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

Something has shifted. It's nearly funny, how Eduardo feels both like he knows Mark better than anyone else and not at all, the former, right now, outweighing the latter as Mark's gaze grows darker, a focus there that wasn't all of a few moments ago. Almost immediately, guilt creeps hot up the back of Eduardo's neck, though he isn't quite sure why, whether it was the comment about pretentiousness or the message itself, if he was wrong and Mark really does see fit to defend the lifestyle from which he just came. (Even now, he finds that hard to believe, but, again, there's four years there he doesn't know about, a gap he's still trying to bridge between the Mark he last spoke to and the one seated across from him now, having yet to discern all the ways he's changed. Their relationship hasn't much, that's apparent, except for where it has completely, but to go from twenty to twenty-four is a big difference. Four years ago, he hadn't even gotten into Harvard yet; there was no Facebook, he hadn't so much as heard the name Mark Zuckerberg. Now, he can barely even recognize who he was back then, a few defining traits remaining the same, but his life having been irreversibly upended. None of that is especially reassuring when he's still trying to find his footing here, but it can't be ignored, either.)

Either way, whatever has prompted this, he wants to apologize, but won't let himself, physically biting down on his tongue to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth. He can't say he's sorry without knowing what he's sorry for, and if it's simply for making things awkward, for saying what's just true, then he has no reason to be. It takes effort to convince himself of that, but for as easy as it is to slip into old patterns, to count Mark as always being right, he isn't entirely lacking in self-respect, and he can't just give in over nothing. If it turns out it is related to what he said about Mark and his clothes before, then an apology will be the first thing from his lips, but he isn't a mind reader, particularly not where Mark is concerned; he can't make up for it if he doesn't know he's supposed to. Briefly, he finds himself missing when they were talking about the Winklevoss twins. At least then, he knew without a doubt that they were on the same page, even when coming to Mark's defense wasn't something he'd consciously wanted to do. It was better than all this fucking uncertainty, having to second-guess every single word that comes out of his mouth.

"When served like that, yeah, I just mean, people don't really order steak to make a point," he says, hedging as best he can. Better to start out by deferring to Mark's judgment and telling him he's right and then backtracking from there; that way, hopefully, they'll reach an agreement on it. (He should hate Mark, but he doesn't. That much becomes increasingly clearer all the time, with all the work he puts into trying to keep things civil, to keep his one-time best friend happy.) "And that's what seems to be the case when people are ordering sushi and salad for every meal." He's still self-conscious under Mark's eyes, and it almost shows, though he manages to keep his expression as neutral as possible. There's no sense in letting on to the degree of conflict that's followed him at every turn, the lengths he'll go to to keep this okay, if only temporarily. "And not necessarily you, just, you know. In general."

He finds himself wanting to retort immediately, not every meal, but even as gone as he is (which is a significant amount, enough that his eyes are wandering in every which direction because of the fact that trying to keep focus on one place is impossible, and the effort is making him dizzier more than anything else), he realizes that there's just no point to it. Because if there's anything that's clear in Eduardo's words, it's that 'us-them' sort of mentality. Like the West Coasters, or at least those Eduardo defines as such, are different from the rest of them somehow, in a way where perhaps Mark's never belonged there at all, in Eduardo's eyes.

Well. A difference between the coasts is how they're painting it now, anyway. Mark is sure that it isn't really that. There are plenty of people on Wall Street and plenty of people on the East Coast who are just as pretentious. Whether they don Prada suits (ha, see what he did there?) or whether they decide to get sushi for lunch isn't really the big deal. It's more the widening gap that Eduardo has built in his head ever since he met Sean Parker. Mark's known it for a while. Before even Christy made that remark, of Wardo being possibly jealous. Mark's never believed it to be jealousy, not when the disdain started from before Sean ever landed. He's late, Mark remembers Eduardo saying. Look at all of these things he's done, Mark remembers Eduardo saying. Maybe Google's the real bitch, here.

"It's just a fad," Mark replies at last, deciding and hoping that statement is innocuous enough. "Just like women wearing vintage Chinese dresses to parties was a big fad too, or when flares made their weird little mini-flop comeback. It'll die out. The pretention will, anyway."

He twiddles his fingers, restless, while he sits and waits for those burgers.

Were it not for how drunk Mark seems to be, Eduardo would have to wonder if all of this is deliberate, if the continued choice of word is meant to elicit a response from him, make him apologize for something he can't decide if he's sorry for or not. (As it stands, he is and he isn't. On the one hand, it was a huge scene to be making, atypical for him; he destroyed a fairly valuable computer and plenty of people saw, reason enough, on both counts, for him to be remorseful. On the other, it was a long time coming, and Mark deserved it, and especially now that he can feel himself backpedaling otherwise, it seems important to hold on to that one thing, that instant where he was entitled and felt like it with every fiber of his being.) Whether intentional or not — and, in part, because he can't figure out if there's a chance it might be — it leaves him feeling decidedly uncomfortable, unsure of where to go, what point to try to make. This shouldn't seem so awkward, but it's just as much his fault that it is.

"Not that it makes a difference here, anyway," he offers, an attempt at appeasement of sorts, a middle ground that, he hopes, they can reconnect over. It's stupid, so stupid, to be grabbing at whatever scraps he can get, but really, it's just business as usual. "I'm sure you're right, though. I mean, those things never last, right?" On the island, they've never seemed to have any concerns of that nature at all, though Eduardo isn't sure whether that has to do with the limited resources or the fact that people here just don't care, one seeming as plausible as the other, given what else they obviously don't care about. There's also the fact that some things aren't fads at all, what knowledge he's gained of the future enough to make him aware of the fact that Facebook only grows, even after the time Mark's come from. He just isn't sure if it would be a bad idea or not, mentioning the company, so for now, he holds his tongue.

This feels familiar, and it doesn't take a clear mind for Mark to see that. As flippantly as Mark has always treated the matter, the fact is that Eduardo's admittance into the Phoenix definitely smarted Mark at the time, and the excitement from his best friend doubly so, feeling for all the world like Eduardo was graduating to a higher circle. And not just that, but one toward which Mark could make no earnest and meaningful efforts toward being selected. High test scores meant nothing, 1600s littered the campus as much as acorns from trees, and programmers were ultimately a dime a dozen. (Which, hey, is still better than over at MIT, where a programmer probably doesn't even merit a penny. It's their own fault, Mark thinks most days, for calling their school an 'Institute of Technology,' something that's going to get them labeled in the layman's sense whether they like it or not. He remembers that time, back home, when one of his mother's friends asked him if it was a community college, upon hearing that Mark got in. Yeah. That was interesting.)

