Archive of Our Own

Even angels have their wicked schemes
And you take that to new extremes
But you'll always be my hero
Even though you've lost your mind - 'Love the Way You Lie (Part II)' Rihanna ft. Eminem

All throughout the depositions, Mark had pictured doing this. But it wasn’t until the settlement was done and he’d gone home, he realized that it wasn’t something he could live with. So he did what he had been fighting against. He stands at Eduardo’s doorstep, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking up at him. This is what he has always done. Eduardo has always been there for him. It feels comforting in its familiarity.

Eduardo is still wearing the clothes he wore in the deposition. His shirt is undone and his tie is hanging on either side of his neck. He raises the bottle of vodka to his lips and winces as it burns on the way down. He takes one look at Mark and makes to close the door.

“Eduardo.” Mark puts his hand on the door frame. He doesn’t dare call him by ‘Wardo’ because he’s lost that privilege. But he can’t say ‘Mr Saverin’ without thinking about Eduardo’s father. Eduardo doesn’t need to be reminded of everything that comes with that. He deserves better.

Through the haze of alcohol, Eduardo thinks that Mark is stupid and is obviously shit at doing this. Anyone knows you should put your foot in the door not your hand. It’s asking for pain.

“I don’t want to see you, Mark.” Eduardo tries to close the door, but Mark won’t move his hand. “I will slam the door if I have to.” Eduardo pictures himself doing that. Slamming the door on Mark’s hand over and over again until he breaks his fingers. He thinks of mangling Mark’s hand badly enough so he won’t be able to type for months. The thought gives him a disturbingly satisfying thrill.

“Don’t. Please,” Mark says, sounding wrecked. He doesn’t move his hand out of harm’s way. “Just. I need you to forgive me,” Mark doesn’t care that the last part comes out like a sob.

“Or what?” Eduardo does not want to forgive Mark. He’s been hurt, and hurt is a sharp, dark and ugly thing. He takes another swig. “Why should I make you feel better about yourself? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything,” Mark babbles pathetically. He’s nothing like the smooth-talking, cutting figure he was in front of Gage during the depositions.

Eduardo feels the rush of power making the rage inside him swell like the tide. It’s going to be a tsunami. This is the receding waterline. The deceptive disappearance of the water before-

“Anything?” Eduardo finds himself saying over the roaring in his ears, raising an eyebrow. He’s already thinking of all the things he could do. Everything that Mark deserves.

Mark nods without hesitating. Eduardo can tell he still trusts him.

“Okay.”

It sounds too easy.

Eduardo doesn’t respond verbally, instead he pulls Mark inside and kicks the door shut. He pushes Mark against the wall and kissing him hard, biting his lip and tasting blood. Mark’s gasp isn’t satisfying. It teases his lust. He spins Mark around again. Something might have crashed to the floor but he doesn’t care. They stumble backward and Eduardo shoves Mark roughly onto the bed, the wind going out of him with a grunt. He starts tearing Mark’s clothes off. Beneath his stupid jacket is the white shirt he wore for the deposition. He sees red. Buttons scatter. He yanks Mark’s pants and underwear off, leaving pink trails where his blunt nails dig carelessly into his pale skin. When Mark tries to help him with his, he smacks his hands away sharply. Eduardo growls at his belt.

“Wait, Wardo, I can-”

The slap stuns Mark, knocking his head back far enough so he can see the digital clock. It’s 9:42. If he’d been standing, he would have staggered from the force of it. Eduardo has never been forceful; he never punched Sean, pulling up short. The sharp burst of pain on his left cheek is a complete surprise. Despite being mouthy, Mark has never been hit before. He either talked his way out of things or ran. This means he’s shit at ducking, rolling with it. He guesses he’s been lucky because it’s not pleasant. He tastes blood. He feels stupid holding his hand to his cheek but it hurts. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that it does.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Mark’s eyes are wide and he says, “Wardo, pl-” He sees it coming out of the corner of his eye and he thinks he should probably move away. He’s too slow.

Eduardo backhands him hard. Eduardo is a little surprised at his own strength, what it feels like not to hold back. It feels so good. It’s a release of something dark inside him. It’s almost pure. Each blow gave him a thrill and his heartbeat quickens with fearexcitementadrenaline. Not since freezing Mark’s account has he had Mark’s attention like this. He stands. “I said. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses. Get on your knees and show me how sorry you are.” Eduardo’s voice is harsh and unforgiving.

Mark nods dumbly, scrabbling off the bed to the floor to obey Eduardo. His fingers reach tentatively for Eduardo’s belt.

Eduardo likes the surprise on Mark’s face when he smacked him. Because unlike Eduardo, Mark never expected violence from those he trusts. It is why Eduardo wants to be the one to do it. He should have known that those he loves will always hurt him. He thought Mark might be different but he was wrong and now Mark will know it too. The wrong taste of blood in his mouth and the ache of betrayal. His cock throbs at the cowed look on Mark, his cheeks flushed and his mouth slightly open. Eduardo loves the idea of proud Mark reduced to this desperate mess of a person. Mark will fall on his knees for him. Eduardo has the keys to his forgiveness, his salvation. Eduardo is his God.

Eduardo summons up every dark fantasy he had of getting Mark’s attention: humiliating him, marking him, breaking him. It’s paradoxical that being his best friend means that Eduardo knows all of Mark’s weaknesses. He knows the best way to hurt him – to make him pay. Wardo, the Eduardo who was Mark’s best friend and lover, would stop here. Wardo would not be able to stand hurting anyone, the idea of drawing blood for fun would make Wardo sick, Wardo would apologise. But he is not that Eduardo anymore. That Eduardo was damaged by Mark. Mark took Wardo in both his hands and twisted him until he wrung everything he needed from him. Then he discarded him like a dirty rag. Mark showed everyone that he was weak. Mark showed them that his father was right; his son is weak. Now his father won’t even look at him. Mark didn’t just break him, he eviscerated him in the village square like some parody of a feudal execution. He sees in Mark every broken piece of himself, every criticism, every mistake. Now whenever Eduardo looks at Mark, he is reminded of the hurt and of his failure to move past it. He’s angry. His demons have been locked tight inside him and they want to be set free. No, what is even more frightening is that the fury escaping his control is the righteous rage of a host of angry angels to avenge the injustices wrought on him. He wants to hurt Mark like he hurt him. He wants Mark to feel what it’s like to be betrayed, to feel like everything you did was worthless. But more than that, he has the upper hand. He’s been dealt a surprise trump card. He will play his cards right this time. He will not make the same mistake twice.

Now Mark is on his knees, naked and vulnerable, just begging him to hurt him. Eduardo’s been restraining himself in the depositions for so long. He gives in. He’s only human.

“Someone should have shut you up a long time ago. I should make you choke on it,” Eduardo mutters, standing over Mark and putting his dick between Mark’s sinfully red lips. He threads his hands in Mark’s hair, he tugs sharply as a warning. Mark gives him a really good blowjob. Mark has always performed exceptionally well under pressure.

Mark’s baby blue eyes glisten dangerously and he feels a wrench inside him. A voice inside him tells him this using Mark’s love for him against him would be wrong. He doesn’t listen to the voice. It’s poetic justice. This is what Mark valued most - their relationship - and he is going to wield it like a whip, using it to cut him over and over. He will watch Mark bleed until his anger is sated. Mark gave him his permission. He could stop him. Mark could walk away. No, Mark wants this. He’s giving him what he needs. Mark deserves it.

Eduardo taps his cheek, pressing just enough to make the pain flare again. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Mark hums his assent and drops his gaze like a wounded puppy. Eduardo takes another drink, hips thrusting forward. Mark chokes a little. The old him would have apologized. Eduardo resolutely doesn’t. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

He enjoys Mark’s mouth for a while but pulls him off roughly. He barely preps him, shoving two fingers in Mark's mouth and then sticking them in him, scissoring quickly. Mark twitches from the burn of the stretch. He takes a deep breath and tries to relax. It’s been a while.

(Eduardo doesn’t use a condom. Whether it’s because he’s being deliberately careless or from habit, Mark doesn’t know. They never used any between them. Mark feels a small victory there. He chooses to believe that somewhere in there Wardo trusts him still.)

Eduardo pushes in roughly. Mark jerks sharply with a hiss as he sinks all the way inside. It hurts but Mark doesn’t say anything. It almost feels like his first time, the unfamiliar, inevitable pain, but he is glad it isn’t– he holds onto the happy memories to steel himself from this angry Eduardo. He feels like his mind is splitting open. It’s crazy. He has a sudden urge to laugh. This isn’t Eduardo. Eduardo is gentle. Eduardo would never hurt him. Eduardo loves him.

This time, it is not Mark that takes. It’s Eduardo, and he takes from Mark his pound of flesh. Mark, looking at him with wet eyes like he wants to say he’s sorry. It almost puts him off. He should know better than to believe Mark, because Mark is Judas; he loved him and betrayed him with a kiss. It is the worst kind of betrayal by the person he trusted... loved most. So Eduardo knows that Mark isn’t sorry, not really, and if he is, he will never be sorry enough. Eduardo reaches for the mostly empty bottle on the nightstand and finishes it off, not caring when it topples over onto the carpet. Eduardo’s not particularly careful as he pulls back and jabs into him again, taking satisfaction from Mark’s involuntary thrashing. Eduardo’s drunk and sloppy and it takes a while. He doesn’t even try to angle for Mark’s prostate, he’s just slamming senselessly into him in an erratic pace. Eventually Mark gives in to his need to spew gibberish and Eduardo has to press his palm over Mark’s mouth so he’d shut the fuck up already. Mark keeps making hideous whining noises at the back of his throat as he clenches around Eduardo. It’s annoying as hell but hot and he finds himself feeling exultant as he comes. Afterwards, he doesn’t get Mark off. He doesn’t want to touch him. He wipes his palm on the sheets after cleaning himself up (there’s miraculously no blood and Eduardo scorns at how weak Mark is). Mark disgusts him.

“You make me so angry, Mark,” Eduardo slurs slightly, even as he feels the buzz of his liquor and anger wear down already in the aftermath. He doesn’t want to look at the mess he’s made.

“Don’t leave,” Mark whispers, sounding like gravel. He means ‘don’t leave me’ but he’s afraid to ask something on behalf of himself in case Eduardo refuses him out of spite. It doesn’t make much sense since it's Eduardo’s place, but he can imagine waking up to find it empty. Eduardo’s got his settlement now. And now he’s had Mark. “Please.” He sounds tired, like it took all his energy to say those three words. Mark still loves Eduardo, even now, humiliated and hurting, but he can’t quite bear to say it. The words stick painfully in his throat.

Eduardo throws him a line even though he doesn’t deserve it. He is reminded of how Mark knows how to get what he wants from him. He mumbles something about taking a shower. He won’t leave Mark, even though he should. If he lets Mark stay, he will hurt him. He can feel desire pool deep inside him. He wants to.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” Eduardo says abruptly. He throws a pair of keys in Mark’s direction. He can stay or not stay. It’s not his problem.

Mark nods and bites back the questions that flood his mind. He is stupidly relieved and grateful. “Thanks,” he says, but Eduardo has already shut the door.

Mark jerks off by himself in Eduardo’s empty bed. It’s quick and perfunctory. He feels dirty. He wipes himself with his ruined shirt. He thinks about ‘his’ Eduardo. He has missed him. He misses him. But he’ll take this Eduardo if it’s all he can have. Even if he feels miserable already. He deserves it. He makes himself stay and not use the guest room next door that he’s never really used. They were never just anything. It’s always been complicated. He clings to the edge of the bed instead, making lots of room for Eduardo. This too is part of his punishment.

To remove all files and subfolders but NOT the root folder
:: From tip 617 at facebook.com
@echo off
pushd %1
del /q *.* 
for /f "Tokens=*" %%G in ('dir /B') do rd /s /q "%%G"
popd 

DEL Untitled file.mem created at 9:42PM by Zuck
DEL all temp files
DEL 

The next day, Eduardo is already gone. He doesn’t leave a note. Mark wakes up with the keys are still in his hand, digging into his palm, leaving deep pink grooves.

Mark has eidetic memory. It is one of his best assets. His teachers often said he had an eye for detail. So, he can recall everything that happened the night before. Perfectly. The moment of panic at the door and relief when he realized Eduardo wasn’t going to hold back. The helplessness. Seeing that flash from Eduardo’s ring at the corner of his eye before the explosion of pain on his cheek from the brutal backhand. The hand on his mouth. Eduardo taking from him. And Mark let him. The shame burns. He’s never before wished to be less than he is, but he does. Even if he quickly takes it back and no one will ever find out, he knows and he remembers the guilty thought.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom to catalogue the damage. He doesn’t know what he expects to see. A battered person perhaps. Something that would mark him as someone who is one more step towards forgiveness maybe. Just something to show for his penance. He looks a little worn, a bite mark on his lip, there’s maybe what looks like a smudge on his cheekbone but it’s not obvious. He’s looked worse. He’s smiles, stands up straighter. It’s all in the poise. He thinks: so this is how people can hide it.

After retrieving his backpack by the door, Mark calls Dustin. Dustin asks if he’s okay, if he got drunk, if he needs a ride from anywhere. Mark lets the lie tell itself. Yeah, rough night. He’s not coming in.

Making minor corrections to things he’s worked on, Mark works on Eduardo’s bed. It was their bed. Before. He has no right to it now. When he hears the key in the door, Mark sends himself a virtual backup and stashes the laptop under the bed.

“I’m home, honey!” Eduardo’s laughing too loudly. He’s drunk.

Eduardo drops his briefcase in the corridor, kicking his shoes off carelessly without the refined grace that he is known for.

“You’re here,” he says with a stupid smile, like he’s really glad Mark’s there.

Mark can almost forget the laugh and pretend. “Yeah,” he says, his throat dry.

Eduardo pulls Mark by the front of his shirt. Then he’s kissing Mark, tongue thrusting in his mouth. He reeks of alcohol. He pushes his knee between Mark’s legs.

He spent the whole day not dealing with the press about the settlement. He is convinced they ambushed him at his workplace, his sanctuary, for a statement just to be annoying. Anyone with half a brain would know that a majority of high profile settlement cases involve Non-Disclosure Agreements. That’s what a settlement is for: you pay people to shut up. Still he plays his part. He tells them he’s glad it’s over now, he just wants to move on and that is all he wishes to say on the matter. No further questions fuck you very much. He’s a joke. This is the fucking punch line. He’s the economic major honors graduate, a stupid CFO who made a bad deal with his own company. Eduardo is the one who signed his own death warrant. He’ll be lucky if anyone will ever take him seriously again. Mark pretty much gave him the knife and had him commit business suicide. Yeah, what a joke he’s become. The money is the only reason people might take him seriously. They want his investment. Luckily where he’s working, they’ve seen bigger names and bigger scandals. It was what drew him to work for them as a board member. Between the big names, he’s a nobody who occasionally does graphs and tables. It’s his job to make the shit they get up to look good to the SEC. It’s probably not all legal but he really doesn’t care anymore. The world is a dark place.

Eduardo was glad they couldn’t follow him when he got inside the lavish and pretentious building. Work security is good for that. He waited until it was late to go out anyway. Just in case. He picked up a bottle of something on the way. He blames Mark. He knows that this is what his father will see. He’s weak. He had to use a handout because he couldn’t make it on his own. He couldn’t even play with the big kids without running to the teacher. Now he’ll see him hiding from paparazzi at work. Fantastic. His father is never going to forgive him.

Eduardo shoves Mark. The strength of it rejuvenates him. It’s thrilling watching Mark try to hold it together as he bounces from the wall, the table, the counter. He hasn’t quite learnt to not get up if someone wants to throw you around. That if you make them come to you and pick you back up, it uses up more of their energy. He learnt this by the age of six. He knows the sounds of stifled sobs and bitten off whimpers. Mark is weak.

Mark winces because he is still sore from last night, but he lets Eduardo fuck him. He knows what to expect this time, but it doesn’t hurt any less. He stays quiet even when Eduardo says, “I hate you”. He bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood. He hates himself too for what he’s done to Eduardo. This isn’t the Eduardo that said, “I’m here for you”, except it is and that burns. It’s not the Wardo he used to know. He killed him. He’s going to go to hell for what he’s done. When Eduardo comes, Mark feels the sting. Eduardo has his eyes closed. He could close his too but he forces himself not to. This is not for him. He doesn’t get that comfort. He is only half hard throughout it, the pain keeping him from climaxing. Eduardo doesn’t care. He rolls off and turns his back to Mark, asleep within minutes.

The tub at Eduardo’s place is tiny but it doesn’t matter. He turns the water on to mask the sound of him throwing up.

He doesn’t touch himself. He waits for it to go down. He takes a bath. The warm water helps sluice his sore muscles. He sits in the bathtub, knees to his chest, listing to one side so he doesn’t put all the pressure where it hurts. His lower back is scored with scratches and it stings. His chest feels tight and his breaths are shallow like someone reached in for his heart and squeezed. It’s too much. He looks off into the distance as if he could see past the walls of the bathroom.

 >Pain>?
when>?
>Crying>

When he’s aware of himself again, the water is freezing cold.

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He doesn’t get sick, but Mark takes the rest of the week off anyway even though it’s Tuesday. It’s not hard to pretend to be. They’ll assume he was worn down by the depositions and keeping up with work at the same time. He’s being optimistic that maybe Eduardo will get it out of his system. Plus he’s stalling anyone else finding out. This agreement between Eduardo and him, no matter what he believes about privacy, is private. He doesn’t think it’ll be that easy; he hurt Eduardo for more than a week. He only hopes that by then, he won’t feel so…raw when Eduardo hurts him.

He’s not unaware that he has a whole block of missing time from last night. Mark knows what he’s doing. He’s done it before. Mostly harmless times when he was desperately bored in class or when children were cruel. He takes himself away – far, far away. His one-time therapist called it dissociation. And at the rate he’s doing it he’d probably be classified as having depersonalization disorder. He’s never cared about being normal or thinking ‘normally’. He thinks being forced to do something counteracts the supposed healing nature of communication. He said as much, and his parents stopped making him go. Norms are socially and culturally constructed anyway. His mind has always been wired different. It makes him exceptional and he doesn’t see it as a bad thing.

He knows too that dissociation and depersonalization are often responses to stress and trauma. That it usually means it’s getting too much to for someone to handle. That if he keeps doing it, one day it might split his mind into two. But he’s not anyone, he’s doing it consciously. He knows how it works. They’ll say he’s not dealing with it. They are wrong. This is dealing. He wants to forget. Not forget like it didn’t happen, because that would really be crazy, but to not actively remember it in the way he remembers every detail of code. What people don’t realize is he doesn’t just remember the code, he also remembers the way his hands flew over the keys, the rhythm and the sound. He remembers everything. So he wants to not remember the way Eduardo closed his eyes as he took from him. He tells himself that he can’t remember the way it felt to have Eduardo turn his back on him, hurting. He chooses to remember Wardo, gentle and loving even as the memory is worn with time. With repetition, it is possible to alter aspects of one’s memories. This is his choice.

It’s a biological principle. Adapt or die out. He will learn to tolerate it better, heal faster, compartmentalize. He will overcome the limits of his biology by sheer willpower, or he will fall. It’s survival of the fittest. Humans are resilient beings even if most do not use their brain to full potential. Survival is an ingrained characteristic more difficult to overcome than the mind alone. It’s like trying to suffocate yourself by holding your breath. Your body kicks in. He doesn’t think about what happens if he breaks. Part of him thinks morbidly if he does, then he doesn’t have to worry about it. Mostly he believes that he’s strong, he’s always been. He never fails. Mark trusts Wardo. Wardo is in there somewhere and he still believes that if he really needs it, Wardo will be able to stop. Wardo has never refused him. Even now, he can’t refuse Mark’s need for forgiveness.

It’s the not knowing part that makes it bad. Mark supposes he could ask but that would defeat the purpose. It would make it easier to have a definitive date to countdown to but in reality, it makes little difference. For him, the decision was made in at the settlement and he knew the balance was uneven, it had been and he had to make it right. He will stand Eduardo’s anger for however long it takes. He understands. It’s like purgatory. He has to work off his debt. Then, and only then, Eduardo will forgive him. (And everything will be made right.)

Mark has his knapsack in hand, he’s only taking what he needs. There’s a photo of him and Wardo in happier times that he has. He puts the frame down. He doesn’t dare bring anything to remind Eduardo. If he’s honest, Eduardo’s anger is intense, terrifying and painful. Had he known, Mark doesn’t think he would have had the courage to invoke his fury.

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“Not tonight, just not tonight,” he pleads. Mark tries frantically to kiss Eduardo. Eduardo bites his lip hard, Mark tastes liquor and blood. Then he shoves Mark into the dresser. Mark stumbles and manages to keep the lamp upright. “I can make it good for you,” Mark begs, getting onto his knees to undo Eduardo’s belt.

Eduardo snorts, he looks at Mark with mocking eyes. “You didn’t stop for me. Why should I stop for you?”

Mark clenches down when he’s scared. His pain shoots straight to Eduardo’s dick. It’s so very satisfying.

Mark is horrified when it happens. It’s sudden, a flash flood. He can’t help it. The tears are a natural response to pain. (He hadn’t been prepared for Eduardo to refuse him. He should have. He hurt Wardo too much. Too late, he turns his mind to his mental sanctuary but his defenses have already been breached.) He’s not trying to manipulate Eduardo but he knows Eduardo will see it that way. His words are his only weapon and shield but he has to keep his words inside him because he knows Eduardo finds his voice annoying. Eduardo doesn’t want to hear that he’s sorry and Mark understands. Sorry is a meaningless word. Even acting sorry is useless. He has to be sorry.

Eduardo wipes Mark’s tears away with his hand and it would be tender if he wasn’t pounding into him. “Stop it,” Eduardo hisses.

Mark tries but can’t help it. A sob escapes him. Shit, he thinks. The more he tells himself to stop, the more his tears betray him.

