Chapter Text
Mark types into Google, “plant, moderate care,” because fuck you, Wardo. Not only can he keep a plant alive, he can give it fucking excellent moderate care, okay? He buys a masdevallia orchid from a nursery near Stanford, along with everything the salesperson can think to sell him. It has three flowers at the end of long stems, three pointed petals each, bright fuchsia, yellow, and orange smeared and spotted.
For a couple days he keeps it at home, but he never sees it there. Everything is doomed to die in his bedroom. So then he moves it into his office. He figures out the one place on his two walls of windowsill where it can get bright shade, but no direct sunlight. He tacks up a transparent white curtain to cut down on morning light. He uses a moisture meter to check that he’s not over-watering it.
One night he stays late enough that the janitor comes in to empty his trash bin and vacuum. When the man passes the plant, Mark says, “Don’t water it.”
The man jumps, frowns, shakes his head. “No, Mr. Zuckerberg.”
“Good.” Mark has to do it.
Mark has a very organized online calendar which he never updates and never checks. It’s exclusively for his assistant Anita to use and she looks flabbergasted when he asks for the password. She says, “Did you... miss a meeting?”
“I hope not,” he says. “I just need the password.”
“Alright. Of course, right away.” She gives it to him on a post-it note.
A few hours later, he realizes she thought she’d forgotten something, that she’d done something wrong. he goes back to her desk. “You assist me very well,” he says with no preamble. “Use the calendar exactly the way you’ve been using it. But ignore the purple blocks.”
The calendar is packed full of colored blocks, from 8 a.m. eastern time to midnight on the west coast, overlapping, sometimes five or six colors on any given hour. Anita has it coded based on importance. Green things he should really do, but someone else can pretend to be him. Pink things he should really do, but Anita can go instead (as herself). The red things he has to do himself or else. Anita has ten different alarms on those, reminding her to remind him what he has to do. The final alarm is called, “Take laptop away and threaten with finger on battery release.” It’s terrifying how busy he should be. When is he expected to work?
He makes a new calendar, colors it purple, calls it MR. MAS and makes an event, WATER, to repeat three times a week.
//
They’re cordial to each other at events, but Mark has never sought out Eduardo. In fact, Anita has a whole calendar color labeled ES RSVP—AVOID and it’s not exactly hard to to decode. It’s really useful, actually, because he just looks for the next yellow block of time and knows when he’ll rub it in Wardo’s face that he as a flourishing fucking orchid and what does Eduardo think about that?
They’re seated on opposite sides of the room, which someone else’s personal assistant probably carefully coordinated. Mark taps his foot through five boring speeches and some awards? Mark’s not sure what’s going on or why either of them should be here, gets as much work done as he can on his phone. When dinner is served and the guests can talk amongst themselves, Mark crosses the room with his chair, places it next to Wardo’s, and sits down.
“Mark,” Eduardo says, unfazed.
“I have a plant,” Mark tells him.
“Do you want me to congratulate you?”
Yes, Mark thinks, but he knows enough not to say that out loud.
He’s learning, isn’t he? He could make or give Eduardo whatever he wants.
Eduardo takes a bite of salmon, chews slowly, and swallows. “What kind of plant is it?”
“It’s an orchid!” he says. “It’s a madevallia orchid. High-humidity. It’s pink.”
“It’s pink,” Eduardo repeats, staring at him steadily. “I have never seen you this excited about a living thing. Why not just grow an orchid in FarmVille?”
“I don’t—can you do that?”
“You don’t play FarmVille?”
“You do?”
“No.” Wardo smiles at him and Mark smiles back. Then Wardo stands up and says to the table, “Please excuse me.”
As he walks away, he looks over his shoulder at Mark and their gazes hold for a few seconds. Bathroom, Mark realizes. Blowjobs. Oh.
“Excuse me.” He stands up.
“Mr. Zuckerberg,” somebody says, asking him to stay, but it can’t be very important so he hurries along Eduardo's path to the bathroom.
They’re being obvious. Blatant, for anyone who’s looking and everyone at Eduardo's table was looking, anticipating his response, people that their host thought should sit with Eduardo. Mark should have waited a minute. But he likes that they know. He likes that there’s something to know. They probably don’t even know the truth. People only trust other people’s Facebook pages and according to Eduardo’s status he's single and according to his photos he goes to Singapore for the women.