The point being that not getting punched by the Phoenix sucked, but what was almost worse than that was how quickly Eduardo was willing to brush it aside for Mark, as though Mark needed that kind of sugarcoating or padding to deal with it. And it's happening here again. It's a habit of Eduardo's that Mark acknowledges as dangerous to their friendship, because if there's something consistently true for the both of them, it's that Eduardo's adherence to principle is almost airtight, but that Mark's need to test limits may be the only thing stronger.

"Most things don't. Even MySpace met its downfall," Mark shrugs, before his face perks up at the sudden arrival of burgers, Mark immediately reaching for the top bun and peeking at what lies underneath. "Looks good. I'm surprised that they've got enough cows here to do this."

"I don't think they do, really," Eduardo says, though it isn't a comment he expects to get much notice, nothing particularly relevant. He doesn't care. The little explanations like this, they have to be given at some point, and it's easy to rattle off facts — easier than thinking about their past, though his ability to keep that from his mind comes and goes in short little bursts, how okay he is changing from second to second. This is good to start with, the way Mark smiles at the burgers' arrival, eliciting the same reaction from him in turn (though his has nothing to do with the food itself). "You can only get things like this here, most of the rest of the time, they'll use something else instead. There's a lot of boar. You get used to it."

He's only just barely started to, but that's true of how he feels about the whole island and its ability to turn things upside down, the food only a tiny, tiny part of that. It would be worse if everyone had to fend for themselves; instead, the people they have to take care of things like that, however insane it is that so many are willing to do so much for no compensation, make it feel a little more normal. Nothing about it is or ever will be, of course, but he supposes it's the illusion of it that matters, proper meals served in a kitchen rather than the alternatives presented in most stranded-on-a-desert-island stereotypes.

The same could probably go for him and Mark, for that matter, a thought that has him on the verge of getting more thoughtful again. Even with each other, they can pass themselves off as normal, the same two people who met at an AEPi party, when really, they're anything but, and may or may not ever be again, a thought which Eduardo is still far too conflicted on for his own good, wanting Mark and his friendship, trying to remind himself that he shouldn't let things become as they were. Either way, though — he can't run with one or the other right now, has to keep trying to walk this fragile line — it lets him circle back to what they were saying before the food arrived, reluctance evident in his expression for all of a moment before he speaks again.

"There are still a few exceptions, though, anyway," he notes, as casually as he can, not wanting to make too big a deal out of the subject. "I mean, MySpace was MySpace, but you… I've met people from as late as 2010, and Facebook's only gotten bigger." What that means, of course, what Eduardo is painfully aware of but refuses to say outright, is that Mark was right. It's another conversation — several of them, really, the points of which have all blended together in his head — that he remembers in far more detail than he'd care to. We don't know what it is yet, we don't know what it will be, the way fashion is never finished: it's almost sickening now, in retrospect. Mark was right and he was wrong, and it's that stubbornness of his own that likely contributed to his removal from the company, though he wouldn't change what he did and can't blame himself, not really, for that. He was brought on as CFO and never did anything but the job he was supposed to. It isn't fair and there's nothing he could have done differently, but when it came to the site itself, Mark was the one who knew. Of course he was. Eduardo shrugs. "You know, for what that's worth."

"Boar," Mark repeats, pausing with the burger only held inches from his mouth. The halting of the motion altogether seems to make him forget that the burger is even there in his hands, in spite of the way that it's still warm, the heat still rising off of the meat in the tiniest whorls of steam. Sometimes, being able to go off on tangents in the way that Mark does has led him to the best of discoveries, the most novel of ideas, of which facebook is only one. Little remarks about how some girls had FAS pictures that made them look like farm animals, cheekbones so hollow that they looked like those of a horse, or buck teeth showing with as much prominence as those of a rabbit's, leading ultimately to the construction of a site which allowed people to compare those occasionally devastating school pictures. The burger just hovers there, the grease gradually pooling until it drips onto Mark's plate. "How very Lost of them," he says, even closing his eyes as he tries to mentally tally up how many similarities there are between the worlds. Because now, suddenly, it seems completely possible that Mark's just passed out at the table and is having a weird, crazy dream where Eduardo isn't so furious, isn't newly returned to a state where wounds hadn't festered for years yet. The fact that it makes something twinge deep in his chest, that he tries to ignore.

But they're on an island. And there's no safe way off the island. And boar is more common than cows. And Eduardo is wearing clothes that he never would have dreamed of wearing back home. That's similar enough, he thinks, eyes suddenly opening as he narrows his focus, trying to stare at Eduardo, find anything that might be indicative of Mark's hopes rather than the reality, the hope that only ever manifests in dreams.

Even things like facebook still succeeding in 2010? Possibly succeeding and still adhering to Mark's principles? That sounds too good to be true. And it takes Mark's head bobbing enough that his chin bumps against the side of his burger before he's brought back to the lure of food, taking a large bite and chewing thoughtfully.

(And contrary to what most people think, his mother did in fact teach him manners, so he swallows before saying the rest.)

"I'll probably have sold it by 2010," he says with a shrug, face forcibly impassive, save for the slightly melancholy tinge in his eyes. "It's. I'll probably have sold it. Size was never the goal."

"No, it wasn't," Eduardo agrees, like Mark could possibly need his agreement at all, though it takes a considerable deal of effort to keep any bitterness from showing in his expression, and the accompanying comment from getting any farther than the tip of his tongue. Of course size wasn't the goal; cool was the goal, and they fucking achieved that, at his own expense. (He has to wonder, sometimes, if it was really worth it, for Mark to lose the one person who ever really cared about him. It's only ever a moment, though, and then he remembers that of course it was. He could never have compared to the website, to Sean in that world. He doesn't regret trying, but it was always going to have been a fruitless battle.) Even for all his desire not to ruin this by starting another argument, it's still more than he can think about; he has to take a bite of his own burger to prevent himself from saying what he knows he'd regret. He focuses instead on the rest of Mark's actual comment, what he can't quite wrap his head around. Maybe it's the product of those four years he missed out on; maybe it's just trying to make sense of what otherwise doesn't. Having no idea either way, he shakes his head. "I haven't heard anything about it getting sold, though. Would you even want to?"

