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]

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

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo doesn't know what he's expecting, really, or why he even asked, except that it seemed like the thing to do. With anyone else, under any other circumstances, it would probably have been easy small talk. The sudden transition, though, from the lighthearted joking (he'd just looked down at his shirt, about to make a comment on how he'd have chosen something better if he had any say in it, and how this isn't even the worst of what he has; there are a bunch of t-shirts he knows he can hand off to Mark now that he's here) to what's downright unsettling is enough to almost make him wish he hadn't asked. He's left him practically dazed, eyes going wide as he sets his glass down on the table again. It isn't a length of time that's been named, but it's simple math. He's used to being the older one, but that isn't what bothers him. However bad things were he didn't think he would actually be four fucking years before they got everything resolved.

"Jesus," he murmurs, a hand by his mouth, gaze lowering from Mark's as he shakes his head. He can't very well blame Mark for this much, but it's going to take him more than just a second's notice to wrap his head around. "Four fucking years, that's — I only just turned twenty-three a couple months ago." It's a halfhearted effort to lighten the mood, but he doesn't expect it to work, not really. If anything, he suspects that Mark will see through it, unless those four years have really changed Mark's ability to read him. "The clothes are, uh, it's a long story, there isn't a whole lot of choice."

[zuckered]

Yes. Yes, four fucking years, Mark wants to say, even if he's still not really sure what's to blame for that lengthy stretch of time. Well. Of course Mark himself is, to an extent, but he never wanted a lawsuit, he never wanted to fight and bicker and have to recount only dozens of times every single little step that the two of them have taken together. Mark and Wardo, they've had their share of disagreements over the years, Wardo usually more than willing to give way to Mark rather than cause a fuss, and then occasionally standing up for himself when the line's really pushed too far. But it's always been contained. Just the two of them. Maybe it's because they were still growing at that point, didn't have the resources to really hurl at each other and cause ripples that stretched farther than their fingertips. Either way, though, it's been a change in pattern and that only made Mark more bitter, until he realized at the end that what he felt wasn't so much bitter as it was tired. An exercise in futility. Wanting to grab out in any way but doing so with acerbic remarks instead.

Oops.

What he wants to say is, we should get a drink after. You know. After those four years. Maybe hope that there's enough under the bridge to get it built again at all. But this isn't that Wardo, making Mark worry for the first time... are they trying to stretch too far?

After all, Mark isn't the same person now that he was right after Eduardo smashed his laptop against his desk. Some days, though, he feels like he may as well be, not having grown a great deal in Wardo's absence.

Who knows. Point is, it's not getting them anywhere today.

"Four years, yes, but it's a lawsuit, what do you expect," Mark says quietly, quickly, like he's trying to rip off that band-aid. "Well, two lawsuits, actually, the Winklevii also put up a fight and you were— you were there for that too. So what do you mean, there isn't a whole lot of choice? No tailored suits, I can understand that, but I'd rather not be wearing one single hoodie for the rest of my time here, it'd wear out very quick." He doesn't mention how he knows this, just glad that he isn't currently wearing the North Face fleece.

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

It's going smoothly. Or, well, until it isn't. (Tautology, what a joy it is.) Eduardo does this a fair amount of the time, Mark's noticed, and with increasing frequency as of late— even if 'as of late' refers to times years ago combined with this outing right now, a piecewise collection of interactions Mark has with his best friend from before that friendship was torn apart altogether. The point is, Eduardo always tries to let things go Mark's way. He knows that. He's known that for some time, those little protests about how Facesmash might not be the best idea growing quieter and quieter, the not-so-minute amount of pride Eduardo felt at being punched by the Phoenix suddenly quieted. Mark knows that, he appreciates it even if he's never really been able to say thanks as such before. But increasingly, Eduardo's ability to deal and cope has been worn away.

Mark has to wonder if it's his fault.

It feels like being shoved down a few steps at once when that last bit reaches his ears. Eduardo didn't expect for the two of them to fall apart over the course of years? To not have made up after that amount of time? Did he expect more, less— no, that's not a question, he's definitely expected more from Mark, he always tends to think the best of his friend first, only to get let down later. It's probably an awful way to deal. Mark, on the other hand, he expects very little of most people.

"I didn't expect it, either," he manages, his expression tense. "And I didn't like it. I don't like it. I don't want you to expect it, which is why I didn't want to bring it up."

[pointzerothree]

The truth of it is, Eduardo can't expect anything anymore. There's just no way to, when that's what got him fucked over in the first place. (Even this, of course, is the same sort of thing, such a worse-case scenario having not even occurred to him, but he chooses not to dwell on that. In a situation like this, there are bound to be bumps in the road, and that's one of them. As long as he doesn't trip up again, as he's determined not to, it shouldn't matter, and he isn't going to mention it.) If anything, he should anticipate the worst, should expect years of not speaking or an obstacle so big they couldn't get past, but that doesn't remove the shock of it. Some part of him, even here, had hoped it wouldn't come to that; it wouldn't have been his move to make and he knew better than to count on anything like that from Mark, but he still wanted it, reconciliation seeming somewhat unlikely but far better than the alternative.

