fic: the heartache and the hope
fic: the heartache and the hope
fandom: the social network
pairing: mark/eduardo
notes: for the tsn_kinkmeme prompt "Eduardo/Mark, political AU".
title is from Obama's victory speech, because i'm a pretentious liberal like that.
the boys work in a liberal president's administration. a couple plot points stolen from west wing. political knowledge is shaky at best (first year of a poli sci major = my stunning expertise)
also warning: mark is really, really mean to conservatives (and briefly, people from Harvard). like rude. you may be offended. BE WARNED.
--also, if you're a (social) conservative and you're reading slash, in the words of Ron, you really need to sort out your priorities.
The President brings him in to work on economic issues, and Mark hates him for about ten minutes.
Eduardo Saverin, economic advisor extraordinaire, idealistic prodigy, and- worst of all, a Brown graduate. Every Harvard cell of Mark's body- which isn't many, considering he sort of hated all the douchebags there, with their old money WASPy chiseled-cheekbones housekeeper-having rowboat-using selves- is in protest.
"So, Brown, huh," are the first words out of Mark's mouth when he meets Eduardo. Eduardo's unpacking his stuff out of his expensive leather briefcase, hair perfectly gelled. His suit looks expensive. Mark owns three suits, which he rotates and wears only on days when the President's in office. Otherwise he's in a hoodie and trousers, an off-putting combination, but no one says a word because he's a fucking genius and none of the idiotic citizens of this great nation would understand a thing the government did if Mark didn't write it in kindergarten terms and post it on the Internet.
"Yeah, you too?" Eduardo's asking, wide-eyed and innocent, and it takes all of Mark not to smirk.
"Harvard," he says instead, putting a hand in his pocket. Eduardo nods.
"Didn't even know they studied economics, at Brown," Mark says casually. "Or did they just call the major 'socialism'?"
Eduardo snorts, appreciatively. "Mark Zuckerberg, right? I heard you were kind of a dick."
"My reputation precedes me."
"First of all, Brown's economics program is one of the most strenuous in the country, and I worked in high-level mergers for three years before this. I took down a company owned by a Harvard grad. He didn't even see it coming."
Mark shrugs grudgingly, and Eduardo continues, "Second, it's called a concentration, not a major, at Brown. Do your homework."
Dustin laughs, head popping up from over his cubicle. "I like you already," he says to Eduardo, and Eduardo salutes him jokingly.
"Tell me you smoked weed and had a drum circle at least once," Mark says, and Eduardo holds a shh-ing finger up to his lips, winks. Mark turns away, face hot for some reason.
He clicks around the computer for a second, and Eduardo's head pops over his cubicle.
"Mark. Lunch at one? You have to show me around."
He never gets lunch. He has a PowerBar in his desk. Most people know, by now, not to ask him.
"Yeah," he says, staring determinedly at his computer screen, and Eduardo slaps the side of his cubicle and says, "Great!"
Mark definitely does not have to bite his lip to keep from smiling. Not at all.
---
Eduardo somehow worms his way into Mark's life, after that. It's not long before they're staying at the office until the wee hours of the morning, talking shit and spinning out ideas and writing half-coherent strategy emails to the POTUS that they end up unanimously deciding in the morning not to send. Eduardo sleeps at his desk, once, and Mark curls up on his couch. Eduardo gets his own office, because he's so special and visionary.
The summer in D.C. is blistering hot. The President goes on vacation, then a tour of the Middle East and then Europe and then southeast Asia, and Mark sleeps little, in lavish hotel rooms, curled on his side on the edge of king-sized beds. He emails Eduardo stats, data, ideas, and Eduardo emails him back, always cc-ing in the necessary people and signing off-
Eduardo Saverin
Economic Advisor to the White House
- and then in between, at night or early mornings, he gets texts.
saw you in the background on MSNBC yesterday. we're trying to be optimistic about the tiger countries' economies. smile more, okay? for me.
or-
have you eaten? eat. and no, red bull is not a food substance
Mark gets and sends the texts at odd hours, because of the time difference, and once when he's falling into bed at 3am, a little tipsy from a reception with the head of the EU, he texts Eduardo, ill-advisedly-
you should be here. can't work without you.
Eduardo doesn't respond for a while, and Mark stares at the text in the morning, head throbbing just slightly.
Finally he gets:
let's discuss the budget proposal when you get home.
He puts his head in his hands, because he has no fucking clue if there's any goddamn subtext in any of it. Maybe he wants there to be.
---
"You can't- the projections you put forth, how the fuck am I supposed to spin those? Eduardo, we're not a socialist government. I know you're trying to go all Keynes on the economy because of the 2003 cuts but Christ, you don't think this is overkill?"
Eduardo's laughing, forking up lo mein into his mouth. It's going on two am and the office is mostly dark.
"Okay, Mark. One, I have the President's approval. Two, I have the fucking CBO's approval. Three, I have a majority in both houses according to the majority and minority party leaders so I would love for you to try to tell the President your opinion. There's nothing to spin!"
Mark rolls his eyes, scrolling through the proposal. "I can't believe you got Ruford's approval," he says, and Eduardo grins.
"It was grudging, yeah, but there's a lot of good stuff in the bill for his district, and for the districts of most of the minority party members."
"Cunning," Mark says, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. "Didn't think you had it in you."
"You underestimate me so often," Eduardo sighs. Mark shrugs, and Eduardo's Blackberry buzzes.
"Fuck," he murmurs, staring at the screen, and Mark swallows a bite of chicken, sits up.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Eduardo says distractedly, putting the phone away and chewing his lip.
"Ruford rescind his approval and unleash the angry masses?"
"No, it's just. Nothing. My sister's getting married."
"Ah, yes, I usually use profanity to express my pride and familial love."
"It's not that, it's just I'll have to go home. I don't have time for this."
"You can take a day off, Eduardo. It won't kill you."
Eduardo shoots him a look, and Mark shrugs. "Well, okay, I've never taken a day off, but my job is much more important than yours."
Eduardo snorts. "Yeah, because no one really cares about their economic futures."
"They only understand it when I write it up, so, really, it's my job to interpret it."
"I think we're both getting away from the point," Eduardo says, grinning. "It's Dustin who's more important than either of us. For what would this government be without Twitter?"
"Absolute anarchy," Mark says dryly, and Eduardo laughs.
---
"I give them two months 'til they do it," Dustin murmurs to Chris the next day.
"Who," Chris says distractedly, reading over a press report. The briefing is going to be brutal today, because the fucking VP can't figure out what fucking country he's in before he starts talking.
"Mark and Eduardo, idiot," Dustin says. Chris looks up from the paper.
"Jesus, Dustin, just go do your job. Go write 140 characters of bullshit about the education access bill or I'll kill you."
Dustin makes a mocking face, turning away, and Chris grabs his arm.
"And don't talk about it, Dustin. We don't need that kind of scandal in this administration right now."
"Says the openly gay press secretary."
"I don't mean gay, you idiot. Inter-office sexual relationships. The White House being seen as a web of tangled steamy affairs. God, the Post would have a field day."
