zuckered | baby, you're a rich man

Entry tags:

eduardo saverin

baby, you're a rich man

Likability. I should have known that everything would come down to that. Years have passed since I last even set foot in Kirkland House, since those days when I shuffled from class to class as that nameless nobody who managed to ace CS problem sets or even gave a crap about getting punched by the Phoenix or the Porcellian— with the money I've made from facebook, I could literally buy Mount Auburn St., I could probably take a crack at University Hall, I could double even the billions of dollars of endowment that Harvard has in its vaults, and people know it. Scratch being the next Bill Gates, now everyone's projecting that I'll make Man of the Year all on my own, no need for help from a trophy wife or a washed up musician. And yet, when it comes down to it, it's still one big popularity contest, and I've got black marks on my record. Like publicly shaming Erica Albright over the internet. Or like comparing people's school facebook pictures to...

"Farm animals," Mark said, his voice tense with resignation, fingers tapping on the side of his laptop.

The deposition room was empty at last, save for Marylin, and why she lingered, Mark didn't really know. It was the first time that he hadn't minded someone bringing him bad news since leaving Harvard. By the time facebook's momentum had started building, most people neglected to let Mark know the full extent that his actions would have on others, preferring to linger at the safety of their desk rather than piss the CEO off. At first, it had been novel. The rewards reaped from a long, tireless effort on the biggest project of his life, perhaps even of his generation. After a while, though, the shine wore off. People seemed disingenuous, kind only for their own benefit, vultures just waiting to descend at first opportunity. As much as he'd come to agree, in his own way, with Eduardo's assessment of Sean Parker as being paranoid, blinded by his own fifteen minutes of fame and the strobe lights of the party he demanded that his life be, sometimes Mark could still understand.

His eyes carefully followed Marylin's slight nod. "Yeah," she agreed.

At least she was honest. Mark rolled his eyes, shook his head, memories from years ago all dredged up in the past couple of months to the forefront of his mind. Some details had faded away with time, some conversations feeling unnatural out of context, but at the bottom of it all, Mark knew. Had always been self-aware. It just hadn't mattered much, what other people thought of him, provided those few steady constants remained in his life. With the barest of exhales, his fingers trailed along the edge of his laptop. "I was drunk, and angry, and stupid," he admitted, not sure if the disdain in his voice was self-directed, or at the inability of others to let such a minor detail go. Maybe both.

"And blogging," Marylin added, shaking Mark out of his reverie.

His expression darkened. Right. The internet's not written in pencil, Mark, it's written in ink.

"And... blogging," he agreed, his eyes traveling along the ceiling of the room, deliberately avoiding Marylin's gaze. It wasn't really the money he was concerned about, it was the pure principle of the matter. One stupid night. One stupid night, leading to one of the most revolutionary networking sites that the world had seen to date, yet a stupid crack about a girl's bra size and putting into practice what guys did on a daily basis on the internet (who didn't compare the hotness of women, it was practically a man's rite of passage) threw all of that into its shadow.

"Pay them," Marylin suggested, her gaze even, expression frank as she arched a brow. "In the scheme of things, it's a speeding ticket. That's what Sy will tell you tomorrow."

As she shifted to stand, Mark glanced over, fingers playing with his laptop, ready to open it again. "Do you think anybody would mind if I stayed and used the computer for a minute?" he asked, thoughts still swirling.

"I can't imagine it would be a problem," she replied lightly, heels clicking on the floor as she readied to leave.

"Thanks," he said, eyes darting from her to his laptop a few times, before he opened it again; her quick exit probably meant that she had better things to do than linger over a case that was, in spite of being connected to facebook, probably an easy close for the firm. The time she'd taken to outline everything for him, that was her own, not part of the job description, and it softened him just a touch. "I... appreciate your help today."

"You're not an asshole, Mark," Marylin remarked, the tapping of her heels coming to a halt. His brow furrowed as he turned, not expecting the statement, or indeed anything other than hearing the swish of the door as she left. The look on her face seemed sympathetic, inexplicably, and Mark wasn't sure what to do about that. Wasn't sure what to say to it, and so only stared as she spoke up again. "You're just trying so hard to be."

The glass doors and walls made it easy to watch Marylin's progress as she left, but soon enough Mark turned back to his computer, gaze distant. He liked that aspect of the room. Wondered if it was a deliberate design, or at least a marked choice on the part of the person who had booked the room for the deposition, putting it somewhere people couldn't hide. Where even outsiders would be able to read every last expression. Revealing. But as he'd never had anything to mask in the first place, it didn't bother Mark any more than the open desks at facebook's headquarters ever had. Hearing every last keystroke echo in the room, he curiously opened facebook up, typing in a single name: Erica Albright.

Huh. Apparently she had an account.

He clicked on the friend request button, not sure if it was a morbid curiosity that drove him there or an actual desire to reconnect. Knowing himself, probably more the former. Regardless, it only took a few seconds before he confirmed the request, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, expression the very picture of levity, even as his finger reached over to press the F5 key. Twice. Thrice.

She said he could use the room, after all.

It was only when Mark looked up properly, prying his eyes away from the screen, pausing before hitting the refresh key again, that he realized something had changed. No longer seated in a newly purchased Herman Miller chair, no longer surrounded by panes of glass, Mark's eyes met slightly yellowed walls and his hands ran over the grain of an old, worn wooden chair. Shortly thereafter, his eyes flew to the corner of his computer screen.

No wireless signal.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Everything's too damn conflicting right now. Is Mark happy that Eduardo's trailed after him after all? Yes, indisputably yes, and yet not at the same time, because he hates himself for being so relieved at hearing his best friend's voice at all. It's just another sign of the weakness that Mark's now coming to realize he needs to stamp out of himself, expecting too much of Eduardo and leaning on him more than the other man deserves to carry on those shoulders, and probably so often that it keeps Mark from learning to stand on his own two feet and make that effort to cross bridges. Maybe Eduardo just isn't impassioned about the same things as he is. And that's fine. That just means that Mark shouldn't do silly things like beg for Eduardo to move to Palo Alto. It's just a matter of adjustment, albeit one that makes his jaw lock as he stares down at the ground.

So he'll let Eduardo have the credit he deserves, because facebook wouldn't be up and running and around (in the nebulous otherworld that is their own, not here in the pocket dimension) without Eduardo Saverin, and even if Mark still hates advertisements with a passion, that doesn't discredit the effort Eduardo's put forth. Sure. That credit can easily be given. But Mark isn't going to ask any more of Eduardo, of anyone really, unless someone can ask to be involved and make Mark believe it. That's one thing that Sean, for all his idiocy, always managed to do.

Looking over at Eduardo, Mark carefully lets his gaze glance over the whole of the other man's expression. Looks genuine. Then again, that's only to be expected, partially because Eduardo is never anything but, and partially because he just has the face for it. Like an earnest puppy or something. Really. Mark is never going to need any sort of pet or cute animal around so long as Wardo's there. The very thought almost makes his lips quirk, but a second later it's all sobered again, as he nearly holds out his hands to grip Eduardo in place, but pulls back a few inches before any contact is made.

