thedeadparrot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thedeadparrot) wrote2011-09-17 09:52 am
thedeadparrot) wrote2011-09-17 09:52 am
Entry tags:
fic: Hope You Guess My Name (TSN Mafia AU, Mark/Eduardo)
Title: Hope You Guess My Name
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: R
Word count: 12,500
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence
Summary: Mafia AU. In which Mark is busy and Eduardo has to make some decisions about his future. This city may never be the same again.
Notes: Overlaps with the second half of Gimme Shelter in the Sympathy For The Devil-verse, and it probably won't make sense without reading that one first. Lots of love tomerisunshine36 for the beta and the co-writing and the constant, non-stop enabling.
"I suppose you want to say 'I told you so,'" Eduardo says.
Mark doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say to the sight of Eduardo, stripped down to his boxers, with a map of Mark's failures written all over his skin. There are bruises on his ribs, though the doctor has said that the twins were careful not to break them, a mostly-healed cut on Eduardo's temple. There are other wounds too, Mark imagines, ones hidden away. "No," Mark says. "No, I don't."
Eduardo doesn't look at Mark as he pulls his shirt, his pants back on. They've barely said more than five words to each other since Eduardo got back. Mark doesn't have anything to say.
If this had happened a week ago, Mark would have been allowed to touch Eduardo, would be allowed to remind himself that Eduardo is still alive, still alive and here with Mark. Mark's not sure what he's allowed to do now. Technically, this is Mark's bedroom, but right now it's really Eduardo's while he recovers. Most of Eduardo's stuff is still here anyway, like he never even left. Their things intermingle in the closet, on the bookshelves, on the bathroom counter, tucked away into corners to be forgotten. After living together so long, there was no way it could have been a clean break.
"What are you doing here?" Eduardo says, a sneer underneath his words, even as his face remains cold. With his clothes back on, he looks even more distant, untouchable. "You made it clear that you never wanted to speak to me again."
"That's not what that was," Mark says. "I was just-- You can keep the room if you want." He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them in his pockets.
Eduardo snorts. "Okay," he says. "I'm only here at your pleasure. I get it." He winces when he lifts an arm above his shoulders. Mark wants to press a hand against the large bruise between Eduardo's shoulder blades, wants to feel it underneath his palm. "You didn't have to come here to hold it over my head."
Mark flinches. Eduardo's hurt, and Eduardo's angry, and Mark expected both of those things, but he still feels it like a slap in the face. "I have work to do," he says shortly, turning away.
"Have fun with that," Eduardo says. He doesn't watch Mark as he leaves.
---
Mark isn't lying. He does have a lot of work to do. The Winklevii are clearly feeling threatened if they're targeting Eduardo of all people. Eduardo doesn't even know where Mark's money is much less any of the details of how he got it. The Winklevii managed to get Billy Olson to flip months ago, but that must have been the last leak if they're starting to target people not even in the business. Mark doesn't really like traitors. Billy learned that the hard way, and most of the people who work for Mark have learned from his example.
Amy has a few reports on how the drug trade is holding up, what's selling well and what isn't, showing up in Mark's office just after two looking a little concerned. She doesn't ask about it, and that's one of the reasons Mark likes her. She's smart, conscientious and careful on the job. Amy's explanation of her report is brief and to the point, just the way Mark likes it. Sean recommended her as a sort of olive branch between them, and Mark had to admit that she was on top of her shit, making sense out of Mark's badly organized notes, putting together a good team of lieutenants to help her keep track of which product is going where. It was something of a relief. Mark and Sean didn't exactly part on the best of terms, especially after Sean got in trouble with the law for human smuggling. There are lines that even Mark won't cross, and Sean waltzed right over one.
Mark spends a few hours talking to Marilyn about the legal ramifications of taking over the houses adjacent to them, what sorts of paperwork they'd need, whose arms they'd need to twist, how to best to cover the paper trail so that it isn't as obvious that Mark is buying up all the property in the area. Marilyn, as always, gives her best non-bullshit advice, and Mark has always liked her because she tells him what he needs to hear instead of what she thinks he wants to hear.
Chris has heard some rumblings from City Hall about the next election, whether or not Mayor Winklevoss is going to go for his fifth term and beat the last record for most terms served as mayor of Boston, or if he's going to step aside and let one of the twins run the city instead. All signs seem to point towards the idea that the mayor will just run for reelection again, but if it's still up in the air, it's up in the air. They'll have to be ready for whatever comes down. Mark and Chris spend an hour discussing scenarios, both good and bad. Chris has always had a good head for this kind of stuff, the way people and systems move around each other, and Mark is always willing to listen to his advice.
No one is watching Eduardo, though Dustin is keeping him company upstairs. He shoots Mark infrequent e-mails about Eduardo's mental state, usually things like he just made a bad pun about securities!!! and i don't think he wants to kill himself just yet. Mark isn't sure he trusts Dustin's medical opinions on the matter. As far as Mark can tell from the few times they've been around each other, Eduardo seems-- Eduardo seems almost normal. He's working on his laptop, and he's eating food without needing prompting, and he hasn't run away yet. Mark is willing to count that as a success.
After work, Chris drags him off to The Hive, ostensibly so that Mark can unwind. It's probably one of Mark's favorite places in the greater Boston area, just a hole in the wall with good beer, good wings, and a couple of ancient pool tables, and he loves that he owns it, that it's his. It's within walking distance from the house, tucked into a back alley where it's not obvious. Despite Chris' insistence that he didn't have any ulterior motives in making Mark come out tonight, he keeps trying to get Mark to agree to see a therapist or something like that, even though that's really stupid. Mark isn't the one who got the crap beaten out of him. So Mark plays some darts and tells Chris to fuck off, and Chris fucks off.
---
When Mark gets home, Eduardo is drinking by himself in the second floor kitchen -- vodka straight from the bottle. He looks tired. His hair is a mess, and he's wearing one of Mark's baggier t-shirts like he doesn't even notice that he is. Mark grabs a shot glass out of the cabinet and holds it out. Eduardo helpfully fills it for him. His hands are surprisingly steady, but some of the vodka still sloshes over the side.
"You know, you're a real piece of work," Eduardo says. He doesn't sound drunk yet, just angry. "What the fuck were you doing this time? Breaking kneecaps? Shaking down little old ladies?"
Mark tosses back the shot, feels the burn as it travels down his throat. It's good vodka, expensive. "The little old ladies we shake down keep shotguns under the register and aren't afraid to use them," Mark says. He loosens his tie. He doesn't want to have to deal with Eduardo while wearing a monkey suit, but he's willing to roll with it.
Eduardo laughs, but it sounds weird, harsh and rasping. "I'm really not drunk enough for this conversation," he says, but he still lets Mark take the bottle out of his hands. Up close, his bruises look even worse, gross and discolored underneath Eduardo's tan skin.
"If you want to have this conversation, we can have it," Mark says. He puts the vodka bottle on one of the far counters, out of Eduardo's reach.
"No. That's not what I want," Eduardo says. He grabs a fistful of Mark's tie, dragging him closer.
Eduardo kisses like he wants to tear Mark apart, all aggressive tongue and teeth. His mouth tastes like the vodka, almost as intense as the shot itself, and his other hand wraps around the back of Mark's neck, holding him still.
Eduardo leads Marks upstairs to the bed they've shared for the past four years, and Eduardo peels off his clothes, exposing the rest of the bruises. His eyes are fixed on Mark's face, bright and intent. Mark puts his hands on the long curve of Eduardo's neck, presses his fingers against the pulse point to feel the steady flutter of Eduardo's heart underneath his fingertips. Eduardo doesn't let Mark linger there.
They wrestle off Mark's clothes and end up on the bed. Eduardo hands are warm, vividly alive against Mark's body.
"I'm still angry at you," Eduardo says. He's on top of Mark, knees bracketing Mark's thighs. His fingernails are digging into Mark's hips, leaving bright red crescents behind. Mark will probably have his own set of bruises tomorrow, but he doesn't really care.
"I know," Mark says. He kisses Eduardo again, cups Eduardo's cheek with one hand. He thinks about how fragile human bodies are, and how resilient they can be. He thinks about blood vessels, about arteries and veins, about neurons and nerve endings and pain receptors.
They've done this so many times that it's easy, routine. Eduardo's fingers are slick with the lube from the bedside table, opening Mark up while Mark is on his knees and elbows, forehead pressed against the mattress. Eduardo is rougher than he normally is. The slight burn of his cock is as perfect as always, though, filling Mark up. Eduardo never seems to know how much Mark can take, never seems to know how much Mark is willing to take. He always touches Mark like he thinks Mark is made of glass, like he's always holding something back.
Mark is willing to take whatever Eduardo wants to dish out, because Eduardo is here. He's a complete fucking moron, and he's got the bruises to prove it, but he's alive, and Mark wants all of it, the panting breaths, the angry hands, the short, quick thrusts.
Afterwards, Eduardo leaves to take a shower, and Mark changes into his usual pajamas. Eduardo comes out of the bathroom wearing just a towel. His hair is sticking up.
"What was this?" Mark asks. He doesn't think he's ever really understood what was going through Eduardo's head besides the basics, whether he was happy or sad or angry, but now Mark doesn't think he even has that.
"Nothing," Eduardo says. "It's nothing." His face is blank and cold. "I was tired of feeling bad for myself."
Mark's not surprised, but it does make a cold, sick feeling settle in his chest. "How is that working out for you?" he asks.
"Get out of here, Mark," Eduardo says, and it's like everything is leaking out across his face, anger and pain and exhaustion.
Mark gets out of there. He walks downstairs, the floorboards creaking underneath his feet. Their couch has been worn in after years and years of abuse, and it dips in the middle, comfortable. Mark pulls a ratty old blanket over himself and curls up before falling asleep.
---
He's bleeding when they throw him at Mark's feet.
Edward Majors, the person who tipped the Winklevii off to Eduardo's location. Mark used to know him by reputation, a long time ago. Low level drug dealer, likes being a snitch for favors. He's a short man, about the same height as Mark, and he's dressed in a way that seems to mean that he gives a shit. Mark knows his type -- weaselly, constantly asking for respect instead of demanding it. He's the kind who would break before you broke his first finger, who would give up his mother as soon as you put a knife in front of his face. The kind who thinks he's tough when he has no fucking idea.
They're in Mark's basement, stone floor underneath their feet, a single lightbulb over their heads. It smells like mold, like old, wet things, but it's familiar and comforting. Mark's spent a lot of time here. Dustin grins, and his smile is all teeth.
"Softened him up for you, boss," Dustin says. "He's really talkative now." He puts away his knife.
Mark's not here to talk. Mark is here to make an example. Most criminals are stupid, he's learned, but they do respond well to examples.
"Please, I didn't know who he was," Majors pleads as he stumbles to his feet. "All they gave me was a description, not a name." His eyes are wide, frantic. It's almost not even worth it. There's no challenge in breaking Majors further. He's not even worth scraping from the bottom of Dustin's shoes.
Still. Example.
Mark isn't as big or as strong as the Winklevii, but he has learned how to throw a punch over the years. Majors grunts and doubles over in pain as soon as Mark's fist connects with his ribs. Mark's knuckles hurt afterwards; it's been a while since he's handled something like this personally. "You really shouldn't say that like it makes a difference," Mark says. "It doesn't."
Majors collapses, coughing up blood. It splatters red against the concrete. Mark's a big fan of symmetry. He wants to put every mark, every bruise, every cut that Eduardo has onto Majors' body. He wants to leave Majors locked up here for days without medical attention. He wants to beat Majors' face in and hear him scream.
The room is quiet with the exception of the Majors' heavy, wheezing breaths. Dustin and Chris know better than to interrupt. Mark kicks Majors in the stomach. He watches as more blood dribbles onto the floor from Major's lips.
It's not enough.
---
In the morning, Eduardo comes downstairs with dark bags underneath his eyes. His hair is falling limp onto his forehead. The bruises are still bright on his face. He looks like shit. Mark wants to kiss him, to lick into his mouth and taste the remnants of sleep. Eduardo would probably punch him for trying, and while Mark could take the pain, he'd rather not deal with it.
"Chris made sure the bank knows you're out on sick leave," Mark says. It's a quiet, cool, gray sort of day, and the light that pours in through the windows is pale and almost white. There's a chance of rain or flurries today. Mark can see it in his mind's eye, intermittent flakes drifting from the sky.
Eduardo looks at Mark, his eyes still drooping with sleep, confusion written all across his face. There are times when Mark wonders if Eduardo is capable of putting walls up, if there are any pieces of himself that he's ever been able to hide. "Oh," Eduardo says, "I hadn't even thought of that."
Mark shrugs. That's what he pays Chris to do, to consider all the angles Mark has missed. "You look like shit," Mark says, because he doesn't believe in lying, and Eduardo looks like he was run over by a very large car.
Eduardo laughs like they're maybe still friends, like he's forgotten that he hates Mark right now. "That's what happens when you can't get any sleep. Nightmares. I don't suppose you know what that's like." Eduardo has always been a restless sleeper, easily disturbed into wakefulness.
"I could--" Mark says, and his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. "If you need someone there at night."
Eduardo stops and stares at him, and something raw and hurting passes over his face. "I can't even fucking believe you," he says. "After all that..." He glances away, like he can't even look at Mark. It feels like that's been happening a lot lately.
"Whatever," Mark says. It's for Eduardo's benefit in the end. If he doesn't want Mark's help, then Mark doesn't have to give a shit. Mark can sleep on the couch, and Eduardo can keep showing up in the morning looking like shit. Mark has plenty of other shit he can work on instead. All he has these days is work.
"I wasn't-- that wasn't a no," Eduardo says, a quick flash of emotion passes over his face. "I'll see you tonight, then." He focuses on making himself some coffee, and he doesn't look at Mark again for the rest of the morning.
Mark still feels like he's won something, but he doesn't know what.
---
Dustin and Chris have cleared most of Mark's schedule, but Mark does have a list of decisions he has to make, like which areas they should try to expand into, which businesses they want to talk to specifically, who they want to sway to their side. They're especially busy now that the Winklevosses are angry about Judge Summers. Now that they've expanded to this point, Mark doesn't have to handle all that much personally, which is both a blessing and a curse. He misses knowing everything about everything, and he misses being low to the ground, able to follow Sean around town and pick up the tricks of the trade one at a time.
Still, by the end of the night, he's exhausted. There are some delicate phone calls that he needed to make personally, and it took some extensive coaching from Chris to understand what he needed to say and how he was supposed to say it.
Eduardo is in bed before Mark, and it's so bizarrely familiar that the last week feels like it passed in a strange dream, like Eduardo didn't freeze the account, and Mark didn't get mad at him, and the Winklevii hadn't gotten involved where they really don't belong. Eduardo sleeps the same as he always does, curled up on his side of the bed, a hand tucked underneath his pillow.
Mark climbs into bed tired, worn out, his eyelids drooping shut. He listens to the steady sound of Eduardo's breathing, and he curls a hand around Eduardo's wrist before he falls asleep.