Which, apparently, is the case for Mark, too. Somehow, that comes as more of a surprise to Eduardo than the news itself, mostly because it's something that Mark could easily have fixed. Eduardo may be different, having been pulled from his timeline far before Mark, but he can't imagine that he would have turned down an apology if one was offered. There isn't any way he could have changed that much, not when he's already lived through presumably the worst of it, finding out about his shares being diluted.

Of course, if Mark didn't expect it, either, then it seems easy to reason that it's because he expected Eduardo to come running back, and Eduardo doesn't quite know what to do with that. It's a pattern he set up for himself, but that doesn't change the fact that it's a little unsettling to consider that Mark wouldn't have thought he could break out of it. What that means for them now, he doesn't know, but it's something that he reminds himself that he can't lose sight of. If Mark doesn't realize that he's changed, then there's no chance of them getting anywhere.

"Yeah, I guess I can't blame you for not wanting to," he allows, the same low, quiet tone to his voice, gaze fixed on his glass of beer. For all that he can't wholly let what Mark said go, there's hope to be found between those few words, too, and he supposes they allow for an admission of his own. "I don't like it, either, you know."

[zuckered]

The fact that Eduardo can't really look Mark straight in the eye makes him wonder if his (former) best friend is getting it all wrong. There shouldn't be anything in what he just said that evokes feelings of shame, shouldn't be anything that the two of them don't share some level of sentiment over. Regardless of everything that's happened, neither of them is the wholly vindictive type, neither so bitter as to push the envelope over to 'malicious.' That's not like them.

Mark escapes that by managing to be practical, to view everything as a personal weakness when he tries to take revenge in any way, shape, or form. Even now in retrospect, doing little petty things with Sean... why? Why did he bother? It's not even that he can't see the reasons why he decided to cut down on Wardo's share of the company— mistake or not, he knows why he did it, he can still remember the way he felt while all of that went down, so that isn't the issue. But things like getting back at the people who've slighted Sean in the past? Seems like a waste of time, now. And throwing away of potential resources. (Not very strong ones, of course, but nonetheless, still more than nothing.)

Wardo, on the other hand, he escapes that type of edged behavior by just being who he is. A soft-hearted, kind young man, too vulnerable for his own good and too willing to look for the best parts in people. Especially with Mark. For that, Mark still finds himself trying to scramble after bits and pieces of logic or reason. As far as looking for the best in people goes, there are a whole lot more acquaintances between the two of them who might yield significant results. Dustin, for instance. But they're (were?) best friends. Sometimes, Mark knows that nothing should matter beyond that. Reason only extends so far.

And because they're not the betraying type (no matter what Eduardo may think of Mark now), because Mark knows that Eduardo is doing his best to not only be civil, but still to retain some semblance of a friend, Mark wonders if that subdued tone is a bad sign.

"You helped with the Winklevii," he says at last, unsure what he means by that statement. Unsure why it's being brought up at all. Feels right, though.

[pointzerothree]

It's puzzling to Eduardo, both because it seems prompted by nothing and because it seems completely counterintuitive, so much so that he lifts his head a little, eyebrows raised, as if waiting for clarification. He hasn't lived through it, of course, can't speak for his mental state four years down the line, but based on what he's managed to pick up so far, the fact that they weren't speaking, and, of course, that he went through with the lawsuit, he finds it unlikely that he'd be suing Mark in one deposition and setting out to speak on Mark's behalf in another. What it would say about him that it would have happened inadvertently, even after everything that's happened, he doesn't know, but it's the only conclusion that can be drawn. In a way, it almost seems similar to what's happening here, in the juxtaposition of his initial reaction to seeing Mark on the couch with the fact that he's now sitting here having a beer with him, almost — not quite — like old times. (He isn't sure they'll ever reach that place again, what they once were, and he isn't sure if he wants to.) He has changed, but some things never do, never will.

If there's one thing to be gained from any of this, anyway, it's that Mark has to be making an effort. Eduardo has yet to discern if it's done more harm than good, based on the implications in a statement like that, but it's not like he can blame him for falling into old patterns. For his part, it's easier than it should be; it only stands to reason that the same would be true of Mark, that he would think it would help to point out what only emphasizes the flaws in their dynamic. (It's not all on Mark, after all. There's a reason why Eduardo is sitting here, why he's okay with the idea, if a little unsettled, rather than being outright bothered by it.) Eduardo can't discredit that, even if it means he is, in a way, proving Mark's point.

"Did I really?" he asks, the barest hint of amusement creeping into his voice, the corners of his mouth twitching in a small, wry smile. "God, I bet they must have hated that. I'm guessing that wasn't what I was supposed to be doing, right?"