"Wardo," he says, pausing to swallow, feeling knots tie in his stomach as he ventures into unfamiliar territory, the realm of asking favors that run deeper than the surface of one's skin. "I know you didn't. I know. I don't need an apology. Do you understand? What I need, if I need anything at all, is for you to believe in me. Starting now. Just try, if you're planning on sticking around like I think you are. Don't—"

He breathes, closing his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. "Don't be my friend out of obligation. Maybe that's what friends do, but that is not what I want you to do." After another second's worth of silence, he tacks on at the end, tone flat, just stating another fact. "I got along before college somehow, you know."

If Mark's dropping the computer hurt, it's nothing compared to a statement like that, a fact which is more than likely made obvious in Eduardo's expression, too quick for him to do anything about it. He'd predicted this a few long minutes ago, that things would get worse before they get better, but he hadn't expected it to get this bad this quickly. There's no positive spin to put on it, no way to lessen the effect that those words have on him, except maybe to think that he was right about one suspicion: that Mark doesn't know him at all, not really. Otherwise, he never would have had to ask as much, because it would have gone without saying. Loyalty is a trait he's always valued, and even with Mark, even when things were at their worst, it's come easily, perhaps too much so. Now, of course, there might be more effort involved, but that, he thinks, is only to be expected after what they've been through. After what Mark did to him. Mark shouldn't even get to ask him for anything, but Eduardo wants to follow through all the same, the way things have, with a scant few exceptions, always been. Maybe nothing has changed at all.

"I have never," Eduardo says slowly, shakier than he'd have liked, reminded far too much of their confrontation preceding his arrival here, "never done anything but believe in you, Mark. Don't you get that?" He shakes his head, lets out a slow breath, eyes which have been carefully holding Mark's gaze closing for a few seconds. He'd never admit to being on the verge of tears — it sounds stupid, for one, childish and an overreaction if ever there was one — but there's something there all the same, some sense of defeat and exhaustion and absolute desperation taking its toll on him. Though this is suddenly seeming like a terrible, terrible idea, he nevertheless stands his ground, not about to give Mark the satisfaction of winning, of so grossly underestimating Eduardo's affection towards his former best friend.

There's an intensity replacing some of the tiredness when he speaks again, and for a moment, it feels too distinctly like old times, the days when Facebook was climbing and their friendship going steadily downhill, despite all of Eduardo's trying to throw on the brakes. Quite frankly, it makes him feel a little ill, but he's at least going to get this out. "There's no obligation. There's no — Jesus Christ, Mark, what do you think I was doing all that time? And here, after all of it, you really think I would be standing here now if I didn't want to be? I have no reason to feel obligated to you. I'm here anyway. Can't you see that?"

Pupils roving left and right, Mark can feel a curious stinging in his own eyes. Almost like he's about to cry. Or, at least, how he imagines being close to crying might feel. Truth is, he hasn't done it in years, not since he's been able to ride a two-wheeler, because boys shouldn't cry and boys that do, they get pushed to the bottom of the social ladder. But he does know that his eyes are wet. So he blinks. A couple of times, until his range of sight is clear again and he can take that deep, shuddering breath, the one that makes him feel like he's sitting right back in that chair in the facebook offices. He hasn't— he's been so careful about holding himself together after that incident, layered himself with cynicism for the hearings because that is how everyone knows him and the type of attitude that comes naturally anymore. It's the most easy to rationalize, falling back on the reasoning that he didn't technically do anything wrong, didn't technically lie, never any of that, and the fact that lawyers like to win cases on technicalities and by semantics never helps (even Marylin's admitted that it's all about perception). But even deeper is the fact that it makes it easier for Eduardo to hate him, and that's... all Mark feels comfortable with now. It'd be safe. Status quo. If you can't understand it, the least the world can do is help you predict it.

Maybe that's why Mark's still putting up such a fight.

"I see that you are here," Mark begins, his usual pace slowed by consideration. "Of course you are, you're always here, you're Wardo and that's what you do, you travel for fourteen hours on the subway and you stand for an hour in the rain and you put up with fifty texts a day from Christy the crazy girlfriend who sets silk scarves on fire, all because you're Wardo. But why? Why did you put up with her, why do you put up with me, I don't— I don't know." His eyes lose contact with Eduardo's then, turning left and right because he can't look while he says this, can't look up, feels emotions churning in his stomach, even if none make it to his expression. Mark suddenly stops, eyes glazed over and focusing on nothing in particular; even now, with his best friend standing there, he feels alone. Code is easier than this. You can see a crash coming. You can back up, start again, clean slate.

"I think you believed in my being able to make facebook into something. But everyone knew that. That's why the Winklevii sought me out and maybe that's why Erica dated me at all, because apparently I'm a jerk, so surely it wasn't for my sparkling personality. I'm not like you, Wardo, I can't make girls like me and I'm not interesting enough to get punched by the Phoenix, so I needed you. In Palo Alto. I couldn't go back to— you said you were my only friend," Mark stammers suddenly, looking up at the end, his expression not accusing, not even angry, but confused in the simplest sense. In spite of the way that he knows Eduardo hasn't even lived through that moment, and maybe won't be able to tell Mark what inspired that remark, right then. Was it just to play up the case? During the deposition, it was certainly hard to think of such a statement as anything but. Petty, tugging at heartstrings, reeling in the cash. But Wardo's never been like that before, so—

"Why say that?"

It's a long few seconds that Eduardo spends planning a response. He listens well enough — he's always been the listener, used to Mark's ramblings, though they're admittedly usually easier than this one — but it doesn't stop his own mind from racing, planning out what to say. At least there's some recognition, which comes as a surprising relief, but hearing Mark be so straightforward, so self-deprecating, is just as painful as the thought of Mark's not understanding him at all. (Of course it comes back to the Phoenix. He's always known that it was about that, at least on some level, and he hates that Mark seems to blame him for it, like Eduardo wouldn't have handed his invitation over to Mark if he could, just to smooth things over and give him that chance. Instead, he'd had to settle for downplaying his own happiness for his best friend's sake, which apparently wasn't enough. Nothing, with Mark, ever seems to be quite enough.) There's even a moment where he opens his mouth to protest, but he manages to cut himself off, letting Mark say his piece and working out where best to start what he supposes has to be a rebuttal of sorts.

All of that goes out the window, though, with the next to last thing Mark says, Eduardo's mind going suddenly, frustratingly blank. He doesn't remember saying that, and is sure he would remember saying that; the only conclusion he can reach, then, pieces distantly forming together from the conversation they've had, is that it happens in his own future. It makes sense enough, anyway. Though he has no context and can't say for sure, Eduardo feels reasonably certain that he knows exactly what would make him say that, and would reiterate as much now, painful though it must have been for Mark to hear. (Mark wouldn't be mentioning it, otherwise, not like this.) It takes him several moments longer to work up the ability to speak anyway, shifting Mark's laptop in his arms, wishing he had the use of his hands as some sort of outlet. He isn't used to standing so still.

