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

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."

If anything, the fact that Mark says as much only makes Eduardo all the more inclined to take him back to his place. It's got to be so, so very fucking stupid, but really, it's a lose-lose situation, and to keep too much distance is, he thinks, the greater risk. He can deal with his own feelings on his own time; for now, Mark needs him (it echoes through his head like a litany, some sort of sick validation of the past two years and couple hours of his life, all of it worth something now that Mark is here and he can make himself important again). Mark is also right, of course, about the island having something set up for new residents, but that there's a simpler solution is beside the point. This is something he can take care of, and being able to, he needs to. Truthfully, after all of this, he suspects that he wouldn't be able to sleep much anyway, deeply shaken, uncertain, for all that he seems more at ease than ever. In a way, the two go hand in hand, though he'd be hard-pressed to explain how that's the case (something to do with Mark, he's sure, and the way Mark always seems to keep him pulled in a dozen different directions at once). A trip to Olive's might do him good, let him work some of this out other than in his own head. Better he tell her sooner rather than later, anyway, when he isn't quite sure what she'll make of all of this.

"Well, they do," he allows, "have a room like that, but that's not — it doesn't matter. Seriously, Mark, don't worry about it." Probably, he knows, he should state outright that it's a hut for one, but they'll be back there soon enough, and then there won't be any sense in putting up a fight. That he's likely overreacting, putting more stock in this than is strictly necessary, is something he'll admit to himself, but not act on. To let Mark go, to treat him like he would any other island resident, is bound to foster distance between them, and he doesn't want to lose whatever peace they've managed tonight if he can help it. Like this, there'll be no way to ignore it (or him). Maybe that makes him selfish, but so fucking be it; if he can have this, he wants to, always willing to take whatever he's able to get. "Come on, let's go."

Much of the time, advice that Eduardo gives Mark not only goes down the drain, but is fought against instinctively. It's a process that Mark isn't even entirely cognizant of himself, and especially not after he's had a few drinks under his belt. In a way, in spite of all of the time that has passed for him, the years that he's spent in Palo Alto without so much as a peep from Eduardo, Mark finds himself quickly stumbling back to where he was in those weeks before diluting Eduardo's shares. Feeling somehow overshadowed, stifled, like his best friend is taking up the role of a guardian, of a mother herding him back inside when the clock hasn't even struck eleven.

When Eduardo tells Mark not to worry, he does at once, his brow knitting severely— only the words stumble for once and don't quite spill over his lips. Shouldn't he worry? Never, never have the two of them actually lived together for any amount of time, even if sometimes Eduardo came over with such frequency that it felt like he was part of the Kirkland blocking group altogether. And even though this is Wardo, Mark doesn't feel like he has the right to ask for this favor anymore. There's no more ease, no right to simply siphoning a couple hundred dollars out of his friend's account for the sake of keeping his servers running.

"You sure I shouldn't worry about it?" he asks at last, once his thoughts finally break through, slipping forward like a dam broken. Still, he picks himself up and follows closely behind Eduardo. "Although I guess I'll find my own place soon, but really, if they have a room like that, they have a room like that. I mean, I could— it's not ideal to be staying in a room with so many strangers, but one night, I can manage one night."

The thing about Mark, Eduardo has found (and all but forgotten, only to remember again now), is that whether intentional or not, everything feels like a test. Like Mark's ever-critical gaze is on him, and there's an expected answer and he has to figure out what it is so he can get it right. He's disagreed with Mark, of course, on multiple occasions, though never so big an issue as advertising on the site, but what he thought — and still thinks — that Mark never seemed to get was that he was only ever doing what he was brought on board to do, to act as CFO, to use the one thing he was ever really good at to try and benefit the site (which made it sting all the more to have Mark point out, after he flew out to Palo Alto, that he'd failed at that, too). On the littler things, the strictly personal things, he's always been quick to try to give Mark what he wants, and glad to do so. He's not vindictive enough for that to have changed now.

