Chapter Text
Eduardo takes Mark home over spring break. God, that sounds so weird, like he’s a prospective daughter-in-law getting judged by his parents, but it goes more like this-
Wardo’s laying on Mark’s bed on his stomach, his feet dangling off the edge, flipping through a calculus textbook.
Mark opens the door.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Eduardo says without looking up.
“Hey, Funky Bunch,” Dustin calls out from the next room and Eduardo laughs.
“Good one.”
“I don’t even understand it,” Mark says, plugging in his laptop. Dustin’s been trying to come up with a good nickname for him. So far he’s gone through Markito (during Dustin’s brief obsession with a Dominican first-year and subsequent attempt to learn Spanish off of Google Translate), MotherZucker (Eduardo shoots down this one on account of its tackiness, and Dustin eventually acquiesces), and, inexplicably, Mz. Thing. That one combined the letters M and Z, a reference to being a girl, and the aftereffects of Hip-Hop night at AEPi. It lasted an hour before Eduardo threatened to stab him in his sleep.
“Like, Marky Mark. And the Funky Bunch. It’s a band? Or, whatever, group?”
Mark shrugs.
“Wow,” Eduardo says, laughing. “You’d get crucified in Brazil. They’re weirdly popular there.”
Mark says nothing and Eduardo goes back to the book.
Ten minutes later, in an overly casual voice, Eduardo goes, “Speaking of Brazil-”
“Were we?”
“Yes. My parents were wondering if you wanted to come over break. To Brazil.”
Mark looks up. Eduardo’s staring down at his book.
“Your parents?”
“Yeah, I guess they really feel the need to meet the famous Mark Zuckerberg. Coder extraordinaire. God knows why. It’s not like my father knows what perl even is.”
“Do you even know what it is?,” Mark counters, and Eduardo flips him off.
"We'd stay in the family house. It could be cool. Maybe."
“Aww, it’s time to meet the parents, FB,” Dustin interrupts, laughing, obviously trying to eavesdrop from his room.
“FB?”
“Funky Bunch. Duh.”
“You don’t have to,” Eduardo says quickly.
“I want to.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Eduardo smiles at him for a second until Dustin calls out, “You guys better not be making out in there.”
“Fuck off, Dustin.”
--
Two weeks later, he’s stepping out of a tiny plane onto an impossibly hot tarmac, wind blowing dusty and warm around them. Eduardo’s in front of him, sunglasses already on, and Mark’s already sweating in his Gap sweatshirt.
“Come on,” Eduardo yells over the wind and the airplane engine, turning to him and grinning.
He takes them through customs, gesturing to Mark as he speaks in Portuguese, and Mark smiles awkwardly at the burly man behind the counter.
“We can pick up our luggage in here,” Eduardo says finally, and puts a hand on Mark’s back to push him in front. Eduardo already seems different, more relaxed, even somehow more tan than he was in Boston.
“Ay! ‘duardo!” he hears, and Eduardo laughs beside him and walks quickly toward a girl standing beside the luggage thing. She’s tall like Eduardo, with shorts and sunglasses and straight black hair. They hug, and Mark stands awkwardly beside them. He’s doing pretty much everything awkwardly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eduardo says, breaking off his unintelligible conversation. “Mark, this is my cousin Yara.” Mark nods, sticking out a hand, and the girl hugs him. Okay, then.
Eduardo says something to her in Portuguese, and she nods. “Mark?” she says, in a thick accent, and Mark nods again.
She takes a deep breath, laughs at herself, and says, “Welcome to Brazil!” They both collapse from laughter, and she snakes an arm around Eduardo’s waist, and they chatter at each other. Mark’s face feels frozen in a half-smile.
Finally, Eduardo turns to him. “Let’s go grab our luggage. Yara-” and he goes on in Portuguese and she nods.
“Sorry,” Eduardo says as she walks away, not sounding sorry at all, still grinning.
“Are your parents coming?” Mark asks, and watches his face fall.
“We’re, uh, we're going to meet them. Yara’ll drive us to the house.”
“The house” turns out to be a mansion, huge, with a gate and a doorman and grounds and everything. Yara drives like a crazy person, and she squeals to a stop in front of two ornate, massive wooden doors. They kiss and chatter and Mark swears he hears his name at least twice, and then she peels off.
He sneaks a glance at Eduardo; he looks nervous.
--
A maid serves dinner and Mark tries not to stare.
“So, Mark, you have started the Facebook, yes?” Mr. Saverin asks, sawing a bite of his steak.
“Uh, yeah, the, well- War- Eduardo and I, we started it.”
Eduardo has a bite on his fork but he’s not eating it.
“And Eduardo has been good for the company? He’s made some ... interesting choices as president of the Investor’s Association. He is helping you?”
Eduardo is decidedly not looking at him.
“Yes, sir, um, Eduardo’s been a - a great asset to the company,” Mark stammers.
Mr. Saverin nods coolly. “We will see. He’s still a bit hotheaded and risky in his decisions- the investment you made last summer, in your cousin’s business?”
“Yara had a well-structured plan,” Eduardo says, voice steady. “The climate wasn’t correct for that genre of company at the time, but there was no way we could have-”
“Of course there was, Eduardo. It’s your job to know.” His father shakes his head. “It was foolish. It was the act of a child, not a businessman.”
“Then Eduardo made a pretty large amount of money on oil, though, right? So that wasn’t so foolish,” Mark says casually, and he looks up. Eduardo’s staring at him.
“I suppose,” Mr. Saverin says tightly, and the maid brings in dessert.
--
“You’re insane,” Eduardo says later, in his room. Mark’s staying next door.
“Why?”
Eduardo laughs. “Nothing. I don’t know. Nothing.”
They’re lying side by side on the king-sized bed. Mark hasn’t gone this long without checking his laptop in three years, and it feels good even as his fingers itch to type. He sighs audibly and Eduardo looks at him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”