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A collection of five drabbles centered on Mark and Eduardo of The Social Network. AO3 mirror here!
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An arrow that splits is an arrow unneeded
Donāt slow down. Itās a rule Mark is determined to live by; when you slow down, you mess up - even worse, you donāt mess up at all. But if you move fast, and break things, you have just as much of a chance to fix them.
In most situations.
Heās seen it in Eduardo, the aftermath of slowing down. It leaves Mark unhappy, and while he wishes he could say itās the sight of his friend under such duress that makes him feel this way, as would be the case for any good friend, it turns out Mark is not the greatest friend.
Instead of that very human empathy, the āyour pain is my painā, he gets a near-unbearable irritation for several reasons.
One, because Eduardo brought this on himself, through the way he feels, absorbs responsibility, and lets his own childishness shine through when he canāt deal with things anymore.
Two, because this affects everyone around him, and hinders their ability to manage anything involving Eduardo without kid gloves.
Three, because as general productivity and adult conversation lessens, Mark grows frustrated; his frustration stems from both his own inability and inactivity - Eduardo would probably react strongly to an offer from Mark, be it positively (accepting his help) or negatively (pushing Mark back, so far away - saying thereās ānothing he can doā).
Either way, Markās own failure to react in time to Eduardoās needs is usually the end of these things.
The thing about Markās rule, ādonāt slow down,ā is that you donāt slow down. He canāt. Not for himself, not for Eduardo.
Especially not for Eduardo.
But it works out; Mark takes off ahead, always at a run, and when he looks back - the few times he does, the few he allows himself - Eduardo is there. And Mark would be lying if he claimed after the first time, he began to expect the pleasant surprises.
He never turned around. But it was alright, as long as he didnāt stop, and Eduardo kept following; and Mark stopped looking back - each glance made him more nervous, and while that shadow of himself, of Eduardo, trailing in his footsteps, gave him a greater sense of security than it ever should have, facing forward did not delay the problem, only the reaction.
But it works out, and it worked out; it worked out until Mark turned back and Eduardo wasnāt there.
It worked out, until it didnāt anymore.
And from there, Mark drove it into the ground.
From there, Eduardo stopped trying to keep up, because he just couldnāt, anymore.
-
Move fast. Break things. And sometimes, stop to fix them - if you can.
But only when thereās really no other way. Or else youāre just caring too much.
Is he caring too much?
-
But if he slows down, and canāt keep up--
Well, thereās just no point, anymore.
Question the Sun
Do feelings die?
Eduardo is learning the answer - or answers, especially ones that contradict.
The key, theoretically, to killing a feeling, is distance.
Creating a distance severs that bond, that attachment--
That vein of unbidden emotion that Eduardo can live without.
Feelings are hot, and warm, and burn as long as you let them, but they do not die. They are not rekindled. There is a science.
In people, and emotion - itās all within the brain, part of a science, some great plan.
Eduardo is a scientist, but one with finities, finalities;
Eduardo is a scientist, but one without closure.
And he knows his own feelings, until they change--
Gradually, and then suddenly.
-
He understands it a little more when he sees Mark again, for the first time.
In fact he understands it so well, he loses some understanding of himself.
Heās drawn, and itches to gravitate, if only out of habit. Maybe he should be ashamed - a year, a life built on being Markās satellite.
Eduardo begins to hate - not Mark, no; Eduardo begins to hate how he canāt hate him, ever, ever.
-
Mark leans into him, and Eduardoās grasping at straws.
You donāt hate me.
No, he chokes. But I tried.
Mark is silent then, tenses, then shakes it away.
At least you did that, he concedes, after a long while.
-
Eduardo looks on, like maybe this isnāt real, none of it, if only out of habit.
(During the deposition
glass walls
valley larger than his life could afford
hoodie strings Beckās beer
losing breath to the wind)
Mark has to remind him, quietly, wordlessly:
I saw you, thinking, waiting, thinking. I heard you.