Of course, the position that leaves him in, as he starts out of the Winchester, is one as uncertain as all the rest of this night has been. He doesn't know how to read Mark like he used to, the revealed deception and, now, years of distance making that obvious enough; as such, it's hard to tell what Mark really wants. Surely, he means what he says, but that doesn't have to mean anything when put into practice. For all Eduardo knows, if he agrees and takes Mark back to the Compound, then he'll be the one to drive them apart, implying that this is a one-time thing, not a sign of any friendship rekindled. On the other hand, though, to insist and drag a semi-drunken Mark back to his place — he learned the hard way that to try to insinuate himself in Mark's life, to hold on even when it seems impossible, is something that very well might not work, or could even wind up having the opposite of the intended effect. After so much time, he'd be even stupider than just being here makes him not to wonder if it's too late for anything.

Either way, he doesn't know what the answer is supposed to be. Maybe Mark wants to see him insist, like proof of his clearly unfaltering loyalty. Maybe Mark asks if he's sure he shouldn't worry about it because Mark thinks he should, and that's his way of saying so. Maybe Mark is using this as an excuse to reclaim some space between them again, like this is an experiment gone wrong.

Or maybe, Eduardo thinks, maybe he's just losing his fucking mind and it doesn't mean anything at all.

When it comes down to it, it's worth the gamble, or at least a slight one. He won't send Mark away, not when this is a chance to make himself needed, something that tonight has made him crave as sharply and suddenly as if a switch were flipped in his head, turning back on what he'd meant to keep off. He smiles, why, and shakes his head. "Exactly. It's one night," he says, voice catching like around a laugh that he doesn't quite let out. He doesn't add that he's done as much before, that he brought Olive and Erica over the nights they arrived, too. It may be dishonest, but he wants this to mean something, not for Mark to think it's what he'd do for just anyone, or born of some sense of obligation. "Not a big deal at all." Just let me do this for you, he wants to say, but he doesn't. "I told you, I was going to offer anyway." More like he was just going to take Mark there and just tell him to sleep, but that's all logistics.

It's a whole lot easier to argue with Eduardo when it comes to facebook, Mark thinks vaguely to himself as he steps down the path, the occasional crunch of pebbles under his feet ringing to his ears. In general, the only time when Mark really fights is when he strongly believes in something, knows that he's right, that he should be abrasive and that his temper is justified. To others, it might look like Mark takes the reins of that friendship and steers it in whatever direction he wants, but the fact of the matter is that Eduardo's been influential over the years as well, the only reason why Mark's been able to get a girlfriend at all (though the irony of the fact that his ex-girlfriend was, in his humble opinion, a lot more sane than Christy ever was), probably the only reason why he found Chris and Dustin in the first place (prodding from Eduardo's end to meet more of the programmers, small but constant pieces of advice given in soft whispers during lectures of their mutual Historical Studies B core class).

The fact is, in spite of all of the years that have passed, the impulse on Mark's end is to listen to Eduardo and let the fight die out. But as soon as he lets the fight go, a heavy weariness takes over, leaving him drowsy, tired. His eyes start to close even as he tries to fight it with hard blinks, hand gripping tightly at the plate in his hands.

"Right," he mumbles, even as he starts to sway, Eduardo still being one of the few people Mark can fall asleep in front of. "Because you'd feel bad if you didn't. Well, I'm not taking the bed."

"Hey, easy, easy," Eduardo says, expression somewhere in an odd middle ground between concerned and fond, falling back a step so he can rest a hand on Mark's shoulder, attempt to keep him steady. The response isn't quite what he was hoping for — though still better than a good number of alternatives — but for a moment, at least, it's easy to put that aside. Mark looks exhausted, and though it's worrying, it's not unwelcome in the sense that they've been here before. In that instant, it isn't difficult to pretend that they're back at Harvard, with Mark coming off a too many hours long coding tear, needing to be coaxed away from the computer and into bed. (It was never strictly why he tended to spend more time at Kirkland than in his own dorm, but he thought it a benefit to his being there, certainly.) Such a train of thought is dangerous, sure, but he doesn't think he could be blamed for trying to seize upon whatever familiarity he can when everything else has turned completely on its head, something that Mark's always had an uncanny ability to do where Eduardo's life is concerned.

So it's easy for Eduardo to let that take priority, to want to focus on that instead of his reasons for wanting to have Mark crash at his place. He isn't sure how he'd begin to explain it, anyway; this is as good a reason as any not to. "You are absolutely taking the bed. You — no offense, but you look like you need it." Eduardo can't blame him, really. He's hovering on the verge of exhaustion himself, attention paid to Mark the only thing that's keeping him from really feeling it, and he had a relatively normal day up until now, if trying not to think about his ex-ex-best friend's birthday and talking about sex with his girlfriend on the beach counts as normal. (He likes to think it does.) Only with that said, he bites his lip, adding more quietly, "And it's not just because I'd feel bad."