"Mmm, tangled steamy affairs, Chris, that's pretty descriptive. Thought about this a lot?" he grabs Chris' hand, batting his eyelashes. Chris yanks his arm away, scowling.
"Yes, Dustin. That's the only reason I work here, to get closer to you."
"They won't keep us apart forever," Dustin calls as Chris storms off, muttering to himself over the packet.
Dustin shrugs, turning back to the computer. Pres: "Bill NEA will expand opportunities to low-income families in an exciting and unique way" Bill passed House now time 4 Senate!
He clicks "publish", leans back in his chair, and sighs. Ahh. All in a day's work.
--
Everything's going downhill. The minority leader is urging fucking "retribution" come Election Day, the President is at a 35% approval rating. Thirty five fucking percent! Chris is fielding questions about his political ideology, his religion, his fucking birthplace, for God's sake. Mark swears to God if he didn't work in government he'd be a fucking anarchist, because these goddamn people are too stupid to be members of a representative democracy.
Erica keeps rolling her eyes when she reads over his Internet releases, saying, "Mark, we all know how you feel about the general public, but we can't actually publish this elitist bullshit." He flicks her off defiantly, and she sighs, long-suffering, and hands him back the printed out report with nearly all of it scratched out in red pen.
One night there's a perfect storm of fucking awfulness. Chris is sick with a sore throat or the plague or something, the President's away, and Erica's in Pakistan, and Mark ends up, through some massive oversight, having to appear on a talk show. Not just any talk show. A talk show on fucking Fox.
"Mark Zuckerberg," Hannity says, drawing out the -berg like some flashing neon sign- Jew! Jew! Jew!
"What, exactly, do you do again, sir? Explain it to the good people of America."
"I'm the President's online advisor, basically, I control the administration's web presence and online message. And hello to all the fans in Mexico! America, right? It's your continent too, guys."
Colmes doesn't get it, laughs politely like the doormat he is, but Hannity's looking at him sharply. Mark sucks in a breath. He can feel himself getting fucking angry and he can't control it. This- this right here is why they keep him in a cubicle 90% of the time.
"Our debate tonight is going to be on social issues," Hannity continues, and it hurts Mark not to roll his eyes.
"Here we have Mary Winters, the regional east coast director of NOM."
The woman connected via satellite is blonde, hair held back in a headband like some demented Stepford bitch. She peers at Mark like he's a bug on her shoe. "Yes, hi, Sean, I'm from the National Organization for Marriage."
"Greatest misnomer ever," Mark mutters, and she purses her lips.
"Mr. Zuckerberg, there is simply no constitutional basis to give homosexuals the right to defile the sanctity of marriage. Where does it end? If a man can marry another man, can I marry my dog?"
"You've considered that, really?" Mark says, and Hannity holds out his hands placatingly. Somewhere in the distance he can practically hear Chris sobbing.
"Mr. Zuckerberg, I'm trying to have a civil debate here," the woman says, a vein in her forehead twitching, and Mark leans back in his chair, grabs a pencil off the table and sticks it in his mouth.
"No, you're not. Ms. Winters- may I call you Ms. Winters?" she tries to interject, and he talks over her. "What you're doing, Ms. Summers, is equating a human being with a dog. Now, in one sense you're right, because a dog can't choose to be a dog just like a man or woman can't choose to be gay, but in another, much larger, sense, you're absolutely wrong, because most physicians would agree the biological differences between human and canine render any sort of meaningful sexual connection impossible and frankly, just unsatisfying. Of course, I speak only for myself, and for the majority of United States citizens, and even most of the illegal aliens, if you'd ever manage to poll 'em. However, Ms. Springs, if that's what turns you on, go for it."
She gasps, and he breaks the pencil in half, in his mouth, gestures with both halves, and Hannity cuts to commercial.
There's a lot of whispering, and Colmes keeps staring at him. Mark stares right back. Pathetic little shit, he thinks.
"Can I go?" he calls to the crowd, and a security guard appears behind his right shoulder. "Alright, alright, going," he says mildly, still chewing half of the pencil, sticking one of his hands in his suit pocket.
He takes a cab back up the Hill, and it hits him halfway through, and he spits the pencil out of his mouth. Fox News- it says- Fair and Bal
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Just, fuck everything.
--
Eduardo calls him at 4 am. He's in China, doing some sort of conference with the People's Bank about debt.
"Jesus, Mark," he says by way of greeting, and Mark lets his head fall against his desk.
"Who let you out in public?" Eduardo asks gently, and Mark laughs a tiny bit.
"It was stupid," he admits quietly, in a way he only can to Eduardo.
"Yeah, it was really fucking stupid, Mark. Any word on-" whether or not you're going to get your ass fired, the silence says.
"The President hasn't sent out any official word on the incident," Mark parrots wearily, and adds, "He hasn't contacted me. Wardo, I'm- fuck. I'm slightly more than nervous."
Eduardo sighs. "I know. Let's think about this. Yeah, the right wants your head on a stick, but you're a relatively insulated member of the cabinet. You've been with him since day one. You're known to be a prickly, socially awkward person. It was one comment."
"Prickly and awkward?" Mark says. "And one comment which is being rebroadcast on every channel and Youtube and fucking- fucking Facebook. You know how this works."
"I know how it works," Eduardo repeats, sighing. "I'm trying to be positive here."
"If you had to make an official recommendation," Mark asks, heart in his throat because he's not quite sure he wants to know the answer. "What- would you-"
"Mark. You're an integral part of the team, and it's not my place anyway."
"But-" Mark says, pushing at him, because he knows Eduardo's not saying everything he wants to.
"Goddamnit, it's election season."
Mark exhales, spins in his office chair.
"It doesn't look good," he says quietly.
"Just, relax. The President isn't one to make rash decisions. It could work out."
"Could," Mark says with emphasis, with derision. "I don't like could."
"Well, it happened. Go to sleep, Mark, it's 4am. Go home."
Mark exhales and misses Eduardo. Not that he'll ever admit it.
"Night," he says.
"Night, Mark."
---
Eduardo grins at him from across the table when the President just gives him a verbal beatdown, says he needs a public apology before October and the rush of midterms. Mark meets his eyes for a second and has to look away.
"I'll leave you to Chris," the President says, "that should be enough punishment." The room laughs politely, and Chris narrows his eyes at him, pen behind his ear, laptop under one arm. I will kill you, he mouths, and Mark tries not to feel scared.
"Drinks, tonight?" Eduardo says at six, wrapping his hands over the top of Mark's cubicle, messenger bag thrown over his shoulder. "I have a couple meetings, maybe at eight?"
"I don't know if I should go out right now," Mark says. "It's still tenuous. The Hill is buzzing. Fucking vultures."
Eduardo nods, chewing his lip. "My place, then," he says decisively. "I'll email you."
Mark leans back in his chair, not sure why he's scared. It's either because he nearly got fired from the best job he's ever had or it's that he jerked off in the shower this morning thinking about Eduardo's ass. One or the other.
1345 Washington Avenue, the email reads, fifteen minutes later-
Eight pm. And, Mark- meaningful sexual connection between humans and canines? Really?
---
Mark shows up at Eduardo's apartment at 8:30 with a bottle of wine he's picked up on the way. He rings the doorbell, and nearly drops it when Chris opens the door.