[zuckered]

Even though the Winklevii have given Mark more trouble than practically anyone else he knows, he doesn't hate them. On most days, he thinks them amusing more than anything else, a pair of handsome gorillas with a fair bit less hair but probably twice the amount of chest thumping. That's why he's able to smile. More significant for a guy like him than laughing would have been. If it weren't for the distance that time's put between him and the Winklevii, the time that still makes its mark in spite of the way that everything's attempted to come back to the surface, he'd probably be irritated. But now, it's just amusing. The looks on their faces. The way they blew up like a pair of pufferfish. Made doubly enjoyable, honestly, because Wardo was there to help him through it all, no matter how much he must have resented then, in spite of the exasperation Eduardo showed whenever Mark grew a bit sharp-tongued.

He shrugs.

"You were supposed to be telling the truth," he states, belaboring the obvious, tone never more direct than when he was noting facts. "And the truth was that Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss just wanted to parade around their elite status in the hopes that a few more girls would hop on the bandwagon, and when they realized that I could do not only that, but even more, affect the entire world with the creation of facebook, they grew bitter. Frustrated. I beat them at their own sort of game, without even thinking of it in that context at all."

Blinking, Mark tilts his head, before taking a greater swig of beer. "You see that. I'm sure you see that."

[pointzerothree]

Put like that, Eduardo does see it. Mark may be a lot of things — the words lying, backstabbing son of a bitch come to mind even now — but regardless of what was done to him, Eduardo doesn't think his former best friend to be deliberately malicious. At least, not with anyone else, and that's what's in question. He barely knows about the conflict with the Winklevoss twins, because it was irrelevant. They sent a letter and they held a grudge and that was that. Eduardo didn't think they would give up so easily or anything (why else would he have accused them of planting the story about the chicken?), but at the end of the day, they hardly had anything to do with Facebook. Having been a part of the site's creation, and having once known Mark, he'd like to think, incredibly well, that's one thing he could never deny.

"Saw it from the beginning," Eduardo says, almost thoughtful, nodding in agreement. They had, admittedly, always struck him as arrogant, anyway, their claiming to want to help Mark rehabilitate his image rankling even him (as if Mark needed it. The drunk blogging thing was stupid, but Eduardo doesn't doubt that Mark knew what he was doing every step of the way). The reminder is enough that Eduardo can almost get why he'd have been coming to Mark's defense, even so long after the fact. It isn't like it's much different than what he's doing now, sitting and having a beer, quick to agree with him. (From the Winklevosses' perspective, he'd guess that they would call their situation comparable to his. He would argue that Cameron and Tyler don't have the first fucking idea what it's like to be betrayed by Mark. Granted, it was the same principles at hand, a sign of what he should have seen coming, maybe, but still not the same thing.) Sipping his beer, he smiles a little despite himself around the rim of the glass. "They're so self-entitled, I'm sure they really thought they deserved it, too. They wouldn't need the money except to make a point."

[zuckered]

One. Two. Three seconds pass before Mark nods, taking an even longer swig from his beer bottle. He needs to be intoxicated right now, he needs not to be overanalyzing every single detail, and fun though the Winklevii are to make fun of, there is still something about their gall that rankles now, perhaps rankles even more now that Mark's been vindicated again by his best friend. As much as the current situation is far, far worse than things have ever been between the two friends before, there was one slight, minute advantage, in that when Eduardo was so angry with him, when they have no amount of friendship forged between them, he was honest. That the Winklevii had no right to what Mark had made became doubly obvious once Eduardo noted each time of how little they mattered, of how they never factored into Mark's thought process at all, an agreement that the others in the room might have suspected of being a collusion. Mark knows better. They never really... talked, not for those couple of years that built up to the final deposition. Yet they still saw eye-to-eye on a great deal. There, at least.

Not in others.

The deposition was painful for other reasons, too. Cutting remarks here and there. The pointlessness of going into every little facet and pixel of Mark being dumped by Erica, the way Eduardo was so quick to think that Mark had planted the story of the chicken (it makes Mark wonder if Eduardo ever had such a suspicion back then, and he hopes not, he really does). All of it points to how little Eduardo thinks of Mark, even if he wants to argue that there is still reason there for Eduardo to care for Mark, that it's never been a matter of Mark lacking in the slightest. Doesn't matter. Mark still feels small, when he thinks too much. All he has is facebook. All that won't abandon him, or take advantage of him, is facebook and the mark that it is leaving on the world. It makes Mark feel needed, cool, his gateway drug. Now that's gone, too.

"They were just angry that things didn't go exactly as they planned, that daddy's pampered little crew boys were being denied glory, maybe even angry that they didn't win in the Beijing Olympics," Mark rattles off one after the other, glad when he realizes that his vision is swimming just a little as he waves a server down for another glass of beer, a third of which he downs again in one go. "But, you know, chump change is chump change. I was advised to settle before they went out to smear my reputation even more. So I did. And that's, you know, over."