Mark looks over at the hand on his shoulder with some amount of confusion, no longer accustomed to it being there. Sometimes, Dustin makes some efforts, still trying to be a bro, but that's always too obvious, glaring enough that Mark has to shrug it off every time and tell Dustin to get back to the coding. Suddenly, he feels his throat going dry, sure that he won't be able to get words out even if he tries— so he just leans slightly, allows the alcohol and the fatigue to be his excuse. Eduardo's the only one who knows where they're going, anyway. "I need sleep, I don't need Sealy springs and mattresses," Mark shakes the concern off, the volume of his voice lowered. "It was a long day. Coding, checking up on Bosnia, depositions. Didn't think we'd be going through everything in such great detail, but I guess I have a tendency of underestimating lawyers."

There's a furrow in his brow as the two of them continue walking, the cogs turning in his head. Maybe intoxication makes it easier to ignore what's going on between the two of them (he's been trying to keep it out of his mind for years, anyway) but that doesn't mean that Mark will stop prying and poking and piecing the rest of it together.

"Anyone I've got to watch out for on the island?" he asks.

It isn't the first time that Eduardo has been grateful for a change of subject. The thing is — and even he can't make sense of it, not really — for all that he spent the first couple months here wanting desperately to go home specifically for that reason, to follow through on his promise to sue, it's something else entirely to have to hear about it, not least because it was never ideal anyway. He isn't acquainted with his future self, but the way he sees it, the right word from Mark would have been enough to end any legal issues. That, apparently, never came. (It has now, though, hasn't it?) All he gets instead is Mark's account of what happened, and torn between curiosity over what happened, what they talked about in the aforementioned detail, and not wanting to have to think about it, a topic to move on to, to focus on instead, is welcome. Besides, it means Mark can't be quite so stuck on it either, and that, that, is indisputably good for them.

"Yeah, I was... gonna get to that," he says, frowning slightly, though it's an expression that doesn't look especially upset. He's not, just thoughtful and a little uncertain. "Erica's here, showed up a couple weeks ago. She's from early, too, earlier than me, back when w— when thefacebook was only at one school. That night in the restaurant." Casual though he keeps the stammer, he hates it, too, that he's so conscious of everything now that he can't use we in lieu of the website itself when it came so easily before. Things have changed, though, and even if it would have been accurate in that it was theirs then, just him and Mark, it hurts too much to say. Whatever Mark said about restoring his name to the masthead, he can't pretend like he really matters to Facebook or has the right to act like he does.

He needs to say something else, to stop himself from thinking about it, so he adds, almost as an afterthought, "There's also, um, a guy who looks really scarily like you. It's not all that unusual around here, people who look like other people, but you just, you know, might want to look out for that."

Mark Zuckerberg was never in love with Erica Albright. Honestly, Mark is pretty sure he's never been in love at all in a romantic way, never cared for someone so deeply that he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with them. Erica was... a pretty face, a pretty sharp mind, a mix of a bunch of traits and qualities that Mark could see himself enjoying being around. Perhaps more than anything else, she was also straight with him, not the type to act coy or shy in the way that so many simpering girls at Harvard did (he knows that it's a stereotype, and a negative one at that, but there are a lot of girls who seem to roam the campus with the sole intention of nailing a good husband, rather than hoping for higher institutions and degrees beyond that Bachelor's). But Mark Zuckerberg was never in love with Erica Albright, so what he feels right now is just some mild level of discomfort. If she's really from the time that Eduardo says she is— and he has no reason to lie about this— then she's not precisely enamored with Mark right now. Probably means he should avoid her.

It's just another stupid grain of rice on the freaking scale, and right now, drowsy as he is, there are still moments when Mark feels like all of it is just going to go tipping over.

"That night in the restaurant," Mark repeats with a soft nod. "Right. Great."

A thought suddenly crosses his mind, the fact that he's really grateful this girlfriend Eduardo's mentioned isn't Erica. Not that he thinks that his best friend, even estranged, would ever do such a thing. But still, there's an unquestionable relief that lodges itself in his chest, and Mark hates himself a little for it. These things shouldn't matter.