---
Mark wakes as soon as he feels Eduardo's fingers dig into his arm. Eduardo's still in the nightmare, eyes squeezed tight, his breath shallow. He looks like he's hurting, like he's in pain. He must have looked like this when the Winklevii were working him over. They must have been able to see every little bit of what he was feeling.
"Hey," Mark says, shaking Eduardo's shoulder. "Wake up."
Eduardo's eyes jerk open, and he shoves Mark away. "Who--" He looks around, gets his bearings. "Mark," he says. His eyes are bright, reflected moonlight. His skin looks strangely pale. Maybe that's the dream, draining all the color out of him.
"You had a nightmare," Mark says. Eduardo never used to have nightmares, Mark remembers. He was a fairly light sleeper, which was a little inconvenient considering the hours Mark keeps, but Eduardo seemed to get over it as time went on. By the end, he almost slept like the dead.
"Yeah, I figured that out," Eduardo says. "Thanks." His breathing is still too short, and he's still clutching Mark's arm. Mark thinks about kissing him again, about pressing their lips together so Eduardo won't think he's still in there with the twins, so that he knows for a fact that he's with Mark.
He doesn't do anything. He just listens as Eduardo's breath evens out, waiting for Eduardo to say more.
"If you want to know," Eduardo says eventually, "I dreamt it was you, that you were the one holding the knife." There's something in his voice, it's almost an accusation.
Mark closes his eyes. He pulls his arm away.
---
"We're going to have to do something about the Italians. They're getting restless," Dustin says. He has his feet kicked up onto Mark's desk, hands on his stomach, the way he usually sits in Mark's office. Some people look confused when Dustin sits in on one of Mark's meetings, raising their eyebrows at how relaxed he looks around Mark. Dustin finds it really hilarious, so he'll usually play it up a bit by fiddling with Mark's pens or by juggling paperweights, just to fuck with their heads.
"The Winklevii aren't going to be able to hold onto them much longer," Mark says, reading through some of the spreadsheets Ian has sent him. "They know that. The Winklevii know that. We can wait them out until we're in a better position to negotiate."
Dustin's pretty good at handling the Italians most days. He's better with the Irish, but he's still pretty good at taking care of things whenever Mark needs some errands done in the North End. Mark has controlled most of the business on this side of the river for a while, expanding out from Cambridge into Charlestown and Somerville. He has some parts of Allston, pieces of Fenway, but that's just a slice of the pie. It's almost nothing at all.
"They want to talk face-to-face," Dustin says, "and they want to talk to you specifically."
Mark snorts. "Everyone wants to talk to me specifically. It makes them feel important." Eric had a run-in with the Italians last year. He came out of it alive and intact, but Mark had to smooth some things over personally. He really hates having to do that. Celuzza had been happy to help out, slapping Mark on the shoulder and talking about how he was all grown up now and no longer a complete fucking jackass, but Mark doesn't like owing him anything. Mark doesn't like owing anyone anything.
Dustin laughs, really laughs. There aren't a lot of people who can't get away with laughing in Mark's face, but Dustin is one of them. He abuses the privilege as much as he possibly can. "Contrary to popular belief, they really don't need you to feel important."
"Mayor Winklevoss is important. They're a bunch of cloistered assholes who are only clinging onto their section of the city because no one's ever going to be able to kick them out. They really should fuck off back to Providence, but that's never going to happen."
"So what do I say to them?" Dustin asks.
"That I'm busy for the foreseeable future," Mark says. It's not actually a lie.
---
Eduardo's awake this time when Mark gets into bed. He was looking better today, more like himself, smiling at Dustin's jokes and having quiet, intense conversations with Chris. Mark likes that, even if Eduardo still won't look at Mark most days, won't acknowledge that Mark exists unless he has to.
"Why did you break up with me?" Eduardo asks, point-blank, while they're face-to-face on the bed. He looks apprehensive. Mark can smell his breath. He can see the individual pores on Eduardo's face. It feels almost like a physical ache to keep himself this far away.
"Why did you freeze the account?" Mark asks. He's turned the moment over and over again in his head, and it still makes no fucking sense. If Eduardo wanted out, there were plenty of less passive-aggressive ways of going about it, and if he wanted to send Mark a message, it was an incomprehensible one.
Eduardo sighs and rubs his face with his hands. The bruises on his forearms are fading, yellows and greens. "i saw-- You were so fucking obsessed with this whole Winklevoss thing, and it was fucking terrifying. I couldn't-- You stopped listening to me," he says. "I needed to get your attention."
Mark stares at him, tries to figure out what he's saying. "I never listened to you," he says. "Not about this."
Eduardo's eyes are huge and round, dark and deep. "Sometimes I really fucking hate you, Mark," he says. He sounds tired. Eduardo really does need his sleep.
"You didn't want to be a part of it," Mark says. "So you weren't." He doesn't know where this conversation went off track, but it apparently has somewhere along the line.
Eduardo sighs. "Yeah, I'm getting that." He shifts away from Mark, closes his eyes, turns to face the other direction. There are five inches between their bodies. This shouldn't be significant, not really, but it still feels like a canyon between them, impossible to cross.
As far as Mark knows, the nightmares don't come again that night.
---
In the morning with the sunlight lighting up Eduardo's face, Mark says, "You didn't want to be a part of it, and I wanted to give you wanted." He takes a deep breath. "You know, if they'd asked for a ransom, I would have paid it." He would have torn this city to the ground if he needed to. He would have pried all of Tyler's fingernails off with a pair of pliers. He would have stuck electrodes on Cameron's balls and turned on the power. He would have done whatever it took to get Eduardo back.
Eduardo blinks, eyes focusing on Mark's face. "You never answered my question," he says. His voice is still fuzzy with sleep. They're still in bed, still close enough to touch.
"When you froze the account, I thought it meant that you were leaving, that you wanted out. I wanted to end it before you could." He remembers the cold burn of rage he felt when Ian, their newest financials person, had told him about the account. Mark remembers the way he and Eduardo had yelled at each other in the hallway for an entire half hour before Eduardo had stormed off in a huff. Mark had gotten Chris to pack up most of Eduardo's clothes and leave the suitcase outside, as clear a message for Eduardo as Mark could make it. If Eduardo didn't want to be there, Mark wasn't going to keep him there. "It was stupid, I was drunk, and I was angry. I didn't think it through."
"That's pretty obvious," Eduardo says. He sits up and rubs his eyes. Mark stares at the place where Eduardo's t-shirt rides up, exposing some of the bruises. He wants to lick it. Eduardo continues, "Just so we're on the same page, that's really not what I wanted at all." There's this tension underpinning his voice, something that Mark doesn't understand.
"Okay," Mark says. "So what do you want now?"
Eduardo closes his eyes, tilts his head back so that all Mark can do is stare at the long line of his throat. "I'll get back to you as soon as I figure that out," he says.
---
It feels like things are better after that, though Mark isn't sure what happened or why. They're still sleeping together, though they haven't had sex since that second night. Eduardo's nightmares surface every few nights at first, then once a week. They don't disappear completely, but they're better. On the nights when Eduardo has nightmares, Mark will shake him awake, and Eduardo will nod mutely, eyes sleepy and unfocused, and they don't ever talk about it. Mark doesn't want to know.
During the days, Mark works downstairs on the first floor. When they took over the entire house, the first floor apartment became the hub of their activity, easily separated from the bedrooms upstairs. They converted the master bedroom on the first floor into Mark's office, and the kitchen became Dustin and Chris's domain (mostly because Dustin wanted to be near the refrigerator). The others come and go, stopping off in the living room whenever they have an extra hour or two, delivering news and messages and reports.
Narendra's information has been good so far. Mark isn't a fan of trusting rats, but Narendra was pretty up-front from the very beginning that he might turn around and fuck over Mark in the future, too. Right now, he's useful, and when he stops being useful, well-- Mark has the necessary procedures put in place to handle that. Mark has a whole city-wide information network set up, but he's been careful to make sure that everyone can be verified against everyone else, just to make sure they're all still toeing the line.
Word on the street is that the twins let Eduardo escape because he didn't have any useful information, and it was meant to be "a sign of good will between ourselves and Mr. Zuckerberg." Mark doesn't believe it for a second, but he understands that they have to save face. Mark wouldn't put it past them to make another attempt on Eduardo, but he thinks it's good that it'll dissuade anyone else from getting any ideas.
Eduardo spends his days haunting the upper levels. He's got a lot of vacation time saved up, and Mark figures that he might as well use it up now rather than later. He doesn't know how Eduardo feels about it. They don't talk about it. They don't talk about much at all. When Mark goes back upstairs for the night, he'll find Eduardo writing in a notebook, scribbling words into it, or he'll find Eduardo at the kitchen table, laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. He's up to something, but Mark is strangely reluctant to ask about it. If Eduardo wants to tell him, he'll tell him.
On one of the days, Eduardo even disappears out the back door while Mark is in a business meeting. Dustin's the one who interrupts to tell Mark all about it, already half freaked out. Mark is mostly too pissed off to be freaked out by it, and he stays that way long after Eduardo shows up again at five pm.
"What the fuck was that?" Mark asks. Eduardo's face has healed enough that saying he got into an unfortunate accident with a pole isn't as much of a stretch as it used to be, so public appearances aren't that much of an issue, but the Winklevii could have been lying in wait for Eduardo to show his face again. They know where Mark lives, after all.
Eduardo raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I was just at the library," he says. "It was perfectly fine." The library is only a ten minute walk away from Mark's house through mostly busy streets, on the other side of Central Square.
"Dude, you shouldn't have left like that," Dustin says. He really shouldn't have. Mark was tempted to go to Narendra to see if the Winklevii had somehow gotten hold of Eduardo again, and fuck it if he's ever going to owe Narendra anything else in his entire life. "You could have taken one of us with you."
"I can't even go outside anymore without being babysat? What the fuck is this?" Eduardo says. "I'm not being kept prisoner here, am I?" It feels like an argument they've already had, about how Mark worries too much about Eduardo, and about how Eduardo is being stupid by sticking his head into the ground and ignoring the fact that things are dangerous, really dangerous. Mark hates this argument. It usually ends with Eduardo throwing something against a wall because he doesn't think Mark's actually listening to his arguments, even though Mark is listening to his arguments and just thinks they're stupid.
"You're not," Mark says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're free to leave whenever you want." If Eduardo doesn't want to stay, Mark isn't going to keep him here. That's as true as it's always been.
Mark turns around and walks back to his office, listening to Eduardo's heavy footsteps on the stairs.
---
That night before they fall asleep, Eduardo says, "You were worried." He sounds weirdly fascinated with the idea, like it's something special and amazing, like he doesn't believe that Mark is capable of something like that.
Mark snorts. "Did you just figure that out?" They're curled up on the bed, facing each other, the five inches between them still there.
There's something on Eduardo's face, an emotion that Mark can't quite read. "A little," he says. "You know, the stuff in your head isn't as obvious to everyone else around you as you seem to think it is."
"I was worried," Mark says, just to make sure everything is clear between the two of them. He feels like he's ten again and getting a lecture from his mom on how to properly interact with other people.
Eduardo laughs, a real smile forming on his face. "You could also start listening to what people say instead of jumping to conclusions while you're at it," he says. He shifts closer. Three inches between them now, still not touching, but Mark knows it's an improvement.
"Okay," Mark agrees.
---
A few days later, Eduardo walks into Mark's office perfectly dressed in one of his business suits, and he sits in one of the chairs that faces Mark's desk. Mark doesn't have a secretary or anyone who controls access to his door on most days. Chris sometimes filters out certain requests, but he doesn't get many of them. No one sees Mark personally unless they absolutely have to, and they have five seconds after entering to figure out whether or not Mark actually wants to talk to them. The people too stupid to figure out that lesson on their own usually end up learning it the hard way.
Eduardo never sets foot in Mark's office. His only interaction with the first floor is the bottom of the stairs and the front door.
But now he's here, sitting across from Mark's desk, looking unruffled.
"Are you going back to work today?" Mark asks. It's eleven am. Eduardo usually leaves for work around eight. Mark doesn't actually know what Eduardo's planning on doing with his life, but he usually doesn't get dressed just to visit Mark. Not that he ever does while Mark is working.
Eduardo shrugs. "No, I'm not. I quit weeks ago," he says.
Mark looks up from his computer. Eduardo says it like it's no big deal, but he's been at that bank for the last five years. Eduardo makes it sound it like it doesn't even matter, and that makes no sense. "Why?" Mark asks.
He waits for Eduardo to answer. No matter what Eduardo claims, he can listen to directions after all. "I didn't want to know before," Eduardo says. "I want to know now."
It feels like Mark has been pushing against this wall between them forever, but now the wall has been taken away and Mark is laying flat on the floor, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. Eduardo has never wanted to know, never wanted to be a part of it. Chris took to the business easily enough, but Eduardo has always resisted it. "Okay," Mark says.
Mark is good at patterns, at keeping track of a disparate number of variables and factoring them into his plans. But Eduardo sitting here, right now -- that's something Mark never could have ever anticipated. Dustin sticks his head in, "Mark, we've got some new reports of--" He stops and blinks at Eduardo.
"Hey, Dustin," Eduardo says, smiling pleasantly, all business. He leans back in his chair, looking even more like one of the business douchebags Mark hated at Harvard than he usually does.
"What's Wardo doing in your office?" Dustin asks. He eyes Eduardo like he might be some sort of impostor or drug-fueled hallucination. Mark is fairly certain Eduardo doesn't have any twin brothers, but he's not sure.
Mark shrugs. He chews on the end of his pen. "He wants to learn the ropes, apparently." He wonders if he can get a neurologist to take a look inside Eduardo's brain and make sure everything is where it's supposed to be. He doesn't think the Winklevii hit him hard enough to give him permanent brain damage, but it's hard to tell these things without verification.
Dustin looks as confused as Mark feels. "Really?" he says.
"Really," Eduardo confirms. He's still smiling.
---
Things are always quieter in the winter. Life in Boston is approximately 80% winter, so things don't stop and things don't slow down, but there's just a lot less of it. Mark makes sure that Eduardo only handles easy stuff, working the financials with Ian, getting better at handling a weapon with Chris. Eduardo commits himself like it's his job, showing up before everyone else, hunched over years of old bank statements, stubbornly cleaning out the barrel of his gun with Dustin watching on. It's a waste of Eduardo's time, to be perfectly honest, but he doesn't want to dump it all on Eduardo all at once. You have to ease people into it, even if Eduardo claims that he's ready.
"I knew business was doing well, but I didn't realize you were doing that well," Eduardo says one night. He's staring at the kitchen table, the old, scratched up one that they've never managed to get rid of, like he can't meet Mark's eyes. His laptop is open in front of him. He's probably been combing through Ian's meticulous spreadsheets all night.
