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]

The laugh that the toss of the grapefruit pulls from Eduardo is a genuine one, short and surprised and, even as the sound leaves his lips, unexpected. There's nothing guarded about it, nothing forced, and with as carefully as he's been trying to handle all this, to keep high emotions from spilling out, that isn't something he would have anticipated from himself. (What it is, what he knows but doesn't yet want to acknowledge, is a clear sign of the feelings he still has for Mark, that not even such a backstabbing could turn off. If it's hard for him to think it, there's no way in hell he'll say it, let on to Mark that he's got more of a chance at friendship than anyone who did what he did deserves, but that doesn't make it any less true. All things considered, this was probably inevitable from the get-go.)

"Good thing they've got no shortage of those things around here," he says wryly, glancing over his own shoulder to where the grapefruit has rolled a short distance away. A part of him is tempted to go pick it up, not wanting to leave it just lying there, but the other part of him thinks that that might ruin a briefly lightened mood, and so he goes with the lesser of two figurative evils; the grapefruit stays where it is. "Probably find something more filling at the Wi— the restaurant, it's called the Winchester. That's where we're going."

[zuckered]

It's not quite enough, the laugh, but Mark is trying his best not to think about it. In the real world, in a world made real by the natural progression of age and the constant crawl or leap of progress, the benefits of thinking outweigh the consequences, but here, where thinking is only liable to get him going around in circles, he needs to stop. This isn't like composing code to achieve a certain purpose; instead, every step that he takes around Eduardo is venturing into unknown territory, into emotions that Mark's never bothered to fully explore (certainly, shoes that he's never tried walking in), and that he's none too eager to pounce on now.

But he can't stop. He can't, and that's what keeps him stumbling every single time, the words catching in his throat and dying before his voice can start to sound at all. The few times he's managed to sputter the words out in the past haven't been successful, anyway. Trying to get Eduardo to stay in Palo Alto. Trying to convince Eduardo that he shouldn't need ads to keep facebook afloat, because facebook is so much more than just a corporation, it's innovation, and surely there will be more than enough people in the world like him, the nerds who sit behind the computer screens, who get that and will fund it to no end. Just look at Google.

He can't even begin to explain to Eduardo that this, that the fact that Eduardo is still looking entirely down at Mark for what he's done, it's fracturing him piece by piece. In some ways, it hammers Mark down, makes him feel small— but on top of that, there's a tiny voice in the back of his head that says he shouldn't have to apologize, that a disconnect and missed communication isn't the same as being deliberately vengeful. Mark regrets how all of this has made Eduardo feel, and that should be enough, yet the weight keeps on coming with him barely still standing in spite of it.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Mark shrugs. "Plenty of animals here. Something will eat it. Fruit never goes to waste," he decides, before turning to face Eduardo again, blinking in silence for a couple of seconds. "I was afraid for a moment that you were about to say the Winklevoss. Though then again, the thought of those two running a restaurant is strangely gratifying. If I could, I would even leave them a sizable tip." His gaze turns, grows distant for a bit, before he nods. Make them work for their money. Let them get a little dirty.

If only.

[pointzerothree]

He shouldn't read so much into everything. Eduardo is well aware of the fact, has said as much to himself more than once since he found Mark sitting on the couch all of a few minutes ago, but it's an instinct he can't quite turn off, so many issues still unresolved leaving him too touchy. Part of it, loath though he is to admit it, is aimed at himself, too; he should have thought to have lawyers read the contracts, for one, and should be able to walk away now, but he didn't and he can't, and that's not on Mark, but it's close enough. Though his own stupid fucking sense of loyalty is at fault for both, what hurts is knowing that Mark would never have returned the favor. It might mean a lot to Eduardo, trying to be the bigger person, but it isn't easy when that involves someone for whom it seemed to be so easy to set him up and lie to his face and write him off. The same things replaying in his head, over and over again, have him feeling raw, too vulnerable, and he hates it as much as he hates Mark for doing it to him.

So Mark mentions the Winklevosses, and the statement may or may not be a joke but is light-hearted all the same, and it's still Eduardo's automatic reaction to get defensive, teeth pressing to his lower lip to hold back too quick a response. If the restaurant were called the Winklevoss, it's the last place he would be taking Mark, and Mark should know it. (If the name weren't a coincidence, he would be leading Mark to his literal slaughter, and he isn't that cruel; he doesn't need to be personally acquainted with Cameron and Tyler to know that they would probably want his blood, regardless of the lack of economy. If the name were a coincidence, it would be an unpleasant reminder for both of them all the same.) He wants to tell Mark not to expect so little of him, but he doesn't, because it's the last thing either of them need, such an overreaction when things are already so fraught, tension still hanging heavy between them. However bad things are, he has the sense enough, the self-control enough, to know that. There's no smashing laptops this time, no wardrobe criticizing or feigned punches to Sean Parker's face. He's trying. They're on an even playing field, here.

"They'd probably take it as an insult," Eduardo points out, an evident dry, joking sound to his voice. "The bigger the tip, the worse it would go over. Whatever happened with them, anyway?" The question comes out before he can help it, but he doesn't see the need to look guilty for it. Try though he might to keep the subject temporarily away from the more serious matters they both know are at hand, it was an inevitability, with Mark's coming from a time later than his own. Anyway, as far as the topic of home goes, it's the least volatile, the one most indirectly related to their own issues, even if Eduardo supposes he got similar treatment to the Winklevii and Divya Narendra, in the end. Used as a springboard, then pushed aside, all credit forgotten. The thought makes him feel a little queasy, but he presses on, expression just barely faltering.

[zuckered]

This isn't the reaction Mark expects. Granted, with things being as volatile as they are, it's hard to predict anything one way or the other, but this isn't the reaction Mark expects from Eduardo, not only calm, but not importantly direct. Wanting some resolution and not, for once, just hiding off to the side and layering more uncomfortable topics with safer ones (he remembers the way that Eduardo brought it up first, that the Phoenix probably just punched him as a diversity thing, and that in of itself was a remark which never sat well with Mark— no need to add insult to injury by suggesting that the Club didn't know how best to select its members). If things weren't so tenuous between the two of them, Mark would encourage this. It's a whole lot more like what he does himself, puts Mark at ease in a way he's not sure Eduardo will share, but Mark takes what he can get.

This way, he won't have to shy around the matter himself.