Not sure he wants to admit to Wardo how he spent the last several seconds before the island refreshing Erica's facebook page, he looks over instead. "Tell me about this guy who looks like me."

Eduardo can't tell, at first, if he should follow along with what Mark says or press the subject, because it clearly isn't great and he doesn't know what it is. Erica, he's sure, will be less than pleased, but the fact that he has a better handle on how she'll react to this than how Mark is doing so is something that doesn't sit right with him, however much sense it might make. (Erica's been here for a few weeks now; he hasn't spoken to Mark in months, and it wasn't as if they parted on good terms. Besides, it's been years for him. It's hard to determine how he really feels about anything, including Eduardo himself.) What he has to judge by is the past, and that's Mark's blog entries the night of the breakup and the way he said we have to expand after talking to her that night. What can't be denied is that she is and always will be a person of importance, a game-changing piece on the board that affected all of them. Less certain is the effect that the past four years have had. Back at Harvard, he'd been fairly certain that Mark never really got over her, as an idea if not necessarily a person. Now, he has no clue, except to know that right, great probably doesn't cover it.

He gives it up, though, albeit with some hesitation. At the end of the day, that's what's familiar, and no amount of time passed could make it any less instinctive to follow Mark's lead, to offer whatever it is that he might need. Talking about the lookalike seems simpler, anyway, something devoid of any baggage; the two of them have enough of that on their own without Erica inadvertently circling everything back around to them. (He got the same treatment, in the end, as she did. He should have seen it coming, should have known, except how could he have?)

"Well, his name's Columbus," he says, not bothering to hide the trace of amusement evident in the curve of his mouth, "as in Ohio, and he's apparently from some sort of end of the world, though I never really asked about it. And I think the fact that he looks like you is probably all the two of you have in common, he seems to act very... nervous."

The good thing is that Wardo drops the subject. It's the sort of thing that, years ago, Mark would have expected, Mark would have been frustrated with if he'd not received, that understanding and distance. In retrospect, there are some topics and certain occasions where it might have been better, had Eduardo intervened on some level, but this, Mark strongly feels, isn't one of those times. Because at the end of the day, Erica presents a problem that he's not sure how to tackle, and the tone of Eduardo's voice suggests that he isn't sure about it, either, and in that case, the best thing he can hope for is time to stew and time to consider his options. The greatest drawback here is that no matter what he decides to do, any level of involvement with Erica is going to quite face-to-face interaction.

If nothing else, that's something worth steeling himself for.

His mind moves on quickly, Mark Zuckerberg's own personal brand of denial, moving onto topics more easily grasped and offenses more holistically felt. His brows knit only a touch tighter when Wardo mentions the name, but anyone who knows Mark should be able to tell that the slight change in expression hides feelings more strongly felt. This time, of disbelief, maybe a touch of repugnance.

"As in Ohio. Why can't it be, as in Christopher?" he asks immediately, shaking his head. "Granted Christopher Columbus was probably an idiot in many respects, but at least he is a single idiot who still managed to accomplish a great deal. Columbus, Ohio is a city of collective idiocy, and the only thing that it's produced of any value is the domesticated tomato. Though then again, if he's from the end of the world, anything's possible, isn't it? Even Ohioan zealots."

Almost immediately, Eduardo knows he made the right choice in not pushing the subject of Erica. The feeling he gets with Mark going on like this, it's familiar, warm, not unlike the way he felt not long ago when they were discussing the economy (or lack thereof) and the strip club, essentially meaningless topics but over which they could agree. With Mark rambling like this about something that doesn't matter, it's all Eduardo can do not to smile, instead just nodding in agreement. They can't exist on smalltalk alone, but if that's what's going to keep whatever this is afloat, he'll go along with it, no question. At least it's something, and anyway, they were never going to be able to solve all their problems in one night. With that in mind, it's as easy as it ever was to take what Mark gives him, to enjoy the inclusion inherent in hearing something like this. Because, at the end of the day, it is what he wants, consequences be damned. Regardless of what might be left unresolved between them, this is how things should be.

"Have you ever even been to Columbus, Ohio?" he asks, biting back a laugh at the mention of domesticated tomatoes. (Only Mark, he thinks, with no small amount of adoration, would have a random fact like that on hand for the sake of conversation. He corrects himself a moment later; it reminds him of something Olive would do, too, albeit with any different topic, bringing him once again to that hazy place the two overlap in his feelings towards them.) He continues without waiting for a response, though, quick as ever to agree. "I think it's just where he's from. Like, that's just what people go by, in this apocalyptic future. It is seriously weird, though."