Mark shrugs. He still doesn't know how to talk to Eduardo about any of this, so he doesn't, letting Ian and Chris handle the difficult stuff. Old habits die hard and all of that.
In theory, Mark has things to worry about other than Eduardo's sudden change of heart, but he tries to keep an eye on him. Eduardo's not exactly handling the junkies or some of the more dangerous gangs, but he's the kind of guy who freaks out when Mark comes home with stitches or when Mark talks how much money various businesses in the area owe them or when Mark mentions which fights are fixed and which ones aren't. Eduardo's not ready for anything harder than this, especially now that everything's heating up.
Chinatown is becoming contentious ground. Eric and a few others end up in a firefight on Oxford Street, and two of the Winklevii's men are dead by the end of it. A few of Mark's guys need to be brought to the hospital. The locals are really not happy with either Mark or the Winklevosses, but Mark can deal with that.
"This is going to get uglier before it gets prettier," Dustin says as Eric limps out of Mark's office.
"They're the ones who made it ugly in the first place," Mark says. They were the ones who took Eduardo. They're the ones who upped the ante. Judge Summers was just business. Taking Eduardo was all personal. Mark wants to break them for that, wants to destroy everything they ever loved just so that they know what it felt like.
Dustin shrugs. He's already had some run-ins with some of the Winklevii's police this month. They don't have anything on Dustin just yet, but Mark can tell that they're just itching for a reason to put him away. "I just want you to be ready for it."
Mark looks at him and tightens his fingers around his pen. "We'll be ready for it," He says.
---
Mark finally has his meeting with the Italians, which just reminds him how much he hates the old guard in this city. They're all so fucking obsessed with tradition and the proper way of doing things. This isn't fucking kindergarten. The people in charge get to define the rules, and that's how it's always been. That's how it'll always be. Mark knows he needs to beat them at their own game, has to be better, stronger, smarter, more adaptable. Everyone else seems so content to let the Winklevosses define the parameters, and Mark doesn't have time for that shit.
Morelli is an old Italian mob boss, in charge of the Boston arm of La Cosa Nostra. It's technically not a business meeting, because that would send clear signals to the Winklevosses about what side the Italians are on, so some subterfuge is necessary. In theory, Mark is only here, at this restaurant in the North End, to have dinner, to talk politics, and to try to assure the Italians that the turf war won't reach them there. In reality, Mark is trying to force some sense into a complete idiot, which is just as difficult as it sounds.
"It's obvious to everyone that you have been very successful, Mr. Zuckerberg," Morelli says, "but we don't want the Mayor to get the wrong impression, if you understand what I mean." Morelli's a thin man, elegantly dressed, salt and pepper hair, the perfect picture of New England mafia. "To be quite honest, we'd rather be on his good side than yours."
Mark takes a bite out of his pasta. If this had happened a few years ago, he'd probably be tearing Morelli a new one, explaning how (a) the Winklevii really don't have the weight to throw around anymore and (b) how fucking stupid it is to stick to the status quo just because it's the status quo. But Chris has basically drilled it into Mark's head that he should keep his mouth shut until he has a good idea of what the effect of opening it will be. "Times are changing," Mark says eventually. "That may not always be the case."
Morelli shrugs. "There is another mayoral election coming up next year. Are you gonna tell me that Winklevoss isn't going to walk away with it again? Because I don't believe you. It's still his town these days, like it or not." He smiles, more than a little condescendingly.
Mark finishes his plate and stands up, tossing his napkin onto the table. "No wonder you're scared of him," he says. "You can't even see past your own dicks without asking for his help." They're all so chickenshit, here. This entire city is cowering in fear, and Mark is so very sick of it. Fuck them. He'll turn this city on its head, and then they won't have any choice but to listen to him.
Morelli's eyebrows go straight up at the blatant rudeness that Mark is displaying. Some of his lackeys are eyeing Mark like they aren't sure whether they want to let him go or beat the crap out of him. Mark just walks right past them while they're still trying to find two brain cells to rub together. Whatever. Mark doesn't need Morelli or the Italians anyway.
---
A couple of weeks later, Mark gets back from a business meeting to find Eduardo waiting for him at the top of the stairs, his face half-hidden in shadow.
"I want to go out," Eduardo says. It's been snowing on and off for the past few days, which has made everyone twitchy and restless, and some of it was bound to rub off on Eduardo. He's almost completely healed now. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health just a few days ago, and he's been itching to wander around outside, despite Mark and Dustin's warnings.
Mark shrugs. "Sure," he says. He gets changed into what he usually wears on the weekends, a t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans. If they're doing this for fun, he wants to at least pretend it's fun. When the weather's nicer, it's routine for everyone to congregate at The Hive after work, but in the winters, no one wants to leave the house, a Bostonian sort of hibernation. They'll sit around and watch TV and drink whatever beer Dustin decided to buy this week. Chris will cook something delicious that he'll refuse to share with anyone else, and the rest of them have to stack empty pizza boxes in one corner until Justin gets fed up and dumps them outside. "Where are we going?" Mark asks.
Eduardo shrugs. "I was thinking of going to Christy's." He meets Mark's eyes easily.
Mark only learned that Eduardo and Christy even knew each other (let alone dated for a summer) two and a half years into their relationship. It apparently wasn't a serious thing, but they still talk to one another. Mark always knew he didn't like Christy and her complete unwillingness to take sides, but he likes having a reason to hate her too. "Okay," Mark says, because Eduardo has this all planned out.
Christy's is on the other side of the river, and no one besides Mark and Eduardo want to make the trip. Mark sits behind the wheel, and Eduardo is silent next to him. The city's rush hour traffic quiets down around nine, and while parking is difficult, they do eventually find a place. The front-facing club is packed, but not as busy as Mark has seen it when all the BU students are back on campus. Behind the scenes, however, things are quieter. The bouncer knows Eduardo by sight and lets them in. Mark doesn't comment.
The back rooms are smoky, darkly lit, giving off a vague sense of anonymity. There are various tables set up, a neatly dressed dealer at each one of the tables. Christy is nowhere to be seen, much to Mark's relief. She runs an efficient operation here, and Mark has been keeping an eye on her, just in case she gets ambitious, but she seems content to lie low and not get too involved in the wider city politics. Mark is fairly certain that she's selling information to the police, but the kind of information Christy has is the kind of information that Mark doesn't give a shit about. Most of the people back here are city old timers, though Mark sees a few of the Winklevoss's men surrounding the roulette wheel. It makes him tense up, on edge and ready for a fight, but they're too intent on the wheel to notice him.
Eduardo doesn't sit at any of the poker or blackjack tables and he doesn't head straight for the few slot machines, much to Mark's relief. They get one of the tables in the back, close to the bar, where they won't be overheard. Narendra is playing poker with some retired cops, doing pretty well by the number of chips on the table in front of him, but they don't acknowledge one another.
"I've always liked it here," Eduardo says. "I can just get away from everything, you know?"
Mark stares at him. Eduardo does look more relaxed here, leaning back in his seat, arm's loose at his side. He's also got a determined look on his face, the kind of look he'd get before big presentations and trips home to visit his family in Miami. "So why are we here now?" Mark asks.
Eduardo pauses. "I want to be mayor," he says.
Mark's first instinct is to laugh. He studies Eduardo's face, trying to figure this out. Eduardo's not the type to joke around. If Mark is being honest, Eduardo's sense of humor actually kind of sucks, so it's not likely that this is some kind of elaborate prank. "Mayor?" he says.
"Next year is an election year, and I want to take the symbol of their power over this city away from them," Eduardo continues. He takes a deep breath and looks at Mark with huge eyes. "We can do this, right? I've seen how far your network goes."
Mark had considered it for a little while, trying to beat Mayor Winklevoss at his own game, but they'd never had a good candidate before. Mark hated the thought of giving speeches. Dustin had been arrested too many times. Chris wasn't up for the public attention. Eduardo, on the hand, is volunteering. Eduardo wants to do this. "If we do this, there's no turning back, Wardo," Mark says. He feels a rush, though, a plan unfolding in front of his eyes. Mark lives for these moments, these seconds when he can see everything fall into place.
Eduardo says, "I know." His jaw is clenched tight. He looks like he needs a drink. "Mark, I-- This is something I need to do."
Mark watches him closely. "I'll talk to Chris," he says. They'll need to get his contacts to get a sense of what's going on in City Hall. Mark burned all his own bridges there long ago, so his information is outdated and mostly useless. Then they'll need to gauge the tenor of the city at large. If they make the right moves, hit the right targets, this could be easy. Or at the very least, easier. It'll be the perfect symbol of their rise to power. If he pulls this off, no one will be able to ignore him then.
"Okay," Eduardo says. A smile, one that Mark hasn't seen in forever, crosses his face.
---
Chris makes this weird expression when Mark asks about it, but Chris sounds confident about their chances when he assures them that it's possible.
"It won't be easy with this timeframe," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "We'll have to start prepping immediately."
Chris spends the next few days laying out the basic information that Eduardo needs to know about how the districts break down and about the power players they're going to need to sway to their side.
In order to meet the residency requirement for the city, Eduardo moves into the condo in Copley that Mark bought a few years ago as a birthday gift for him. They'd been arguing a lot at the time, and Mark had thought that maybe it would help fix things between them. It didn't. It's been sparsely furnished for at least a year, but now Eduardo starts making it presentable, getting new sheets for the bed, filling the refrigerator with food, mostly of the frozen, supermarket variety, moving his suits into the closet.
There are forms to file and procedures to follow, people to meet and things to learn. Mark doesn't bother keeping up with the nitty gritty details, but he does see Eduardo reading printouts over breakfast, Eduardo watching older speeches on the TV in the living room, Eduardo in conversations with some of the Boston natives that work for Mark.
Eduardo still sleeps in Mark's bed on the nights when he's not in the Copley condo, even though the worst of the nightmares seems to have subsided. Eduardo still won't touch Mark these days, but they talk sometimes before falling asleep. They talk about all sorts of things that they won't say anywhere else. Eduardo talks about his sister, far away in California, and he talks about how scared he is, and he talks about Boston, the way it sits heavy and painful in his chest. He doesn't talk about the two days, two nights he spent in the hands of the Winklevii, but Mark doesn't expect him to.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this, fuck," Eduardo says.
Mark just watches him, quiet and steady. "I'm listening," he says.
Eduardo laughs. "You are," he says, and the amazement in his voice really should not be as insulting as it is.
---
They announce Eduardo's candidacy in January.
Eduardo is calm throughout the entire process of preparing his speech and public statements. Mark's isn't positive that Chris isn't slipping Eduardo Xanax on the sly, but he's just glad that he doesn't have to manage Eduardo's emotions on top of working out how to make sure that South Boston, still as notoriously hostile to outsiders as always, will fall in line the way Mark needs it to.
The college students will be easy to convince. Mark knows how easily they are swayed by dewy-eyed optimism, and Eduardo can sell that without much effort at all.
Mark doesn't go to any of Eduardo's public appearances or speeches. He has too many other things to do, and it feels strange, like being in a place he doesn't belong. Eduardo's suits get even neater, though, and his hair somehow becomes even more perfectly styled. He puts on the role of an up-and-coming politician like he was born to it, like he's spent his whole life convincing people that he's exactly who he says he is. Mark finds it impressive. He's never been able to be anyone but himself.
During their weekly meetings, Chris assures Mark that Eduardo really is handling the pressure well, but Mark suspects that Chris is just saying that to keep Mark from digging too deeply into what Eduardo's mental state is like right now. It's not like it makes any sense to talk to Eduardo about it, because Eduardo is weirdly sensitive about things like that, and Mark wouldn't know how to ask without triggering yet another argument.
Mark has a lot more work to do, making sure the rest of the city knows exactly who he's throwing his weight behind. There's some grumbling from some corners about the pretty-boy puppet that the Jew is putting up to challenge the mayor, but Mark doesn't give a flying fuck. If they're not afraid of him yet, they will be. Mark will make sure of that.
---
It probably should concern Mark more that he keeps finding Eduardo while he's drinking alone. The liquor of choice today is whiskey, probably as expensive as the vodka was. At least this time Eduardo is using a tumbler instead of downing it straight from the bottle. He's in the kitchen of their house in Cambridge, and he's by himself, and he looks like he's trying to get drunk as soon as possible. He might even be halfway there already.
"I'm not sure I can do this," Eduardo says. "What if I'm not any good at it?" He doesn't look at Mark, but he clearly knows that Mark is in the doorway, listening.
"It doesn't matter," Mark says. They have to win, first, and Mark can't think past that point right now. Eduardo has to keep his shit together until November, then he can have as many freakouts as he wants.
Eduardo closes his eyes and puts his forehead on the table. He takes wet, heaving breaths. "It matters to me," he says, when he picks his head up. His eyes are glassy and far away. He's really, really drunk, and Mark would probably be more worried about a vomiting episode if Eduardo was still drinking. His tumbler is empty, and he's not making any moves to fill it up again. Mostly, he just looks like shit.
"Okay," Mark says. He shrugs.
"Chris says that it'll be difficult because I'm an outsider, that people won't believe that I understand the city well enough to run it. The Winklevosses have been in Boston forever," Eduardo says, and he sounds kind of fucked up over it. Mark doesn't understand that, but he doesn't think he's ever understood half of why Eduardo cares so much about things that he cares about. It feels like a waste of time.
"It won't matter," Mark says. "We'll break them from the inside out. Mayor Winklevoss won't have anything to stand on by the end of it."
Eduardo barely seems to notice that Mark is there anymore. He's staring at some point on the wall. "Fuck," Eduardo says again. "I'm really fucking wasted." He reaches for the whiskey again, and Mark is pretty sure he's had enough. He moves the bottle away from Eduardo, so that it's out of reach.
"Get some sleep," Mark says. He helps Eduardo out of the chair and nudges him towards the stairs.
---
Mark is busy, really busy. His life is a never ending stream of things to do, people to talk to, plans to make. He has to sit down with local leaders to discuss why Eduardo is the all-around better candidate, and he has to make sure that the Winklevii haven't managed to actually connect Eduardo to Mark's criminal activities, and he has to make sure that everything else doesn't melt down while Mark is focused on the election. He donates money to the Boston public school system on the advice of Chris. They have the money, and Mark probably wants to set himself up as a kooky philanthropist (Dustin's words, not Mark's) in the public eye if Eduardo is going to be getting that much more attention in the future.
There are days where he only sees Eduardo for five minutes, the two-and-a-half minutes after waking up and the two-and-a-half minutes before he passes out in bed. Most of the Eduardo-handling is done by Chris these days, though Mark thinks that maybe Dustin pitches in. Mark doesn't bother keeping close tabs on them. Eduardo is an adult. He's more than capable of handling himself.
Mark breaks the fingers of a bookie who was skimming a little more off the top than he should have been, and he has Dustin blow up an empty car to prove a point to to the Irish. One day in February, Mark pulls an all-nighter that reminds him of the early days, when he could stay up all night on Red Bull and Mountain Dew and spin out the most beautiful plans he's ever seen. He misses that sometimes, the ability to throw himself entirely into his work, to leave everything else out.