"Sixty-five million in a settlement. Originally they planned on trying for fifty; added another fifteen to get them to sign a non-disclosure agreement. It's a whole lot more than they deserve, but we do what we must," Mark quickly rattles off, wishing that the two of them could move a little faster, made uneasy by the jungle that seems to rustle as they pass by. Probably wind. Possibly animals. Still creepy, like some overdone version of Jumanji or something. His grip on his laptop tightens and his free hand ruffles through his curls briefly before he adds, "You're reinstated. As co-founder. Or you will be; the terms haven't been settled but it was— you mentioned it before you— I thought maybe that was the first thing I should do."

What goes unsaid, what perhaps doesn't and shouldn't need to be said, is the fact that Mark honestly never knew that the title was what Eduardo would keep on hanging onto most at the end. Like I'm not a part of facebook, Mark remembers so clearly in his mind, to the point where it makes his brow furrow now because he never anticipated that the company was so important to Eduardo, more than the assets, more than its potential as a springing board for his own career. At best, maybe a way of humoring a friend— isn't that what made it so easy to freeze facebook's assets, knowing full well that the functionality of the site was what made it stand up above other networking sites of its kind. But how is Mark supposed to breach that topic?

So he falls silent.

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo tenses. It isn't a thought-through reaction, but given that Mark's the one brought the subject back to the two of them, he has to imagine that he'll be expecting something to that effect. With the exception of a few sentences, they've been dancing around this subject for so long that he isn't quite sure what to do with it now, whether he should put everything out in the open or cut Mark a generous, undeserved break. And it is undeserved, he insists to himself. The wording sounds like it's something Mark decided on, but for all that Eduardo intended to come back and take everything, he doesn't want Mark to give him anything, to do him any favors or try for some sort of halfhearted appeasement. The company isn't what matters, has never been what mattered. Their friendship is. A name on a masthead is a small consolation when he's lost his best friend, when he's been so utterly fucking betrayed, and settling a lawsuit isn't any sort of reconciliation.

That quickly, he's all but forgotten about Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss again, too wrapped up in himself and Mark and their own issues to bother commenting on the settlement. (There's a part of him, yes, that hears sixty-five million and is amazed that they — that Facebook, without him, because there's no them, not anymore — grew so big. It's inconsequential, comparatively speaking. Just like Sean Parker said, a million dollars isn't cool, and cool was clearly what Facebook strove to be in the end.) They're going to have to do this sooner or later. "You thought or your lawyers thought?" Eduardo asks somewhat flatly, glancing down to his shoes against the boardwalk. A part of him feels guilty for it almost immediately, knowing that it isn't the worst response he could have had, but is still fairly cold; try though he might to hide it, it's written all over his face. He's too tired to apologize for it, though, too hurt. Most people in his position would have turned around and walked away as soon as they saw Mark Zuckerberg sitting on the couch, after all. In terms of meaning, his question pales in comparison to the fact that he's standing here now, going with Mark for a beer, not quite like old times but close enough. What Mark chooses to lay emphasis on, that's entirely out of Eduardo's control, but he can't help hoping that he'll see the bigger picture, that he was always in Mark's corner to begin with.

[zuckered]

All that effort comes smashing back in his face again. Typical. Mark can only blink in complete confusion, nothing more than flabbergasted for a minute, as though his code has suddenly come up with a bright red ERROR, only it's not returning the precise line and character on the status bar so that he knows where to go about fixing things. He meant for the comment to be comforting. Conciliatory. And in the end, it'd be fine if it doesn't do its job completely, because there's a whole lot of crevice between Eduardo and himself and it's going to take weeks, months, maybe even years to even start filling it up so that they're floating again. That's why he first tries to think, did he phrase it poorly? It's enough of a question to bring him to a halt on the track, but that's when he realizes.

No. That was exactly how he meant to phrase it. He thought it was the first thing to do. It wasn't an afterthought formed after talking with his lawyers. It wasn't his lawyer's idea, even. But the fact that Eduardo suspects that, or even if he doesn't and only said those things to wound Mark, it's suddenly too much. He can't process. Error, error, does not compute. Everything's coming up a blank blue screen. His eyes rove, back and forth, back again, trying to read lines that aren't there in the first place as he feels like he can hardly even pull a breath together, then does the unthinkable.

He drops his laptop. It's a sturdier brand than the last (after the destruction of the VAIO, of course Mark's gone about finding laptops that won't break with a simple drop), and has likely survived the fall. But Mark makes no effort to pick it up. "Did I say it was what my lawyers thought, Eduardo?" he asks, every syllable in place and perfectly timed, like an automated voice, if not for the strain. If he knew where he was, if he knew which way to turn to get out of there, this would be infinitely easier.

Instead, he just continues on ahead on the path they've been walking on, slippers brushing along the boardwalk.

[pointzerothree]

In a way, Eduardo wishes it had been the lawyers' idea. It might be a little easier to deal with, then, to maintain some semblance of separation from all of this, to not wind up getting in over his head emotionally so soon. All the time he's been here, he's had one idea of Mark cemented firmly in his head — albeit, an incredibly slanted one, which he has no trouble admitting — but that's quickly being turned on its head, and he has so much else to handle that he can hardly stand it. He expected too much from Mark before, and decided he was done with that; now that he apparently isn't expecting enough, it hurts, the laptop against the boardwalk feeling similar to a slap in the face. What he doesn't get is why Mark is so upset when the question should be understandable, but the frustration of that is, at least for the moment, something he can overlook in the face of Mark's being upset at all. Eduardo isn't the bad guy, not here, not now. Not ever, really, as much as he'll cop to freezing the account not being the best decision. He'd had no other choice.

Now, though, he watches Mark start to walk away, and knows that his only option is the opposite, in a way, of that. It still comes down to his being unable to be the one to push them apart, needing the moral high ground of sticking around through whatever hell he has to go through with Mark here, for his own sake as much as to drive a point home. He doesn't just need Mark to acknowledge the fact that he's the more loyal of the two here, but he needs to prove it to himself, too, because otherwise, he has no business being here at all. He won't let Mark make him out to be the douchebag. Far from perfect though he may be, he isn't the one in the wrong, has every reason to think that Mark wouldn't be the one to suggest his reinstatement when Mark was the one who got him out of the company in the first place, who sat there so indignant while Eduardo was led out by security. The question was a reasonable one. Eduardo is still willing to pick up a little slack.