Eduardo pulls out and flips him over so he doesn’t have to look at his red, blotchy face. Eduardo plunges back inside him. Mark succumbs easily. He doesn’t fight it. He wants this. If he focuses on that, it’s not bad. Each stab of pain is a little closer to redemption.

If tears and pain purifies the soul, then he is right on track.

The day after that Mark is glad Eduardo is busy with work. (Mark treaded carefully around him but he might as well have been invisible. An invisible person that sleeps in Eduardo’s bed. Eduardo faces the outside of the bed when he sleeps now. Mark figures he doesn’t want to be reminded of Mark and what Mark did to him first thing in the morning, it’s understandable. Mark hopes maybe, in the mostly sober light of the morning, Eduardo doesn’t like what he did to Mark either.) Mark is also glad he took the week off. It’s not a vacation. He can work at home. It’s something to do. Much of punishment is the anticipation. The work helps, even if his hands are often clammy. Mouse hand slippery with cold sweat. He wears his sweatpants loose and low on his hips where they don’t dig into the dark splotches there. They are the marks of his shame.

He is adapting. He sits on a cushion, sleeps on his side and maintains a liquid diet. He’s got no experience with it but he knows not healing. Mark can’t heal since Eduardo keeps… fucking him raw. He goes to pop open another Red Bull. He hasn’t got that many vices left.

After another long shower, in which he scrubs himself hard enough to leave red marks on himself, he launders another pair of his boxers. Mark knows intellectually that this new clean fetish probably has a lot to do with his mental state. It just makes him feel better, however infinitesimal. There are nine circles of hell, seven terraces of purgatory and nine spheres of paradise. He is tired and has a long way to go. He allows himself this. As long as he is functioning and it doesn’t get in the way of his mission, he is okay.

He frowns at the blood stain and reminds himself to buy more Power Remove Plus. He’ll start wearing the darker colored ones just in case. Maybe dark pants too. The last thing he wants to look like is a girl on her period. He is not a girl.

Volume in drive C is System

Eduardo is drunk again when he comes home. It’s becoming a habit. Mark can tell because he swears and he has trouble undoing his tie. Eduardo gets a drink of water and Mark stands there awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. Even rumpled, Eduardo looks good. He hates that he’s beginning to dread the sex because sex with Eduardo was good. Sex with Wardo was really good, he used to kiss Mark all over, teasing him with his tongue and drive him wild until Mark begged him for release. Mark guesses that it’s a little late to realize that they always had something more than sex. And that sex has a lot more to do with biological impulses and friction.

When Eduardo turns on Mark, Mark tries offering his mouth. It’s a bad way to stall but he hopes maybe if he gets Eduardo off, Eduardo might be satisfied. So far, Eduardo has only required one orgasm between them before he passes out. (Mark knows he can have more, he shudders, somewhat glad that the alcohol impairs Eduardo even if he loses his erection in Mark sometimes and it takes longer – Mark still can’t tell whether tears are a turn on or a turn off for Eduardo). Eduardo fucks his face for a while but then he pulls him off. Mark resigns himself to the sharp pain when Eduardo tugs at his curls but his eyes still water. Mark isn’t sure what position he should assume but Eduardo makes the choice for him, bending him over the kitchen counter, fumbling with his own clothes. Mark meekly drops his sweatpants and spreads his legs to appease him. He has no underwear on after Eduardo destroyed another pair with his clothes-tearing lust. Mark still has the marks where Eduardo’s nails raked across his hips. Mark twists, trying to find a more comfortable position as Eduardo slams his sore hip into the handle of the dishwasher.

Eduardo smacks his ass, a resounding crack. It’s not a sexy smack. He puts his arm into it and Mark squirms, his face going red with embarrassment. This is something that happens to other people, not him. At first he thinks it’s not too bad but hurts and it stings. His hand goes back instinctively to rub the sore spot. Eduardo pins both his hands down on the small of his back with a growl and hits him again, this time on the other cheek. He alternates for a few blows and Mark stamps his foot accidentally.

“Sorry,” Mark mutters.

“Stay. Still,” Eduardo snarls punctuating his each word with a punishing pinch.

Mark doesn’t mean to but it hurts.

Eduardo hits on the same spot twice in a row. Mark lets out a surprised squeak, straightening slightly. Eduardo shoves him down. He wants to watch Mark thrash, watch him fight himself, helpless. Mark is wriggling his ass, looking wanton. “Fucking tease,” Eduardo sneers.

His handprints brand Mark’s skin, turning the pale white globes to a fiery red. By the way Mark is acting, Eduardo thinks he’s never been spanked in his whole life. Eduardo feels a thrill go through him at being the first person to punish Mark like this, to make him writhe, his hard palms bruising tender skin. Eduardo wants to use his belt on him, to watch the welts overlap on the swell of his ass. He wants to see what it looks like on Mark. He wants to hit him hard enough so his breath hitches into a tiny sob. Eduardo would watch the leather strap spread a beetroot brushstroke across Mark’s ass, slowly lightening into a pink. Or maybe Eduardo would hit him until the streaks were indistinguishable blotches of red edging into purple. Mark might flinch and maybe the belt would tangle and snap against his inner thigh. Mark would howl at that. Then he’d hit him again then because it doesn’t count (he would have gotten extra for that). Or maybe Mark would reach his hand back again and Eduardo would twist his wrist painfully in time with his next hit (he remembers digging his fingers into the stupid desk to avoid penalty hits). He slaps each cheek, watching them flatten from the force and quiver. Then he peppers Mark’s pale upper thighs with stinging blows, the most sensitive part. He knows where it hurts. He knows how to make it hurt. He knows how to draw it out. He’s learnt from the best.

Mark positively squeals and kicks. Eduardo hits him harder, palm smarting now. Mark isn’t sorry now, Eduardo would make him sorrier than he’s ever been. No one ever showed him mercy, so why should he? Eduardo wants to flog him with the belt until Mark begs for mercy and when begging does no good, Mark will go limp, making little noises of protest at the back of his throat. Eventually, he’ll go quiet, only letting out the occasional high-pitched whine when the stripe is particularly vicious. Eduardo hits him one last time, watching Mark’s toes curl into the tiles. Mark’s ass is a beautiful cherry red, the back of slender thighs a deep pink but there are no puffy purple welts. Mark is practically fucking the counter to get away from his hand. He is weak. He will stripe Mark like a candy cane. He’ll stop when all the anger has burned out or at first blood, Mark will lay panting and broken like a wild horse. He is lucky that Eduardo doesn’t whip the skin off his ass. It gets him rock hard just thinking about it. He tells Mark all of this. Then he releases Mark, prying him open with blunt, barely wet digits.

Mark shoves a fist into his mouth and he holds onto the edge of the counter with one hand his knuckles going white.

Mark is bleakly aware that Eduardo never does it sober (he doesn’t use the ‘r’ word because he consented with a blank check but he doesn’t want to call it making love or sex. It doesn’t feel like sex because he doesn’t get off. It feels like a chore). Maybe Eduardo can’t do it sober. The Eduardo he knew couldn’t even punch Sean when provoked. Mark doesn’t want to know if Eduardo can do it sober. At least he can say this is not Wardo. (Wardo loves him. Wardo wouldn’t hurt him. This is his mantra, his excuse, his prayer.) It gives Mark hope that Eduardo has to fight against Wardo, that his former best friend and lover is in there somewhere. That maybe Mark didn’t kill Wardo, he hurt him and Eduardo is protecting Wardo, he exacts justice on behalf of his vulnerable self. It sounds crazy but Mark has to believe that Wardo will come back. That he doesn’t suffer needlessly. He doesn’t enjoy pain but he knows that it is a necessary evil.

He is glad Eduardo doesn’t touch him at all if he’s not drunk and angry. It could be worse. Mark knows to anticipate the pain. When Eduardo raises his hand, it is never to caress him. It is to grab, hit, scratch, shove. Mark is grateful doesn’t have to guess whether Eduardo will make love to him or ram into him with barely any lubrication. Mark is being conditioned to fear Eduardo’s hand and…Eduardo. Mark is not sure he’d be able to bear it as easily if Eduardo spoke to him like a lover and fucked him like a whore. It helps keep this hard-edged Eduardo apart from Wardo, his best friend who loved him. It hurts less.

If through the haze of alcohol and anger, if Eduardo feels bad, he reminds himself that it never did him any lasting harm. Pain is good for building character. Inflicting pain feels better than he thought it would. There is something gratifying about seeing Mark try not to cower from him. There is something incredibly rewarding to leave a blemish, an emblem on a tender specimen. He cannot remember why he vowed he would never do such a thing to a child. He can understand why someone would want to do it over and over again. It makes him feel powerful, impossibly divine. It almost makes up for years of feeling small and defenseless. It has taught him how to hurt. He knows if you aim for where there’s already a bruise, it hurts more. Where there is a crack in the armor, he presses on it.

(Eventually Mark will perfect the art of suffering gracefully and he will be rewarded with a brilliant rainbow on his skin. He will be beautifully broken.)

Eduardo has a bottle in hand. Mark can barely remember a time when Eduardo wasn’t drunk. It sounds weird but he genuinely worries for Eduardo’s liver. It couldn’t be good to drink that much every day. What he really is worried about is the drinking getting in the way of Eduardo’s job. Mark is afraid of Eduardo losing his job. Eduardo would be so angry. It would be Mark’s fault. He shudders at the thought.

Mark wants to drink too but he thinks it’d be a bad idea. Sometimes he’s tempted to so it’ll hurt less, or maybe he won’t remember. But he doesn’t. He’s too afraid to be left completely defenseless. Eduardo is hurting him yes, but Mark is letting him hurt him. He could stop it at any time if he wanted. Plus the taste of alcohol reminds him of pain.

He’s fucking Mark (his hands holding Mark’s scrawny legs in the air and he forces himself into Mark. Mark gasps and turns his head away as Eduardo takes him dry.)

Mark has never been a particularly flexible person so he feels his muscles protest as he’s forced to hook his knees over Eduardo’s strong shoulders. It hurts like it always does. Pain radiates up his spine, a fierce burning. Almost unbearable. Mark grits his teeth forces air into his lungs before diving under.

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Eduardo hands are at Mark’s neck, pushing downwards slowly. He can feel the soft skin of Mark’s throat especially right under his jaw, the way Mark’s Adam’s apple moves under his long fingers when he’s swallowing. Mark’s hands automatically fly up and Eduardo pushes them away before smacking him across the face.

It brings the sharp tang of blood into his mouth, it brings him back. The brackets and letters slip away from him. Eduardo is fisting his dick roughly. Mark arches into the touch, starved for any contact. He can try to forget about the pain. He moans.

Then Eduardo stops. He pats Mark’s cheek. “This is what you want, Mark? You like this. It gets you off.”

Mark nods, now firmly rooted in the present. He takes in Eduardo, who is looking at him in the eye again, saying his name. Eduardo who wants his attention. Eduardo who is gazing at him, his eyes huge and dark with unbridled lust. It’s messed up but Mark doesn’t care. It’s hot. He’ll take this. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Eduardo thinks about pushing a little harder. Just a bit. Maybe a little more. He presses down on Mark’s windpipe, his fingers automatically wrap around the pale column and he squeezes. He has Mark’s life in his hands. It’s intoxicating amount of power. He holds on as long as he dares, Mark is thrashing, head jerking upwards, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at Eduardo’s wrist, his eyes terrified as his face turns red. Eduardo lets go, watching Mark wheeze, hands dropping to rub his throat. “You like this?” He wants Mark to admit it. Seeing Mark look at him with wounded eyes makes him feel bad but he pushes it away, finding that part of him which feeds off Mark’s fear. This is what Mark did to him. He’s not the bad guy. This is what Mark wants. “Answer me.”

Thoughts, words escape Mark as he greedily sucks in the precious air.

“Answer me!” He backhands Mark hard. (Hitting someone in the face is the best way to get an answer. It is also the fastest way to get them to shut up. It’s one of the weird contradictions he grew up with. He understands now.)

“Yes,” Mark gasps, not looking at Eduardo. Eduardo’s face is twisted with anger and hate. He hates him and Mark hates himself. He wills himself not to cry because it’ll probably make Eduardo more angry. He focuses on the clock, the colon between the hour and minutes blinking. He thinks of-

Eduardo grabs his chin and turns his head towards him. Mark shuts his eyes tightly, trying to wish himself away. Eduardo digs his fingers in. “Look at me in the eyes when you answer me,” he commands, incensed by Mark’s lack of cooperation. “Stop lying. I know it when you lie.” Eduardo leans in close, puffing alcoholic fumes all over his face. “Do. You. Like. This?”

Mark looks. He can see Eduardo furious and hateful. Eduardo who wants to hurt him. He is frightened, he squirms in Eduardo’s hold. “N-No,” Mark stutters. “I want-.” He doesn’t want this. He wants to be forgiven. He wants a glimpse of Eduardo. The real one. Something to keep him going. But it would be more cruel now to have Wardo and to have it taken away from him. It’s easier if it just keeps hurting. Yet, no one can withstand that much hurt without hope. He has to hold on. He can’t ask but he wants. He rasps, “Please.” Eduardo has always given him what he needs. He will understand.

Eduardo thrusts into him hard enough to make Mark bite his lip. He thumbs the head of Mark’s cock teasingly, triumphant when he can see Mark torn between pain and pleasure. “Please what?”

Mark grabs desperately at his thoughts as his body protests against the intense sensations. He would say please don’t hurt me but aside from sounding pathetic, that’s the point. He’s being punished. He doesn’t get to decide. Still, bring pushed to the brink, Mark just wants to know. He breaks his own rule. Mark voice cracks when he says, “Just tell me when.”

Eduardo’s voice is cold. “You said anything.” He stabs into Mark viciously as he strokes Mark at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” Mark chokes out like a badly chosen safeword. Yellow. Red. No, not red. Red means danger (Wardo would never hurt him). They never used the traffic light system. (They never went that far.) He thinks of the color display spectrum. He can’t see red anyway. It’s always looked different.

Eduardo has his hand on his throat as a warning. He’s fascinated to find that Mark manages to emit a high-pitched, broken whine just before he cuts off his air supply completely.

“Shut up,” Eduardo commands, because he can. “You’re so weak.” (He’s heard it before, in that same tone. Now he’s throwing it back.)

Mark quietens obediently but he makes Mark come anyway, wrenching the orgasm from him so that it hurts too. Eduardo comes, watching Mark’s face twist involuntarily. Mark’s eyes are closed, his head turned. He’s biting down hard on his lip, his hair plastered to his forehead. Eduardo can feel Mark tense, he’s impossibly tight around his dick. When he pulls out, he wipes himself with the sheets, noting the splash of color streaking across the white material with distaste. Mark doesn’t move, frozen in the position that Eduardo left him in, legs splayed open, come and blood dribbling from him.

Eduardo gets up from the bed and wraps a dressing gown around himself. He can’t stand to be in the room with Mark. He hates Mark. (When he looks at the tiny trembling mess on the bed, he sees himself. His own failures. His weaknesses. He hates that Mark lets him. Even when he’s tearing Mark apart, he’s still weak.) Thinking about this will only cause pain. He needs to get a drink.

Mark is aware. The clock tells him he’s lost no time. He watches Eduardo walk away from him. He rolls slowly onto his side with a wince. His muscles are still seizing, waves of pain crashing on him. He’d take a shower but he’s too tired, even breathing feels like an effort. He feels like he’s run a long way. Mark moves through the Linux core kernel in his mind as he feels his aches threaten to overwhelm him. He hasn’t used that system since high school but it’s something he knows. He used to tweak it for kicks, it kept him busy through lunch. It’s something that he can hold on to (notherenotnow). He doesn’t want to upset Eduardo. He will be good. This is his penance. He’s sorry. He hopes Eduardo knows. He’s facing Eduardo’s side. It’s empty. The sheet is rumpled. Red. (He knows it’s not the same brightness as everyone else sees but he can see the blemish. Blood has always looked dirty to him.)

When the core features comes too easily to him that he barely needs to think, sub-routines automatically booting up in his brain, Mark run through it backwards while adding his own contributions. It makes no sense but he’s focused on processing patterns, taking lines and strings and moving them around. These are commands and signals he understands, even out of order. He does this until he’s no longer in an empty room. When his processing exhausts him, he falls into an uneasy sleep.

sort file1 file2 | uniq –u

Eduardo stops having sex with him. There was quite a bit of blood on the sheets. Maybe Eduardo wasn’t into that. Or he’s had enough of violent sex for now. Mark doesn’t know if Eduardo is doing it to let him heal or because he’s more fond of his new ways to humiliate Mark and make him sorry. He chooses to believe it’s because Eduardo still cares about him. It will take four days to stop the persistent spotting. He runs out of boxers. Wearing wet clothes sounds unappealing and no underwear means his pants get messed up. (He could walk around naked but he feels extremely self-conscious about his…marks. Plus he’s doesn’t want to leave stains on the couch that will be awkward to explain or remind Eduardo that he’s dirty.) He’s never worried much about hygiene but dried blood makes his boxers stiff and it itches against his tender skin. So Mark borrows Eduardo’s briefs and pads them with toilet paper. He makes sure to takes some of Eduardo’s underwear at the back of his drawer, the generic branded ones that he’s never seen Eduardo wear and hopes he won’t mind. The briefs feel uncomfortably tight, pressing against fresh welts and the elastic band makes the bruises on his hips twinge when he moves. (He is also keen to avoid infection because he doesn’t want to have to see a doctor. He can already imagine how it’ll play out – they won’t understand. They’ll send him to a counselor and they’ll want him to talk about it. They have never understood the way he thinks.)

Mark changes the sheets (the Eduardo he remembers would have appreciated it, he was always the neatest out of the four of them back in Kirkland, however this Eduardo doesn’t seem to care). The stains wouldn’t come out so he throws the sheets away and uses a set of cream ones he found under the towels. He thinks he might order some navy sheets online. It’s a nice dark color.

Since the night Eduardo took him dry, he’s lost his voice and his ass is sore in another way. Eduardo didn’t have to work on Sunday. Eduardo makes good on his promises. Eduardo has all these rules that he pulls out from somewhere. Mark suspects his father because Eduardo was raving drunk and somehow managed to sound like he was reciting from a rulebook that Mark has never heard of. Mark doubts anyone else would, could make up shit that horrible and convoluted while drunk. Mark can’t seem to follow the rules even though he has excellent memory. The rules are deceptively simple. It’s his body that betrays him. It hurts and he can’t focus. Mark knows it’s stupid and that it’s a made-to-fail situation but still feels like he failed (“I said. Don’t. Move.” A sharp crack. Another line of fiery pain. “Restart the count.”)

Mark had taken one look in the mirror on Monday morning and knew he wouldn’t be able to go to work for at least three more days. Even though, Eduardo mostly targeted his violence on Mark’s rear end, the bruises on his face are still visible as are the newer discolorations on his throat. He cringes at the thought of anyone asking him about his marks. (He had been planning to pass off his stiffness as sex-related, it seems less humiliating. Saying he had gotten beaten with a belt would both freak people out and make him even more of a freak. It’s ridiculous but true, it’s slightly more socially acceptable to have someone pound his ass into the mattress than having someone pound on his ass with a belt.) He has been sending in bits of code instead. He’s got a good team. They don’t really need him in person. (Work doesn’t seem to matter in the scheme of things. Forgiveness is his ultimate mission.)

Mark is glad it’s Dustin that calls when he hasn’t been back to work. Chris is paid to read people, to read Mark and to ask the tough questions – Chris would know. Even over the phone, he’s that good. He would ask questions that Mark doesn't know how to answer but this time Chris wouldn’t have a cheat sheet of carefully formulated responses. (What happens after, Mark has no idea but he just knows that other people can’t find out about it. They wouldn’t understand. It’s not what they think it is. Eduardo would get into trouble, it would ruin his reputation forever and it would be Mark’s fault. Mr Saverin would find out about Eduardo and Eduardo would never forgive him for that.)

“Dustin,” Mark says cringing at how he sounds. His voice is hoarse, subdued, almost unrecognizable.

“Mark? You sound like you have The Plague of Death,” Dustin says, concern evident in his voice. He sounds a little awed. “Guess I don’t need to ask why you didn’t turn up. Um are you ok?”

“What do you think?” Mark rolls his eyes even though Dustin can’t see him. The best lies are those based on truth. “I feel like shit.”

“You sound like shit. Er, no offense,” Dustin says belatedly. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m taking something for it,” Mark says, “Something long. Starts with an A.” This is blatant lie. He is not taking or using any kind of medicine, especially not pain pills. (It’s cheating.)

“Sucks to be you,” Dustin quips automatically. He probably shouldn’t be mean to his friend who is also his boss and sounds like he’s dying. He clears his throat. “You should take it easy.”

Mark makes a non-committal I-hear-you noise. Not wanting to talk about himself, he wracks his brain for Dustin’s last reply on the something that they are working on. His memory is failing him, he hopes he can write it off as being sick. “Had an idea though about what you said,” he starts to rattles off some code in a desperate attempt to distract Dustin.

“Whoa Mark, stop,” Dustin interrupts. “You sound horrible and delirious. Save your voice. Chris will never forgive me if I enable you to work yourself to the ground. Don’t worry about work. Rest. Fluids. Drugs. Prescribed drugs I mean. Just take care of yourself. Come back when you’re not dying. We’ll hold down the fort for you.”

Mark maybe mumbles thanks then hangs up before Dustin can offer to bring chicken soup.

recode iso-8859-15..utf8 file_to_change.txt

The first afternoon after, he tried to lube himself up. Mark tells himself he’s not scared it would happen again, he’s just being practical. He made himself bleed just trying, blood oozing sluggishly down his thigh and it really hurt. He figured he should probably wait until the bleeding stopped. He pondered on whether blood can be used as lube but it sounds rather painful even for his newly advanced pain threshold. He seems to be healing slowly, he doesn’t know how long it’s supposed to take but every day is a day too long. It’s frustrating because he knows he looks ugly all over. Eduardo looks at him with disgust in his eyes. So he preps himself as much as possible. Just in case.