The election is still consuming most of his time. He makes a few calls to make sure Chris's endorsement ends up in the Globe, and he makes sure that Eduardo's war chest is never empty by talking some of the local businesses into making regularly scheduled "campaign contributions." Marilyn makes sure all of the paperwork that needs to go with their finances is in order.
"I think your man might be feeling a little neglected," Dustin says one lazy Saturday afternoon. He's playing something on the Xbox. Something with guns. Mark has lost a lot of interest in playing FPS games over the years. It's like a bizzaro version of real life that Mark just doesn't want to deal with.
Mark yawns. He's thinking about napping on the couch, since he's been sleeping weirdly for the rest of the week. Dustin can wake him up if he needs to do something. "Eduardo is probably too busy to feel neglected," Mark says. "We all are." Just last week, Eduardo had to do at least three public appearances with various local groups, not that Mark knows who they were or at what times Eduardo met them.
"Whatever, dude," Dustin says as something explodes into a pile of guts onscreen. "I know your marriage is going through a rough patch, but that's no reason to make everyone else miserable at the same time."
"We're not married," Mark says. Just the thought is giving him a headache.
Dustin shrugs, "If you say so, man." He turns back to his video games, and Mark closes his eyes and takes that nap.
---
"Morelli finally has the North End sewn up," Mark says, "but we'll have to make sure that some of his lackeys don't decide that Mayor Winklevoss can make them a better offer." He's been negotiating with Morelli all week, and it had taken more than a few poll numbers and the ground Mark's gained in JP, Southie, and Roxbury to convince Morelli that Mark is an actual player. It didn't hurt that Mark had pretty much turned every single one of the mafia's bookies in the meantime either.
"Mark," Eduardo says. "I don't need you to--"
"You also have to find a good place to convince the old people that you're a good bet. They're not a big fan of change. I can--" Mark doesn't really know who to talk to about that, maybe Eric? His grandmother is in a nursing home in the area, right?
"This isn't just about you," Eduardo says. "This campaign is our thing." He's been pacing around the room for maybe the last two hours, watching as Mark handles things from his end. It's not that Mark minds that Eduardo has decided to hang around Mark's office while Mark's working, it's just strange. No one else seems to want to spend that much time in Mark's presence, and the feeling is entirely mutual.
And then Eduardo's hand is on Mark's shoulder, spinning Mark around so that they're facing each other. "Yeah," Mark says. He's been obsessing over the latest poll numbers. They don't have the greatest data because there's not as much demand for it at a local level, but he's certain that they can recruit some polisci/stats major from somewhere or another. There's more than enough universities in the area.
"Mark," Eudardo says, and he sounds annoyed, but Mark needs to get back into this. He pushes back against Eduardo's hand, so that he can face the desk again. Eduardo is apparently not going to let Mark do that, though. He tightens his grip on Mark's shoulders, keeping him still. "Mark," Eduardo says again.
Mark isn't expecting Eduardo to kiss him, but Eduardo does, leaning forward in a way that can't be comfortable. It's been so long that Mark had almost forgotten what it was like, with Eduardo's hands cupping Mark's face, with the familiar slide of Eduardo's lips against his own. Mark parts his lips so Eduardo can slide his tongue inside his mouth. He wants this. He's wanted--
Of course, that's when Dustin decides to barge into Mark's office. "Hey Mark, I talked to Amy about the thing with the shipments and-- oh holy shit, I was never here." He's already turned around and fled by the time Mark gets his eyes open, but Mark can tell that the moment is already over. Eduardo has pulled away.
"What was that?" Mark asks.
"Nothing," Eduardo says. He's breathing hard and refusing to meet Mark's eyes. "I guess old habits die harder than I thought."
"Wardo--" Mark says.
Eduardo rubs his eyes. "Forget it." He turns and leaves the room before Mark can say another word. Mark turns back towards his computer.
---
The invitation is Eduardo's idea. The bug is Dustin's.
"If we want to end this, we'll have to bring the fight straight to them," Mark says one afternoon, a map of the city spread across his kitchen table. "I'm done fucking around." The twins are talking shit around town, refusing to back down. Mark's been able to cut off their drug supply entirely, and most of the cops on their payroll like Mark's rates better than the Winklevoss's. Their control over the underworld is slipping, and it's becoming more and more obvious to anyone even mildly capable of understanding Boston politics. Mark just wants this over. He wants them to know that it's over too.
Eduardo says, "What are you going to do, invite them over for tea or something?"
Dustin says, "Hey, that's not entirely a bad idea."
So they send the Winklevii an invitation. Dustin's excited about getting to play around with new tech, and Mark is excited about the new intelligence they're going to get. The Winklevii are morons, complete and utter morons, but it'll be useful to know what sort of idiotic plans they're going to make this time around.
With Eric's connections -- Mark recruited him out of MIT -- they get one so small it can fit on the invitation without being obvious. Dustin handles most of the technical details while Mark starts making plans for the eventual confrontation. The twins are probably the only people stupid enough to wander into a situation where their enemies know more about the surrounding environment than they do.
It's a little fun, listening to the tapes afterwards. Narendra sends them a copy of their proposed map, which looks similar to the one they'd heard the three of them discussing earlier.
It's good. It doesn't mean that Mark can rely on it, not entirely, but it's good enough to use as their jumping off point.
Dustin says, "Do you honestly think the Winklevii are going to take you up on your offer?" He's trying to sync up the Winklevii's map with Mark's map so that they can best position their people when the shooting starts.
Mark shrugs. "Not really. But on the off chance they decide not to be morons, it'll make my life a lot easier."
Later, Mark listens to the recordings by himself in his office, headphones pressed tight around his ears. He hears one of the twins say, "I can't believe that little fucker didn't give us anything. You should have let me break his ribs."
The other one says, "Yeah, you'd think it would be easier to break a guy who's so eager to suck Zuckerberg's dick." Their voices sound metallic, tinny, far away, but Mark can imagine the looks on their faces as they talk in their tiny office in city hall. He can imagine other things, too. He can imagine putting a gun to Tyler's head and pulling the trigger, imagine Tyler's brains coating the pavement. He even imagine what it looked like, when Eduardo finally figured out what was happening to him, the anger and fear that must have crossed his face.
Mark closes the audio file, and he closes his eyes, and he breathes and breathes and breathes.
---
The spring air feels heavy in his lungs, and the night sky is dark over his head. Mark shoves his hands in his pockets. He's a little tense, a little on edge, but he's not particularly bothered by that feeling. Mark doesn't really like being outside, but he does like the docks, especially at night, when things are quiet and heavy with potential. The first time he visited the docks, he'd hated the low visibility around the shipping containers, the trapped, ominous feeling of walking between them, getting lost in a maze, but he likes that he can use that to his advantage now.
"Are you sure we can't wait inside the car?" Dustin asks. He's rubbing his hands together, hunched underneath his jacket, scowling at Mark. Mark has never figured out why people are so cold all the time.
Mark ignores him. "No, we can't." Mark says. It's been a while since he last stared the Winklevoss twins down, face to face. It used to be a regular occurrence. Mark tries to limit their interactions these days, for obvious reasons.
He needs to be out here, though. He needs to look at there faces, knowing what they did to Eduardo, and he needs to see what they look like when he ends them, one way or another. He suspects that they won't go down easily, but they were always a lot stupider than they thought they were.
Justin shifts restlessly behind them, arms folded across his chest, one eye drifting back to keep an eye on the cars. Eduardo insisted on coming along to this particular confrontation, and Mark had only agreed if Eduardo stayed in the car. That argument went on for two nights running, with Eduardo unable to pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize that this time around, the Winklevii weren't interested in keeping him alive. In the end, Eduardo conceded, somewhat reluctantly, after both Chris and Dustin agreed with Mark about what was best for Eduardo's safety.
From Narendra's report, it looks like the Winklevii are going to be armed to the gills and ready for a nasty fight. Mark's ready for that, but he's not sure Eduardo ever will be. He's already sent some of his men ahead to check out the places marked off on the map, and Mark is just waiting now. He squeezes his fingers into a fist and then loosens them. Dustin rubs his hands a little harder. Mark hears the sound of distant footsteps.
And then the Winklevii show up, Narendra in tow. They have ten men with them, all carrying, big and burly and looking like they'd be mean in a fight. Thankfully, Mark's not dealing with anything other than handguns, their jackets bugling with the concealed holsters. Tyler is looking them over with a skeptical eye, like he doesn't believe that Mark is only there with two other people backing him up. Mark doesn't bother acknowledging him. He's not ready to show his hand yet.
Cameron is out front, smirking, all smug self-confidence, like he doesn't know how fucked he is. There's a swagger in his step as he comes forward. "Fancy meeting you out here, Mr. Zuckerberg," he says.
It doesn't take long for the shooting to start.
---
When they get back in the car, Eduardo starts shaking. He leans heavily on the seat, head tilted back, eyes closed. He lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh and half like a sob.
Mark is sitting right next to him, their bodies almost touching, but Eduardo doesn't acknowledge his presence, the fact that Mark is even there. "Wardo," Mark says.
Eduardo's breathing is heavy in the darkness of the car. "Fuck," he says. "It's over, right?"
Mark puts a hand on Eduardo's shoulder. Eduardo leans into it in a way that seems involuntary, like he doesn't even know he's doing it. "Yeah, it is," Mark says. He'd felt his stomach drop out when he saw Eduardo step out of the car, when he saw Eduardo spit on Tyler's face. But it's okay. They're alive, and the twins aren't, and that's all that matters.
Eduardo looks at him, and there's something there, almost painful, and Mark doesn't know what to do about it. Eduardo kisses him, not quite like the last time. That one had been deliberate, careful and familiar. This is rawer than that, sloppy and desperate, like he's trying to crawl into Mark's mouth.
"Whoa," Justin says from the driver's seat. "Do I have to get a hose or something?"
Mark pulls back so that he can respond, but Eduardo beats him to it. "Just get us back to the condo," Eduardo says, out of breath, and his eyes are bright. He sits down in his seat and straightens his jacket, making himself presentable. It's somewhat futile, but Mark appreciates the effort.
It's late enough that the streets are mostly empty, but Mark practically has to sit on his hands, and he can feel Eduardo practically vibrating next to him, still wound up on adrenaline with nowhere to go. As soon as Justin pulls up in front of the place, Eduardo drags Mark out of the car, one hand clamped tight around Mark's wrist.
Then they're in Eduardo's bedroom, and Eduardo is pressing Mark against the wall, and his eyes still have that wild light to them. The place still feels spare and spartan, too clean. Mark hasn't bothered decorating their house in Cambridge, but it still feels like home just from the amount of crap they've managed to accumulate over the years, the fingerprints they've left behind. "It's over," Mark says, because he's stared down guns being waved in his face more times than he can count and Eduardo is the one freaking him out right now. He puts a hand on the back of Eduardo's neck, trying to keep him grounded.
"Do they always look like that?" Eduardo asks. "When you kill them?"
Mark shrugs. "It's different each time." He can still remember the first, a 'friend' of Sean's and a drug deal gone wrong. Mark had seen enough horror movies that the blood hadn't freaked him out, but it had been too real, too much. He'd never seen a dead person before that, and that time, Mark had been the one who'd pulled the trigger.
Eduardo kisses him again, like he thinks that maybe he can fuck the image away. Mark kisses back, because it feels like it's been forever, and even though Eduardo has been right here the entire time, he's also been so far away, remote and untouchable.
"That was it," Mark says, a little short of breath himself. "There's nothing in our way." The Winklevoss twins have been the bane of Mark's existence for years, and now they're not. They'll never bother Mark again.
Eduardo shivers as Mark says it, eyes closed again. "Yeah," Eduardo says. "C'mon. I really want you to fuck me."
The bed is neatly made, probably because Eduardo has hired someone to clean up after him. He has the cash for it, Mark knows. They don't have anyone clean Mark's house due to Mark's perfectly justified paranoia about who they let into their lives, but Eduardo didn't have anything to hide, not here. There's lube in the bedside table, already opened, which makes Mark frown, but it doesn't matter, because Eduardo is with him right now, and anyone else Eduardo may have fucked has nothing to do with him.
Eduardo groans when Mark's fingers open him up, jaw going slack, and it really doesn't matter how many times Mark sees it, he loves it every time.
Mark sucks a hickey into Eduardo's collarbone, tastes Eduardo's skin and sweat. There's still a scar on his temple, tiny, barely visible, but Eduardo keeps most of the woulds on the inside. Mark's bad at this, but even he can tell that. "It's going to be beautiful," Mark says, "all of it." He knows Eduardo's dreamed of it too, what's going to happen when they finally control the city, when the city is finally theirs.
"Stop fucking around, Mark, and fuck me," Eduardo says. He shoves back onto Mark's fingers, all long, long legs and easy, unpracticed grace, and Mark wants to keep this, all of it, for as long as he can.
When Mark finally slides into Eduardo's body, it feels like coming home.
---
Mark wakes in the morning to an empty bed. It takes him a moment to reorient himself. It's been a while since he's been in a bed that isn't his own. Or a couch. Couches are different.
The morning sun is streaming in through the window. Spring is coming soon, and the snow piled up on the streets is melting down. There's a hint of warmth in the air these days. Mark gets out of bed, grabs a pair of Eduardo's sweatpants and a t-shirt and pulls them on. He rolls up the pants at the waist and lets the cuffs drag on the floor.
Eduardo is out on the balcony, half-dressed for a day of press junkets, his sleeves rolled over to elbows, a tie hanging loose and untied around his neck. The condo is high enough to look out over the street, see a bit of the skyline over the opposite rooftops. It's still early, but the roads are already beginning to fill up with cars and pedestrians, ready to start their day. Mark leans over the railing and breathes it in for a moment. This is Boston all around him right now, honking horns and car exhaust and Red Sox baseball caps. This is theirs.
"I don't think I was ready for this, really ready for this, until last night," Eduardo says. "I'm ready now." He doesn't look at Mark, like he can't take his eyes away from the city. He's a part of this, too, Mark thinks. He's planted his roots as deep as Mark has. They're both in this for the long haul, as long as it lasts.
"I'm telling you, Wardo," Mark says, sliding an arm around Eduardo's back, comfortable and familiar, "it's going to be beautiful."
Eduardo closes his eyes, tilts his head up towards the sun, the future unfolding behind his eyelids. "I can see it already," he says, and he's smiling.
FIN.
End Notes: So, I think this is the last real story I'm going to write in this universe (though there may be a smaller scale project on the way, because like they say in the Godfather, every time you try to get out, they pull you right back in). Thanks so much for sticking with us, guys. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as we've enjoyed writing this. It's been a blast.
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: R
Word count: 12,500
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence
Summary: Mafia AU. In which Mark is busy and Eduardo has to make some decisions about his future. This city may never be the same again.