He stares at Mark's back for a few seconds, shaking his head, and then crouches, carefully lifting the dropped laptop. It looks a little worse for wear, but not as broken as the one he smashed against the desk in the office, a moment he knows wasn't his proudest. Maybe this is a way of making up for it, sort of. With a sigh that's weary, he quickens his pace, falling into step beside Mark with an expression that's nothing but remorseful. He'll give that much. "Look, man, I'm sorry," he says, and the words are slightly forced, but genuine all the same. (He thinks, hopes, Mark will be able to tell.) "I didn't know."

[zuckered]

Everything's too damn conflicting right now. Is Mark happy that Eduardo's trailed after him after all? Yes, indisputably yes, and yet not at the same time, because he hates himself for being so relieved at hearing his best friend's voice at all. It's just another sign of the weakness that Mark's now coming to realize he needs to stamp out of himself, expecting too much of Eduardo and leaning on him more than the other man deserves to carry on those shoulders, and probably so often that it keeps Mark from learning to stand on his own two feet and make that effort to cross bridges. Maybe Eduardo just isn't impassioned about the same things as he is. And that's fine. That just means that Mark shouldn't do silly things like beg for Eduardo to move to Palo Alto. It's just a matter of adjustment, albeit one that makes his jaw lock as he stares down at the ground.

So he'll let Eduardo have the credit he deserves, because facebook wouldn't be up and running and around (in the nebulous otherworld that is their own, not here in the pocket dimension) without Eduardo Saverin, and even if Mark still hates advertisements with a passion, that doesn't discredit the effort Eduardo's put forth. Sure. That credit can easily be given. But Mark isn't going to ask any more of Eduardo, of anyone really, unless someone can ask to be involved and make Mark believe it. That's one thing that Sean, for all his idiocy, always managed to do.

Looking over at Eduardo, Mark carefully lets his gaze glance over the whole of the other man's expression. Looks genuine. Then again, that's only to be expected, partially because Eduardo is never anything but, and partially because he just has the face for it. Like an earnest puppy or something. Really. Mark is never going to need any sort of pet or cute animal around so long as Wardo's there. The very thought almost makes his lips quirk, but a second later it's all sobered again, as he nearly holds out his hands to grip Eduardo in place, but pulls back a few inches before any contact is made.

"Wardo," he says, pausing to swallow, feeling knots tie in his stomach as he ventures into unfamiliar territory, the realm of asking favors that run deeper than the surface of one's skin. "I know you didn't. I know. I don't need an apology. Do you understand? What I need, if I need anything at all, is for you to believe in me. Starting now. Just try, if you're planning on sticking around like I think you are. Don't—"

He breathes, closing his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. "Don't be my friend out of obligation. Maybe that's what friends do, but that is not what I want you to do." After another second's worth of silence, he tacks on at the end, tone flat, just stating another fact. "I got along before college somehow, you know."

[pointzerothree]

If Mark's dropping the computer hurt, it's nothing compared to a statement like that, a fact which is more than likely made obvious in Eduardo's expression, too quick for him to do anything about it. He'd predicted this a few long minutes ago, that things would get worse before they get better, but he hadn't expected it to get this bad this quickly. There's no positive spin to put on it, no way to lessen the effect that those words have on him, except maybe to think that he was right about one suspicion: that Mark doesn't know him at all, not really. Otherwise, he never would have had to ask as much, because it would have gone without saying. Loyalty is a trait he's always valued, and even with Mark, even when things were at their worst, it's come easily, perhaps too much so. Now, of course, there might be more effort involved, but that, he thinks, is only to be expected after what they've been through. After what Mark did to him. Mark shouldn't even get to ask him for anything, but Eduardo wants to follow through all the same, the way things have, with a scant few exceptions, always been. Maybe nothing has changed at all.

"I have never," Eduardo says slowly, shakier than he'd have liked, reminded far too much of their confrontation preceding his arrival here, "never done anything but believe in you, Mark. Don't you get that?" He shakes his head, lets out a slow breath, eyes which have been carefully holding Mark's gaze closing for a few seconds. He'd never admit to being on the verge of tears — it sounds stupid, for one, childish and an overreaction if ever there was one — but there's something there all the same, some sense of defeat and exhaustion and absolute desperation taking its toll on him. Though this is suddenly seeming like a terrible, terrible idea, he nevertheless stands his ground, not about to give Mark the satisfaction of winning, of so grossly underestimating Eduardo's affection towards his former best friend.

There's an intensity replacing some of the tiredness when he speaks again, and for a moment, it feels too distinctly like old times, the days when Facebook was climbing and their friendship going steadily downhill, despite all of Eduardo's trying to throw on the brakes. Quite frankly, it makes him feel a little ill, but he's at least going to get this out. "There's no obligation. There's no — Jesus Christ, Mark, what do you think I was doing all that time? And here, after all of it, you really think I would be standing here now if I didn't want to be? I have no reason to feel obligated to you. I'm here anyway. Can't you see that?"

[zuckered]

Pupils roving left and right, Mark can feel a curious stinging in his own eyes. Almost like he's about to cry. Or, at least, how he imagines being close to crying might feel. Truth is, he hasn't done it in years, not since he's been able to ride a two-wheeler, because boys shouldn't cry and boys that do, they get pushed to the bottom of the social ladder. But he does know that his eyes are wet. So he blinks. A couple of times, until his range of sight is clear again and he can take that deep, shuddering breath, the one that makes him feel like he's sitting right back in that chair in the facebook offices. He hasn't— he's been so careful about holding himself together after that incident, layered himself with cynicism for the hearings because that is how everyone knows him and the type of attitude that comes naturally anymore. It's the most easy to rationalize, falling back on the reasoning that he didn't technically do anything wrong, didn't technically lie, never any of that, and the fact that lawyers like to win cases on technicalities and by semantics never helps (even Marylin's admitted that it's all about perception). But even deeper is the fact that it makes it easier for Eduardo to hate him, and that's... all Mark feels comfortable with now. It'd be safe. Status quo. If you can't understand it, the least the world can do is help you predict it.

Maybe that's why Mark's still putting up such a fight.

"I see that you are here," Mark begins, his usual pace slowed by consideration. "Of course you are, you're always here, you're Wardo and that's what you do, you travel for fourteen hours on the subway and you stand for an hour in the rain and you put up with fifty texts a day from Christy the crazy girlfriend who sets silk scarves on fire, all because you're Wardo. But why? Why did you put up with her, why do you put up with me, I don't— I don't know." His eyes lose contact with Eduardo's then, turning left and right because he can't look while he says this, can't look up, feels emotions churning in his stomach, even if none make it to his expression. Mark suddenly stops, eyes glazed over and focusing on nothing in particular; even now, with his best friend standing there, he feels alone. Code is easier than this. You can see a crash coming. You can back up, start again, clean slate.