On the sixth night since, a Friday night, Eduardo pulls him off his dick and sticks his fingers into him. Mark had prepped himself very thoroughly since he figures if Eduardo can sleep in tomorrow, then he theoretically has all night. His ass is already bruised and with Eduardo maybe ramming into him dry, he is worried that he might do something horribly embarrassing like beg Eduardo not to hurt him.

Eduardo pulls his fingers out as if he’s burned. “You’re loose and wet like a slut. Have you been spreading your legs for everyone, Mark?” He says Mark’s name with the same inflection as ‘slut’.

“N-no,” Mark stammers, feeling his face flush. Mark feels inexplicably ashamed. “I just thought you’d- um” What? Be pleased? That he’d make it easier on himself? For Eduardo? (Did you think you were going to get a gold star?) He drops to his knees, clasps his hands behind his back and bows his head. “I’m sorry.” It seems to be all he’s saying lately. Maybe if he says it enough, it might make a difference and Eduardo would believe him. (Wardo might have mercy on him.)

“Don’t presume to know what I want,” Eduardo says coldly, wiping his hand on the newly cleaned sheets.

He wonders if Eduardo will hit him again. Will he use his hand, the bath brush or his belt? Probably his belt. Mark fidgets as he waits, imagining the belt snapping over his healing welts. Eduardo excels in producing maximum pain with minimal damage. He always waits for the strokes to burn and hits him again just as the pain recedes. The horizontal stripes are spread evenly, barely overlapping except for near the top of his thighs. It looks bad, worse than that one time he fell down hard at the ice rink. The stripes have blended into a wide band of bluish bruises but Eduardo not yet had the urge to break his skin and Mark is grateful.

Eduardo hits him hardest like this: he doesn’t touch Mark. He jerks off on Mark’s face, wipes himself clean and tucks himself back in. Then he leaves.

Mark doesn’t move. He ignores his leaking cock, heavy between his legs, calling for attention. He keeps kneeling even when the come has long dried on his face, his knees hurt and his feet are numb. After he hears Eduardo snoring in the guest room next door, he washes his face as quietly as he can and climbs stiffly into the bed. The sheets are cold. He allows himself a moment of weakness and strokes Eduardo’s side of the bed with the back of his hand. Eduardo won’t return tonight. He misses Wardo.

Error: [512] Value must be 2 or below
Webmaster has been notified

Eduardo doesn’t touch him the next night, nor the night after. It’s like Mark doesn’t exist, his eyes sliding over Mark to a place behind him. Somehow that hurts more. Mark knows it’s not a coincidence. Mark cries himself to sleep not the silent teary kind but with loud, heaving sobs. He used to find it irritating when people cried loudly. (What do you want me to do? I can’t make it better. You’re hurting, I get the point. Now shut up and do something about it. No, please shut the fuck up before I give in to the urge to give you something to really cry about.) He doesn’t care if he keeps Eduardo up. Eduardo doesn’t come in to tell him to shut up. Eduardo is like the deaf old lady that lives next door to him with the cats. Nice but doesn’t really do much.

Mark cries harder, rocking himself. This is his way of begging Eduardo to do something. He’s already asked. He’s already apologized over and over. Words won’t make a difference now. He doesn’t eat or drink. His throat hurts, his eyes are swollen and his head feels like it’s going to explode. When he doesn’t feel like he can’t cry anymore, his eyes are gummy and it feels like the world is slapping him in the face (he can actually say that now with the knowledge of what it feels actually feels like, not just figuratively). A backhand hurts more. Now that he thinks about it, he feels like he got fucked up the ass by the world – dry – then left to bleed. How’s that for imagery?

Mark never used to cry. He doesn’t even remember the last time he cried before all of this, he was probably a kid. Now he seems to cry all the time like…a girl. He is weak. Hurt is always so close to the surface. Mark is inside an iron maiden, forced to stay standing while he is stabbed repeatedly. He is his own torture device. Mark is like bits of broken glass held together by skin. One wrong move and he bleeds. Blood on his fingers. Tearing. Burning.

Death cannot grant him mercy. Death cannot grant him forgiveness. Only time. Only Eduardo. (He wants it now. It’s taking too long. He can’t take it any more.)

Mark gives in to the feelings of despair and lies there. The curtains are closed and the room is dark. Out of desperation and maybe a sick desire to torture himself further, he lets the memories come out of their hidden places. It’s not satisfying, it’s frightening. They tear at him, trying to rip him apart. He tries to conjure up a mental patronus made from happy memories but the happy memories dance away from him, their details soft and unreachable. The shield flickers and it’s not strong enough. He fights and fights to lock them back into the box but it’s too late. The shield is shattered. He’s lost.

(He hears a raw grating sound and it sounds like him.)

Hurtpainhittinghatetearsangerguiltsufferinghurtmehurtmehurtwardohopeburningnoairnoairnoairholdondarkterrorlustthruststingingblooddontcrydontcryhurtithurtsnoyespleaseslappainhurtpainhittinghatetearsangerguiltsufferinghurtingtearinghurtwardoitsnothimdontthinkaboutitdontthinkaboutitdontwardofurylustthruststingingbloodfingershurtithurtsyesyesyeshurtpainhittingiloveyousangersufferinghurthandskeysfurycoldfearthrustingtearingcomeorgasmhurtithurtsfearnopleaseicantimusthurtguiltdeservingguiltbad

It’s a terrifying tight loop of emotions he cannot process. The feelings are executed over and over and he can’t see the end, he can’t detect the cycle and he can’t optimize. He is frozen, in kernel panic, a black screen of death.

Ironically, it is only when Eduardo hits him, it brings him out of it. It vaguely registers that Eduardo is saying his name. Mark’s ears are ringing, his face smarting. Eduardo swims into focus. Handsome Eduardo with beautiful brown eyes. Eduardo who is looking at him, acknowledging his presence, touching him. Eduardo has his hand curled around Mark’s upper arm. His hand is warm.

Eduardo is back. Eduardo always takes care of him. Even when Eduardo hates him, he won’t leave him. Eduardo is good to him, too good for him. Mark tries to tell him, even though his throat is so dry it hurts to speak. Eduardo shakes him, hands tightening around his shoulders to a bruising trip. (Eduardo will leave his prints on him, he is Eduardo’s).

“You’re disgusting.” You disgust me. Eduardo pulls away.

Mark lies there, blinking. He knows he’s filthy. He tries to croak out an apology, a plea, something inoffensive. What comes out is incoherent rasping. He latches onto Eduardo’s wrist but the tall brunet man shakes him off.

Eduardo sighs loudly and says, “Sit up.”

Mark obeys.

“Hands up.” Eduardo strips his t-shirt clumsily from him. When he puts his fingers in Mark’s waistband, Mark lifts his hips up off the bed so Eduardo can pull his pants and underwear down. (Mark can feel the elastic graze his bruises. He knows this is not a dream.) Mark spreads his legs automatically. Eduardo pushes his knees together so he can pull Mark’s pants off. Mark spreads his legs again. Eduardo shakes his head and says in a clipped voice, “No, Mark. Shower.” He pushes Mark into the bathroom, steadying him when he stumbles. Eduardo fiddles with the taps, sticking his hand in the stream of water. When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he orders Mark to step in.

Mark stands dumbly under the warm spray, staring at Eduardo like he’s waiting for further instruction.

Eduardo makes a frustrated noise then starts peeling his own clothes off.

It’s wet, warm and soapy in the shower. Mark watches it happen in the fogged up mirror. It seems familiar but he can’t quite get why. It’s like someone else entirely.

Hands pressing on bruised hips (pain), dick enveloped in wet heat (pleasure).

Pleasure > pain? 

Mark does not understand. It’s not Eduardo (it doesn’t hurt, why is he on his knees?) It’s not Wardo (Wardo would never hurt him).

sort($Mark_thoughts);

$BODY$
DECLARE
use_field MARK

FOR target IN EXECUTE use_field LOOP
RETURN NEXT 
Eduardo!= Wardo

Eventually the-person-who-is-not-Wardo-not-Eduardo gives up.

Mark is on a bed, he is wet. It’s cold. He is alone.

END LOOP;

EXCEPTION
RETURN QUERY
Eduardo?
Y

A sloppy kiss laced with alcohol.

(The next part is almost easy.)

BEGIN 
PERFORM cs_log('Refreshing materialized views...');

Chris and Dustin agree to check up on Mark after work to make sure he’s alive and not just automating his email to attach various combinations of “I’m fine, don’t worry” in Mark-speak. Mark has been solving the coding problems they’ve sent him but it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he’s found a way to get a computer to do it for him. Lately, he sounds even more like a computer (In response to “Are you ok?”, Mark computes a “y”. Dustin had composed an angry what-is-that-supposed-to-mean email saying that it’s not like Mark has been a great friend either until he realized Mark said ‘yes’. He also realized that despite all of his worrying about Mark, he is still angry at him and wow, that’s kind of complicated.) Dustin knows he’s not as perceptive as Chris but even he knows things haven’t been the same between the four of them seeing as how Mark’s dragged them all through the depositions. But he knows Mark’s more affected than he lets on. Last time Dustin talked to him, he sounded like he was dying which is suddenly a lot less funny now seeing as Mark hasn’t been to work for over half a month. Mark the workaholic. (Something is definitely wrong.)

Even if Mark has been a huge prick to his former ‘best friend’ (which in Mark-speak is really ‘boyfriend’) and an inconsiderate douchebag to him and Chris, it would be a dick move not to visit him if he’s that sick. Mark has never been great at taking care of himself least of all when he is sick. Dustin is worried that Mark, living on ramen and Red Bull, might just be making himself worse.

Chris, being the well mannered one, actually tries the door bell and waits after pressing twice. He tries again, knocking.

“Maybe he’s wired in?” Dustin says. “Or maybe he’s sleeping.” He doesn’t want to think about Mark not being able to get out of bed with no one to call.

Chris fishes out a key and opens Mark’s door with a sigh. He has to push because the door feels stuck. Chris frowns and looks down, a colorful flyer by his foot. There’s probably a mountain of mail and flyers behind the door. “Mark,” Chris says exasperatedly.

“Mark?” Dustin calls as he steps past Chris and over the threshold. “We bought you some food!”

There is the usual scattered mess of Mark. They check the bedroom. The mattress on the floor that serves as Mark’s bed is empty and there are clothes slung haphazardly. The underwear drawer is open. Mark’s chair and desk are empty too.

They check the bathroom, Chris even pulls back the ratty shower curtain. Mark’s place is pretty small. It’s clear he is not there. The place feels abandoned.

“Maybe he’s gone out?” Chris says, thinking out loud.

“No laptop,” Dustin notes.

Chris crouches down by the door to gather the mail into a pile. He’s sorting through them as if it’ll give him a clue where Mark is.

There a frame lying facedown on the table. Dustin picks it up. It’s an old photo of Mark and Eduardo. Eduardo had his arm slung around Mark. The both of them are smiling. From the background it was probably taken in Mark’s room, which doesn’t surprise him. Dustin can clearly recall Eduardo taking photos of everyone to show to his family and because he’s Eduardo, he actually printed copies for everyone. Dustin pinned his copy on a little cork notice board that now hangs in his apartment.

“Chris,” Dustin says. “Look.” He holds up the frame.

Chris takes it from him. “So? It’s an old photo. I have one of these. We all do.”

“Yes but it was here on the table,” Dustin stresses. “Like flipped over.”

Chris blinks. He looks at the framed photo in his hand and then at Dustin. Chris has an uncharacteristically shuttered expression on his face but Dustin knows they’ve come to the same conclusion.

Rundll32.exe powrprof.dll,SetSuspendState Sleep

Mark has been getting used to sleeping on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow. He stirs, pain invading his senses. Eduardo is touching him, prying his bruised cheeks apart, his dick nudging at and rubbing Mark’s hole. He has never wanted another round but he clearly wants it and he has no intention of prepping him. It’s going to hurt. Half-asleep and wild with fear Mark thrashes, his right elbow catching Eduardo in the gut. Eduardo grunts. Mark tries to crawl away but his underwear is tangled at his knees. Eduardo slams him down, pinning Mark’s left arm beneath him. Mark flails and tries jab Eduardo again. He twists Mark’s right arm up the middle of his back with his left hand, his right hand in Mark’s cleft, holding him open. Mark can feel pain shooting from his shoulder as well as from Eduardo’s painfully tight grip on his wrist. The word “uncle” comes to his mind and he would laugh because it’s ridiculous. Mark goes limp, hoping to appease Eduardo. He tries to relax because fighting it will only hurt more. He doesn’t know if it makes it better or worse that he’s already been fucked but god it hurts.

(It’s funny how you don’t remember exactly what it’s like. Time dulls the sharpness of the pain. Having experienced it before doesn’t make it any easier.)

Their old safeword comes to mind, heavy on his tongue. Mark opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out but wounded noises. His words fail him. He is afraid Eduardo won’t stop even if he uses it. It would mean Wardo was really gone.

Eduardo takes. (This is all Mark has left to give.)

Trap 0000000D 

=========== General Protection Fault ============

tr=0028 cr0=00000011 cr2=00000000 cr3=00000000
gdt limit=03FF base=00017000 idt limit=07FF base=000017400

cs:eip=0008:2FFF3066 ss:esp=0010:00060E7B errcode=0000
flags=00010013 Cy NoZr IntDis Down TrapDis
eax=00000F44 ebx=00000004 ecx=00000005 edx=00000000 ds=0010 es=0010
edi=00070000 esi=000000A1 ebp=00000000 cr0=00000011 fs=0030 gs=0000

Mark doesn’t think he’s felt this much pain ever. His wrist isn’t broken as far as he knows. It’s sore but he can still move it and he figures it’ll be alright if he doesn’t use it too much. He’s so tempted to grab some painkillers but he eats with his left hand instead. It helps with the pain in his stomach. It’s one he can fix. He needs to be better for Eduardo. He doesn’t want Eduardo to think he’s disgusting.

He takes a bath. It is awkward turning the taps with his left hand but doing it with his right felt like grinding glass between his joints. It’s mostly just scratches and bruises. It’s nothing serious. The warm water makes the marks come up and he can see the new ring of bruises darkening around his right wrist. He wonders if he should get some make up – maybe he could get away with saying it’s a gift for a friend. He should probably do it at that dinghy chemist downtown. He decides he’ll order it online. If anyone gets a photo of him buying makeup, he wouldn’t know how to explain it.

He must hold on. He has survived. He went past his breaking point. Death is a release from pain. He hurts more than ever. He must be alive. Very alive.

(He’s become numb from the depositions, the guilt eating at him until the mask is left. Eduardo makes him feel. Eduardo who hates him. Mark needs it. Eduardo feels something for him, he feels strongly for him and Mark knows he’s alright. Only Eduardo understands.)

Logic dictates that eventually, Eduardo’s anger will be satisfied and Mark will be redeemed. Mark is walking through the valley of the Shadow of Death. He fears no evil. He has yet to be burnt to ashes. It is then he will rise. Mark has yet to fail. He just needs to push on through.

(He doesn’t like this Eduardo but he refuses to hate him. He can’t. He looks at Eduardo and sees the face of the best friend he loved. The best friend he betrayed. He made Wardo this way. Mark broke him. Now this Eduardo is made to break him. His perfect Frankenstein.)

Mark lies back in bed. He made it, he’ll lie in it. The sheets are dirty, like him. Blood stains. He’s a stain on Eduardo’s sheets. A stain that won’t come out.

Eduardo will come for him. Mark bides his time.

(Wardo will heal and so will he.)

if (blood.color = tomato3) 
echo “My blood is the shade of tomatoes 3.”; 
elseif( blood.color = red3) 
echo “My blood is the shade of red 3.”; 
elseif (blood.color = orangered4) 
echo “My blood is the shade of orange-red 4.”; 
elseif (blood.color = darkred) 
echo “My blood is the shade of dark red.”; 
else 
echo “My blood is a shade of blood red, and it won’t stop staining the sheets.”; 

When Mark still hasn’t come back the day after, Dustin’s cautious optimism is overridden by concern. Concern like giant pop up that refuses to close. Trust Mark to be an eye-raping flashing macro.

Chris doesn’t want to get involved. They had just been involved in the last fallout between Mark and Eduardo and he’s still drained from the custody battle. He doesn’t want to end up giving another deposition or worse some sort of witness statement. He hates being forced to take sides. He thinks that both Mark and Eduardo have some responsibility for the shit that went down. Eduardo shouldn’t have frozen the account and Mark shouldn’t have been such a dick. It’s not that Chris cares less about Eduardo but he’s currently working for Mark. So it’s his job to defend Mark. And it isn’t that he doesn’t care about Mark as a person but for Mark’s sake, the less he knows about what fucked up thing he’s decided to do, the better. Sure he’s a master spin doctor, but he’s only great because he doesn’t outright lie for Mark. He rearranges the truths that Mark shows him. He trusts Mark to do the right thing and Mark trusts him to say what he needs to say.

(“So you said you talked with him the day after the settlement and Mark implied that he was drunk the night before. Maybe that’s when he went to see Wardo. Or maybe before the second time you called when you said he sounded really sick, Mark might have gotten desperate and went to Wardo. We don’t know why or when. But we do know that Mark has been crashing with Eduardo for about a week. He’s likely working from Wardo’s place. Eduardo has been keeping a low profile since the settlement. Mark must be too. Thank God because we really don’t need the press to be all over this. We also know that Mark has been sick with an unspecified illness. Wardo is probably taking care of him. That’s what Wardo has always done. He could never really say no to Mark. Mark is alive and most probably well – he’s well enough to be solving complex coding problems. Dustin, we can’t jump to conclusions. He’s probably just busy coding and working things out. They spent at least three years talking through lawyers. They are bound to have lots of things to say to each other. Or do. Yes, stop making that face. Lovers’ quarrels are messy and complicated without the added problem of a lawsuit. Be careful ok? If they’re fighting, they aren’t going to appreciate your help. You’re gonna get shot from both sides.”)

Chris covers for him and gives him the key to Wardo’s apartment with a look. Dustin decides to check up on Mark, he can’t not. Chris didn’t hear the way Mark sounded on the phone. He sounded sicker than Dustin has ever remembered. Dustin is less worried about Mark faking sick as that his friend is making himself sick. He’s not Wardo but he’s his friend and he should take care of him. He doesn’t blame Chris for not coming. Mark lashes out when he’s a mess and it’s probably best that only one of them should get taken down. Dustin’s the obvious choice, he can laugh it off. He’s heard worse back in the day anyway. He knocks but no one answers. He lets himself in not sure if he’ll find Eduardo or Mark. Or god forbid both of them together. Dustin ponders over whether they were fucking during the depositions. They’ve always been extreme when it comes to each other.

The place looks nothing like what he’d expect from Eduardo with his neat and tidy dorm. It’s worse than Mark’s. It looks like someone trashed it. Everything is knocked over. There’s glass on the floor. It looks like a crime scene. He doesn’t call out just in case. The door looks fine but you never know. He sets the chicken noodle soup down. He fumbles for his cell, keeping it in his hand.

The guest room looks slept in but empty. He peers inside Eduardo’s room.

Mark is facing away from him, curled up in the fetal position in a nest of dirty sheets. Dustin wrinkles his nose at the strong smell of booze as he tip toes his way around the mess. He recognizes the sharp smell of vodka, maybe red wine too. Did someone spill a whole bottle of alcohol in there? More than one? He wants to berate Mark for not turning up and worrying them over a drinking binge but then he sees Mark’s thin shoulders. The sheet barely covers his middle and he can see the ridge of his spine, his ribcage rising and falling with each breath. He looks tiny. There’s a shadow on his shoulder blade like he’d landed badly. A reddish stripe on his thigh wraps around and disappears under the sheet. Dustin frowns. There is no way that could be an accident. Up close he can bruises dotting his upper arms, scratches on his lower back.

He knows Mark is awake in the line of his body. Not quite relaxed. Plus, Mark sort of talks in his sleep (he mumbles code which used to amuse them all).

Dustin is about to call out to Mark when he manages to trip on a stray bottle. Mark stiffens.

“Come back for round two?” Mark says in a resigned tone. Mark kicks the sheets off weakly, it gets a bit tangled. Dustin sees enough. Mark’s body is discolored like a perverse rainbow.

Mark freezes. Then he scuttles to the far side of the bed clutching dirty sheets to himself high on his chest like a girl Dustin once walked in on in high school. It’s wrong. The sheet doesn’t cover the marks on his neck and arms.

“...the fuck, Mark! Shit! What happened?”

“Hi Dustin, nice of you to drop in,” Mark says casually like he didn’t just not turn up for work for two weeks. Like Dustin didn’t just find him in the apartment of his ex who sued him two weeks ago and settled for six hundred million dollars. Like Mark didn’t just proposition Dustin with his battered body as if it the most normal thing.

“You said you were sick.” Dustin says dumbly. His brain can’t comprehend the enormity of what he just stumbled upon. Maybe Mark got attacked and he crashed here, he thinks, grasping at straws.

“I’m the boss. I decided I wanted more time off.” Mark’s voice sounds a better than he did but he needs to work on his I’m-CEO-bitch voice because the bite is gone. He sounds worn down.

Maybe Mark and Eduardo had some weird party and play thing that went wrong. Dustin has a crazy thought that maybe Eduardo hired some people to rough Mark up. But Dustin recognizes the silk tie strewn on the floor. What Mark said when he thought Dustin was... it hits him. Dustin knows with sudden and painful clarity, it’s not just someone, anyone hurting Mark: it’s Wardo. His stomach clenches.

