baby, you're a rich man

[zuckered]

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.

Comments

[zuckered]

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.

[pointzerothree]

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."

[zuckered]

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?"

[pointzerothree]

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."

[zuckered]

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."

[pointzerothree]

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."

[zuckered]

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?

[pointzerothree]

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?"

[zuckered]

"You're better than this place," Mark replies offhandedly, shoulders tensing, before he lets them sag, both dropping down far enough that it almost looks comical. His gaze holds, maintaining eye contact with Eduardo, and suddenly Mark feels that same fatigue, that same energy, that same tension worming through every last muscle of his body. He wants nothing more than to sleep and ease all of that away. Put aside his problems until tomorrow. Alternatively, just not fuck it up while it's still only the first day. But then it strikes Mark that this conversation, this very conversation sounds a whole lot like the one that he had with Erica all those years ago, before facebook, before he'd even met the Winklevii.

Before FaceMash.

"I just— I just mean," he sputters, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to suddenly force his thoughts into some sort of order, something that someone else who isn't Mark, who isn't this freaking Stairmaster, might be able to follow. "I just mean that there can be, you know, good things about a college, like the way that BU is closer to the Upper Crust than Harvard will ever be, like the way that BU actually has newer facilities that have better air conditioning and heating installed than many of our old buildings. I mean, nostalgia's great, history's wonderful, but when it actually comes to an environment that's suited to learning, it's not like I gain anything from sitting on chairs that are older than my, my family's history on this freaking continent. BU's got great things, but that doesn't mean that I think you'd fit there, that doesn't mean we label it as the best thing ever, so I just mean that sure, there can be good things about this island but that the domesticity is not what you signed up for and I think you should— should have it all. I don't, don't want to fight about this, Wardo."

[pointzerothree]

There are so many things Eduardo could say to that. Too many, in fact, most of them unpleasant, all of them variations on a theme. He doesn't want to fight either, though, and if there's one thing he's learning, it's that he can't expect perfection. Mark may still be -- unbelievable, incredible, so many things that Eduardo never could be, but he didn't hang the moon, he isn't the pinnacle around which the universe revolves, even if Eduardo has found himself drawn into Mark's orbit again regardless. He isn't perfect, is the point, and while it's tempting to snap, to point out the gall it must take for Mark to even think something like that when he's the reason Eduardo lost so much (if he should have it all, then why the fuck was he only worth three hundredths of a percent?), he can't bring himself to. When it comes down to it, the words themselves hit too hard for that, Eduardo falling silent for a long few seconds following them.

The thing is, it isn't like he never knew Mark liked him. Mark, at least to Eduardo's observation, always made perfectly clear when he didn't like someone, pulling no punches and speaking what he saw to be the truth. The chances of Mark keeping Eduardo around if he didn't like him seem, to the latter, slim to none. That doesn't make this any less difficult to wrap his head around. With Mark, it was a constant fight for approval, the way so much else in his life has been, and he was lucky to just get an ounce of that, not even questioning its worth when it came from Mark of all people, Mark who was so quick, so smart, everything Eduardo wasn't, the kind of person Eduardo was probably supposed to be. He was lucky just to be deserving enough of being in Mark's presence at all. Now, though, with this -- it's too much, it contradicts too much of what he knows to be true, and yet capable of deceit though he knows Mark to be, he thinks it might actually be something he means. How he's even supposed to begin to know what to do with that, he doesn't know.

"No," he says, with a slight, tense shake of his head, relieved after Mark shuts his eyes that he doesn't have to try to hold eye contact any longer. He can't look at him while dealing with something like this; the look on his face alone, he suspects, would be enough to get Mark to change his mind. Maybe it's just the few years of distance that have done it, skewed his perspective so he doesn't remember Eduardo the way he really is. Whatever his reasoning, though, it's too hard to listen to, to reconcile this Mark with the one he knew before, with everything he's heard all his life. Of all the things for Mark to be wrong about, he thinks, this is not one he ever would have seen coming. He just hopes that first response, an instinct he couldn't help, is easily dismissed enough as an agreement that he doesn't want to fight, either. Swallowing heavily, his throat suddenly feeling thick, hoarse, he draws in an unsteady breath, rubbing at his eyes as nonchalantly as he can where they've begun to grow damp. "I -- no."