"Because every single thing I did, I did for you, you asshole," he grits out, the words careful and precise, a sharp edge but no malice behind them. Mostly, he still doesn't get how Mark doesn't understand it, but he's so worked up now that there's no chance of him skirting around the issue, or easing into it gently. "And no one else could say that. The Winklevosses and Sean and maybe even Erica, the difference between me and them was that it wasn't what you could do, or even what you did that I cared about. I believed in Facebook as a part of you, not you as a part of Facebook, and before you tell me it's the same thing, think about it again, because there's — there is a difference." Breaths coming short and shallow, he looks away from Mark, then, laptop under one arm and his other hand pressed to his forehead, as if that will help him stay calm, centered, a task that's really fruitless at this point. This isn't how he imagined them doing this, just standing in the middle of a path, but apparently they're going to have it all out in the open now, and he's useless to try to stop it. If Mark isn't going to hold back, there's no sense in him doing so, either. His eyes are red, vision not quite clear, but he has every intention of ignoring that while he still can. "No one else had your back," he says, quieter now, "no one else put you first. I would have done anything —"

He cuts himself off, not because he knows the statement to be wrong — Mark said as much himself, saying he needed Eduardo in Palo Alto — but because his voice breaks. "It wasn't just putting up with you. It never was. You were my best friend, Mark. Don't devalue that."

No matter how Mark tries to cut it, the pieces don't seem to fit together for him. It's not that he can't see the level of devotion Eduardo pays him. Actually, maybe that's what makes it worse now, has made it worse ever since Mark's had his douchery outlined in full and lined in red, ever since he's had to speak for countless hours about all the things he's done that are supposedly subversive, cruel, unthoughtful, any of these things or possibly even all of them at once. The fact that he can see all the little signs that were supposed to call out to him, each one of them like the tiniest rise in water level that now leaves him drowning, leaves him feeling like there's no ground to stand on.

But those closer observations are why he doesn't understand. People need something that connects them and they need to stand on a roughly equal level to be able to look at each other at all without craning necks and leaving each other sore at the end of the day. So. That's where it all falls apart. Because as far as Mark's concerned, he's been sitting at the foot of an insurmountable pyramid, trying to strike out on his own, but the point is, the point is that he's never been even close to Wardo in terms of the foundation that friendship is built upon. He doesn't... doesn't know how to celebrate other people's victories, doesn't know how to console other people about their losses. All he is, all he really is, is someone who has innovative ideas based on what he's observed about people and the world they live in.

End story: He is a crappy friend.

And to be the best friend of someone who can pretty much attract everyone out there to him like bees to a flower? It just doesn't hold water. He can't even say that Eduardo's given him any reason to think it a lie, it's just a matter of fundamentals and how the human race works.

"I'm not devaluing," Mark replies again, plainly, without pause because yeah, he knows how much it means that Eduardo's put him with him for so long. Speaks loads of the man's patience. "I'm just trying to understand it. And none of it makes sense. But I'm not going to give up, I just—"

He waves his hand in the air, like he's trying to grasp onto that thought, before dropping his arm back down and shaking his head, vaguely starting off in the direction of the restaurant that they've detoured from a couple of times already. Tired enough after a long day of hearings, Mark honestly feels like he might drift right off to sleep in a couple of hours at most, adrenaline slowly coming down and leaving him twice as tired as before.

It's startling, even after all this time, how quickly a mood can shift with Mark. One second, the tension between them is palpable, Eduardo left practically holding his breath in preparation for Mark's response, and the next, Mark is walking away again, leaving Eduardo to stare, equally puzzled. None of it makes sense to him, either, but he's pretty sure that if he were to say so, he would be referring to something entirely different. Mark has always been like this, his train of thought several stops ahead of everyone else's, even Eduardo's, and often, it seems, he's remarking on other conversation points, or ones not even yet mentioned yet. Usually (and there's that word again, in reference to their friendship; he might as well say formerly instead, one which would probably be more accurate) Eduardo can piece things together and follow along alright, but now, months after coming to the realization that he doesn't know Mark Zuckerberg like he thought he did, he's at a loss, left grasping at metaphorical straws to try to figure out what he means. Eduardo doesn't think he'd been especially difficult to understand, laying everything out on the table like he did, but apparently, even that wasn't good enough.

Exhaling heavily, both a release of energy and out of frustration, Eduardo rubs furiously at his eyes with his free hand. Now that Mark can't see, he can take just a second to try to pull himself together a little, still determined, however uselessly, not to let himself get too emotional over this. Later, maybe, when he's alone, or even with Olive (and Jesus Christ, he has no idea how he'll tell any of this to her), but not here and now, in front of Mark. He won't give him the satisfaction of that. While he may have lost it after finding out about his diluted shares, that last thread of patience finally snapping and causing him to lash out, this isn't like that, is on a smaller scale, strictly personal. It doesn't need to be a spectacle; they've had enough of that, for one, and Eduardo has to hold on to whatever dignity he can salvage. He isn't going to cry, isn't going to beg for Mark to give their friendship another shot, because he isn't the one who should need to. Besides, contrary to what's been thought about him in the past, he isn't quite that fucking weak. Just enough to want Mark back at all. He can only imagine the things his father would have to say about that.

"You're not giving up," he echoes from several steps behind Mark, dimly registering the irony in having to catch up physically as well as mentally. (It wasn't always like this, he doesn't think. For a long time, they were on the same page. He just needs to remind himself of that, especially when Mark is suddenly saying that he doesn't understand it.) "Mark, you're not the one with a reason to give up." Despite the sentiment in the words, one which Eduardo doesn't think even Mark could miss, there's nothing mean about the tone in which they're spoken; it's flat, a statement of fact. That Eduardo isn't giving up either should be apparent enough, seeing as he has yet to walk away, despite how utterly frustrating Mark can be, despite their history, despite the number of things it puts on the line, not least of which is his pride. "I just — what part of that doesn't make sense to you? You say you don't get it, but I don't get how you don't get it. I thought that was very..."

The tension practically cracks in the air between the two of them, Mark feeling his nerves thrum and the jitters passing through his shoulders, like he's overdosed on coffee or had a few too many Red Bulls. (It's happened before. Buying a few packs of Red Bull before finals and chugging them down in the last few hours they have left. Mark never does it for the finals that matter the most, knowing that the Red Bull just happens to derail his trains of thought more than anything else, but they're useful for some things. The snore subjects. Classes where all he has to do is memorize element after element.) He just wants everything to go quiet. He's reached his quota for this kind of talk, and it's not a matter of who deserves or doesn't deserve it, just that his mind has limits and everything feels very, very raw now. Like he's being made to analyze something that he'd avoided thinking deeply about for so long, reevaluating some parts, finding himself still anchored to others. He. Just. Can't.

"I never said I was giving up because of you," he snaps, or as close to it as he ever gets, a brittle quality to his voice even as it still quietly taps away like a typewriter. "Don't you— you are feeling your very equivalent of it right now, don't you get it, I just don't understand. Sure, we had some fun with Magic: The Gathering and, I don't know, we have bizarrely similar senses of humor but you wouldn't, for instance, befriend Mel Gibson just because he laughed at a few of your knock-knock jokes. It's not a perfect analogy but I think you should be able to see what I'm getting at, seeing as how you straddle perfectly between the liberal and the mathematical arts. You can see both sides of the picture."