It's curiosity that prompts the question, the reminder, again, that he doesn't know Mark like he thought he did. Or maybe it's just that the idea is surreal. God knows he never expected them to go as far as they did, and certainly not as far as he's heard they'll go. They were a bunch of college kids writing on a window, comparing female undergrads, but the impression they leave — and he excludes himself from this, now, even having been told that Mark means to put his name back on the masthead — is apparently a lasting one. In a way, it's almost eerie, how something so big could start so simple. For all he knows, that was the problem in the first place, too much too soon.

The fact that Eduardo has to ask this question of Mark isn't something that surprises him, even with his brain addled as it is right now. Part of it is the fact that Eduardo's always been considerate, so on and so forth, he's been through it so many times in his head that's it's just fact anymore, that Eduardo bends back so much that he'd make a gymnast jealous on some kind of ridiculous metaphorical level. But part of it is also because that Mark very firmly believes, even after having met Sean, even after having found so many engineers who see almost eye-to-eye with him on facebook, and on programming, and everything in that general field, that no one will ever truly understand what this company means to him, no one but Mark himself. It's not just about being cool. It's not just about having accomplished something. It's literally composing another part of himself, one that people like somehow, even if it's been packaged and repackaged and kind of hammered down beyond recognition. The thing about building oneself, though, is that it's a neverending process, even moreso than fashion is (or maybe fashion's just another example, honestly, if you buy the fact that fashion's a representation of self). There are parts that one builds up and parts that one shaves down, and with facebook becoming ever more publicized and commercialized, Mark can see himself shutting that off at some point. Ideally, he wouldn't have to focus on that, someday.

He hates the fact that he's thinking about this at all, but where sometimes liquor slows people down to a screeching halt, today it feels like he's sitting on some kind of crazed train car careening without stop and in a million different directions, rickety enough that it nearly bumps him out entirely.

"Maybe," he says with a shrug, trying to pass this off as just another thing, some nebulous thing, an idea that might get passed along because Mark's always been that level of impetuous. "Maybe. Believe it or not, there are more important things than facebook, Wardo."

Maybe the word 'me' is missing somewhere in that statement, but sometimes Mark feels like he uses it enough anyway.

It's another statement — there've been so many, now, he's begun to lose count, or at least it feels that way — that Eduardo isn't sure if he's reassured or disheartened by, the implication such that it could go either way. Of course there are more important things than Facebook; he's believed that from the start, the website not so much of a priority as Mark himself. Now, though, in this context, it hurts, he can't deny that. There are more important things than Facebook, but he obviously wasn't one of them, didn't even come close. And while maybe that wasn't a realization that should have been surprising, everything having led up to it, the blow had still been a hard one. He hadn't expected he would rank quite so low. Of course, here and now, there's also the chance that Mark is trying to communicate something with it, in his own backwards way, and Eduardo can't rule that out. He can't hope for it, but while he can't count on much from Mark, earlier conversation has taught him not to underestimate, too. All of it leaves him torn, somewhere in the middle, much like he's been for the majority of the evening. (What is he that Mark could still do this to him, he doesn't know, but it's there and he's unable to ignore it.)

"I believe it," he says after a few seconds, able to give that much regardless of how he interprets the statement. There are more important things than Facebook but he couldn't even compare to that, and still he sits here, knowing full well that he would still give Mark whatever he needed. Maybe he's changed, maybe they both have, but it hasn't been by that much. Taking a bite of his own burger, chewing thoughtfully and then swallowing, he shrugs. "Guess you never know when it comes to the future, though. There's a bookshelf, I bet you might be able to find something that'll give you some information." It's the least he can do. Even here, without internet, he'd guess that Mark would put the website before him.

He chews, slowly. Because that buys him time. Each bite of his burger and each passing second brings back a bit of his sobriety, after all, and Mark doesn't need very much of it to start his thoughts again. Mostly, he's trying to figure out if he's still reading Eduardo right. There's no way that Eduardo, when he's from, wants to talk about facebook, or should have any reason for pushing Mark right back to the company. Mark understands the notion of morbid fascination and curiosity, and facebook itself kind of relies on that notion. People are much more willing to call others friends if that gives them the right to snoop around. So Mark gets that, but he doesn't think that Eduardo can be boiled down to something so base and simple, and that just makes him wonder, why is facebook coming up again? Is it because Eduardo's trying to help ease the transition period for Mark on the island?

Mark doesn't know. All he knows is that there's that light wrinkle of his nose as he looks up, swallowing another bite of his burger and downing some of his ice water before his slouch straightens just slightly, his body still swaying left and right.

"Can we stop?" he asks, abruptly, perhaps more plainly than he might have if sober. "Talking about facebook. Why are we talking about facebook? I don't want to talk about it. Tell me what you've been up to. People you've met. Things you do. Tell me that you still follow the weather."

The question makes Eduardo's chest grow tight, something that he tries to hide by keeping his expression as even as possible. For his part, Facebook is probably the last thing he wants to be talking about, but he's too used to Mark's life revolving around it; as far as he can see, catching up with Mark and catching up with the website should be synonymous. (Even now, even after what was done to him, it still comes down to wanting to keep Mark comfortable and happy, even if that means it's at his own expense.) Mark is asking questions, though, and it's kind of fucking surreal, leaving him with a mess of emotions that he can't even begin to make sense of. There's the implication of change, of course — Mark wants to hear about him, and that actually feels great, even though it probably shouldn't — but he's also misstepped, misjudged, and that's frustrating and worrying all in one go. (He doesn't need a reminder that he doesn't know Mark as well as he's always thought, and he doesn't need to be fucking up this early on.)