When Mark gets to the bathroom, there is a man, not Eduardo, at the urinal, and two at the sinks, taking their time drying their hands, laughing at what was probably a bad joke. No Eduardo at all. Not that Mark expected him to be leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest, waiting for him, but—or maybe he’s not even here. Maybe with that look he was trying to tell Mark, why did you talk to me, take a hint, I’m leaving you. Again.
“Mr. Zuckerberg,” says one of the laughing men, not laughing anymore, nodding at him. The other one nods, too, and they leave. Mark just stands there like he’s never seen a bathroom before.
A cough comes from one of the stalls. Mark looks. All of the doors are open. Mark doesn't even think to be casual about it, just runs into the handicapped stall, hooks his fingers around the lock to close it behind him. He’s out of breath.
Eduardo walks slowly toward him from where he was sitting on the toilet. He waits until they’re alone, waits for the whoosh of the door closing and then he says, “We'll have to be quiet this time.” He walks his hands up Mark’s tie. “Do you think you can do that?”
Mark is so aroused he really doesn't think he can keep control over his vocal cords, his brain, his muscles, or anything else, but he nods, not saying anything, just to show how quiet he can be. Wardo pushes him until Mark’s up against the wall and drops to his knees
“Not worried about your pants this time?” Mark whispers.
“Not really,” Wardo says and pulls Mark’s zipper down with his teeth. Who does that? How does he make it look so sexy and not out of a bad porno? Eduardo stuffs his hand down his own pants, like the last time, and Mark realizes they’re half way to the finish line and they’re going to cross it without Mark getting to touch Wardo’s cock.
“Get up,” Mark says.
“You don't want my mouth?” Eduardo says, but he's grinning as he stands—not a smirk, but a real, happy grin.
“I want your cock, Wardo,” Mark says, standing on his toes so he’s right in Wardo's face and then he kisses him.
Wardo actually stumbles back and Mark uses the momentum to push him against the opposite wall, which is one of the metal stall connectors and it gives a little against loose screws. Mark hears Wardo’s head connect, but he doesn't seem to mind, just moans and bites Mark's lip into his mouth.
“I want you in bed,” Wardo says. Mark pulls back to look at him.
“You could—” Mark says. “We could—”
Eduardo’s eyes jolt open. He takes Mark by the shoulders and pushes down hard. “You want my cock?” he says. “Take my cock, Mark.”
Mark has only ever given one other blowjob, a couple years ago. Sean took him to a club in the city and went home with both their dates and some guy in leather pants somehow looked past all the other guys in leather pants and decided Mark in flannel was what he wanted. Maybe he thought Mark was a sure thing. He was right: Mark didn’t even think about saying no, if only for the experience. Maybe because the guy had a long neck and eyes the color of a Hershey bar. His cock was dripping sweat and smelled like new leather. But it was something. It was interesting.
It was nothing like sucking Wardo’s cock. A few times freshman year they fell asleep on top of Mark’s covers and Mark woke up with his computer sliding off his lap and his nose pressed under Eduardo's arm which smelled like Dolce & Gabbana deodorant and something else, something better. That smell was stronger and hotter around his cock. He doesn’t try to swallow it at first, just kisses it from top to bottom, letting the head pop from between his lips.
“You fucker,” Eduardo groans. “I hate you.”
And it’s so ridiculous, so obviously not true, that Mark just sucks Wardo’s cockhead into his mouth again, pops it out, and says, “Shh, Wardo. Do you want the influential guests to hear?”
Eduardo runs his thumb across Mark's cheekbone, then across his bottom lip. “What a mouth,” he says.
Mark could probably suck Wardo's cock for the rest of his life, but he feels Wardo's orgasm straining against his balls. Eduardo pushes him back with one hand and grips the base of his cock with the other, taking deep breaths.
Then he says, “My turn,” and drops down in front of Mark.
Mark ends up on his back on the dirty bathroom floor but his clothes are disposable—almost everything is disposable these days—and his back is shit no matter how many ergonomic chairs Anita buys him so stretching out feels pretty fucking awesome. Not to mention the mouth around his cock. Wardo’s mouth. He has to distract himself.
Two blowjobs in two weeks, Mark thinks as he presses his neck against the cold tile. Amazing. Blowjobs really aren’t that common. They could be. Apparently. Everyday Sean gestures at some hot girl—the new intern, someone else’s arm candy at a benefit, whoever—and says, “She’d be blowing you right now if you’d nodded at her five minutes ago.”
First of all, Sean might be talking out his ass. He says that about the girls on their development team sometimes, girls with perky breasts and legs for days, who know code as well as Mark and know, like, independent movies, too, and how to talk to people. How do those people even exist and why would they want to give Mark blowjobs?