He can't, when it comes down to it. Can't pretend that it's not a big deal, and can't pretend that it's true, treat it as something of less significance than it really is. There's no point in telling Mark that he'd never have it all anyway, that he doesn't get better than this. More important is that it's just inaccurate. Besides, with a girl he loves and a second chance with his best friend, why should he want better? He already has more than he ever should have gotten to. "I don't, but -- Jesus, Mark, you actually --" he tries again, but in the end, he has to give up, hating too much the way he sounds, all weak and broken. He lets out a laugh instead, watery and self-deprecating. "Shit, I am so drunk." It isn't anywhere close to the truth. If it were, though -- if he could somehow manage to be remotely convincing -- he thinks it might make his reaction, far too overemotional, a little less pathetic.

[zuckered]

"No?" Mark asks, his chin raising with a blink as he stares straight in front of him, derailed from his progress towards the hut, the one he doesn't even know the exact location of, having still just arrived on an island that isn't on the maps and sounds like something Dustin would come up with for a comic book. There are a lot of responses from Eduardo's end that Mark would have understood, but 'no' doesn't really fit, doesn't illuminate a clear path from A to B. No, he doesn't want to fight? No, he doesn't believe it? Or no, Mark's wrong, and Eduardo actually wants nothing more than to be on an island drinking coconut juice with girlfriend and once best friend for the rest of time? This little quandary is more than enough to keep Mark's thoughts off of the actual emotion underlying everything else; his brow knits again, his shoulders shrug, a little tense from the confusion. "What kind of response is—"

He quiets down as soon as he turns, watching Eduardo laugh, seeing tears stand in his best friend's eyes. And suddenly, he remembers a moment from their past, a moment from before everything was torn so solidly, irreparably apart. He remembers, the scene slightly hazy, running back to Kirkland House to add a line before thefacebook went live, a line asking about relationship status. He recalls Eduardo stepping into the room after waiting for, now he realizes, probably god knows how long next to the dorm entrance. He remembers seeing that familiar tuft of hair in his peripheral vision as he updated that line on the profile page, before the page went live only seconds later. But what he remembers is that brief glance in Eduardo's direction as his best friend stared at the masthead, at his name on the site, just the tiniest of gestures that would end up meaning the world to his father. This, this reminds him slightly of that, and Mark isn't sure what's causing it— if perhaps Eduardo has, over time, developed a need for validation from Mark as well.

The idea of it feels so strange that Mark blinks again, before offering a crooked smile.

"Me too," Mark replies, and maybe he does feel a little light-headed, though he's pretty sure it's not the drink that's the problem. It isn't too often that Mark feels completely overwhelmed, but this is one of those nights, far too much to process and emotions tugging him in every direction. It's understandable, he thinks. They've just hurtled toward one another, four years' worth of time crossed in under an hour. Rebuilt a bridge that was chopped to pieces, if not burned. Doesn't matter what kind of ridiculous metaphor he pictures in his mind, all of them hint at how monumental the change is, small though the circle of influence is, personal to the two of them. "Probably should crash. Tomorrow will be... interesting."

[pointzerothree]

In a fantastic show of conflicting emotions, Eduardo isn't sure if he's more grateful or frustrated by Mark's response, or lack thereof. He thinks, though, after the initial shock of it passes, that it has to be a good thing. Whatever Mark would have to say about an admittedly overblown reaction, he doubts it would be good, maybe even enough to make him reconsider what he just said. (He knows, at least, what his father would say, and Mark -- Mark is not nearly so cruel, but hearing from Mark how good he apparently is only makes him all the more determined to prove that's the case, to not let him down now that they have this impossible chance. What they have is tenuous; he doesn't want Mark to regret it, to decide yet again that he's not worth keeping around. The sting of that once was bad enough.) However hard it is to wrap his head around, whatever bitterness it stirs up, it's worth it to hear, to know that, despite everything, he has that one shred of approval.

