night and his mouth tastes like something has crawled up and died in there.
He looks around for any sign of recognition, but soon it is clear that nope, he has absolutely no idea where he is. The bed is rumpled beside him, and as he puts his palm done to feel it, his stomach sinks when he realizes it still feels warm.
So he was with someone. Great. He just has absolutely no idea who.
Well, maybe it doesn’t matter, he thinks to himself as he rises from the bed gingerly, gathering his slacks and dress shirt off the floor and pulling them on haphazardly. He’s doing up the buttons on his shirt when he glances a gleaming, expensive watch on the bedside table and then oh, he remembers. Damn.
He hurriedly ties his shoes and tries to get out of there as fast as possible. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom and doesn’t want to have to do the morning after dance, especially considering... well, that.
Eduardo closes the door behind him softly on the way out, and finds he can breathe again when he’s out into the nondescript, vague-looking hotel hallway. He lets the memory of last night wash over him slowly and tries not to feel too grimy about it, and really tries not to remember how fucking young the guy last night looked, how the blonde curly hair had sprung as he pulled on it with his fingers, the way everything about the guy reminded him just a little of someone he’d rather forget.
He hails a taxi and gives the driver his address, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and concentrating on staving off the nausea that’s accompanying this wicked hangover. Not for the first time, he marvels how the bustle and noise of San Francisco can seem so comforting most of the time and so grating after a night like that.
It isn’t long until they pull up at his apartment complex. He throws a couple bills at the driver; he can’t be bothered to count them properly and it’s not like he can’t afford it. He makes his way up to his apartment quickly, just wanting to get back home and sleep for a year. He just woke up, but he feels exhausted.
First, he throws himself into the shower, scrubbing off what feels like an invisible layer of filth. It’s then when he notices the bruises on his hips, the bite marks on the inside of his thighs, proof that he can’t just pretend last night was a figment of his imagination.
He presses his fingers to the marks and tries to feel something. It doesn’t work.
//
The thing is, he hasn’t lost control. At least not completely.
Eduardo is a stickler about some things. He always goes to work completely sober and doesn’t let his personal relationships interfere there.
What’s more, he’s fucking good at his job. All his colleagues know it and he gets along with everyone there. And he likes it, working with start-ups. It’s always new and interesting and he does good work, and furthermore, makes good money doing it. What his father thinks is unwanted and unnecessary.
But the nights… Nights are more difficult, in terms of control.
It’s harder to distract himself, which is where the drinking and the and the smoking and the sex all come in.
But even then, there are some limits he sticks to. Eduardo never does drugs-he refuses to, because he is not Sean Parker, thank you very much (other than a little bit of pot, but that was just once). Also, everyone he picks up is around his age, because again, not Sean Parker. And the smoking thing, that’s just a nervous habit. He can stop anytime he wants.
Plus, it works, it all works, he doesn’t think about Facebook or Mark or feel sorry for himself and he is legitimately, properly distracted… until morning hits, and Eduardo wakes up in another bed with another hangover, relentless. Not to mention another helping of self-hatred to pile onto himself, or guilt for that matter.
He’s come to realize that all distractions pale and seem pathetic in the clear light of dawn.
//
The first time Eduardo sees Mark again, it’s at a convention on social networking.
Worst of all, Eduardo didn’t even expect to see him, which just makes him feel a whole new level of stupid. Where else would Mark be, when there was a conference on the many benefits of social networking in the Bay area? When he looks closer at his program, he sees that Mark is actually the keynote speaker, which is just… fuck.
Eduardo is there with a client. He had hoped to be able to show him the ropes of the technology world of Silicon Valley, and hopefully impart some knowledge of old fashioned business networking in the process. The kid is young, but he has a great idea… A product that could explode, become so much more than its founder.
(Not that he reminds Eduardo of anyone or anything. At least, Eduardo won’t admit to that.)
But now he looks at the program, the name Mark Zuckerberg in black and white, matter-of-fact, almost clinical type, and he feels sick. He thinks he might vomit, make a fool of himself in front of everyone, and of course, feeding into the cycle, hates himself for getting worked up over this little thing.
“Eduardo?” the client, Paul, asks. “Are you… are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
His eyes are trapped on the program, he can’t look up but he has to, has to unfreeze himself and act like a normal, functioning, non-fucked-up human being.
As soon as he does, he regrets it.
Because there is Mark, standing at the front of the room, shuffling some papers in his hands and his mouth moving quickly. Eduardo assumes that he’s running through his speech.
He’s cleaned up, wearing a suit-God knows why, Eduardo doesn’t care how long it’s been but he knows Mark did not put on that suit voluntarily. He looks… good. No different than the last time Eduardo saw him, but something in his heart kind of tugs to see him after so long. And Eduardo hates himself just a little bit more for that.
Chris is behind him, talking firmly to some organizer of the event. Their conversation seems to reach an end as the organizer stalks away in a huff-Eduardo wonders if maybe Mark’s offended them somehow-and Chris rolls his eyes and turns his head and sees Eduardo.
Eduardo knows he does, bone-deep, can feel it like an electric shock when their eyes meet but also knows it by the look on Chris’ face. There’s a little bit of surprise there, but mixed with other emotions like pity and confusion and worry. He looks like he’s about to head over, but then Mark turns to him, pointing to a line on the papers, and Chris is distracted.
Paul the client is still looking at Eduardo like he’s worried Eduardo may get sick right then and there, so obviously it hasn’t been that long, even though to Eduardo it feels like that tiny exchange took ages.
He directs his gaze to his shoes, “I, just-Sorry Paul, I think the food at the restaurant, um… might have made me sick and- Er, do you mind if I step out? For a minute?”
Paul is nodding, saying, “Sure, of course man,” but Eduardo is practically sprinting toward the door before the words are out of his mouth, because he just has to get out of there.
When he gets outside to the sidewalk he practically wilts against the side of the building, drawing his knees up to his chest. Eduardo is suddenly sure he’s going to die; he’s never been surer of anything in his entire life. His chest feels tight and he can’t breathe, even though he’s panting as if he’s just run a marathon. He’s trembling all over and he can see it in his hands as he raises them up to cover his face, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until there are white bursts behind his eyes. Everything is so hot and suddenly he’s sweating buckets, despite the chilly nip of the evening air. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth, accelerated and pounding, and god what if he passes out here or worse, what will everyone inside think and everything is spinning and and and and and-
Eduardo closes his eyes and tries to push around the racing thoughts, remembering something he once read. He counts his breaths internally until he can feel them slow down, concentrates on the sounds of crickets chirping until he stops feeling so dizzy.