“You’re CEO, bitch!” Sean says and slaps him on the shoulder.
But, second of all, Mark doesn’t think that has anything to do with it because here Eduardo is on his knees and it probably has less to do with Facebook than anything else in country.
When Mark’s very close to coming, Wardo moves up Mark’s body so that they're even, kisses him, grabs both their cocks in one hand and jacks them together. Mark comes first, faster by about a minute, but Wardo slows his movements and Mark just feels dreamy-good until Wardo comes, too, splattering between them, mixing with Mark's. Wardo becomes a dead weight, pressing on top of him from his shoulders all the way down. Mark can feel his short puffs of breath against his throat.
“Hey.” Mark relishes the feeling of Wardo’s hair across his mouth. “Do you want to come back to my—”
Eduardo lifts up and away from him faster than Mark can ever move after sex.
“This was a very bad idea. You got a fucking plant, Mark? What are you doing here?”
He’s pacing around the room, tugging his clothes back on. His shirt is buttoned wrong, his tie is undone, his jacket is belted into his pants.
“Wardo, what—”
“I don’t blame you. You’re like a fucking pig with truffles. And what have I ever done to you, really? Why shouldn't you want this?”
Mark sits up and scoots against the wall, watching Eduardo straighten his sleeves and rub his face.
“I’m crazy,” Eduardo says. “I’m fucking lost.”
He crouches down, kisses Mark so he can feel it against his teeth, and runs out just like last time.
//
One day Mark is adding fertilizer to the orchid pot and notices the leaves don't look as firm and green as they’d been when he first brought the plant home. He's not just being a perfectionist, he decides after he looks at it for the hundredth time. Mr. Mal looks sick. He finds the busiest orchid pages on Facebook and asks questions with his test account, posts pictures, and makes changes over the next two weeks: more water, more fertilizer, less, misting the leaves with a spray bottle, repotting it, getting heating lamps. It doesn’t look worse, but it doesn’t look better.
There are no do-overs. This plant is one of the only things in Mark’s life that is not disposable. He can bring this plant back to life but he can’t just get another plant. He doesn't want another plant.
He takes it back to the nursery where he got it. “This is going to sound like a sales pitch,” says the employee that helps him, “But you need more orchids. These guys like really high humidity. The lamps and misters are good, but the best way to keep orchids hot is more orchids. They like the company. They take care of each other.”
So he buys them out of their masdevallia supply and brings them all to his house because it turns out to be a lot of fucking flowers. It's all well and good to be an eccentric billionaire and, in fact, Mark thinks it benefits Facebook to have a little crazy edge, but Mark thinks he officially has too many flowers for his office. Flowers can pretty quickly go from cool-crazy to quick-sell-the-stock-crazy.
He's got these three big window seats in the living room which get good indirect northern light in the afternoon and by the time he's got them all set up—what does Mark know or care about interior design, but it looks kind of pretty which is something at least, a burst of pink amongst the beige fine home furnishings that came with the house.
He has to change his watering schedule around now that he's doing it at home. He leaves the office by nine every night and then it goes like this: replace Adidas with slippers; choose takeout; put in order; feed, water, mist, and prune orchids; eat takeout, check in at work; fall asleep on the couch. He tells his housekeeper Lubov not to water the flowers or turn off the fans that keep the air constantly circulating for them.
He spends all his off time in a veritable greenhouse when he decides he’s ready for a cat.
Dustin’s mother used to breed Persians and Mark is ready to look at a new litter of Scottish Folds from a breeder in Mountain View when Anita walks into his office and hears their conversation.
“You're going to a breeder? Do you want to BREED cats? Are you planning on doing cat shows? You think you have time for that, Mr. Zuckerberg? I don't think so! You can’t buy from a breeder! You have to adopt! There are so many cats that need homes!”
Mark glances at Dustin. Anita huffs and starts tapping her foot. Dustin shrugs. Anita takes that to be agreement because it’s not like Mark’s the CEO and they both work for him or anything and she says, “I know the perfect shelter. They rescue animals from other shelters before they're euthanized. I’ll schedule you a time to go in and meet with the kitties!”
She drops the pile of papers she was holding onto his desk without explanation and turns back toward the door.
“Do they have a website?” Mark says.
“YOU NEED TO INTERACT WITH THE KITTIES,” Anita shouts over her shoulder and shuts the door behind herself.
“When did she get so hot?” Dustin says, leaning close to him. “That husky voice. Do you think I could—?”