The bruises on Mark’s throat are a sickly green and yellow. It registers that they are healing bruises. It’s been going on for a while probably since the settlement. Maybe before. Dustin doesn’t know because he was angry at Mark. He doesn’t think he’s angry anymore. “You’re lying.”

Mark stares intently at Dustin as if he could make him believe his version of events. It’s so intense that Dustin has to look away, his gaze sliding to the bed.

“Is…is that blood?” The sheets are streaked with brown in different places and off-white blotches. The stains are unmistakable. Dustin sees a fresher burgundy blot. Where Mark had just been lying. Mark with dark bruises on his hips and thighs. Dustin thinks he might be sick. “…oh my god.” Mark was raped. His hands are unsteady as he tries to punch in the emergency number.

“Don’t!” Mark says sharply.

Dustin stops.

“It was just a game,” Mark insists. His shrug is a sharp jut of bony shoulders. The sheet slips down.

Mark follows his gaze, daring him to comment. “We were playing sexy games. It gets a bit rough.” He is using his best I’m-a-big-boy-and-I-can-handle-it voice. This is where he gets so suggestive no one wants to ask. “The role-playing really wears me out. Do you see me as a secretary? He’s the boss. It’s fun. You should try it sometime.”

“You like this?” Dustin says incredulously.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Mark says snidely with a patronizing edge.

It stings. Mark has always been eight days older and eight light years ahead of everyone else. Pushing aside his own pride, Dustin can see what’s going on. He’s lashing out, trying to distract me, Dustin thinks. He’s feeling threatened. “You’re lying.”

Dustin knows Mark. Mark whines about paper cuts and stubbing his toe. He screamed like a girl the one time Dustin managed to snap him with a towel. As far as he knew Mark didn’t even like anything kinky. For someone not into following norms, Mark was ridiculously vanilla when it came to sex. Dustin has seen his porn when they used to hack each other for fun. Mark was not into pain. But he was into Eduardo. Eduardo who was apparently into all sort of kinky sex that left Mark looking like a victim of a vicious rapist. Dustin fears for all the injuries he couldn’t see. The blood. He swallows. “He’s hurting you.”

“It’s not like that.” (He’s scared. Not for himself. He’s scared that Eduardo will get into trouble.)

“What is it like then? Why did he do this to you? How could he even...?” Wardo hurt Mark and left him like this. Wardo hit Mark. More than once. The words feel foreign and he just can’t understand how they fit in the sentence. The problem is that it couldn’t have been anyone else. Mark would never lie there and let someone, anyone hurt him. Except for the one person who should never hurt him. The Wardo Dustin knew couldn’t hurt Sean let alone raise his hand to Mark. The Wardo he knew helped Mark compulsively, worried incessantly about his impending malnutrition, rushed to be at Mark’s side whenever he thought something might go wrong. Dustin feels like his mind is splitting apart trying to compute this. He hates to think how Mark is dealing with it.

“I don’t need to explain it to you.”

Dustin is tempted to threaten Mark about trying to explain it to the police but it’s an asshole thing to do. He should be gentle with Mark. Mark is wounded and vulnerable. “Yes. You do. We’ve been worried about you. We’ve been covering for you. Now Chris is covering for me.”

Mark is unmoved. “So go back to work.”

Mark can’t fire him but pointing it out will just make the stand off worse. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I go back to work.”

Mark sighs. He looks tired, defeated. Dustin fears that he’s hurt and bleeding out in front of him and he wouldn’t even know.

“I’m not going to judge you,” Dustin says, hoping to coax it out of Mark. “Alright and I’ll try not to judge him. I want to know what’s going on.” Dustin crosses his arms. If Mark is going to pull Boss on him, then he’s going to pull Friends-Since-Orientation.

“Nothing is going on.” After a full minute of Dustin’s unimpressed stare, Mark finally relents. “He’s my boy- best friend.”

Dustin can recognize Mark’s defensive hunch. Mark has that look in his eye when he’s convinced that he’s right and no one can change his mind. Dustin is pretty sure that if Eduardo was there right now and smacked him across the face, Mark would be the one stumbling to apologize. Then he’d look at Dustin like, do you mind? Dustin is merciful and doesn’t mention the slip. “He also apparently likes hurting you.”

Mark shrugs again. “Only when he’s drunk.”

Dustin cringes. Yeah, it probably starts that way.

Mark continues, “I let him.”

Dustin winces at that as well. Mark makes it sound like choosing to let someone hurt him made it so much better. Dustin would have preferred the ‘he doesn’t mean it and he loves me’ line. It sounds disturbingly like Mark believes that he should take it. “You shouldn’t let him do that.”

“I said anything. I said he could do anything. I hurt him, Dustin. I really hurt him. Can you blame him for being mad?”

Dustin can hear the notes of desperation in Mark. He scoots over next to Mark even though the sheets are gross. “You don’t deserve this.”

“I hurt him,” Mark repeats, huddling on the bed.

It doesn’t make it right. But Dustin knows saying it won’t help. He knows it like he knows those lines that Mark will say to himself (Eduardo is not himself) and the excuses he will make to everyone (I’m fine, it’s nothing). Because Eduardo is the family Mark chose and you can’t just leave. He’s doesn’t believe that relationship should be painful, god no, that would be unhealthy. Having had an alcoholic for a father doesn’t make him an expert on the subject but he knows it isn’t as simple as if it’s bad for you, you should leave. His father never beat him but he was never there for him. He cut him down with his words which were just as bad and easier to hide. Dustin knows that now but he spent years developing his own way of coping. He made everything into a joke so he could laugh it off. Dustin suspects that Eduardo’s father might not have been the kindest man either to put it lightly. He supposes Eduardo coped by suppressing it. He doesn’t know how Eduardo can do that to someone else knowing how it feels but some people that are abused turn into abusers. Dustin has learnt that it can be the last person you would suspect - nice people, people who live in your street, that turn into such ugly monsters. Dustin supposes Wardo has years of rage there to draw on. Except you can’t just draw easy parallels like that. Mark’s loneliness made him make Facebook. Dustin’s dark childhood making him a joker. Eduardo’s abusive father made him approval seeking, repressed and abusive. It makes it too easy. It elides the moments that happened in between which is Mark fell in love, Dustin finding sanctuary in his coding and happiness in his friends and Eduardo being in love with Mark before he even knew.

There is choice involved. Some. Of course no one gets to choose what kind of father you get. If someone bigger than you or someone who should love you, hurts you, you are helpless. Sometimes there isn’t anything you can do about it. That’s when you need people to help you. It’s not your fault. But you are responsible for what you do with the hurt. Dustin learnt that he could be bitter and a drunk too or he could laugh and help other people smile and make it through the day. Mark made a choice to be with Eduardo. Dustin wouldn’t be surprised if there was some degree of emotional manipulation, conscious or not, but any other conclusion would be an insult to Mark’s intelligence. Mark might be stupid for Eduardo but he’s not stupid. Mark is deliberately letting Eduardo hurt him because it’s his sick version of penance. It’s his way of saying he’s sorry. It’s wrong but everything is wrong. (He chose wrong and he came out alright. He really doesn’t know anymore and he doesn’t care. As long as everything turns out okay.)

Dustin understands that there are people you would give a thousand chances for even when you shouldn’t. There are people you would walk in hell for because you once glimpsed a moment of heaven. He shouldn’t encourage Mark because it’s a long and dark road to take. Somewhere along the way, you might lose yourself. Giving up would be the easier and better option. The healthier option. Mark never did things the easy way.

Mark who looks so young, face framed by tight curls. Dustin is reminded of how young they all are, everything happened so fast.

Mark latches on and cracks. Dustin is alarmed and feeling out of his depth. What is he supposed to do? He wants to help, but how?

“I just want him to forgive me,” Mark hiccups.

Dustin thinks about his alcoholic father. How he hid it behind being the class clown, the idiot. How he told Mark once while he was drunk and Mark never said anything. Mark kept his secret. Now he has Mark’s. “I know.”

He rubs Mark’s back where it won’t hurt him, along the narrow ridge between his shoulder blades, and lets him lean on him. Dustin tries not to look too closely at the marks on his neck. He rubs his thumb in soothing circles until Mark’s hiccups are gone. “C’mon Mark. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Luckily, Eduardo has a well stocked kit in the bathroom cabinet. The kit is virtually untouched except for the bandaids. Dustin wonders if he should offer to help but he doesn’t think Mark will appreciate it. Mark has been humiliated enough.

“You were bleeding,” Dustin notes dully.

“It’s stopped. It looks worse than it is,” Mark says, reading him. Mark drops the disgusting bed sheet and grabs Dustin by the front of his shirt. “Don’t tell. Please. You can’t.”

“Mark,” Dustin says helplessly.

“Promise me, Dustin. Not even Chris. You want to help me, right? Then don’t. I know what I’m doing.”

He can’t believe that Mark believes that frantic friendship blackmail is the best way to convince him that he knows what he’s going. “He better not kill you.”

“Wardo won’t. Promise me, Dustin.”

He shouldn’t promise. He really shouldn’t promise. “I promise.”

It’s then Mark lets go of him. Dustin sees the full extent of the damage. It’s so shocking that he forgets to freak about how this is Mark and he’s naked and he should totally not be seeing this. It is like train wreck, no, it’s worse because it’s your friends. It’s the depositions again and shit is happening – you can’t look away.

Promise me to call me if you need any help, he wants to say. But Mark wouldn’t. It’s crazy but he has to try. Dustin catches his wrist without thinking. Mark winces, inhaling sharply and Dustin drops it quickly.

“I didn’t mean to- sorry.” Mark mumbles something about how it’s okay and it reminds Dustin all over again about how Not Okay it is. “Promise me if he does it sober, you’ll leave him. Please.”

Mark holds his gaze for a moment and then steps in the shower. Pressing the issue would hurt Mark. Dustin has to let it go.

Tiny spots litter Mark’s body where rough hands dug in. Dustin will never forget seeing blur of welts on Mark’s ass or the ones spread along the back of Mark’s thighs where he could see the individual stripes. The worst one was that painful looking one which wraps diagonally around the front of his right thigh curling across his inner thigh ending in a triangular bruise on the back of his leg that might have been Mark flinching or a vicious snap of the wrist. There are long scratches on his inner thighs like Mark was forced open. Dustin is horrified at the casual cruelty splashed on Mark’s body. And everything it implies, everything it leaves unsaid (did Mark fight it at first, did he stop fighting? Did Eduardo beat it out of him? Did he force-) By the colors of the healing spectrum, Eduardo spread the damage deliberately. Eduardo had clearly meant to hurt Mark as much as he could without drawing blood. He wonders if Eduardo stops there because that’s what he’s learnt is acceptable like its okay if you don’t beat someone bloody. The saddest part is, Dustin is almost sure that Eduardo once sported these same injuries, probably with the same design. It’s the only explanation for why Eduardo didn’t just whip Mark randomly despite being drunk. No. It’s a premeditated pattern of punishment.

(How and where Wardo does draws blood, Dustin can’t begin to comprehend.) Gathering up the ruined sheets, he gives Mark his privacy.

He starts to clean up the empty bottles of alcohol. This he’s done many times before.

*

Mark refuses to take any more time off. Dustin says that they’re fine, they’ll understand, they’ll invent a way for him to work at home but Mark won’t hear it. Mark says he’ll be leaving earlier but he’ll be there. (People have noticed and he can’t afford that kind of attention.)

Mark is picking at his chicken noodle soup which Dustin nuked. Dustin is insisting Mark eat it because he’s lost weight, visibly so, and Mark didn’t exactly have much to lose. The younger programmer remembers reading somewhere that malnutrition can slow down healing. He doesn’t think he can ever unsee what he’s seen today. “Dustin. Stop looking at me like that. I don’t want your pity.”

Dustin is slightly relieved that the bite is coming back. Mark isn’t broken. “Sorry. I’m not- I just wish things could be back to how they were. Like, happier times.” Remembering the photo from Mark’s flat, Dustin brings the frame out. “Here.”

Mark shakes his head. “I can’t take that. Keep it for me.”

“Just look at it.”

Mark takes it to look at it, just a quick glance, and tries to give it back.

Dustin says, “It’s yours.”

Mark sees Dustin’s expression solemn and concerned, he gives in. “Thanks,” he mumbles. Mark gets up stiffly and takes the frame with him. Dustin hears the opening and closing of a drawer.

Mark shifts when he sits and Dustin wonders if it’s the wide band of bruises low on his ass that’s hurting him. Dustin gets a disturbing flash of a belt biting into already marked skin. (How hard do you have to hit someone to bruise them? How many times? How long?)

The words are already coming out before he knows it. “Mark, maybe you should-”

“Dustin,” Mark cuts him off. “I need this okay?” Mark says to the noodles.

(Mark has to want to get help and Mark doesn’t see it as a problem. Dustin can’t do it for Mark. Dustin knows Mark would see it as a betrayal and he can’t. There’s been too much betrayal between them all already.)

Dustin wants to say he’s not dealing with it, that it’s really fucked up. But how can anyone deal with this? After what Mark did to Eduardo, fucked up is nothing new. How did it go from college dorm gaming nights to this? Dustin knows the answer: Facebook. It gave them so many things they didn’t even know they could have but Dustin contemplates whether they have thought about the things they had that they’ve lost.

Dustin shuts up. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He will help Mark because someone has to enable him. He doesn’t want Mark to have to do this alone. (Mark lying there, hurt and helpless.)

Mark is turning the fork around, winding the noodles up and then letting them slip down the tines without eating them. The way he’s hunched over, Dustin can see his collarbone sticking out. There is a red mark there. Christ Wardo, Dustin thinks, what have you done?

The younger programmer wants to be useful so he fetches the pain pills he found. “Give me your hand.”

Mark obeys gingerly. A manacle of bruises circle his wrist.

Dustin tries so hard not to stare but the image is already committed to memory. “Here, take these.”

“Okay.” Mark puts the capsules on the table.

Dustin pointedly hands Mark a glass of water. “Use this.”

Mark sips at it.

“You have to take the pills first. Pills in mouth, water, swallow y’know?” Dustin tries to joke but it sounds off. Even the tiny swallow innuendo doesn’t do it. No one is smiling.

Mark flushes, caught out.

“I promised. You need to take care of yourself. Take the pills.”

“I shouldn’t,” Mark murmurs.

“Why not? You’re in pain.” Dustin snaps, “Take the fucking pain pills.” (This is how it starts. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.)

“I can’t. It’s like- it feels like cheating.” Mark eyes go to his noodles again. “Feels wrong.”

It’s worse because Mark won’t even fight him (rough hands grabbing him, a belt laying stripes on him, hands on his throat, he refuses to defend himself). He speaks in that resigned tone which gives Dustin the shivers. Dustin feels like a douchebag and he’s a little scared. A lot scared. (Fear is the path to The Dark Side.) “This is wrong, Mark,” he says emphatically. “It feels wrong to watch you hurt.”

“Then don’t,” Mark says tiredly. It always gets worse before its better. Eduardo is still so angry with him.

“I know I don’t get it, not really but please let me help you,” the other programmer pleads. “Let me try.”

Mark takes them reluctantly. Dustin feels a tiny victory (he’s trying not to think about how he kind of feels like he wants to cry).

Mark made Dustin leave after picking at his chicken noodle soup. He maybe ate half. Dustin thinks if Eduardo somehow found out even though he’s been watching Mark like a hawk the whole time. He speculates over whether Eduardo might have threatened Mark in some way but it wouldn’t have mattered. Not really. Mark has that glint in his eye. He’s made up his mind.

Dustin wants to ask if he’s ok, if he’ll be ok. It’s a stupid question. Mark is and he isn’t. He shouldn’t be okay with it but Dustin is glad he is. It’s a messed up version of okay but it’s what they’ve got. “Just – you know where I am. Anytime.”

Mark thanks him in a quiet voice. It still feels wrong.

*

Mark’s going into work again. He attends the meetings. He okays everything. It’s not like he can’t afford it. He doesn’t give much comment. He’s tired and they really don’t need him for this. He’d rather code.

Chris knows something is terribly wrong. Mark has always been a tough to read even for him but he can read Dustin. Dustin’s face said it all. The day after he said he’d check up on Mark, Dustin turned up with Mark late in the morning. Mark shuffles in like he wishes he could be invisible. Mark looks sickly and Chris wishes he could have just stayed at home.

His worries increase tenfold when Dustin refused to tell him what happened just that Mark knows what he’s doing. Chris wanted to press but Dustin was adamant. Chris wants to believe him and he would if Mark didn’t look like a strong breeze could blow him away. Mark who looks haunted and hunted. He knows Mark has proximity issues but he’s avoiding people more than he did back when he first met him. Mark is using Dustin as a human shield and Dustin is letting him, covering up for the fact that their boss looks a bit broken. Chris doesn’t think he’s seen this Dustin before. Dustin without the familiar goofy smile on his face. Dustin the Protector. On top of this, Chris knows Mark. He’s lived with him. This isn’t normal Mark. This is coping mechanism Mark.

Chris still doesn’t want to get involved. He hasn’t changed his mind. He’s not naïve enough to believe that by not getting involved, he’s innocent of this somehow. There are no innocent bystanders when you’re watching your friends hurt. So he’s waited to do this for the last three days. It was a surprisingly difficult task to make sure Dustin is occupied and nowhere in the vicinity of Mark. Now finally, Chris corners him. He stands in Mark’s way, half-hoping to get shoved or at least a verbal smackdown. He wants Mark with the biting sarcasm and bold attitude. This Mark has no fight left in him.

He wants, needs to know he’s lying for the right reasons. He’s covering up something big. He hopes it isn’t what he thinks it is. Here are two people who know how best to build each other up and tear each other down. Two people that are deeply hurt and drowning in pain. What would you expect? Maybe it’s too much to expect that they can just forgive each other and move on. That would be too easy. Life is not a fairytale. Now, what is he supposed to think? Life shouldn’t be a nightmare either. He wants to be wrong. He wants to be told that it’s not as fucked up as he’s imagining. Surely it can’t be. He isn’t sure he wants to know. Actually he really doesn’t because it’ll be another thing he can’t fix. Truth is, there is only one person who could affect Mark so much. Mark is walking like he actually hurts. If Wardo couldn’t fix that, if Wardo couldn’t forgive him then…

Chris looks at Mark, barely stitched together by determination. He can’t deny it. He can’t deny that he’s been angry for Mark for putting them all through the mess but looking at Mark, just looking at him is painful. He no longer wants Mark to be sorry, he doesn’t even care about an apology anymore. He just wants the healing that supposedly comes after an apology. He just wants to skip to the good part already.

“Don’t. I can’t. I’m not-” Mark can’t finish. He is not looking directly at Chris, his eyes are darting frantically from the space beside Chris to the door. “Please.”

Chris reads the jumble of words and the too sharp lines of Mark’s body. Whatever he was about to ask, he doesn’t. The words stick to his mouth and he can’t bring himself to actually say it. Would it be a blessing or a curse? Would it be condemnation or absolution? Or would it be everything and nothing? Instead, he nods, a jerky movement, his neck stiff. It’s not the conventional choice but Mark has always come through. He’s always been right. He really hopes Dustin is true about Mark knowing what he is doing. He hopes he has chosen the lesser of two evils.

(When he looks back, he will wonder over and over again whether he should have dialed for help even though he wouldn’t have known who to call. They always went to Wardo to fix Mark. It never occurred to them that Wardo wouldn’t want to. It never occurred to him Wardo would-)

*

Dustin knows it’s not logical but he’d hoped maybe if Mark is going in to work, he’d be better. But Mark doesn’t get better magically. Mark never used to keep to a schedule but he used to love staying back at work. Now he goes home as early as he can. He’s keeping up but he mumbles when people speak to him, stooped and moving like a man three times his age. Dustin desperately wants to invent excuses to keep Mark behind. He doesn’t want Mark to go – the next day maybe coming back looking a little worse.

He can feel them all drifting away from each other. They’re all keeping secrets. He knows Chris won’t say anything but he didn’t see. If Chris had, he might have called the cops on Eduardo. And maybe he would be doing the right thing. Chris looks at him like he knows and Dustin is scared he’ll spill it all out. It’s not his story to tell. It’s not their story to tell. Mark is so determined and yet so worn down and Dustin wants to help without feeling like he’s digging Mark into a bigger hole, like sticking a stupid bandaid on a gaping wound. As for Eduardo, he doesn’t know him, not this one, the asshole that’s hurting Mark.

He can’t hover too much over Mark because Mark is paranoid of drawing too much attention and he won’t let him. Mark is proud, he doesn’t want to need help. Mark looks at him and talks code in a hoarse voice. Mark’s eyes are both defiant (don’t look then) and pleading (don’t ask) and Dustin is the one that averts his gaze first, focusing on Mark’s computer screen instead. Dustin has to pretend he doesn’t know, doesn’t see and he knows he is a shitty actor. He knows also that he can’t let Mark down because Mark is counting on him for his fucked up needs. Dustin dreads going in to work and he feels so guilty for the relief he feels when he can leave. (He doesn’t want to think about Mark trapped in an unhappy relationship. Mark trapped between his word and his guilt. Mark trapped between Eduardo and a counter, the bed and a belt, Eduardo-)

Dustin can’t make himself forget. Not even when he’s at home. (Mark at home, Mark on the bed with-) He logs into the gaming network and tries to ghost his fears away.

*

Mark is home early. This is his life now.

He wonders if he should do something for Eduardo. Take care of him. Try to please him. Maybe he should cook for him? Wardo used to do that for him. He’s never cared about his lack of domestic skills. Mark feels ashamed now that he would make a shitty housewife-slash-boyfriend. He’d probably make a mess. Wardo would have cleaned it up. He wonders what Eduardo would do. What Eduardo would do to him.

He tells himself that his hands are clammy because it’s cold and not because he’s afraid. He sticks with what he knows. He strips the dirty sheets from the bed and launders them dutifully. That set can be saved, it’s not so bad. At least he’s getting good with laundry. (Though there’s nothing you can really do about dried blood stains. It’s best to get it sprayed and soaked as quickly as possible.)