"I think you believed in my being able to make facebook into something. But everyone knew that. That's why the Winklevii sought me out and maybe that's why Erica dated me at all, because apparently I'm a jerk, so surely it wasn't for my sparkling personality. I'm not like you, Wardo, I can't make girls like me and I'm not interesting enough to get punched by the Phoenix, so I needed you. In Palo Alto. I couldn't go back to— you said you were my only friend," Mark stammers suddenly, looking up at the end, his expression not accusing, not even angry, but confused in the simplest sense. In spite of the way that he knows Eduardo hasn't even lived through that moment, and maybe won't be able to tell Mark what inspired that remark, right then. Was it just to play up the case? During the deposition, it was certainly hard to think of such a statement as anything but. Petty, tugging at heartstrings, reeling in the cash. But Wardo's never been like that before, so—

"Why say that?"

[pointzerothree]

It's a long few seconds that Eduardo spends planning a response. He listens well enough — he's always been the listener, used to Mark's ramblings, though they're admittedly usually easier than this one — but it doesn't stop his own mind from racing, planning out what to say. At least there's some recognition, which comes as a surprising relief, but hearing Mark be so straightforward, so self-deprecating, is just as painful as the thought of Mark's not understanding him at all. (Of course it comes back to the Phoenix. He's always known that it was about that, at least on some level, and he hates that Mark seems to blame him for it, like Eduardo wouldn't have handed his invitation over to Mark if he could, just to smooth things over and give him that chance. Instead, he'd had to settle for downplaying his own happiness for his best friend's sake, which apparently wasn't enough. Nothing, with Mark, ever seems to be quite enough.) There's even a moment where he opens his mouth to protest, but he manages to cut himself off, letting Mark say his piece and working out where best to start what he supposes has to be a rebuttal of sorts.

All of that goes out the window, though, with the next to last thing Mark says, Eduardo's mind going suddenly, frustratingly blank. He doesn't remember saying that, and is sure he would remember saying that; the only conclusion he can reach, then, pieces distantly forming together from the conversation they've had, is that it happens in his own future. It makes sense enough, anyway. Though he has no context and can't say for sure, Eduardo feels reasonably certain that he knows exactly what would make him say that, and would reiterate as much now, painful though it must have been for Mark to hear. (Mark wouldn't be mentioning it, otherwise, not like this.) It takes him several moments longer to work up the ability to speak anyway, shifting Mark's laptop in his arms, wishing he had the use of his hands as some sort of outlet. He isn't used to standing so still.

"Because every single thing I did, I did for you, you asshole," he grits out, the words careful and precise, a sharp edge but no malice behind them. Mostly, he still doesn't get how Mark doesn't understand it, but he's so worked up now that there's no chance of him skirting around the issue, or easing into it gently. "And no one else could say that. The Winklevosses and Sean and maybe even Erica, the difference between me and them was that it wasn't what you could do, or even what you did that I cared about. I believed in Facebook as a part of you, not you as a part of Facebook, and before you tell me it's the same thing, think about it again, because there's — there is a difference." Breaths coming short and shallow, he looks away from Mark, then, laptop under one arm and his other hand pressed to his forehead, as if that will help him stay calm, centered, a task that's really fruitless at this point. This isn't how he imagined them doing this, just standing in the middle of a path, but apparently they're going to have it all out in the open now, and he's useless to try to stop it. If Mark isn't going to hold back, there's no sense in him doing so, either. His eyes are red, vision not quite clear, but he has every intention of ignoring that while he still can. "No one else had your back," he says, quieter now, "no one else put you first. I would have done anything —"

He cuts himself off, not because he knows the statement to be wrong — Mark said as much himself, saying he needed Eduardo in Palo Alto — but because his voice breaks. "It wasn't just putting up with you. It never was. You were my best friend, Mark. Don't devalue that."

[zuckered]

No matter how Mark tries to cut it, the pieces don't seem to fit together for him. It's not that he can't see the level of devotion Eduardo pays him. Actually, maybe that's what makes it worse now, has made it worse ever since Mark's had his douchery outlined in full and lined in red, ever since he's had to speak for countless hours about all the things he's done that are supposedly subversive, cruel, unthoughtful, any of these things or possibly even all of them at once. The fact that he can see all the little signs that were supposed to call out to him, each one of them like the tiniest rise in water level that now leaves him drowning, leaves him feeling like there's no ground to stand on.

But those closer observations are why he doesn't understand. People need something that connects them and they need to stand on a roughly equal level to be able to look at each other at all without craning necks and leaving each other sore at the end of the day. So. That's where it all falls apart. Because as far as Mark's concerned, he's been sitting at the foot of an insurmountable pyramid, trying to strike out on his own, but the point is, the point is that he's never been even close to Wardo in terms of the foundation that friendship is built upon. He doesn't... doesn't know how to celebrate other people's victories, doesn't know how to console other people about their losses. All he is, all he really is, is someone who has innovative ideas based on what he's observed about people and the world they live in.

End story: He is a crappy friend.

And to be the best friend of someone who can pretty much attract everyone out there to him like bees to a flower? It just doesn't hold water. He can't even say that Eduardo's given him any reason to think it a lie, it's just a matter of fundamentals and how the human race works.

"I'm not devaluing," Mark replies again, plainly, without pause because yeah, he knows how much it means that Eduardo's put him with him for so long. Speaks loads of the man's patience. "I'm just trying to understand it. And none of it makes sense. But I'm not going to give up, I just—"

He waves his hand in the air, like he's trying to grasp onto that thought, before dropping his arm back down and shaking his head, vaguely starting off in the direction of the restaurant that they've detoured from a couple of times already. Tired enough after a long day of hearings, Mark honestly feels like he might drift right off to sleep in a couple of hours at most, adrenaline slowly coming down and leaving him twice as tired as before.