Stop Still
Eduardo dreams in daylight. These dreams are not clear of shade and shadow; sometimes he sees an absolute nothing, itās so dark - but he can feel the presence of a floating warmth, long as it lasts, long as he remembers.
Sometimes he thinks of Mark. He is not dreaming of him, per se - rather he is invaded, hacked into - in his head, his mind.
Again, heās lost control. If he had it at all.
He doesnāt know exactly when āyou never askedā became invalid.
-
Mark hears the rain come before he sees it. First timid patters against the glass, begging permission; he completely misses their transformation into savage, haphazard bullet rounds, scattering amidst the closing sky, frustrated by Markās lack of response.
He bears through, keys clacking at the same sinister rhythm.
Not now, he tells the rain. Iām locked in.
-
There were plenty of occasions in which Eduardo had asked for Markās clarification on things:
(Wardo, I need you.
Wardo, we did it.
Wardo, youāll get left behind.)
The last answer was one he waited for, but rejected both inside and out.
Even after, even now, he is small.
-
(Donāt tell him I said that.)
It was a small thing - the words, his voice - and Mark could feel himself collapsing beneath it, going quietly, horribly unnoticed.
Who was left to notice now, really?
And even then, Mark felt him - dragging them down, holding a high bar, dangling a prize in front of their noses.
But he wouldnāt shut him out, and even then, he asked of his Chief Financial Officer:
Donāt tell him I need you here with me.
-
Eduardo defined a broken heart as this: loving someone you canāt trust, anymore.
Mark describes the wound inside like so: empty, and unimpressive, and numb until he feels it sigh.
They canāt promise things will be the same, but broken pieces yearn - and love - to come together.
Theyāre mending, and building, something incredible, something brilliant.
mousepad, mousetrap
Mark is not a robot. Dustin knows this. Eduardo knows this. Most obviously, Mark knows this, but he lets people believe he is one.
Mark can feel, just like anyone else.
He just doesnāt know what to do with that, most of the time.
So he feels. Heās laughed, heās cried. Heās burned another, and burned himself. Best of all, heās wanted.
He has wanted things, and heās a little wanted, maybe.
-
Eduardo has wanted. He has ached, he has hurt, and he has known the loss that comes with wanting something so desperately.
Eduardo knows what wanting feels like.
Itās only working for what he wants that is so unfamiliar he could die.
So he wants, and waits, silent. He knows things won't just come, if he waits for movement, but he hopes.
He feels like anything heās worked for, he never wanted, maybe.
-
They learn a little, in their time apart.
Mark gives names to his thoughts, and thoughts to his voice, again.
Eduardo chooses to want, and to work, and to fight for himself, again.
And they hope with all they have that theyāre changed -
Not too much, not too little, but enough - enough to fight.
Surprisingly, no, this wasn't inspired by 'Mad World'. Inception drabble, Arthur-based.
-----
He has always wanted something more in life. He finds it in creaking veins when dying is closest to falling off the edge of a dream.
Arthur dies; itās essential to their situation, and then he comes back, just as infallible and permanent - he thinks itās pragmatic at best, and trivial in those effortless moments when everything swims, including him.
The drop in his stomach and reverb in his ears do not stop coming back.
Death does not get easier, and it thrills him enough to scare him, too.
With a brain like this, Arthur could have done more. He could have gone farther on his own legs, but he found it, he found it, and it wouldnāt let him go, not this easily.
It grabbed him by the lapels, and heād give his intrepid, reckless, paper-thin and compromised life for it.
Itās only in dreams does he live for dying, and heās dreaming all of the time.
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L.A. NOIRE DRABBLES. Jack Kelso-centric because I cannot control these feelings. Shippy if you squint but maybe kinda sorta not totally unintentionally idk? But whatever. Written for a V.I.P. "Titles" are quotes pulled from famous noir movies.
Five of 'em, count 'em, five.
Let the hurting begin.
Iāll never think of our moments together without nausea.
