three shots and a hard on

by somethingwentBUMP

Three shots and a hard-on later, that's why those five-fingered spiders are scrabbling at his back and pulling him closer and farther. He can still taste lemons and apples and December minutes are passing whiter than ever. The Social Network; Eduardo/Mark

Three shots and a lemon later, Eduardo is drunk. Fucking drunk. Yeah, that sounds about right. Because about two hours ago he was getting sucked off in a bathroom stall by some pouty sex goddess and all he could think of –

Was him, because an inch through cheap metal and tacky plastic were his fingers, crawling like spiders over the partition. They were quiet in purpose but he heard them anyway; they were clinging slickly to the graffiti and leaving smeared fingerprints. Eduardo tried to look at the long-legged girl with her lips around him, he really did, but somewhere on the way there Mark moaned and well, that was fucked. His tongue went numb and when his hands groped at the partition for purchase he forgot how to breathe (because oh, oh god it's hard not to think of Mark when he loses it as those five-legged spiders scrabble at his back).

So three shots and a cab later he's blurry and maybe it's enough, because his fingers are losing feeling and it's all he can do to keep a hold of the damn tequila. He's drunk (yeah, fucking drunk) and possibly more so if he could just find the stupid lemon. Who needs lemons, anyway? Lemons are for guys who can't get a blowjob in the men's at shitty nightclubs. Lemons are for guys who think of their best friend during blowjobs in the men's at shitty nightclubs. Yeah, fuck lemons. Who needs 'em.

He's all set to shoot back anyway, the glass (which is less of a shot glass and more a beaker he found lying around) is cold against his lips and his throat is tight with anticipation. But Mark walks in at that point and he's all bones and computer codes; his breath is still white from minutes in December air and Eduardo suddenly feels like he's not drunk enough. Not nearly drunk enough. Not fucking –

Eduardo tips back the glass and shudders. Maybe lemons are pretty great, after all. God, it tastes like shit. He chokes a little bit when he swallows and feels the heat swell back up his throat, but one look at Mark and it decides to carry right on down to his stomach pretty quick. Mark's nose is pink and for a few moments, Eduardo is kind of preoccupied with this. His nose is pink. That's so, uh, what? Is there a word for something that makes you smile even though your tongue is still numb and three-shots-worth of tequila is currently burning a hole in your stomach? Actually, there are a lot of words. Like, lesbian. No, even better: lesbians. That's a good one.

Next time he looks up, Mark is sitting at the desk and the only thing pink about his back is the collar of his hoodie. Eduardo takes a few minutes to try to stand up while Mark logs on; by the time thefacebook is open he's managed to stumble over to his best friend, tequila bottle clutched to his chest. He's gotten used to seeing him like this. In fact, Mark's back is just about all he sees of the guy since the site went live.

It's funny. Funny 'cause Mark's back is just so damn appealing. Wait, wait – no, wait. Is that gay; is that a gay thing to think? Nah. What's gay about liking a back? It's just a fact. Eduardo looks and appreciates what is there, because it is neat and it is right and he likes it. Maybe the best part is the way the back doesn't so much as curve into Mark's neck as it leans into it. No, wait, it's that bit – yeah, that bit – that he likes the best: the sliver of white that greets his back so stiffly. That bit. Before he can stop himself he is stretching out an arm to that whiteness, curious to touch and to know –

He presses his fingers to Mark's neck and is surprised by its coldness. Mark pushes him off and mutters something about 'sticky' while his hands slide back to the keyboard. Eduardo stares for a moment – he's not giving up, he just can't stop staring at those damn hands. They reach out like white branches, thin and spindly and waiting for something to reach back. Like, pretty amazing. They pause for a moment and he becomes dully aware that Mark is looking at him, as if he expects something. Did he speak? What did he want? All Eduardo can think of is that maybe he wanted some tequila, too. And no wonder, it's pretty good. Yeah, fucking good. He holds out the bottle with a flourish and Mark doesn't even look at it; his fingers slip off the keyboard and rest somewhere on his lap, midway between crotch and khaki-covered knees. With an 'oh', Eduardo sits suddenly. Crotch, crotch. That just took the… whatever. Whatever it was, it took it, all of it and the box it came in, because it feels like the blood in his legs just fucked off up to his –

'Eduardo, we don't have time for this. I've outlined some ideas for the layout and I need you to work out the math. Maybe something like the address algorithm, but HTML server-compatible. Eduardo. Eduardo.'

Is that his voice; is Mark speaking? God, he's speaking, right there when Eduardo's got a hard-on pressing right up against his jeans and he's speaking. No, he's not drunk enough. Not fucking drunk enough. He shuts his eyes and raises the bottle in his friend's general direction, then presses it to his lips - but a white spider shoots out and gently steals the faded glass from him. His eyes shoot open and follow the hand to an arm, thin and pale and attached to a hunched shoulder which leans into a neck and then - oh, oh, fuck –

'Are you listening? This is important. We really need this, Eduardo.'

That's why three shots and a theft later, he wants to open his eyes again but doesn't dare. Mark's face is just so dangerous when he's in this kind of state: intense and tipsy, lit up from behind by computer screens and looking right at Eduardo. He's afraid that one look at those eyes and something will happen. So he grits his teeth so hard that nerves scream in discomfort and holds his breath until colors start to flash in the cool darkness; he tries to stop thinking even if it is just for a moment; can feel that he is stretched between two points and is becoming frayed at the edges. In fact the seams are coming loose altogether and Eduardo can't help the desperate hiss when he hears Mark speak again.