Notes: Overlaps with the second half of Gimme Shelter in the Sympathy For The Devil-verse, and it probably won't make sense without reading that one first. Lots of love to
merisunshine36 for the beta and the co-writing and the constant, non-stop enabling."I suppose you want to say 'I told you so,'" Eduardo says.
Mark doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say to the sight of Eduardo, stripped down to his boxers, with a map of Mark's failures written all over his skin. There are bruises on his ribs, though the doctor has said that the twins were careful not to break them, a mostly-healed cut on Eduardo's temple. There are other wounds too, Mark imagines, ones hidden away. "No," Mark says. "No, I don't."
Eduardo doesn't look at Mark as he pulls his shirt, his pants back on. They've barely said more than five words to each other since Eduardo got back. Mark doesn't have anything to say.
If this had happened a week ago, Mark would have been allowed to touch Eduardo, would be allowed to remind himself that Eduardo is still alive, still alive and here with Mark. Mark's not sure what he's allowed to do now. Technically, this is Mark's bedroom, but right now it's really Eduardo's while he recovers. Most of Eduardo's stuff is still here anyway, like he never even left. Their things intermingle in the closet, on the bookshelves, on the bathroom counter, tucked away into corners to be forgotten. After living together so long, there was no way it could have been a clean break.
"What are you doing here?" Eduardo says, a sneer underneath his words, even as his face remains cold. With his clothes back on, he looks even more distant, untouchable. "You made it clear that you never wanted to speak to me again."
"That's not what that was," Mark says. "I was just-- You can keep the room if you want." He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them in his pockets.
Eduardo snorts. "Okay," he says. "I'm only here at your pleasure. I get it." He winces when he lifts an arm above his shoulders. Mark wants to press a hand against the large bruise between Eduardo's shoulder blades, wants to feel it underneath his palm. "You didn't have to come here to hold it over my head."
Mark flinches. Eduardo's hurt, and Eduardo's angry, and Mark expected both of those things, but he still feels it like a slap in the face. "I have work to do," he says shortly, turning away.
"Have fun with that," Eduardo says. He doesn't watch Mark as he leaves.
---
Mark isn't lying. He does have a lot of work to do. The Winklevii are clearly feeling threatened if they're targeting Eduardo of all people. Eduardo doesn't even know where Mark's money is much less any of the details of how he got it. The Winklevii managed to get Billy Olson to flip months ago, but that must have been the last leak if they're starting to target people not even in the business. Mark doesn't really like traitors. Billy learned that the hard way, and most of the people who work for Mark have learned from his example.
Amy has a few reports on how the drug trade is holding up, what's selling well and what isn't, showing up in Mark's office just after two looking a little concerned. She doesn't ask about it, and that's one of the reasons Mark likes her. She's smart, conscientious and careful on the job. Amy's explanation of her report is brief and to the point, just the way Mark likes it. Sean recommended her as a sort of olive branch between them, and Mark had to admit that she was on top of her shit, making sense out of Mark's badly organized notes, putting together a good team of lieutenants to help her keep track of which product is going where. It was something of a relief. Mark and Sean didn't exactly part on the best of terms, especially after Sean got in trouble with the law for human smuggling. There are lines that even Mark won't cross, and Sean waltzed right over one.
Mark spends a few hours talking to Marilyn about the legal ramifications of taking over the houses adjacent to them, what sorts of paperwork they'd need, whose arms they'd need to twist, how to best to cover the paper trail so that it isn't as obvious that Mark is buying up all the property in the area. Marilyn, as always, gives her best non-bullshit advice, and Mark has always liked her because she tells him what he needs to hear instead of what she thinks he wants to hear.
Chris has heard some rumblings from City Hall about the next election, whether or not Mayor Winklevoss is going to go for his fifth term and beat the last record for most terms served as mayor of Boston, or if he's going to step aside and let one of the twins run the city instead. All signs seem to point towards the idea that the mayor will just run for reelection again, but if it's still up in the air, it's up in the air. They'll have to be ready for whatever comes down. Mark and Chris spend an hour discussing scenarios, both good and bad. Chris has always had a good head for this kind of stuff, the way people and systems move around each other, and Mark is always willing to listen to his advice.
No one is watching Eduardo, though Dustin is keeping him company upstairs. He shoots Mark infrequent e-mails about Eduardo's mental state, usually things like he just made a bad pun about securities!!! and i don't think he wants to kill himself just yet. Mark isn't sure he trusts Dustin's medical opinions on the matter. As far as Mark can tell from the few times they've been around each other, Eduardo seems-- Eduardo seems almost normal. He's working on his laptop, and he's eating food without needing prompting, and he hasn't run away yet. Mark is willing to count that as a success.
After work, Chris drags him off to The Hive, ostensibly so that Mark can unwind. It's probably one of Mark's favorite places in the greater Boston area, just a hole in the wall with good beer, good wings, and a couple of ancient pool tables, and he loves that he owns it, that it's his. It's within walking distance from the house, tucked into a back alley where it's not obvious. Despite Chris' insistence that he didn't have any ulterior motives in making Mark come out tonight, he keeps trying to get Mark to agree to see a therapist or something like that, even though that's really stupid. Mark isn't the one who got the crap beaten out of him. So Mark plays some darts and tells Chris to fuck off, and Chris fucks off.
---
When Mark gets home, Eduardo is drinking by himself in the second floor kitchen -- vodka straight from the bottle. He looks tired. His hair is a mess, and he's wearing one of Mark's baggier t-shirts like he doesn't even notice that he is. Mark grabs a shot glass out of the cabinet and holds it out. Eduardo helpfully fills it for him. His hands are surprisingly steady, but some of the vodka still sloshes over the side.
"You know, you're a real piece of work," Eduardo says. He doesn't sound drunk yet, just angry. "What the fuck were you doing this time? Breaking kneecaps? Shaking down little old ladies?"
Mark tosses back the shot, feels the burn as it travels down his throat. It's good vodka, expensive. "The little old ladies we shake down keep shotguns under the register and aren't afraid to use them," Mark says. He loosens his tie. He doesn't want to have to deal with Eduardo while wearing a monkey suit, but he's willing to roll with it.
Eduardo laughs, but it sounds weird, harsh and rasping. "I'm really not drunk enough for this conversation," he says, but he still lets Mark take the bottle out of his hands. Up close, his bruises look even worse, gross and discolored underneath Eduardo's tan skin.
"If you want to have this conversation, we can have it," Mark says. He puts the vodka bottle on one of the far counters, out of Eduardo's reach.
"No. That's not what I want," Eduardo says. He grabs a fistful of Mark's tie, dragging him closer.
Eduardo kisses like he wants to tear Mark apart, all aggressive tongue and teeth. His mouth tastes like the vodka, almost as intense as the shot itself, and his other hand wraps around the back of Mark's neck, holding him still.
Eduardo leads Marks upstairs to the bed they've shared for the past four years, and Eduardo peels off his clothes, exposing the rest of the bruises. His eyes are fixed on Mark's face, bright and intent. Mark puts his hands on the long curve of Eduardo's neck, presses his fingers against the pulse point to feel the steady flutter of Eduardo's heart underneath his fingertips. Eduardo doesn't let Mark linger there.
They wrestle off Mark's clothes and end up on the bed. Eduardo hands are warm, vividly alive against Mark's body.
"I'm still angry at you," Eduardo says. He's on top of Mark, knees bracketing Mark's thighs. His fingernails are digging into Mark's hips, leaving bright red crescents behind. Mark will probably have his own set of bruises tomorrow, but he doesn't really care.
"I know," Mark says. He kisses Eduardo again, cups Eduardo's cheek with one hand. He thinks about how fragile human bodies are, and how resilient they can be. He thinks about blood vessels, about arteries and veins, about neurons and nerve endings and pain receptors.
They've done this so many times that it's easy, routine. Eduardo's fingers are slick with the lube from the bedside table, opening Mark up while Mark is on his knees and elbows, forehead pressed against the mattress. Eduardo is rougher than he normally is. The slight burn of his cock is as perfect as always, though, filling Mark up. Eduardo never seems to know how much Mark can take, never seems to know how much Mark is willing to take. He always touches Mark like he thinks Mark is made of glass, like he's always holding something back.
Mark is willing to take whatever Eduardo wants to dish out, because Eduardo is here. He's a complete fucking moron, and he's got the bruises to prove it, but he's alive, and Mark wants all of it, the panting breaths, the angry hands, the short, quick thrusts.
Afterwards, Eduardo leaves to take a shower, and Mark changes into his usual pajamas. Eduardo comes out of the bathroom wearing just a towel. His hair is sticking up.
"What was this?" Mark asks. He doesn't think he's ever really understood what was going through Eduardo's head besides the basics, whether he was happy or sad or angry, but now Mark doesn't think he even has that.
"Nothing," Eduardo says. "It's nothing." His face is blank and cold. "I was tired of feeling bad for myself."
Mark's not surprised, but it does make a cold, sick feeling settle in his chest. "How is that working out for you?" he asks.
"Get out of here, Mark," Eduardo says, and it's like everything is leaking out across his face, anger and pain and exhaustion.
Mark gets out of there. He walks downstairs, the floorboards creaking underneath his feet. Their couch has been worn in after years and years of abuse, and it dips in the middle, comfortable. Mark pulls a ratty old blanket over himself and curls up before falling asleep.
---
He's bleeding when they throw him at Mark's feet.
Edward Majors, the person who tipped the Winklevii off to Eduardo's location. Mark used to know him by reputation, a long time ago. Low level drug dealer, likes being a snitch for favors. He's a short man, about the same height as Mark, and he's dressed in a way that seems to mean that he gives a shit. Mark knows his type -- weaselly, constantly asking for respect instead of demanding it. He's the kind who would break before you broke his first finger, who would give up his mother as soon as you put a knife in front of his face. The kind who thinks he's tough when he has no fucking idea.
They're in Mark's basement, stone floor underneath their feet, a single lightbulb over their heads. It smells like mold, like old, wet things, but it's familiar and comforting. Mark's spent a lot of time here. Dustin grins, and his smile is all teeth.
"Softened him up for you, boss," Dustin says. "He's really talkative now." He puts away his knife.
Mark's not here to talk. Mark is here to make an example. Most criminals are stupid, he's learned, but they do respond well to examples.
"Please, I didn't know who he was," Majors pleads as he stumbles to his feet. "All they gave me was a description, not a name." His eyes are wide, frantic. It's almost not even worth it. There's no challenge in breaking Majors further. He's not even worth scraping from the bottom of Dustin's shoes.
Still. Example.
Mark isn't as big or as strong as the Winklevii, but he has learned how to throw a punch over the years. Majors grunts and doubles over in pain as soon as Mark's fist connects with his ribs. Mark's knuckles hurt afterwards; it's been a while since he's handled something like this personally. "You really shouldn't say that like it makes a difference," Mark says. "It doesn't."
Majors collapses, coughing up blood. It splatters red against the concrete. Mark's a big fan of symmetry. He wants to put every mark, every bruise, every cut that Eduardo has onto Majors' body. He wants to leave Majors locked up here for days without medical attention. He wants to beat Majors' face in and hear him scream.
The room is quiet with the exception of the Majors' heavy, wheezing breaths. Dustin and Chris know better than to interrupt. Mark kicks Majors in the stomach. He watches as more blood dribbles onto the floor from Major's lips.
It's not enough.
---
In the morning, Eduardo comes downstairs with dark bags underneath his eyes. His hair is falling limp onto his forehead. The bruises are still bright on his face. He looks like shit. Mark wants to kiss him, to lick into his mouth and taste the remnants of sleep. Eduardo would probably punch him for trying, and while Mark could take the pain, he'd rather not deal with it.
"Chris made sure the bank knows you're out on sick leave," Mark says. It's a quiet, cool, gray sort of day, and the light that pours in through the windows is pale and almost white. There's a chance of rain or flurries today. Mark can see it in his mind's eye, intermittent flakes drifting from the sky.
Eduardo looks at Mark, his eyes still drooping with sleep, confusion written all across his face. There are times when Mark wonders if Eduardo is capable of putting walls up, if there are any pieces of himself that he's ever been able to hide. "Oh," Eduardo says, "I hadn't even thought of that."
Mark shrugs. That's what he pays Chris to do, to consider all the angles Mark has missed. "You look like shit," Mark says, because he doesn't believe in lying, and Eduardo looks like he was run over by a very large car.
Eduardo laughs like they're maybe still friends, like he's forgotten that he hates Mark right now. "That's what happens when you can't get any sleep. Nightmares. I don't suppose you know what that's like." Eduardo has always been a restless sleeper, easily disturbed into wakefulness.
"I could--" Mark says, and his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. "If you need someone there at night."
Eduardo stops and stares at him, and something raw and hurting passes over his face. "I can't even fucking believe you," he says. "After all that..." He glances away, like he can't even look at Mark. It feels like that's been happening a lot lately.
"Whatever," Mark says. It's for Eduardo's benefit in the end. If he doesn't want Mark's help, then Mark doesn't have to give a shit. Mark can sleep on the couch, and Eduardo can keep showing up in the morning looking like shit. Mark has plenty of other shit he can work on instead. All he has these days is work.
"I wasn't-- that wasn't a no," Eduardo says, a quick flash of emotion passes over his face. "I'll see you tonight, then." He focuses on making himself some coffee, and he doesn't look at Mark again for the rest of the morning.
Mark still feels like he's won something, but he doesn't know what.
---
Dustin and Chris have cleared most of Mark's schedule, but Mark does have a list of decisions he has to make, like which areas they should try to expand into, which businesses they want to talk to specifically, who they want to sway to their side. They're especially busy now that the Winklevosses are angry about Judge Summers. Now that they've expanded to this point, Mark doesn't have to handle all that much personally, which is both a blessing and a curse. He misses knowing everything about everything, and he misses being low to the ground, able to follow Sean around town and pick up the tricks of the trade one at a time.
Still, by the end of the night, he's exhausted. There are some delicate phone calls that he needed to make personally, and it took some extensive coaching from Chris to understand what he needed to say and how he was supposed to say it.
Eduardo is in bed before Mark, and it's so bizarrely familiar that the last week feels like it passed in a strange dream, like Eduardo didn't freeze the account, and Mark didn't get mad at him, and the Winklevii hadn't gotten involved where they really don't belong. Eduardo sleeps the same as he always does, curled up on his side of the bed, a hand tucked underneath his pillow.
Mark climbs into bed tired, worn out, his eyelids drooping shut. He listens to the steady sound of Eduardo's breathing, and he curls a hand around Eduardo's wrist before he falls asleep.
---
Mark wakes as soon as he feels Eduardo's fingers dig into his arm. Eduardo's still in the nightmare, eyes squeezed tight, his breath shallow. He looks like he's hurting, like he's in pain. He must have looked like this when the Winklevii were working him over. They must have been able to see every little bit of what he was feeling.
"Hey," Mark says, shaking Eduardo's shoulder. "Wake up."