~
[ Context Notes: Flashback pondering, Jack meets Hank and Cole on the way to OCS. Hank is a friend, Cole is a rival. Cole was nicknamed āthe Shadowā for his rumored stealth and precise actions, along with his determination to do things āby the number.ā ]
-
Jack often wondered how different things would have been, had he not gotten on that bus for Camp Elliott. He would not have met many, and seen so many go. His mind goes through a checklist of possible outcomes, categorized by the catalytic element, and by the time it reaches āHank Merrillā or āCole Phelpsā it stops. It pulls the plug and says no more, because itās pointless, useless subjunctive, and nothing would have changed because it canāt; itās already happened.
At times Jack wonders if his mind is a separate entity.
If Jack said he wished he never got on that bus, he was lying. Imagining what could have happened only made him focus on the lit path, anyway.
But if he had known what he knows now?
Cole Phelps would not have been more than a shadow.
Theyāre floaters. Not much more than a suitcase full of nothing between them and the gutters.
~
[ Context Notes: 34-year old bachelor. Put his uniform away without trouble. Ensuing solitude. ]
-
Itās when Jack is lying on his sofa and naming constellations in the popcorn stucco of his living room ceiling that he understands raw quiet. The open area reeks of tobacco, stagnant at the source but wafting through the kitchen. Itās been maybe an hour, maybe fifteen minutes since they cleared the room, an unfinished poker game scattered across the unpolished mahogany tabletop.
Everyone has a home to get back to.
Maybe Jack forgets that, among his pals, beside his buddies, amidst their camaraderie. Maybe he forgets that his gear is in his footlocker, and all of his collective pedestrian thoughts can be found on the edges of a crinkled grocery list.
And suppose heās forgotten heās too old to be single and too young to be lonely.
Somewhere along the winding line, heās gone and made a mistake.
What I like about you is youāre rock bottom.
~
[ Context Notes: Jack rushes away from Monroeās goons, headed for Elsaās apartment to confirm her suspicions and get her to safety. Elsa screams, alarmed to see a battered and bloody Jack at her door; Cole hurries out with his pistol, only to find Jack on the other end. Jack limps into the foyer, quips a tired āSo youāre still carrying that army .45, Cole,ā then collapses. ]
-
The orchestrated din and clamor tightening his chest kept warmth in Jackās hands, telling him to fight. His pursuers were far behind him now but he continued to run - the abandoned sacrificial Fleetline was just as distant.
Sprinting to Elsa in his brown oxfords, Jack counted four years between the last time a dangerously right man or woman got his heart running its own marathon, and him taking the stairs to Elsaās floor two at a time.
And when he stumbles past the threshold (Elsaās white dress fits her wonderfully, but itās still unfitting, he notes through a loaded heartbeat) Jack has to smile, or give his drained attempt at one.
Itās short and smart and he can only name what he sees: Cole, his toy soldier, clinging to that fucking .45, and when Jack closes his eyes he sees the Emperor on his knees.
What a child, he thinks, and even the darkness blurs.
She was worth a stare. She was trouble.
~
[ Context Notes: Jack wakes in a clinic bed, upright; the room is brightly lit and white. Elsa is sitting on the window sill in her casual outfit - striped blue pants and a yellow blouse. When she notices Jack is awake, he says, āYou look lovely, princess,ā and she smiles. ]
-
Scratchy flannel, muted sunlight, anxious honking, and the faintest wisps of iodine, isopropyl, and an iris perfume.
These are some of the things that register in Jackās hurting head when he comes to.
Heās still groggy and pliant when he exhales the fresh truth in his mind and Elsa accepts it with her caged bird grace. Jack knows what she is, and he has to ask himself, how many have looked at her that way, and never saw past the stage?
And sheās humbled herself to come here, a far cry from debutante gloves, shimmering dresses, and morphine-addled sighs.
Jack wants to love her, but Coleās still comparing scars. He privately concludes that Elsa is always singing for someone else.
And Cole; heās always trying to hum along.
Itās a bitter little world.