He opens his eyes hesitantly, glances at his watch and sees it’s been half an hour. He doesn’t quite know what to do with that information, but he does know that there is no way in hell that he can go back in there. He hurriedly taps out a quick, vague text to Paul-saying only that he got sick, he’s sorry, and they’ll do it again another time-and makes his way to his car on unsteady legs. Driving is probably not advisable right now, but he feels too shaken and nervous to call a cab.
Eduardo grinds his teeth the whole ride home and clutches the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go white, but he makes it. As soon as he unlocks the door, he turns off all the lights and shucks his shoes, pants, and belt, flopping onto his bed and passing out as soon as his head hits the pillow.
//
After that episode, Eduardo only gets worse. His throws himself harder into his job, stunning his coworkers and even himself with the fanaticism he exhibits.
Furthermore, the total number of nights he’s had to wake up in a strange bed increases exponentially. He stops going home with girls entirely-not for any specific reason, at least, not a conscious one. It just so happens that it’s always guys now, guys he lets tie him up or hold him down or bite him and fuck him not so nicely, just to stave off the all-consuming, ever looming numbness he is so afraid of.
His lines blur even further when one night at a club the guy he’s been dancing with (and planning on going home with, in an hour or two) offers him some colorful pills. Everything inside him screams that this isn’t a good idea, but when he looks into the guy’s crystal-clear, hypnotizing blue eyes (eyes that remind him a little too much of that someone he avoids thinking of at every turn), it is hard to say no.
The rest of the night is a hazy blur of hands and teeth and lust. Eduardo wakes before the sunrise and feels so embarrassed, so ashamed of himself that he fumbles around for his clothes and shoes and quietly makes his way out in the dark. He has to fight off another panic attack (because he’s identified the incident from that conference now) the whole taxi-ride back to his apartment.
Not to say that his boundaries have disappeared completely. There is one night when he goes home with a big, burly guy, covered in tattoos; not his usual type but the guy wants him, wants him bad and Eduardo is more than a little drunk. He’s just blown him, but the man (whose name Eduardo can’t quite remember-Kurt or maybe Charles?) tugs on his hair just a little too hard, before he comes, slurring, “Mmm, stop, want you to fuck me.”
Eduardo’s not opposed to the idea until he’s fumbling for the condom and the guy tries to knock it out of his hand. “C’mon… just you, baby,” he manages.
Eduardo can’t conceal his shock, mouth agape and eyes sharp. He may be drunk but he isn’t stupid; he’s not about to bareback a total fucking stranger and this guy is insane to think he would just go along with it.
So he reaches for the condom again, insistent-but the guy sort of growls at him and makes a grab for it. “Baby, stop. Wanna feel you, want you to come inside me...”
The word baby sounds wrong, too dirty coming out of his mouth, and Eduardo feels slimy in his own skin with this guy’s hands all over him, one running up and down his side and the other tangling with Eduardo’s hand for the condom packet. “No,” he replies, trying to sound definite, “Stop it, no, I’m not doing it like that.”
The man’s expression contorts into something more like a thundercloud, and Eduardo feels something hot on his face, centered around his eye, before he can even process what’s happened. He scrambles off the bed, grabbing his slacks and shirt but abandoning his jacket and shoes (because it’s just not worth it and he needs to get out now) with one hand pressed over his eye all the while. Eduardo is sure it will swell tomorrow.
“Thought you were up for it,” the guy taunts from the bed, “C’mon, you dirty little slut-”
The word pierces the air, stings… and now Eduardo’s face sets into something grave, the kind of face that precedes the smashing of laptops. “Fuck. You.” he says, leaning forward and punctuating each word with a jab of his finger, before turning on his heel and slamming the door shut behind him.
He walks three blocks barefoot before he manages to catch a taxi outside that stupid, seedy hotel. Once he manages to get one, he rushes in, gives the driver his address, and then proceeds to fall apart.
//
That’s the only time-the only time he’s even been hit, for one, because no matter what happens that line is black and white and Eduardo will never, ever do that to himself. And it’s also the only other time he has another breakdown after the first.
He’s been purposefully avoiding going to functions where he thinks Mark will show up because he’s too afraid it will happen again.
Come to think of it, he pretty much stops going to functions completely… But he stays at the office later and takes on extra work to make up for it. He doesn’t say anything to anyone about it, but he just doesn’t trust himself there anymore. Which is a shame, because that’s something he used to really love doing.
It seems to work out really well until his boss approaches him and asks him to go to some kind of charity ball thing for putting state-of-the-art technology in inner city schools. “I know you haven’t really been going to conventions lately and I don’t know why, and that’s fine, but-I really need someone at this one, and you’re the best person for these kinds of things.” She’s gentle but firm about it, and he can’t say no to that.
This time he is prepared: he scans the donor list and sees Facebook there, so he mentally readies himself to possibly see Mark again. He doesn’t know for sure if he will, only knows that he might, but it still scares the shit out of him.
The conference starts off going really well. Eduardo is able to chat with people and network a little bit. He’s feeling pretty okay, better than he has in a while… Because he’s doing something that he’s good at and something that is good. For the first time in a long time, he’s not concentrating on chasing away the numbness. He’s just there.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mark walk in. He’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt, looking much more like himself. Immediately Mark is kind of swept up into a group of people. Which makes sense with this crowd, after what he did for Newark schools, and also just because it’s Mark, and he’s probably never going to stop being a big deal in the tech world.
It throws Eduardo off a little bit just to see him trying to fend off all the people, obviously uncomfortable. Something in his brain jolts and Eduardo thinks we have groupies. A smile tugs at the edges of his lips before he can tamp it down.
Immediately he’s mad at himself for it, because he shouldn’t still feel fond of Mark, he knows. Not after everything. Mark doesn’t deserve it and Eduardo doesn’t need to keep torturing himself with it.
His current conversation is drawing to a close, so he excuses himself politely and tries to ignore the sudden pounding in his head. He makes a beeline for the bar. If he’s going to make it through this night, he’s going to need a drink.