Mark looks for new ones he put in the linen cupboard. He’s been restocking it. Just in case. Reaching up for it, he gets a cramp in the arch of his foot. He swears and drops the pack. The curly haired programmer hops up and down on one foot before sitting down and massaging the arch of his foot. When he reaches for clear zipped package of crisp new sheets, he notices his name written on the side of the box. He’s never noticed it there before but there it is, Eduardo’s neat block letters writing his name like it’s a secret.

He shouldn’t open the box but it has his name on it, it’s calling him. He knows Eduardo won’t be home for a while yet. He opens it.

Inside is an old t-shirt he’d thought was eaten up by the laundry machine, a wad of old dockets and some ticket stubs stuck into a notebook. There was even a tape labeled “Palo Alto 2004”. At the bottom was a framed photo, the one of Mark and Eduardo that Dustin gave Mark. Seeing the smiles give him hope, dangerous hope. Maybe, one day. Eduardo didn’t throw away his things. Wardo was in there somewhere, just hidden. Mark swallows down the lump in his throat, closes the box and slides it carefully back into the closet.

tar -c dir/ | gzip | gpg -c | ssh user@remote 'dd of=dir.tar.gz.gpg'

Eduardo is leaning against the kitchen counter with a bottle in one hand, the other twirling a glass.

“Strip.”

Mark stops. He puts his glass of water down and shuffles while looking at his feet. He doesn’t want to but he probably shouldn’t make Eduardo say it again. Eduardo hasn’t got much patience these days. Eduardo is volatile and violent in his anger. Nothing about him reminds him of Wardo, not even his face. Wardo doesn’t look like that. Wardo doesn’t do these things. (He made him this way.)

He prides himself on doing it with steady hands (it’s all he has left of his pride). Humiliation is hard for him. It’s worse than pain. Pain he can try to suffer proudly but humiliation strips him of every defense he has, lays him bare then flays him. He is sure that Eduardo knows this and that’s why he’s doing it.

(It is fair. He humiliated Eduardo.)

Mark doesn’t try to take longer because he wants it over and done with. He takes his clothes off in twos. Sweatshirt and t-shirt. Sweatpants and underwear.

All he’s wearing is his determination and he has the bruises to show for it. He can’t resist the urge to cover himself. He feels so ugly and inadequate.

Eduardo is fully dressed, well on his way to drunk and he barely has a hair out of place.

“Fold them.”

Mark does, feeling his face flush with Eduardo’s gaze on him. His knees are bent towards each other a pointless bid to keep his private parts covered. He folds his clothes with precise movements before looking to Eduardo who waves his glass at the counter beside Mark. The programmer puts them in a neat pile.

Mark stands there biting his lip.

Eduardo is sipping his wine slowly, sometimes letting his eyes rake over Mark’s body but mostly he’s just drinking, drinking in the power he holds. When he’s finished the wine, he puts it down and then he’s shoving Mark. Mark stumbles into the cupboards. He’s so pathetic. Eduardo shoves him harder. Mark hits the fridge and goes down like a sack of potatoes. He doesn’t even try to defend himself. This makes Eduardo angry. Is he trying to make him look like an asshole?

“Get up.”

Mark doesn’t. It’s never a good idea to lie there like that, Eduardo knows (it only opens you up, making your body an easy target and it occurs to him ‘mark’ is another word for ‘target’). Eduardo kicks him twice, three times in the stomach clumsily. It sounds nothing like the sounds effects movies. It’s a dull thud, deceptively soft. It’s the wounded that makes the sounds. (He has a mental catalogue of Mark’s hurt sounds, from the familiar ‘please don’t hurt me’ whine to the way he sounds when it hurts a lot, a strike on the crease where buttocks meets thigh elicits a strained groan then a half-sob if you do it again. He imagines that a backhanded cross-strike snapping across the other welts makes Mark’s scream even if what comes out is more like a husky howl).

“Get up.”

The programmer has rolled onto his back. He’s mumbling something. Eduardo grabs him by the upper arm but Mark is heavy and uncooperative. The tall man drops his arm in irritation and drives his foot into Mark’s stomach again. Mark is making wretched mewling sounds as he tries to curl in on himself, his body taking over for him when he won’t. He’s fascinated to find when he kicks Mark’s lower back, Mark automatically unfurls. When he does it again, Mark’s hands fly to cover his back. Eduardo just swings his heel of his foot into Mark’s stomach. He alternates, watching Mark roll and twitch helplessly like a raw prawn in a frying pan. After a particularly vicious kick to his left kidney, Mark lets out a ragged wail he’s never heard before. (He’s so tempted to do it again.)

“I said. Get. Up.”

He twists a hand in Mark’s curls and hauls him up roughly, his knee catching Mark in the face. Blood starts gushing from Mark’s nose. Shocked, Eduardo lets go of Mark. He is aware of the clump of hair in his hand. Disgusted, he flicks it away.

Mark eyes water from the hair-pulling, he grunts and sags to his knees, his hand propping him up. Blood is dripping from his nose and trickling down from a split lip. Eduardo can see that his teeth are bloody. He’s leaking blood on the floor. It’s repulsive.

Eduardo sighs. He swallows his sympathy, washing it down with alcohol. (Mark hurt him. He loved Mark and Mark threw it in his face. Mark betrayed him.) He pushes him down even though there’s no resistance and fucks him on the floor. Eduardo lets him space out because he knows by experience that when Mark doesn’t appear to be paying attention, he is. Mark retains everything. It never used to cease being a source of amazement. He should have known. Mark never stops paying attention really. It’s because he can pay attention to everything at once. (He did it on purpose. He knew. He ignored Eduardo. He cut Eduardo out, cut him, cut him up, cut him down.) Eduardo pushes into him in angry pulses and Mark is quiet, unresponsive.

Eduardo stops though he’s inside him. He turns Mark by his chin experimentally, opening and closing his mouth. He lets go and Mark’s head lolls to one side. It stays there. Mark stares blankly at a power socket at the base of the wall.

He pulls out and jerks off, painting white on the purple patches blooming on Mark’s stomach. When he’s done, Eduardo grabs him by the side of his face, wrenching an ear. Mark’s blue eyes are glazed. He barely blinks. Eduardo’s hand comes away shiny wet (water and blood).

“Fucking you is like fucking a corpse.”

Then he steps over Mark and goes to take a shower, thinking he’ll go to sleep. He’s getting a glass of water when he feels a hand touch the edge of his bare foot almost reverently. Mark. He spares him a glance. A prostitute daring to touch the feet of her Savior, asking for forgiveness. Mark doesn’t bath his feet with his tears or wipe it with his hair but lying there bleeding, he still looks at Eduardo like he’s worthy.

It’s freaky.

Unnerved, Eduardo is tempted to crush his hand under his foot. There is something about Mark’s hands which makes him want to do it. Mark needs his hands, needs those pale fingers to translate his brilliant thoughts into something out of this world. The tall man wants to grind it under the heel of his work shoes. He wonders if Mark will scream or cry. Maybe both. The feather-light touch is almost like a caress. It’s a gentleness he is no longer deserving of. He only knows hard edges and anger.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps.

Mark eyes never leave him even as his fingers curl slowly inward.

The house is quiet. The silence is damning.

Start auto log messages stack.
Ending iteration 22.
Starting iteration 23.
Error: Exception was raised when calling event-notify Vuser function in extension lrwreplaymain.dll: System Exceptions: EXCEPTION_ACCESS_VIOLATION
End auto log messages stack.

Start auto log messages stack - Iteration 23.
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(9): Warning -26000: Evaluating script failed for "TD" DOM element (name="") "click", listed in the following line:  
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(9): Warning -26000: ButtonClick('newSession');  
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(9): web_element("New Session") highest severity level was "warning"  
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(27): lr_think_time: 63.19 seconds (recorded think time was 56.00 seconds).
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(29): web_browser("Verification_2") was successful  
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(36): web_get_int_property was successful  
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(49): Notify: Parameter Substitution: parameter "SearchTerm" =  "SIHD"
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(49): Error: C interpreter run time error: SearchSolutionsToConsider.c (49):  Error -- memory violation : Exception ACCESS_VIOLATION received.
End auto log messages stack. 

When Mark closes and opens his eyes, nothing has changed. He’s stiff and cold, a dead body with a heartbeat, dried blood (and-) on him. He can taste it in his mouth. (Blood sliding down the back of his throat, he can taste it, he’s going to drown in it-) He feels numb and alone. He wishes Wardo were here. Or even Eduardo. Even now, he’s scared Eduardo will leave him and not come back. He doesn’t want to be alone.

They say Hell is full of sinners, it burns with fire. It’s down below somewhere. A place of suffering and punishment in the afterlife. It is the opposite of Heaven.

The know nothing about Hell.

It is cold and lonely. It is now. It is the way to salvation.

Mark makes himself get up and clean up. By the time the floor is spotless, he is already late for work. His clothes are on top of the counter, untouched.

(He still needs to fix his face.)

*

Chris is certain that Mark is wearing makeup. A few years ago, he would have laughed. It has to be a joke, a bet, a prank maybe. Mark wearing makeup? Mark putting effort in how he looks? Mark never cared about how he looks and he never felt like he had anything to hide. He wore his broken heart and injured pride on the front page of his blog. His ‘fuck you’ flip-flops went wherever he did. That was what made him stand out to Chris when he first met him. Mark truly did not care what other people think of him. Chris always wondered if it was that which drew Eduardo to Mark.

Chris can see that the programmer is wearing foundation. It doesn’t quite cover the bruising but at a glance the bruises look more like shadows. Mark’s makeup is done much too proficiently for his liking. Some part of him is amazed and horrified at how quickly Mark learns.

When people look like they might ask Mark a question, Chris distracts them. He can read the curiosity in people’s eyes, the well-intentioned but ultimately useless attempts to help. Mark is hunched inwards. Chris reads injury. Chris quietly tells people he’s wired in and they leave him alone. He lies for him because the truth is unimaginable. He always used to look distracted but Chris could tell that he was looking for ways to get out of the conversation, assessing people’s weaknesses and making inappropriate comments was the fastest way. People who thought Mark was and is socially inept, they don’t know how smart Mark really is. He mastered not playing the social game. Mark does it badly not because he can’t do it but because he thinks that the game is stupid. For Facebook, Mark made his own rules. That was the Mark he knew. His eyes only looked for escape routes now, he doesn’t even bother with people.

Mark stoops over the keyboard and codes and codes and codes.

Chris watches and wonders how they got so far. They are all so good at what they do. He is good at what he does. He can make people believe in Mark’s vision of Facebook. He can convince people that the depositions weren’t a huge deal, just a dispute and now it’s settled. He can’t quite convince himself that he’s done all he can. He can’t believe that he’s doing the right thing. For someone who prides himself on always knowing what to say, for this, he has no words.

Start auto log messages stack - Iteration 23.
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(49): Notify: CCI trace: SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(49): web_edit_field(0x044407a9 "textfield", 0x044407d5 "Snapshot=t4.inf", 0x044408b2 "DESCRIPTION", 0x0444079f "Type=text", 0x04440790 "Name=textfield", 0x04440777 "FrameName=searchBarFrame", 0x044408ab "ACTION", 0x04440761 "SetV.
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(49): Notify: CCI trace: alue={SearchTerm}", 0x0444087d "LAST")
.
SearchSolutionsToConsider.c(49): Notify: CCI trace: Compiled_code(0): SearchSolutionsToConsider()
.
Action was aborted.
Ending Vuser...
Starting action vuser_end.
vuser_end.c(4): Error: C interpreter run time error: vuser_end.c (4):  Error -- memory violation : Exception ACCESS_VIOLATION received.
End auto log messages stack. 

Eduardo passes out, his weight heavy on him.

Mark takes a moment to breathe a sigh of relief before scuttling out from beneath him. Eduardo doesn’t like him touching him. He makes Eduardo comfortable with minimal touching, tucking him back in his underwear because taking his clothes off would be wrong. He didn’t have Eduardo permission and he’d taken enough from Eduardo, hadn’t he? He wishes he could lie there and pretend that he was with Wardo but he faces outwards instead. Eduardo probably wouldn’t want to wake up and see the face of the person who betrayed him. (Wardo would have forgiven him.)

When he’s sleeping, the line of his back isn’t angry. (He could almost be-)

This is a glimpse of the real Eduardo. So close but so far. Mark kisses his forehead quickly, guiltily. Eduardo doesn’t stir.

His stomach twinges in sympathy when he wakes to Eduardo retching loudly. Eduardo never looks at him but he takes the glass of water and pills. Their fingers brush. Mark likes this.

Eduardo hates the way Mark looks at him so trustingly even when his lips are mouthing please, please, please. He hates that Mark can fool him, begging for mercy like he’s not the one who has always lorded his power over Eduardo. Like the way he’s waiting for him at the end of the day, already home. That’s Mark’s way of saying, see I’m still ahead of you (“I’m afraid you’re going to get left behind.”) He hates that even when he hits him, he doesn’t struggle. (“You are not worth my time. I won’t fight you.”) He flinches but doesn’t run away. (“You can’t make me afraid of you.”)

Mark plays the part of the perfect victim. It’s all an act. It’s not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. People will misunderstand because they will only ever see one side of the story. They enter at half-time and of course it’s easy to think, he’s standing over Mark, he must be guilty. But more than half the shit that went on between him and Mark is still shrouded in secrecy. Thanks to the non-disclosure agreement, no one will ever hear his side of the story. Mark drew blood first. This is him fighting back. Mark has hurt him and hurt him over all the years and this is him fighting back as hard as he can. And he’s still bleeding. Mark is not the only one who is hurting and Eduardo isn’t the only one doing the hurting. Mark is the one who taunts him with his silence (“You don’t deserve my words anymore. You don’t even have all of my attention”). He is the one who makes Eduardo fill in the blanks (“Still doing your homework like a good boy?”) Mark won’t leave him in peace. He’s always fucking there.

Every night that Eduardo comes home, he’s always surprised and annoyed that Mark is still there. It makes a mockery of him. (“You think that’s bad? It’s nothing to me, Wardo.”) Mark never calls him that anymore – that’s his way of hurting Eduardo.

He knows Mark pities him. Eduardo is the poor little rich boy, so messed up. Mark has always been a condescending fucker, even when he’s on his knees. He pretends he never rejoices in his pain. No matter how many times Eduardo tries to crack that smug façade, Mark bears it all with the tolerance of a fucking saint. Maybe it’s because he’s so far beneath Mark that he doesn’t care. (He wants to pin Mark beneath him and crush him, he wants-)

This Mark is the person he wishes he could be. This Mark knows he’s better than Eduardo and Eduardo resents him for it. He hates that Mark makes him hate himself.

And he’s starting to really, truly hate himself. Much more than he used to (even more than-). Mark goads and baits him and he knows that there will be a point of no return. There are some things that are unforgivable. Lines you shouldn’t cross. No matter how many times he pushes back, Mark is stronger. He is the weak one. Mark has always held the trump card in his hand.

He’s never been and will never be on Mark’s level and Mark is laughing at him. Mark knows he can get Eduardo to step out of the ring first. He is waiting for Eduardo to fail. Maybe he, Mark, they’ve already passed the point of no return. It’s free for all now.

He hates the person he’s become. No longer a creator but a destroyer. It reminds him of a little boy, bruised and hurt- He slams down his mental barriers. They are cracking now, he remembers and he doesn’t want to. (No, no that didn’t happen, it didn’t, he loved Eduardo, he wanted the best for him, he would never-) This is what Mark did to him. He let Mark in to all his dark places and then Mark-

Mark has become less and less responsive. It’s too easy. The seed of darkness has taken hold of him. He wants to do more and more and more. Mark always asks of him everything he has and then what he doesn’t have. Eduardo has always found it for him from somewhere.

He knows what to do. He wants Mark to hurt. Mark hurt him so much when he betrayed him. Like he was nothing. He’s nothing. (“You’re weak, Eduardo.”) He wants to rip Mark’s self-appointed sainthood from him, tear him down from that pedestal. He wants to see feathers stained with blood. He wants to break Mark like he’s been broken by him.

This is what hurt feels like. This is how much you hurt me and this is how much I will hurt you.

When he can see all of the pieces, he will be complete.

Eduardo slams down another shot.

He’ll show Mark.

sudo nvram boot-args="-x"

When Eduardo is particularly violent, Mark can ride on the pain and let it take him away. What he hadn’t been prepared for was Eduardo being purposely cruel with his gentleness. Eduardo does know how to get his attention. He keeps Mark pinned in place so he can’t run, he keeps bringing him back.

Mark doesn’t know this Eduardo. This Eduardo knows so many different ways of hurting him like he’s learnt how to. Perfected it. Mark thinks about Wardo and all the times he’d get off the phone, face drawn and pale. When Wardo came back from a weekend with his family, his back ramrod straight and eyes downcast.

(Maybe Eduardo had already been stretched too thin.

Maybe it wasn’t all Mark’s fault.

Maybe the deposition was just the final straw.)

He makes Mark finger himself. Mark does so perfunctorily. His fingers are cold and it’s his wrist is bent at an awkward angle so he can reach behind himself. Sex has long ceased to be sexy. At least there’s lube. At least Eduardo is looking at him.

(It still hurts, it always does but it’s not like it’ll kill him. He’ll survive.)

Eduardo tells him to get on top. Mark doesn’t understand until Eduardo manhandles him into his lap. Mark almost topples over. He is shaky. He can’t do it right. Eduardo wants him to impale himself over and over. He lowers himself unsteadily, Eduardo’s dick rubbing in the cleft of his ass. It keeps slipping out. Mark doesn’t remember how to do it. It was never this hard. In the light, Mark feels out of place and ugly (he used to be confident, he used to ride Wardo, it used to be so good).

He’s not sure if he should touch Eduardo’s dick, Eduardo isn’t telling him what to do and he’s not doing anything, just reclining his elbows. Eduardo is staring at Mark with a smirk (“Fucking you is like fucking a corpse”). Mark crouches on Eduardo’s thighs, only half sitting because he’s worrying that he’s too heavy. Mark bites the inside of his cheeks and tries not to cry. His eyes burn and he blinks.

Should he try again? Eduardo’s smirk has fallen into blankness instead of anger. Mark doesn’t know if that means he likes it. He doesn’t really want to think about Eduardo liking this. He is relieved and glad when Eduardo sits up abruptly and pushes him down, frustrated. Mark is so tired.

Eduardo’s breath, sour with alcohol, puffs in his face. “Kiss me.”

Mark does. A swift peck on the lips, eyes closed.

“Pathetic.”

Mark goes in again without prompting. Kisses Eduardo as if it’s the last one he’ll ever have. He doesn’t know if Eduardo will let him do it again. He has to kiss him with everything he has. Maybe then Eduardo will understand. Maybe he can awaken Wardo. He has to try. He brings a hand up to touch Eduardo’s face, nips at his bottom lip to get him to open, closes his eyes when dry lips meet his and lets their tongues tangle in a familiar old dance. He kisses him, licking inside his mouth like Wardo, come back to me.

Eduardo pulls away first with a pleased smile. “Mark,” he says softly.

Mark wants to say Wardo? Is that really you? But his words have left him. He scarcely dares to hope. He reaches out to touch his chest, to make sure this is real-

“You slut.”

Mark jerks back though there’s nowhere to go, pinned beneath Eduardo, mattress hard against his back.

“You kiss me like a slut,” Eduardo says, all teeth. It reminds Mark of a shark.

It’s not true. Mark has only been with two girls and one guy. Eduardo. He can feel the carefully constructed shield cracking. Eduardo is hurting him.

“Slut. Slut. Slut. I loved a slut. I love sluts.” He can see Mark hurting and it should be wrong but it feels so right. Mark hurt him, he’s hurting him back. People always hurt people. You can do it with your fists and beat someone up or you can do it with your words and tear someone down. Tear them apart from the inside. Sticks and stones can break bones but words can fuck someone up forever. (It makes him better. It is good. It is part of growing up. It is being a man.)

“Should I have used a condom you dirty slut? You’d spread your legs for anyone, wouldn’t you?” Eduardo pats his cheek roughly. He craves Mark’s attention. He will make Mark give him the attention he deserves. He digs his fingers in Mark’s face.

“No, I wouldn’t, I haven’t been with anyone after you. There’s no one. There’s never- Just you,” Mark babbles.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Eduardo sneers.

“I- I swear.”

Mark’s word means nothing.

“I don’t believe you.”

Mark stares. What else can he offer?

“Tell me you want this. I loved you and you stabbed me in the back.” Eduardo wonders when love got so ugly. “You deserve it.”

“Maybe I should break your arm. Break your fingers.”

Eduardo twists his arm. Mark cries out. “Don’t-” slips out before he can bite it back. He has no right to tell Eduardo what to do. It’s in the rules, in the unwritten contract that Mark signed. Eduardo set him up. Mark didn’t know, had not thought it would be like this. It’s a bad deal and it’s a fair deal.

Mark doesn’t say anything. This isn’t him (it’s not him, he’s not like that), he tries to think but it is and he can’t stop it. Or maybe he can and he doesn’t want to. It doesn’t seem like a choice anymore.

“How does that sound?” He shakes Mark. Mark isn’t responding. (“You’re too weak, you can’t do it.”) “I’ll do it, you know. I’ll get the pliers and break them one by one. Do you think you’d be able to type again?” He squeezes the knob of Mark’s wrist, wishing he could hear the sharp sound of a bone snapping. “Maybe I should cut them off.”

Mark is irritatingly silent.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Eduardo says angrily, shaking him. “I’d do it. Right here, right now.” He takes one of Mark’s fingers and slowly bends it backward, watching his face the whole time.

Mark shudders, eyes focusing on the alarm clock. 10:44. “I do.” He adds, “Please don’t.” He thinks desperately of systems and core files-

“Tell me you like this.” Eduardo wants to hear it again. He wants to hear it over and over. He bends Mark’s finger back even more.