~
[ Context Notes: Jackās returned to his office to review Buchwalterās case file after Benson hinted to some key clues he was missing. Moments later, a secretary brings Cole to his office. They begin abrasively, but Cole sits down and edges an apology; Jack dilutes it with a heated speech. The two settle what they can of their differences, and plan their moves with professionalism. ]
-
Cole is in Jackās office, and Jack can feel the crumbling remains of Phrygia, dusting the case file in his hands.
Thereās something about the conversation that feels pre-determined; pored over repeatedly before it solidifies, and even then itās cracking, and theyāre retracing steps like theyāve done this before.
Itās all too natural, and greater men would feel ashamed.
Distance, time, and proximity seem more and more relative, and Jack is losing their meanings; fewer words are lost on Jack, and Cole wonāt stop goddamn thinking.
The downhill battle moves far too slowly. Neither one is surprised. And Jack slouches, slurring strategy; he sees the pages turning in Coleās head and Jack numbers the reasons Cole Phelps is here, still here.
L.A. will never be big enough.
Omg hi I'm Alyssa and I like to barf feelings LOL!!!1!! Written after yet another exceedingly 'lucid' dream. Rushing thoughts and scary things, 347w.
------
676w. Some cursing but nothing you can't handle. Also for Secret Santastuck; I went on to fulfill the prompt's other option because the first part was so short. Obligatory interesting excerpt ahoy!
-----
He parked himself in front of his tiny mirror, twisted around to get a good view. Holy fuck, this was awesome, and it looked great. Ironically, of course.
But it wasnāt worth shit if nobody saw, right?
-
Dave hunched over his keyboard, nibbling and chewing the end of a straw connected to a now-empty apple juice box, gnawing and grinding it between his teeth. Shit, he was bored. Everyone worth talking to was offline, and there was virtually nothing to ramble about on his blogs. Even a new comic born of his detached mind was just tiring. He, with his chin digging into a palm, scrolled through Google after typing out random strings of nonsense, poring over the images it dragged up.
One in particular caught his eye. What the hell was this guy doing in his search? With a few clicks, he had followed the thread and tracked it to the source photo.
Okay, this was good stuff.
With just a few minutes of digging through his closet, Dave pulled out a sorta fresh plaid shirt, wrinkled throughout the sleeves and shoulders but whatever, not like anyone was going to notice. Paying careful attention to the directions on the six-step (technically, five) picture, he buttoned, tugged, tightened and tied around his torso his new greatest look.
He parked himself in front of his tiny mirror, twisted around to get a good view. Holy fuck, this was awesome, and it looked great. Ironically, of course.
But it wasnāt worth shit if nobody saw, right? Dave shuffled across his small bedroom in search of a proper camera - he had a couple, of varying prices and values, but he had to get the right one for this special occasion. Soon enough he had his back against a corner of his room, the camera lens angled downward as he held it high above his head, and with a couple clicks, he wondered just how he was going to get this around the Internet...
It struck him. Anonymous dealing. Yes, perfect.
He took a few more pictures to properly orchestrate his master plan. Just a quick upload away to good times and shocking revelations alike, and he was in. He hopped online to an anonymous chat and video site and in no time, heād started milking the desperate and selling the reactions, ācause hot damn they were golden.
You: hey
Stranger: hi
Stranger: asl
You: hot and dtf
Stranger: lol
Stranger: pics?
You: sure about that?
You: no turning back if i do
You: if you get what i mean
You: wink
Stranger: lol
Stranger: youāve done this before huh?
You: haha
You: yeah tons of times
You: nobody leaves bored lemme tell you that
Stranger: sounds promising
Stranger: im in
Stranger: ;)
Dave smirked at his computer and pulled up a picture of his lower waist, from his ribcage to the top of his hip bones.
You: http://i21.tinypic.com/hotbodxs5.jpg
You: do like y/n
Stranger: whoa
Stranger: hell yeah
Stranger: ha ha youre hot as fuck ;)
You: http://i53.tinypic.com/cleavageshot4.jpg
That one didnāt need as much explanation.