"Fantastic, you're here," he says dryly, still semi-angry, letting him in, and Mark realizes that not just Chris is there. No, there's Dustin in the corner, talking with Chris' secretary, and Erica is grabbing a drink out of the refrigerator. Mark turns away. He does not want to talk to Erica. He is still far up on her shitlist.
Eduardo comes up to them, loose-limbed, cheeks flushed, shirt unbuttoned a little. Mark thrusts the bottle of wine at him.
"Hey," he says, wanting very acutely to leave. He can handle these people at work, because there's structure and he's above most of them. He can put in his noise-canceling headphones and write drafts of drafts until they go away.
"Come in, luckiest man in the world," Eduardo says, and pulls him into the room. Everyone lets out a general noise of approval when they see him, and Mark goes hot.
"Oh, Mark! Mark, I thought I'd never see you again!" Dustin yells, like an eighteenth century maiden, and they laugh. Mark nods, humoring them.
"I need a drink," he says, and everyone laughs again. Eduardo's grinning at him, all crinkly-eyed.
They celebrate that night, but in the end as the President's approval ratings sink yet lower, Mark starts to think he maybe should have just sacrificed himself. Then it's D-day, midterms, and Mark- well, all of them- are dying, slowly. Maybe that's melodramatic, but you know what, they all built their fucking lives around this and it's crumbling, so it's not.
---
The numbers are coming in fast and furious, all across the country. The President's into his second scotch, because the reporters weren't allowed in, and Erica's lips and fingers are covered in ink. She insists on writing first drafts in ink, and she keeps scratching stuff out as new results come in.
Mark's got his laptop on his knees, and he's clicking frantically from tab to tab, while scratching a groove in his arm with his other hand.
Dustin is curled in an office chair, laptop on the table, while Chris has his head bent over Erica's. He looks grim. Everyone looks grim.
"Incumbent Josh Whitford was just defeated in an extremely close race in Connecticut," CNN announces, and Dustin groans, putting his face in his hands.
Eduardo lets himself in, face pale, shadows under his eyes. He's been up for twenty hours, working on an economic proposal, that, if they lose (which they all knew, god they all fucking knew they'd lose) needs to be passed immediately in the lame-duck session or the newly Republican Senate is going to filibuster it until kingdom come.
"Connecticut?" he says, and Mark nods numbly. He sits next to him, puts a hand on Mark's shoulder for a second, pulling out his Blackberry.
"Mr. President, sir," Eduardo says, and the President turns his head. Mark's known the guy for five years. He's terrified and exhausted and angry.
"I wrote up the first proposal; emailed it to your office. We're going to have an extremely productive session. We're going to bounce back."
The President just nods, slowly, heavily, and turns back to the TVs.
"You believe that?" Mark asks bitterly. He knows politics is- it's a tough game, you don't win every day. He fucking knows that. But now that he thinks about it... he's won, every time, so far. This feels incredibly fucking shitty.
"Of course I do," Eduardo says. "Mark, it's midterms."
"I know, I know, but-"
"Everyone thinks this, they think it doesn't apply to them. Mark, even Reagan lost seats in '86."
"Even Reagan, our champion," Mark says bitterly, and Eduardo puts a hand on his arm.
"Fuck off, Eduardo," Mark says, shaking him off. He feels like a kid again, helpless, like he did when he watched his parents' marriage fall apart when he was twelve. He can't do anything about it, just watch the numbers come in on the screen. He could never do anything.
Mark refreshes MSNBC again, and misses the look Chris shoots Eduardo over his head. Eduardo stands up determinedly, grabs Mark's arm.
"We're going outside," he says, and Mark lets himself be dragged out of the room.
The hallway's dark. The President had sent everyone home after they'd lost three seats in California.
"Mark," Eduardo's saying, and Mark leans against the wall, squeezes his eyes shut. "Hey. Hey. It's okay."
"It's so not fucking okay," Mark says. "Do you understand that? If we lose the House, healthcare's not going through in a million fucking years. And we can fucking forget about repealing DOMA. We'll probably extend the tax cuts until we become one giant sweatshop for China."
"That's nowhere in my projections," Eduardo says, laughing rustily, and he leans against the wall next to him. "I can't believe I ever thought you were an asshole," he says, to himself. "You care so much more than you let on."
"Shut up," Mark mumbles, and against the wall Eduardo takes Mark's hand in his. Mark freezes. It feels like he's slipping, slowly but inevitably, down a very long slide. Towards what, he's not sure.
"What are you doing," he says quietly, scared and anticipatory, and Eduardo pushes himself off the wall, leans against Mark. He's breathing against Mark's mouth, and Mark shudders.
"Wardo, I should-" he murmurs, and Eduardo cuts him off with a kiss.
Mark opens his mouth- Jesus fuck, how can he not, and it's better than he ever imagined. Eduardo sucks hot on his tongue, exhales into his mouth, and Mark puts his hands on the small of his back, like a reflex. It feels like they fit there, like they've always been there.
"Jesus, Mark," he says after a minute, pulling away very slightly, and Mark keeps one hand there, reaches the other up to Eduardo's neck and pulls him down again. Eduardo makes a sound, a breathy little groan, and says very softly yes, yes, and Mark's hard. He pushes his hips up into Eduardo's and Eduardo groans again.
"Do you want to fuck right here?" Eduardo says, laughing, and Mark's brain temporarily short-circuits because fuck. Him. And Eduardo. Fucking.
The truth of it is, he's a twenty-seven year old at the top of his field, working for the fucking President, but he's also a fucking toothpick and a geek and a little bit of an asshole, and he hasn't had sex in nine months. He doesn't like hanging out on the Hill, or the numerous bars in DC. He works eighteen hours a day and spends the other six in traffic, passed out on his twin bed, or, occasionally, eating.
"We shouldn't," he manages to say, and shakes his head, pushes Eduardo off him a little bit, because he's dangerously close to coming if Eduardo keeps rubbing up against him like a cat in heat.
"Come- come to my office," Eduardo says, eagerly, mouth wet against Mark's cheek, the corner of his lips. Mark thinks briefly of numbers coming in, votes being tallied- of writing some bullshit "bipartisan effort" statement for tomorrow, of having to pretend to talk with too-tan fat Republican fuckers for the next two years, and then Eduardo slips a hand under his hoodie, grasps his hip, and Mark thinks, almost audibly, fuck it.
He lets Eduardo lead him.
In the office, the only light comes from Eduardo's computer, still set up, open to his email and CNN, MSNBC, the Economist, WSJ, Fox, HuffPost, and the Miami Herald. Eduardo sees him looking and closes the laptop.
"No numbers, right now," he murmurs. "I can't tell you how goddamn sick I am of numbers."
"Naturally, you're an economic advisor," Mark says, and Eduardo pinches at his nipple through the shirt. Mark hisses and grins, quick in the pale light, and Eduardo pushes himself up onto his desk, moving his folders aside.
"Do you have-" Mark says, rolling his lip between his teeth, surveying Eduardo anxiously.