“If you give her even half a reason to quit, I will transfer you to the Seoul office, I mean it.”
//
There are a lot of cats needing homes. A lot.
He stares at the rows of cages, trying to think of some logical way to pick one, when a woman approaches him. She is the shape of a pear, he notices, she barely comes up to his shoulders, and she waddles.
“Usually,” she says, “We encourage people to browse, but you? Why don't you go into one of our Get Acquainted Rooms and I'll bring you a kitty?”
I’m very capable of doing this myself, ma’am, he thinks, your job is not difficult, but she presses against the small of his back and he lets her lead him into a room with a carpeted bench and a giant, multi-level scratching post with feathers hanging on it from elastic string. He bats at it and looks out the big glass door, wondering if this is how the cats feel all day.
A few minutes later, the woman comes back holding a fat orange tabby in her arms like a baby. A big baby. Practically a toddler.
“That's not a kitten,” Mark says.
“Sunshine is three-years-old,” says the woman.
“I thought I’d be getting a kitten.”
She puts the fat orange cat on the bench beside him. It rolls onto its back, stretches its legs out in all directions, and stands up. Then it jumps on Mark's lap, curls into a ball, starts to purr, and falls asleep. He looks at the pear woman. She frowns at him and tries to smile.
“What do you think?” she says. “Why don't you give her a pet?”
Mark nods and puts his hand on the cat’s neck. Sunshine’s fur is soft, like he expected cat fur to be. He strokes her back and his hand comes off covered in loose hair. He shakes his hand off
Sunshine starts to press into his leg with her claws, kneading in with one paw and then the other. “Ow,” he says and shakes his leg, but she only purrs louder and keeps digging in her claws.
“She’s—” a little slut, he wants to say.
But the woman notices the kneading and says, “Oh, that's normal. The theory is kitties do it when they were weened too early. You remind her of her mother.”
Mark stares at the cat. She has some gunk in her eye. He scratches it out, wipes it on his pants, and the cat fits her head in the bend of Mark's knee.
“Why don't I just give you some time alone?” says the woman.
“I want it. Her. The cat. Do I need a box?”
The woman grins. “There’s some paperwork...”
Mark hefts Sunshine into his arms and walks out the door. He goes to the main desk and sets Sunshine on the counter. “Paperwork?” he says to a younger woman with braces.
The pear woman shuffles in front of him, huffs pointedly, and hands him a piece of paper.
One of the last questions is: HOW LONG COULD YOUR ANIMAL BE LEFT ALONE EACH DAY?
“How long can cats be left alone?” he says, not looking up from the form.
“Oh, we understand that people have to work and commute,” somebody says. “Nine, even ten hours a day is just fine. Cats are very independent.”
Nine or even ten. Mark regularly stays at the office for twenty hours, well before dawn until he has to go home for the orchids at nine. Sleep is a lot less necessary than people pretend it is. It creeps in on him, though. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk and Anita takes away his computer before she wakes him up so he can't go back to work.
He can't keep Sunshine at the office. Some of his employees must be allergic. He can't fire people just because he doesn't want to go home. Can he?
He writes down 9 hours and so he'll just have to make sure he goes home every nine hours. And plays with his fat cat. He writes them a check for a few hundred more than the required donation before he can change his mind.
He goes to the pet store he drives past on his way home. He asks a guy in Buddy Holly glasses and a scarf what kind of cat food he should get. The hipster looks him up and down, pulls a box off the shelf and says, “This is a fine budget option.”
“I want the best,” Mark says and then, “Money is no object,” because he loves the wide-eyed look people give him when he doesn't blink or smile and they realize he’s serious.
He ends up buying twenty portions of a brand which he thinks is actually just frozen chicken breast put in a plastic box with a drawing of a cat on it. He might as well just go to a deli. He gets treats from the same brand, a litter box which cleans itself, a dozen toys, and a cat tree like at the shelter which is so big that the store has to deliver to his house for an extra fee.
Mark doesn't think about money. He never has. When he didn't have money, that meant not buying much and assuming there was enough in his account for another ten-pack of ramen when he went to the market or to treat Erica Albright to a beer because girls expect that kind of thing. Now it means he still doesn't buy much and knows there’s enough for whatever he might want.
Mark’s house has an Entertainment Room which has the couch from his mom's basement, the biggest flat screen Magnolia could offer two years ago and three DVDs he bought while they were loading the TV into his car: Psycho, Bambi, and the original Star Wars.
