a/n: b-day fic for paige! c:
{waveform}
By simple stereotypical categorization, neither of them should be able to articulate this - this burning, ripping sensation - that flows through both of them like smoke and fire through their veins. Mark's always been more into computers, anyway, and so has he, and what that says about them is that they prefer the order of computer code to the wild entropy of nonlinear words.
Still, they gasp when they pull apart. It rips into him, into Eduardo, and it is like being shot, over and over again.
This is not finite; it is self-destructing and spiralling and they shall burn in it until the day they die.
/\/
The first time is in Mark's bedroom during their junior year and Mark tastes like everything Eduardo's ever wanted. Like wealth and extravagance and yet, somehow, simplicity and cleanliness in the perfectperfect lines of Mark's face and the soft dips of Mark's lips. Everything is absolutely still and Eduardo thinks that they could hear a pin drop in the aftermath.
(It's the start of a war.)
/\/
It progresses, and Mark jokingly terms it as something akin to a virus. It multiplies and permeates every cell of Eduardo's body until he cannot take it anymore and runs to Mark after the end of every day, buries himself in Mark's sweatshirts and shampoo smells and Mark holds him like that, pathetically, and makes arbitrary comments about arbitrary things while Eduardo falls asleep listening to him.
/\/
"They lead to better things, better opportunities," Mark explains. "If we get in, we could be, hell, I don't know-"
"Billionaires?" Eduardo teases, grinning, and his (boy)friend laughs, a sharp, rumbly sound.
"Like that, Eduardo. Fucking billionaires."
They toast to acceptance and plans of integration. Mark discusses the strategies he'll use to hammer his way into the high-reaching social echelons, promising to bring Eduardo with him.
"We'll be kings," he proposes, and Eduardo has to agree that it sounds like a fine idea. Mark smiles.
/\/
There is one thing that separates them, and it is that Mark will never attain satisfaction. There will always be some new frontier to venture to, some exploit, some fantasy he'll want to entertain. He claws and tears and cleaves the world in two, then reshapes it in his own image. Every stitch, every fabrication of his ideal universe, will bear the title Mark Zuckerberg on it, a declaration of power, the embodiment of a force. Mark wants to, essentially, copyright the world and make it his own.
Eduardo would be content with equality. A small bit of him wishes for mediocrity, to simply be fed the tender morsels while Mark takes the lion's share. There is a larger part, mostly instilled in him by Mark and his parents, that holds that furious urge to take. When Mark talks to him, he is reminded of oligarchies and monopolies and wonders what they might do if, theoretically, they take over the world.
/\/
The inception of an inception is Mark's own idea, of course, but it is also Eduardo's. Mark glances at the other name like it might be a flaw. He revises and sits at his computer late into night, looking occasionally to the algorithm for guidance, looking more to Eduardo than anything while he devises and schemes. Eduardo is happy enough to wait on Mark; he had been promised a kingdom, after all.
(The insignificance of promises must slip his mind.)
/\/
Sometimes Mark chants his name like a prayer - Eduardo Eduardo Eduardo - and he could lose himself in that voice, just get lost and never leave. It's one of the finer moments in the year.
/\/
Those moments shadow the lesser ones. Mark starts to become more distant, the barrier more distinct, the parameters re-drawn in harsher letters. Eduardo gets a girlfriend. Mark speaks now only in whispers.
/\/
Eduardo finds it difficult to speak freely. Mark comments on the lack of privacy these days, and Eduardo snorts.
/\/
(There's a whole lot of derision behind each laugh.)
/\/
"You've been cheated too, haven't you?"
It's obvious enough; the question in itself is redundant. The meaning behind it, though, isn't rhetorical. It's to get them to acknowledge him. The Winklevoss twins look up, manicured brows wrinkling, and Eduardo steps forward with a smile and an outstretched hand.
"I've got a proposition."
/\/
Coercion is an underestimated talent of his. Mark may be brilliant, but he's prone to aggressiveness and is a bit of a jackass.
(Turns out Eduardo's better at articulation than he previously thought. How's that for a loop, fucker?)
/\/
They leave the room seething. Mark passes him on the way out and glowers. Eduardo pretends not to notice, shuffling papers in a manilla folder, but then he decides he'll give Mark a parting shot.
"Hey."
Mark's head swivels, and Eduardo winks, licks his lips.
The victory is small, petty, seemingly unimportant, but cities topple in the wake of the decision, and empires rise and fall simultaneously. Mark leaves and he doesn't come back.
/\/
("Connectivity," Mark had explained. "It's about the entire college social experience, putting it together like some giant spiderweb and then stringing people along. They want this, they want the convenience and the accessibility of it. More than anything, they want the connectivity provided."
They'd been lounging on Eduardo's couch, discussing social media like they were gods, bandying about terms and technicalities. Mark was drinking coffee and he smelled like maple syrup from that morning's breakfast. He'd tasted like it, too.
"Hey," said Mark, snapping his fingers. Eduardo turned. Mark was staring with a goofy grin.
"It'll be fine."
"I'm not worried," he'd replied, and Mark had dismissed it.)
/\/
Often, it feels like he can't breathe. There are all sorts of unspoken things lodged in his throat, as big as stones.
/\/
He won't stoop so low as to return, however.
/\/
Against everything, Mark protests that it is arbitrary. Eduardo disagrees. Thus, the feud. The separation hurts like a wound and Eduardo winces and Mark breathes hard and it is between them, strewn among the papers and the dismantled parts and Mark's dorm and paper cups. The room reeks like alcohol and guilt.
/\/
This is not finite.
(Prolonging it acts as a sort of reversal, Eduardo discovers. He stares at this, the convoluted tangles of a empire, and tries to find Mark in the jumble.)
/\/
Eduardo gets his part of the deal, the Winklevoss twins wash their hands of the matter, Mark heads a new monarchy.
The circle continues, and Eduardo reminisces over forgotten scraps of conversations.
/\/
There's something to be said for the surgical nature of psychology. Mark likes to analayze, he likes to find out what makes people tick, what drives economies and civilizations.
"Fuck you," Eduardo says once, in a fit of frustration, and Mark gives him this look like he doesn't care, and the apathy is like a slap.
/\/
It's nice that Mark prioritizes. He sends messages, gifts, makes futile, whining attempts at reconciliation.
For his part, Eduardo tries to reciprocate every gesture. He really does. He just can't find it in himself to care anymore, either.