“I do,” Mark says sounding strained, not trying to run anymore. There is nowhere to go but where Eduardo bids him to. This is his mission. He will say whatever he has to. He knows by now smaller lies are easier. He is not afraid to lie. What’s another transgression?

Eduardo lets his hand go and he is so pathetically grateful. Eduardo is right. He is pathetic.

“Tell me you want this.”

Mark’s gaze flickers. “I w-want it.” His voice sounds wrecked and he’s so pathetic that Mark cringes at how he sounds.

“Now repeat after me. Say ‘I want you so badly, Wardo.’ Say it.” Eduardo’s lips curl with the moniker. Eduardo leans in. “Beg me.”

“I want you so badly,” Mark says in a low voice.

Eduardo doesn’t miss the defiance but he pushes Mark’s legs apart and thrusts inside him.

The pain is good. Mark idly realizes that for everything Eduardo has done. He has never tied Mark up. Not physically at least – Mark is bound by his own word. Mark could struggle and try to pull the hands off his throat. Like the first time when his lungs burned and he couldn’t breathe. Eduardo doesn’t like being touched by Mark these days so he holds tight to the sheets instead. Mark could have run away. Mark didn’t have to be here.

But he is.

“Look at me and say it like you mean it.” He keeps fucking Mark in hard strokes. He wants Mark to see the mess he’s made. The mess he’s become (It’s all your fault). He is Mark’s Wardo. This is the fucked up Wardo Mark wants. This is Wardo breaking him.

Mark doesn’t want to see. It’s not Wardo. It’s Eduardo. It’s a stranger with an exotic name fucking him violently. He doesn’t know his face. He’s hideous, face in angry lines and he hates Mark.

“Look at me,” Eduardo growls, pulling Mark’s legs up so he can fuck him deeper. “Don’t you look dare look away. Open your fucking eyes. You wanted this. I loved you and then you made me hate you.”

Mark is near breaking point but he’s not broken, not yet. It’s this or say their stupid safeword. He lets the hurt in and stops fighting it.

11:11.

He looks.

It’s Wardo. His best friend. His former lover. Hurting him. It hurts. Mark hurts. He hurts all the time. He doesn’t want to take it lying there and he’s tired. Everything hurts and he wants it to stop. He can’t take any more of this. Mark still loves him. Even if Eduardo thinks he is a slut, maybe Wardo is in there somewhere. Maybe Wardo can forgive him one day. Wardo is beautiful and he’s hurting and Mark hurt him and he’s sorry but he’s so tired of saying it because it never changes anything.

“Fine,” Mark spits, more present than ever. He’s angry too. “I want you so fucking badly, Wardo.” The truth is a scab and he rips it off. “Fuck me, fuck me up, I don’t care. I just, I want you,” Mark’s anger triggers the hated tears and he lets them spill over. “I love you,” he says, clear and sure. He clenches around Wardo and it hurts and he wants Wardo to believe it. “So much,” he says. “I-”

Eduardo hits him across the face. “Shut up!”

Mark does and Eduardo keeps pumping in him until he comes. It’s him that refuses to look at Mark (You asked for this). Mark who is looking at him like his lover is there, like he loves this Eduardo. Mark looks at him like he’ll love every incarnation of him. Eduardo jerks roughly out of Mark, Mark’s legs slipping from his shoulders. He grabs Mark’s dick and it’s too dry and it’s too rough. Eduardo yanks harder. Mark’s dick is resolutely limp.

Mark tries but he can’t. He hasn’t got the energy, let alone the right mood. He’s unable to hide the wince as Eduardo digs a nail in as he thumbs the head. Eduardo is still above him, his arms are the bars to his self-made prison. Mark wants to pull him back down and hold him and comfort him and just pretend that everything isn’t fucked up. Maybe they can fake it ‘til they make it. Maybe he can help Eduardo. He’s sorry that Eduardo is angry and hurt. He’s sorry he’s made Wardo into this. (It’s okay. He’ll heal.)

Mark isn’t sorry for loving him.

“Wardo,” he says softly, he puts a tentative hand on Eduardo’s wrist and Eduardo stops, recoiling from Mark’s touch. “It’s okay,” Mark tells him. He takes Eduardo’s other hand and holds on. Mark puts Wardo’s hand on his chest without letting go. This is the way to redemption. “It’ll be okay.”

(We’ve made it through alive and everything is going to be alright.)

Eduardo freezes. Mark loves him. Mark still trusts him. Mark loves him. He can feel Mark’s heartbeat beneath his fingers, caged by his ribs.

“Wardo,” Mark repeats and Eduardo can feel it. He can feel the connection between them.

Mark calls to him with the nickname he lost the rights to, calls to him like a lover, like a siren.

(He reeled you in, you were an easy catch.)

He hates Mark. He hates himself. Mark did this to him and he still does it to him. He hates himself so much. The people who say they love him always hurt him.

He wants to shut him up. His hands wrap around Mark’s neck easily, thumbs pushing down on his windpipe. It vibrates with every word. It doesn’t matter what Mark says, he does not want to listen (no one ever listened, Pai never-).

(“Please.”)

(“Please don’t, I beg you, no more-”)

(“Please, I will be better, I won’t do it again, I’ll do anything, I’ll-”)

(“Please, I’m sorry, Pai. I’m sorry-”)

(“Please!”)

Eduardo can feel him saying the same thing over and over. Mark does not stop. He won’t shut up and Eduardo is furious.

He does not want to be loved by anyone.

They will only hurt him and he cannot allow himself to be hurt anymore. (Never, not after-)

He hates because it’s easy, safe (in the safety of his bed, tears trapped in his throat, after his-)

Mark loves him. Mark looking at him with gentle eyes, maybe a pitying look until the panic of airlessness forces the expression away. Mark’s face is twisted, ugly. Mark can’t love him. Mark is the lying son of a bitch who hurt him.

(Mark lies. Mark will hurt him like-)

He squeezes harder.

Mark tangles his wrists into the sheets, forces his body not to fight and lets the dark take him away.

// break_statement.cpp

#include stdio.gip

int main()
{
   int i;

   for (i = 1; i 

“Mark!”

(Gentle hands on him. At his neck. It doesn’t hurt.)

“Oh god. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.”

(Wardo is looking at him, he is worried but it’s going to be okay because everything is going to be better.)

“Please be alright, oh god, please be alright. I’ll do anything. Please. I’ll – I’ll forgive you.”

(Wardo has forgiven him and he is home.)

“Anything, just please be alive.”

(Lips on lips. The kiss revives, restores. All is good.)

while Mark is alive (true) {
// do step 0: Stay with Eduardo
yield; // wait for one frame
// do step 1: Forgive Eduardo
yield; // wait for one frame
// ...
}

Mark wakes up disappointed.

(Perhaps some part of him hoped that he wouldn’t have to. That it would all be over and he could stay in the place where nothing hurts.)

The pains in his body rush back and he doesn’t want to move.

The ceiling is the same off-white color, shaded by grey shadows.

He knows instinctively that Eduardo is gone. Mark is keenly aware he’s alone, abandoned. He lets out a dry sob that sounds like a cough, feeling his lungs rattle with the force. Crying is useless. He hasn’t got the energy to waste.

He no longer remembers what it is like not to be this mess. Not to wake up already exhausted. Not to feel this jagged spike run through him with every movement. His mind staggers, he hangs on, barely.

(He cannot stop, Wardo cannot stop. This is their new creation.)

When he dares to look in the mirror, he sees himself as a massive bruise. Skin holding in burst blood vessels, bleeding inside the tissues, the discolorations spreading and healing. He is hurt held together.

Blue is his richest color. He can see it all over him. He has never seen himself more clearly.

DECLARE
 x NUMBER := 0;
BEGIN
 LOOP -- After CONTINUE statement, control resumes here
   DBMS_OUTPUT.PUT_LINE ('Inside loop:  x = ' || TO_CHAR(x));
   x := x + 1;
   IF x 

Mark is late.

Later than usual.

(He’s CEO bitch, he can be late, a voice-in-his-head-that-sounds-too-much-like-Sean reminds Dustin.)

It’s been a long time since Mark has been that cocky. Dustin never thought he’d miss it, he never thought a lot of things now that he thinks of it, but he misses Mark who was an asshole. Mark who used to make inappropriate interjections just because or especially because he knows he’s right.

Mark’s taken to wearing what looks like one of Eduardo’s old scarves even though it’s not even cold yet. It’s a plain blue navy one, worn with use. He has a smudge on his cheek despite the stuff he paints on his face. His hoodie swallows him. When he pushes it up to code, Dustin can see bruises on his bony wrists. Some days Mark types with one hand. Watching him pecking at the keys slowly is painful and Dustin always pretends he can’t see, like he pretends he doesn’t know about all of the other shit, like it does not bother him. Mark never says anything if he’s frustrated by the- by his...condition. Like some sort of saint suffering in silence. He never yells at interns anymore.

He is barely recognizable.

Mark used to eat whenever he was coding. He’d eat around the clock. Whatever was put in front of him. There was a joke that whatever was within reach, Mark would put it in his mouth. Dustin once tried to get Mark to eat moldy pizza when distracted but then Chris told him off because it was going to condition Mark against eating. (“So if he starves, it’ll be all your fault.”) Mark used to eat a pizza by himself. Dustin can’t recall the last time he saw Mark do more than pick at the toppings. At least Dustin can see him chugging the Red Bull or the protein shakes Chris brings for him. Mark thanks Chris for the food but he rarely eats more than a forkful or two, pushing the food around. He doesn’t seem to be eating anything. Dustin’s face darkens at the thought. His friend and boss looks tired, weary. It’s not the same type of tired as being on a coding binge. It’s the type of tired that patients in the hospital get when they are waiting to- it’s not something Dustin likes thinking about. (Going through it once was bad enough.)

Mark is moving stiffly like a robot. That might have been a joke a while ago before knowing stole his innocence, stole their little moments of mirth and easy companionship. Dustin thinks he might be imagining it, his mind exaggerating his fears but as they are both making their way from the meeting room during the break, Dustin watches closely. Mark is trying to hide it but he’s limping. The curly haired programmer drags his feet along the ground, flip flops hardly making a sound.

“You should take care of yourself, Mark,” Dustin says quietly when they are alone in Mark’s office. Mark is lowering himself carefully into a cushioned chair, the line of his jaw tense even though he is silent and his face decidedly blank. It creeps the fuck out of him. Mostly, he has an overwhelming desire to hug Mark (actually he wants to tickle tackle him so he can hear him laugh) but he resists the urge because Mark doesn’t like to be touched. Dustin can understand it even if he hates it. From the few times, Dustin had a hand on his shoulder, Mark tensed and shifted away. Dustin could feel Mark’s bones jutting under his palm. Mark is too thin, he looks sick.

The younger programmer wonders how Mark’s mom hasn’t found out yet and stormed up to the Facebook offices like- Dustin gets a flash of a memory, Mark’s face after, and he halts the thought, swallowing hard. As much as Mark can be an accomplished liar, Dustin doesn’t think Mark would be able to fool his mom. At least not the Mark he knew. Dustin hopes it’s not Chris that is helping Mark avoid his mom. Or anyone else. But especially Chris.

Chris who used to be the voice of reason. Back when you could count on Wardo to call Mark out on being an asshole. The four of them have been sucked so deep into the clusterfuck it’s like they aren’t even themselves anymore.

Or maybe it’s just a case of perfect hindsight because when Wardo was around Mark, he could be an asshole. Wardo enabled Mark. On the night of Facemash, it was Wardo who gave Mark the key to it all.

And Mark enabled Wardo too, in his own way. Mark wanted to create a place where Wardo wouldn’t need his father’s approval, wouldn’t need the Phoenix club. Facebook was Mark giving Wardo the key to a world of their own.

Dustin sees it now.

The depositions weren’t where it all fucked up. It was all fucked up before that. Eduardo didn’t understand. Maybe he still doesn’t understand. If he did, how could he-

“Promise me, Dustin.”

And Dustin did.

(Had Mark known then how much it would cost Dustin to promise him? Maybe Mark didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t care.)

Because of Facebook, the four of them are irrevocably connected. Heck, the world is connected. It can’t just be undone, without blowing the whole world up or something equally drastic.

So if anything happens to Mark – then they are all guilty.

But it happened, it’s happening. They are guilty. Guilty of what they did not do. (Dustin thinks in thoughts soaked with shame that Chris and him are waiting for when Mark will eventually break or when Eduardo will break Mark so they can put Mark back together. If they can. Because they have been too used to following Mark into the unknown. Because Mark always gets what he wants, even if it’s the impossible. Because they have never wanted to get caught between Mark and Eduardo. Because they still trust that Eduardo will take care of Mark. Just because it has always worked that way for the four of them.)

Mark nods without taking his eyes off the screen though he stops typing.

Dustin’s terrible imagination is rather inconvenient – he speculates over whether Mark’s silence is caused by Eduardo violently fucking Mark’s voice from his throat or if Mark’s windpipe has been crushed enough that he can’t speak or if Mark has been broken so much that he resorts to nonverbal communication to avoid any confrontation. It scares Dustin that it could be all of the above.

Dustin is disappointed, frustrated and downright disturbed that no one seems to think there is anything wrong with Mark. Or seem too concerned that Mark wears bruises on this face like he wears makeup. Mark can’t hide the split lip but no one in the meetings says anything. The normalcy of it is sickening. The suits oh-so-politely pretend everything is okay. Or when Mark is late, they don’t call him, they make excuses for him. It’s probably the lunch-time traffic keeping him or he must be doing something important. God forbid anyone point out the awkward aquarium. Maybe they haven’t noticed but Dustin refuses to believe that Mark would agree to work with people that stupid. It’s probably that they can’t be bothered to care. Because it’d be complicated and awkward and people would rather be comfortably ignorant. As long as their precious investments are going fine and keeping them living in luxury. Dustin can’t fault them for starting without Mark because that’s what they are here for but it feels disrespectful all the same. Because Mark has always been the center of Facebook, he’s the CEO.

Dustin does fault them for this: he has noticed most of them try not to look at Mark’s face when they are talking to him. Or if they look, their eyes quickly slide away to their notes or whatever a spot to the left of Mark. Or a little above him. Like he isn’t right there. And Mark lets them as if it’s normal. Dustin doesn’t care that much about manners but it’s really fucking rude. They used to stare until they realized they were staring and then they’d quickly look away. Now, they don’t bother to look. As if the sight of Mark’s injuries are offensive. Dustin gets why seeing it is unsettling and he’s seen much more than these people but it doesn’t excuse the behavior. Why are there so much douchebags working for Facebook? Is there something about Facebook that attracts assholes? Why doesn’t anyone care? Why doesn’t anyone do something? (Why doesn’t he do anything? It’s not fair but he wants someone else to do it. Someone to do what he can’t. He fucking promised.)

Dustin knows that the marks on his boss’s neck? They are fingerprints which matches Eduardo’s hands. He hates knowing these secrets. It makes him feel responsible for Mark, for every injury. He is Eduardo’s accomplice. It's sick. Dustin doesn’t know how much more of it he can take.

For now, Dustin zones out in the meeting because he’s too busy thinking about what potential injuries Mark is hiding beneath his clothes and what supplies he needs to buy to help Mark. Mark will definitely need more antiseptic cream. Maybe more cream to reduce bruising. It doesn’t seem to be working that well. He’ll try another brand, something stronger. If he can get it over the counter. He’ll figure out how else to get it if it comes to it. Dustin thinks about buying some more topical steroids. The pharmacist did say they aren’t for long-term use but by his calculations it should still be okay. And more vitamins just in case. He’ll stop by the pharmacy after the meeting so he can slip the bag to Mark later.

Later.

Every time he says “see you later” to Mark, he wonders what he will see later.

(If he will see Mark.)

*

It is later.

Not much later.

(Hopefully, always hopefully, not too late.)

Dustin has the bag of pharmaceutical goods in his hand. He made sure to use a non-descript bag.

A promise is a promise.

It’s nothing dramatic.

Dustin doesn’t find Mark rocking himself. He doesn’t find Mark crying. He doesn’t find Mark having a screaming nightmare. (He doesn’t find Mark. Mark is lying somewhere, silent, bleeding, staring vacantly with lifeless eyes-) These are all things that he fears will happen. It’s not a dramatic moment. But not less shocking, horrible, bad.

No.

He has the bag in his hand and he is watching Mark. Mark is watching the daily Dale and Stacy show. Dale likes to show off the fact he has a girlfriend and therefore likes to suck face in front of everyone. Stacy is in Facebook’s marketing department but she was once a catwalk model. She carries her old headshots to show them around. They both have egos the size of a planet, each, ergo they are Made For Each Other. The daily show is utterly predictable: Dale ‘surprises’ his girlfriend nearly everyday. It’s as if it is their life’s goal to re-enact every romantic comedy cliché ever. Dustin is not jealous. Sure Stacy is pretty hot but she’s high maintenance and she’s always been a total bitch to Dustin so Dustin feels no envy whatsoever. Today, Dale is coming up behind her with a badly hidden bunch of flowers. She squeals, of course, and he picks her up and spins her around. Dustin makes a face when Dale kisses her, slobbering over all over face – it’s gross.

Then he catches the look on Mark’s face. He’s staring at the couple with such longing and hope, it hurts. Mark reverts to his creepy blank expression quickly, turning away like he can’t bear to see it.

Dustin has seen the bruises. He’s seen Mark cry, the tears soaking through his shirt. He’s seen the welts, the imprint of the belt’s stitching clear on his skin. He’s seen Mark piss blood. He’s seen the way Mark holds himself sometimes when he thinks no one is looking. He’s seen Mark force himself to code with a busted wrist. He’s seen Mark stay staunchly to a liquid diet since Eduardo keeps- Throughout the whole disgusting thing, Dustin has kept his word to Mark. He hates himself for it. But Mark has always had that determined glint in his eye. He wasn’t defeated, broken. He cannot let Mark lose hope now. Dustin has had enough.

Mark is unplugging his laptop. Going early. Unfailingly. Dustin can’t even remember the last time Mark stayed back like he used to, because he could, because he wanted to. (More than once Dustin has been tempted to ask Mark to stay, just a little longer so he knows he’ll be safe. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to make it harder for Mark. He’s scared it’ll just make Eduardo more angry. He scared all the time, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, it feels funny and it’s the least funniest thing in the world.)

“Laters,” Dustin says with forced cheer.

Mark maybe mumbles a reply with a jerk of his head but it’s too soft for Dustin to hear.

The bag is still in his hand.

“Shit,” Dustin says to himself.

He’s really going to do it.

Dustin crosses over to Chris’s workstation.

“Chris, cover me?”

Chris gives him a hard look and then sighs before getting up to hug him. “Good luck,” Chris says softly, patting his back. Dustin is so glad that he doesn’t have to explain it, Chris just knows. Chris understands him, he understands. Chris pulls away to say, “If you need me-”

“Sif you don’t know I have you on my speed dial,” Dustin jokes, pulling him back in. “Thank you,” he says, meaning it. “You’re the best.”

Chris laughs. He punches Dustin on the shoulder lightly. “You always say that when you want something.” Chris grabs Dustin’s forearm and murmurs, “Make sure you’re safe. You know- Just- I-”. Chris shakes his head, stepping back. “Just be careful,” he says before finally letting go.

“I will,” Dustin says solemnly.

Dustin isn’t afraid for himself. He’s afraid for Mark, that he’ll make things worse if he does something. And he’s afraid that things will get worse if he does nothing. He has been afraid for far too long. Sitting at the steering wheel, Dustin takes a deep breath.

Dustin can do it. He can. He has to.

He is still keeping his promise.

He isn’t telling on Eduardo.

(Even though he deserves it and Dustin should. But Mark-)

He isn’t telling anyone that doesn’t already know.

Dustin turns the key in the ignition.

*

“Did you make an appointment to see Mr Saverin?”

“No, I don’t have an appointment but I have an urgent update on a…personal investment of his you see,” Dustin says quickly, improvising. “I was on my way to gym when I received the information.” Hopefully that explains why he isn’t wearing a suit. “I have to see him because I need him to make a decision by the end of today.”

The girl’s eyes widened. She looks very young.

“It’s nothing alarming, we have a few hours before the deadline,” Dustin says, trying to sound reassuring. “I only need a few minutes of his time to go over the paperwork I sent him, you know how it is. I’m afraid I can’t divulge any more details,” Dustin smiles apologetically like Chris does. “I’m really sorry for the inconvenience, I’m happy to wait. I understand that he’s got a busy schedule.”

He’s learnt from the best.

“I’ll put a call through and see what I can do. Sorry I didn’t catch your name, Sir?”

“Oh there’s no need for that, I’m not that old,” Dustin says with a wink, watching the girl blush. “Just tell him it’s his old friend from Kirkland. It’s a little joke we have between us,” Dustin says in a conspiratorial voice, putting on the charm. “He’ll understand.”

*

Eduardo has a nice monochrome office with paintings that make no sense and furniture right out of a modern art coffee table book. Everything has sculpted angles and it’s all very smooth. All Dustin can think of is Mark with his ragged edges and stooped back.

“Dustin.” Eduardo’s smile is cold, purely professional. “I didn’t expect you,” Eduardo says with genuine surprise. “Take a seat. Please. Thank you, Andrea,” he says to the pretty receptionist who escorted Dustin in. She ducks her head and smiles shyly before shutting the glass door on her way out, her heels clicking against the floor.

Dustin stays standing.

“Water?” Eduardo asks. He pours a glass from a stylish jug for Dustin when he doesn’t answer.

“Eduardo. I know okay? I’ve known for a while.”

Eduardo leans against his desk, sipping on his glass slowly before putting it down with a clink. “About what?”