"I thought you'd want to talk about it," he says, voice even, a little quieter. He doesn't quite meet Mark's gaze when he speaks, but he looks up a moment after, not about to press the subject. He has no reason to. "But, uh, sure, we can stop. The weather, there wouldn't really be any point, it's a lot of the same or it's — it's completely fucking batshit. I'm talking, like, a month of snow, or a hurricane at the wrong time of year without any indicators, or —" Trailing off, he shakes his head. "The point is, I wish I could, but I don't." It's the sort of thing that he could go on and on about, just like the lack of economy (and really, it's just his luck, getting stuck in a place with no economy and unpredictable weather), but despite the comment, he can't imagine that Mark is actually all that interested. There's plenty else he can talk about, however awkward it may be to segue into it. "As for people, um." He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, temporarily ignoring his food. This was bound to come up at some point, really, and it's probably better that he tell Mark than risk the two of them running into each other without warning. (He'll have to tell her, too, something he's thought about a few times over the course of the evening, but there's nothing he can do about that now.) "There's a girl. Her name is Olive. I, I really like her."

The problem with talking about facebook is that it has to be with someone who cares. Cares, not only in the vague sense that facebook is what Mark's been pouring himself into the past few years, but cares for the concept of facebook altogether, a way of maintaining social webs and even of extending them, digital ties somehow stronger than those forged in person— at least, on average. All of those faceless names from high school, now they're practically unearthing themselves. But Eduardo's never cared about that in the same way that Mark has, as far as the latter can tell, and judging by the usership of facebook, it isn't too hard to imagine why that is. There's that pesky three-quarters of the country that hasn't bothered signing up for an account, and when you shave off the elderly and the overly young, the portion of young adults who avoid the site seem to be those who are perfectly content with the way their lives progress and social circles have been drawn. Eduardo's always been good at that. Making friends, keeping them; if it wasn't for Mark, he's sure that Eduardo would be president of the UC or something else equally as renown. It's only that old adage, the one that says you can measure a person by their choice in friends, that probably draws a berth around the other man now. What does being Mark Zuckerberg's best friend, former or otherwise, say about anyone?

Poor judgment.

But there's no need to harp upon Mark's absolute distaste for talk of facebook right now, not when there's a pretty decent burger that needs eating, and a dizziness that much resembles vertigo that Mark is keen on stamping out. And, apparently a girl in the works too, a fact that focuses his gaze. Some people raise their eyebrows, but Mark's true show of attention is a quality in his eyes, their color nearly darkened by the shadow of his brows as he tries to discern just what 'like' means here.

"Okay," he nods. "There's a girl named Olive. And you really like her. What of it? Co-founder of a billion-dollar corporation, that should get you pretty far right there." In the back of his mind, he can even hear Erica's disapproval. For now, he ignores that.

That quickly, so quickly, Eduardo goes tense, a visible straightening of his spine and locking of his shoulders, jaw set as he stares across the table at Mark. He remembers his burger, but catching sight of it out of what approximates to peripheral vision, he finds that he's completely lost his appetite. It's a textbook fucking Mark statement, but it isn't just about him, now, someone else being insulted in such an implication, someone he cares about — loves as deeply as he's only ever loved Mark, the same and not all at once — who was once believed to have been trading sex for money. Mark doesn't even know her, and already he's written her off as something similar. There's a lot Eduardo will stand for, even now, after having been cut out of the company and Mark's life, but this isn't one of those things. He has a limit. He reached it in a Palo Alto hallway and he reached it slamming a computer against a desk and he's reached it now, on Olive's behalf.

He wishes they'd kept talking about Facebook.

(The funny thing, the really fucking ironic thing, is that if it were only him being insulted, or him and some girl he might have thought hot, it wouldn't have mattered. Hell, it would practically be keeping to a pattern. How do you do that thing where you manage to get all girls to hate us and why do I let you? he asked Mark once (possibly more than once); this would be nothing more than a reversal of that. Where Mark prevented him from getting laid before, he'd be enabling it now, with his company and the fame that brought with it. In the days of groupies, Eduardo had no problem with that, was perfectly willing to take whatever perks came with being Facebook's co-founder. That was before California, though, and three-hundredths of a percent, and whatever fractured remains their friendship has broken down to. He could take it, is perfectly used to being put down by Mark, intentionally or not, but he still wouldn't capitalize on the inherent offer.)

"It's not like that," he says tightly, colder than he's used to being with Mark, one hand curled around the edge of the table just for something to hold on to. In a way, it feels strangely like talking about Mark: like he would have if the Winklevosses ever let him give them a piece of his mind, or like he did with several people following FaceMash, so quick to defend whatever the cost. He wonders, briefly, if Mark will recognize that, wonders what he'll think if he does, then pushes the thought aside. "She's not like that. It's not — this isn't Christy and Alice dragging us into a bathroom to blow us. When I say I like her, I mean I —" He falters, briefly, tip of his tongue pressed to the bottom of his teeth. "I love her." The words hang too heavy in the air between them, foreign even now in the way they feel to speak, and finally, he averts his gaze, glancing at the food he has no intention of eating. "And it'd be hard to get far on being the co-founder of a company you were written out of."

His eyes follow the movement. The thin press of Eduardo's lips, and the hand that goes to the table, fingers gripping tight. That's when all of this feels too familiar, and suddenly he needs nothing more than to get out of there, to leave, to see anything other than the fucking cycle he's been run through time and time again in the past few years. He can't take it anymore. He can't, and the stress has him feeling very much like elastic stretched too far, some part of him snapping, the rest of him liable to follow. It's not even the fact that Wardo's suddenly loving someone Mark doesn't even know that bothers him— he's been prepared to face a different Eduardo for months now leading up to the deposition. It's that Eduardo expects the worst from Mark. He thinks Mark's an asshole now. Maybe he is. But it isn't fair.

It isn't fair, that Eduardo should accuse Mark of planting the story about the chicken. It isn't fair, that Erica should think an offer of networking some kind of personal slight against herself. He's not being purposely malicious; if anything, he just wants to bolster Eduardo's confidence in the matter, thinking that Christy is, to this version of Wardo, a recent memory. Mark just wants to reassure Eduardo that not all girls are like Christy, and that Eduardo doesn't need to stoop to the level of the desperate and insane, not with all that he has under his belt, all the accomplishments that at least can play that initial role of pulling others to him. But suddenly he's being blamed for that too, even if it's just a fact that girls do flock around them for that reason. Suddenly, the fact that he tried to impress Erica with that very same website, it curdles in his stomach, sours everything.