[pointzerothree]

It's probably a pointless thing to be spending time on. Eduardo is well aware of it, the thought making one corner of his mouth hitch up a little higher in a wry smile. Here on an island in their absence, in the absence even of Facebook, the Winklevosses are even more irrelevant than they were back home while Mark was creating the site. He's quick to want to stay on the topic, though, or at least stay close to it, this easy middle ground far more comfortable than venturing back into anything more personal, especially when it's likely inevitable that they'll wind up having to do the latter anyway. Underneath all the hurt and the anger is the same desire he's always had, to hold on to Mark, to remain important regardless of what tension might linger between them (and chances are that tension will last for a good long while). If this is as close to normal as the two of them can get, then he intends to make the most of it. They'll have time, here, anyway. Whatever happens, that's something he can't allow himself (and so far hasn't been able) to lose sight of. Were this a one-time occurrence to have everything out, then it might be a different story, but Mark's as stuck here as he is, now. It isn't like he means to come crawling back, but he hardly thinks he can be blamed for wanting to maintain what pleasantness he can while it lasts.

"Well, at least it's over," he says with an easy shrug, watching as Mark finishes off more of his beer, but not wanting to comment on it. He'd been just as desperate for it himself; he's hardly in a position to judge. Whatever Mark might be thinking right now, Eduardo has no way of guessing (something that's a little unnerving, but not altogether uncommon, with as beyond him as Mark's thought processes sometimes are), but he's sure that he can't be the only one mentally straying into the past more often than he'd like. Based on what was said earlier, he doesn't actually think Mark to be entirely unrepentant, though he also isn't sure if that's just wishful thinking, projecting the way he has so many times in the past. Whether it's with himself or with others, he knows, now, that he has a tendency to give Mark more credit than he's probably due, but that doesn't stop him from doing it. "Not that... it would really make a lot of difference in showing up here, but, I mean, having left behind a lot that was unfinished... It's good that you got to wrap all that up."

[zuckered]

"It's not wrapped up," Mark says immediately, his eyes skirting somewhere around the ceiling of the bar, running along the molding that presses into the corners, his fingers drumming on the side of the cool bottle in his hand. Before explaining, he takes another drink, his cheeks already feeling pleasantly warm, and the back of his neck already uncomfortably so. He's always been a lightweight. Doesn't binge, has never really done the whole beer pong thing, enjoys watching other people go at shots rather than himself. It strikes him then that his relative state might be amusing to anyone else on this strange island, and his eyes dart back and forth, almost paranoid, if it weren't for the languid note on top of it all. No one seems to be watching. He's forgotten what that's like. Everyone in Palo Alto recognizes his face anymore.

"It's not wrapped up," he says again with a shrug, a half shrug, kind of broken like everything else about the situation seems to be. "Settling in court doesn't really mean anything. The Winklevii will never stop being butthurt. They'll never stop looking at facebook with green, envious eyes because the concept just required them to get their heads out their asses a little more and think about the greater social network, how all college students interact, instead of getting laid. Plus, I haven't. Hadn't. Talked to you after."

His hand grips the bottle a little tighter before he knocks back another few gulps, feeling his vision waver slightly at the edges.

[pointzerothree]

He should be flattered. A statement like that, the implication in it, it's a big fucking deal coming from Mark, and more than likely, Eduardo thinks, the product of the beers his friend's been guzzling down since they walked in here. It brings with it its own set of complications, of course — the expectations suggested earlier that Eduardo would be around to be talked to at all, the weight it now puts on Eduardo's shoulders to offer something in return (and he has to, of course, could never be so dismissive of Mark and knows Mark well enough that he couldn't take something like this for granted even if he wanted to) — but at the heart of it, it's a good thing. Mark wanted to talk, presumably before he ever arrived on Tabula Rasa, and that means that maybe Eduardo isn't the last resort after all. He could never compare to Sean or the hypnotizing lights and seedy goings-on of Palo Alto, but he's not nothing, either. That counts for a lot, as it turns out, the hope it provides that this isn't just circumstantial, facilitated by their being on the island but not solely because of it. Just because he wouldn't have gone crawling back to Mark's side doesn't mean that he wouldn't have preferred reconciliation to further years of silence.

"We're talking now," he offers, tone just slightly softer. It could be — no, it is, absolutely and without a doubt — fantastically stupid of him, but they are talking, and his own implication is that it won't be the last time. That this isn't just small talk over beers to catch up, isn't just to help Mark get settle in after arriving. They're a cheap facsimile of what they once were, dancing around subjects and trying to steer clear of feelings that run too deep, but they aren't so broken as to be wholly unsalvageable. Whatever drew them together before, it hasn't vanished from them entirely, and the least Eduardo can do is give him a chance. "I — I know it doesn't make a difference back there, really, but..." He shrugs, not about to get too far into it if Mark isn't. "Besides, you don't really care what the Winklevosses think, do you?"