//
It starts off like this: Eduardo gets a drink every time he sees Mark and feels something he’d rather not.
He looks at Mark scowling at a crusty older attendee, and he gets a drink. He sees Mark roll his eyes when Chris fusses with his suit, and he gets a drink. He sees Mark smile genuinely at a young girl from one of the inner city schools the charity is supporting, and he gets a drink.
Soon the game just morphs into getting a drink every time his glass as empty, because he’s basically just cutting out the middleman. He’s already on his way to spectacularly drunk at this point; this is just more efficient.
People come over to talk to him at his position at the bar a little, and that’s fine. Eduardo has always been a very articulate drunk, and he can hold his own in these kinds of business small talk, no problem. But at the moment he’s unoccupied, staring at the ice in his quickly emptying glass and he hears from behind him, “Gin and tonic, please,” and Eduardo would never, ever mistake that voice for anyone else.
He clenches his teeth and tightens his hold on the glass in his hand as he watches Mark sit down in the seat right beside him. The silence feels stifling, and the room is starting to spin just a little and Eduardo is feeling so very, very drunk and so very, very reckless.
As the minutes pass, what gets to him most is his annoyance at the possibility that Mark may sit here the whole time, finish his drink, and not say a single word to Eduardo like he is nothing, like he is just another donor at this event and not someone that Mark used to be best friends with, or cofounded a website with, or even just used to know at college. And that just seems so unfair, so wrong and Eduardo’s not going to let that happen.
He turns around on his chair to face Mark. “Worked up your nerve, huh?” he asks, words coming out with a bite that he didn’t intend but certainly doesn’t object to now.
Mark smiles humorlessly. “Almost,” he replies, gesturing to glass in his hand. “That’s what the drink is for.”
Eduardo snorts and shakes his head a little. “Great,” he says, just to fill the silence. Because silence makes things awkward and he doesn’t want to feel awkward. If anyone should feel awkward it’s Mark, because he’s earned that, but not Eduardo.
Mark nods jerkily, just once, short. He makes a hissing sound as he takes a sip of his drink and sets it back down. “So,” he begins, looking Eduardo dead in the eye. “How have you been?”
Eduardo practically falls off his chair.
Because no, that is not how their first conversation is supposed to start. Ideally, Eduardo would start off with a cutting dig to make Mark uneasy, and then lay into him about everything-the dilution, the depositions, Harvard. Eduardo is supposed to have the upper hand here, because he is the winner. Mark settled, and sure, by his standards it wasn’t a very big loss, but he caved in and that means something. Right?
Besides, they shouldn’t be exchanging civil small talk like they’re just any other two businessmen at this thing, because that’s just not true. They’re never going to be that, not to Eduardo anyway.
“What do you care?” Eduardo asks, voice dangerously low. How obtuse of Mark, to toss Eduardo out of the company like he was trash, stare at him across a deposition table blankly for months on end, and then have the audacity to ask how Eduardo is.
Mark looks a little taken aback, but Eduardo feels absolutely no pity, no empathy at all for him. None. Definitely not.
“You don’t care,” he continues in the same undertone. “If you actually cared you would have talked to me a long time ago. You would have picked up the phone to explain yourself, you would have tried to actually communicate before just giving up and throwing me out, and you certainly would have tried to make amends before now, so don’t fucking pretend.” Eduardo spits the word out like it’s poisonous, and Mark flinches at it. Eduardo furiously thinks, good.
Mark’s gaze has directed down to his shoes, eyes steely and jaw set. Eduardo is too drunk to interpret his facial expression; he can’t tell if Mark is hurt or angry or fed up or some combination of all of the above. When he looks back up to meet Eduardo’s face, his eyes are carefully, deliberately blank. “You’re an idiot,” he says in a perfectly unruffled tone. “If that’s what you really think, then you’re an idiot.”
Eduardo stares at him, gaping. “Really?” he asks, his volume heightening. “Please, Mark, what was I supposed to think? Enlighten me!” His voice is loud and stupid with emotion but he can’t bring himself to care-doesn’t think it matters, not right now.
Mark just shakes his head minutely. “You must see that you weren’t the best CFO for the company, that something had to happen for the good of Facebook-”
“Don’t give me that shit!” Eduardo yells. He’s actually yelling now, he’s totally lost it. So much for professionalism. “Don’t act like it was all just business, because we both fucking know that’s not true. Nothing was never just business between us!” He had stood up fast when he first raised his voice, and now he feels himself swaying on his feet. The lights are bright and whirling around him, a little unfocused, but Mark is before him and he at least is crystal clear.
Chris is rushing over from the other side of the room, looking angry and panicked. Eduardo doesn’t know which reaction is for whom and can’t be bothered with puzzling that out right now. He just wants to have the last word with Mark, just this once-wants to leave him with a final dig that will hurt, fester like Eduardo has festered.
“You know what I think?” he continues, leaning in closer to Mark so no one else can hear and lowering his voice. Mark meets his gaze and doesn’t back down. “I think that you’re not even trying to do this to make peace with me. You want to make nice and you want me to forgive you to clear your own guilty conscience. But guess what?”
“What?” Mark asks in a resigned tone, putting up absolutely no fight. And fine. That just makes things easier.
“I’m not going to give it to you. I’m never giving you that.” Eduardo’s voice breaks on the word never, but it doesn’t matter, because Chris’ hands are on his shoulders, pulling him away, breaking it up.
Eduardo can see as he walks away that Mark looks openly unhappy now, his mouth downturned and his brow furrowed. He looks like he did when Eduardo told him he was coming back for everything: openly wounded and vulnerable.
Chris tells Eduardo off in furious, hissing whispers as he leads them outside and stuffs them both into a cab. Eduardo isn’t listening to him in the slightest; everything is a blur from the alcohol and the fury.
All he can think is that he doesn’t feel the numbness anymore. Instead, it’s replaced with a sharp, stabbing ache in his chest.
Eduardo has spent so much time fending off the numbness that it comes like a revelation when he remembers: feeling is no better.
//
He doesn’t remember at what point he passed out. The last thing Eduardo can recall is stumbling into Chris’ apartment, with Chris’ admonishing still echoing in his ears, just bouncing around in there without really being attached to any meaning. But at least he’s not that disoriented when he wakes up in the morning. He’s woken up to much worse.