(He should not care. He shouldn't, he shouldn't. If there's one thing he's learned tonight, though, even more than how much he wants Mark around and how much he's going to risk to keep him there, it's that some habits are hard to break, some feelings are hard to lose. Mark has just as much sway over him as he ever did in Harvard, and that's dangerous, but it can't be helped. It just means he'll have to be careful, watch his step. If something happens this time -- and he can't rule out the chance that it will, isn't quite so foolish -- then he at least doesn't want to be so utterly blindsided by it. He can fall back in with Mark and still look out for himself, if only because he refuses to believe that anything else could be the case.)

"I can, um, show you around then, if you want," Eduardo offers, biting at his lower lip. His voice still isn't nearly as steady as he'd like, but he at least sounds a hell of a lot better than he did a few seconds ago. "Help you get your bearings. Or if you'd rather have someone else do it, I can show you to someone who can, it won't... bother me, or anything." The last is a lie, but said convincingly. In this, too, he's the same as he was before: wanting Mark to want him around, to choose him over anyone else, but too unwilling to outright ask, for the way it would surely make him look.

[zuckered]

Mark's gaze rests on Eduardo for a couple seconds too long to be just a passing glance, the look in his eyes skeptical. In this, too, he's the same as he was before: wishing that Eduardo would just be up-front and blunt some of the time, that Eduardo would learn when to defend himself rather than cater to Mark's whims, but too unwilling to point it out now, for the way it might turn all their progress on end. It's true, though, that Eduardo can't keep on blurring his words, trying to make them vague. Mark can, conceptually, understand why Eduardo's chosen to do so. It's less abrasive. More compromising.

The thing is, though, that Mark needs to be put in his place. He doesn't want Eduardo to hold it all in, to wait until the tension builds and builds like a coil and everything suddenly then snaps, the crash of his laptop still so clear in his memory. Communication's always been their problem, and Mark's well-aware of the fact, knows that he needs to be able to stop and listen and stop barreling on ahead in the way that eventually gets him alienated from everyone. But some of that, too, has to fall on Wardo. They have to meet halfway. Tonight just might not be the time to hash all of that out. Mark's still reeling (although he doesn't show it, rarely shows it, chooses to suppress it all) from the force of this rapidly and haphazardly repaired friendship.

"Yeah," Mark nods. "Sure. I mean, whatever you want." It might seem like a flippant answer, the way the words quickly tumble from his lips, but to make any level of concession at all for the other person's feelings is not something Mark does regularly. It's why he surrounds himself, for the most part, either with people who don't care (Dustin) or people who'll just butt in and make sure they get their fair share (Chris). Wardo's always been the exception.

They weren't friends for practical reasons, Mark knows that much. Sometimes, he wonders to himself what it was, then. They're not right for each other in the conventional sense. And even if their personalities feed into one another, most would call that unhealthy, most would have ended long before a financial dispute.

Friendships are strange things.

[pointzerothree]

That Eduardo manages to keep his expression from changing is something he's unbelievably relieved for. It's a stupid thing (Christ, what about this isn't?) when he's the one who made the offer, but that doesn't mean Mark accepting it is what he wants to hear. He was hoping to get something along the lines of no, of course I want you to show me around, but as is far from uncommon with Mark, he's wished for too much. At least he can be glad, though, that he had the foresight to say what he did, to not expect Mark to really want to spend that much time with him; after all, Mark did write him out of his life. If this stings, he can't imagine how much more it would hurt to have only offered for himself and have Mark turn him down. Maybe that's what he should want, but he doesn't. In the end, he wants what he always did: Mark.