Eduardo's eyes jerk open, and he shoves Mark away. "Who--" He looks around, gets his bearings. "Mark," he says. His eyes are bright, reflected moonlight. His skin looks strangely pale. Maybe that's the dream, draining all the color out of him.
"You had a nightmare," Mark says. Eduardo never used to have nightmares, Mark remembers. He was a fairly light sleeper, which was a little inconvenient considering the hours Mark keeps, but Eduardo seemed to get over it as time went on. By the end, he almost slept like the dead.
"Yeah, I figured that out," Eduardo says. "Thanks." His breathing is still too short, and he's still clutching Mark's arm. Mark thinks about kissing him again, about pressing their lips together so Eduardo won't think he's still in there with the twins, so that he knows for a fact that he's with Mark.
He doesn't do anything. He just listens as Eduardo's breath evens out, waiting for Eduardo to say more.
"If you want to know," Eduardo says eventually, "I dreamt it was you, that you were the one holding the knife." There's something in his voice, it's almost an accusation.
Mark closes his eyes. He pulls his arm away.
---
"We're going to have to do something about the Italians. They're getting restless," Dustin says. He has his feet kicked up onto Mark's desk, hands on his stomach, the way he usually sits in Mark's office. Some people look confused when Dustin sits in on one of Mark's meetings, raising their eyebrows at how relaxed he looks around Mark. Dustin finds it really hilarious, so he'll usually play it up a bit by fiddling with Mark's pens or by juggling paperweights, just to fuck with their heads.
"The Winklevii aren't going to be able to hold onto them much longer," Mark says, reading through some of the spreadsheets Ian has sent him. "They know that. The Winklevii know that. We can wait them out until we're in a better position to negotiate."
Dustin's pretty good at handling the Italians most days. He's better with the Irish, but he's still pretty good at taking care of things whenever Mark needs some errands done in the North End. Mark has controlled most of the business on this side of the river for a while, expanding out from Cambridge into Charlestown and Somerville. He has some parts of Allston, pieces of Fenway, but that's just a slice of the pie. It's almost nothing at all.
"They want to talk face-to-face," Dustin says, "and they want to talk to you specifically."
Mark snorts. "Everyone wants to talk to me specifically. It makes them feel important." Eric had a run-in with the Italians last year. He came out of it alive and intact, but Mark had to smooth some things over personally. He really hates having to do that. Celuzza had been happy to help out, slapping Mark on the shoulder and talking about how he was all grown up now and no longer a complete fucking jackass, but Mark doesn't like owing him anything. Mark doesn't like owing anyone anything.
Dustin laughs, really laughs. There aren't a lot of people who can't get away with laughing in Mark's face, but Dustin is one of them. He abuses the privilege as much as he possibly can. "Contrary to popular belief, they really don't need you to feel important."
"Mayor Winklevoss is important. They're a bunch of cloistered assholes who are only clinging onto their section of the city because no one's ever going to be able to kick them out. They really should fuck off back to Providence, but that's never going to happen."
"So what do I say to them?" Dustin asks.
"That I'm busy for the foreseeable future," Mark says. It's not actually a lie.
---
Eduardo's awake this time when Mark gets into bed. He was looking better today, more like himself, smiling at Dustin's jokes and having quiet, intense conversations with Chris. Mark likes that, even if Eduardo still won't look at Mark most days, won't acknowledge that Mark exists unless he has to.
"Why did you break up with me?" Eduardo asks, point-blank, while they're face-to-face on the bed. He looks apprehensive. Mark can smell his breath. He can see the individual pores on Eduardo's face. It feels almost like a physical ache to keep himself this far away.
"Why did you freeze the account?" Mark asks. He's turned the moment over and over again in his head, and it still makes no fucking sense. If Eduardo wanted out, there were plenty of less passive-aggressive ways of going about it, and if he wanted to send Mark a message, it was an incomprehensible one.
Eduardo sighs and rubs his face with his hands. The bruises on his forearms are fading, yellows and greens. "i saw-- You were so fucking obsessed with this whole Winklevoss thing, and it was fucking terrifying. I couldn't-- You stopped listening to me," he says. "I needed to get your attention."
Mark stares at him, tries to figure out what he's saying. "I never listened to you," he says. "Not about this."
Eduardo's eyes are huge and round, dark and deep. "Sometimes I really fucking hate you, Mark," he says. He sounds tired. Eduardo really does need his sleep.
"You didn't want to be a part of it," Mark says. "So you weren't." He doesn't know where this conversation went off track, but it apparently has somewhere along the line.
Eduardo sighs. "Yeah, I'm getting that." He shifts away from Mark, closes his eyes, turns to face the other direction. There are five inches between their bodies. This shouldn't be significant, not really, but it still feels like a canyon between them, impossible to cross.
As far as Mark knows, the nightmares don't come again that night.
---
In the morning with the sunlight lighting up Eduardo's face, Mark says, "You didn't want to be a part of it, and I wanted to give you wanted." He takes a deep breath. "You know, if they'd asked for a ransom, I would have paid it." He would have torn this city to the ground if he needed to. He would have pried all of Tyler's fingernails off with a pair of pliers. He would have stuck electrodes on Cameron's balls and turned on the power. He would have done whatever it took to get Eduardo back.
Eduardo blinks, eyes focusing on Mark's face. "You never answered my question," he says. His voice is still fuzzy with sleep. They're still in bed, still close enough to touch.
"When you froze the account, I thought it meant that you were leaving, that you wanted out. I wanted to end it before you could." He remembers the cold burn of rage he felt when Ian, their newest financials person, had told him about the account. Mark remembers the way he and Eduardo had yelled at each other in the hallway for an entire half hour before Eduardo had stormed off in a huff. Mark had gotten Chris to pack up most of Eduardo's clothes and leave the suitcase outside, as clear a message for Eduardo as Mark could make it. If Eduardo didn't want to be there, Mark wasn't going to keep him there. "It was stupid, I was drunk, and I was angry. I didn't think it through."
"That's pretty obvious," Eduardo says. He sits up and rubs his eyes. Mark stares at the place where Eduardo's t-shirt rides up, exposing some of the bruises. He wants to lick it. Eduardo continues, "Just so we're on the same page, that's really not what I wanted at all." There's this tension underpinning his voice, something that Mark doesn't understand.
"Okay," Mark says. "So what do you want now?"
Eduardo closes his eyes, tilts his head back so that all Mark can do is stare at the long line of his throat. "I'll get back to you as soon as I figure that out," he says.
---
It feels like things are better after that, though Mark isn't sure what happened or why. They're still sleeping together, though they haven't had sex since that second night. Eduardo's nightmares surface every few nights at first, then once a week. They don't disappear completely, but they're better. On the nights when Eduardo has nightmares, Mark will shake him awake, and Eduardo will nod mutely, eyes sleepy and unfocused, and they don't ever talk about it. Mark doesn't want to know.
During the days, Mark works downstairs on the first floor. When they took over the entire house, the first floor apartment became the hub of their activity, easily separated from the bedrooms upstairs. They converted the master bedroom on the first floor into Mark's office, and the kitchen became Dustin and Chris's domain (mostly because Dustin wanted to be near the refrigerator). The others come and go, stopping off in the living room whenever they have an extra hour or two, delivering news and messages and reports.
Narendra's information has been good so far. Mark isn't a fan of trusting rats, but Narendra was pretty up-front from the very beginning that he might turn around and fuck over Mark in the future, too. Right now, he's useful, and when he stops being useful, well-- Mark has the necessary procedures put in place to handle that. Mark has a whole city-wide information network set up, but he's been careful to make sure that everyone can be verified against everyone else, just to make sure they're all still toeing the line.
Word on the street is that the twins let Eduardo escape because he didn't have any useful information, and it was meant to be "a sign of good will between ourselves and Mr. Zuckerberg." Mark doesn't believe it for a second, but he understands that they have to save face. Mark wouldn't put it past them to make another attempt on Eduardo, but he thinks it's good that it'll dissuade anyone else from getting any ideas.
Eduardo spends his days haunting the upper levels. He's got a lot of vacation time saved up, and Mark figures that he might as well use it up now rather than later. He doesn't know how Eduardo feels about it. They don't talk about it. They don't talk about much at all. When Mark goes back upstairs for the night, he'll find Eduardo writing in a notebook, scribbling words into it, or he'll find Eduardo at the kitchen table, laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. He's up to something, but Mark is strangely reluctant to ask about it. If Eduardo wants to tell him, he'll tell him.
On one of the days, Eduardo even disappears out the back door while Mark is in a business meeting. Dustin's the one who interrupts to tell Mark all about it, already half freaked out. Mark is mostly too pissed off to be freaked out by it, and he stays that way long after Eduardo shows up again at five pm.
"What the fuck was that?" Mark asks. Eduardo's face has healed enough that saying he got into an unfortunate accident with a pole isn't as much of a stretch as it used to be, so public appearances aren't that much of an issue, but the Winklevii could have been lying in wait for Eduardo to show his face again. They know where Mark lives, after all.
Eduardo raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I was just at the library," he says. "It was perfectly fine." The library is only a ten minute walk away from Mark's house through mostly busy streets, on the other side of Central Square.
"Dude, you shouldn't have left like that," Dustin says. He really shouldn't have. Mark was tempted to go to Narendra to see if the Winklevii had somehow gotten hold of Eduardo again, and fuck it if he's ever going to owe Narendra anything else in his entire life. "You could have taken one of us with you."
"I can't even go outside anymore without being babysat? What the fuck is this?" Eduardo says. "I'm not being kept prisoner here, am I?" It feels like an argument they've already had, about how Mark worries too much about Eduardo, and about how Eduardo is being stupid by sticking his head into the ground and ignoring the fact that things are dangerous, really dangerous. Mark hates this argument. It usually ends with Eduardo throwing something against a wall because he doesn't think Mark's actually listening to his arguments, even though Mark is listening to his arguments and just thinks they're stupid.
"You're not," Mark says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're free to leave whenever you want." If Eduardo doesn't want to stay, Mark isn't going to keep him here. That's as true as it's always been.
Mark turns around and walks back to his office, listening to Eduardo's heavy footsteps on the stairs.
---
That night before they fall asleep, Eduardo says, "You were worried." He sounds weirdly fascinated with the idea, like it's something special and amazing, like he doesn't believe that Mark is capable of something like that.
Mark snorts. "Did you just figure that out?" They're curled up on the bed, facing each other, the five inches between them still there.
There's something on Eduardo's face, an emotion that Mark can't quite read. "A little," he says. "You know, the stuff in your head isn't as obvious to everyone else around you as you seem to think it is."
"I was worried," Mark says, just to make sure everything is clear between the two of them. He feels like he's ten again and getting a lecture from his mom on how to properly interact with other people.
Eduardo laughs, a real smile forming on his face. "You could also start listening to what people say instead of jumping to conclusions while you're at it," he says. He shifts closer. Three inches between them now, still not touching, but Mark knows it's an improvement.
"Okay," Mark agrees.
---
A few days later, Eduardo walks into Mark's office perfectly dressed in one of his business suits, and he sits in one of the chairs that faces Mark's desk. Mark doesn't have a secretary or anyone who controls access to his door on most days. Chris sometimes filters out certain requests, but he doesn't get many of them. No one sees Mark personally unless they absolutely have to, and they have five seconds after entering to figure out whether or not Mark actually wants to talk to them. The people too stupid to figure out that lesson on their own usually end up learning it the hard way.
Eduardo never sets foot in Mark's office. His only interaction with the first floor is the bottom of the stairs and the front door.
But now he's here, sitting across from Mark's desk, looking unruffled.
"Are you going back to work today?" Mark asks. It's eleven am. Eduardo usually leaves for work around eight. Mark doesn't actually know what Eduardo's planning on doing with his life, but he usually doesn't get dressed just to visit Mark. Not that he ever does while Mark is working.
Eduardo shrugs. "No, I'm not. I quit weeks ago," he says.
Mark looks up from his computer. Eduardo says it like it's no big deal, but he's been at that bank for the last five years. Eduardo makes it sound it like it doesn't even matter, and that makes no sense. "Why?" Mark asks.
He waits for Eduardo to answer. No matter what Eduardo claims, he can listen to directions after all. "I didn't want to know before," Eduardo says. "I want to know now."
It feels like Mark has been pushing against this wall between them forever, but now the wall has been taken away and Mark is laying flat on the floor, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. Eduardo has never wanted to know, never wanted to be a part of it. Chris took to the business easily enough, but Eduardo has always resisted it. "Okay," Mark says.
Mark is good at patterns, at keeping track of a disparate number of variables and factoring them into his plans. But Eduardo sitting here, right now -- that's something Mark never could have ever anticipated. Dustin sticks his head in, "Mark, we've got some new reports of--" He stops and blinks at Eduardo.
"Hey, Dustin," Eduardo says, smiling pleasantly, all business. He leans back in his chair, looking even more like one of the business douchebags Mark hated at Harvard than he usually does.
"What's Wardo doing in your office?" Dustin asks. He eyes Eduardo like he might be some sort of impostor or drug-fueled hallucination. Mark is fairly certain Eduardo doesn't have any twin brothers, but he's not sure.
Mark shrugs. He chews on the end of his pen. "He wants to learn the ropes, apparently." He wonders if he can get a neurologist to take a look inside Eduardo's brain and make sure everything is where it's supposed to be. He doesn't think the Winklevii hit him hard enough to give him permanent brain damage, but it's hard to tell these things without verification.
Dustin looks as confused as Mark feels. "Really?" he says.
"Really," Eduardo confirms. He's still smiling.
---
Things are always quieter in the winter. Life in Boston is approximately 80% winter, so things don't stop and things don't slow down, but there's just a lot less of it. Mark makes sure that Eduardo only handles easy stuff, working the financials with Ian, getting better at handling a weapon with Chris. Eduardo commits himself like it's his job, showing up before everyone else, hunched over years of old bank statements, stubbornly cleaning out the barrel of his gun with Dustin watching on. It's a waste of Eduardo's time, to be perfectly honest, but he doesn't want to dump it all on Eduardo all at once. You have to ease people into it, even if Eduardo claims that he's ready.
"I knew business was doing well, but I didn't realize you were doing that well," Eduardo says one night. He's staring at the kitchen table, the old, scratched up one that they've never managed to get rid of, like he can't meet Mark's eyes. His laptop is open in front of him. He's probably been combing through Ian's meticulous spreadsheets all night.
Mark shrugs. He still doesn't know how to talk to Eduardo about any of this, so he doesn't, letting Ian and Chris handle the difficult stuff. Old habits die hard and all of that.
In theory, Mark has things to worry about other than Eduardo's sudden change of heart, but he tries to keep an eye on him. Eduardo's not exactly handling the junkies or some of the more dangerous gangs, but he's the kind of guy who freaks out when Mark comes home with stitches or when Mark talks how much money various businesses in the area owe them or when Mark mentions which fights are fixed and which ones aren't. Eduardo's not ready for anything harder than this, especially now that everything's heating up.