"Yeah, my wallet," Eduardo says, and twists backward off the desk to grab his sensible classy black jacket. Mark looks at the line of his flat belly as his shirt rides up, the hair leading from his belly button into his expensive pants. He wants to put his tongue on it.
He hasn't blown anyone since college, but it can't be that hard to pick it up again.
He takes Eduardo by the hips as Eduardo's straightening up, and he makes a vague noise of surprise in his throat.
"Mark?" he asks, and Mark pushes his shirt up with both hands, sucks at Eduardo's stomach. Eduardo groans and spreads his legs.
"Fuck, Mark," he says. "Fucking yes."
Mark takes his cock out, holds it by the base. Nuzzles his mouth against it, lips parted slightly, breathes in the scent. Eduardo's clenching the desk with white-knuckled fingers.
Mark puts his mouth carefully around it, and Eduardo chokes out- "Yeah, that's good. That's- Mark. Yeah."
Mark braces himself on the desk, sucks harder, and Eduardo puts a gentle hand in his hair, doesn't push, just rests it there, scratches his fingernails over Mark's scalp. Mark shivers and pants out a breath around Eduardo.
"Mark, I don't want-" he gasps out a breath. "I want to come when you're in me."
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, lets Eduardo's cock fall out of his mouth. Eduardo's looking down at him, cheeks a little pink, eyes wide and bright with lust and lack of sleep.
"C'mere," he says, drawing Mark closer by the back of his neck, and kisses him, somehow gets them onto the floor. It's not the best angle- Eduardo keeps trying to get his hips higher, and Mark is trying to get his fingers, his hands, on Eduardo's ass but it's hard.
"Hey," Eduardo says, slowing Mark's touch, kissing his neck, and he pulls off his pants very slowly, tosses them aside. "Here we go, alright?"
Mark draws in a shaky breath- oh God they're fucking, they're having sex in the goddamn White House, and Eduardo pushes Mark's pants down and off, slips the condom on. It's wet, slick, and Eduardo huffs out a laugh, takes Mark's fingers and rubs them on the condom, on himself, till they're wet, then nudges them against the crack of his ass.
"Fingers first, 'kay?" he says quietly, and Mark puts one in tentatively. Eduardo shudders, spine taut, and pulls Mark down into an open-mouthed kiss, mouthing encouragement against the line of jaw.
Mark licks his own fingers to make sure they're wet enough for two. The lube tastes like some kind of fruit, sweet. He puts another finger in, thrusts slippery and hard into Eduardo, and Eduardo chokes on his breath, moans low and shaky.
"Yes, yes yes yes," he says, and reaches between them, grabs at Mark's cock with one hand, guides it toward himself. "Wanna get fucked," he breathes out, grinning sheepishly at his own audacity, and Mark makes a sex noise, some kind of groan, hot and loud, and immediately goes hot with embarrassment.
"C'mon," Eduardo says, and Mark says, "I'm- yeah. Give me a fucking second, Wardo, unless you want me to come immediately."
Eduardo's laughing, and Mark slides slowly into him, feels the gripping heat, and he forgot that sex could feel this good. Eduardo wraps his ankles around Mark's hips, pulls him in deeper, and Mark leans his head against Eduardo's collarbone, breathes for a second.
"Move, Mark," Eduardo says in a strained voice, kicking at his tailbone, and Mark slides in and out again. Eduardo exhales on a long, hissing, yes, and Mark's arms are shaking from the strain.
"Mark-" Eduardo says, too loud, and Mark shakes his head, saying, "Shh, shh, Dustin or Chris-"
Eduardo just laughs and clenches around him, face glistening from effort. Mark is hot too, tingling, and Eduardo grins up at him and it feels so fucking good.
"Wanna come?" Eduardo breathes up at him, and Mark pushes at him with a shaking hand, frustrated. Eduardo pulls him closer, and it shifts the angle and it gets a thousand times more intense for both of them. Eduardo's biting half-moons in his bottom lip, and Mark thrusts three more times and comes. He fumbles for Eduardo's cock, and it only takes two strokes before Eduardo's groaning, too loud, and coming all over his hand.
Mark pulls out and flops on his back. Eduardo moves closer to him, shivering, sticky and cold, and God, they're really on the fucking floor.
"I need to get this carpet dry-cleaned," Eduardo says dazedly, and Mark snorts out a laugh.
"Here," Eduardo says, standing up, throwing Mark a couple tissues. Everything feels dark and weird for a moment, and Mark's laying on the floor like an idiot. He scrambles to his feet, wiping himself off, putting his hands over his dick. Eduardo's face is shadowed, turned away, and it all comes rushing back. They lost.
"Fucking Christ," Mark mutters to himself, and Eduardo turns to him, face open and honest and unshadowed, when he's looking at Mark straight on.
"Hey, it's okay," he says, putting his hands on Mark's hips, pulling him in.
"We're fucking while the world burns," Mark says darkly, and Eduardo laughs at that, kisses his hairline.
"Ah yes, the world burns because we have a bipartisan legislature," Eduardo says, and he slips Mark's shirt over his shoulders, buttons it up.
"It's not going to be perfect, but it's going to be exciting," Eduardo says quietly, buttoning his own shirt. "It's going to be a fucking challenge, and I'm excited."
"You're an idiot," Mark says.
"There's an art to all this, you know," Eduardo says. "To the fighting, and the compromise. Some might even say it's the 'essence of democracy'." He finishes the sentence in a posh accent, air-quotes and all, and Mark snorts.
"Gridlock, Wardo," he says. And- "You're such a Brown grad."
Eduardo just grins and pulls away, leads him out of the office by a hand.
They slip back into the war-room. Erica's gone home, the President's on his third scotch, and Dustin looks up from his computer, face tight and resigned. It brightens when he sees them, Eduardo's mussed hair, the hickey Mark is just now realizing is rising right above his collarbone. He gives them a discreet thumbs up, somehow maniacally energetic in the midst of the grief and the Blackberrys all saying "the Senate is now passing under Republican control" and "another seat lost in Delaware" and "4:38 AM."
Mark rolls his eyes, but lets a smile twist his mouth briefly when Eduardo rubs a hand over his neck. Mark's never lost before, but maybe he's realizing it's not as simple as win or lose.
--
"Twenty bucks," Dustin says, holding out his palm over Chris' press reports, three days later.
"No," Chris says automatically. "Wait, why?"
"Mark and Eduardo!" Dustin exclaims, wiggling his fingers under Chris' nose. "They got together on election night. Or, technically, post-election morning. Whatever."
Chris sighs. "Dustin, we never even made a bet, first of all, and second of all, are you sure? Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'll need to deal with this."
"No, Chris. You take care of pretending we're excited about the new session and I will take care of this."
Chris gives him a dubious look, but he really is busy. So goddamn busy.
"Dustin, just keep it to yourself," he calls, already nearly around the corner. Dustin grins.
Dustin takes care of it by sending Eduardo a picture he'd taken of Mark during the presidential election, when he'd fallen asleep in an office chair, unshaved, with his mouth open. Eduardo laughs delightedly. Underneath the picture, it reads-
Eduardo- Seriously, just know what you're getting into.
Eduardo sends back.
I'm aware. Thanks. Somehow I'll manage.