[pointzerothree]

It's startling, even after all this time, how quickly a mood can shift with Mark. One second, the tension between them is palpable, Eduardo left practically holding his breath in preparation for Mark's response, and the next, Mark is walking away again, leaving Eduardo to stare, equally puzzled. None of it makes sense to him, either, but he's pretty sure that if he were to say so, he would be referring to something entirely different. Mark has always been like this, his train of thought several stops ahead of everyone else's, even Eduardo's, and often, it seems, he's remarking on other conversation points, or ones not even yet mentioned yet. Usually (and there's that word again, in reference to their friendship; he might as well say formerly instead, one which would probably be more accurate) Eduardo can piece things together and follow along alright, but now, months after coming to the realization that he doesn't know Mark Zuckerberg like he thought he did, he's at a loss, left grasping at metaphorical straws to try to figure out what he means. Eduardo doesn't think he'd been especially difficult to understand, laying everything out on the table like he did, but apparently, even that wasn't good enough.

Exhaling heavily, both a release of energy and out of frustration, Eduardo rubs furiously at his eyes with his free hand. Now that Mark can't see, he can take just a second to try to pull himself together a little, still determined, however uselessly, not to let himself get too emotional over this. Later, maybe, when he's alone, or even with Olive (and Jesus Christ, he has no idea how he'll tell any of this to her), but not here and now, in front of Mark. He won't give him the satisfaction of that. While he may have lost it after finding out about his diluted shares, that last thread of patience finally snapping and causing him to lash out, this isn't like that, is on a smaller scale, strictly personal. It doesn't need to be a spectacle; they've had enough of that, for one, and Eduardo has to hold on to whatever dignity he can salvage. He isn't going to cry, isn't going to beg for Mark to give their friendship another shot, because he isn't the one who should need to. Besides, contrary to what's been thought about him in the past, he isn't quite that fucking weak. Just enough to want Mark back at all. He can only imagine the things his father would have to say about that.

"You're not giving up," he echoes from several steps behind Mark, dimly registering the irony in having to catch up physically as well as mentally. (It wasn't always like this, he doesn't think. For a long time, they were on the same page. He just needs to remind himself of that, especially when Mark is suddenly saying that he doesn't understand it.) "Mark, you're not the one with a reason to give up." Despite the sentiment in the words, one which Eduardo doesn't think even Mark could miss, there's nothing mean about the tone in which they're spoken; it's flat, a statement of fact. That Eduardo isn't giving up either should be apparent enough, seeing as he has yet to walk away, despite how utterly frustrating Mark can be, despite their history, despite the number of things it puts on the line, not least of which is his pride. "I just — what part of that doesn't make sense to you? You say you don't get it, but I don't get how you don't get it. I thought that was very..."

[zuckered]

The tension practically cracks in the air between the two of them, Mark feeling his nerves thrum and the jitters passing through his shoulders, like he's overdosed on coffee or had a few too many Red Bulls. (It's happened before. Buying a few packs of Red Bull before finals and chugging them down in the last few hours they have left. Mark never does it for the finals that matter the most, knowing that the Red Bull just happens to derail his trains of thought more than anything else, but they're useful for some things. The snore subjects. Classes where all he has to do is memorize element after element.) He just wants everything to go quiet. He's reached his quota for this kind of talk, and it's not a matter of who deserves or doesn't deserve it, just that his mind has limits and everything feels very, very raw now. Like he's being made to analyze something that he'd avoided thinking deeply about for so long, reevaluating some parts, finding himself still anchored to others. He. Just. Can't.

"I never said I was giving up because of you," he snaps, or as close to it as he ever gets, a brittle quality to his voice even as it still quietly taps away like a typewriter. "Don't you— you are feeling your very equivalent of it right now, don't you get it, I just don't understand. Sure, we had some fun with Magic: The Gathering and, I don't know, we have bizarrely similar senses of humor but you wouldn't, for instance, befriend Mel Gibson just because he laughed at a few of your knock-knock jokes. It's not a perfect analogy but I think you should be able to see what I'm getting at, seeing as how you straddle perfectly between the liberal and the mathematical arts. You can see both sides of the picture."

He's shaking. He notices it now that he has the time to catch a breath, that his entire body is shaking and there's this inexplicable desire to just head to his bed and sit there with a few beers that he can steadily down like they're medicine. Maybe do a bit of dummy code on his computer (the one that Wardo's still holding right now, why's he doing that?) and figure out how to program something that can do all of the homework at once for those kids in differential equations. There's a whole lot that can be solved with enough code, sparing people time and resources, it's just that some people don't try and some people care nothing for the purity and— well, he's not sure why he's thinking about that all of a sudden, like he's just avoiding the more pressing matters. It's starting to become a troublesome habit.

"Also, if by 'you're not the one with a reason to give up' you mean that you have a reason to give up, know that I'm not going to pin you down and force you into something that you don't want. I don't want that on my shoulders. Actually, it's probably not even healthy for you, either. We should get food."

[pointzerothree]

Of course he has a reason to give up. All things considered, Eduardo should be walking away right about now, should have done so a long time ago, and there isn't any good reason why Mark shouldn't know that. He's acknowledged that he shouldn't have diluted the shares, yeah, but he was also there that day, knows what a big deal it was; the near contradiction would leave Eduardo reeling if he weren't so fucking tired, worn out from a relatively short conversation with someone he used to know so well. Mark has always been exhausting, but it's nothing compared to this, the extra strain of trying to bridge the gap between them weighing heavily on Eduardo's shoulders, when he's already felt a good decade or two older than he is since the day he showed up in this place, fresh from Mark's betrayal. What he needs is that burger and a beer and some light conversation, but his own needs have a tendency to fall below other people's, specifically Mark's, in order of importance, and right now, doing what he can to fix this (a job which shouldn't even be his in the first place, though that's nothing new, too) takes precedence over his own feelings. He can deal with it later, go back to his hut and collapse, tell his girlfriend about all this and then probably sleep through an entire day or something. For now, like falling back into some probably sick pattern, it's Mark he wants to look out for, and he feels a little ill for it.

"Just because I would have a reason to doesn't mean I want to, Mark," he points out, voice not much above a murmur. His free hand lifts, resting against Mark's back, what would have been nothing but natural when they were at Harvard, but now feels strangely forced. It's something. When he can't even reason to himself what drew him to Mark initially, what made him stay friends despite everything, this is the best he's got; he just hopes it counts for something. He hasn't gotten a real apology, but at least Mark seems to want him around. It's all he's really wanted, more than the company or the money or any of the rest of it, so much so that seeing Mark worked up now — and Eduardo knows him well enough to recognize the signs, the tight sound of his voice, the shaking — actually hurts, like he's the one who caused it. (He should have every right to, but he isn't like that, isn't so vindictive. He stormed out of the office with every intention of taking everything, but petty revenge isn't his style; he doesn't aim to make Mark feel bad.)