If Eduardo doesn't plan on ever forgiving him, and if he's already made his judgments here on the island, then there's no point, and Mark's chasing a star even more distant than a billion dollars. It's nearly impossible to swallow the bite of burger he has in his mouth, but he manages, before reaching for the ketchup and dropping a large dollop of it onto his plate. Because he'll be hungry later. He's learned to hoard food from living at Kirkland; the dining hall's pretty small, often crowded. There's no sense in wasting a perfectly good burger.

"Maybe you should tell her that," he says tersely. He drags himself up from his seat, as though they're just at Kirkland and all he needs to do is carry that plate back to his room, turning around to face the exit with a slight misstep, alcohol leaving him off-balance.

"Mark, wait," Eduardo blurts out, some half-formed survival instinct pushing the words from his mouth, sending his chair a few inches back from the table and pulling him to his feet, the motion so quick that it nearly leaves him off-balance, too. What he's supposed to do, to say, to fix this, he hasn't got the first idea, but things haven't changed so much that he can't realize that he has to. He's just between a rock and a fucking hard place. (Don't make me choose, he wants to say. He can't pick Mark over Olive when the latter has been so good, so kind, so steady, but he won't pick Olive over Mark, either.) One thing he does know, though, is that the blame here is at least mostly on him. He knows Mark, maybe not as well as he once thought he did, but enough to know that he couldn't have meant anything malicious in what he said. Eduardo's patience is just thinner than it once was, and protecting Olive is a strong instinct, though a new one.

Holding on to Mark, being willing to do whatever it takes (even freezing a bank account in an attempt to make himself important), that's an older one, no less familiar for the time they've spent apart. Looking out for him is, too. On a purely practical level, it makes no sense for Mark to go wandering off into the night, drunk and in a place he doesn't know. Maybe they aren't what they were, but Eduardo can't bear the thought of something happening to him, knows that it would be his fault if it did. He just has to hope that it isn't too late, that this wasn't somehow the final straw. (Surely they've gotten through worse. There's no way, no fucking way, that talk about Olive could be what drives them apart for good. At least, Eduardo certainly hopes that's the case.)

"I'm sorry," he continues, just as abrupt, gaze pleading. It isn't what he means at all. I love you, too, you asshole, would be more accurate, but on the heels of such a statement about Olive, saying so would almost definitely be misconstrued, or at least cause Mark to scoff in disdain and tell him not to be so sentimental. He can't help it, though. Besides the fact that he's never wanted to stick his tongue down Mark's throat, the feelings run so the same, a level of utter, intense devotion that he's only ever directed at those two people, that he can't imagine giving one up for the other. Especially not now, with Mark. They've made it this far already; that has to count for something, to mean that they're not past hope.

It's then he realizes that he doesn't want them to be, that he has every intention of sticking this out until the end. If that makes him the world's biggest fool, so fucking be it. He has a choice, stay or go, and he chooses Mark each and every time. He just also, now, chooses Olive, too.

Mark will probably say he's desperate, or think it, but maybe he is; he doesn't care. He's been desperate before. This time, he won't let that desperation go misunderstood. "I shouldn't — I shouldn't have snapped," he stammers, caring even less that they're standing in the middle of a restaurant. "It just sounded like — shit, just — don't go, okay? I don't want you to go."

(Maybe it's what he should have said from the start, all that time ago back when Facebook was new, don't go, stay here with me, instead of making it about someone else.)

It's funny, how those sentences, one tripping over the other, make Mark feel lonely. He shouldn't. Isn't this the only thing that he's ever needed from Eduardo? Facebook is... it's his passion, it's the one accomplishment of his that he's still fiercely proud of, but he doesn't need Eduardo to see eye-to-eye on that. Certainly, Mark never has when it came to things like Eduardo getting punched by the Phoenix, like Eduardo's successful investment ventures in his first summer. They're things to admire, but pride? No, Mark's always been of the opinion that the only person who deserves to feel that, the only right to lay claim to the idea and its inception, is the entrepreneur. He's not sure if Eduardo understands entirely how he feels in this regard, or even doubts that the other man does— Eduardo never even realized just how deliberately Mark used those words, after the former had returned to New York.

We did it.

He still feels bad about that.

Right now, though, he's still gripped by a sense of isolation. If there's one thing that Mark has never been able to do, it's to simply look at any person, any relationship, merely at the surface level. In this moment, he finds himself at a crossroads that he's never known before, two different paths that he has walked, does walk, will continue to walk with Eduardo. It's already striking him as impossible, on that island, to look at Eduardo without remembering the one who left the deposition room, the one Mark strongly feels won't end up looking back. All of that was too much. Mark doesn't expect that the mere passage of a few days will get him back to a point where he'll want to go back to those lawyers, hash out the terms of agreement with Eduardo. Chances are, he's going to end up sending a proxy, maybe even ask Marylin if she's willing to take the reins. And that means all of this, it feels like some ridiculous fabrication of his mind, driving him wild to the point where he doesn't know what he can trust, not the grain of wood under his feet, not the quickly warming ceramic plate in his hand.

And now, there's a girl. Already, Mark knows that he doesn't want to meet her, though he probably will. He looks down at his feet, unable to tell if it's jealous, if it's pettiness, or if he's just trying to worm himself away from a situation that he can't understand. Or, hell, if he's just trying to retain his balance, that might be a thing too. In theory, Eduardo having someone else to love, that's a good thing, there are probably a whole lot more people on the island who'd take better to the love than Mark does himself. He'd never had a problem with Christy, in theory— though bitch be crazy, he could have told Eduardo that, wanted to tell Eduardo that since he made the girl who blew him in the men's bathroom over facebook his girlfriend. But that Christy received Eduardo's affections anyway, that was okay, because no two people live entirely joined lives and people need breaks from each other, only—

—only Mark has nothing here. He blinks in Eduardo's direction, slowly. A few times. "It just sounded like me," he completes the sentence for Eduardo with a shrug, while a whole lot more filter into his head.

Maybe you should be used to that.

Maybe you've been on this island too long.

Maybe you should have snapped at me earlier.

This is a bad idea.

Is this why you had such a fucking problem with Sean, because that's just stupid, Sean's some weird exercise in self-validation and one clearly gone wrong.

Did you know he started Napster after a break-up, too?

He shakes all of the white noise out of his head, before plopping back down in his seat. What wasn't true before, Eduardo's words about having been Mark's only friend, suddenly ring truer than ever.