Alright, maybe it did, but nobody was getting one.
Stranger: damnnnn ha ha
Stranger: you down to vid?
You: totes
Invitation to begin video chat. Accept/Decline
Accept
Stranger: sup girl ;)
And so it begins.
Stranger: holy fuck!
Stranger: you fucking prick!!!!!
Stranger: what is wrong with you>?!?!
Stranger: get a life gayfuck!
You: hahahaha
You: get on the floor loser
You: and lick up the shame and hypocrisy you just spilled youre making a mess
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
āAnother two points to the blonde bombshell,ā he snickered, starting up a new round.
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Originally written for Secret Santastuck. G; 667w; made of feelings. No dialogue. I don't know this pairing too well, but I did my best!
-----
Inside the dream bubbles, they were safe.
Ā
Though they had hardly no other chances to speak, the witches met each other face to fins within such a safe place, their refuge; Feferi had coordinated the events, with the help of the horrorterrors (her gods, she calls them) and met Jade during her sleep.
Ā
The initial cocktail of shock and bewilderment from Jade - triggered by Feferiās presence, her speech, and the blankness of her eyes - was a bit too concentrated for Feferiās liking, but she got it down well enough. That was only the first encounter. Her determination to befriend the human girl and make her dreams just that more pleasant sank in, and with that, visits became more frequent.
While Jade fidgeted to regain her memory each time, Jade exclaimed she couldnāt afford the seconds she spent away - there was a game she had to finish! - she found it increasingly difficult to turn away from an oncoming nap, one she could feel when she shivered with drowsiness.
They were all very tired. Feferi was well aware.
On a few occasions Jade was less cooperative, and while the upset did not bode well with the troll, she always tried her best to remedy such distress. Later, after a number of tries, the abdicated empress perfected the routine of waking up Jade Harley and welcoming her to the dream bubbles.
She guided Jade with a few key words, slivers of memories she would drop, varying hints to coax a response. The delight that would cross the other girlās face when she understood - when she remembered - brought her a joy that gathered until it was sickening. A positive reaction, rather than one of fear or disgust or drenched in complaint, was one she treasured.
Each time, she would teach things about herself, and Jade would trade the equivalent information. They conversed with ease, huddled on Jadeās bed, laughing and giggling and dancing about her room. Feferi would ask the human to explain little quirks of her world, and though they couldnāt decide between the two of them whose Paradise was more ideal, they figured both were okay.
Eventually, Jade would offer to play a song, tweaking her bass, plucking the strings with practiced style. It amazed and amused the former princess, and each time she would ask for Jadeās hand, tracing over the roughed padding on her fingertips. Though the rest of her skin was tender and plushy, with a few sharp angles and stretched over long limbs, the touch at the very end of these hands gave with a noticeable resistance. It was extremely curious to the troll girl.
Depending on Jadeās sense of time, they would sometimes explore. Feferi enjoyed the water ever-surrounding, and while Jade adored bringing the her foreign visitor through the dense green, she complied more often than not to remain by the sea.
Sometimes Feferi would sit in the sand, Jade right beside her, and smile. Around them were sounds, colors, textures and all these peculiar details that came together to make a beautiful memory. All of this floated in Jadeās head somewhere, and Feferi was sure that when she gripped a handful of sand from the beach and threw it onto the other girlās lap with a laugh, the grains against her palm had a feel so distinctly different from Alternian soil and grit.
She wasnāt quite sure why Jade had laughed so hard when she said they were before a sea of dreams, but it was impossible to skip out on the fit of hilarity. Maybe whatever she said wasnāt so weird, and maybe nothing was funny at all. Maybe they were just laughing to laugh and smiling to smile.
Dream bubbles were a gift, she gathered. She owed-
He owed-
They all owed that much to each other, and Feferi was happy to be the delivery girl, if only it meant remembering a sun setting on a beach sheād never touched.