Chris looks up from the armchair by the couch Eduardo had slept on over the top of the newspaper. He raises a disapproving eyebrow as Eduardo scrubs a hand over his face with a grimace. His head is pounding; he can literally feel his heartbeat throbbing everywhere and he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to vomit in the next ten minutes. He can’t even remember the last time he was this hung-over, which is quite a feat considering how much he’s been drinking lately.
There is a rustle as Chris puts down his paper, sitting forward and handing Eduardo two aspirin and a glass of water he’s grabbed from the side table. Eduardo murmurs “Thanks,” and takes it, tossing it back as quickly as he can and wincing as he puts the glass down on the coffee table in front of him, the sharp sound of the glass meeting the wood amplified in his groggy brain.
Chris clears his throat and Eduardo looks at him. Chris still looks disapproving but there is an edge of sympathy to it now. “I don’t envy the morning you’re about to have,” Chris says kindly, and Eduardo snorts a little in response.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” he replies, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. Everything is just too damn bright.
A moment of silence falls over the room as they sit there. Eduardo knows that something’s coming, otherwise why would Chris still be here?
Finally Chris speaks, tone hesitant. “I think we should talk about last night.”
Eduardo groans, moving to lean back against the couch so he can see Chris without having to hold his head up. “Chris, the absolute last thing I want to do right now is talk about last night.”
Chris offers him a bit of a wry smile. “I know, but wait. You have to hear me out on this, Eduardo.”
“Are you going to tell me how irresponsible I was again? Because I got enough of that last night. Besides, I got very-very-drunk and it was unintentional and I just lost control and-”
“No, no, none of that,” Chris assures him, looking a little bit guilty. He takes a deep breath before continuing, and it makes Eduardo a tad bit nervous. “Listen… Are you okay?”
Eduardo just looks at him, because he really doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully, Chris plows on before the silence is too awkward.
“Because… last night when all that happened, it seemed like you had been holding onto that stuff for a while and-that’s just not like you, Eduardo. You don’t hold grudges and you don’t lose control like that. And you just don’t look good either, it seems like you haven’t been taking care of yourself, and when I saw you at that conference a couple weeks ago you looked like death warmed over and… I’m worried about you, Eduardo,” Chris finishes, looking concerned.
Eduardo refuses to look up. He’s glaring down at his shoes like if he tries hard enough he can set them on fire. “Why are you telling me this?” he bites out, feeling resentful.
Chris flinches as if Eduardo’s slapped him. “I-I want you to be okay, Eduardo; I care about you and you’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you like this; it’s not good for you-”
Eduardo cuts off Chris’ words with a scoff. “Please,” he spits out, hearing the bitterness in his own tone but unable to stop it. “Don’t act like you did all this because we’re friends. Chris, we’re not friends, not the way we were-now we’re just those people who get together every couple of months to have coffee and talk politics and reminisce about college. You did this… you brought me here to prevent my, my-my altercation with Mark last night from getting any uglier, and you brought me here to make sure I wouldn’t walk out of that benefit and accidentally spill the story to one of the reporters waiting outside, or worse, sell them the details. I mean, let’s face it, you probably slapped the cab driver and all of the people who really saw what was going on with NDAs, and you’ve basically guaranteed it won’t make the papers. You’re Facebook’s PR guy, first and foremost, and right now I’m just a liability.”
He exhales a little when it is all out, eyes finally chancing a look at Chris’ face. His mouth is tight, eyes narrowed and searching like he’s trying to puzzle out what Eduardo’s motive is here. Finally he nods once, decided, and claps his hands on his thighs, looking at the ground. He shakes his head a little, muttering, “Boy, Eduardo, you’re sure on a roll with hurting people who care about you…”
Eduardo doesn’t reply because he has no idea what’s that supposed to mean. Chris may care but that’s just for his own self-interest, and Mark couldn’t give less of a shit about Eduardo. He probably doesn’t even care if Eduardo lives or dies.
“Fine,” Chris says, effectively cutting off Eduardo’s thoughts and looking Eduardo unflinchingly in the eye. “If that’s what you really think, get out.”
Eduardo nods and rises, because he was expecting that, grabbing his suit jacket off the couch and heading toward the door.
“Eduardo,” Chris calls out once more, hurrying to catch him. Eduardo turns, and Chris shoves something into the palm of his hand and doesn’t let go, covering it with his own hand so Eduardo can’t see it.
“Take this for what it’s worth,” he says, voice full of resolve. “I know you think I don’t care and you’re wrong but I know I’m not going to change your mind. Just… don’t ignore this out of spite for me, or for Mark, or for anyone, okay?”
They look at each other for a handful of seconds before Chris is stepping aside to open the door without a word. Eduardo leaves wordlessly, walking purposefully and determinedly down Chris’ driveway (in case Chris is still watching, he can be dejected and pathetic and miserable later when he’s alone) and towards the main road, where he catches a taxi back to his building.
He doesn’t remember the paper in his hand until he’s in the elevator up towards his apartment. When he flips it over, he sees it’s a card for a therapist with a phone number written below in dark print.
Most of him wants to crumple it up into pieces and throw it into the trash as soon as he slams his apartment door closed. But somehow, he ends up just setting it gently on the counter-the small part of his brain that is screaming at him right now, outraged that he’s pushed away yet another person who just wants to help because he’s too depressed and angry at the world for reason, somehow winning out. It’s not much, but maybe it’s something.
//
NEXT
Fandom: The Social Network
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Warnings: heavy angst, depression, drug and alcohol abuse, fleeting suicidal thoughts, and a minor incident involving physical abuse by an OMC
Word Count: 27,500
Summary: "He can't help but think to himself that, no matter what Dustin claims in his typical dramatic, theatrical manner, this isn't a love story. Maybe it's more of a growth story. Maybe this is Eduardo's growth story-his journey, about how he went from the worst place he's ever been to the best one imaginable." Or, after the depositions when Eduardo is at his lowest, the person to help him is the one he least expected.
Notes: Hey all! So I haven't been on here for a while, but it's because I've bene working on this massive thing forthesocialbbang, which has honestly been SO much fun! I got the idea from atsn_springfest prompt that was never filled. It needed to be filled. For science and my own survival. I won't say much else, except for don't let the warnings scare you away. It's pretty angsty in the first half, but you all know I'm a big old sap; the second half sort of melts into a warm and fuzzy pile of fluff. :) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! P.S. Eternal love to the best beta in the universe, Violet.