"Oh," he says, then nods, buying himself a moment's time to collect his thoughts. He said it wouldn't bother him, and he means to not let it, if only because he doesn't want to know what Mark would say if it did. This can be easy. It's only in his head that it isn't, and he means to keep it that way. "Alright. I'll find someone, then, tomorrow." He pauses, lets out an exhale of a laugh, self-deprecating. "Probably a good idea for you to know someone else, anyway. No reason for you to have to hang around with me all the time, right?"

It is, of course, what he'd prefer -- even at his own mention of Mark branching out, the sort of thing he's always encouraged, he still feels a stab of jealousy that he can't help -- but it accomplishes absolutely nothing to tell Mark that. They're friends again, yes, there's no other word for it, but Mark isn't his; he can't pretend he has any claim on his time or attention when Mark is the one who got rid of him. The reminder of that sinks heavy in his stomach, and maybe, he thinks, maybe this really is a good thing. If there's someone else, a buffer, some distance between Mark and himself so he isn't the one Mark turns to, he'll probably wind up less hurt for it, right?

He doesn't know who he's trying to kid.

[zuckered]

Mark blinks. Something isn't computing here. No matter how much time's passed, Mark knows one thing very well: that Eduardo isn't the type of person to try to hold something over a friend. Emotional blackmail is the opposite, in fact, of Eduardo's style— more often than not, Eduardo has a tendency of digging his own holes, of offering more than any single person should be made to offer, and feeling like it's the least that he should do. There's no way that Eduardo's trying to make Mark feel guilty for not immediately jumping at Eduardo's offer. Instead, it's Eduardo assuming the worst, that an ambivalent answer is a negative answer, while Mark knows that to him, it's the exact opposite. If he's against something, he'll voice it, and readily so. Insist that Eduardo need his rest, insist that Mark needs someone who'll give him an unbiased account of the island, insist that Mark needs some time to settle his head— all of these are excuses he could use, excuses that would be valid, but he hasn't. And their absence, it's supposed to mean something.

His brow furrows, wondering at this self-made observation. Is this just something he's never communicated before, that Eduardo's never noticed? Or are things so strewn that his best friend doesn't even dare apply rules that were once status quo, their own private way of communicating, that baffled guys and girls around them alike.

"That's not what I meant," Mark counters, the cadence of his words quick and precise. "I didn't mean that I don't want to hang out with you. I've had four years wandering Wardoless territory, the quota's far from met, I just figured maybe you'd be more comfortable handing me off to someone. If it's a choice in tour guides, I always said Hahvahd Tours would do well to hire someone who'd wear a tie instead of a fisherman's hat."

He shrugs, then continues along the path.

[pointzerothree]

It isn't the first time Eduardo has wondered just how pathetic he must be, that such a small thing, when it comes to Mark, can go such a long way. His father would no doubt scoff and call it weak (a funny thing, really, when so much of that fight for approval comes from him in the first place, a cycle of logic that Eduardo can't break), but knowledge of that has never really made much of a difference. Right now, despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he hasn't quite yet been able to shake, something that borders on dread but isn't exactly there (because this is good, it is, indisputably excellent), he can only be pleased, a strange yet not unfamiliar warmth settling over him. Mark does still want him around. Mark isn't looking to find someone better this quickly. Maybe he won't be and never has been enough for Mark, but for now, he's worth keeping around, and that after his three-hundredths of a percent goes a long way indeed.

(He could have changed those four years, Eduardo wants to say, could have reached out, done something, prevented the dilution of his shares from destroying their friendship completely. If he's so easily been drawn back into Mark's orbit here, then it seems all too likely that the same would have happened back home. This one thing is too nice, though, to ruin with talk like that. Those four years are past, for Mark; they're both here now.)

"It wouldn't," he says, with a slight smile before he can help it, "make me more comfortable, I mean. I'd be glad to do it. I -- I'd like to do it." The distinction is an important one, apparently, and in itself a pretty big deal for him, like it might almost be asking too much. If Mark can spell something out, though, so can he. It seems only fair. Still, that doesn't stop him from continuing, wanting to make sure he can shrug this off if he needs to. "I mean, as long as you're sure."