He's shaking. He notices it now that he has the time to catch a breath, that his entire body is shaking and there's this inexplicable desire to just head to his bed and sit there with a few beers that he can steadily down like they're medicine. Maybe do a bit of dummy code on his computer (the one that Wardo's still holding right now, why's he doing that?) and figure out how to program something that can do all of the homework at once for those kids in differential equations. There's a whole lot that can be solved with enough code, sparing people time and resources, it's just that some people don't try and some people care nothing for the purity and— well, he's not sure why he's thinking about that all of a sudden, like he's just avoiding the more pressing matters. It's starting to become a troublesome habit.

"Also, if by 'you're not the one with a reason to give up' you mean that you have a reason to give up, know that I'm not going to pin you down and force you into something that you don't want. I don't want that on my shoulders. Actually, it's probably not even healthy for you, either. We should get food."

Of course he has a reason to give up. All things considered, Eduardo should be walking away right about now, should have done so a long time ago, and there isn't any good reason why Mark shouldn't know that. He's acknowledged that he shouldn't have diluted the shares, yeah, but he was also there that day, knows what a big deal it was; the near contradiction would leave Eduardo reeling if he weren't so fucking tired, worn out from a relatively short conversation with someone he used to know so well. Mark has always been exhausting, but it's nothing compared to this, the extra strain of trying to bridge the gap between them weighing heavily on Eduardo's shoulders, when he's already felt a good decade or two older than he is since the day he showed up in this place, fresh from Mark's betrayal. What he needs is that burger and a beer and some light conversation, but his own needs have a tendency to fall below other people's, specifically Mark's, in order of importance, and right now, doing what he can to fix this (a job which shouldn't even be his in the first place, though that's nothing new, too) takes precedence over his own feelings. He can deal with it later, go back to his hut and collapse, tell his girlfriend about all this and then probably sleep through an entire day or something. For now, like falling back into some probably sick pattern, it's Mark he wants to look out for, and he feels a little ill for it.

"Just because I would have a reason to doesn't mean I want to, Mark," he points out, voice not much above a murmur. His free hand lifts, resting against Mark's back, what would have been nothing but natural when they were at Harvard, but now feels strangely forced. It's something. When he can't even reason to himself what drew him to Mark initially, what made him stay friends despite everything, this is the best he's got; he just hopes it counts for something. He hasn't gotten a real apology, but at least Mark seems to want him around. It's all he's really wanted, more than the company or the money or any of the rest of it, so much so that seeing Mark worked up now — and Eduardo knows him well enough to recognize the signs, the tight sound of his voice, the shaking — actually hurts, like he's the one who caused it. (He should have every right to, but he isn't like that, isn't so vindictive. He stormed out of the office with every intention of taking everything, but petty revenge isn't his style; he doesn't aim to make Mark feel bad.)

There are explanations he still wants to give, mouth opening like he means to try, but there just aren't any words. How the fuck does he explain what makes a person become friends with someone else, anyway? It should be the less consequential part, the why mattering less than the fact that he is. At a loss, he shakes his head. "The place isn't too much farther. We'll get those burgers, and you can... catch me up on how things have been, other than the whole settlement thing."

In the very instant that Eduardo's hand makes contact with Mark's shoulder, the younger man feels his eyes sliding to a close, exhaustion settling into every last bone in his body. Not quite like having Eduardo's apparent fatigue seeping into his body, it's more like his best friend has somehow turned a key, letting Mark tear down all of those walls that he's built around himself, tearing everything down until Mark is perfectly ready to put them up again. There have been multiple instances of this, over the years. It isn't like Mark passes out in front of just anyone. Dustin's great and all, but only Eduardo can be around to witness Mark passing out right in front of his computer, swaying back and forth, vulnerable in both obsession and physically as well. It's a little like this. Reserve is still clearly there, nowhere quite as noticeable as in Eduardo's own stance, but Mark is a man of habit and it isn't hard to stumble back into that lockstep. The harder part is pulling from it, trying to acknowledge that something needs to change, that gears and screws need to be tightened again. The system needs less strain.

It's easier to think of this like that.

(He doesn't bother shrugging that hand away, either. Wardo will pull it away in his own time. Probably.)

With Eduardo's statement, Mark's almost tempted to blurt it out again. He doesn't get it. Doesn't get why reason doesn't always coincide with want, even if Mark knows that it'd be hypocritical of him to say it. He hasn't always wanted what's practical. Erica dumping him, calling him out that all that he's done, it shouldn't bother him as much as it does because some of it isn't deserved (he was just trying to do Erica a favor, suggesting that he could help with her networking, not trying to insult her in the least; some things are just a matter of life), and the rest of it undoubtedly is (he really did fuck up by posting about her in drunken blog posts, didn't he?). And it scares him to think, that no matter how things go now, maybe he's reached out too late back home, maybe he won't even make the attempt back there anyway. It's different back there. They have enough to be self-sufficient. Facebook is a phenomenon. Here, Mark needs him, and that need is keeping Eduardo around regardless of personal comfort, forcing them together long enough to let some of the bad blood out.

Mark turns his gaze to peer at Eduardo then, lips calmly pressed shut, no indication on his part of wanting to say anything to that effect. Then again, he thinks. Even in the worst of times, even with the threat of forked roads taking each further and further away from one another, Wardo still had his back.

Those fucking Winklevii never knew what hit them.

"Let's get burgers," he agrees, pushing aside the thought that aside from the settlement, there hasn't been anything. His life is just patching up bugs, facilitating facebook functionality, but there's... nothing, outside of that. Sean's parties have lost their luster. Everything runs on its own. Mark himself probably isn't even necessary at this point. "And you can tell me how the quality of life compares, here on this crazy tropical dystopia."

Eduardo smiles. It isn't much of one, an expression still notably weary, but it's a bit more relaxed, more genuine than any others preceding it. Still, even now, there's a part of him that's screaming to get out, get away, leave this behind while he still can because he ought to deserve so much better than what Mark gave him (took away, rather), but for the moment, he's succeeded in smoothing things over, a more immediate priority than figuring out what the fuck he's supposed to do with his life now that Mark Zuckerberg has wandered back into it. Old habits, he figures, they die hard, and it shouldn't be surprising that they're falling back into their previous patterns even after so much time spent apart. He'd been relieved, too, is the worst of it, stung by the betrayal and wishing he could go back to finish what he started, but almost glad to be away from Facebook and the backstabbing mess surrounding it. He had nothing left back there, and a life he was coming to enjoy here, a girlfriend he's crazy about (rather than one who's just crazy) and some friends he really cares about. Now, he has that to feel guilty for, like it's his fault for wanting to move forward from that life when Mark is still there. He isn't the one who should have to make amends, but in this, too, it's just like they've always been. He was even sorry for getting punched by the Phoenix when Mark wasn't. There may be time between them now, but not enough for actual change.