The house is twice as big as the place he grew up in and it’s not like his family was poor. It was a five-bedroom comfortably settled among the upper-middle class in Long Island, but now he has this window which makes up one whole side of his house, the size of a football field. He has a vintage Donkey Kong arcade machine. He has two swimming pools. He turned the long formal dining room into a fencing studio. It’s useless because he doesn't know anyone else who can fence, but when’s he going to dine formally at home? Sometimes he picks up a sabre and redoublements down the length of the room.
The point is, he doesn’t know where to put the cat. He puts the tree and the cat bed in the living room because that's more company for the orchids and it seems like where he should spend his time.
It’s seven by the time he’s put out the food and water next to his dishwasher and put Sunshine in her litter box, like they told him to at the shelter, so she knows where it is. He could go to the office, but Anita left him a message on his home machine: “Don't you dare leave that kitty alone, Mr. Zuckerberg, you just rescued her!” and she’s probably right, so he goes into his home office which he hardly uses, but was outfitted so he could telecommute exclusively if he wanted to, and hooks in his laptop.
He is about to respond to the head of HR in the New York office when he notices Sunshine trotting into the room. She sniffs around his desk and then she sniffs around his chair and then she sits at his feet and meows.
“What?” he says. “What do you want?”
Sunshine meows again and then jumps on to her hind legs and puts her front paws on his knee.
“Do you—?” but that was all the invitation she needed because she jumps on his lap, tucks her head under her paw and starts to purr.
//
The next time Mark sees Eduardo it’s in Florida of all places. Social Media Conference. Mark's a speaker so he has to be there. Anita tells him multiple times that it’s not just common courtesy to show up, it’s a legal obligation, and ends up booking herself a seat on the flight to make sure he behaves.
He tells himself he’s mostly worried about Sunshine and decides last minute that he should bring her, too. His entourage.
Anita barely blinks at the cat carrier and smoothly negotiates Sunshine onto the plane and into Mark's hotel room. Mark spends as much time as he possibly can in bed eating room service and playing video games. Sunshine stays asleep on his stomach most of the first day. He sleeps through most of the second day, but on the third day he has to go down and mingle, as if he needs to network anymore. He needs to be available for other people to network with him.
“Mr. Zuckerberg!” Anita says when she sees him. “All the lint rollers I strategically placed around your room. You look like a human lint roller.”
Mark glances down at himself. There is a sort of absurd amount of white hair on his dark jeans and suit coat.
“Stand still,” she says and produces a full size roller from her tiny bag and starts rolling it over him from the ankles up.
He’s stuck there when he sees Eduardo.
On his arm is a very pretty girl. Her hair is bright blond and cut like a boy’s. When she smiles, which is all the time, she has dimples and bright white teeth. In her heels, she'll be taller than Mark, he can tell from where she stands against Eduardo. She fits her head perfectly into the curve of Eduardo’s neck and shoulder. His hand doesn't leave her waist.
Who brings a date to a conference? Who?
Thank god no one ever trusts him to make a speech because Q&As are mindless. They ask stupid questions, he gives simple answers. He tries to be funny. Sometimes people throw curve balls and then he's rude.
Eduardo's in the audience. His blond friend is next to him and she’s wearing glasses now, looking from him to her rapid fingers on her netbook keyboard and back to him. He doesn't know what he's saying, but his mouth doesn't stop moving, and she doesn't stop taking notes, so something reasonable must be coming out.
It’s a stupid idea, but he decides to go up to them afterward. He ignores Eduardo and introduces himself to the woman.
Her name is Sharon. She's British. She works for one of the big tech blogs, has a title that actually means something, and doesn't think it's appropriate to give him her business card (which is right.) Eduardo has nothing to do with the site. She's a success in her own right. She's one of those enigmas that have no right to exist, the ones Sean thinks should be licking Mark's toes, but of course Wardo actually has her. Not that Mark wants her.
“Who are you here with?” Eduardo says. He might be interrupting Sharon.
“Nobody,” Mark says, then remembers Anita. “Oh. My assistant. My nursemaid, to be honest, and that's on the record.”
Sharon laughs. “Thanks, Mr. Zuckerberg.”
“I have a cat,” he says, talking over her.
“You what?” says Eduardo.
“Oh,” says Sharon.
Mark starts talking, about he doesn't even know what. Cats and breeds and neutering and these little vinyl caps he puts on Sunshine's claws to keep her from ripping up his couch and animal rescues. “Anita found me a great place.”