The longer Mark's allowed to linger on unrelated topics, the more he's able to distance himself from emotions and nerves too raw, split open from this strange reunion on an island of mysterious origin. If he thinks deeply about it, this isn't the first time that Eduardo's taken advantage of Mark's tendency to run with flights of fancy in conversation; when things grow awkward, Eduardo manages to skirt by through changing the topic. A mixture of uncertainty, fatigue, and beer have him nonetheless setting that aside for the moment, content to go on about red states and apocalyptic futures. He's too tired for anything else, the only consistent though passing through his mind is how much he wishes that Dustin could be there right now, natural mediator that the young man is. Never, in all of the troubles that Eduardo and Mark have come across with one another, has Dustin wavered in his friendship with either of them.

Mark's not sure how he does it.

"No, not to Columbus— why would I ever go to Columbus? There's nothing there— although I have been to Dayton, Ohio for the Air Force Museum as a kid, that was a pretty long road trip," he ponders, nose wrinkling in memory; the trip had been originally planned as a treat for young Mark, but he'd asked to go without knowing just how long he'd have to sit in a car to get there, and ultimately the trip had been one of the most unpleasant in his memory. "But naming people completely after cities is stupid. It's supposed to be the other way around. If you discover a new place, a new island, you have that named after you. If you discover a new species of animal or a star, you pass your name on, you leave a legacy. But with a naming convention like that, what, are you going to have several hundred New York New Yorks running around? Or does a population over one mean that you go more specific with the naming, like a Mister 5th Avenue New York, or a Miss Upper East Side Manhattan?"

It's a fine line to walk, really, much like everything with Mark. Eduardo has always been the one to anchor a conversation in something serious, try to hold Mark's focus even when he's been quick to want to move on, but he's also always catered to Mark's wants and needs, in all except one thing, and this isn't the time to push. They both need it, he thinks, a distraction, however temporary, from all that's been broken. Having this one small, dumb thing to agree over won't fix anything, but it's like a temporary patch or some shit like that, and as ever, with Mark, he's willing to take whatever he can get. Of all their old patterns, that is, perhaps, the easiest to fall back into now, the current context making it less consequential than when it comes to anything directly involving the two of them. They can't have a friendship built solely on this, talking about other people and the nuances of an apocalyptic future, but at least it's something. At least Mark seems to want him, maybe even need him around. Chances are, that won't last, but he can at least appreciate it while it does.

"I think it's possible that there weren't enough people left for that," he offers, though he doesn't really seem to believe that, nose wrinkling slightly after he speaks. He has to give something, though; that's the way he's always been. "But seriously, with a city like New York? You'd probably have to start going by address, or at least nearest intersection. Seems pretty insensible."

He's silent for a few seconds. Considering the vast changes in world and in social structure that Eduardo's hinting at, how different a post-apocalyptic world must be in comparison to the booming one that the two of them live in. It's the sort of thing that you'd see in a film, read in books, but Mark can't help thinking that big changes and disasters like that don't happen in the real world. It's what enables people to move on, to pretend like nothing's wrong, it's what makes it hard to justify getting worked up over personal troubles, because in the end, life moves on. As much as Mark's personal life has changed with the departure of his best friend, facebook hasn't been affected, the progress of technology has only advanced, and maybe it's that forward motion that makes it so hard to slow down, inertia only pushing him ahead, and making it nearly impossible to dig his heels into the dirt and mend broken bridges. The disconnect between this story that Eduardo's telling, of a place where city names are actually used for individuals, sounds so bizarre and distant that even more than before, this doesn't feel entirely real.

Maybe Eduardo's just a memory, right now. Mark blinks, his eyes pressing tightly shut, at the very thought of it. The mind's an amazing thing, more capacity for growth and learning than any computer. Who knows?

Without opening his eyes again yet (he's using the sound of Eduardo's steps to guide him in the right direction), Mark shakes his head, his curls quivering in the air. "Doesn't this all sound like an acid trip to you? I mean, how— how do we actually know that any of this is... real, that people aren't just pulling some crazy stunt on us, that either of us hasn't just gone insane or is suffering from some unprecedented level of hallucination?" he asks, still shaking his head.

