AU Meme | Mark/Eduardo, World War II (@earwen-neruda)
Mark flexes his fingers. He always forgets to move them, has always had cold hands. Eduardo rubs feeling back into them with his own careful fingers, and Mark isn’t superstitious but if anyone could have healing hands it would be Wardo. Mark does finger excercises, soundless scales and arpeggios that are embedded in his muscle memory from years of practice, and watches Eduardo breathe. Eduardo is beautiful like Bastogne is beautiful.
Mark isn’t supposed to think that.
They aren’t supposed to be here. They should be at Harvard, both of them, except that war came and Eduardo didn’t go back and Mark didn’t get to go at all. Eduardo talks about it, recreates the halls and streets, the quad, the Square for Mark, until Mark can see red brick instead of white snow. He puts the two of them there, walking by the river in wool coats, meeting for a beer after class. Eduardo would drag Mark to a dance, and Mark would watch him attempt the jive, limbs everywhere and Eduardo would smile at Mark when Mark laughed at him. They would graduate and marry nice Jewish girls and write to each other and their children would be friends and hear stories about finals and pranks.
But instead Mark is here, with frostbite and a rifle by his side that he knows how to kill with, and Eduardo has shadows in his eyes and he smells of blood. And they are pressed together, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh under their blanket and Mark can’t stop thinking that Eduardo is beautiful like Bastogne. They’re both made lovely by nature and sharper by man and they will probably be the death of Mark.
And that’s the thing, the reason why Mark can’t, as much as he wants to, fuck, he wants to. He aches to press his mouth to Wardo’s, give up the warmth there to him, show him what Mark doesn’t have the words to explain. He’s good at fast and stinging, but this, this is monumental, not shrapnel but a bomb. It’s a bandage and Mark’s not the medic, here. But the odds of just one of them surviving are infinitesimal, almost uncalculable. There’s no way both of them are getting out of this alive.
Mark knows what the classics have to say about anticipation being sweeter than the act. But he doesn’t think that would be true, with Eduardo.
i literally just almost started crying in my macroeconomics class right now.
I have many feelings about this, but the most prominent are my “Strange Disappearence of Sally-Anne Perks” feels about Andrew McCollum. So much that it’s technically on my list of TSN fics I should get around to actually writing at some stage.
Ummmm
“Why didn’t you tell her?” Mark said as soon as they were out of the door. “It’s her brother, Wardo, she has a right to know.”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Eduardo pointed out, taking Mark’s arm and pulling him down the corridor because just because Mark thought he was being subtle didn’t mean that he was. “We’re as lost as when we started. The only thing that is more lost than us is Andrew.”
Mark said, “Don’t be flippant,” in what looked like actual seriousness. Eduardo took a very, very deep breath. He went into this with the mantra that if he could stop himself from punching Sean…
“You must have a better reason that that, or you wouldn’t do it,” Mark observed. “She could have started to remember him.”
“Exactly. At least now she doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Eduardo said. Mark raised his eyebrows. Eduardo shut the door to the stairwell firmly behind them and said, “That she’s missing him, that there’s a thousand holes in her life where someone should be, and every single one hurts every single time. I couldn’t do that to someone.”
Mark made a scornful noise. “Oh, right, because you’ve felt like that.”
“I…” Eduardo started, and then just couldn’t, not with Mark, not in a fucking hallway.
Mark actually had the nerve to look surprised, to make his, “Oh,” a tiny revelatory thing.
Bastard.
I can’t even….
I’ve had this open for literally a month in a tab next to a tab with this gif
So obviously my brain went
three sentence fics! i’m in the ~mood
prompt shit and i will answer. If i’ve reblogged it in the last six months, rest assured it’s fair game :P
“The kid from Harry Potter bought an ice cream truck with his millions, Mark, I’m just saying.”
“I’m not here just to cater to your three am drunken desires,” Mark says, although he’s thought about buying a machine for nights like this, when Eduardo predictably wants soft serve and to gaze at the stars.
Eduardo laughs from his sprawl on the deck, tugging the bottom of Mark’s shorts, and Mark goes, of course he goes, and Eduardo says, “Liar.”
“And then he spent, like, half an hour talking to me about Freecycle and even though I really don’t think any of us would be happy with other people’s cast off furniture it still made me feel better?” Jesse asks, which makes Kurt sort of want to cry, because no one should have to make that a question.
“For the record, none of us care that you only had one tragic piece of furniture to contribute to the apartment,” Santana says, ” and also when hot people try and do nice things for you, it’s okay to feel good about that, seriously, welcome the warm-and-fuzzys into your life and your boyparts.”
She adds, “Assuming that you have boyparts and aren’t actually a life size Ken doll from their now discontinued Repressed Theatre Divas With 50s Hair line,” and Jesse - fuck that boy has issues - starts to smile.
cellophane-ria prompted on twitter
“ jesse and dance-off :D”
Jesse thinks that somewhere, someone is saying something about finally getting to see Jesse’s acting ability, but for the first time he doesn’t think about the cameras, all he can hear is Andrew saying, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it, Jess, I’m so sorry,” into his ear.
They’d known the tango was going to be tough, like, dance off tough, but neither of them had been prepared for this, although maybe they should have been, fucking Andrew and fucking Method.
So Jesse buries his face in Andrew’s neck, tries to come back to them, from that space on the floor where they hated, and he says, “I know, I know, me too,” and he doesn’t care about anything else at all, he just wants to be sure that Andrew knows that.
Aww, thank you so much, I had fun writing them! I still have a couple to do and am still happily accepting prompts, if you have any :D
anna_unfolding HeyTell requested (do I win some sort of prize for different ways of getting prompted because I feel like I should) Shoebox Project verse (ahaha, thanks Anna, no pressure) the summer before That Night.
Remus had been resigned to being the not cool uncle, the one who never brought the right gifts or sweets or knew funny, cool things to say and do.
It’s always a surprise, then, whenever he shows up at the Potters’ and Harry smiles widest just for him.
Or maybe the real surprise is how Sirius, who usually demands to be first and best loved, smiles too.
“Any reason why your stall has a beacon light on it tonight? Who are you trying to call back safely?” Andrew asks, leaning on the post at the edge of Jesse’s stall with feigned nonchalance and the easy grace of someone who can dance with demons and never fall.
Jesse looks at his hands, his scrolls, anywhere but at Andrew; all in black save one red flower, with bright eyes and fever fruit juice still at the corner of his mouth just begging to be shared.
He says, “Oh, it bring all the boys to my yard,” and - as much to his own surprise as Andrew’s - reaches up to pluck the blossom from his lapel.