[zuckered]

"The Winklevii?" Mark asks, his eyes widening and a fairly rare laugh dropping from his lips, brittle and sharp, fueled by the alcohol on his tongue. He's never been much of an exhibitionist, as far as his emotions go. Showing his emotions on his sleeve is nothing more than a weakness, allows people to read him and act accordingly; he's willing to take up the relatively small harm of people requiring his time for thorough explanations for his behavior rather than being blindsided. There's very little that he hates more than that, after all, especially after the incident with Eduardo at the facebook offices all those years ago. He knew what buttons he'd been pressing. He knew that Eduardo was sure to get upset, surely. But what he didn't like was how many people were suddenly able to see through him, somehow, murmurs of Eduardo having been passed around for weeks after, only worsened after Sean Parker was convicted for possessing and offering illegal drugs to minors.

His lip twitches, free of all those inhibitions, if only for a brief while.

"I have never cared what the Winklevii think," he nods surely, lips pulled back in a mix of amusement and the increased effort it takes to sort through his thoughts. "Even as final club members go, they're greater meatheads than the average, never planning on paying me any respect and only wanting to use me as a code monkey to fulfill their desire to get in the pants of countless women, apparently not satiated by the ample company that the clubs get to begin with. They didn't respect me. Why would I stay with people who don't respect me? Why would I listen to the orders of people who think they can lord over me when my intellect, in fact, outstrips their own? Rehabilitate my image, indeed." He looks away with a bitter look.

Even if he can admit to himself that his image isn't the best for fitting his needs, the Winklevii never stood a chance of helping him, not when they were planning to use him as a step stool.

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo's smile grows a little more bittersweet at that, something that is masked mostly by his taking another sip of his beer. It feels increasingly like he's being pulled in multiple directions at the same time, the best choice of route seemingly changing every few moments. Of course, it makes sense that Mark wouldn't comment further on them and whatever reparations have been made this past while, especially not when Eduardo hadn't elaborated in the first place, but giving would be easier when he isn't met by a constant take. This effort he's making, it means something to him, and it leaves him essentially back where he started, wishing that Mark would notice without wanting to say so because he knows Mark too well for that. It should be enough, what Mark said a moment ago about having not spoken to him, implying a desire to, but it isn't. Not for the first time, he wonders if it was just the alcohol talking, anyway; with the way Mark is knocking them back, it really wouldn't be all that surprising. It's got to be pretty fucking sad, Eduardo thinks, that already he has to resolve himself to not asking about it in the morning, when it probably won't matter to Mark anymore.

"They didn't get it," he says with a shake of his head, not quite realizing the compliment inherent in his own words. "Of course if they wouldn't get that you didn't need to do that, Facebook would be way beyond them." He doesn't know the brothers personally, can't really make a call as to the extent of their meatheadedness (and Eduardo chooses to ignore the comment about final club members, anyway, having been one himself), but he formed enough of a judgment based on their wanting to rehabilitate Mark's image that he doesn't think that matters. It's enough to keep the two of them speaking easy now, despite everything that Eduardo hasn't let himself say. If pointing out his own presence isn't enough, he can veil this situation as positive in other ways. Voice just the slightest bit strained, he adds, "Well, they matter even less, here, so there's that."

[zuckered]

For all that alcohol is meant to be a depressant, Mark thinks that it surely isn't working now, this beer that he has in his hands. He feels everything, intensely, in full detail. No one's ever been able to draw vindication out of Mark as easily as Eduardo; Mark knows that their opinions differ, more often than Eduardo is likely to admit, but that he sees every time the other man hesitates, brows raising with just a touch of skepticism as his eyes avert their gaze. And right now, he feels that once again. It's almost ironic. Usually, Eduardo is the one asking Mark to tone it down, watch his step, but on any occasion that Mark finds himself supported by his best friend, he simply goes out with twice the strength, and perhaps it's his fortune that the Winklevoss twins aren't on the island right then, because nothing would stop him from giving them a piece of his mind. His somewhat inebriated, but no less vehement mind.

But they aren't there, and Eduardo's support, one that Mark knows will last even years into the future, only brings about a different type of depressive to his mind, one that has him picking up his glass and draining it dry, holding it up only once he's done, like an afterthought. "There's that," he nods firmly, before he sways a bit on the spot, overcorrecting for his enthusiasm and letting the beer tap down on the table, strongly. "Man, this place is like a freaking Wonderland, isn't it? Wonder if that makes you the white rabbit."

[pointzerothree]

"What, to your Alice?" Eduardo asks, letting out a dry laugh around the mouth of his glass. It isn't a metaphor that makes any sense to him, but that isn't surprising, both because this is Mark, who tends to think on a different level than most sane humans, and because Mark is quickly and obviously becoming more and more drunk, which shouldn't be amusing but it actually kind of is. At least, if Eduardo removes the past from the equation, it is, and though that's something he shouldn't be doing, it's a train of thought he can't help even so. Unwise or not, he wishes he could really do so, that this could be like normal instead of the façade they're trying to substitute for it. He distracts himself from dwelling on it by trying to fit everyone else they know into Mark's analogy, as illogical as it seems when none of the rest of them are here. (The Winklevosses are Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. Dustin and Chris are the Mad Hatter and the March Hare. He doesn't get any farther than Sean as the Queen of Hearts before he has to stop, wondering if he can blame the alcohol, too, or if he's really so desperate to keep things okay that he's stooped to this level.)

