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]

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

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

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

Friendships are strange things.

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

He shrugs, then continues along the path.

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

"Yeah, I'm sure."

[pointzerothree]

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

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

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

[zuckered]

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

A brow quirks.

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

[pointzerothree]

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

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

[zuckered]

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

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

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

[pointzerothree]

"Here, I can, um, take that," Eduardo says, reaching for the plate with the leftover burger on it. There aren't many places to keep it, given that he doesn't usually keep much food around the hut, but on top of the desk, he thinks, will do for now. It's better than nothing. That Mark's expressed something resembling approval — or, at least, acceptance — helps, too, though Eduardo still feels the need to impress, to do this right. They've spent most of the evening together now, but they haven't shared proximity like this in a long time, and this being the place he's lived for months now, it seems reflexive of himself somehow. His father would say to be a good host; a long time ago, Eduardo wouldn't have thought it necessary with his best friend, but he doesn't know now quite what they are to each other, whether or not this is going to last. "And if you don't want to sleep in that, I have a t-shirt you can wear."

[zuckered]

Whether or not it's the presence of a bed in the room that triggers the drowsiness, Mark finds himself blinking less frequently now, each repetition seeming to make his lids feel heavier, coaxing them to a full close. He waves a hand dismissively at the offer of a shirt, his brows furrowing slightly at the thought, gaze only barely managing to follow the progress of the plate that he hands over to Eduardo (its eventual resting place gets noted in the back of his mind, where it will inevitably resurface come morning. With a soft sniff, Mark pads around the room, turning once in a circle, almost in the manner of a dog looking for a softer patch of ground on which to sleep. Dully aware that he was only minutes from passing out, Mark did his best to peer over at Eduardo, his blinks slow and languid.

"You staying?" he asks, confusion the only emotion that continues to register on his face at all.

[pointzerothree]

"I was, um, thinking I might go over to my girlfriend's, actually," Eduardo answers, turning from the desk to face Mark again, a hand curling around the back of his neck. He shouldn't feel guilty for it when that's been his plan from the start anyway, but he does even so, regardless of the fact that it just makes sense. "It's pretty much right next door, this way you can have the bed, some privacy —" He shrugs. Plus, this way, he'll be able to tell Olive what happened, get some of this off his chest, which still feels tight, too tight, with more emotions than he can give a name to. "And I can be back in the morning, probably before you even wake up."

[zuckered]

Some of the details are familiar, while others are anything but. The idea that Eduardo would ditch a bro for a night with the girlfriend is, as has been pointed out by Dustin over the years, an occurrence that quickly becomes habit. That's just the way Eduardo is, shuffling wherever he pleases the most people, where he disappoints the fewest, wandering away from more enjoyable parties and back to his girlfriend's suite on more than one occasion— just because she's much more likely to be angry, between the two. In this, Mark knows to expect Eduardo to treat his girlfriend like a lady.

But this feels a little different.

(Since when have the two of them ever needed privacy from one another?)

Sitting down on the corner of the bed, Mark can't think of anything to respond with other than a nod. An acknowledgment. "Okay."

[pointzerothree]

"Okay," Eduardo repeats, nodding once, then summoning up a small, hopeful smile. Now that he's said as much, of course, he's reluctant to leave, not entirely convinced that Mark will still even be here in the morning, or that all of this has really happened at all. For all he knows, come morning, with a night's sleep behind them, Mark could decide that this has been a mistake, that he was right in the first place to cut Eduardo out, and he'll be back where he started, except worse off than before.

All of that, though, is all the more reason to go try to unwind. It won't happen while he's here, within the same four walls as Mark, hesitant to even turn his gaze in the other direction. Rather than towards the door, he steps towards Mark, taking a seat next to him, close enough that he can lay a hand on Mark's shoulder. Were they anyone else, they'd probably be hugging right about now, but that's never been their style. There's too much between them for that, anyway, Eduardo unable to help feeling awkward now that he's initiated something like contact.

"So, um, I guess that's... goodnight, then," he says, almost a question, but doesn't wait for a response. If he lingers, he'll be here all goddamn night, probably do something fucking stupid like watch Mark sleep just to make sure he doesn't go anywhere. Crossing the few steps to the exit, though, he does pause, turning to face back into the room as he leans against the door frame with one hand. "I really missed you, Mark."

[zuckered]

His eyes dart down to the hand on his shoulder. It's weird. This is how things used to be, he knows that, and he knows that for Eduardo, the habits are closer, less removed. He knows that little pats on the shoulder like this were always Eduardo's modus operandi, not anything Mark naturally leaned towards, and yet it feels almost as though a hole has been filled to some extent, that his emotions spill over the brim and wash everything else away. Maybe, he thinks with a soft huff of a breath, this is proof that he needs to take a night to himself, to just sleep exhaustion away until his mind is clear enough again to take a look at everything without Eduardo being around to affect him so deeply.

He sits there, almost entirely still, until Eduardo gets up from his seat, at which point Mark's blue eyes trail after his friend as Eduardo makes his way to the exit.

The admission that Eduardo's missed him at all hits Mark directly in the gut, leaving him a little queasy, the alcohol helping it all along.

"Yeah," he nods lightly. "I missed you, too."

[pointzerothree]

Why the words come as a surprise, he doesn't entirely know. For Mark, after all, it has been even longer since they've really talked, certainly since they've shared a room like this, and Eduardo still chooses to believe that they were, at one point, each other's best friend. There's something so direct, though, so simple about the way Mark returns the statement, one that Eduardo didn't say expecting any response, if only because he knows Mark well enough not to. They just don't get emotional like that. They didn't, anyway. Maybe it's tiredness, maybe it's beer; hell, maybe it isn't even true at all. Whatever the reason, it's still nice, making the corners of Eduardo's mouth lift a little, chest growing tight with some unnamed emotion.

"I'll see you in the morning, then," he says, a little softer, almost fond. "Sleep well, Mark."