[zuckered]

"Yeah," Mark replies, glad that this answer comes without missing a beat, that it isn't half as complex as the majority of their conversation has been until now. He does think that Eduardo's probably making more out of this than he should, but for once, his reasoning isn't based on the way Mark himself weighs matters. He isn't hoping that Eduardo shakes the excitement off because the touring process doesn't matter, but instead because Eduardo's setting himself up for something. Maybe 'risk' is the best way of putting it. Eduardo's putting himself at risk.

And if their track record shows anything well enough, it's the fact that Mark isn't very good at avoiding the mines.

All that said, however, Mark quirks his lips in return, clinging to the last bit of tipsiness in his mind. He's had too many beers, and the island air itself definitely makes it harder to concentrate, tempts Mark towards sleep, but having to keep mentally on his feet and think about his best friend in full, that has a tendency of pushing the effect of liquor away.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo just smiles, head turning in Mark's direction as they walk down the path. There's really nothing more to be said about it than that, when he'd rather not risk Mark changing his mind. It's a stupid thing, a small thing, inconsequential in the long run, but at least it will let him be needed, if only for another day. At least this way, it's all the more unlikely that Mark will wake up and realize this has been a mistake, that it won't be worthwhile to try to mend fences after everything that's happened between them. He was cut out once before, after all; this time, at the very least, he can't let himself be surprised if it happens again.

That doesn't make it any less of a good thing to have Mark want him around now.

"My place is right up here," he says several steps later, gesturing off the path to his hut. If nothing else, he really is pleased with its location; it's always nicer out here, just off the beach, the air a little clearer. He likes the typical humidity, too accustomed to it not to, but this is just lovely. "Don't mind the, um. In the yard, is my... chicken."

[zuckered]

It's a hut. Actually a hut. Mark knows that Eduardo hasn't always lived the traditional Ivy League life, that the Saverins are much more self-made than the Winklevii have been in recent generations, but still, one doesn't exactly expect anyone able to pay for university to live in a hut of wood and bamboo. Fortunately, it's not the lack of material goods and luxuries that Mark minds, so all he gives the hut is a skeptical glance before he turns back and belatedly processes what Eduardo has to say. In the yard is...

A brow quirks.

"Your chicken," Mark repeats, brows furrowing in disbelief. It's a stupid thing, the matter of the chicken, one that Eduardo's always taken far more seriously than he should. (PETA will call just about anything a violation of animal rights, provided the animal's cute enough.) "Don't tell me you actually felt bad about the Phoenix's mascot. It's a chicken, it won't even remember the cruelty an hour later, a lot of commercial chicken feed actually uses chicken in it, like a fowl soylent green."

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo lets out a huff of a laugh, doing his best (and mostly succeeding) to keep any bitterness from creeping into its tone. It would have been nice, he thinks, to have Mark say things like this at the time, to point out that it shouldn't have been a big deal rather than leaving Eduardo to try to defend himself once more, when he was already going to have to do so to the school and the various animal rights groups and the Phoenix itself and his father. To have one person in his corner, that might have helped. It's so far in the past, though, that he doesn't want to dredge it all up, choosing instead to move on to an explanation.

"No, when I say my chicken, I mean —" he starts, bringing his hands to curl over the back of his neck, clearly self-conscious. "You know how you just... showed up here, out of nowhere? Sometimes things do, too. Like, from home. This isn't just achicken, it's the chicken. Showed up here back in February." He smiles then, slowly, a look entirely at odds with his demeanor from moments before. "I named it Sean Parker."

[zuckered]

Things are easier to laugh at in retrospect. Maybe it's something that damages in the long run, especially for someone like Mark, who exists more in the present than he does either past or future, who'll take how he feels in the moment and carry it along as much as necessary— for him to be able to laugh at events in the past just means that they're more likely to be repeated. He's been called an overgrown child before. Lessons don't always stick. The chicken is one such example: every single time it comes up, he just ends up laughing more about the matter, because it's so outlandish, ridiculous, proof right there that humanity has way too much time on their hands if they're concerned about the mistreatment of a chicken who has, at least, been whisked away from a life of egg production. The impulse is hard to fight, even if he knows that Eduardo is a lot more sensitive about the matter than Mark himself has ever been.