Finishing off the last of his drink in an effort to stop himself from thinking, he shakes his head. "Not sure you could pull off the blue dress, man. No offense, but you don't really have the figure for it."

[zuckered]

"Mmm," Mark manages first, giving Eduardo a look (or as close of one as he can get right now, the way that he's swaying back and forth, just enough for his vision to start swimming). He could explain to Eduardo the reason for the comparison. Because the white rabbit, he's always the one freaking out about things, the one who worries about the thoughts of others, and keeps on running in one direction or another, either at someone's request (does that make Mark the Queen of Hearts?) or leading others around behind him (and that would make Mark the Alice in the picture). But even as inebriated as Mark is right now, he's pretty sure that neither of these things are what he wants to be telling Eduardo right now, so instead he looks down at what he's wearing, while also waving out to one of the employees in hopes of getting another beer, probably a second beer too many.

"Alice could totally rock a hoodie and flip-flops. She'd probably be happier wearing that than her freaking pinafore and starched ruffles. Think that's what she wore in the Disney version, anyway. Never read the original."

[pointzerothree]

"What, and you think I did?" Eduardo raises an eyebrow, amused, still, and skeptical at once, shaking his head before he rests it in a hand, his elbow on the table. "Kind of missed the boat on Lewis Carrol, sorry. And I'm pretty sure you're the only person who could stand to run around in flip-flops all the time; they probably would have fallen off when she fell down the rabbit hole, and then she'd've been stuck barefoot." Stupid, stupid, he thinks, but Mark runs with it and so he will, too. It's a moment too late that he realizes that Mark's wardrobe probably isn't the safest of topics. My hoodie and my fuck you flip-flops, you pretentious douchebag, he remembers all too well saying, and those being the two things mentioned by Mark now, he has to wonder if it's deliberate, an offhand way of trying to make Eduardo feel guilty. Whether or not it is, it works; he winces, though he ignores it easily, playing it off as a sip of beer gone down the wrong pipe. Having this — the levity, the familiarity that they probably wouldn't be able to achieve otherwise — is too nice to comment on it. Besides, Mark is drunk, likely not accountable for everything he says, and Eduardo is beginning to question the detail with which Mark will remember this conversation tomorrow. (He'd have been quick to defer anyway, he knows. It's how they've always been. Mark insults, often with no real intent, and Eduardo shrugs it off because it doesn't matter.)

The waitress who comes to the table is tall, a pretty blonde, and Eduardo looks up at her as he asks for another beer for Mark, then quickly amends it to two. Being the far more sober of the pair, he figures it won't hurt, that he could probably use it. Almost an afterthought, before she can leave, he looks to Mark again. "You still want that burger, or are we just sticking to drinks after all?"

[zuckered]

A flicker of concern passes over Mark's face when Eduardo kind of chokes, before somehow, a part of him (that isn't entirely conscious right now, let's be honest) realizes that it's nothing life-threatening, and is probably more meant to smooth over an awkward situation than anything else. Eduardo does that. Smoothing over things. It's kind of a bad habit, Mark thinks, even if he certainly would rather not be at the end of things like having Eduardo chuck his laptop down on a table until the thing breaks. The problem with smoothing things over on a regular basis is that people get used to it, and they come to expect that sort of behavior from you, and that's probably how Eduardo ends up with crazy girlfriends like Christy who are only made more crazy when they start realizing that Eduardo, he treats everyone nicely, and a silk scarf doesn't necessarily say 'love' so much as it says 'I knew you'd flip out if I didn't bring you something back, so just in case, here, I thought of you.'

This isn't the time to be remarking on that, though, because on the off-chance that Eduardo is doing that same thing with Mark right now, just humoring him, Mark is willing to turn a blind eye and accept it and whatever form of pity might come with it, before eventually moving on. He's drunk. Inebriated. He's aware enough to know that.

Let that be his excuse.

"I think it's more likely that you read the book than me. You're more of a literature guy. I mean, not terribly much of a literature guy, otherwise it definitely wouldn't make sense that you're in econ, but you're enough of a literature guy that you could pass for a literature guy if you wanted, like you would have fit in at the museum or something, and for me they'd know that it was probably class or someone like you who dragged me along," Mark points out, his hands practically twitching with the lack of anything to play with. This is usually where he might start chewing on a straw. A Twizzler. Heck, if there were disposable napkins, he might tear a strip off and start biting down on that. There's none of that there, though, which pulls Mark's face into a relatively dissatisfied expression, just for a second, before he comes to again. Ah, right. Question. There's a question on the table.