Fanart:
ART + FANMIX by the lovely, wonderful, flawless am41 (here have a preview because it's gorgeous, and there's more at the link!)
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | ART + FANMIX
//
“i'm alright
I just forget you all the time…
moving on
you might not know enough of me…”
//
Eduardo wakes groggily in the morning. He tries to hold off opening his eyes for as long as possible, and instead, clutches at the sheets wrapped around him for some frame of reference. They feel scratchy and rough, as does the comforter, so it feels safe to assume he’s not in his apartment.
He blinks slowly, the light streaming in from the window seeming obnoxiously bright. His head is already pounding from all the alcohol last night and his mouth tastes like something has crawled up and died in there.
He looks around for any sign of recognition, but soon it is clear that nope, he has absolutely no idea where he is. The bed is rumpled beside him, and as he puts his palm done to feel it, his stomach sinks when he realizes it still feels warm.
So he was with someone. Great. He just has absolutely no idea who.
Well, maybe it doesn’t matter, he thinks to himself as he rises from the bed gingerly, gathering his slacks and dress shirt off the floor and pulling them on haphazardly. He’s doing up the buttons on his shirt when he glances a gleaming, expensive watch on the bedside table and then oh, he remembers. Damn.
He hurriedly ties his shoes and tries to get out of there as fast as possible. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom and doesn’t want to have to do the morning after dance, especially considering... well, that.
Eduardo closes the door behind him softly on the way out, and finds he can breathe again when he’s out into the nondescript, vague-looking hotel hallway. He lets the memory of last night wash over him slowly and tries not to feel too grimy about it, and really tries not to remember how fucking young the guy last night looked, how the blonde curly hair had sprung as he pulled on it with his fingers, the way everything about the guy reminded him just a little of someone he’d rather forget.
He hails a taxi and gives the driver his address, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and concentrating on staving off the nausea that’s accompanying this wicked hangover. Not for the first time, he marvels how the bustle and noise of San Francisco can seem so comforting most of the time and so grating after a night like that.
It isn’t long until they pull up at his apartment complex. He throws a couple bills at the driver; he can’t be bothered to count them properly and it’s not like he can’t afford it. He makes his way up to his apartment quickly, just wanting to get back home and sleep for a year. He just woke up, but he feels exhausted.
First, he throws himself into the shower, scrubbing off what feels like an invisible layer of filth. It’s then when he notices the bruises on his hips, the bite marks on the inside of his thighs, proof that he can’t just pretend last night was a figment of his imagination.
He presses his fingers to the marks and tries to feel something. It doesn’t work.
//
The thing is, he hasn’t lost control. At least not completely.
Eduardo is a stickler about some things. He always goes to work completely sober and doesn’t let his personal relationships interfere there.
What’s more, he’s fucking good at his job. All his colleagues know it and he gets along with everyone there. And he likes it, working with start-ups. It’s always new and interesting and he does good work, and furthermore, makes good money doing it. What his father thinks is unwanted and unnecessary.
But the nights… Nights are more difficult, in terms of control.
It’s harder to distract himself, which is where the drinking and the and the smoking and the sex all come in.
But even then, there are some limits he sticks to. Eduardo never does drugs-he refuses to, because he is not Sean Parker, thank you very much (other than a little bit of pot, but that was just once). Also, everyone he picks up is around his age, because again, not Sean Parker. And the smoking thing, that’s just a nervous habit. He can stop anytime he wants.
Plus, it works, it all works, he doesn’t think about Facebook or Mark or feel sorry for himself and he is legitimately, properly distracted… until morning hits, and Eduardo wakes up in another bed with another hangover, relentless. Not to mention another helping of self-hatred to pile onto himself, or guilt for that matter.
He’s come to realize that all distractions pale and seem pathetic in the clear light of dawn.
//
The first time Eduardo sees Mark again, it’s at a convention on social networking.
Worst of all, Eduardo didn’t even expect to see him, which just makes him feel a whole new level of stupid. Where else would Mark be, when there was a conference on the many benefits of social networking in the Bay area? When he looks closer at his program, he sees that Mark is actually the keynote speaker, which is just… fuck.
Eduardo is there with a client. He had hoped to be able to show him the ropes of the technology world of Silicon Valley, and hopefully impart some knowledge of old fashioned business networking in the process. The kid is young, but he has a great idea… A product that could explode, become so much more than its founder.
(Not that he reminds Eduardo of anyone or anything. At least, Eduardo won’t admit to that.)
But now he looks at the program, the name Mark Zuckerberg in black and white, matter-of-fact, almost clinical type, and he feels sick. He thinks he might vomit, make a fool of himself in front of everyone, and of course, feeding into the cycle, hates himself for getting worked up over this little thing.
“Eduardo?” the client, Paul, asks. “Are you… are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
His eyes are trapped on the program, he can’t look up but he has to, has to unfreeze himself and act like a normal, functioning, non-fucked-up human being.
As soon as he does, he regrets it.
Because there is Mark, standing at the front of the room, shuffling some papers in his hands and his mouth moving quickly. Eduardo assumes that he’s running through his speech.
He’s cleaned up, wearing a suit-God knows why, Eduardo doesn’t care how long it’s been but he knows Mark did not put on that suit voluntarily. He looks… good. No different than the last time Eduardo saw him, but something in his heart kind of tugs to see him after so long. And Eduardo hates himself just a little bit more for that.
Chris is behind him, talking firmly to some organizer of the event. Their conversation seems to reach an end as the organizer stalks away in a huff-Eduardo wonders if maybe Mark’s offended them somehow-and Chris rolls his eyes and turns his head and sees Eduardo.
Eduardo knows he does, bone-deep, can feel it like an electric shock when their eyes meet but also knows it by the look on Chris’ face. There’s a little bit of surprise there, but mixed with other emotions like pity and confusion and worry. He looks like he’s about to head over, but then Mark turns to him, pointing to a line on the papers, and Chris is distracted.
Paul the client is still looking at Eduardo like he’s worried Eduardo may get sick right then and there, so obviously it hasn’t been that long, even though to Eduardo it feels like that tiny exchange took ages.