It's sensible, is what it is. Hell, for that matter, it isn't like Eduardo didn't think the same himself, wondered if he'd gone and lost his damn mind around the time he realized that it wasn't a sick joke being made at his expense. Where Mark is concerned, Eduardo does, he thinks, still know him well enough to be aware that he's logical, rational, not someone who'd buy into any fantastical theories too quickly, and nothing about this place really makes sense. However reasonable the question might be, though, he can't help but feel a little of the hope he's built up start to bleed out of him, and doesn't bother trying to hide it, either. If nothing else, it's dismissible as being the effect of a more serious turn of conversation, the implication not one that merits a smile regardless of their history, even if the latter part is what he's really thinking of.

After all, if none of this were really happening, then what the fuck would even be the point?

"I've been here for four months," he points out, words measured, careful, his hand coming to rest against Mark's back to keep guiding him down the path. "That would be a pretty elaborate hallucination on my part." What's more, there's no way he would be able to conjure up an image of Mark like this; he's much like Eduardo remembered him, but all the complexities, the perfection, the imperfection, that's nothing he could have dreamed up on his own. Added to that the gap of time between them, the things that have changed, the ways in which Mark has managed to take him by surprise tonight, and he really sees no way around it. (If he did go crazy, though, then given the timing of his hypothetical psychotic break, that would be all Mark's fault. He keeps that comment to himself.) "And I guess you could argue that anything I tell you about that time is just... your projection of me trying to justify it, but..."

Trailing off, he shakes his own head in turn, expression just bordering on hurt under its insistence. "This is real, Mark. Crazy or not. I'm real."

Every last bone in his body is telling him to believe Eduardo. It used to be so easy. It used to be that anything that came out of Eduardo's mouth (except for his opinions on handling technology, of course, and by extension facebook itself) was immediately to be trusted. To be believed. It made the world a lot easier to deal with, Mark sometimes handing off certain questions or situations to Eduardo, who had a lot more intuition in some cases, or was just more well-informed in others. And as Mark is no expert on all things medical and certainly isn't in the habit of having long, convoluted, detailed dreams, he's tempted to defer to Eduardo's claim and just be done with it, to treat the island as an island, to treat magic like it actually exists (ha). But the dots just aren't connecting. It's not Eduardo's fault— if everything that he's saying is true, then there are no explanations that can help piece everything perfectly together— but it's a detail that Mark needs right now, with respect to this.

So. He's just not quite sure he believes it all.

That said, even if all of this is some long, twisted dream on Mark's part, there's still a game here. There's still a way to mold a dream to one's benefit, and a way for it to quickly become a nightmare. Strangely enough, it's at that point that it hits Mark, that a nightmare for him wouldn't be Eduardo suddenly growing fangs or him blowing up the facebook headquarters (the second would just make him mad), but instead it's, well. It's if he ends up causing that same look on Eduardo's face, that pained look, no matter which direction he steps in. Like walking on thin ice. That's the stuff of nightmares.

Thus he nods. "Okay. Okay, I believe you," he replies, and for a moment he almost believes it, certainly believes it in the context of the dream, nodding and breaking contact in the flyaway way he always does, heading back in the direction of the hut again.

All Eduardo can do, really, is nod in turn, trying not to let himself be thrown by what should only have made sense. Maybe he's just making everything too personal; if what he's been told in the past holds true, then it would hardly be the first time. It's hard to help it, though. Selfish though it might make him, when he's come to like it here, he wants Mark to be able to do the same, to want this as much as he does. As far as he can tell, this place is their only shot at having something again, and for Mark to already be trying to dismiss it as a psychotic break, a drug trip, a dream, yeah, alright, that feels fucking personal. Like he's the only one of them so deeply invested in this, and all he wants, even more than for this tentative reconciliation to hold, is for Mark to want it, too. At least then, if it falls through, he'll know that it wasn't for nothing, that he isn't an even bigger fool than he's already resigned himself to being.

Doing his best to ignore the way his chest still feels tight, he bites his lip, glancing at the boardwalk. "It's really not all that bad, you know," he says, quieter, though there's less actual conviction and more a hesitant sort of hope in his voice. He knows better than to expect Mark to like it just for his sake, he does, when it's already been made abundantly clear to him that what he's worth, that fucking decimal of a percent, doesn't rank nearly as much as Facebook in Mark's esteem, and this is a place without the internet at all. Mark will want to go back to that; Eduardo can't doubt it. That won't stop him from trying, from wanting. "This place. For all its flaws, it's... pretty okay."