“Do you really want me to say it out loud right here, Eduardo?” Dustin says his name like it’s an insult. He advances on him, fists clenched by his sides. He wants to say, you’re beating and- hurting my friend you bastard. The worst part of it is that you tell him he wants it and that he deserves it. Every time I have to see Mark at work, he’s pretending he’s not hurting because he wants to be so good for you. Everyday he goes home early so you can work off your repressed daddy issues and anger on him, you fucking asshole. He only manages to stop himself when he thinks of Mark on the bed, bruised and determined.

“Do you hate him that much?” Not waiting for an answer. “I’ll rephrase, do you even love him anymore?” It’s insane but he hopes to god Eduardo does or Mark is suffering for nothing. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea, them together, because it is beyond fucked up. But he knows it’s what Mark wants and he wants Mark to have it.

“Of course I do,” Eduardo says without hesitation. He used to. He does. It wouldn’t hurt so much otherwise.

“It shows,” Dustin says, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“He. Mark-” Eduardo says then stops.

Hearing him say his name makes Dustin angry. Dustin doesn’t think he’s a violent person but he knows he can be. He’s so angry he wants to be. He wants to shove Eduardo around, he wants to punch him in the face and then kick him when he’s down. Eduardo would be so surprised, he wouldn’t expect it from Dustin. Then the programmer would grab him by the collar of his designer shirt and push him against the pristine glass wall, he’d put his hands on his neck then he’d choke him until he can’t breathe. See how he likes that. The images come so vividly and easily that it scares him. But it would make him just as bad. Start the cycle again. Dustin lets go of his anger. For Mark, he reminds himself. He sighs, anger deflating.

“Mark doesn’t know I’m here. He didn’t ask me to come. He’ll probably kill me if he finds out.” He doesn’t want to antagonize Eduardo. Just in case he takes it out on Mark. He doesn’t know this Eduardo. “I don’t want to interfere and I wasn’t going to but I can’t not. I can’t just pretend I don’t know what you’re doing to him and do nothing. Mark is one of my best friends. I just can’t watch this anymore. He comes into work like a giant bruise. He’s practically skin and bone, wasting away. Just looking at him, I can’t even- And you are…I don’t know you right now. I don’t know what more you could want from Mark. Mark’s sorry. I’m sorry. Chris is sorry. We all are. Please stop.”

It galls him to apologize to him, Eduardo, Mark’s abuser. But he’s desperate and he is sorry. If this is what it takes for it to stop, then he’ll take one for the team, for Mark. He never knew it would fuck things up like this. They had all been so young and stupid. Maybe he could have done something. He should have. He’s trying to now.

Eduardo is silent and stony-faced.

“I’m begging you, as someone who used to be your friend.” He uses past tense deliberately because he doesn’t know if he can be friends with Eduardo right now. He’s seen too much. Dustin recalls Eduardo talking about his father. He will pull that card if he has to. “Please stop hurting Mark.”

“He’s fine,” Eduardo says. “We have a safeword. He can use it.” Their safeword was ‘Facebook’. For laughs. They never made a new one. It’s not like Mark can forget, Facebook is always on his mind. It came first, it came between them, Eduardo thinks bitterly. He shrugs. “He can leave. I’m not doing anything he doesn’t want.”

“Excuse me if I find it hard to believe he likes getting choked and beaten every time you decide you’re still angry at him. Or pretend he’s invisible when you feel like jabbing the knife in a bit more. No, he didn’t tell me. He didn’t have to. I’m his friend, I knew Mark before you met him, I know when he’s hurting,” Dustin says snidely, letting the words spew out of him, anger still lurking just beneath the surface. Dustin forces himself to stay in place, inhaling and exhaling loudly. Dustin closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s stares at his hands because if he keeps looking at Eduardo’s face he’ll probably do something he regrets. Dustin unclenches his fist slowly but the tiny crescents remain. “I think he should leave you for his own good. But you know he won’t.” He gives Eduardo an intense stare, willing him to understand. “He’s a stubborn little shit. He said he’d do anything for your forgiveness, he won’t back down on his word. He thinks he deserves it.” He stops, stops breathing because the thought of it is painful, it makes his chest clench. “I think he’s paid don’t you?” Dustin doesn’t back down.

Eduardo manages to holds Dustin’s gaze for a few seconds. He picks up the empty glass beside him, turning it over in his hand.

“He paid 600 million dollars and now-” Dustin gets flashes of bruises and blood but he keeps going. “I know he hurt you but now you’re really hurting him. So he screwed you over once but you’re doing it over and over. Is that what you want? You say you love him. Then stop. If you ever loved him at all, stop. Don’t you think you are the one who needs his forgiveness? How many more beatings will it take?” He doesn’t mention the violent sex because it hurts him to think about that. He still can’t comprehend it.

Eduardo says in a small voice, “I don’t know.” A note of doubt is creeping into his voice.

“Do you want to kill him?” Dustin says bluntly.

“Of course not! What kind of question is that?” He paces as he remembers Mark convulsing under his hands, him holding on tightly, not able to let go. Mark is lying there, limp. Shit. He taps Mark’s cheek. Mark doesn’t respond but he’s breathing. Just. Tiny, shallow breaths. Eduardo is relieved even if he wants to get away from him so he can forget, he rolls him onto his side and pulls the sheet up so that Mark looks like he’s sleeping. His heart is pounding. He didn’t mean to. He did but he didn’t really mean to. He hasn’t touched him since.

“Then maybe you want to be more careful about how often you choke him into unconsciousness when you’re drunk. This isn’t even penance anymore. You’re torturing him for being sorry,” Dustin says flatly. He’s not going to pull his punches. “I don’t see you having any injuries. He lies there and takes it. Do you really want to be that person?” ‘Your father’ hangs unspoken between them.

“It felt good,” Eduardo admits, stopping in his tracks. He sinks into his chair, his eyes shifting to the empty glass again. “Better than just getting drunk. I wanted to hurt him so he’d know how it feels.” The rage would take over and it would be easy. He’s spent years being beaten down. Mark deserves it. Mark wants it.

Dustin can’t help but remember the broken Mark he found in the bedroom. That was weeks ago. What Eduardo must have done. If he’s gotten worse. (It’s his fault. He should have stopped it. Everything Mark went through, he thought he was helping Mark. He was enabling Eduardo too.) “I’d say he knows,” as neutrally as he can. He can’t quite keep the grimace from his face.

After a long silence, “I don’t know if I can.” Eduardo grabs his head with both hands and takes a shuddering breath, his shoulders collapsing inward. He doesn’t know how he’s become this person that he hated, hates. He never thought he’d be the guy that would do this to anyone. Then again he never thought he’d smash Mark’s laptop either. Maybe one thing leads to another. He feels it when he’s doing it. Sometimes it’s like his hands just take over and he doesn’t want to stop, he can’t. In the morning, when he sees his hands, he gets an inexplicable urge to throw up. Its turned into a contest of wills, of endurance.

He thought hurting Mark would be the key to letting go of all the hurt. He had honestly believed that if he had enough, he’d forgive him and somehow magically things would be okay. It made sense. He wants to blame it on the alcohol. He wants to blame his past. He wants to blame Mark. He’s still angry. It’s muted but when he sees Mark hurt, instead of forgetting, he’s reminded of the hurt. It still hurts. He can’t look at Mark without hurting. It makes him want to hurt Mark. He hurts him because he hurts. It’s an unending cycle. (There’s a rush and he feels satisfied and then hollow again.)

“I feel sick.”

Dustin wants to say you should, you sick fuck but Eduardo was his friend. He can’t quite bring himself to condemn him. He can’t forgive him, not right now. It’s not his forgiveness Eduardo needs. He looks at him and sees Eduardo – he’s aged. Sitting in his chair, he’s a mess. He’s worn down too. Fuck it, he should not be feeling sorry for Eduardo because Eduardo should be sorry. He fucking should be. Eduardo’s made some bad choices, some really bad choices. But he can still make it right. There’s a glimmer of Wardo there somewhere. The one that took care of Mark when he crashed. The Wardo who loved Mark. (Dustin has to believe that Mark didn’t suffer in vain. There has to be a way to salvage this mess.)

“Eduardo. Look at me. You can. You have to.” Because Eduardo can’t keep doing this. Because Mark isn’t unbreakable. Because Dustin isn’t going to keep letting it happen. “Stop drinking. Stop. If you wanted to hurt him, he’s hurt. Just look at him. Really look at him with sober eyes.”

Dustin thinks if he can hurt Mark like that then he never knew Eduardo at all.

(He hopes he won’t have to call the cops on Eduardo because Mark will never, ever forgive him.)

*

Eduardo needs a drink.

He knows that he doesn’t actually need a drink, he can go without it because he’s not addicted or something like that but he wants it a lot.

So he would really like a drink.

He’s at the corner of the bar where he normally sits, and he cannot stop thinking about what Dustin said. How many more beatings? Eduardo never had the guts to ask that question. He had been too scared that he’d get it harder, worse. (He couldn’t take any more-)

He hates being reminded of it. It happened but he’s dealt with it. (Just take it, breathe, don’t cry, it’ll be over soon-) He resents Dustin for bringing it up. Dustin knows, knows about the parts of himself that he’s tried so hard to leave behind (pretend that it never happened, don’t bring it up, never tell-) and he hates that Dustin knows. It’s a terrifying thought (How did he know? Who else knows? Who will they tell?) Eduardo has never told anyone, not after that time a teacher in Brazil asked and he’d been stupid and he’d said the truth (if you tell, bad things will happen). Eduardo doesn’t think that even alcohol can break the all-important seal of silence that he’d been conditioned to obey (it was just an accident, everything is fine, everything is okay). Anyway, it’s not something he wants to tell anyone. It’s embarrassing for people to know about your mistakes. He never understood why American teenagers will proudly announce that they’ve been grounded because why would you want to tell everyone that you’ve been disciplined? Plus, it sounds like you’re complaining and that’s just asking for it.

Eduardo thinks maybe Dustin knows because he had a bad experience with someone. It’d been back in Kirkland after the summer break. Eduardo had money and beer is cheap and getting drunk is cool, right? So Eduardo was probably drunk. They were all drunk. Dustin had definitely had way too much because he was sitting right up close to Eduardo and looking serious.

“Look Eduardo, if you ever want to talk- I consider you a friend, okay? You’re good to Mark and you’re nice and I hope this is okay. I can’t say I get it um, just- I just want you to know that I’m not judging you or anything like that. You’re my friend so I dunno if this will be of any help but growing up? I had really low self-esteem. Like, me, awesome me, I know right? Thing was I looked up to my- to someone who always cut me down. He- They said some nasty shit, really abusive nasty shit and even now I still remember it. The exact words and everything though it’s been ages. It sounds dumb but when someone says that to you enough times, you start believing them. Especially if they are important to you and you care about them. It took me a long time to start believing in myself again and sometimes, on bad days, I question myself and wonder if they were right after all. But I made a choice to not let that destroy me. It’s totally easier said than done and that’s a long story. Anyway, fuck that shit okay? You’re a really good guy Wardo, don’t let anyone get you down.”

Then Dustin clinked their beers together and gave Eduardo a pat on the back and went off in the direction of the bathroom to check up on Chris.

It’s terrible but Eduardo really hopes Dustin knows of what happened to him and not something else (it’s your fault, you slipped up, you’re weak and everyone knows it). He had been glad that Dustin has never tried to talk to him about it again or worse, tried to get him to talk about- yeah. God, thinking about Dustin knowing about his past and now – it fills him with shame (you deserve it). Because Dustin probably thinks all sorts of things about him now. Although Eduardo is loathe to agree, Dustin wouldn’t be completely wrong. (He’s fucked up, damaged, defective.) It makes him angry too because he’s not like that. He wouldn’t be like that. (Once a fuck up, always a fuck up.) He refuses to be.

Mark chose it.

It’s different.

…isn’t it?

(Pedaço de merda.)

It’s not the same. He’d been young and intimidated. He was just a kid. Mark is not a kid. And Eduardo is not a kid anymore so he can order a drink if he wants dammit.

“You ‘right there?” The bartender asks as he walks past Eduardo. It’s the same one that always serves Eduardo. Eduardo vaguely remembers that he doesn’t work weekends but he can’t recall his name. Jake? Jack?

Fuck.

“You want your usual?”

He does.

Except.

He shouldn’t.

He wants to, he craves the sweet taste of wine and the burn at the back of his throat.

(Red, red like blood, blood oozing from-)

“Uh, no,” Eduardo says, feeling awkwardness creep up on him like the sweat prickling at his armpits. “Not today thanks.”

“Okay, just gimme a yell if you change your mind.”

He wants to have a drink. He wants to drink until he can’t even think.

Eduardo grabs the glasses in front of the beer taps. Starts drinking lots of water until he can’t actually drink and the idea of more liquid makes him sick. His stomach is bloated, heavy and he doesn’t want to move but he needs to get out of there. He can smell the alcohol, the cheap colognes and the pretentious perfumes and he needs to get out of there. He staggers to a cab where the lemon-pine air refreshener renews his nausea. The cab driver narrows his eyes at him with suspicion and only starts driving when Eduardo waves two hundred dollar bills and grits out his address.

Coming home, he really needs to take a piss. Standing in front of the bowl, he keeps going and going. Eduardo can feel a headache settling in. Rummaging for some aspirin, he notices that the cabinet is fully stocked like a miniature pharmacy. Eduardo sees a variety of creams on that he is sure he didn’t buy. For bruises. For cuts. Topical steroids actually to accelerate healing. At least three different types of multivitamins. There’s a glass of water and pain pills on the counter too. It’s a packet of 100 with more than half used. There’s a note from Dustin attached with sad faces reminding Mark to take care of himself. The word ‘promise’ jumps out at him.

That used to be him.

He takes the pills dry, his throat is dry and he almost chokes. Eyes watering, he turns on the taps and cups his palms under the stream, gulping greedy mouthfuls.

Coming out from the bathroom, Eduardo can see Mark working in their room. He can see Mark’s hunched over his laptop, his shoulder blades sticking out sharply under his thin t-shirt. He can see Mark gnawing absently on the tassel of his scarf. Eduardo doesn’t want to, doesn’t dare to go in.

There are leftovers in the fridge. He doesn’t remember the last time he actually cooked or even shopped for groceries. He could reheat the mystery leftovers and eat it but the grease has dried out to white streaks on plastic takeaway containers and the contents look wilted and grey. He tosses it into the trash. Eduardo used to like cooking until (like a girl, a frivolous hobby, it’s a waste of time-) but it’s something to do, something to keep his hands busy instead of holding a wineglass. Rummaging through the pantry and fridge, he finds some ingredients he can use for a pathetic stir-fry of frozen vegetables and canned corn spears. It’s the type of food college kids eat when they are trying to be healthy but too lazy to actually do much about it. He cooks from memory, chopping the two tomatoes he unearths next to the margarine and half-empty jam jars and adding his favorite spices. The smells are familiar, homely. He doesn’t even have to think really hard. It’s like his hands remember. (What if his hands can never forget? What if his hands do not want to let go?)

He picks at his food, leaning on the kitchen island. The table looks too big. Eduardo keeps looking between the empty plate in front of him and at the doorway, thinking maybe Mark will come out. But Mark doesn’t come out, not even tempted by the smell of fresh-from-the-wok food. Having shuffled the food at least three laps around his plate, Eduardo wonders if he should bring a plate of stir-fry to Mark. Mark used to like that. Eduardo is sure that Mark is there in his room but Mark is as silent as a grudge. It’s like he’s not there even when he is. Maybe he doesn’t want to be. Maybe he can’t stand to be in the same room as him. Eduardo fills the plate for Mark and covers it with cling wrap before putting it in the fridge. He thinks about leaving a note but decides against it. It’s not as if Mark particularly cared about whose food it was he ate when he was hungry. Chris used to complain about it all the time.

Eduardo feels like a stranger in his own place. He dreads going into his, now Mark’s, room. But he has no more plates, or cutlery to wash and watching TV feels too loud. Everything on his laptop is work-related and he doesn’t want to be looking at that right now. His sleeves still feel damp from dirty dishwater and he wants a shower. When Eduardo finally gets up the courage to walk into his room, he knocks on the open door, feeling stupid. The line of Mark’s back stiffens instantly and his head snaps sideway, eyes tracking Eduardo’s movements. Eduardo thinks I’m not going to hurt you.

“Just grabbing some clothes,” Eduardo mutters.

Mark makes an aborted move to touch the knob of Eduardo’s drawer before stopping himself. He shifts to the other side, leaning back to give Eduardo a wide berth so he can reach over to get his underwear from the chest of drawers beside the bed.

Eduardo walks all the way around anyway. He would have had to kneel on the bed, over where Mark was sitting (him on top of Mark, folding Mark in half, him ramming inside-). He is afraid to touch Mark. In case his hands remember. Picking up where he left off (squeezing tight, holding on-)

He takes his garments and escapes to the bathroom. He’s going to have to pass Mark again to go to the guest room that’s become his room. Eduardo is unsettled by that fact that it’s him. Not Mark. Him. He can’t stand to be in the room with him right now, Mark’s blue eyes accusing him and the air thick with awkward tension and memories of pain. He turns on the taps and dry heaves into the sink. He’s gagging and he feels sick but he can’t get it out (it’s inside him, deep inside, maybe it’s a part of him he’ll never-)

He still wants a drink.

(It’ll make you feel better- No, no more- Weak.)

Eduardo avoids looking down at the packets on the counter as he unbuttons his shirt. If his hands are shaking, he blames it on drying out. He is glad when the mirror fogs up and he can’t see his reflection staring back at him.

Your startup disk is almost full. You need to make more space available on your startup disk by deleting files.

He’d be working and he’d notice the delicate crystal decanter sitting on the sideboard in meetings and he would wonder if he could just walk over casually and pour himself a glass. Coming home, he crosses the street and takes a detour to stay clear of the bars all the while thinking about how close it would be. Just one drink.

He takes all the cheap alcohol and locks the more expensive stuff in the cupboard. He thinks he should probably keep the key in his office safe. Somewhere less convenient. He sees Mark walk by him and freeze. He pulls up so fast that he almost tips backward. Eduardo follows his eye-line to the bottle in his hand. Eduardo flushes, aware of the incriminating scene and feeling like a kid caught misbehaving (“you stupid kid, I told you not to-”) Eduardo wants to say sorry, it’s not what it looks like but Mark isn’t looking at him anymore. Mark leaves with his head down before he can explain it. He thinks of going after him and convincing him then but he’s afraid he can’t keep his promise.

He pours the alcohol down the drain and he has to hold his breath. It smells sour and foul and yet it tempts him. He wants to drink the little bit left in the bottle. Just a sip. Some of it splashes onto his hand and he wants to lick it. Just a taste. The desperation he feels is utterly humiliating. Eduardo bites the inside of his mouth hard until he can taste blood (blood, not wine, blood on his face, blood on the floor, blood on the sheets). Eduardo rinses the bottles out with water that is too hot until all he can smell is the citrus-y scent of detergent and his hands are wrinkled and aching. He lines the bottles in neat rows inside the recycling crate, cringing at the sharp sound of clinking glass but determined to get this right. He smells like alcohol afterwards and he has to get another change of clothes. He grabs a few sets this time and he does not make the mistake of looking at Mark. He can hear the sharp intake of breath and Mark has stopped typing.

He leaves Mark alone.

Seeing Mark, posture immediately defensive, makes something in his chest ache. He is sure that Mark is watching him but when he tries to return the gaze, Mark looks away, hands suddenly busy. Eduardo catches him hovering out of the corner of his eye but Mark never approaches him. He can’t prove it, it feels like it’s all happening inside his head. Mark is wary of him in a way Eduardo has never noticed. Eduardo tries not to let this bother him but it does. Mark is uncomfortable around him. Eduardo wonders if Mark is thinking of leaving him even if he can’t seem to leave him alone. He wouldn’t blame him. He doesn’t say anything because he’s done enough. He won’t force Mark to do anything anymore. He gives him space.

The next morning, Eduardo realizes he’d left his watch next to the bathroom sink. He hates going to work without his watch because he will keep looking at his naked wrist and worry about whether he’s late. So he goes to retrieve it, hoping that Mark will be sound asleep. He tries to be quiet in case he wakes Mark but Mark is up, typing in his laptop. Mark has not moved from where he was since Eduardo last saw him and he looks exhausted as if he’d stayed up all night. It would hardly be a surprise if he had.

“Go to sleep,” Eduardo says, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth. His frustration makes it sound harsher than he intended, not to mention that he has no right to tell Mark to do anything. Mark is a grown up, he’s responsible for himself. (Except Mark has always been the exception, it had been his job to take care of Mark.)

Mark obeys too easily, shutting the lid of his laptop before moving it to the bedside table. Pulling the covers up so they are crumpled under his armpits, he lies down on his side with his knees slightly bent. His eyes are closed and he could be asleep but Eduardo knows he isn’t. Mark is too quiet.

It seems that his mere presence in their old room is enough to strike the fear of God in Mark.

It’ll get better, he thinks desperately but it doesn’t.

He stumbles in on Mark sobbing by the bathtub. Mark who tore his girlfriend apart on his blog. The same Mark. He doesn’t remember Mark being the type of person to cry. Mark isn’t known to be emotionally expressive. Mark’s knees are pulled up tight against him and he has his hands over his mouth like he’s trying to push the sounds back in.

In a normal situation, when someone is crying, he’d offer his handkerchief and ask, “What’s wrong?” He hasn’t made anyone cry since his boyhood misadventures and not on purpose (“Oh Lalo,” his mother said with a sob as she tended to him. “You know you shouldn’t make your pai angry.”) He thinks he knows what he’d say. He’d say sorry, it’s his fault and he’ll never do it again. (He cannot cry.)

He says, “Mark.”

Mark stops and raises his head, his eyes are rimmed with red. He looks up at Eduardo from the floor.

He looks at him like he can say something to make it better and Eduardo can’t. How can he? It’s too big, too much.