He directs his gaze to his shoes, “I, just-Sorry Paul, I think the food at the restaurant, um… might have made me sick and- Er, do you mind if I step out? For a minute?”
Paul is nodding, saying, “Sure, of course man,” but Eduardo is practically sprinting toward the door before the words are out of his mouth, because he just has to get out of there.
When he gets outside to the sidewalk he practically wilts against the side of the building, drawing his knees up to his chest. Eduardo is suddenly sure he’s going to die; he’s never been surer of anything in his entire life. His chest feels tight and he can’t breathe, even though he’s panting as if he’s just run a marathon. He’s trembling all over and he can see it in his hands as he raises them up to cover his face, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until there are white bursts behind his eyes. Everything is so hot and suddenly he’s sweating buckets, despite the chilly nip of the evening air. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth, accelerated and pounding, and god what if he passes out here or worse, what will everyone inside think and everything is spinning and and and and and-
Eduardo closes his eyes and tries to push around the racing thoughts, remembering something he once read. He counts his breaths internally until he can feel them slow down, concentrates on the sounds of crickets chirping until he stops feeling so dizzy.
He opens his eyes hesitantly, glances at his watch and sees it’s been half an hour. He doesn’t quite know what to do with that information, but he does know that there is no way in hell that he can go back in there. He hurriedly taps out a quick, vague text to Paul-saying only that he got sick, he’s sorry, and they’ll do it again another time-and makes his way to his car on unsteady legs. Driving is probably not advisable right now, but he feels too shaken and nervous to call a cab.
Eduardo grinds his teeth the whole ride home and clutches the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go white, but he makes it. As soon as he unlocks the door, he turns off all the lights and shucks his shoes, pants, and belt, flopping onto his bed and passing out as soon as his head hits the pillow.
//
After that episode, Eduardo only gets worse. His throws himself harder into his job, stunning his coworkers and even himself with the fanaticism he exhibits.
Furthermore, the total number of nights he’s had to wake up in a strange bed increases exponentially. He stops going home with girls entirely-not for any specific reason, at least, not a conscious one. It just so happens that it’s always guys now, guys he lets tie him up or hold him down or bite him and fuck him not so nicely, just to stave off the all-consuming, ever looming numbness he is so afraid of.
His lines blur even further when one night at a club the guy he’s been dancing with (and planning on going home with, in an hour or two) offers him some colorful pills. Everything inside him screams that this isn’t a good idea, but when he looks into the guy’s crystal-clear, hypnotizing blue eyes (eyes that remind him a little too much of that someone he avoids thinking of at every turn), it is hard to say no.
The rest of the night is a hazy blur of hands and teeth and lust. Eduardo wakes before the sunrise and feels so embarrassed, so ashamed of himself that he fumbles around for his clothes and shoes and quietly makes his way out in the dark. He has to fight off another panic attack (because he’s identified the incident from that conference now) the whole taxi-ride back to his apartment.
Not to say that his boundaries have disappeared completely. There is one night when he goes home with a big, burly guy, covered in tattoos; not his usual type but the guy wants him, wants him bad and Eduardo is more than a little drunk. He’s just blown him, but the man (whose name Eduardo can’t quite remember-Kurt or maybe Charles?) tugs on his hair just a little too hard, before he comes, slurring, “Mmm, stop, want you to fuck me.”
Eduardo’s not opposed to the idea until he’s fumbling for the condom and the guy tries to knock it out of his hand. “C’mon… just you, baby,” he manages.
Eduardo can’t conceal his shock, mouth agape and eyes sharp. He may be drunk but he isn’t stupid; he’s not about to bareback a total fucking stranger and this guy is insane to think he would just go along with it.
So he reaches for the condom again, insistent-but the guy sort of growls at him and makes a grab for it. “Baby, stop. Wanna feel you, want you to come inside me...”
The word baby sounds wrong, too dirty coming out of his mouth, and Eduardo feels slimy in his own skin with this guy’s hands all over him, one running up and down his side and the other tangling with Eduardo’s hand for the condom packet. “No,” he replies, trying to sound definite, “Stop it, no, I’m not doing it like that.”
The man’s expression contorts into something more like a thundercloud, and Eduardo feels something hot on his face, centered around his eye, before he can even process what’s happened. He scrambles off the bed, grabbing his slacks and shirt but abandoning his jacket and shoes (because it’s just not worth it and he needs to get out now) with one hand pressed over his eye all the while. Eduardo is sure it will swell tomorrow.
“Thought you were up for it,” the guy taunts from the bed, “C’mon, you dirty little slut-”
The word pierces the air, stings… and now Eduardo’s face sets into something grave, the kind of face that precedes the smashing of laptops. “Fuck. You.” he says, leaning forward and punctuating each word with a jab of his finger, before turning on his heel and slamming the door shut behind him.
He walks three blocks barefoot before he manages to catch a taxi outside that stupid, seedy hotel. Once he manages to get one, he rushes in, gives the driver his address, and then proceeds to fall apart.
//
That’s the only time-the only time he’s even been hit, for one, because no matter what happens that line is black and white and Eduardo will never, ever do that to himself. And it’s also the only other time he has another breakdown after the first.
He’s been purposefully avoiding going to functions where he thinks Mark will show up because he’s too afraid it will happen again.
Come to think of it, he pretty much stops going to functions completely… But he stays at the office later and takes on extra work to make up for it. He doesn’t say anything to anyone about it, but he just doesn’t trust himself there anymore. Which is a shame, because that’s something he used to really love doing.
It seems to work out really well until his boss approaches him and asks him to go to some kind of charity ball thing for putting state-of-the-art technology in inner city schools. “I know you haven’t really been going to conventions lately and I don’t know why, and that’s fine, but-I really need someone at this one, and you’re the best person for these kinds of things.” She’s gentle but firm about it, and he can’t say no to that.
This time he is prepared: he scans the donor list and sees Facebook there, so he mentally readies himself to possibly see Mark again. He doesn’t know for sure if he will, only knows that he might, but it still scares the shit out of him.