---
fin
fandom: the social network
pairing: mark/eduardo
notes: for the tsn_kinkmeme prompt "Eduardo/Mark, political AU".
title is from Obama's victory speech, because i'm a pretentious liberal like that.
the boys work in a liberal president's administration. a couple plot points stolen from west wing. political knowledge is shaky at best (first year of a poli sci major = my stunning expertise)
also warning: mark is really, really mean to conservatives (and briefly, people from Harvard). like rude. you may be offended. BE WARNED.
--also, if you're a (social) conservative and you're reading slash, in the words of Ron, you really need to sort out your priorities.
The President brings him in to work on economic issues, and Mark hates him for about ten minutes.
Eduardo Saverin, economic advisor extraordinaire, idealistic prodigy, and- worst of all, a Brown graduate. Every Harvard cell of Mark's body- which isn't many, considering he sort of hated all the douchebags there, with their old money WASPy chiseled-cheekbones housekeeper-having rowboat-using selves- is in protest.
"So, Brown, huh," are the first words out of Mark's mouth when he meets Eduardo. Eduardo's unpacking his stuff out of his expensive leather briefcase, hair perfectly gelled. His suit looks expensive. Mark owns three suits, which he rotates and wears only on days when the President's in office. Otherwise he's in a hoodie and trousers, an off-putting combination, but no one says a word because he's a fucking genius and none of the idiotic citizens of this great nation would understand a thing the government did if Mark didn't write it in kindergarten terms and post it on the Internet.
"Yeah, you too?" Eduardo's asking, wide-eyed and innocent, and it takes all of Mark not to smirk.
"Harvard," he says instead, putting a hand in his pocket. Eduardo nods.
"Didn't even know they studied economics, at Brown," Mark says casually. "Or did they just call the major 'socialism'?"
Eduardo snorts, appreciatively. "Mark Zuckerberg, right? I heard you were kind of a dick."
"My reputation precedes me."
"First of all, Brown's economics program is one of the most strenuous in the country, and I worked in high-level mergers for three years before this. I took down a company owned by a Harvard grad. He didn't even see it coming."
Mark shrugs grudgingly, and Eduardo continues, "Second, it's called a concentration, not a major, at Brown. Do your homework."
Dustin laughs, head popping up from over his cubicle. "I like you already," he says to Eduardo, and Eduardo salutes him jokingly.
"Tell me you smoked weed and had a drum circle at least once," Mark says, and Eduardo holds a shh-ing finger up to his lips, winks. Mark turns away, face hot for some reason.
He clicks around the computer for a second, and Eduardo's head pops over his cubicle.
"Mark. Lunch at one? You have to show me around."
He never gets lunch. He has a PowerBar in his desk. Most people know, by now, not to ask him.
"Yeah," he says, staring determinedly at his computer screen, and Eduardo slaps the side of his cubicle and says, "Great!"
Mark definitely does not have to bite his lip to keep from smiling. Not at all.
---
Eduardo somehow worms his way into Mark's life, after that. It's not long before they're staying at the office until the wee hours of the morning, talking shit and spinning out ideas and writing half-coherent strategy emails to the POTUS that they end up unanimously deciding in the morning not to send. Eduardo sleeps at his desk, once, and Mark curls up on his couch. Eduardo gets his own office, because he's so special and visionary.
The summer in D.C. is blistering hot. The President goes on vacation, then a tour of the Middle East and then Europe and then southeast Asia, and Mark sleeps little, in lavish hotel rooms, curled on his side on the edge of king-sized beds. He emails Eduardo stats, data, ideas, and Eduardo emails him back, always cc-ing in the necessary people and signing off-
Eduardo Saverin
Economic Advisor to the White House
- and then in between, at night or early mornings, he gets texts.
saw you in the background on MSNBC yesterday. we're trying to be optimistic about the tiger countries' economies. smile more, okay? for me.
or-
have you eaten? eat. and no, red bull is not a food substance
Mark gets and sends the texts at odd hours, because of the time difference, and once when he's falling into bed at 3am, a little tipsy from a reception with the head of the EU, he texts Eduardo, ill-advisedly-
you should be here. can't work without you.
Eduardo doesn't respond for a while, and Mark stares at the text in the morning, head throbbing just slightly.
Finally he gets:
let's discuss the budget proposal when you get home.
He puts his head in his hands, because he has no fucking clue if there's any goddamn subtext in any of it. Maybe he wants there to be.
---
"You can't- the projections you put forth, how the fuck am I supposed to spin those? Eduardo, we're not a socialist government. I know you're trying to go all Keynes on the economy because of the 2003 cuts but Christ, you don't think this is overkill?"
Eduardo's laughing, forking up lo mein into his mouth. It's going on two am and the office is mostly dark.
"Okay, Mark. One, I have the President's approval. Two, I have the fucking CBO's approval. Three, I have a majority in both houses according to the majority and minority party leaders so I would love for you to try to tell the President your opinion. There's nothing to spin!"
Mark rolls his eyes, scrolling through the proposal. "I can't believe you got Ruford's approval," he says, and Eduardo grins.
"It was grudging, yeah, but there's a lot of good stuff in the bill for his district, and for the districts of most of the minority party members."
"Cunning," Mark says, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. "Didn't think you had it in you."
"You underestimate me so often," Eduardo sighs. Mark shrugs, and Eduardo's Blackberry buzzes.
"Fuck," he murmurs, staring at the screen, and Mark swallows a bite of chicken, sits up.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Eduardo says distractedly, putting the phone away and chewing his lip.
"Ruford rescind his approval and unleash the angry masses?"
"No, it's just. Nothing. My sister's getting married."
"Ah, yes, I usually use profanity to express my pride and familial love."
"It's not that, it's just I'll have to go home. I don't have time for this."
"You can take a day off, Eduardo. It won't kill you."
Eduardo shoots him a look, and Mark shrugs. "Well, okay, I've never taken a day off, but my job is much more important than yours."
Eduardo snorts. "Yeah, because no one really cares about their economic futures."
"They only understand it when I write it up, so, really, it's my job to interpret it."
"I think we're both getting away from the point," Eduardo says, grinning. "It's Dustin who's more important than either of us. For what would this government be without Twitter?"
"Absolute anarchy," Mark says dryly, and Eduardo laughs.
---
"I give them two months 'til they do it," Dustin murmurs to Chris the next day.
"Who," Chris says distractedly, reading over a press report. The briefing is going to be brutal today, because the fucking VP can't figure out what fucking country he's in before he starts talking.
"Mark and Eduardo, idiot," Dustin says. Chris looks up from the paper.
"Jesus, Dustin, just go do your job. Go write 140 characters of bullshit about the education access bill or I'll kill you."
Dustin makes a mocking face, turning away, and Chris grabs his arm.
"And don't talk about it, Dustin. We don't need that kind of scandal in this administration right now."
"Says the openly gay press secretary."
"I don't mean gay, you idiot. Inter-office sexual relationships. The White House being seen as a web of tangled steamy affairs. God, the Post would have a field day."
"Mmm, tangled steamy affairs, Chris, that's pretty descriptive. Thought about this a lot?" he grabs Chris' hand, batting his eyelashes. Chris yanks his arm away, scowling.