He looks around, as though he has any right to be picky about where the two of them eat when Eduardo's made it sound like this is the only decent restaurant to be found in the area, before he nods, having made that executive decision.

"Burgers. Let's get burgers. I haven't had a decent burger in a while. It's been sushi and salads lately. Lots of avocado."

[pointzerothree]

"Make that two beers and two burgers, then," Eduardo says, looking up at the waitress once more, with a crooked, apologetic smile. Whatever point Mark is trying to make, of which there may not even be one, it isn't anything some girl on the waitstaff just trying to take their order needs to be privy to, and he's almost tempted to outright say he's sorry for it, but he bites his tongue, figuring that it would probably come across as an insult to Mark more than anything else. Eduardo is used to this, his tendency to ramble and the way he gets when he's drunk; it's just that other people aren't. If anything, it provides further justification for his sitting here now. He might not know Mark as well as he thought he did, but he does know that Mark doesn't like feeling isolated or less than. Some people here, he suspects they might not have the patience for Mark, and he should at least have one person who gets him, to smooth things over when necessary. Maybe it's more than he deserves from Eduardo, but at least it provides a little more reasoning for his unwillingness to walk away and leave Mark to his own devices. To do that could negatively impact Mark or whomever he comes into contact with whom he just happens to piss off. Whether or not it's more responsibility than he needs to be taking on, it doesn't really matter. At least it's some sort of logic, making Eduardo feel marginally less crazy for still sitting here, intent on making the best of whatever they can manage. (It's still probably insane.)

Turning to Mark as the waitress walks away, Eduardo simply looks at him for a couple of seconds, one corner of his mouth still higher than the other. With such a drawn-out metaphor, it doesn't seem important to point out that he probably wouldn't have dragged Mark anywhere; more likely would be the other way around, except with less dragging and more of Eduardo following along willingly. It's the same thing now, but it's irrelevant, anyway, not really relating to what was being said in the first place. It's the last comment that he sees more fit to mention, a dry laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. "Sushi and salads, huh?" he asks dryly, shaking his head. To him, it sounds pretty fucking pretentious, but he has the sense enough not to say so, mostly because he's still stuck wondering if Mark meant to reference their last conversation before this or not. (After four years, he reminds himself, it would be unlikely, but coming from a fucking deposition, there's a chance it's all still fresh in his mind anyway.) "I don't know, I guess there's nothing wrong with sushi and salads, but you've got to have some variety. That's one thing they manage to do well here, despite the obvious limitations."

[zuckered]

"That's my point," Mark says immediately, before he frowns, turning half to the side, almost as though he might have a set of notes in his hand that he can properly consult. (He doesn't.) He's grown accustomed to agreeing to people these days, to saying yes without even giving the questions real thought, the deposition the only great exception in the set. He's learned that that's what bureaucracy is, after all, and no matter what he may wish and hope to claim about facebook, the fact of the matter is that it's as much of a corporation as other companies. Not so much in that they're making profit. (They're not, really, although there's enough revenue that churns through that keeps all of them well-fed and cared for, so that no employee of the company really wants for anything.) But instead in that there are just too many employees for Mark to look completely after, for anyone to know everyone with a contract, and what that means is that connections, they matter. And how else do people deal with connections, other than make and break them, one after another until one has a staircase to success?

He shakes his head.

"No, wait, that's not my point. I didn't mean to say that variety's an important thing to me. To other people, yes, to you, certainly. But you know me, I'm perfectly happy wearing variations of the same outfit every day, even down to the same color if it didn't leave other people with the impression that I haven't changed clothes from day to day," Mark says as he casts the waitress a certain look, one that's contemplative, and curious in spite of himself. "What I actually mean to say that is the days of sushi and salad kind of leave you with the impression that it's not food anymore, all flash, no substance, the sort of thing that leaves you going to bed with an empty stomach. But a burger, that's substantial, gives you something to digest. You can gorge on a burger, easy. Sushi, not so much. It just leaves your tongue sour."

[pointzerothree]

"It's — forgive me, but it's fucking pretentious," Eduardo says, one hand held up in front of him and head slightly inclined, as if to give the words a tone of respect that isn't actually there. It's a turn of phrase that he wanted to avoid using, but there just isn't anything better, because that's what it is. Sushi and salad for every meal to make a point, to say, oh, look how fucking hip we are, with our cool, healthy meals, served on square plates with fancy garnishes, and Eduardo hates it. It's part of why the Silicon Valley never held any appeal to him, the whole lifestyle idealized there one that he finds distasteful, wholly disingenuous. The idea of Mark there, among them, both makes perfect sense and none at all. Easy to get swept up in as he's sure it is — another part of the reason why he never went out — surely the chance to be that cool when he never was before would be seductive, but it's hardly the Mark he thinks he knows, the real one. He'd question it, wonder if Mark really did succumb to all of that after all, rather than just following along as a way to fit in, but the comment about the burger leads Eduardo to believe that this is still the same Mark he's known all along. Not as well as he thought, of course, that much not being something he can let himself lose sight of, and maybe not entirely, depending on whether or not that Mark was capable of stabbing his best friend in the back all along and Eduardo never realized it, but the same at least to an extent, not unrecognizably altered by four years (Jesus, four fucking years, he thinks again) living it up as a pseudo-celebrity in Palo Alto.