Chinatown is becoming contentious ground. Eric and a few others end up in a firefight on Oxford Street, and two of the Winklevii's men are dead by the end of it. A few of Mark's guys need to be brought to the hospital. The locals are really not happy with either Mark or the Winklevosses, but Mark can deal with that.
"This is going to get uglier before it gets prettier," Dustin says as Eric limps out of Mark's office.
"They're the ones who made it ugly in the first place," Mark says. They were the ones who took Eduardo. They're the ones who upped the ante. Judge Summers was just business. Taking Eduardo was all personal. Mark wants to break them for that, wants to destroy everything they ever loved just so that they know what it felt like.
Dustin shrugs. He's already had some run-ins with some of the Winklevii's police this month. They don't have anything on Dustin just yet, but Mark can tell that they're just itching for a reason to put him away. "I just want you to be ready for it."
Mark looks at him and tightens his fingers around his pen. "We'll be ready for it," He says.
---
Mark finally has his meeting with the Italians, which just reminds him how much he hates the old guard in this city. They're all so fucking obsessed with tradition and the proper way of doing things. This isn't fucking kindergarten. The people in charge get to define the rules, and that's how it's always been. That's how it'll always be. Mark knows he needs to beat them at their own game, has to be better, stronger, smarter, more adaptable. Everyone else seems so content to let the Winklevosses define the parameters, and Mark doesn't have time for that shit.
Morelli is an old Italian mob boss, in charge of the Boston arm of La Cosa Nostra. It's technically not a business meeting, because that would send clear signals to the Winklevosses about what side the Italians are on, so some subterfuge is necessary. In theory, Mark is only here, at this restaurant in the North End, to have dinner, to talk politics, and to try to assure the Italians that the turf war won't reach them there. In reality, Mark is trying to force some sense into a complete idiot, which is just as difficult as it sounds.
"It's obvious to everyone that you have been very successful, Mr. Zuckerberg," Morelli says, "but we don't want the Mayor to get the wrong impression, if you understand what I mean." Morelli's a thin man, elegantly dressed, salt and pepper hair, the perfect picture of New England mafia. "To be quite honest, we'd rather be on his good side than yours."
Mark takes a bite out of his pasta. If this had happened a few years ago, he'd probably be tearing Morelli a new one, explaning how (a) the Winklevii really don't have the weight to throw around anymore and (b) how fucking stupid it is to stick to the status quo just because it's the status quo. But Chris has basically drilled it into Mark's head that he should keep his mouth shut until he has a good idea of what the effect of opening it will be. "Times are changing," Mark says eventually. "That may not always be the case."
Morelli shrugs. "There is another mayoral election coming up next year. Are you gonna tell me that Winklevoss isn't going to walk away with it again? Because I don't believe you. It's still his town these days, like it or not." He smiles, more than a little condescendingly.
Mark finishes his plate and stands up, tossing his napkin onto the table. "No wonder you're scared of him," he says. "You can't even see past your own dicks without asking for his help." They're all so chickenshit, here. This entire city is cowering in fear, and Mark is so very sick of it. Fuck them. He'll turn this city on its head, and then they won't have any choice but to listen to him.
Morelli's eyebrows go straight up at the blatant rudeness that Mark is displaying. Some of his lackeys are eyeing Mark like they aren't sure whether they want to let him go or beat the crap out of him. Mark just walks right past them while they're still trying to find two brain cells to rub together. Whatever. Mark doesn't need Morelli or the Italians anyway.
---
A couple of weeks later, Mark gets back from a business meeting to find Eduardo waiting for him at the top of the stairs, his face half-hidden in shadow.
"I want to go out," Eduardo says. It's been snowing on and off for the past few days, which has made everyone twitchy and restless, and some of it was bound to rub off on Eduardo. He's almost completely healed now. The doctor gave him a clean bill of health just a few days ago, and he's been itching to wander around outside, despite Mark and Dustin's warnings.
Mark shrugs. "Sure," he says. He gets changed into what he usually wears on the weekends, a t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans. If they're doing this for fun, he wants to at least pretend it's fun. When the weather's nicer, it's routine for everyone to congregate at The Hive after work, but in the winters, no one wants to leave the house, a Bostonian sort of hibernation. They'll sit around and watch TV and drink whatever beer Dustin decided to buy this week. Chris will cook something delicious that he'll refuse to share with anyone else, and the rest of them have to stack empty pizza boxes in one corner until Justin gets fed up and dumps them outside. "Where are we going?" Mark asks.
Eduardo shrugs. "I was thinking of going to Christy's." He meets Mark's eyes easily.
Mark only learned that Eduardo and Christy even knew each other (let alone dated for a summer) two and a half years into their relationship. It apparently wasn't a serious thing, but they still talk to one another. Mark always knew he didn't like Christy and her complete unwillingness to take sides, but he likes having a reason to hate her too. "Okay," Mark says, because Eduardo has this all planned out.
Christy's is on the other side of the river, and no one besides Mark and Eduardo want to make the trip. Mark sits behind the wheel, and Eduardo is silent next to him. The city's rush hour traffic quiets down around nine, and while parking is difficult, they do eventually find a place. The front-facing club is packed, but not as busy as Mark has seen it when all the BU students are back on campus. Behind the scenes, however, things are quieter. The bouncer knows Eduardo by sight and lets them in. Mark doesn't comment.
The back rooms are smoky, darkly lit, giving off a vague sense of anonymity. There are various tables set up, a neatly dressed dealer at each one of the tables. Christy is nowhere to be seen, much to Mark's relief. She runs an efficient operation here, and Mark has been keeping an eye on her, just in case she gets ambitious, but she seems content to lie low and not get too involved in the wider city politics. Mark is fairly certain that she's selling information to the police, but the kind of information Christy has is the kind of information that Mark doesn't give a shit about. Most of the people back here are city old timers, though Mark sees a few of the Winklevoss's men surrounding the roulette wheel. It makes him tense up, on edge and ready for a fight, but they're too intent on the wheel to notice him.
Eduardo doesn't sit at any of the poker or blackjack tables and he doesn't head straight for the few slot machines, much to Mark's relief. They get one of the tables in the back, close to the bar, where they won't be overheard. Narendra is playing poker with some retired cops, doing pretty well by the number of chips on the table in front of him, but they don't acknowledge one another.
"I've always liked it here," Eduardo says. "I can just get away from everything, you know?"
Mark stares at him. Eduardo does look more relaxed here, leaning back in his seat, arm's loose at his side. He's also got a determined look on his face, the kind of look he'd get before big presentations and trips home to visit his family in Miami. "So why are we here now?" Mark asks.
Eduardo pauses. "I want to be mayor," he says.
Mark's first instinct is to laugh. He studies Eduardo's face, trying to figure this out. Eduardo's not the type to joke around. If Mark is being honest, Eduardo's sense of humor actually kind of sucks, so it's not likely that this is some kind of elaborate prank. "Mayor?" he says.
"Next year is an election year, and I want to take the symbol of their power over this city away from them," Eduardo continues. He takes a deep breath and looks at Mark with huge eyes. "We can do this, right? I've seen how far your network goes."
Mark had considered it for a little while, trying to beat Mayor Winklevoss at his own game, but they'd never had a good candidate before. Mark hated the thought of giving speeches. Dustin had been arrested too many times. Chris wasn't up for the public attention. Eduardo, on the hand, is volunteering. Eduardo wants to do this. "If we do this, there's no turning back, Wardo," Mark says. He feels a rush, though, a plan unfolding in front of his eyes. Mark lives for these moments, these seconds when he can see everything fall into place.
Eduardo says, "I know." His jaw is clenched tight. He looks like he needs a drink. "Mark, I-- This is something I need to do."
Mark watches him closely. "I'll talk to Chris," he says. They'll need to get his contacts to get a sense of what's going on in City Hall. Mark burned all his own bridges there long ago, so his information is outdated and mostly useless. Then they'll need to gauge the tenor of the city at large. If they make the right moves, hit the right targets, this could be easy. Or at the very least, easier. It'll be the perfect symbol of their rise to power. If he pulls this off, no one will be able to ignore him then.
"Okay," Eduardo says. A smile, one that Mark hasn't seen in forever, crosses his face.
---
Chris makes this weird expression when Mark asks about it, but Chris sounds confident about their chances when he assures them that it's possible.
"It won't be easy with this timeframe," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "We'll have to start prepping immediately."
Chris spends the next few days laying out the basic information that Eduardo needs to know about how the districts break down and about the power players they're going to need to sway to their side.
In order to meet the residency requirement for the city, Eduardo moves into the condo in Copley that Mark bought a few years ago as a birthday gift for him. They'd been arguing a lot at the time, and Mark had thought that maybe it would help fix things between them. It didn't. It's been sparsely furnished for at least a year, but now Eduardo starts making it presentable, getting new sheets for the bed, filling the refrigerator with food, mostly of the frozen, supermarket variety, moving his suits into the closet.
There are forms to file and procedures to follow, people to meet and things to learn. Mark doesn't bother keeping up with the nitty gritty details, but he does see Eduardo reading printouts over breakfast, Eduardo watching older speeches on the TV in the living room, Eduardo in conversations with some of the Boston natives that work for Mark.
Eduardo still sleeps in Mark's bed on the nights when he's not in the Copley condo, even though the worst of the nightmares seems to have subsided. Eduardo still won't touch Mark these days, but they talk sometimes before falling asleep. They talk about all sorts of things that they won't say anywhere else. Eduardo talks about his sister, far away in California, and he talks about how scared he is, and he talks about Boston, the way it sits heavy and painful in his chest. He doesn't talk about the two days, two nights he spent in the hands of the Winklevii, but Mark doesn't expect him to.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this, fuck," Eduardo says.
Mark just watches him, quiet and steady. "I'm listening," he says.
Eduardo laughs. "You are," he says, and the amazement in his voice really should not be as insulting as it is.
---
They announce Eduardo's candidacy in January.
Eduardo is calm throughout the entire process of preparing his speech and public statements. Mark's isn't positive that Chris isn't slipping Eduardo Xanax on the sly, but he's just glad that he doesn't have to manage Eduardo's emotions on top of working out how to make sure that South Boston, still as notoriously hostile to outsiders as always, will fall in line the way Mark needs it to.
The college students will be easy to convince. Mark knows how easily they are swayed by dewy-eyed optimism, and Eduardo can sell that without much effort at all.
Mark doesn't go to any of Eduardo's public appearances or speeches. He has too many other things to do, and it feels strange, like being in a place he doesn't belong. Eduardo's suits get even neater, though, and his hair somehow becomes even more perfectly styled. He puts on the role of an up-and-coming politician like he was born to it, like he's spent his whole life convincing people that he's exactly who he says he is. Mark finds it impressive. He's never been able to be anyone but himself.
During their weekly meetings, Chris assures Mark that Eduardo really is handling the pressure well, but Mark suspects that Chris is just saying that to keep Mark from digging too deeply into what Eduardo's mental state is like right now. It's not like it makes any sense to talk to Eduardo about it, because Eduardo is weirdly sensitive about things like that, and Mark wouldn't know how to ask without triggering yet another argument.
Mark has a lot more work to do, making sure the rest of the city knows exactly who he's throwing his weight behind. There's some grumbling from some corners about the pretty-boy puppet that the Jew is putting up to challenge the mayor, but Mark doesn't give a flying fuck. If they're not afraid of him yet, they will be. Mark will make sure of that.
---
It probably should concern Mark more that he keeps finding Eduardo while he's drinking alone. The liquor of choice today is whiskey, probably as expensive as the vodka was. At least this time Eduardo is using a tumbler instead of downing it straight from the bottle. He's in the kitchen of their house in Cambridge, and he's by himself, and he looks like he's trying to get drunk as soon as possible. He might even be halfway there already.
"I'm not sure I can do this," Eduardo says. "What if I'm not any good at it?" He doesn't look at Mark, but he clearly knows that Mark is in the doorway, listening.
"It doesn't matter," Mark says. They have to win, first, and Mark can't think past that point right now. Eduardo has to keep his shit together until November, then he can have as many freakouts as he wants.
Eduardo closes his eyes and puts his forehead on the table. He takes wet, heaving breaths. "It matters to me," he says, when he picks his head up. His eyes are glassy and far away. He's really, really drunk, and Mark would probably be more worried about a vomiting episode if Eduardo was still drinking. His tumbler is empty, and he's not making any moves to fill it up again. Mostly, he just looks like shit.
"Okay," Mark says. He shrugs.
"Chris says that it'll be difficult because I'm an outsider, that people won't believe that I understand the city well enough to run it. The Winklevosses have been in Boston forever," Eduardo says, and he sounds kind of fucked up over it. Mark doesn't understand that, but he doesn't think he's ever understood half of why Eduardo cares so much about things that he cares about. It feels like a waste of time.
"It won't matter," Mark says. "We'll break them from the inside out. Mayor Winklevoss won't have anything to stand on by the end of it."
Eduardo barely seems to notice that Mark is there anymore. He's staring at some point on the wall. "Fuck," Eduardo says again. "I'm really fucking wasted." He reaches for the whiskey again, and Mark is pretty sure he's had enough. He moves the bottle away from Eduardo, so that it's out of reach.
"Get some sleep," Mark says. He helps Eduardo out of the chair and nudges him towards the stairs.
---
Mark is busy, really busy. His life is a never ending stream of things to do, people to talk to, plans to make. He has to sit down with local leaders to discuss why Eduardo is the all-around better candidate, and he has to make sure that the Winklevii haven't managed to actually connect Eduardo to Mark's criminal activities, and he has to make sure that everything else doesn't melt down while Mark is focused on the election. He donates money to the Boston public school system on the advice of Chris. They have the money, and Mark probably wants to set himself up as a kooky philanthropist (Dustin's words, not Mark's) in the public eye if Eduardo is going to be getting that much more attention in the future.
There are days where he only sees Eduardo for five minutes, the two-and-a-half minutes after waking up and the two-and-a-half minutes before he passes out in bed. Most of the Eduardo-handling is done by Chris these days, though Mark thinks that maybe Dustin pitches in. Mark doesn't bother keeping close tabs on them. Eduardo is an adult. He's more than capable of handling himself.
Mark breaks the fingers of a bookie who was skimming a little more off the top than he should have been, and he has Dustin blow up an empty car to prove a point to to the Irish. One day in February, Mark pulls an all-nighter that reminds him of the early days, when he could stay up all night on Red Bull and Mountain Dew and spin out the most beautiful plans he's ever seen. He misses that sometimes, the ability to throw himself entirely into his work, to leave everything else out.
The election is still consuming most of his time. He makes a few calls to make sure Chris's endorsement ends up in the Globe, and he makes sure that Eduardo's war chest is never empty by talking some of the local businesses into making regularly scheduled "campaign contributions." Marilyn makes sure all of the paperwork that needs to go with their finances is in order.