"Yes, Dustin. That's the only reason I work here, to get closer to you."
"They won't keep us apart forever," Dustin calls as Chris storms off, muttering to himself over the packet.
Dustin shrugs, turning back to the computer. Pres: "Bill NEA will expand opportunities to low-income families in an exciting and unique way" Bill passed House now time 4 Senate!
He clicks "publish", leans back in his chair, and sighs. Ahh. All in a day's work.
--
Everything's going downhill. The minority leader is urging fucking "retribution" come Election Day, the President is at a 35% approval rating. Thirty five fucking percent! Chris is fielding questions about his political ideology, his religion, his fucking birthplace, for God's sake. Mark swears to God if he didn't work in government he'd be a fucking anarchist, because these goddamn people are too stupid to be members of a representative democracy.
Erica keeps rolling her eyes when she reads over his Internet releases, saying, "Mark, we all know how you feel about the general public, but we can't actually publish this elitist bullshit." He flicks her off defiantly, and she sighs, long-suffering, and hands him back the printed out report with nearly all of it scratched out in red pen.
One night there's a perfect storm of fucking awfulness. Chris is sick with a sore throat or the plague or something, the President's away, and Erica's in Pakistan, and Mark ends up, through some massive oversight, having to appear on a talk show. Not just any talk show. A talk show on fucking Fox.
"Mark Zuckerberg," Hannity says, drawing out the -berg like some flashing neon sign- Jew! Jew! Jew!
"What, exactly, do you do again, sir? Explain it to the good people of America."
"I'm the President's online advisor, basically, I control the administration's web presence and online message. And hello to all the fans in Mexico! America, right? It's your continent too, guys."
Colmes doesn't get it, laughs politely like the doormat he is, but Hannity's looking at him sharply. Mark sucks in a breath. He can feel himself getting fucking angry and he can't control it. This- this right here is why they keep him in a cubicle 90% of the time.
"Our debate tonight is going to be on social issues," Hannity continues, and it hurts Mark not to roll his eyes.
"Here we have Mary Winters, the regional east coast director of NOM."
The woman connected via satellite is blonde, hair held back in a headband like some demented Stepford bitch. She peers at Mark like he's a bug on her shoe. "Yes, hi, Sean, I'm from the National Organization for Marriage."
"Greatest misnomer ever," Mark mutters, and she purses her lips.
"Mr. Zuckerberg, there is simply no constitutional basis to give homosexuals the right to defile the sanctity of marriage. Where does it end? If a man can marry another man, can I marry my dog?"
"You've considered that, really?" Mark says, and Hannity holds out his hands placatingly. Somewhere in the distance he can practically hear Chris sobbing.
"Mr. Zuckerberg, I'm trying to have a civil debate here," the woman says, a vein in her forehead twitching, and Mark leans back in his chair, grabs a pencil off the table and sticks it in his mouth.
"No, you're not. Ms. Winters- may I call you Ms. Winters?" she tries to interject, and he talks over her. "What you're doing, Ms. Summers, is equating a human being with a dog. Now, in one sense you're right, because a dog can't choose to be a dog just like a man or woman can't choose to be gay, but in another, much larger, sense, you're absolutely wrong, because most physicians would agree the biological differences between human and canine render any sort of meaningful sexual connection impossible and frankly, just unsatisfying. Of course, I speak only for myself, and for the majority of United States citizens, and even most of the illegal aliens, if you'd ever manage to poll 'em. However, Ms. Springs, if that's what turns you on, go for it."
She gasps, and he breaks the pencil in half, in his mouth, gestures with both halves, and Hannity cuts to commercial.
There's a lot of whispering, and Colmes keeps staring at him. Mark stares right back. Pathetic little shit, he thinks.
"Can I go?" he calls to the crowd, and a security guard appears behind his right shoulder. "Alright, alright, going," he says mildly, still chewing half of the pencil, sticking one of his hands in his suit pocket.
He takes a cab back up the Hill, and it hits him halfway through, and he spits the pencil out of his mouth. Fox News- it says- Fair and Bal
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Just, fuck everything.
--
Eduardo calls him at 4 am. He's in China, doing some sort of conference with the People's Bank about debt.
"Jesus, Mark," he says by way of greeting, and Mark lets his head fall against his desk.
"Who let you out in public?" Eduardo asks gently, and Mark laughs a tiny bit.
"It was stupid," he admits quietly, in a way he only can to Eduardo.
"Yeah, it was really fucking stupid, Mark. Any word on-" whether or not you're going to get your ass fired, the silence says.
"The President hasn't sent out any official word on the incident," Mark parrots wearily, and adds, "He hasn't contacted me. Wardo, I'm- fuck. I'm slightly more than nervous."
Eduardo sighs. "I know. Let's think about this. Yeah, the right wants your head on a stick, but you're a relatively insulated member of the cabinet. You've been with him since day one. You're known to be a prickly, socially awkward person. It was one comment."
"Prickly and awkward?" Mark says. "And one comment which is being rebroadcast on every channel and Youtube and fucking- fucking Facebook. You know how this works."
"I know how it works," Eduardo repeats, sighing. "I'm trying to be positive here."
"If you had to make an official recommendation," Mark asks, heart in his throat because he's not quite sure he wants to know the answer. "What- would you-"
"Mark. You're an integral part of the team, and it's not my place anyway."
"But-" Mark says, pushing at him, because he knows Eduardo's not saying everything he wants to.
"Goddamnit, it's election season."
Mark exhales, spins in his office chair.
"It doesn't look good," he says quietly.
"Just, relax. The President isn't one to make rash decisions. It could work out."
"Could," Mark says with emphasis, with derision. "I don't like could."
"Well, it happened. Go to sleep, Mark, it's 4am. Go home."
Mark exhales and misses Eduardo. Not that he'll ever admit it.
"Night," he says.
"Night, Mark."
---
Eduardo grins at him from across the table when the President just gives him a verbal beatdown, says he needs a public apology before October and the rush of midterms. Mark meets his eyes for a second and has to look away.
"I'll leave you to Chris," the President says, "that should be enough punishment." The room laughs politely, and Chris narrows his eyes at him, pen behind his ear, laptop under one arm. I will kill you, he mouths, and Mark tries not to feel scared.
"Drinks, tonight?" Eduardo says at six, wrapping his hands over the top of Mark's cubicle, messenger bag thrown over his shoulder. "I have a couple meetings, maybe at eight?"
"I don't know if I should go out right now," Mark says. "It's still tenuous. The Hill is buzzing. Fucking vultures."
Eduardo nods, chewing his lip. "My place, then," he says decisively. "I'll email you."
Mark leans back in his chair, not sure why he's scared. It's either because he nearly got fired from the best job he's ever had or it's that he jerked off in the shower this morning thinking about Eduardo's ass. One or the other.
1345 Washington Avenue, the email reads, fifteen minutes later-
Eight pm. And, Mark- meaningful sexual connection between humans and canines? Really?
---
Mark shows up at Eduardo's apartment at 8:30 with a bottle of wine he's picked up on the way. He rings the doorbell, and nearly drops it when Chris opens the door.