The conference starts off going really well. Eduardo is able to chat with people and network a little bit. He’s feeling pretty okay, better than he has in a while… Because he’s doing something that he’s good at and something that is good. For the first time in a long time, he’s not concentrating on chasing away the numbness. He’s just there.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mark walk in. He’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt, looking much more like himself. Immediately Mark is kind of swept up into a group of people. Which makes sense with this crowd, after what he did for Newark schools, and also just because it’s Mark, and he’s probably never going to stop being a big deal in the tech world.
It throws Eduardo off a little bit just to see him trying to fend off all the people, obviously uncomfortable. Something in his brain jolts and Eduardo thinks we have groupies. A smile tugs at the edges of his lips before he can tamp it down.
Immediately he’s mad at himself for it, because he shouldn’t still feel fond of Mark, he knows. Not after everything. Mark doesn’t deserve it and Eduardo doesn’t need to keep torturing himself with it.
His current conversation is drawing to a close, so he excuses himself politely and tries to ignore the sudden pounding in his head. He makes a beeline for the bar. If he’s going to make it through this night, he’s going to need a drink.
//
It starts off like this: Eduardo gets a drink every time he sees Mark and feels something he’d rather not.
He looks at Mark scowling at a crusty older attendee, and he gets a drink. He sees Mark roll his eyes when Chris fusses with his suit, and he gets a drink. He sees Mark smile genuinely at a young girl from one of the inner city schools the charity is supporting, and he gets a drink.
Soon the game just morphs into getting a drink every time his glass as empty, because he’s basically just cutting out the middleman. He’s already on his way to spectacularly drunk at this point; this is just more efficient.
People come over to talk to him at his position at the bar a little, and that’s fine. Eduardo has always been a very articulate drunk, and he can hold his own in these kinds of business small talk, no problem. But at the moment he’s unoccupied, staring at the ice in his quickly emptying glass and he hears from behind him, “Gin and tonic, please,” and Eduardo would never, ever mistake that voice for anyone else.
He clenches his teeth and tightens his hold on the glass in his hand as he watches Mark sit down in the seat right beside him. The silence feels stifling, and the room is starting to spin just a little and Eduardo is feeling so very, very drunk and so very, very reckless.
As the minutes pass, what gets to him most is his annoyance at the possibility that Mark may sit here the whole time, finish his drink, and not say a single word to Eduardo like he is nothing, like he is just another donor at this event and not someone that Mark used to be best friends with, or cofounded a website with, or even just used to know at college. And that just seems so unfair, so wrong and Eduardo’s not going to let that happen.
He turns around on his chair to face Mark. “Worked up your nerve, huh?” he asks, words coming out with a bite that he didn’t intend but certainly doesn’t object to now.
Mark smiles humorlessly. “Almost,” he replies, gesturing to glass in his hand. “That’s what the drink is for.”
Eduardo snorts and shakes his head a little. “Great,” he says, just to fill the silence. Because silence makes things awkward and he doesn’t want to feel awkward. If anyone should feel awkward it’s Mark, because he’s earned that, but not Eduardo.
Mark nods jerkily, just once, short. He makes a hissing sound as he takes a sip of his drink and sets it back down. “So,” he begins, looking Eduardo dead in the eye. “How have you been?”
Eduardo practically falls off his chair.
Because no, that is not how their first conversation is supposed to start. Ideally, Eduardo would start off with a cutting dig to make Mark uneasy, and then lay into him about everything-the dilution, the depositions, Harvard. Eduardo is supposed to have the upper hand here, because he is the winner. Mark settled, and sure, by his standards it wasn’t a very big loss, but he caved in and that means something. Right?
Besides, they shouldn’t be exchanging civil small talk like they’re just any other two businessmen at this thing, because that’s just not true. They’re never going to be that, not to Eduardo anyway.
“What do you care?” Eduardo asks, voice dangerously low. How obtuse of Mark, to toss Eduardo out of the company like he was trash, stare at him across a deposition table blankly for months on end, and then have the audacity to ask how Eduardo is.
Mark looks a little taken aback, but Eduardo feels absolutely no pity, no empathy at all for him. None. Definitely not.
“You don’t care,” he continues in the same undertone. “If you actually cared you would have talked to me a long time ago. You would have picked up the phone to explain yourself, you would have tried to actually communicate before just giving up and throwing me out, and you certainly would have tried to make amends before now, so don’t fucking pretend.” Eduardo spits the word out like it’s poisonous, and Mark flinches at it. Eduardo furiously thinks, good.
Mark’s gaze has directed down to his shoes, eyes steely and jaw set. Eduardo is too drunk to interpret his facial expression; he can’t tell if Mark is hurt or angry or fed up or some combination of all of the above. When he looks back up to meet Eduardo’s face, his eyes are carefully, deliberately blank. “You’re an idiot,” he says in a perfectly unruffled tone. “If that’s what you really think, then you’re an idiot.”
Eduardo stares at him, gaping. “Really?” he asks, his volume heightening. “Please, Mark, what was I supposed to think? Enlighten me!” His voice is loud and stupid with emotion but he can’t bring himself to care-doesn’t think it matters, not right now.
Mark just shakes his head minutely. “You must see that you weren’t the best CFO for the company, that something had to happen for the good of Facebook-”
“Don’t give me that shit!” Eduardo yells. He’s actually yelling now, he’s totally lost it. So much for professionalism. “Don’t act like it was all just business, because we both fucking know that’s not true. Nothing was never just business between us!” He had stood up fast when he first raised his voice, and now he feels himself swaying on his feet. The lights are bright and whirling around him, a little unfocused, but Mark is before him and he at least is crystal clear.
Chris is rushing over from the other side of the room, looking angry and panicked. Eduardo doesn’t know which reaction is for whom and can’t be bothered with puzzling that out right now. He just wants to have the last word with Mark, just this once-wants to leave him with a final dig that will hurt, fester like Eduardo has festered.
“You know what I think?” he continues, leaning in closer to Mark so no one else can hear and lowering his voice. Mark meets his gaze and doesn’t back down. “I think that you’re not even trying to do this to make peace with me. You want to make nice and you want me to forgive you to clear your own guilty conscience. But guess what?”
“What?” Mark asks in a resigned tone, putting up absolutely no fight. And fine. That just makes things easier.
“I’m not going to give it to you. I’m never giving you that.” Eduardo’s voice breaks on the word never, but it doesn’t matter, because Chris’ hands are on his shoulders, pulling him away, breaking it up.