"I've had too much to drink," he declares.

It's so absolutely fucking relieving that it hits harder than Eduardo is prepared for, the force of it almost painful, leaving him winded as he drops back into his chair again. What Mark says, words he dimly registers, isn't half as promising, but at least this is something. As long as Mark isn't walking out, they can make this work; they have to, because Eduardo is pretty sure that he'd do absolutely anything to ensure it, a thought that's both stupid and dangerous but that he can't ignore the truth in. It isn't as if he's never thought it before, after all. There's always been a limit to it — he would do anything for Mark but he won't do that, like that awful song from the nineties says, and, Jesus Christ, if ever there were a sign that he's had too much to drink, too, it's that — but the way he considers it doesn't reflect as much, if only for his willingness to make whatever work. It shouldn't be on him to repair their friendship when he wasn't the one who broke it, but if it means keeping Mark around, continuing to be here for him, then it will be worth it. He can't let himself believe otherwise.

The thing is, the thing he has to keep reminding himself, he doesn't know Mark. Not in the you douchebag, you lied to me for months and called yourself my friend way, but actually legitimately does not know him. A lot has been the same in the way they've spoken since he first found Mark on that couch in the rec room, but that doesn't negate the fact that, for him, it's been four fucking years, ones that Eduardo hasn't gotten to experience, and probably never will, not in the same way. Four years is enough for someone to change (he thinks, he hopes; it's a feeling he'd all but forgotten, the desperate need to mean something to Mark, to be important, to even come close to comparing to his precious website). A lot is the same, he's the same, but that doesn't mean everything has to be. The line is just such a fucking difficult one to walk, wanting to cater to Mark's needs and protect himself all at once, because he isn't angry so much as he is hurt and that's just how it manifests itself. When it comes down to it, though, he knows who to put first. He can take care of himself later, sort through all of this when he has a moment alone. Mark may not deserve the benefit of the doubt after what he did, but those four missing years make Eduardo inclined to give it. If he's entirely truthful, he probably would have anyway. How Mark always manages to do this to him, he doesn't know, and he wishes he could actually fucking resent it more than he does, but he can't.

"That isn't what I meant," he says, careful, apologetic. Of all things, this is one that he shouldn't, he shouldn't have to explain himself for, but if that's what it takes to keep everything alright, then he'll do it. Besides, Olive's story isn't his to tell, and removing that factor from the equation, then Mark's quote-unquote offense wouldn't even be worth mentioning. Eduardo is used to it, he can take it; it's Olive who shouldn't have to. Taking a deep breath, he shuts his eyes, just for a second. "Look, I, I want you here, okay? I don't know what that says about me, but I do. And I think we've both had too much to drink, and — this was never going to be easy, you know?" He's rambling by now, barely aware of what he's trying to say except to know that he needs to say it, to make Mark see this time, since he clearly didn't before, just what lengths he'll go to. This isn't a big deal, isn't, all things considered, much of a sacrifice at all. Wide-eyed again and earnest, he draws in a breath. "I just took it the wrong way, and I shouldn't have, and that's — I'm sorry. It wasn't fair. Of me, to say that."

He listens. And for once, he doesn't just interrupt right away in the way that he does so many other people in his life, because this is a voice that hasn't talked to him in a tone even remotely resembling friendly or attached in years, and maybe because he's also still waiting for that spark of understanding. That moment of perfect clarity when both of them know each other, or at least see each other. He remembers the last time he experienced it on his end, with the crash of his laptop on his desk, the latter sturdy enough that not even a dent was made, allowing it all to be swept under the rug and for things to return to normal the next day. His eyes saw then, saw what he'd either neglected to observe earlier, or what Eduardo simply wasn't around to show. That he cared. Maybe didn't care for facebook in the same way or to the same extent that Mark did— for one thing, Mark's never worked so hard at a project for the mere sake of pleasing his father— but enough that he allowed friendship to tie into it. It's what Eduardo does. When he's invested, friendship permeats everything, brightens everything like a pocketful of sunshine.

And of course, Mark does the opposite. When he really cares about something, when he wants it to succeed, that's the time to cut the intricacies of friendship out entirely. He doesn't need Dustin to go around helping him greet friends who come to visit. He needs Dustin to be wired in, to be contributing the sort of code that his mind is best geared for, to be that programmer that no other can be. (And that's one of the beautiful things about code, too, that so many other fields are just incapable of mimicking. What people don't realize is that in spite of the aim code has of making processes as short and to the point as possible, there are always multiple ways of handling it, making it a language, one that every programmer understands differently. He didn't include Dustin in the project because Dustin was any better at programming than Mark himself was— the opposite was the case— but instead because no matter what, Dustin would produce unique work.) He doesn't need Sean to be patting his ass at every turn, even if the Napster founder seems keen on providing that anyway— instead, he needs someone that provides morale in the way that only Sean had been capable of drawing out in Mark. Confidence boosts are good for productivity.

He's starting to realize though— or maybe he's been realizing this for years, only never putting it into practice until he lost Eduardo, his voice markedly softer and having completely lost its edge— that maybe there's a value in the way that Eduardo does it all. And that, lord forbid, maybe compromise is okay too. It won't come naturally to Mark, catering business to a friendship, and maybe it's a moot point on an island where facebook doesn't even exist (even if, honestly, Mark's already starting to wonder what he can do for this island, because there must be something that they're lacking in that programming can do something to help, and he's taken a couple of hardware courses in his day too), but all that he can do is try. Baby steps. Nothing's going to change overnight, but above everything else, these days Mark is tired. And that needs to change.

Can't wire in when you're tired.

(There's something else that bothers him about Eduardo's words too, though, that hit him more directly and sharply even than Erica calling him an asshole. I want you here, okay? I don't know what that says about me. But he should be used to that anymore, right? He did, after all, create FaceMash. He did, after all, cut his best friend out of potentially billions of dollars, and cost what was possibly a huge leap forward in the relationship between Eduardo and his father. It's his own fucking grave, and he's jumped into it with full force, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't still sting on the way down, or that some part of him doesn't still want someone to reach down and lend a hand.)