"Are you kidding?" he asks with a short laugh, eyebrows raising, and shakes his head. His hand stays at Mark's shoulder for a few seconds, ones which seem to last much longer than they should, before it falls back to his side again, a near restlessness in the gesture, like he isn't sure if it was welcome or not. He doesn't dwell on it. "It doesn't. Not even close. I mean, a vacation is great and all, but Jesus, a permanent one?" Permanent isn't quite the right word for it, of course, if what he's been told is true, but it's close enough. Anyway, after everything, it's bizarrely difficult to come back around to the subject of the island, to focus on the life he's made separate from Mark when they've just been dealing with subjects so much heavier. It's a hard line to walk, both wanting to hear about everything and to leave their conflict in the past, and for now, his only choice is to follow Mark's lead where subject is concerned. He's too tired to do otherwise, for one, and at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. Mark needs something from him, or needs him, full stop (and if Eduardo's honest, there's nothing that means more to him than that, one more way in which things have stayed exactly the same), and he provides. In this case, it's a temporary respite. It could be worse. "I mean, it's not — it does have its good points, I will give it that, a lot of them, it's just — well, simply put, speaking about the place itself, it's fucked up."

"There's a reason why all of the kiddies went crazy in Lord of the Flies," Mark points out, what to other people might seem like a non sequitur, but this is what he's made a habit out of lately. Trying to analyze people, figure them out, so much so that he can even have the whole of Harvard (and soon after, the whole of the population that finds itself plugged into the internet) around his pinky finger. He's not in it for the money so much as he's in it just because it makes him feel that if he plays the cards right, maybe someday he won't be the one simply watching, he'll be engaged and he'll be climbing toward the top of the ladder. Things like having groupies, being cool enough to give fat cats the finger, that matters, and it's just enough for him to keep clinging to the habit even when it's the last thing he needs. Maybe Lord of the Flies is a bit extreme, but Mark definitely doesn't see the merit on any personal level to smash people together on a tiny little island surrounded by endless water. People... need distance.

Most people, anyway. Mark can't help but feel that even when he's limited to the span of Boston (a small city for how major of a hub it is, by the by), he's alone there, this sole buoy in the water and other people just aren't close enough to him. Well, no. Not always alone. Eduardo—

—it kind of hurts to realize, but Eduardo's always been there, unfailingly, the kind of best friend to make it over to his dorm minutes after a blog post (which is maybe, by some people's standards, sad, but once you know Eduardo it's impossible to think of it as anything other than an incredible, admirable level of devotion). Always was there, anyway. Until Palo Alto.

"You sure it's permanent?" Mark asks, pausing for only a second before he continues down the boardwalk, glancing back enough for Wardo to know that he's meant to follow, that conversation can hold them together even when only tied by a thin thread. "There's gotta be a way off. Out. I'm assuming it was a wormhole that brought us here, I mean— it's got to be something like that, there have been theories even if there's nothing substantiated, and I'm sure there's a way to break out of here and to somewhere else. There's a reason why I'd rather go to New York than Hawaii. There's nothing to do in Hawaii, only so much time you can spend laying around and drinking out of coconuts."

"Jesus, please don't tell me you're going to get all Jack Merridew on me and try to run the island," Eduardo sighs, a statement that's about ninety percent a joke, ten percent just double-checking. It's been years since he's read that book, and he never did all that well in English (well enough to do alright on the SATs and get into Harvard, but that speaks little about his enjoyment of it in his high school years, when he was still just struggling to learn the language, let alone keep up), but he remembers enough details from that one to be able to comment on it now. Mark really doesn't strike him as being that particular brand of crazy — backstabbing, yes, but nowhere close to homicidal or sociopathic — though there is the fact that he's coming from something of a position of power, Facebook having grown fantastically popular, back to being just one of a crowd. I'm not going back to that life, he remembers all too vividly Mark telling him (the night everything went to shit. It's a conversation that, Eduardo has realized in the time since, should have given him some sort of clue that something was wrong, one which consisted of a lot of lies. He should have thought through it, but he'd heard those four words, I need my CFO, and it meant the fucking world to him), and were Eduardo to let himself get carried away, that memory would probably be chilling right about now. He knows Mark, though. Maybe not a fraction as well as he thought he did, before his shares were diluted, but enough that the literary reference doesn't have to serve as anything more than a humorous analogy.

Still, he'll be steering clear of any boulders. Just in case.

Seizing on the other subject at hand, he shrugs. "It's fairly permanent," he explains, ready to continue before Mark can ask what that means. Even he still has trouble making sense of it, wants to be able to pin some scientific explanation on it, and he can't imagine that Mark will be any different. "People leave, but it's not... There's no way to control it; it's just out of nowhere. Just like showing up here is. And I'd say I don't buy it, but some of the people here, man, they're smart enough that they could probably teach our teachers. It's ridiculous. Somebody said to me the day I showed up that the average IQ of this place had to be well above genius, and they really weren't lying." He should probably get around to the fictional character thing, which explains a lot of it, but that's just so fucking weird that he hardly even knows how to breach the subject. Until he sees it in practice, Eduardo doubts Mark will really believe it, anyway, and he's already unsure as to how this news will go over. For good measure, he tacks on, "So at least you're in good company."

"Try and run the island? Too much work. Running the island requires knowing about all of the little tasks that go into keeping this weird socialist commune on its feet. Distribute food, settle feuds over who gets to harvest the mangoes from that tree in a shared backyard— actually, do they even have backyards here?" Mark ponders, but only for the briefest amount of time that might be considered such, just jumping from one thought to another because lingering on this ridiculous society makes him tired, makes him angry, because waste always pisses him off. Lost potential is for those in the government. They even teach it in freaking ec classes, that subsidies and taxes create deadweight loss, and isn't this island just one giant group subsidy? "Never mind. Not interested. Would rather set up something meaningful for people here, something that gets them up and running and caring about their damn lives. When people make successful ventures like that, they end up with a lot of responsibilities to shoulder anyway."

It's only after Mark finally realizes that the scenery around them has changed significantly that he blinks himself back to attention, realizing that he's just gone on one of his impossible rants, the type that makes a girlfriend accusing him of being like a stairmaster. Oops.

And that he's also lost track of the more recent of Eduardo's observations.

"Average IQ of the place is well above genius; I'll believe it when I see it," Mark says with a tilt of his head, all of the skepticism in the world rising to the surface because generally, the human race is a bit hard to put a lot of confidence in. "Let's just hope that not all of them are the more reclusive, self-concerned type of Einsteins. If we're ever going to get back to— to the States, we need to pool resources. And if that wormhole's impossible to climb through, for the love of John Harvard's polished shoe, we should at least set up currency before we devolve down to planet of the apes."

Ruffling his hair lightly, he tacks on at the end, light because he doesn't really need to give it thought at all, "Besides, I don't need good company, I have good company."