“Your assistant,” Eduardo clarifies. Mark inhales deeply, realizing he hasn’t been breathing, and nods. “I thought you were allergic. You never had cats when you were a kid, right? You couldn't.”
Mark doesn't remember when he told Eduardo that.
“All my sisters are allergic. I, uh, I'm not.”
“Oh,” says Wardo.
“You’ll have to put the family up in hotels at Christmastime, eh?” Sharon says. “I'm sure I wouldn’t mind that.”
She and Wardo laugh. The truth is his parents spend most of their time on cruises since his dad retired and his sisters have young families 3000 miles away. If anyone's going to make the effort during the holidays, it’s Mark. Everybody knows that.
“Come on, Shaz,” Eduardo says. They wave in unison and leave together.
Mark decides the solution is another cat. It’s like the flowers. It’s not fair Sunshine’s alone as often as she is.
He doesn’t think the place he went to for Sunshine will let him get another cat so soon, and maybe he shouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter because there are a dozen other shelters in the area. He finds another no-kill place and plans on getting another adult cat.
In the first cage he sees there are three kittens—one black, one gray tabby, and one calico—small enough to fit in his hand, asleep in a pile. The sign says they have to be taken together because they refuse to be separated. “If one’s behind a closed door, the other two will meow and fling themselves against it,” one of the employees tell him. “That kind of bond happens once in a while. It's hard to find people who want two cats at once, never mind three.”
So then Mark has four cats.
//
The original goal is out of the question now. It’s not even that Mark lost the game, it’s that maybe they were never playing the game he thought at all or maybe Eduardo pulled out. An old injury manifests, never completely healed.
But all the effort was worth something else: he actually likes being at his house.
He starts keeping food in his kitchen. Not a lot of food, but rice for his Zojirushi rice cooker and frozen stuff from Trader Joe’s that just needs a couple stirs in a skillet. If he sometimes imagines Eduardo and Sharon cooking meals out of glossy cookbooks, chopping fresh vegetables and knifing off pieces of expensive cheese and feeding each other and sneaking wine-dribbled kisses as they move around their quaint little kitchen because they probably both live in refurbished Victorian houses and would scoff at Mark's assembly line mansion circa 2008, well, he quickly gets distracted by a sneak attack on his ankles.
Kittens are insane. When he first got them home they must have been exhausted from the change or something because they quickly and adorably fell asleep on his legs, pressed against the back of his laptop screen.
They started stampeding around the house at two that morning and four months later, when their backs look too long for their legs and they keep weighing next to nothing in his hands, they still race each other at two in the morning, like it’s scheduled. Mark’s almost always home at two.
They love to attack him: his ankles are a particular favorite, when he walks past, or his fingers moving over a keyboard. It’s normal cat behavior known as playful aggression and it’s training for taking care of themselves in the wild, as if Mark would let them outside with the amount of raccoons that go through his trash, but that logic doesn’t battle instinct. Having other cats to attack is supposed to keep them from attacking people, but if anything they gang up on him.
Worse, they love to attack the orchids. He comes home to one broken terracotta pot and dirt all over the floor, but the roots are still packed in moist soil and the stem is in one piece. He re-pots it and puts up a little white, plastic fence around the windows when he's not there. When he’s home, he sits near the flowers and sprays the kittens with the mister when they get too close.
He decides they’re young enough to rename. He calls them Porthos, Athos, and Aramis. They’re missing their D'Artagnan, but one day Mark's going to see Eduardo and Sharon’s wedding announcement in the Times and he’ll get another cat.
//
Eventually he has to see Eduardo again.
It’s a white tie event which means, his Mark’s experience, that he should wear a white tie, there’s no dinner, tinier appetizers, and a fuller bar.
Eduardo gets there late. Even though Mark hasn’t heard anything but pleasantries and hasn’t done anything but shake hands, he’s noticeably late. Mark has a strange desire to wave to him. He’s had three beers already, and about a thousand mini quiches.
Almost like stepping back in time, Mark walks into the bathroom and sees Eduardo at the urinals at the opposite end of the room. He isn’t surprised this time. He doesn’t stumble back. He considers walking out, finding the staff bathroom or the using the women’s even because he really has to piss and who would stop him? but he’s not an animal, he can’t give into that instinct forever and why should he give into it tonight?
He throws back his shoulders and strides to the urinals and unzips his pants at the spot next to Eduardo’s which isn't socially acceptable, but maybe he wants to freak Eduardo out a little. Or maybe he wants to make it easy for Eduardo to grab Mark's dick or kiss him or whatever, if he has any interest in that kind of thing. Because Mark should really have some standards, but he doesn't, not when it comes to this.