"You don't need to apologize," he says tersely, before he suddenly realizes that he's still holding onto his glass and plate, the latter of which is starting to tilt from inattention. Correcting himself, he swivels until he's directly facing the table again, setting both down with gentle clicks. He tries to think of something, anything else to say, but he's coming up blank, but maybe there's a certain light in his eyes that shows that struggle regardless. Shadows that cast a darker look to them. When words finally come to him, of course they're the wrong ones, but that doesn't stop him from saying them anyway. "You trip over your words when you're drunk."

The response is so typically Mark that Eduardo smiles, thin and tired but real, unable to do anything else. He's practically given in by now, the self-preservation instinct that had been in full force upon first seeing Mark again now worn down, dulled, probably from some combination of alcohol (he hadn't been like this upon walking into the Winchester, had he?) and time spent around Mark in the first place. He never expected to completely be able to build a wall up, anyway. More important was letting Mark think that he could, to prevent history from repeating itself and Mark from taking whatever he wanted; now, even that seems less important than it should. It's the way it's always been when he's with Mark: desperate for whatever he can get, willing to take the bad because the good is so worthwhile that it doesn't matter. It's attention, and it's attention from someone like Mark, and shit, after everything, he wouldn't have expected Mark to want him back, either. That isn't something he can just ignore, an opportunity he can't let himself pass up. Besides, he knows full well that they never wind up like this back home, Mark's talk of those four years still echoing in his admittedly fuzzy head. This is the one chance they've got, here or anywhere else, and Eduardo has no intention of being the one to blow it. If it crashes and burns, it does, and he'll still be able to say that he tried. That they tried, if the way Mark is sitting here is any indication, and that itself is all the more reason for him to stick around. The effort alone counts for something. They're not who they were at the confrontation in the Facebook office, or the summer preceding it that they spent a country apart from each other, or when Sean first entered the picture or when Mark didn't want to advertise. Maybe this time, they can get it right.

"It's not so much from being drunk," he explains, sheepish, reaching for his glass almost as if to prove it. He isn't that drunk, not really, only drunk enough to be inappropriately quoting Meatloaf songs in his head and thinking about how much he loves Mark, wording that he'd probably never use aloud for how it would surely come across. Sober enough to still know that this could be very, very stupid, but drunk enough that it seems like the better alternative anyway. (So that one might not actually have anything to do with alcohol.) Whether he should continue or not, he doesn't actually know, but after a sip of beer, he decides to go for it anyway. Nothing good is going to come from any of this if he can't be honest this early on, and it's got to be worth the risk of being called sentimental to let Mark know how much this means to him. (Stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid, but it's all he's wanted this whole time, even before he got written out of the company, to have his best friend back. Now, maybe, he hopes, he does.) "I just. You know, you, you're here, and I..." Exhaling, he shrugs. "I want to get this right. And that has me doing a lot of tripping over my words, yes." For a moment, he pauses, then adds, slightly self-deprecating, "Being drunk probably doesn't help, though."

Of course it's not so much from being drunk. Eduardo doesn't ever really drink with abandon. The reasons a man needs to drink always say a lot about the person, and for Eduardo, those reasons are usually about ambiance and practicality. When others are drinking around him, Eduardo will have a beer. When he needs to calm down and soothed frayed nerves, Eduardo will have a beer. (Mark remembers with a particular sort of amusement, the way Eduardo managed to work his way through almost an entire six-pack of beer shortly after incident with Christy and— what's her name, something fairy talesque— Alice, that's right— Alice in the restaurant bathrooms. Eduardo thought that the two of them had split the beers evenly, but what he didn't realize was that Mark kept on swapping out the beers, made a game out of it, needed Eduardo to come down from bouncing off the fucking walls.) When he needs to fit in the bicycle room of a final club, he'll have a glass of wine, or at the very least a wine cooler. Shot are nearly nonexistent, martinis are... well, Mark can't remember the last time Eduardo's had a martini, and he suspects that he probably knows the reason for that. Has to do with a curly crop of hair, and Mark doesn't mean his own.

But he's sure that Eduardo realizes that Mark didn't really mean what he said, not that time, just as much as he's sure that Eduardo's just explaining because that's what he does. That habit he has of sounding out all of his thoughts, fully and coherently, as though it helps him paint some kind of picture, give him the perspective that Mark so often lacks. Mark works with two dimensions. Blinking letters on a computer monitor. Eduardo doesn't do that, he's never done that, he's always needed to meet with people, to shake their hands, to have that strong indication that he is working face-to-face with living folks. Mark thinks that phone calls are convenient for how (for him, at least; he can't speak for the rest of the world) they allow a faster rapport in communication than text does. Eduardo sees them, instead, as the only thing that can even try to approach the intimacy of being around someone in person. His inflection is always clear over the phone. Mark's, hardly.

(He's made games out of that, too.)

So he lets Eduardo go on a bit, not really sure what to do with his hands, simply rubbing them together on his lap nervously. Feels like confession, the sort of guilt twisting into one's gut that is never forgotten, even if it's been years since Mark's stepped into a booth. Because somehow, it's just... approaching impossible for him to say the same, even though Mark has the more than sneaking suspicion that for the first time in their lives, Mark and Eduardo's feelings are running along the same line.

"Yeah," he manages first with a shrug of both shoulders. His mouth is in the same firm line that it usually is, the one that most people associate with nonchalance. What gives him away, though, is the look in his eyes. Not hyperfocused on code, on the pixels of a monitor, not fixed on some vague point in the distance where he can mentally work through the logic of his programming, they're just watching him. It's the closest that he can come to direct, unflinching honesty. Hopefully Eduardo gets it, though. He's not just acknowledging Eduardo's feelings (though there's that, too, and with that a deep surprise that has the knots from his shoulders slowly easing away). He's mirroring them.

Tired of the way his fingers keep on moving against air, Mark finally shoves both of his hands into his pockets, taps his foot against the ground.

"So," he continues, as though working out the words one at a time, nodding vaguely to himself. "Please tell me you're not living in a mud hut."