There's a fondness to Eduardo's expression as Mark talks, at least through most of his rambling, things that Eduardo has been thinking for a long time anyway. Frustrating as this island can be, it's both familiar and endearing, the way Mark works through all of it, going on at length about what they should do and what shouldn't work. There are plenty of people who might find Mark's rants to be off-putting, but to Eduardo, it's almost amusing, and not just because he happens to agree on just about every point. Why are they friends, Mark wants to know, and it's this, Eduardo wants to say, this right here, the fact that, as a pair, they have enough in common but strike enough of a balance, too, that they complement each other perfectly. Or did, at least. He doesn't know enough about Mark anymore to be able to say one way or the other, but not for the first time, there are at least a few moments where everything feels like it ought to, like nothing has really changed between them at all.

It doesn't turn out to be a good thing. The comment should be a simple one, throwaway, a statement of fact and nothing more that, were this a year ago and they were back at Harvard, would probably be met with an elbow to Mark's ribs and then an arm around his shoulders. This isn't then, though, and they aren't at school anymore, and too much has changed for it to be dismissible. That quickly, the smile is gone, the effort it takes for Eduardo to keep his expression even more than likely visible. Now, of course, now, after everything, now that they're on an island where Mark doesn't know anyone else, he's good company again. The idea of it, of so blatantly being a last resort, is practically sickening; worse is the fact that he almost doesn't want to comment on it, when they've finally managed to move past their own problems for a while. He knew it would be temporary, but he didn't expect it to be this short-lived.

"Right," he breathes, and though the word is barely audible, there's an obvious skepticism in his voice. Shaking his head to try to clear it, he exhales slowly. "Believe me, I'm with you on the currency. There may not be much here in the way of jobs, but really, without some sort of system — I mean, Jesus, there's a strip club. Who strips for no salary?"

What's he done wrong? He can't understand what he's done wrong. Isn't this what Eduardo should want, for Mark to make note of the fact that yes, Eduardo's been the best, the dearest, the closest, the only one who really matters anymore. It's obvious to Mark, immediately so, that he's done something wrong, but he's just not sure what, suspecting perhaps that nothing's good enough anymore to patch things up between the two of them. At least, not for now. Maybe he should stop trying, put all efforts into suspension, but the dangerous thing about that is that once one puts so much effort into pulling everything to a screeching halt, it becomes doubly hard to start up again. There's a barrier to motion. Static friction. Mark's taken enough physics classes to get that much, and to know that it totally applies on a more personal, intangible level as well. Still. Hard to tell whether it's better to ignore or to overshoot. He's gone with the former for so long.

Maybe he'll go with it just a bit longer. If it isn't smashed to pieces, well. Don't break it further.

"People who are seriously disturbed," Mark replies without hesitation. "Low self-esteem, possibly past contact with sexual predators, anything that creates the perception of such a prolonged power imbalance that an upset of that balance has them searching for it in whatever way possible. Most strippers strip because it's good money, it can be kept well discreet, but to elect to strip when there aren't any of the practical benefits suggests a psychological need. And anyone who says stripping as an occupation doesn't create a disparity in position between the stripper and the customer is far too idealistic. Volunteering to cook or clean for a group is different, it serves a greater purpose, someone can be proud of that. How proud can you say you are if your job is just to give a man uncomfortable tightness in his pants?"

Eduardo can't help being grateful, almost overwhelmingly so, that if Mark notices the skepticism, he doesn't mention it. However much might still be fucked up between them (and there's a lot, to be sure, issues left unresolved, certainly at least a few things left unsaid), he doesn't want to be the one to make it worse, even when he can't keep his own reactions in check. The idea of finally being enough for Mark only in a place like this still hurts, but he can at least say that he's dealt with far worse. He'd rather take this than be the one cast aside again, the one so unimportant that all he merits is months of secrecy and lies. Maybe they'll never repair what's been broken, but he won't pull the pieces apart while they're waiting to see if or how well the glue will hold when it dries, if it will at all. He hasn't quite decided yet whether or not he really wants it to.

"...Bluntly but well put," he says, brows furrowing even he grins. Mark never has been one to mince words, so that much, at least, is unsurprising. Of course, it's probably a little wrong that talking about a strip club can be more comfortable than talking about their friendship (what's left of it), but he'll take it, small talk even about this place's more sordid aspects preferable to a fight. Eduardo isn't a psychiatrist, but he's pretty sure Mark's hit the nail on the head with this one. "I don't even get where someone would come up with an idea like that around here. It's all... The whole damn place is backwards." Even they're backwards, a fact that's become increasingly apparent since Eduardo first found Mark in the rec room, the two of them stiltedly avoiding major subjects where once they used to be nothing but natural, another thing that Eduardo wants to point to in defense of why they were ever friends to begin with. It should be obvious, everything should, but it isn't, and that might just be what he hates the most.

The Winchester comes into view just ahead, though, and Eduardo gestures in its direction. "And here we are. The free restaurant."

Running a thumb over his lip briefly as he considers Eduardo's question (he always considers Eduardo's questions, no matter whether or not they're rhetorical), Mark nods to himself and ventures a guess. He's never been one to keep his mouth shut, not when there's a question being posed him, and especially not when that question has absolutely nothing to do with his own person. Those, after all, are the most difficult questions to ask. Why is he nervous? Why is he still so plainly on edge? If he tried to answer, he's sure he'd be biased, and so they're better not thought of at all, better to place distance between himself and all else. "Bet you it was a man's idea. Or a man and a woman," Mark suggests, his eyes darting quickly over to Eduardo, gently siding with the other young man's incredulity, even if Mark's hardly set foot on the island. "Won't be supply without demand; strippers don't strip for an empty audience, so there must've been some Hugh Hefner sitting around, wanted to fill his time. Probably doesn't even realize that the people who volunteer are damaged, assuming you want to give him the benefit of the doubt."

He turns a skeptical eye toward the Winchester, wariness shining through. Nothing comes for free. Every action has its price, whether collected in coin, stocks, or even inner peace. And those prices are always paid, one way or another. Mark's ventures with facebook were to gain respect, status, a place carved out for him in the social sphere and he damned got it, too. The magnanimity of handing that kind of social tool to the masses for free, why, people pay in kind by practically falling at his feet. So, what about this Winchester? What's the catch here?

"I like your emphasis on restaurant," Mark remarks quietly, nodding to himself and then grinning lightly at Eduardo. "Seems nicer than calling it a renovated soup kitchen."

"Food's better than a soup kitchen," Eduardo says, as if that explains it, even though he doesn't quite think that's doing the place justice. They may have gotten used to far nicer locations, but considering where they are, the Winchester really is nice. The people can cook, anyway, one thing Tabula Rasa has going in his favor, even if it still baffles Eduardo slightly that so many of them could be willing to do so on a regular basis, without any sort of compensation. Even in having a tendency to expect too much of people, it seems strange to him. That said, unsettling though the lack of economy is, that much isn't something to complain about, either. At least they don't all have to do their own cooking. That would probably be far more disastrous for a lot of people.