Wardo doesn’t kiss him or grab his dick. He just finishes, zips up, and goes to the sinks. Mark hurries to do the same and skims over Eduardo’s shoulder getting in line next to him. Eduardo is rubbing suds over his hands. They both go back for second helpings of soap and clean between fingers and under nails. They dry their hands and toss the paper towels away at the same time, walk through the door and down the hall like they're hitting cues.
Somehow they end up at the bar. It’s not exactly the handicapped stall, but it’s better than a black eye or watching Eduardo leaving when his phone rings, saying, “Hi, Shazza, yeah, I miss you, too,” which Mark has been picturing all night.
Mark orders a beer. Eduardo orders a glass of wine by vineyard and year. And then, thank you God, Wardo says something.
“You didn’t bring your assistant tonight?”
“I—no. What? Why would I?”
Mark looks down at himself. His pants are a little fuzzy. Anita tossed him a lint roller before he left the office, but there's hair all over his car, too. Eduardo probably thinks he can’t take care of himself without her. He’s basically right. Mark just can’t think of enough reason to take care of something everyone else thinks is so important.
“You just—you know you always have a plus one at these things,” Eduardo says. He drinks half his wine glass in one gulp. “You can bring your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. I thought we were talking about Anita?”
It’s like Eduardo’s skipping over whole pages in the script. Eduardo’s supposed to be this open book and sometimes Mark doesn't pay attention to things, but sometimes he does and Wardo skips the middle.
“These events are always boring,” Mark says. “Girlfriends would be bored. Why don't you bring your girlfriend?”
“I don't have a girlfriend,” Eduardo says and swallows the rest of his wine. “Either.”
“What about Sharon?”
“Sharon. Sharon is a colleague.” Eduardo flags the bartender and says, “You don't have Fazenda Mae de Ouro, do you?”
“Nothing aged tonight, but we do have Agua Luca,” the bartender says.
“Good enough,” says Eduardo and gives him the sign for a double.
A colleague. He doesn't even call her an ex. But they were together. They were clearly together. Mark was not crazy in Miami. If anything he was crazy the other direction, leaving a copy of his key card at the concierge if Mr. Saverin should ask for it. There were no bathroom meet-up signals in Miami. The game is over. Mark stares at Eduardo.
“A colleague I go to bed with occasionally,” Eduardo says.
Occasionally. How many people does Eduardo go to bed with occasionally? How many does he actually let in his bed? Mark keeps staring.
“A colleague—” Eduardo swallows his shots. “Who I wanted to use to make you jealous at the conference in Miami, okay. Not even make you jealous. I just wanted to—I wanted someone to keep me from ripping your belt off. Again. It’s fucked up, you know? It’s really—I asked her if she—wanted to try it for real and she laughed at me. Sweetly. She’s a really sweet girl.”
“Why? Why was that funny to her?” Now Wardo's looking right back at him and something in Mark clicks. Prep schools and Harvard and the wisdom of your mid-twenties and they're both pretty stupid. “Anita's not my girlfriend.”
“She's not?”
“She's my nursemaid,” Mark reminds him. “I could never date one of my employees. It's not even an ethical thing, they just know too much about me. Anita especially. I don't even keep my own agenda.”
Eduardo smiles. “Doesn't surprise me.”
Wardo knows him really well. Better than any of his employees, even people who have known him longer, like Dustin. But there are some things about Mark that would still surprise him. “How about—you should—let’s go.”
“What?” Mark grabs Eduardo’s sleeve and pulls him toward the door. “Mark, there are still speakers left. I can’t just—you really can’t just leave—”
This event must be pretty damn important, actually, because Anita has managed to keep his life Eduardo-free for at least six months, but there is nothing as important as getting Eduardo to his house as soon as possible.
Wardo doesn’t have a car there so they get into Mark's Prius and he drives them south. Eduardo takes Mark’s iPod out of the stereo hookup and plugs in his own. He plays this Belgian girls’ choir which does covers of American bands and fills the trip with Mark's musical education. Mark doesn't process any of it, but it’s nice to listen to Eduardo talk. Really nice.
“Why do you have a Bösendorfer grand piano?” Eduardo says as they pass it in the foyer.
“I can play the piano,” Mark says.
“You were on the fencing team at Exeter, too, but you haven’t—you have a fencing room, don’t you?”