"You named it Sean Parker," he huffs a little laugh, lips curving upward. "How apt. Do you eat her eggs?"

It's juvenile, but it's the first question that crosses his mind.

[pointzerothree]

It takes a moment for the joke inherent in what Mark has said to occur to Eduardo, which he'll blame on both what he's had to drink and the fact that he doesn't think about things like that. When it does, he's not sure if he should be amused or offended or both, his expression — visibly shocked — somewhere between the two. Mostly, though, he's just glad Mark took it as well as this, but that's neither here nor there. Touchy a subject though the chicken itself might be, the fact that they can joke about this has got to be a good sign. He'll take whatever of that he can get, regardless of how it chooses to present itself.

"I hate you," he laughs, reaching out to hit Mark in the arm, both clear signs that he does nothing of the sort. (He did, for a while, but that's the thing about hate: it's an emotion inextricably bound up with love, so close as to be almost indifferentiable, and the latter is the only one he feels now.) "No. No, I do not."

[zuckered]

"No you don't," Mark agrees in turn, having been on the receiving end of such playful punches before, knowing full well what they mean. The two of them aren't incredibly tactile, as far as friends go. Most of that blame rests on Mark's own shoulders; he's just not the kind of guy who gets touchy-feely about his emotions, doesn't feel the impulse to reach out for a bear hug or any of its derivatives, and sometimes the impression that one gets from Wardo anyway is that he's so put-together that one doesn't really want to disturb that. Chuffs on the arm, pats on the shoulder, these are about as far as the two of them usually go, kind of a compromise between their two vastly different personalities, so it's a comfort to Mark, but not one that he really acts on. Punching Wardo right back on the upper arm, that'd be weird, out of line, because it's just not what they normally do. (Did.)

"If it starts following me around, I'm calling foul," Mark says as they near what he presumes to be the hut, signaled by a soft bird-like coo from the fenced off area behind it. "Pun not intended."

[pointzerothree]

"God, I hope it wasn't intentional, because that was terrible," Eduardo laughs, shaking his head as he crosses the last steps to the hut itself, opening the door and flicking on the light next to it and stepping aside to let Mark in. It isn't really any different from the rest of the huts covering Tabula Rasa, decently sized and sparsely filled, but Mark doesn't know that, and as such, Eduardo can't help a momentary nervousness. Mark will probably think this below him. Mark might not even want to stay, though he'd be hard-pressed to find better accommodations.

Aside from that, though, the banter of the past few moments has been so relaxed, a comfortable old pattern to fall into, that it's easily enough ignored. His gaze turns to Mark, expectant, as he gestures inside. "So this is it. Not much, I know, but you kind of get used to it, and just off the beach like this is prime real estate, so it works."

[zuckered]

The grin lingers on Mark's lips as he steps inside the hut, not even noticing the surroundings for a while for the way his eyes skirt around and look for a place to set his food down, the burger that he's brought from the restaurant because it's a burger— you don't waste a burger, they keep well. But inevitably, the first couple of seconds leave him unsure which places are safe to set said burger down (for all he knows, maybe Eduardo won't want food in the hut at all, because Mark imagines that none of the buildings here are quite as effective at keeping out pests), and so he looks up and catches the sight of the hut in full. It's... an island hut.

Not the most glamorous of residences, but it's an island hut. It'll do. Mark can't imagine that he'll end up staying in one of these for long (he hopes that they have something on the island made of concrete or cinder block and open for residence), but to back out now is just unnecessary. He's tired, Eduardo's probably tired, and as Mark's always said, all he needs then is a patch of floor to sleep on.

"It works," he shrugs, before stepping further inside.