There are explanations he still wants to give, mouth opening like he means to try, but there just aren't any words. How the fuck does he explain what makes a person become friends with someone else, anyway? It should be the less consequential part, the why mattering less than the fact that he is. At a loss, he shakes his head. "The place isn't too much farther. We'll get those burgers, and you can... catch me up on how things have been, other than the whole settlement thing."

[zuckered]

In the very instant that Eduardo's hand makes contact with Mark's shoulder, the younger man feels his eyes sliding to a close, exhaustion settling into every last bone in his body. Not quite like having Eduardo's apparent fatigue seeping into his body, it's more like his best friend has somehow turned a key, letting Mark tear down all of those walls that he's built around himself, tearing everything down until Mark is perfectly ready to put them up again. There have been multiple instances of this, over the years. It isn't like Mark passes out in front of just anyone. Dustin's great and all, but only Eduardo can be around to witness Mark passing out right in front of his computer, swaying back and forth, vulnerable in both obsession and physically as well. It's a little like this. Reserve is still clearly there, nowhere quite as noticeable as in Eduardo's own stance, but Mark is a man of habit and it isn't hard to stumble back into that lockstep. The harder part is pulling from it, trying to acknowledge that something needs to change, that gears and screws need to be tightened again. The system needs less strain.

It's easier to think of this like that.

(He doesn't bother shrugging that hand away, either. Wardo will pull it away in his own time. Probably.)

With Eduardo's statement, Mark's almost tempted to blurt it out again. He doesn't get it. Doesn't get why reason doesn't always coincide with want, even if Mark knows that it'd be hypocritical of him to say it. He hasn't always wanted what's practical. Erica dumping him, calling him out that all that he's done, it shouldn't bother him as much as it does because some of it isn't deserved (he was just trying to do Erica a favor, suggesting that he could help with her networking, not trying to insult her in the least; some things are just a matter of life), and the rest of it undoubtedly is (he really did fuck up by posting about her in drunken blog posts, didn't he?). And it scares him to think, that no matter how things go now, maybe he's reached out too late back home, maybe he won't even make the attempt back there anyway. It's different back there. They have enough to be self-sufficient. Facebook is a phenomenon. Here, Mark needs him, and that need is keeping Eduardo around regardless of personal comfort, forcing them together long enough to let some of the bad blood out.

Mark turns his gaze to peer at Eduardo then, lips calmly pressed shut, no indication on his part of wanting to say anything to that effect. Then again, he thinks. Even in the worst of times, even with the threat of forked roads taking each further and further away from one another, Wardo still had his back.

Those fucking Winklevii never knew what hit them.

"Let's get burgers," he agrees, pushing aside the thought that aside from the settlement, there hasn't been anything. His life is just patching up bugs, facilitating facebook functionality, but there's... nothing, outside of that. Sean's parties have lost their luster. Everything runs on its own. Mark himself probably isn't even necessary at this point. "And you can tell me how the quality of life compares, here on this crazy tropical dystopia."

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo smiles. It isn't much of one, an expression still notably weary, but it's a bit more relaxed, more genuine than any others preceding it. Still, even now, there's a part of him that's screaming to get out, get away, leave this behind while he still can because he ought to deserve so much better than what Mark gave him (took away, rather), but for the moment, he's succeeded in smoothing things over, a more immediate priority than figuring out what the fuck he's supposed to do with his life now that Mark Zuckerberg has wandered back into it. Old habits, he figures, they die hard, and it shouldn't be surprising that they're falling back into their previous patterns even after so much time spent apart. He'd been relieved, too, is the worst of it, stung by the betrayal and wishing he could go back to finish what he started, but almost glad to be away from Facebook and the backstabbing mess surrounding it. He had nothing left back there, and a life he was coming to enjoy here, a girlfriend he's crazy about (rather than one who's just crazy) and some friends he really cares about. Now, he has that to feel guilty for, like it's his fault for wanting to move forward from that life when Mark is still there. He isn't the one who should have to make amends, but in this, too, it's just like they've always been. He was even sorry for getting punched by the Phoenix when Mark wasn't. There may be time between them now, but not enough for actual change.

"Are you kidding?" he asks with a short laugh, eyebrows raising, and shakes his head. His hand stays at Mark's shoulder for a few seconds, ones which seem to last much longer than they should, before it falls back to his side again, a near restlessness in the gesture, like he isn't sure if it was welcome or not. He doesn't dwell on it. "It doesn't. Not even close. I mean, a vacation is great and all, but Jesus, a permanent one?" Permanent isn't quite the right word for it, of course, if what he's been told is true, but it's close enough. Anyway, after everything, it's bizarrely difficult to come back around to the subject of the island, to focus on the life he's made separate from Mark when they've just been dealing with subjects so much heavier. It's a hard line to walk, both wanting to hear about everything and to leave their conflict in the past, and for now, his only choice is to follow Mark's lead where subject is concerned. He's too tired to do otherwise, for one, and at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. Mark needs something from him, or needs him, full stop (and if Eduardo's honest, there's nothing that means more to him than that, one more way in which things have stayed exactly the same), and he provides. In this case, it's a temporary respite. It could be worse. "I mean, it's not — it does have its good points, I will give it that, a lot of them, it's just — well, simply put, speaking about the place itself, it's fucked up."

[zuckered]

"There's a reason why all of the kiddies went crazy in Lord of the Flies," Mark points out, what to other people might seem like a non sequitur, but this is what he's made a habit out of lately. Trying to analyze people, figure them out, so much so that he can even have the whole of Harvard (and soon after, the whole of the population that finds itself plugged into the internet) around his pinky finger. He's not in it for the money so much as he's in it just because it makes him feel that if he plays the cards right, maybe someday he won't be the one simply watching, he'll be engaged and he'll be climbing toward the top of the ladder. Things like having groupies, being cool enough to give fat cats the finger, that matters, and it's just enough for him to keep clinging to the habit even when it's the last thing he needs. Maybe Lord of the Flies is a bit extreme, but Mark definitely doesn't see the merit on any personal level to smash people together on a tiny little island surrounded by endless water. People... need distance.