"Fantastic, you're here," he says dryly, still semi-angry, letting him in, and Mark realizes that not just Chris is there. No, there's Dustin in the corner, talking with Chris' secretary, and Erica is grabbing a drink out of the refrigerator. Mark turns away. He does not want to talk to Erica. He is still far up on her shitlist.
Eduardo comes up to them, loose-limbed, cheeks flushed, shirt unbuttoned a little. Mark thrusts the bottle of wine at him.
"Hey," he says, wanting very acutely to leave. He can handle these people at work, because there's structure and he's above most of them. He can put in his noise-canceling headphones and write drafts of drafts until they go away.
"Come in, luckiest man in the world," Eduardo says, and pulls him into the room. Everyone lets out a general noise of approval when they see him, and Mark goes hot.
"Oh, Mark! Mark, I thought I'd never see you again!" Dustin yells, like an eighteenth century maiden, and they laugh. Mark nods, humoring them.
"I need a drink," he says, and everyone laughs again. Eduardo's grinning at him, all crinkly-eyed.
They celebrate that night, but in the end as the President's approval ratings sink yet lower, Mark starts to think he maybe should have just sacrificed himself. Then it's D-day, midterms, and Mark- well, all of them- are dying, slowly. Maybe that's melodramatic, but you know what, they all built their fucking lives around this and it's crumbling, so it's not.
---
The numbers are coming in fast and furious, all across the country. The President's into his second scotch, because the reporters weren't allowed in, and Erica's lips and fingers are covered in ink. She insists on writing first drafts in ink, and she keeps scratching stuff out as new results come in.
Mark's got his laptop on his knees, and he's clicking frantically from tab to tab, while scratching a groove in his arm with his other hand.
Dustin is curled in an office chair, laptop on the table, while Chris has his head bent over Erica's. He looks grim. Everyone looks grim.
"Incumbent Josh Whitford was just defeated in an extremely close race in Connecticut," CNN announces, and Dustin groans, putting his face in his hands.
Eduardo lets himself in, face pale, shadows under his eyes. He's been up for twenty hours, working on an economic proposal, that, if they lose (which they all knew, god they all fucking knew they'd lose) needs to be passed immediately in the lame-duck session or the newly Republican Senate is going to filibuster it until kingdom come.
"Connecticut?" he says, and Mark nods numbly. He sits next to him, puts a hand on Mark's shoulder for a second, pulling out his Blackberry.
"Mr. President, sir," Eduardo says, and the President turns his head. Mark's known the guy for five years. He's terrified and exhausted and angry.
"I wrote up the first proposal; emailed it to your office. We're going to have an extremely productive session. We're going to bounce back."
The President just nods, slowly, heavily, and turns back to the TVs.
"You believe that?" Mark asks bitterly. He knows politics is- it's a tough game, you don't win every day. He fucking knows that. But now that he thinks about it... he's won, every time, so far. This feels incredibly fucking shitty.
"Of course I do," Eduardo says. "Mark, it's midterms."
"I know, I know, but-"
"Everyone thinks this, they think it doesn't apply to them. Mark, even Reagan lost seats in '86."
"Even Reagan, our champion," Mark says bitterly, and Eduardo puts a hand on his arm.
"Fuck off, Eduardo," Mark says, shaking him off. He feels like a kid again, helpless, like he did when he watched his parents' marriage fall apart when he was twelve. He can't do anything about it, just watch the numbers come in on the screen. He could never do anything.
Mark refreshes MSNBC again, and misses the look Chris shoots Eduardo over his head. Eduardo stands up determinedly, grabs Mark's arm.
"We're going outside," he says, and Mark lets himself be dragged out of the room.
The hallway's dark. The President had sent everyone home after they'd lost three seats in California.
"Mark," Eduardo's saying, and Mark leans against the wall, squeezes his eyes shut. "Hey. Hey. It's okay."
"It's so not fucking okay," Mark says. "Do you understand that? If we lose the House, healthcare's not going through in a million fucking years. And we can fucking forget about repealing DOMA. We'll probably extend the tax cuts until we become one giant sweatshop for China."
"That's nowhere in my projections," Eduardo says, laughing rustily, and he leans against the wall next to him. "I can't believe I ever thought you were an asshole," he says, to himself. "You care so much more than you let on."
"Shut up," Mark mumbles, and against the wall Eduardo takes Mark's hand in his. Mark freezes. It feels like he's slipping, slowly but inevitably, down a very long slide. Towards what, he's not sure.
"What are you doing," he says quietly, scared and anticipatory, and Eduardo pushes himself off the wall, leans against Mark. He's breathing against Mark's mouth, and Mark shudders.
"Wardo, I should-" he murmurs, and Eduardo cuts him off with a kiss.
Mark opens his mouth- Jesus fuck, how can he not, and it's better than he ever imagined. Eduardo sucks hot on his tongue, exhales into his mouth, and Mark puts his hands on the small of his back, like a reflex. It feels like they fit there, like they've always been there.
"Jesus, Mark," he says after a minute, pulling away very slightly, and Mark keeps one hand there, reaches the other up to Eduardo's neck and pulls him down again. Eduardo makes a sound, a breathy little groan, and says very softly yes, yes, and Mark's hard. He pushes his hips up into Eduardo's and Eduardo groans again.
"Do you want to fuck right here?" Eduardo says, laughing, and Mark's brain temporarily short-circuits because fuck. Him. And Eduardo. Fucking.
The truth of it is, he's a twenty-seven year old at the top of his field, working for the fucking President, but he's also a fucking toothpick and a geek and a little bit of an asshole, and he hasn't had sex in nine months. He doesn't like hanging out on the Hill, or the numerous bars in DC. He works eighteen hours a day and spends the other six in traffic, passed out on his twin bed, or, occasionally, eating.
"We shouldn't," he manages to say, and shakes his head, pushes Eduardo off him a little bit, because he's dangerously close to coming if Eduardo keeps rubbing up against him like a cat in heat.
"Come- come to my office," Eduardo says, eagerly, mouth wet against Mark's cheek, the corner of his lips. Mark thinks briefly of numbers coming in, votes being tallied- of writing some bullshit "bipartisan effort" statement for tomorrow, of having to pretend to talk with too-tan fat Republican fuckers for the next two years, and then Eduardo slips a hand under his hoodie, grasps his hip, and Mark thinks, almost audibly, fuck it.
He lets Eduardo lead him.
In the office, the only light comes from Eduardo's computer, still set up, open to his email and CNN, MSNBC, the Economist, WSJ, Fox, HuffPost, and the Miami Herald. Eduardo sees him looking and closes the laptop.
"No numbers, right now," he murmurs. "I can't tell you how goddamn sick I am of numbers."
"Naturally, you're an economic advisor," Mark says, and Eduardo pinches at his nipple through the shirt. Mark hisses and grins, quick in the pale light, and Eduardo pushes himself up onto his desk, moving his folders aside.
"Do you have-" Mark says, rolling his lip between his teeth, surveying Eduardo anxiously.