"I think your man might be feeling a little neglected," Dustin says one lazy Saturday afternoon. He's playing something on the Xbox. Something with guns. Mark has lost a lot of interest in playing FPS games over the years. It's like a bizzaro version of real life that Mark just doesn't want to deal with.
Mark yawns. He's thinking about napping on the couch, since he's been sleeping weirdly for the rest of the week. Dustin can wake him up if he needs to do something. "Eduardo is probably too busy to feel neglected," Mark says. "We all are." Just last week, Eduardo had to do at least three public appearances with various local groups, not that Mark knows who they were or at what times Eduardo met them.
"Whatever, dude," Dustin says as something explodes into a pile of guts onscreen. "I know your marriage is going through a rough patch, but that's no reason to make everyone else miserable at the same time."
"We're not married," Mark says. Just the thought is giving him a headache.
Dustin shrugs, "If you say so, man." He turns back to his video games, and Mark closes his eyes and takes that nap.
---
"Morelli finally has the North End sewn up," Mark says, "but we'll have to make sure that some of his lackeys don't decide that Mayor Winklevoss can make them a better offer." He's been negotiating with Morelli all week, and it had taken more than a few poll numbers and the ground Mark's gained in JP, Southie, and Roxbury to convince Morelli that Mark is an actual player. It didn't hurt that Mark had pretty much turned every single one of the mafia's bookies in the meantime either.
"Mark," Eduardo says. "I don't need you to--"
"You also have to find a good place to convince the old people that you're a good bet. They're not a big fan of change. I can--" Mark doesn't really know who to talk to about that, maybe Eric? His grandmother is in a nursing home in the area, right?
"This isn't just about you," Eduardo says. "This campaign is our thing." He's been pacing around the room for maybe the last two hours, watching as Mark handles things from his end. It's not that Mark minds that Eduardo has decided to hang around Mark's office while Mark's working, it's just strange. No one else seems to want to spend that much time in Mark's presence, and the feeling is entirely mutual.
And then Eduardo's hand is on Mark's shoulder, spinning Mark around so that they're facing each other. "Yeah," Mark says. He's been obsessing over the latest poll numbers. They don't have the greatest data because there's not as much demand for it at a local level, but he's certain that they can recruit some polisci/stats major from somewhere or another. There's more than enough universities in the area.
"Mark," Eudardo says, and he sounds annoyed, but Mark needs to get back into this. He pushes back against Eduardo's hand, so that he can face the desk again. Eduardo is apparently not going to let Mark do that, though. He tightens his grip on Mark's shoulders, keeping him still. "Mark," Eduardo says again.
Mark isn't expecting Eduardo to kiss him, but Eduardo does, leaning forward in a way that can't be comfortable. It's been so long that Mark had almost forgotten what it was like, with Eduardo's hands cupping Mark's face, with the familiar slide of Eduardo's lips against his own. Mark parts his lips so Eduardo can slide his tongue inside his mouth. He wants this. He's wanted--
Of course, that's when Dustin decides to barge into Mark's office. "Hey Mark, I talked to Amy about the thing with the shipments and-- oh holy shit, I was never here." He's already turned around and fled by the time Mark gets his eyes open, but Mark can tell that the moment is already over. Eduardo has pulled away.
"What was that?" Mark asks.
"Nothing," Eduardo says. He's breathing hard and refusing to meet Mark's eyes. "I guess old habits die harder than I thought."
"Wardo--" Mark says.
Eduardo rubs his eyes. "Forget it." He turns and leaves the room before Mark can say another word. Mark turns back towards his computer.
---
The invitation is Eduardo's idea. The bug is Dustin's.
"If we want to end this, we'll have to bring the fight straight to them," Mark says one afternoon, a map of the city spread across his kitchen table. "I'm done fucking around." The twins are talking shit around town, refusing to back down. Mark's been able to cut off their drug supply entirely, and most of the cops on their payroll like Mark's rates better than the Winklevoss's. Their control over the underworld is slipping, and it's becoming more and more obvious to anyone even mildly capable of understanding Boston politics. Mark just wants this over. He wants them to know that it's over too.
Eduardo says, "What are you going to do, invite them over for tea or something?"
Dustin says, "Hey, that's not entirely a bad idea."
So they send the Winklevii an invitation. Dustin's excited about getting to play around with new tech, and Mark is excited about the new intelligence they're going to get. The Winklevii are morons, complete and utter morons, but it'll be useful to know what sort of idiotic plans they're going to make this time around.
With Eric's connections -- Mark recruited him out of MIT -- they get one so small it can fit on the invitation without being obvious. Dustin handles most of the technical details while Mark starts making plans for the eventual confrontation. The twins are probably the only people stupid enough to wander into a situation where their enemies know more about the surrounding environment than they do.
It's a little fun, listening to the tapes afterwards. Narendra sends them a copy of their proposed map, which looks similar to the one they'd heard the three of them discussing earlier.
It's good. It doesn't mean that Mark can rely on it, not entirely, but it's good enough to use as their jumping off point.
Dustin says, "Do you honestly think the Winklevii are going to take you up on your offer?" He's trying to sync up the Winklevii's map with Mark's map so that they can best position their people when the shooting starts.
Mark shrugs. "Not really. But on the off chance they decide not to be morons, it'll make my life a lot easier."
Later, Mark listens to the recordings by himself in his office, headphones pressed tight around his ears. He hears one of the twins say, "I can't believe that little fucker didn't give us anything. You should have let me break his ribs."
The other one says, "Yeah, you'd think it would be easier to break a guy who's so eager to suck Zuckerberg's dick." Their voices sound metallic, tinny, far away, but Mark can imagine the looks on their faces as they talk in their tiny office in city hall. He can imagine other things, too. He can imagine putting a gun to Tyler's head and pulling the trigger, imagine Tyler's brains coating the pavement. He even imagine what it looked like, when Eduardo finally figured out what was happening to him, the anger and fear that must have crossed his face.
Mark closes the audio file, and he closes his eyes, and he breathes and breathes and breathes.
---
The spring air feels heavy in his lungs, and the night sky is dark over his head. Mark shoves his hands in his pockets. He's a little tense, a little on edge, but he's not particularly bothered by that feeling. Mark doesn't really like being outside, but he does like the docks, especially at night, when things are quiet and heavy with potential. The first time he visited the docks, he'd hated the low visibility around the shipping containers, the trapped, ominous feeling of walking between them, getting lost in a maze, but he likes that he can use that to his advantage now.
"Are you sure we can't wait inside the car?" Dustin asks. He's rubbing his hands together, hunched underneath his jacket, scowling at Mark. Mark has never figured out why people are so cold all the time.
Mark ignores him. "No, we can't." Mark says. It's been a while since he last stared the Winklevoss twins down, face to face. It used to be a regular occurrence. Mark tries to limit their interactions these days, for obvious reasons.
He needs to be out here, though. He needs to look at there faces, knowing what they did to Eduardo, and he needs to see what they look like when he ends them, one way or another. He suspects that they won't go down easily, but they were always a lot stupider than they thought they were.
Justin shifts restlessly behind them, arms folded across his chest, one eye drifting back to keep an eye on the cars. Eduardo insisted on coming along to this particular confrontation, and Mark had only agreed if Eduardo stayed in the car. That argument went on for two nights running, with Eduardo unable to pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize that this time around, the Winklevii weren't interested in keeping him alive. In the end, Eduardo conceded, somewhat reluctantly, after both Chris and Dustin agreed with Mark about what was best for Eduardo's safety.
From Narendra's report, it looks like the Winklevii are going to be armed to the gills and ready for a nasty fight. Mark's ready for that, but he's not sure Eduardo ever will be. He's already sent some of his men ahead to check out the places marked off on the map, and Mark is just waiting now. He squeezes his fingers into a fist and then loosens them. Dustin rubs his hands a little harder. Mark hears the sound of distant footsteps.
And then the Winklevii show up, Narendra in tow. They have ten men with them, all carrying, big and burly and looking like they'd be mean in a fight. Thankfully, Mark's not dealing with anything other than handguns, their jackets bugling with the concealed holsters. Tyler is looking them over with a skeptical eye, like he doesn't believe that Mark is only there with two other people backing him up. Mark doesn't bother acknowledging him. He's not ready to show his hand yet.
Cameron is out front, smirking, all smug self-confidence, like he doesn't know how fucked he is. There's a swagger in his step as he comes forward. "Fancy meeting you out here, Mr. Zuckerberg," he says.
It doesn't take long for the shooting to start.
---
When they get back in the car, Eduardo starts shaking. He leans heavily on the seat, head tilted back, eyes closed. He lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh and half like a sob.
Mark is sitting right next to him, their bodies almost touching, but Eduardo doesn't acknowledge his presence, the fact that Mark is even there. "Wardo," Mark says.
Eduardo's breathing is heavy in the darkness of the car. "Fuck," he says. "It's over, right?"
Mark puts a hand on Eduardo's shoulder. Eduardo leans into it in a way that seems involuntary, like he doesn't even know he's doing it. "Yeah, it is," Mark says. He'd felt his stomach drop out when he saw Eduardo step out of the car, when he saw Eduardo spit on Tyler's face. But it's okay. They're alive, and the twins aren't, and that's all that matters.
Eduardo looks at him, and there's something there, almost painful, and Mark doesn't know what to do about it. Eduardo kisses him, not quite like the last time. That one had been deliberate, careful and familiar. This is rawer than that, sloppy and desperate, like he's trying to crawl into Mark's mouth.
"Whoa," Justin says from the driver's seat. "Do I have to get a hose or something?"
Mark pulls back so that he can respond, but Eduardo beats him to it. "Just get us back to the condo," Eduardo says, out of breath, and his eyes are bright. He sits down in his seat and straightens his jacket, making himself presentable. It's somewhat futile, but Mark appreciates the effort.
It's late enough that the streets are mostly empty, but Mark practically has to sit on his hands, and he can feel Eduardo practically vibrating next to him, still wound up on adrenaline with nowhere to go. As soon as Justin pulls up in front of the place, Eduardo drags Mark out of the car, one hand clamped tight around Mark's wrist.
Then they're in Eduardo's bedroom, and Eduardo is pressing Mark against the wall, and his eyes still have that wild light to them. The place still feels spare and spartan, too clean. Mark hasn't bothered decorating their house in Cambridge, but it still feels like home just from the amount of crap they've managed to accumulate over the years, the fingerprints they've left behind. "It's over," Mark says, because he's stared down guns being waved in his face more times than he can count and Eduardo is the one freaking him out right now. He puts a hand on the back of Eduardo's neck, trying to keep him grounded.
"Do they always look like that?" Eduardo asks. "When you kill them?"
Mark shrugs. "It's different each time." He can still remember the first, a 'friend' of Sean's and a drug deal gone wrong. Mark had seen enough horror movies that the blood hadn't freaked him out, but it had been too real, too much. He'd never seen a dead person before that, and that time, Mark had been the one who'd pulled the trigger.
Eduardo kisses him again, like he thinks that maybe he can fuck the image away. Mark kisses back, because it feels like it's been forever, and even though Eduardo has been right here the entire time, he's also been so far away, remote and untouchable.
"That was it," Mark says, a little short of breath himself. "There's nothing in our way." The Winklevoss twins have been the bane of Mark's existence for years, and now they're not. They'll never bother Mark again.
Eduardo shivers as Mark says it, eyes closed again. "Yeah," Eduardo says. "C'mon. I really want you to fuck me."
The bed is neatly made, probably because Eduardo has hired someone to clean up after him. He has the cash for it, Mark knows. They don't have anyone clean Mark's house due to Mark's perfectly justified paranoia about who they let into their lives, but Eduardo didn't have anything to hide, not here. There's lube in the bedside table, already opened, which makes Mark frown, but it doesn't matter, because Eduardo is with him right now, and anyone else Eduardo may have fucked has nothing to do with him.
Eduardo groans when Mark's fingers open him up, jaw going slack, and it really doesn't matter how many times Mark sees it, he loves it every time.
Mark sucks a hickey into Eduardo's collarbone, tastes Eduardo's skin and sweat. There's still a scar on his temple, tiny, barely visible, but Eduardo keeps most of the woulds on the inside. Mark's bad at this, but even he can tell that. "It's going to be beautiful," Mark says, "all of it." He knows Eduardo's dreamed of it too, what's going to happen when they finally control the city, when the city is finally theirs.
"Stop fucking around, Mark, and fuck me," Eduardo says. He shoves back onto Mark's fingers, all long, long legs and easy, unpracticed grace, and Mark wants to keep this, all of it, for as long as he can.
When Mark finally slides into Eduardo's body, it feels like coming home.
---
Mark wakes in the morning to an empty bed. It takes him a moment to reorient himself. It's been a while since he's been in a bed that isn't his own. Or a couch. Couches are different.
The morning sun is streaming in through the window. Spring is coming soon, and the snow piled up on the streets is melting down. There's a hint of warmth in the air these days. Mark gets out of bed, grabs a pair of Eduardo's sweatpants and a t-shirt and pulls them on. He rolls up the pants at the waist and lets the cuffs drag on the floor.
Eduardo is out on the balcony, half-dressed for a day of press junkets, his sleeves rolled over to elbows, a tie hanging loose and untied around his neck. The condo is high enough to look out over the street, see a bit of the skyline over the opposite rooftops. It's still early, but the roads are already beginning to fill up with cars and pedestrians, ready to start their day. Mark leans over the railing and breathes it in for a moment. This is Boston all around him right now, honking horns and car exhaust and Red Sox baseball caps. This is theirs.
"I don't think I was ready for this, really ready for this, until last night," Eduardo says. "I'm ready now." He doesn't look at Mark, like he can't take his eyes away from the city. He's a part of this, too, Mark thinks. He's planted his roots as deep as Mark has. They're both in this for the long haul, as long as it lasts.
"I'm telling you, Wardo," Mark says, sliding an arm around Eduardo's back, comfortable and familiar, "it's going to be beautiful."
Eduardo closes his eyes, tilts his head up towards the sun, the future unfolding behind his eyelids. "I can see it already," he says, and he's smiling.
FIN.
End Notes: So, I think this is the last real story I'm going to write in this universe (though there may be a smaller scale project on the way, because like they say in the Godfather, every time you try to get out, they pull you right back in). Thanks so much for sticking with us, guys. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as we've enjoyed writing this. It's been a blast.
no subject
Hmmm... I am not even sure what is my favorite part. The way Mark's lack of understanding of his own and other people's emotions played out, especially when it was obvious he was in deep for Eduardo.
Seeing Eduardo's unresolved trauma and watching him recover, through the eyes of said lack of understanding was fascinating too. Hooray for unreliable narrators.
I also love that it's a happy ending here for Eduardo to be subsumed by the criminal underworld. Strangely, I think he may be a better mayor of Boston because of it, ahaha. If only because he will have the muscle to get things done.
Also, the random Boston tidbits are always great (it really is winter 80% of the time, ha)
no subject
But yeah, I was saying to
no subject
no subject