Most people, anyway. Mark can't help but feel that even when he's limited to the span of Boston (a small city for how major of a hub it is, by the by), he's alone there, this sole buoy in the water and other people just aren't close enough to him. Well, no. Not always alone. Eduardo—

—it kind of hurts to realize, but Eduardo's always been there, unfailingly, the kind of best friend to make it over to his dorm minutes after a blog post (which is maybe, by some people's standards, sad, but once you know Eduardo it's impossible to think of it as anything other than an incredible, admirable level of devotion). Always was there, anyway. Until Palo Alto.

"You sure it's permanent?" Mark asks, pausing for only a second before he continues down the boardwalk, glancing back enough for Wardo to know that he's meant to follow, that conversation can hold them together even when only tied by a thin thread. "There's gotta be a way off. Out. I'm assuming it was a wormhole that brought us here, I mean— it's got to be something like that, there have been theories even if there's nothing substantiated, and I'm sure there's a way to break out of here and to somewhere else. There's a reason why I'd rather go to New York than Hawaii. There's nothing to do in Hawaii, only so much time you can spend laying around and drinking out of coconuts."

[pointzerothree]

"Jesus, please don't tell me you're going to get all Jack Merridew on me and try to run the island," Eduardo sighs, a statement that's about ninety percent a joke, ten percent just double-checking. It's been years since he's read that book, and he never did all that well in English (well enough to do alright on the SATs and get into Harvard, but that speaks little about his enjoyment of it in his high school years, when he was still just struggling to learn the language, let alone keep up), but he remembers enough details from that one to be able to comment on it now. Mark really doesn't strike him as being that particular brand of crazy — backstabbing, yes, but nowhere close to homicidal or sociopathic — though there is the fact that he's coming from something of a position of power, Facebook having grown fantastically popular, back to being just one of a crowd. I'm not going back to that life, he remembers all too vividly Mark telling him (the night everything went to shit. It's a conversation that, Eduardo has realized in the time since, should have given him some sort of clue that something was wrong, one which consisted of a lot of lies. He should have thought through it, but he'd heard those four words, I need my CFO, and it meant the fucking world to him), and were Eduardo to let himself get carried away, that memory would probably be chilling right about now. He knows Mark, though. Maybe not a fraction as well as he thought he did, before his shares were diluted, but enough that the literary reference doesn't have to serve as anything more than a humorous analogy.

Still, he'll be steering clear of any boulders. Just in case.

Seizing on the other subject at hand, he shrugs. "It's fairly permanent," he explains, ready to continue before Mark can ask what that means. Even he still has trouble making sense of it, wants to be able to pin some scientific explanation on it, and he can't imagine that Mark will be any different. "People leave, but it's not... There's no way to control it; it's just out of nowhere. Just like showing up here is. And I'd say I don't buy it, but some of the people here, man, they're smart enough that they could probably teach our teachers. It's ridiculous. Somebody said to me the day I showed up that the average IQ of this place had to be well above genius, and they really weren't lying." He should probably get around to the fictional character thing, which explains a lot of it, but that's just so fucking weird that he hardly even knows how to breach the subject. Until he sees it in practice, Eduardo doubts Mark will really believe it, anyway, and he's already unsure as to how this news will go over. For good measure, he tacks on, "So at least you're in good company."

[zuckered]

"Try and run the island? Too much work. Running the island requires knowing about all of the little tasks that go into keeping this weird socialist commune on its feet. Distribute food, settle feuds over who gets to harvest the mangoes from that tree in a shared backyard— actually, do they even have backyards here?" Mark ponders, but only for the briefest amount of time that might be considered such, just jumping from one thought to another because lingering on this ridiculous society makes him tired, makes him angry, because waste always pisses him off. Lost potential is for those in the government. They even teach it in freaking ec classes, that subsidies and taxes create deadweight loss, and isn't this island just one giant group subsidy? "Never mind. Not interested. Would rather set up something meaningful for people here, something that gets them up and running and caring about their damn lives. When people make successful ventures like that, they end up with a lot of responsibilities to shoulder anyway."

It's only after Mark finally realizes that the scenery around them has changed significantly that he blinks himself back to attention, realizing that he's just gone on one of his impossible rants, the type that makes a girlfriend accusing him of being like a stairmaster. Oops.

And that he's also lost track of the more recent of Eduardo's observations.

"Average IQ of the place is well above genius; I'll believe it when I see it," Mark says with a tilt of his head, all of the skepticism in the world rising to the surface because generally, the human race is a bit hard to put a lot of confidence in. "Let's just hope that not all of them are the more reclusive, self-concerned type of Einsteins. If we're ever going to get back to— to the States, we need to pool resources. And if that wormhole's impossible to climb through, for the love of John Harvard's polished shoe, we should at least set up currency before we devolve down to planet of the apes."

Ruffling his hair lightly, he tacks on at the end, light because he doesn't really need to give it thought at all, "Besides, I don't need good company, I have good company."

[pointzerothree]

There's a fondness to Eduardo's expression as Mark talks, at least through most of his rambling, things that Eduardo has been thinking for a long time anyway. Frustrating as this island can be, it's both familiar and endearing, the way Mark works through all of it, going on at length about what they should do and what shouldn't work. There are plenty of people who might find Mark's rants to be off-putting, but to Eduardo, it's almost amusing, and not just because he happens to agree on just about every point. Why are they friends, Mark wants to know, and it's this, Eduardo wants to say, this right here, the fact that, as a pair, they have enough in common but strike enough of a balance, too, that they complement each other perfectly. Or did, at least. He doesn't know enough about Mark anymore to be able to say one way or the other, but not for the first time, there are at least a few moments where everything feels like it ought to, like nothing has really changed between them at all.

It doesn't turn out to be a good thing. The comment should be a simple one, throwaway, a statement of fact and nothing more that, were this a year ago and they were back at Harvard, would probably be met with an elbow to Mark's ribs and then an arm around his shoulders. This isn't then, though, and they aren't at school anymore, and too much has changed for it to be dismissible. That quickly, the smile is gone, the effort it takes for Eduardo to keep his expression even more than likely visible. Now, of course, now, after everything, now that they're on an island where Mark doesn't know anyone else, he's good company again. The idea of it, of so blatantly being a last resort, is practically sickening; worse is the fact that he almost doesn't want to comment on it, when they've finally managed to move past their own problems for a while. He knew it would be temporary, but he didn't expect it to be this short-lived.