"Yeah, my wallet," Eduardo says, and twists backward off the desk to grab his sensible classy black jacket. Mark looks at the line of his flat belly as his shirt rides up, the hair leading from his belly button into his expensive pants. He wants to put his tongue on it.
He hasn't blown anyone since college, but it can't be that hard to pick it up again.
He takes Eduardo by the hips as Eduardo's straightening up, and he makes a vague noise of surprise in his throat.
"Mark?" he asks, and Mark pushes his shirt up with both hands, sucks at Eduardo's stomach. Eduardo groans and spreads his legs.
"Fuck, Mark," he says. "Fucking yes."
Mark takes his cock out, holds it by the base. Nuzzles his mouth against it, lips parted slightly, breathes in the scent. Eduardo's clenching the desk with white-knuckled fingers.
Mark puts his mouth carefully around it, and Eduardo chokes out- "Yeah, that's good. That's- Mark. Yeah."
Mark braces himself on the desk, sucks harder, and Eduardo puts a gentle hand in his hair, doesn't push, just rests it there, scratches his fingernails over Mark's scalp. Mark shivers and pants out a breath around Eduardo.
"Mark, I don't want-" he gasps out a breath. "I want to come when you're in me."
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, lets Eduardo's cock fall out of his mouth. Eduardo's looking down at him, cheeks a little pink, eyes wide and bright with lust and lack of sleep.
"C'mere," he says, drawing Mark closer by the back of his neck, and kisses him, somehow gets them onto the floor. It's not the best angle- Eduardo keeps trying to get his hips higher, and Mark is trying to get his fingers, his hands, on Eduardo's ass but it's hard.
"Hey," Eduardo says, slowing Mark's touch, kissing his neck, and he pulls off his pants very slowly, tosses them aside. "Here we go, alright?"
Mark draws in a shaky breath- oh God they're fucking, they're having sex in the goddamn White House, and Eduardo pushes Mark's pants down and off, slips the condom on. It's wet, slick, and Eduardo huffs out a laugh, takes Mark's fingers and rubs them on the condom, on himself, till they're wet, then nudges them against the crack of his ass.
"Fingers first, 'kay?" he says quietly, and Mark puts one in tentatively. Eduardo shudders, spine taut, and pulls Mark down into an open-mouthed kiss, mouthing encouragement against the line of jaw.
Mark licks his own fingers to make sure they're wet enough for two. The lube tastes like some kind of fruit, sweet. He puts another finger in, thrusts slippery and hard into Eduardo, and Eduardo chokes on his breath, moans low and shaky.
"Yes, yes yes yes," he says, and reaches between them, grabs at Mark's cock with one hand, guides it toward himself. "Wanna get fucked," he breathes out, grinning sheepishly at his own audacity, and Mark makes a sex noise, some kind of groan, hot and loud, and immediately goes hot with embarrassment.
"C'mon," Eduardo says, and Mark says, "I'm- yeah. Give me a fucking second, Wardo, unless you want me to come immediately."
Eduardo's laughing, and Mark slides slowly into him, feels the gripping heat, and he forgot that sex could feel this good. Eduardo wraps his ankles around Mark's hips, pulls him in deeper, and Mark leans his head against Eduardo's collarbone, breathes for a second.
"Move, Mark," Eduardo says in a strained voice, kicking at his tailbone, and Mark slides in and out again. Eduardo exhales on a long, hissing, yes, and Mark's arms are shaking from the strain.
"Mark-" Eduardo says, too loud, and Mark shakes his head, saying, "Shh, shh, Dustin or Chris-"
Eduardo just laughs and clenches around him, face glistening from effort. Mark is hot too, tingling, and Eduardo grins up at him and it feels so fucking good.
"Wanna come?" Eduardo breathes up at him, and Mark pushes at him with a shaking hand, frustrated. Eduardo pulls him closer, and it shifts the angle and it gets a thousand times more intense for both of them. Eduardo's biting half-moons in his bottom lip, and Mark thrusts three more times and comes. He fumbles for Eduardo's cock, and it only takes two strokes before Eduardo's groaning, too loud, and coming all over his hand.
Mark pulls out and flops on his back. Eduardo moves closer to him, shivering, sticky and cold, and God, they're really on the fucking floor.
"I need to get this carpet dry-cleaned," Eduardo says dazedly, and Mark snorts out a laugh.
"Here," Eduardo says, standing up, throwing Mark a couple tissues. Everything feels dark and weird for a moment, and Mark's laying on the floor like an idiot. He scrambles to his feet, wiping himself off, putting his hands over his dick. Eduardo's face is shadowed, turned away, and it all comes rushing back. They lost.
"Fucking Christ," Mark mutters to himself, and Eduardo turns to him, face open and honest and unshadowed, when he's looking at Mark straight on.
"Hey, it's okay," he says, putting his hands on Mark's hips, pulling him in.
"We're fucking while the world burns," Mark says darkly, and Eduardo laughs at that, kisses his hairline.
"Ah yes, the world burns because we have a bipartisan legislature," Eduardo says, and he slips Mark's shirt over his shoulders, buttons it up.
"It's not going to be perfect, but it's going to be exciting," Eduardo says quietly, buttoning his own shirt. "It's going to be a fucking challenge, and I'm excited."
"You're an idiot," Mark says.
"There's an art to all this, you know," Eduardo says. "To the fighting, and the compromise. Some might even say it's the 'essence of democracy'." He finishes the sentence in a posh accent, air-quotes and all, and Mark snorts.
"Gridlock, Wardo," he says. And- "You're such a Brown grad."
Eduardo just grins and pulls away, leads him out of the office by a hand.
They slip back into the war-room. Erica's gone home, the President's on his third scotch, and Dustin looks up from his computer, face tight and resigned. It brightens when he sees them, Eduardo's mussed hair, the hickey Mark is just now realizing is rising right above his collarbone. He gives them a discreet thumbs up, somehow maniacally energetic in the midst of the grief and the Blackberrys all saying "the Senate is now passing under Republican control" and "another seat lost in Delaware" and "4:38 AM."
Mark rolls his eyes, but lets a smile twist his mouth briefly when Eduardo rubs a hand over his neck. Mark's never lost before, but maybe he's realizing it's not as simple as win or lose.
--
"Twenty bucks," Dustin says, holding out his palm over Chris' press reports, three days later.
"No," Chris says automatically. "Wait, why?"
"Mark and Eduardo!" Dustin exclaims, wiggling his fingers under Chris' nose. "They got together on election night. Or, technically, post-election morning. Whatever."
Chris sighs. "Dustin, we never even made a bet, first of all, and second of all, are you sure? Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'll need to deal with this."
"No, Chris. You take care of pretending we're excited about the new session and I will take care of this."
Chris gives him a dubious look, but he really is busy. So goddamn busy.
"Dustin, just keep it to yourself," he calls, already nearly around the corner. Dustin grins.
Dustin takes care of it by sending Eduardo a picture he'd taken of Mark during the presidential election, when he'd fallen asleep in an office chair, unshaved, with his mouth open. Eduardo laughs delightedly. Underneath the picture, it reads-
Eduardo- Seriously, just know what you're getting into.
Eduardo sends back.
I'm aware. Thanks. Somehow I'll manage.
---
fin