(Eduardo imagines him, for a moment, as Sean was the day they first met him in that restaurant in New York. On a first-name basis with all of the staff, someone who people turned to look at when he walked into the room, the very fact of his presence commanding. It doesn't quite work; Mark's never had that level of charisma. What the image morphs into, instead, is Mark with Sean's arm around his shoulders, practically a fucking puppet as Sean does all the talking, never fitting in but wanting so desperately to that he'd do anything to seem like he did. What Facebook is is cool, Eduardo remembers vividly, and Mark, as an extension of it, would have to be as well. All of it leaves him wondering now how much of what happened was Mark and how much was Sean, if Mark was genuinely that disloyal or if he was coerced, following along with a plot to maintain the same position in everyone else's eyes and to not lose what he'd been gunning for ever since he first found out about final clubs. Either way, Eduardo supposes, it doesn't matter. The choice, in the end — the priority — was the same.)

"I mean, no one can really like sushi and salad that much, can they?" It's a continuation with hardly so much as a pause, both to stop his train of thoughts in its tracks and to downplay his own earlier statement, really, really not wanting Mark to be reminded of what he said before storming out of the office. If he can keep things calm, smooth it all over, he means to do so for as long as is physically possible, at least while there hasn't been any provocation, no mention of it or cutting remarks from Mark that have made him want to reconsider. "And you said yourself, it's not filling. Just... leaves and tiny portions of raw fish. I don't see why it even matters, anyway, there shouldn't be anything uncool about eating a decent meal."

[zuckered]

Fucking pretentious. Well, that brings back memories. Mark blinks even as Eduardo goes through the rest of his explanation, only catching bits and pieces of it as he ends up replaying their past interactions in his head, in particular a comment about his clothing coming to mind. It's kind of funny to Mark, really. At least, it is right now. The fact that on the day Eduardo decided to talk about hoodies and fuck-you flip-flops, Mark wasn't wearing the former, having donned instead one of the jackets he'd taken from Eduardo's closet one day in winter, when he went over to his best friend's dorm to go on and on about facebook and his ideas but completely forgot to dress appropriately for the weather. He never remembered to return it. It was one of those things that he packed away when preparing to move to Palo Alto, having shoved it into all of his boxes because there's very little that he hates more than packing. It's something that's meant to be quick and dirty, because what's the point of packing things away nicely when they're just going to come out again when one makes it to their destination? It's a time-sink, albeit a necessary one, but the way Mark figures, at the very least it doesn't have to be a big sink.

Anyway.

The point is, the jacket ended up with all of his things, and it only started becoming noticeable to Mark after time spent away from Eduardo, only able to contact him by phone. Because it showed up, like a surprise all its own, one day when Mark reached into his closet hoping to find anything weather-appropriate, having forgotten (this happens a lot) to do his laundry in a timely manner. And ever since, he's noticed it, more and more, until that day when Eduardo was arriving for the meeting, Mark put it on, less to spite Eduardo and more because some part of him had hoped that his actions, though certainly meant to teach Eduardo a lesson and also influenced by Sean's insistence that the other man wasn't good for either Mark or the company, that it would just be enough to shake Eduardo. Make him realize that Mark, he's a force to be reckoned with.

The problem with that conclusion, of course, being that forces to be reckoned with can either be reckoned with, or they can be run away from, and the latter's what applies more to their situation. Sure, Eduardo's come back for the deposition. But in a way, the other man's just run.

His eyes darken a little. "Well, what makes it pretentious isn't the food itself," he points out, because maybe that's what makes his hoodie and flip-flops anything but. He's never really intended for them to be a smack in anyone's face, didn't mean it as any form of disrespect so much as what was simply practical. There's no point in getting himself all trussed up and showing someone who doesn't exist, a Mark Zuckerberg who cares about social norms and niceties and validates them by going along. It's not that he thinks he's better than most everyone else (except in terms of intellect, maybe). "It's the way people dress it up. Sushi wasn't even a big thing in Japan, either, until it caught on here— or well, not here here, but in the States— and suddenly it was cool. Before that, it was just like any other dish. Actually, the places I really like to go are those conveyor belt sushi restaurants, because you eat your fill, it's not all dressed up, it's very efficient and there's no mess, no fuss. Steak can also be pretentious too, you know. Those tiny little... pieces cut in a circle, like anyone cares what the shape of their food is, and drizzled with raspberry sauce, just enough to make it, I don't know. Novel."