Mark Zuckerberg

It feels a little like being shut down, any emotion and the shock of it being glossed over, but even now, Eduardo is used to that. Whatever might have shifted in their dynamic, primarily what was once comfortable becoming cautious, that's one thing that he would never have expected to change, because that's how Mark has always been. If he has the distinct sensation of having whiplash for it, that's nothing new, and nothing he doesn't know how to go with, either. To stay on the first subject, the time that's passed and the lawsuits he still doesn't know much about, would be Eduardo's instinct, but in struggling to find his footing and in not wanting to make this any more awkward than it already is, he doesn't quite know what to say, how he's supposed to steer the conversation back to that. (Even so, it's likely evident in his expression, such things typically worn on his sleeve, something he's never been much good at preventing.) It hurts too much, but then, so does the idea of small talk with so much left unsaid. There's no way to win, not here and now, not with Mark, to have everything work out like it ideally would. He can't have his best friend and retain whatever power he gained when he was led out of the office by security. The trouble now is knowing which way to let the balance shift, which will work better for them.

"No, I mean, there are plenty of clothes," he continues, voice just fractionally quieter as he lifts his glass to his mouth again, taking a sip of beer before he continues. (It's tempting to just down the whole fucking thing, but that's a show he doesn't need to put on.) "Just not many good ones. There's this box in the basement, and, I swear to God, you just pull clothes out of it. Most of them just happen to be hideous." Chest tight, he draws in a breath, shallower than he'd have liked. He can't say nothing, lost as going back and forth has made him feel. "I don't know what I expected, Mark. Just not that."