He returns Mark's smile before he can so much as realize what he's doing, instinct taking over once again as they walk inside, Eduardo peering around for an empty table. There remains a part of him that wants desperately to turn back time and go back to how things were, before Facebook, before Sean, before the investment that led to signing the papers that essentially wrote him out of the company. They'll never be able to, he knows it through logic and the fact that his own lingering resentment won't let him believe otherwise, but he still finds himself thinking it. It would stop him from feeling guilty, from hating himself in moments like these, when he is, however briefly and ill-advisedly, beyond grateful for Mark's presence. He has his best friend back, he thinks, and then he remembers that they aren't best friends anymore, a cycle that he can't seem to snap himself out of. It's the sort of thing that only time is likely to take care of, and the prospect of all that time is more daunting than Mark's presence in itself.

"Alright, drinks," he says, turning slightly sideways as they walk, to face Mark better. "What do you want, just a beer or something stronger?"

The question is one that makes Mark blink. Because he's never really been a heavy drinker, is always already intoxicated after a few beers, doesn't want to push the envelope too far for fear of irreparable damage. You know. Maybe he gives away all of his innovative ideas, exposes all of his inner thoughts, that sort of thing, or even just gets so physically slammed that he ends up praying to the porcelain gods. Drinking is fine for social reasons, it's even fine when one wants that vague buzz (Mark's pretty sure that it doesn't work the same way for him as many others, though, because when he's buzzed, it's like the thoughts come out with greater clarity, not dulled by his inhibitions or inability to speak). But anything more than that, it's just not worth it.

So why is Eduardo asking? Does he look that upset? Maybe he looks that upset, maybe Eduardo thinks that he's not the kind of guy who can deal with an island that defies all reason, maybe he isn't the kind of guy who can deal with an island that defies all reason but he's certainly not willing to give off the impression of being weak, sniveling, anything of that sort. His lips twitch a bit at the corners as he peeks around at the rest of the patrons in the restaurant, the majority of them just... calm. Okay. No panic. No clear indication that any of them are prisoners in this place, although they clearly are, and it's bizarre enough to Mark that he wishes someone would go around and shake them by the shoulders, make them up and leave their places. God. Maybe he really does need that drink. Then again, the other thing that accepting that drink would probably do is indicate to Eduardo that things are even less okay than they think. So he just peers back at Eduardo, grateful for the fact that he's only hesitated a little, a pause in decision-making slight enough that it's probably warranted and hopefully expected.

"Just a beer," he shakes his head lightly with a shrug, staring around at the space again, how there's a bar, and there's tables, and even a few booths. They're not the kind to sit at bars, though, not when they're around each other. When he finally finds a spot that isn't crowded too much with strangers, Mark nods in its direction. He doesn't want too many other people to get that new guy impression. It's worse than being a transfer student. Immediately singles one out as a weakling or someone who needs more direction, and Mark isn't so fond of getting direction from most strangers. "There's a table right over there."

"Over there it is," Eduardo agrees, starting in that direction, though it's more following Mark's lead than anything else. He's done a lot of that, over the two years they've known each other, and it shouldn't be second nature to do the same now, especially not in a place where he has the obvious upper hand, but old habits, he's realizing with increasing certainty, die hard. It was why storming out of the Facebook office was so satisfying, underneath all the hurt, because for once, he was taking a stand, not just sitting back and letting Mark dictate what happened next. (He'd hesitate to call himself a pushover, but there's no denying that he's been easily swayed in his best friend's favor, with the algorithm and the house in Palo Alto and any number of things before and in between.) This is something simple, irrelevant in comparison, but it's enough to make him wonder if he'll ever regain quite the same clarity he had in the moment he smashed Mark's laptop against the desk. There's a difference, after all, between intent and following through on something, and having Mark here is different than imagining what he'd do if he were here. Real versus hypothetical. Eduardo can't tell which he prefers.

Reaching the table, he stands behind the chair, hands resting against the back of it, as he waits for Mark to take a seat. There's a waitstaff, but he might as well get them drinks now; the Winchester's never close to empty, and it'll be quicker that way. "Alright," he says, "so I'll be right back." True to his word, it takes only a few moments to get to the bar and back, the return trip a little slower when he has a full glass in each hand. (He's reminded again how much he'll need this, what a good idea it was, if they were going to be spending any time together, to do so with alcohol.) Setting both down onto the table, he finally slides into a seat, and lets out a breath as he looks at Mark. This is either going to be too normal or too awkward, and he's in no rush to figure out which it is. He takes a drink instead of speaking right away, sipping off the top of his glass and swallowing hard, as casual as it's possible to be when there's still a slight tension he can't quite shake.

That's nothing new, though. It was always kind of the difference between them, what prevented Eduardo from joining Mark in Palo Alto. More a worrier than a partier, unable to let go of more serious subjects or problems, it wasn't a life he'd been cut out for. Now, he hopes, Mark will get that, will know that it isn't entirely personal, and again, he finds himself wondering why it matters so much. "Jesus, you know, I can't even remember the last time we did this."

Mark almost rises right along with Eduardo when he leaves his seat, his lips parting as though to ask, 'wait up,' or something else along those lines. But Eduardo makes it pretty clear that he's planning on getting it all himself, Mark lowers himself back down that half-inch into his seat, trying to make it look like all he was doing was finding a more comfortable position on the chairs that leave something to be desired. (Even though really, anyone who's known Mark for a decent amount of time should know that chairs are about the last thing that weigh on his mind, when he's spent most of his time programming facebook on those irritating chairs from the dorms, the ones made to tilt back just once with an uncomfortable thunk. Mark almost fell out of it once. Falling asleep, and all. Maybe that's the point, though, to keep people from dozing away in their chairs, just another bit of pressure to speed the studying along.)

His eyes trail after Eduardo as he makes his way to the bar, then resolutely look away, just in case Wardo has enough time to look back over his shoulder while the bartend gets him his drinks. For someone who claims to hate clinginess, it's probably a sign of hypocrisy if he shows outward signs of it, himself. The laptop sits on top of the table, taking up a fair amount of the space there, and Mark stares at it intently as though trying to decide whether or not he should flip up the screen and start typing away. Coding, maybe. Or at least checking to make sure that dropping it hasn't done too much harm. But.

There isn't enough time to consider it before Eduardo returns after all, two glasses tapping lightly on the surface of the table and jolting Mark from his momentary reverie. Of course, Eduardo moves immediately to take a drink. Mark just fiddles with his glass, turning it around where it stands, trying to do so smoothly enough that he doesn't even spill a drop.

Even he can acknowledge that it's a bit sad, the way he hangs onto Eduardo's every word, like there's something deeper or hidden to unearth there.

"Been too long," he agrees with a tilt of his head, trying that thing called blunt honesty, which for some reason has receded to the background a bit as of late. He's just careful anymore, really, now that he has reason to be. Finally, he takes a sip of the beer himself, nose wrinkling. "Brewed on the island?"

