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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

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

Mark's not sure how he does it.

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

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

[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.