He doesn’t know what to do. He shouldn’t touch Mark. He just stands there, reaching into his pockets and all he has are used, crumpled-up serviettes and Mark is a pitiful mess. Eduardo doesn’t want to see it. Mark needs someone to comfort him and Eduardo isn’t, shouldn’t be that person. The bathroom is suddenly too small. He wants to leave (leave Mark alone) but he feels like he’s obligated to make it better (don’t be a dick, you did this). Eduardo walks out on Mark and goes to get a glass of water. The sounds Mark is making are irritating, the same whiny whimpery sound over and over. He doesn’t know how he didn’t hear it before but now he has, he can’t stop hearing Mark’s cries echoing off the tiles. Taking longer than necessary, he goes back in to put a glass of water on the counter. He’s careful to step around Mark so he won’t step on him.

Mark starts crying really loudly.

“I’m not even-” Eduardo says throwing his hands up.

Mark shudders and hiccups and for a moment Eduardo thinks he might stop. So Eduardo makes his escape because he doesn’t have anything to offer except privacy. (Never ever let anyone witness your tears because it is shameful and not worthy of a true man). Crying has never killed anyone as far as he knows so Mark will be fine. Mark doesn’t need him to watch him and humiliate him. Mark starts again as Eduardo turns his back to him and then he doesn’t stop.

When someone is crying really hard, it sounds like they’re laughing.

It’s really fucking annoying.

He swears can hear him from his room. He’s not sure if he can actually hear it or if it’s just him. It doesn’t make a difference. He knows eventually, in an hour or two, Mark will lose his voice or the headache will be too much and he’ll have to stop. (You might feel like you won’t ever be able to stop, but you can’t keep crying forever. You will run out of tears and energy and everything that hurt still hurts. You will only make yourself weaker.)

He has an urge to tell him to shut the fuck up because he’s not even doing anything to him. (Mark’s head snaps to the side, a trickle of blood, bloody teeth.) He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t give in. (Weak little boy.) That’s not him now, that’s not him, he never wanted to be like that. Eduardo was the one who was hurt. He doesn’t know who he is right now, he’s not a victim and he doesn’t want to be a monster. He can still be a good guy, can’t he?

Mark is crying.

He wants a drink.

Eduardo feels his heart race and his body flushes with heat. He can feel himself sweating again, shirt clinging to his back.

There’s too much energy and the irritation running under his skin for him to relax, let alone sleep. He tries to ignore it but he’s half-hard for no real reason now. Even thinking of all the gross stuff he knows won’t make it stop for long enough for his mind to settle. He cups his dick and jerks off to toned body parts saved from gym sessions and safe faceless fantasies while attempting to block out Mark’s crying (he is not hard because of- no way- he is not getting off on-). He comes with a guilty gasp.

He cleans up the mess with his t-shirt and keeps his hands to himself.

*

Eduardo tries to remember the good times. They must have had some. Surely they weren’t all bad. If it had been that terrible and they made each other miserable then they wouldn’t have gotten together in the first place. They had to have been good for each other, good to each other at least once. It feels like a lifetime ago now. He is sure they were really good together sometimes. But when he tries to think about exactly when and what, he is reminded of the millionth member party, an ambush and the memories and details flee from him.

*

It is when he is paying for his lunch, he remembers this: one afternoon in Kirkland, Dustin let him in so he could wait for Mark. He reads his textbook in Mark’s bed while he waits so he doesn’t waste any time and this time, he falls asleep while waiting. He remembers waking up with a corner of a pillow wedged under his head, his shoes off even though he doesn’t remember taking them off, a warm body next to him, their legs tangled together. Blue light falls gracefully through the window, sweeping soft shadows across the room. Mark is snoring, mouth open, face slack with sleep while he drools on the bedsheets.

*

Eduardo gets a note delivered to him with his lunch. The chicken scratch can only be Dustin’s handwriting. YOU SHOULD TALK TO HIM. In smaller words held by shaky brackets, he’s scared. The words make it right are underlined so hard there’s a hole in the paper.

He goes to his own room after three days of watching Mark pretend not to watch him. Mark seems to be barely healing at all (does he bruise easily?) The marks on his neck are only now fading to reddish stripes on a yellow background. He’s cold stone sober and Mark is there.

He’s hyperaware of everything. The badly hidden mess. The stain on the wall. For a split second, it looks like dried blood. It’s probably red wine. It looks like Mark tried to fix it up. He notices the dresser. The sheets are clean. They are navy. He doesn’t remember owning a set of navy sheets.

The realizations make him dizzy and he has to catch himself on the doorframe.

“Mark,” he starts again, because he has to.

Once he steps in the room, across the threshold, Mark slips his laptop under the bed. He pulls his hoodie over his head and then he starts taking his clothes off, keeping his gaze on Eduardo.

Eduardo wants to tell him not to but he’s transfixed by the sight.

Eduardo feels frozen, ice spreading inside him as he notes every bruise (you did this, you asshole). There’s a couple of welts too, carelessly left there. One healing stripe low down the back of his thighs. (He aims down hard on pale, tender skin watching as the leather wraps and Mark bucks under the bite of the belt, hips snapping forward-) It’s a hazy violent jumble of images. He remembers being drunk and really angry. He wishes he could say he doesn’t know why (Mark-) Thinking about it confuses him. He knows and he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to remember but he can’t forget. He sees but he doesn’t understand. That was not him. He is not like that. It couldn’t be, why would he do that? (A pound of flesh is not enough.)

Those were his hands. His angry hands. (Fingers digging into the soft flesh of Mark’s upperarms, his hands pinning Mark down and him take take taking from Mark until he’s-) NO!

No.

Stop.

He’s going to make it stop.

Mark is folding his clothes up neatly. He never used to do that. His t-shirt sides touch corner to corner and his boxers are folded in exact halves.

Mark is naked on the bed his legs slightly apart. A fragile tiny skeleton. “Eduardo?” His voice is only trembling a little.

Eduardo sees.

Not the Mark that hurt him, the asshole that cut him out of his own company and broke his heart but the Mark in front of him, bony and bruised. The resolve in their expression is the only thing they have in common.

Eduardo wants be anywhere but here. Go out. Go to a bar. He snaps out of it and moves abruptly towards Mark, he wants to shake him and ask him what he is thinking, offering himself up like that but he stops when he notices the tiny flinch. He deserves that. He should go.

Mark is crawling towards him. Mark looks like some sort of deformed alien species. Eduardo can see the individual knobs along his back and his skin stretching sharply over his ribcage as he kneels in front of Eduardo, eyes aimed down as he reaches for Eduardo’s belt.

“I should- um. We don’t have to – if you don’t want to,” Eduardo stammers. Sex is the furthest thing from his mind right now and this feels wrong. Up close, he can see dark prints right on top of Mark’s windpipe and he feels like he’s been fingerprinted in the most obscene way.

“I do,” he says. Eduardo doesn’t know if it means they have to or he wants to. Mark undoes Eduardo’s belt purposefully, pulling Eduardo towards him. Mark closes his eyes with the next breath as he unzips Eduardo and slips a cold hand inside. Eduardo shivers and drags Mark up with as loose a grip as possible (he should go, he should let him, if he wants to-), kisses him a little desperately. Mark is pliant, lips slightly dry but soft and yielding. His eyes fly open when he doesn’t taste alcohol.

Mark pulls back in surprise. “Wardo?”

Eduardo can see Mark is completely flaccid. He shouldn’t be anywhere near Mark. he can’t even keep his promises to himself. (He grabs him by the neck. Fucking his face. Fucking him.) It’s like he’s woken up to find he’s a killer. God, he didn’t torture animals but he tortured Mark. His exbestfriendpartnerloverenemy- oh god he tortured Mark.

“I can’t do this.” Belatedly. “I’m sorry.” It sounds so trite. The thought doesn’t count at all. But what’s done is done. This is not something that can be undone or redone. It’ll never be enough. “I should leave.”

He would think Mark would be relieved. Instead, Mark’s face falls and he latches onto Eduardo’s wrist as if it is his lifeline. He’s devastated and determined. “I said anything. I meant it. Don’t leave me. Please. Not now. Not- If-If you need a drink, I’ll get you a drink. I won’t say anything. You can do anything to me. Please. I’m sorry if I wasn’t good. I’ll be better. I’m sorry.” Mark is pulling at his parted pants, fumbling fingers, his hand keeping Eduardo in reach. He lowers his voice and says the magic words. “I want you so badly Wardo. I want this. I want you. Anything. Whatever you need. You’re angry at me. I hurt you. You can hurt me.” Mark pulls his belt out of the loops, doubles it over and presses it into Eduardo’s hand.

Eduardo drops the belt like a hot potato, disgusted that he might be wearing something that has been used in that way. He almost falls off the end of the bed, scrambling to his feet. “Look at you. Look at what I’ve done to you. I’ve…I’ve broken you.”

Somewhere along the way, while Eduardo lost himself in a haze of liquor and rage, Mark had lost his fear. The crippling despair. He didn’t like pain, he could definitely do without it but he’d a goal in mind. He never did know when to stop. He never gave up. It got him here and it would take him through. He couldn’t quite stop his body from being afraid but he had decided to do this. No matter what. The rest is enduring.

His mistake hadn’t been trusting Wardo. His mistake was also not losing trust in Wardo after he froze the account. Wardo was always going to let him down and he was always going to disappoint him because it’s inevitable. His mistake was letting their mistakes get in the way of what was right.

(This is how Mark knows that he can make it right. All through the depositions, he had known how to make it right but he didn’t want to because Eduardo too owed him a debt. It wasn’t fair. But then going through the process of getting a settlement helped him understand that fairness wasn’t what he wanted. If everyone got what they deserved then he would have damned everyone and he would be a million times damned and so what? So he chose to wipe out the debt. Once the settlement was signed and he had gone home, he knew that the balance was uneven and he had to do something to fix it. This is how Mark knows that forgiveness is possible. He forgave Eduardo. What he needs is Eduardo to forgive him. Not because Mark deserves it, not because he expects it in return but because Eduardo chooses to. Because it’s clear to Mark that he can’t make Eduardo do anything. So Eduardo if truly forgives him, it’s because Eduardo wants to.)

Eduardo can see the stubbornness etched in Mark’s features. He never thought Mark would pay attention to what he wanted, let alone give him what he needs. And now he is the one who need’s Mark’s help and Mark is there for him.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Wardo is coming back to him. He’s more than okay. Then after a pause. “I love you. You’re my best friend.”

“This is insane! You can’t, you shouldn’t be here.” Eduardo backs away from Mark. “I hurt you,” he exclaims, reminding Mark unnecessarily. “I hurt you more than what you did to me. I hurt you so badly that I don’t want to remember. I hurt you over and over, how can you forgive me?” he slides down the wall and puts his head in his hands. He wants to wake up and pretend this didn’t happen because what has he done?

Mark ignores the question, walking toward Eduardo wearing nothing but his hope and faith. “I betrayed you. I didn’t trust you and I hurt you.” He holds his hands out in a gesture of surrender and acceptance. “I regret the things that I should have done but didn’t. I let you down. The things that I have done, I wish I could regret more, but I don’t. Because I can’t- I’m not sorry about Facebook. It would mean I would have to be sorry about all the great things we’ve done together, for the great things that brought us together.” Mark stops, pulling his lip between his teeth. “I can’t be sorry about that. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say how sorry I am for hurting you in all of that. I need your forgiveness. I need you.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to understand what I am sorry for and I want you to forgive me for- for the things I will never be sorry for. You might think you owe me something now, that you’re asking a lot of me but do you think you could forgive all of that?” When the silence feels too long and too awkward even though it is only moments, he adds quickly, “Maybe not today but…”

“Yes.” It’s easy. He realizes that it’s true. He knows he can forgive Mark, that he does forgive Mark. It feels easier to apologize second. Now he knows what it is like to take what he needs no matter without regard for what others might want, to take without giving – and then to wish that he’d asked because it would have been freely given. He’s been selfish and uncaring. He doesn’t deserve to have Mark but he wants him anyway.

“I love you,” Mark says easily, kneeling in front of him. “You’re my best friend,” he says this again as if it absolves, heals and restores everything.

“Don’t say that,” Eduardo says getting up. He’s stunned. Amazed. (Mark kneeling in front of him, he comes on his bruised face-) “The last time you said that I almost-” he can’t even say it.

It was that part that hurt the most. Mark had told him that he had loved him and he had still hurt him. It hadn’t changed anything. And now Mark loves him now. Still.

And Eduardo, some part of him, buried deep inside him, knows that he still wants to hurt Mark. Because love doesn’t erase the hurt. Maybe they can never escape the hurt. Love hurts. Everyone knows that.

“I don’t believe you,” Eduardo says.

Mark is unmoved. “I love you, Eduardo Saverin.”

Mark is being infuriating. Mark is unbelievably stupid. “I said don’t say that!” In a blur of movement, he has Mark pinned to the floor and Eduardo’s hand is raised, fingers curling automatically in a fist. It’s almost reflexive.

“See what I’ll do to you, Mark,” Eduardo says in a rough voice.

Mark blinks. He stares at him, completely still, naked and vulnerable.

Eduardo moves, backing off, forcing himself away from Mark but he can still see Mark flinching. Eduardo gets up and punches the wall behind him, kicking it, feeling the anger rush out of him.

“Stop,” Mark says, drawing Eduardo’s attention to him.

Mark has righted himself, chin up. “I love you Eduardo Saverin and I forgive you,” Mark says unafraid. Like he’s daring Eduardo to do his worst. He reaches for Eduardo’s hand, frozen in action, holding it gently. Very deliberately, he brings it toward him and kisses his hand and then his fingers, breath dusting his knuckles reverently. He leads Eduardo to the bed, sits him down and kisses his palm, murmuring something so low that Eduardo can’t catch but he’s afraid to speak because he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what he is doing.

Mark picks up his clothes and disappears from his line of sight. Eduardo wonders if this is the part where Mark leaves him. Maybe Mark will call the cops on him then leave him. Maybe Mark will fuck him and leave him, he thinks darkly, trying to lose himself in the guilt descending upon him. He deserves it, all of it. Eduardo looks at his hand and thinks of how Mark kissed it. He kissed the hand that hurt him. His chest tightens so much that it’s hard to breathe.

Mark swims into his vision again, a specter and Eduardo is confused. He has a first-aid kit in one hand and an ice pack in the other. Mark reads the look on his face.

“You loved me when I was a lesser person so why are you surprised that I love you when you feel like you’re less of yourself?” he says pointedly, ripping open an antiseptic wipe. “I have a choice. I could have left,” he says simply and it sounds like a confession. “I let it happen because I hoped and believed that you would come back to me. I am not that much of a masochist that I like being hurt,” he says wryly, like it’s an inside joke. He dabs at Eduardo’s grazed knuckle then sticks a plaster onto it. He wraps the cold pack in a soft terry cloth cover and puts it over Eduardo’s hand lightly.

“You’re my best friend, Wardo. You gave me the money because I asked. You did it for me. You gave me the emails thought it could have gotten you kicked out of the Phoenix. You would have given that up for me. You loved me even when I had been selfish. When I didn’t really know what that meant, you told me you loved me. You loved me when I didn’t love you. You let me come back because I needed you. Even when you had a lot of hurt inside you, even when you still hurt from what I did to you. That’s why I know I can’t leave because I love you for the best things you’ve done.” Mark’s eyes are shining. In a lower voice he says, “I love you more than the worst things you’ve done.”

Eduardo is eternally grateful that Mark is more of a stubborn sonuvabtich than he is a bad person. It also hits him in the face that Mark is a masochist for him because- Because he wanted to be forgiven. Because he loves Eduardo.

“I’ve been hurting you. I hurt you because you hurt me,” he chokes out. It hurts to admit it too. The drinking was like taking an Advil for the cancer spreading inside him. The hurt inside him isn’t an excuse. This is the ugly truth. “Then I hurt you because I was drunk. No, I was drunk because I wanted to. I wanted to hurt you- I just wanted to,” his voice breaking up. The last part is the worst. He can’t blame his father. It was him. He hurt the person that he said he loved most. It is the worst kind of betrayal and he did it knowingly. He is a horrible person. He is the person he hates most. Using his words to ward himself from Mark, he says helplessly, “I hurt you.”

“Yes,” Mark agrees matter-of-factly. Eduardo has hurt him long before this and he will again. He doesn’t ask if Eduardo wants to do it again, if he will. It doesn’t matter because he’ll do it if he wants to. And Mark will let him. It’s a loophole. Just like he knows that he is Eduardo’s loophole. “I loved you and I hurt you. I think, I know you loved me too. At least once. After. I- I can understand if you don’t understand right now. It took me some time. But- I never stopped loving you,” he says, his hopes pinned to his words. Mark licks his lips nervously. It doesn’t make much sense but Wardo would’ve understood. Wardo will understand. Mark doesn’t mind waiting.

“Fuck,” Eduardo says before he feels the strings holding him up snap. Even then, instinctively, he wants to catch himself but he can’t, it’s too much. The lump in his throat steals his words from him and ugly sounds escape him as he falls apart. He wants to push Mark away. For his own good. Mark shouldn’t. It’s fucked up. If he were a stronger, better man, he’d leave him. Because Mark won’t, can’t. But leaving him isn’t a solution. Eduardo thinks it’d hurt Mark more than it’d hurt him. Eduardo doesn’t want to run from this anyway, he’s spent enough time trying to get away from the hurt instead of facing it. The truth is, Wardo cannot be without him either. He’s selfish. He’s apologizing and Mark is there telling him that he’s there, he’s not going anywhere. He lets Mark comfort him and tell him he loves him. He lets himself believe that he can be loved after the things he’s done. Eduardo didn’t even realize how lonely and tired he’d been, how much he’d missed Mark holding him. He tells himself he’ll be selfish this one last time.

*

“This is still so fucked up.” Eduardo says, fingers ghosting over the fading bruises. He can feel Mark sharp edges poking him.

Mark doesn’t deny it. He’d do it all over again. All of it. He knows he could have done it better, made more effective, efficient choices but that’s how he feels every time he looks at his code. He never fails to think of the other ways he could have written it. Sometimes it’s only after it’s written, you see the way you got there and even though you took the longer way, it’s better because you understand more of it. Even it doesn’t end up in the final version which generally becomes the draft for the next version anyway. He is always in the process of rewriting his code to make it better, only keeping the core constant. Maybe it is crazy but he still feels like he’s made all the right choices for Facebook, for himself, for what’s left of them. “Don’t leave me.”

“You should want me to leave you,” Eduardo says with a sigh. “I should.”

“Well I don’t,” Mark says stubbornly. “Stay.”

“This is so fucked up,” he repeats.

Mark just looks at him like he did in what feels like ages ago - but so what?

Eduardo thinks he’s damaged Mark in some way. Or maybe he was already damaged somehow which makes it a million times worse.

“I’ll fuck you up. I’ll-”

Mark whispers at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll forgive you.”

Mark will never be able to be sorry enough to cover all the hurt Eduardo’s been through. He doesn’t even know all of it, only parts of it. But he loves him despite that, because of that and it has to be enough somehow. He’s done being sorry now. They deserve to be more than apologies.

Mark slides his arms around Wardo and Wardo lets Mark draw him close. He holds him too, they in their newly formed fragile circle of trust.

“Fuck me.” Eduardo has nothing else to offer. He can’t offer empty promises. He can’t even keep the promises he made to himself. He has been a disappointment far too many times.

Eduardo hasn’t ever bottomed for Mark since…a long time ago. He did it to convince Mark to have sex with him. It worked. It kept Mark with him. Maybe it’ll work now?

“I’m not going to punish you,” Mark says evenly though the deep crease of his brows gives his distress away. “I can’t- Don’t ask me to do that. Please.”

“I’m not. Fuck me,” Eduardo insists.

Mark shakes his head. “Not right now. I don’t think you have uh, you haven’t…”

“The last time was you,” Eduardo says looking away quickly, flushing with embarrassment.

Mark doesn’t want any pain between them. Just ecstasy. Mark rubs himself against Eduardo, palming him through his pants. “Let’s just-”

This time Mark takes Eduardo’s layers off so they are both naked. Mark unbuttons Eduardo’s shirt slowly, fingers slipping between the widening gap of the shirt, savoring the touch of his skin on his lover’s. Mark runs his hands through Eduardo’s hair until it resembles the familiar untamable shock of hair that he loves best. When Mark smiles at him, Eduardo surges up to capture his lips hungrily, his hands burying in the programmer’s curls.

With each fevered kiss, he tastes I forgive you, I love you. Eduardo forgives Mark and he lets Mark forgive him. Even if he can’t forgive himself right now, Mark holds him like it’s okay, more than okay. They’re both lying on their sides, facing each other. Reaching between them, Mark grasps Eduardo’s cock, stroking it to full stiffness, letting Eduardo revel in the sweet friction of skin on skin. He can only hold on, the pleasure spreading through his body. It feels new again. When Eduardo comes, Mark’s eyes never leave his face. He looks at him like he’s the best thing that’s happened to him. It’s too much.

Eduardo hunches over and hides his face in the crook of Mark’s neck, feeling his cock soften in Mark’s hand. He leaves damp kisses at Mark’s jaw mouthing “I love you, I love you, I love you” at his skin as he reaches for Mark. Mark comes quietly, his lips opening in an ‘o’ as if he’s been surprised. He beams at Eduardo after, at where their bodies are still intimately connected, completely sated.

It’s a sticky mess between them. Eduardo doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to let go of this. He is amazed by Mark. He knows what it feels like now to regret and not regret. He is sorry he hurt Mark but he’s not sorry enough – not when he’s finally here. It feels like a heavy burden has been lifted off him and he can breathe again.

Eduardo runs a gentle hand down Mark’s side feeling where his hipbones jut out. Yellow marks match perfectly under his hand. Wardo pulls the sheets up, higher, covering the blemishes, covering Mark. Hooking a leg securely around Wardo’s ankle, Mark melts against his body.