While he's not always sure how to respond to Eduardo when conversations are so emotionally charged, Mark knows to keep his gaze turned away this time. Because the look in his eyes as he stares at this place, it's skeptical at best, bitter at worst, wondering what on earth he's done to deserve being marooned on a hunk of rock like this. There's a lot to be tentatively grateful for, of course. Mark never meant to completely alienate Eduardo or sever the friendship, not while there was still something there to fight for, and although there's absolutely nothing set in stone right now, the chance isn't negligible. The chance to preserve things isn't without value. But at the same time, the venue itself has stripped Mark of everything that he, outside of his personal relationships and friendships, is interested in.

That's not easy to accept.

That's not easy to brand as 'pretty okay.'

"Yeah?" he asks, and it's hard to completely keep the skepticism out of his voice as he looks around, as the toe of his shoe kicks a stray pebble out of hte way. It's not something worth ranting about, though. There are a lot of criticisms that people can make about Mark, he knows that better than almost everyone else, but he's not the type of person to raise complaints unless he sees a possible avenue to help improve matters. Otherwise, it all ends up being just a waste of time. "What... do you even do here?"

The question feels heavy, the way ones from Mark so often do, like something more than a few words with a question mark at the end, something he's wondering. Instead, it's a bit like a test or quiz, like he has to get the answer right, like there's an inherent sense of expectation in the silence that ensues. Eduardo has typically always handled this well, albeit with some stammering, but it never fails to make him feel claustrophobic. His expression doesn't change, not much, but it manifests physically all the same; his shoulders draw together, just a little, like an attempt at making himself smaller. (There's a parallel there, one between conversations with Mark and countless ones of his childhood, but despite the familiarity, he's never quite made the connection. It is what it is, that's all, and if people have expectations of him, then he should be able to follow through, even with something as simple as answering a question about this place, however much like a loaded one it might seem, like there's some fucking fate that hangs in the balance, or something.)

When it comes down to it, it isn't even just about wanting Mark to like it here as well, and thus a satisfactory answer is required for that to even be a possibility. If he really thinks about it, it's about himself, too. Having just said that he doesn't mind it here, he has to have some sort of reason, because what would it say about him if he didn't? Nothing good, surely.

"Well, I mean, it doesn't seem like much," he says, hedging but hopeful, glancing at Mark out of the corners of his eyes. "But people... they figure things out. If you mean me specifically, I, I signed up for a couple classes, mostly just for something to do. I have a, a pet that I take care of. There's my girlfriend, of course, and a lot of other really great people, and —" With a self-deprecating, almost rueful laugh, he cuts himself off. He's an idiot, an absolute fucking idiot, and he's sure Mark knows it, too. When he continues, it's quieter, like he's trying to downplay the matter and failing. "And you're here, and we're talking. That's a pretty big point in its favor right there."

The triggers are all scattered, and somehow it feels to Mark like he manages to trip every single wire, detonate every last bomb, to the point where he doesn't even feel that he should be moving anymore. Maybe it's just not worth it. It doesn't take a clear and sober mind to realize that when he sees the way that Eduardo starts caving into himself— Mark's never failed to marvel at the way that someone so much taller than himself can take up so much less space, all because of a lack of confidence. (Mark's own occasional slouches are caused by something else entirely, too many hours spent in front of a computer, but even then he isn't half as bad as most programmers, all thanks to constant reminders from his mother to keep his back straight to best prevent injury.) His lips part for a second, but the problem is that Mark isn't sure how to even begin reassuring Eduardo, and the attempts die out completely when the last remark finally registers.

Mark's gaze drops, looks left and right, the line of vision lower than Eduardo's eyes and hovering more around his shoulders. A part of him wants to shake his head. If Mark being there and the two of them talking, if that's enough to make Eduardo that hopeful about the island— Mark's almost tempted to tell him not to settle for something like that.

Not that Wardo would listen.

"Yeah," he says instead, almost rushing past the word, just because he isn't sure how to deliver it, hasn't even allowed his own emotions to settle. "Sounds pretty domestic though, you've gotta admit. Not exactly what either of us signed up for."