Almost pausing after the statement, Eduardo finds himself grateful for the question that follows, if only because he isn't sure how he could respond. It's true, of course, it has been too long, but that was the case far before Eduardo ever wound up here, and he has to suspect that that's what Mark is referring to now, having not been the one stuck in a pocket universe all this time. That in itself makes it a loaded statement. To agree would be to breach that subject, to mention too directly the distance that was growing between him and Mark even before he found out about his shares being diluted, and chances are, doing so would only start a fight. After all, he isn't the reason why it's been so long in the first place. He wonders, briefly, how many times in how long it's been that Mark went out for drinks with Sean like this. The thought makes him feel a little ill; he dismisses it with another sip of beer. Thinking about Sean Parker and the way he swept Mark off his feet isn't going to do either of them any good right now, not when Eduardo wants to give this an honest try. At least, for now, Sean isn't here. (Eduardo can't stand to imagine how things would be if he were to show up.)

"Yeah, there are people here who make it," he answers the slightest bit distantly, gesturing absently towards the bar as if the brewing is done right there, though he knows full well that it isn't. "Apparently it used to be a lot worse. You get used to it." He tries to leave it at that, he honestly does, but in the end, he can't help it. Whatever the implications, at least Mark's said that it's been too long, and while he's lied to Eduardo's face before, Eduardo thinks he sounds like he means it. It's a dangerous thing to act on when the bastard can't be trusted, but if this really is Mark's way of trying, he doesn't want it to go unacknowledged, either. "Probably been even longer for you," he points out, glass still in hand, tilting slightly in Mark's direction as if to indicate him. He'd talked about a lawsuit in the beginning, and Eduardo is pretty sure that if he followed through on it, then he and Mark weren't going out for beers in the interim. "But shit, it would've had to be while you were still at Harvard."

The beers they shared in the new Facebook office, after Eduardo signed the contracts, he doesn't count those. It's not pretending that it didn't happen, but it's a different situation entirely, one that this holds no comparison to. There's no knife being driven into his back this time.

The question that immediately springs to mind is: whose fault was it? Not even because the way that Wardo speaks makes him feel bitter, either. Because it doesn't. These are just the facts, that they haven't gone out to get a proper drink in forever, and that even when the both of them were on campus long before facebook was even in its easiest stages of conception, the two of them going out for drinks had been, well. Somewhat of a rarity, as far as actual bars went. As much as people liked to claim that Harvard students got to sit in bars without ever having to produce a proper ID, that simply wasn't true; if one searched hard enough for places more lenient, like the Kong, it was possible to find dives that cared more about the instant cash than the possibility of punishment or fines. Those places generally didn't serve the greatest of drinks, though. Or they just jacked up the prices.

So Mark only has to assume that Eduardo means beers. Not this ambiance, not the table, not having to go to all the effort to dress up and head out someplace off-campus, but just sitting and chatting, having beers, nothing really looming over their heads. Well. Not that the description's entirely accurate. There are a lot of things that the two of them are probably both thinking about, hidden between the lines, and Mark realizes that better than most people do. He's known Eduardo for years, after all. Not 'childhood friends' in length, but he's known enough of Wardo in his grown times to know that Wardo is a man of subtlety, who doesn't like to say too much and rub it in another's face.

There was a time, though, that the two of them were just blunt, almost painfully so, with one another. Painfully blunt meant different things for the two boys, as different as they were, but there was once a time when Eduardo would have felt free to call Mark an asshole more to teach a lesson than anything else (Mark pushes all the girls away, doesn't he, and why Eduardo lets him do that, Eduardo will never know). Now, the extra effort, it smacks of distance and of Eduardo trying carefully to climb to that higher ground.

Mark doesn't like that much.

"You're kind of speaking like an old geezer," he tries instead, just a touch of humor in his eyes because, well, he's always said that Wardo's just a stuffy British gentleman stuck in the lanky body of a modern American kid. "Give you a toothbrush mustache and graying hairs and we'd be all set. The HAA would be ushering you in immediately."

There are days, all joking aside, when Eduardo feels like that, like the past year has been a lifetime, leaving him old before he has any right to be. Most of the time, it's something of an exaggeration, something he might joke about with his considerably younger girlfriend, but here and now, sitting across from Mark, it's never felt truer. It's visible, too, in the tension in his shoulders he can't quite get rid of, the way his smile reaches his eyes but not as fully as it might have before Facebook, or in its earlier days, sitting around the Kirkland dorm with Dustin and Chris and a twelve-pack (bought by Eduardo, of course, the only one of age). He might not have the gray hair or the mustache, but there's no denying that they're not boys anymore, at least not the ones they used to be. Between what happened, the fact that he apparently didn't know Mark as well as he thought he did and the time Mark's lived through that Eduardo hasn't, it feels like they're strangers just as much as it feels too familiar, the two of them tentative and struggling to find some even ground from where they left off before, not yet successful. Eduardo doesn't know Mark as he is now well enough to know if they'll even be able to, but the fact that they're managing to sit here now, Mark even trying to crack a joke, has to be an indication of something. It's both relieving and makes his chest tighten at the same time.

"Yeah, thanks for that, man," he says with an exhale of a laugh, rolling his eyes, though it's good-natured, his own way of telling Mark that, yes, this is okay, the levity, the familiarity, isn't overstepping. (Not that Mark needs his permission, or even seems to be asking for it. Eduardo's word typically comes second, Mark going ahead even when Eduardo expresses disapproval, like with Facemash. It seems like the sort of thing that can only be beneficial to express anyway, just in case, to keep things as clear as possible.) The funny thing is, when he reconsiders it, it still has to have been less than a year, May to December back home and the four months he's been here. It was time spent growing apart, though, and that makes it seem that much longer after the fact, distance creating the illusion of further time. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on growing a mustache anytime soon, that would be — I think it'd probably look weird. How long has it been for you, anyway, since —"

He can't bring himself to say it, but the implication, he thinks, is clear enough, with his vague mention earlier of the last thing he remembers. Breaking the laptop, finding out about his shares, threatening to sue — spelling any of it out would likely do more damage than it's worth, and if there's anything that can be said about Mark Zuckerberg, it's that he's a smart guy. Eduardo trusts that he'll be able to fill in the blank.

It's the last question that makes Mark feel old. Usually, he doesn't look too far into the past. He hates doing it. It makes clear all of the mistakes he's made, and the victories, well, they don't feel half as good upon reflection as they do in the moment either. Unless he's trying to assess a certain pattern of behavior from years ago, there's just nothing to be gained, no progress to be made. And, if he's willing to admit it to himself, which he isn't on most days, the worst part of it is all the hurt that resurfaces. Without a doubt. So having to look back now, it smarts, it picks at a scab that has been healing over on and off, disturbed enough times that there's definitely going to be a scar there in the end.

"Your facial hair would probably grow in a weird pattern," Mark agrees, trying to squint and picture Wardo with facial hair, a difficult task, but one that at least keeps his mind off what they're actually supposed to be talking about. "And would make you look like you're trying too hard. I think it looks good now. Well, I mean. Looked better when you actually— this wardrobe isn't by choice, is it?"

Only after he feels like he's derailed the conversation significantly does Mark look to the side and take a sip of his beer, quickly adding (right before Eduardo can start speaking, hoping that this will keep the topic off of their own sordid affairs), "I turned twenty-four recently. So, you know. That's a thing."

In retrospect, now it feels like he's been building up to that answer, a thought which also makes him blink in turn.

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