So he doesn't know how it happens, exactly – how with eyes closed and held breath he lunges forward and pulls at Mark, tugs at his khaki's with numb fingers and jerks him from the chair and to the floor. At some point he knows that he opens his eyes and sees Mark floundering on the floor beneath him; knows that his hands are clutching at Mark's hoodie and he's leaning down and still not breathing. Is Mark speaking again? Maybe he's saying something, maybe it's kind of important considering that he's a flicker away from those lips and their noses are squished up against each other, but then Eduardo realizes that he really doesn't care and kisses him.

Oh god, oh god – what does he do now? It's too fucking addictive to pull away, because it takes only a moment and an ache in his half-remembered hard-on to bite down on Mark's lips and taste his teeth. His tongue doesn't seem to be as numb for some reason and he can't stop kissing his best friend, who is pushing at his chest and trying to form words through Eduardo's lips. It's then that Eduardo remembers to breathe and surfaces, gasping and resting his forehead against damp curls and closing his eyes. Oh god, he's drunk. Yeah, fucking drunk. When he opens his eyes and feels like he's been suckerpunched in the heart, the fact that it has something to do with the bitemark on Mark's lower lip is kind of devastating. Is that gay? He's not gay, lemons are for gays. He didn't need the fucking lemons; yeah. He's not gay.

Why isn't Mark pushing him away? What does he want? He feels like he should look up at his eyes but those damn bitemarks are really kind of stunning in their own stupid way. One looks like it's bleeding. Eduardo is tempted to lean down and lick it and see if being more pixels than human makes your blood taste any different, but something about that temptation seems a bit off. He's pretty sure that it's gay, actually. And gays need lemons. Who, uh, who needs lemons? Gays, that's who; yep.

But then Mark shifts a little and that tongue flickers out, swipes over the bitemarks and disappears. And Eduardo becomes breathlessly aware of two things.

The first thing is that whoa, his crotch is telling him to find out immediately where that tongue just went – and he is happy to obey, gay or not. Fuck the lemons. Yeah, fuck 'em, he tried damn it. Where the hell is the tequila, anyway? Eduardo doesn't really care all that much, because Mark tastes much better and at least he can feel his tongue now. So he dips his head and happily drowns himself in the taste of apples and vodka, because Mark opens without hesitation and moans right into his mouth when Eduardo presses his sticky fingers to brown curls and thumbs to flushed cheekbones.

And that's the second thing, and that's what makes him slide his hands down Mark's temples to his neck, that's what makes him lean to the right and blow heat into Mark's ear before licking it. The other shudders and arches upwards and that –

Yes, that –

– is the second thing, oh god it makes his erection become almost painful and he swears that goosebumps run all the way up his spine.

It's all too easy to trail a hand down Mark's body and rest at the waistband of his trousers. It's harder to just stay there and watch the guy press against the floor, eyes cold and blue and undone and all because of him. Mark's lips part absently as he struggles to keep composed, staring right up at Eduardo and silent. Maybe because he's just so drunk - fucking drunk, that's right, because who needs lemons? - but he wants to see how far he can push Mark Zuckerberg. He's seen plenty of broken pixels in his time; blue and green and red and most of them on Dustin's laptop because everyone knows it's a piece of shit; but he's never seen any the color of sky in December. None of them ever pushed their hard-ons up against his hips or made him lose it in a bathroom stall. (And none of them wore khakis.)

'Eduardo.' Mark says, and the thing is he could be calling across the dorm for his attention and nobody would know the difference. And that's what makes Eduardo really shiver; makes him press down and bite.

And three shots and a hard-on later, that's why his hips are moving against Mark's, that's why those five-fingered spiders are scrabbling at his back and pulling him closer and then farther. He can still taste lemons and apples and December minutes are passing whiter than ever. His mouth is open and his hair is fucked over with sweat but Eduardo doesn't care, because he's pushing his clothed erection against Mark's and he's so close to just losing it and if Mark's moans are anything to go by then he's pretty fucking close, too.

He feels like a step away from choking when Mark rolls his hips slowly up against him. Well, it took him by surprise; where did Zuckerberg learn something like that? If he's going to play dirty, then that is fine by Eduardo (very fine, actually, like lesbians).

'Oh, oh –' Mark is whispering and only an inch from his mouth, and Eduardo swears he says his name and then his eyes are tight shut and his head falls back and his arms splay onto the floor and his hands are dead spiders, on their backs with legs curled inwards –

He's losing it and so is Eduardo, who slides his hips up against Mark once more before becoming undone. His edges split and peel apart like paint in summer heat; his mouth is open and there's a roaring in his ears which he can't quite make out but sounds like the blood is rushing back. He jerks forward and falls apart with his cheekbone against Mark's cold one, because bones and broken pixels are much more reliable than tequila and lemons.

His boxers are hot and fucking uncomfortable, and Mark starts to breathe again. He is already shifting, edging out from under Eduardo's body, unspeaking; Eduardo moves to capture his lips again but Mark looks away and stares up at the computer patiently. The rejection cuts worse than the lemon at the back of his throat, than the hangover he can already feel, and he swallows. Did he expect any less? Because it's Mark, because he's already standing up and tugging at his khaki's and he's his best friend.

The spiders skitter away and Eduardo gets that, he really does, he just kind of wishes that it's not when the cum is still hot in his pants.

About three shots and two minutes ago he was getting off with Mark fucking Zuckerberg, and hell if the lemons matter when that kind of shit happens.