In the space of an instant, there's a biting remark on the tip of Eduardo's tongue, though he manages to hold it back, jaw clenching with the effort. It isn't the worst reaction he could have gotten, but — Jesus Christ, of course it isn't what he signed up for. Neither, though, was what he was left with back home, Mark having taken everything else. He'd had a plan, or at least a vague outline of one, and while it had never involved getting himself stranded on and then contented with a magical fucking island in the middle of God knows where, neither did it involve getting screwed over by his best friend, losing everything that really mattered to him in one fell swoop. Maybe he had the promise of graduation back there, but what else? A lawsuit? A former best friend he won't speak to for four years, a father he may not ever speak to again? He has friends here, a girlfriend who looks at him like he might really be worth something, the way no one else ever has (the way he always wanted Mark to), and now hope of reconciliation with someone he thought he'd lost for good. It's a hell of a lot better than what he suspects he would have gotten otherwise. If Mark can't see that, he doesn't even know what to make of it.

"Does anyone ever really get what they sign up for, Mark?" he asks in lieu of any of this, distant rather than bitter (it seems like the preferable alternative). Teeth pressing hard to his lower lip, he wraps his arms around himself, what's really a protective gesture, but could be easily enough dismissed as being in response to the night air, cool for someone who's accustomed to the heat. "Look, I know that you... can't be looking forward to being stuck in a place without Facebook, or even the internet. And I know, believe me, I know that nothing could ever compare to that. But for some of us... this is the best we'll ever get. Whether or not it's what we signed up for. So I guess what I'm saying is — I'm not asking you to like it here. Just to see how I would."

Only four years ago, Mark wouldn't have been able to stop himself. Eduardo, he's better than this island. Better than a place without currency, better than a place that has developed a strip club, a bakery, and a boutique, all before trying to put together any type of bank. This is just beneath him. Beneath him, and that's not even because the island itself is shoddy or incapable of keeping anyone happy— instead, it's because Eduardo's one of the brightest people Mark's ever met, multi-faceted and skilled in a number of different fields, rather than solely focusing on any single one. But in four years, Mark's learned that the traits that he'd personally compliment aren't always those that people want to hold most closely to. And with the way that Eduardo's hunched, shoulders pulling up at his neck, Mark suspects he should just stop pushing the matter. For a moment, all he can ask himself is what the damn point is, if he keeps on tripping time after time, if Eduardo keeps on leaping to the worst possible interpretation.

He sighs deeply, but quietly, air rushing through the slight sliver between his lips. "You know that's not what I meant," he says, the words quick and terse as he tries to quicken the pace. The words aren't meant to be accusatory, really, but what else is there for him to say?

He doesn't, though. Eduardo sort of hates it, but the fact of the matter is, he has no way of knowing that, doesn't really even think he believes it. No matter how much might have changed, been patched over, within the past couple of hours, the fact remains that he figured out a good four months ago that Mark's word can't necessarily be trusted, and when he can't think of a single other thing Mark could mean, it's hard to hear something like that and really fall for it. Besides, it isn't like he can't understand where Mark would be coming from. Hell, he's thought the same himself, how pathetic it must make him that he could really be okay with something like this, a place where his education, his interests, are virtually useless. But that was before, before he really got to see just how little would be left for him back home, before he fully came to the realization that he wanted to be wherever Olive was, before he found himself more content than he'd been in a long time. Given what he got in return, he can't bring himself to mind it too much.

Now, it just puts him at odds, the usual instinct to tell Mark that it doesn't matter because he'd have been right (of course he would have been, he's Mark) warring with the part of Eduardo that wants to defend himself, spell out a little more clearly how appealing this is when he had everything taken away from him at once. As ever, there's no way to win with Mark, even more so with the thought that underlies everything, the fact that he doesn't want to upset this tenuous peace. That means, too, that he can't outright say that he doesn't believe what Mark is telling him now (and God, he wishes he did, wishes it could be as easy as it once was, without all this deliberation).

"No?" he asks, trying his best not to sound confrontational. He thinks he manages, too. A fight — another one — is the last thing he wants; mostly, he's just tired, a little on edge, made uneasy by the turn of conversation. If anything, it would be more like reluctantly preparing for a fight than actively starting one, walls up and a heavy, sad look in his eyes. Mark wears him down like no other, but that's never kept him away. "What did you mean, then?"

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