"Right," he breathes, and though the word is barely audible, there's an obvious skepticism in his voice. Shaking his head to try to clear it, he exhales slowly. "Believe me, I'm with you on the currency. There may not be much here in the way of jobs, but really, without some sort of system — I mean, Jesus, there's a strip club. Who strips for no salary?"

[zuckered]

What's he done wrong? He can't understand what he's done wrong. Isn't this what Eduardo should want, for Mark to make note of the fact that yes, Eduardo's been the best, the dearest, the closest, the only one who really matters anymore. It's obvious to Mark, immediately so, that he's done something wrong, but he's just not sure what, suspecting perhaps that nothing's good enough anymore to patch things up between the two of them. At least, not for now. Maybe he should stop trying, put all efforts into suspension, but the dangerous thing about that is that once one puts so much effort into pulling everything to a screeching halt, it becomes doubly hard to start up again. There's a barrier to motion. Static friction. Mark's taken enough physics classes to get that much, and to know that it totally applies on a more personal, intangible level as well. Still. Hard to tell whether it's better to ignore or to overshoot. He's gone with the former for so long.

Maybe he'll go with it just a bit longer. If it isn't smashed to pieces, well. Don't break it further.

"People who are seriously disturbed," Mark replies without hesitation. "Low self-esteem, possibly past contact with sexual predators, anything that creates the perception of such a prolonged power imbalance that an upset of that balance has them searching for it in whatever way possible. Most strippers strip because it's good money, it can be kept well discreet, but to elect to strip when there aren't any of the practical benefits suggests a psychological need. And anyone who says stripping as an occupation doesn't create a disparity in position between the stripper and the customer is far too idealistic. Volunteering to cook or clean for a group is different, it serves a greater purpose, someone can be proud of that. How proud can you say you are if your job is just to give a man uncomfortable tightness in his pants?"

[pointzerothree]

Eduardo can't help being grateful, almost overwhelmingly so, that if Mark notices the skepticism, he doesn't mention it. However much might still be fucked up between them (and there's a lot, to be sure, issues left unresolved, certainly at least a few things left unsaid), he doesn't want to be the one to make it worse, even when he can't keep his own reactions in check. The idea of finally being enough for Mark only in a place like this still hurts, but he can at least say that he's dealt with far worse. He'd rather take this than be the one cast aside again, the one so unimportant that all he merits is months of secrecy and lies. Maybe they'll never repair what's been broken, but he won't pull the pieces apart while they're waiting to see if or how well the glue will hold when it dries, if it will at all. He hasn't quite decided yet whether or not he really wants it to.

"...Bluntly but well put," he says, brows furrowing even he grins. Mark never has been one to mince words, so that much, at least, is unsurprising. Of course, it's probably a little wrong that talking about a strip club can be more comfortable than talking about their friendship (what's left of it), but he'll take it, small talk even about this place's more sordid aspects preferable to a fight. Eduardo isn't a psychiatrist, but he's pretty sure Mark's hit the nail on the head with this one. "I don't even get where someone would come up with an idea like that around here. It's all... The whole damn place is backwards." Even they're backwards, a fact that's become increasingly apparent since Eduardo first found Mark in the rec room, the two of them stiltedly avoiding major subjects where once they used to be nothing but natural, another thing that Eduardo wants to point to in defense of why they were ever friends to begin with. It should be obvious, everything should, but it isn't, and that might just be what he hates the most.

The Winchester comes into view just ahead, though, and Eduardo gestures in its direction. "And here we are. The free restaurant."

[zuckered]

Running a thumb over his lip briefly as he considers Eduardo's question (he always considers Eduardo's questions, no matter whether or not they're rhetorical), Mark nods to himself and ventures a guess. He's never been one to keep his mouth shut, not when there's a question being posed him, and especially not when that question has absolutely nothing to do with his own person. Those, after all, are the most difficult questions to ask. Why is he nervous? Why is he still so plainly on edge? If he tried to answer, he's sure he'd be biased, and so they're better not thought of at all, better to place distance between himself and all else. "Bet you it was a man's idea. Or a man and a woman," Mark suggests, his eyes darting quickly over to Eduardo, gently siding with the other young man's incredulity, even if Mark's hardly set foot on the island. "Won't be supply without demand; strippers don't strip for an empty audience, so there must've been some Hugh Hefner sitting around, wanted to fill his time. Probably doesn't even realize that the people who volunteer are damaged, assuming you want to give him the benefit of the doubt."

He turns a skeptical eye toward the Winchester, wariness shining through. Nothing comes for free. Every action has its price, whether collected in coin, stocks, or even inner peace. And those prices are always paid, one way or another. Mark's ventures with facebook were to gain respect, status, a place carved out for him in the social sphere and he damned got it, too. The magnanimity of handing that kind of social tool to the masses for free, why, people pay in kind by practically falling at his feet. So, what about this Winchester? What's the catch here?

"I like your emphasis on restaurant," Mark remarks quietly, nodding to himself and then grinning lightly at Eduardo. "Seems nicer than calling it a renovated soup kitchen."

[pointzerothree]

"Food's better than a soup kitchen," Eduardo says, as if that explains it, even though he doesn't quite think that's doing the place justice. They may have gotten used to far nicer locations, but considering where they are, the Winchester really is nice. The people can cook, anyway, one thing Tabula Rasa has going in his favor, even if it still baffles Eduardo slightly that so many of them could be willing to do so on a regular basis, without any sort of compensation. Even in having a tendency to expect too much of people, it seems strange to him. That said, unsettling though the lack of economy is, that much isn't something to complain about, either. At least they don't all have to do their own cooking. That would probably be far more disastrous for a lot of people.

He returns Mark's smile before he can so much as realize what he's doing, instinct taking over once again as they walk inside, Eduardo peering around for an empty table. There remains a part of him that wants desperately to turn back time and go back to how things were, before Facebook, before Sean, before the investment that led to signing the papers that essentially wrote him out of the company. They'll never be able to, he knows it through logic and the fact that his own lingering resentment won't let him believe otherwise, but he still finds himself thinking it. It would stop him from feeling guilty, from hating himself in moments like these, when he is, however briefly and ill-advisedly, beyond grateful for Mark's presence. He has his best friend back, he thinks, and then he remembers that they aren't best friends anymore, a cycle that he can't seem to snap himself out of. It's the sort of thing that only time is likely to take care of, and the prospect of all that time is more daunting than Mark's presence in itself.

"Alright, drinks," he says, turning slightly sideways as they walk, to face Mark better. "What do you want, just a beer or something stronger?"