“A fencing studio, thank you,” Mark says. “In the dining room.”
“Just what the architect envisioned,” Eduardo says as they walk down into the living room. It looks really good. Lubov cleared away ten plastic boxes of edamame from last night and lit a fire because the cats like it and masdevallia don’t need a temperature drop at night like a lot of orchids. Athos, Aramis, and Sunshine are in a pile on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace.
The third kitten, Porthos, the calico, not really a kitten anymore, jumps up on the coffee table, slides over the slick surface, and meows. Eduardo offers his hand. Porthos attacks it, of course, but Eduardo laughs and pulls her into his arms. Porthos purrs even as he gnaws on Eduardo’s proffered finger.
“What’s his name?” Wardo says.
“Her name,” Mark says, “is Porthos.”
Wardo laughs. “Remember when I took that class on French Romanticism? I read The Three Musketeers aloud to you so I wouldn’t zone out.”
“Yeah,” he says, like he didn’t buy an original printing at a Sotheby’s auction, like whole passages of that book aren’t imprinted on his mind with sensory details: jalapeno pizza from Emma’s, Eduardo’s voice, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, his long fingers turning pages. Mark tucks his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.
“I didn’t think you were listening. You spent the whole time programming.”
“Slowest code I ever wrote.”
“Can I see your bedroom?” Eduardo says.
“I don’t use my bedroom that much. I have a California king because why shouldn’t I, right? Sean told me it was essential, surprise, surprise, but I hate it. It’s too big.” He’s rambling, but watching Eduardo with this little cat—if Mark had a uterus, it would explode. “I usually just sleep on the couch.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sleeping,” Wardo says. He drops Porthos on the couch. “As a matter of fact.”
They’re half way up the stairs, taking a break to make out against the railing, when Mark remembers he has responsibilities. He has living creatures depending on him.
“I have to—”
He licks his lips. Eduardo groans and kisses him again. His big hands are splayed on Mark’s hips and he pulls him in, cocks pressed together. Mark wrenches away and leans his forehead on Wardo’s chest. “Man, I have to water the orchids and feed the cats and I should really put out the fire unless you want to fuck on the rug because I, um—it’s not exactly why I got it, but I thought about that in the store.”
Mark shows Eduardo the tupperware of defrosted chicken patties and tells him to put two patties on each of the four plates and refill the water. Then he goes to water the flowers. “The black one won’t eat off her own plate,” Eduardo calls out.
“That’s okay,” Mark says. “Unless he’s eating off the big orange one’s plate. Sunshine’s a slow eater and Aramis will take it all.”
Snuck up behind him, Eduardo wraps his arms around Mark’s waist and kisses his neck. “Good to know.”
They make it upstairs. And, in fact, depending on what you’re doing in it, a California king doesn’t feel so big.
//
“You know,” Wardo says, running his fingers over Mark’s ribs. “If I were still Facebook’s CFO, it never would have become what it is. I can admit that. And if I saw you in our little office every day, tried to talk you out of the news feed because you know everyone's going to think that's too invasive, we never would have ended up here. So maybe it was all worth it.”
“This is worth that much to you?” Mark closes his hands together and tightens his hold around Eduardo’s waist, as if that might keep him from even considering that they’re not worth it.
Wardo just bends his head and kisses Mark’s cheek.
“It was still a douche move,” Mark says. “I never should have let them write the contracts that way, Wardo.”
“Douche move? You think that covers it?”
“I actually have no idea how you’re laying here with me right now.”
“You don’t? Then it’s a good thing I didn’t cheat you out of a billion dollars, isn’t it?”
Eduardo has to catch a nine a.m. flight the next morning, but a couple days later he texts Mark that he’s flying into San Jose for the weekend and can he stay with Mark?
Mark replies so fast that he mistypes, “Yed of couese stay witj me.”
There’s nothing happening officially in the Bay Area that weekend, not really, unless Eduardo wants to go to the opening night gala for the San Francisco opera. He’s coming for Mark, to see Mark, and nothing else. Mark donates a few thousand dollars to the opera and RSVPs yes just in case.
Eduardo asks Mark to meet him at the baggage claim. They kiss right in the middle of San Jose International and no one notices. Eduardo pulls four huge pieces of luggage off the carousel.
“Are you staying through the winter?”
“I can’t,” Eduardo says seriously. “But I am going to leave some stuff at your place. For when I can be here. If that’s okay.”
They end up going to the gala. Eduardo shows him how to waltz and gives him a blowjob in the bathroom.
THE BEGINNING~