The longer they sit here, just the two of them and nothing else, in a way they haven't been in longer now than he can even remember, the more Eduardo finds himself trying to consider just how much his perception is skewed, how much is real and how much is the product of some vain, useless hope. He doubts he ever would have fully given up on wanting Mark to come back around, regardless of lawsuits or time spent apart, but there's a difference between wanting a thing and ever really believing that it could happen. The first, he did (he does, he reminds himself. This isn't a done deal); the second, he wouldn't have let himself. Now, though, in the way Mark is here, actually looking at him, it's kind of fucking daunting, having his full attention like this, no computer to take precedence or other people of importance around or idea being formed. What Eduardo has to wonder, through the haze of alcohol and the weight of everything that's happened this past while, is if this is all just wishful thinking, or if the seemingly impossible has become true. Mark always hears, but he rarely seems to listen (a distinction that could practically define the two of them, that's impacted so much of what happened between them). Eduardo thinks he might actually be listening now.

Too bad he hardly knows what to say, what to do, now that there's a chance he honestly has what he's wanted for so, so long. It isn't what he's used to, with Mark or, really, anyone else. More often than not in his life, he's had to fight a losing battle; frustrating as that can be, he's ready for it, and as a result, latches on willingly, gratefully, to whatever he can get. Even if getting them here took some trying, it's so simple, so real, that he meets Mark's gaze and for a moment there's a lump lodged firmly in his throat, one that takes another swig of beer to wash down.

"No," he answers with a short laugh after he's set his glass down again, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head. "I did a little better than that. It's made out of wood. As far as middle-of-nowhere island living goes, it's not bad, actually."

Sometimes, Mark doesn't mind gaps in conversation. Sometimes, they afford him the ever-needed time to check his phone for new texts or emails, to work on some line of code, to keep up with the international news, which he's been able to do lately just by tracking facebook. But on the whole, it's more the fact that Mark prefers to use his words wisely, rather than try for a great number of them, and when people don't bother trying to force thoughts to come out, silence is what usually prevails. He's made a point, back in Palo Alto, of going on regular lunches with some of his coworkers. A few of the best developers are regulars at the table, and Mark makes a point too of inviting random employees from just about any group, right down to the janitors who mop up their floors after hours. Something about inclusion. He's really learned something about inclusion, and how it provides a better air to the working environment, even if the very point of facebook is that it's exclusive, that it gives a person full choice over who they choose to avoid or associate with. Work isn't the same, though. At work, the point is to make everyone happy enough, just happy enough, to produce good material. And over the process of doing that, Mark's just become more aware of what he's always known, that it's pointless to force meaningless, inane thoughts out just for the sake of filling the space.

Eduardo tries hard to that end, though, in a way that few other friends of Mark's ever have. He pulls inclusion to his regular life too, tries to see everyone for the good in them (except for those who have severely wronged Mark himself, or those who stand the chance of it in the future). Silence probably unnerves him. And Mark stares ahead just long enough that he decides, maybe he can compromise here, give them something concrete to do that keeps them from flailing at each other in this weird sort of dance.

"Well, I think I've eaten all of my burger that I can right now; stomach's not what it used to be, living off rabbit food these days," he says quickly, casting a half-interested look at his burger. He takes another bite, as though trying to test just how hungry it is, then nods— he's definitely lost the bulk of his appetite. "Got an extra room I can crash in? Or, if... I mean, I'm pretty sure I can find another place. I like bamboo. Could find a place made of bamboo. Assuming it grows here."

Hard as all of this is to wrap his head around, the question, once it's been said, isn't one that surprises Eduardo in the slightest. If anything, it's a nice return to what he's used to, or at least a comfortable middle ground between what he knows and what he'd want. Mark needs a place to stay, so he'll do what's convenient, capitalize on what's essentially in front of him and the generosity that Eduardo knows he's never been able to curb; the part that follows, though, shows a lack of expectation, and for it, Eduardo doesn't think he could be any more grateful. Not for the first time, but perhaps most notably, it leaves him thinking that maybe this really could work, that this all will have played out such that they'll be able to manage what they couldn't before, the difference in timing working for them rather than against them.

When he huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, it's with no small degree of warmth, expression almost fond, if slightly incredulous. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "Of course you can crash at my place." On a practical level, it's all that makes sense, for one; they've both of them been drinking, and it's a little late in the evening to be going house-hunting. What's more, though, and what is probably all the more important, is that it's something he can and therefore wants to be able to give, proof of the fact that Mark needs him here and that he isn't going anywhere. Even if he and Mark hadn't managed something resembling peace, he suspects that he would have done the same thing, the opportunity to have Mark rely on him for anything too overwhelmingly good to ignore. That there isn't an extra room is irrelevant. He can either sleep at his desk, as he did the night Olive arrived, or just go to her hut and make sure to be awake before Mark is. (Never before has having a girlfriend who lives so close been so convenient.) "I wasn't actually planning on giving you a choice in the matter."

It's probably too early to relax, but beer is a sort of drink that sneaks up on a person after a time. Makes them sleepy, drowsy, and Mark's entering that phase a bit himself, although he tries hard to blink at regular intervals, ridding himself of the bleariness that he doesn't want now, now of all times. The human body is sometimes ridiculous. Makes the desire to sleep so hard to fight, even when this is the first time he's really talked to his best friend (former? present? who the hell knows, still probably the person who knows Mark the best even after all this time) in years, practically half a decade. Part of him hopes that walking about might be better, knows that he isn't exaggerating when he says that this is more substantial food than he's gotten in quite some time. Most meals that he doesn't spend on his own are with potential business partners, investors, occasionally employees, and the problem with being around a group of people like that is the fact that there is always more to talk about, always more to be excited about, and by comparison the food on one's plate seems pretty dull indeed. Eating at home, since he does it so rarely, usually consists of relative nonperishables. Ramen. Cheese and crackers. Celery and carrot sticks.

He's been on more than a few dates with a girl too, Priscilla, and it's getting to the point where she probably considers it a pretty serious thing on her end, but the way Mark figures, if he's still chasing Erica Albright down on facebook after all those years, he can't put too much stock into that. She's nice enough, though. Mark's even learned a few words of Mandarin. Might as well have been a figment of his imagination, though, since she isn't actually on the island.

It takes some effort to shake himself out of his reverie, but Mark looks up again, slight quirk in his lips. "Well I mean, I wasn't sure if you had space," he says, brow slightly furrowed. "My guess is that on an island like this, with people arriving out of nowhere, that there's probably some room or house set aside with extra beds and sheets for the newcomers— meaning you don't need to worry about putting up space for the lost and hapless— and the heightened rate of cycling probably means there are a lot of huts up for grabs at any given time. I figured you had a single. Single-person living space."

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