Eduardo can see as he walks away that Mark looks openly unhappy now, his mouth downturned and his brow furrowed. He looks like he did when Eduardo told him he was coming back for everything: openly wounded and vulnerable.
Chris tells Eduardo off in furious, hissing whispers as he leads them outside and stuffs them both into a cab. Eduardo isn’t listening to him in the slightest; everything is a blur from the alcohol and the fury.
All he can think is that he doesn’t feel the numbness anymore. Instead, it’s replaced with a sharp, stabbing ache in his chest.
Eduardo has spent so much time fending off the numbness that it comes like a revelation when he remembers: feeling is no better.
//
He doesn’t remember at what point he passed out. The last thing Eduardo can recall is stumbling into Chris’ apartment, with Chris’ admonishing still echoing in his ears, just bouncing around in there without really being attached to any meaning. But at least he’s not that disoriented when he wakes up in the morning. He’s woken up to much worse.
Chris looks up from the armchair by the couch Eduardo had slept on over the top of the newspaper. He raises a disapproving eyebrow as Eduardo scrubs a hand over his face with a grimace. His head is pounding; he can literally feel his heartbeat throbbing everywhere and he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to vomit in the next ten minutes. He can’t even remember the last time he was this hung-over, which is quite a feat considering how much he’s been drinking lately.
There is a rustle as Chris puts down his paper, sitting forward and handing Eduardo two aspirin and a glass of water he’s grabbed from the side table. Eduardo murmurs “Thanks,” and takes it, tossing it back as quickly as he can and wincing as he puts the glass down on the coffee table in front of him, the sharp sound of the glass meeting the wood amplified in his groggy brain.
Chris clears his throat and Eduardo looks at him. Chris still looks disapproving but there is an edge of sympathy to it now. “I don’t envy the morning you’re about to have,” Chris says kindly, and Eduardo snorts a little in response.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” he replies, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. Everything is just too damn bright.
A moment of silence falls over the room as they sit there. Eduardo knows that something’s coming, otherwise why would Chris still be here?
Finally Chris speaks, tone hesitant. “I think we should talk about last night.”
Eduardo groans, moving to lean back against the couch so he can see Chris without having to hold his head up. “Chris, the absolute last thing I want to do right now is talk about last night.”
Chris offers him a bit of a wry smile. “I know, but wait. You have to hear me out on this, Eduardo.”
“Are you going to tell me how irresponsible I was again? Because I got enough of that last night. Besides, I got very-very-drunk and it was unintentional and I just lost control and-”
“No, no, none of that,” Chris assures him, looking a little bit guilty. He takes a deep breath before continuing, and it makes Eduardo a tad bit nervous. “Listen… Are you okay?”
Eduardo just looks at him, because he really doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully, Chris plows on before the silence is too awkward.
“Because… last night when all that happened, it seemed like you had been holding onto that stuff for a while and-that’s just not like you, Eduardo. You don’t hold grudges and you don’t lose control like that. And you just don’t look good either, it seems like you haven’t been taking care of yourself, and when I saw you at that conference a couple weeks ago you looked like death warmed over and… I’m worried about you, Eduardo,” Chris finishes, looking concerned.
Eduardo refuses to look up. He’s glaring down at his shoes like if he tries hard enough he can set them on fire. “Why are you telling me this?” he bites out, feeling resentful.
Chris flinches as if Eduardo’s slapped him. “I-I want you to be okay, Eduardo; I care about you and you’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you like this; it’s not good for you-”
Eduardo cuts off Chris’ words with a scoff. “Please,” he spits out, hearing the bitterness in his own tone but unable to stop it. “Don’t act like you did all this because we’re friends. Chris, we’re not friends, not the way we were-now we’re just those people who get together every couple of months to have coffee and talk politics and reminisce about college. You did this… you brought me here to prevent my, my-my altercation with Mark last night from getting any uglier, and you brought me here to make sure I wouldn’t walk out of that benefit and accidentally spill the story to one of the reporters waiting outside, or worse, sell them the details. I mean, let’s face it, you probably slapped the cab driver and all of the people who really saw what was going on with NDAs, and you’ve basically guaranteed it won’t make the papers. You’re Facebook’s PR guy, first and foremost, and right now I’m just a liability.”
He exhales a little when it is all out, eyes finally chancing a look at Chris’ face. His mouth is tight, eyes narrowed and searching like he’s trying to puzzle out what Eduardo’s motive is here. Finally he nods once, decided, and claps his hands on his thighs, looking at the ground. He shakes his head a little, muttering, “Boy, Eduardo, you’re sure on a roll with hurting people who care about you…”
Eduardo doesn’t reply because he has no idea what’s that supposed to mean. Chris may care but that’s just for his own self-interest, and Mark couldn’t give less of a shit about Eduardo. He probably doesn’t even care if Eduardo lives or dies.
“Fine,” Chris says, effectively cutting off Eduardo’s thoughts and looking Eduardo unflinchingly in the eye. “If that’s what you really think, get out.”
Eduardo nods and rises, because he was expecting that, grabbing his suit jacket off the couch and heading toward the door.
“Eduardo,” Chris calls out once more, hurrying to catch him. Eduardo turns, and Chris shoves something into the palm of his hand and doesn’t let go, covering it with his own hand so Eduardo can’t see it.
“Take this for what it’s worth,” he says, voice full of resolve. “I know you think I don’t care and you’re wrong but I know I’m not going to change your mind. Just… don’t ignore this out of spite for me, or for Mark, or for anyone, okay?”
They look at each other for a handful of seconds before Chris is stepping aside to open the door without a word. Eduardo leaves wordlessly, walking purposefully and determinedly down Chris’ driveway (in case Chris is still watching, he can be dejected and pathetic and miserable later when he’s alone) and towards the main road, where he catches a taxi back to his building.
He doesn’t remember the paper in his hand until he’s in the elevator up towards his apartment. When he flips it over, he sees it’s a card for a therapist with a phone number written below in dark print.
Most of him wants to crumple it up into pieces and throw it into the trash as soon as he slams his apartment door closed. But somehow, he ends up just setting it gently on the counter-the small part of his brain that is screaming at him right now, outraged that he’s pushed away yet another person who just wants to help because he’s too depressed and angry at the world for reason, somehow winning out. It’s not much, but maybe it’s something.
//
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