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Mark has never been one for cooking or baking. He considers it a tedious task and an absolute waste of time. He doesn’t understand how anyone can consider it useful or, god forbid, relaxing to make your own meal from scratch, especially not when it’s just as easy to buy something microwaveable.
That doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a home-cooked dinner or a fine meal at a restaurant. It’s fine so long as other people have to do the work. Mark? He has better things to do. He has a company to run, a company that keeps gaining momentum, that is going further than he’d ever dared imagine.
It’s certainly not what he’d imagined when he’d launched the site in his dorm room years ago. It feels like yesterday that he added in ‘relationship status, interested in’, feels like yesterday that Eduardo was looking over his shoulder, breathing out ‘shit, that looks really good.’
It’s impossible to not think about Eduardo in relation to Facebook. He’s tried, he really has tried to erase the memory of Eduardo, unlinking him from the company. It hasn’t worked, still doesn’t work. He remembers the algorithm, remembers the trust in Eduardo’s eyes when he’d handed him an envelope with 18,000 dollars, asking ‘Will that get you through the summer?’, remembers the heartbreak, anger, pain in his eyes when he’d yelled ‘you set me up.’
That’s perhaps his most vivid memory of Eduardo, not ‘I’m here for you’ or ‘this is our thing’ but ‘you better lawyer up, asshole.’ He’s replayed the scene in his head many times before, sometimes sees his behind his closed eyelids when he’s on the brink of falling asleep, sees it in his dreams, where Eduardo doesn’t break the laptop but breaks him.
He has, in a way, destroyed him. It had taken far too long for Mark to realize that when Eduardo left the deposition room on the final day, papers signed, that he’d taken a part of him with him, a vital part. It took him too long to realize that it hurts, that his instinct is still to turn to Eduardo before realizing that he isn’t there. It took him far too long to realize that ignoring that feeling wasn’t going to make it go away.
Against his better judgment, he’d turned to Chris and Dustin for help, because they’re friends and friends are supposed to help each other. Predictably, Dustin had, for the most part, been entirely helpful, offering suggestions like ‘write his name in the sky’ or ‘declare your love for him on national television’. “Grand gestures,” he’d exclaimed. Chris had told him to just talk to him.
For a brief second, Mark had genuinely considered renting a plane and writing Eduardo’s name in the sky, because it would probably be a lot safer than trying to explain himself. Meaningful conversations were still not his strongest point and no matter how hard he’d tried to get Chris to talk to Eduardo as his PR person, Chris had declined.
That had brought him back to the grand gestures, which had brought him back to baking.
--
The ruckus coming from the common room area is ridiculous, the clatter of pots and pans breaking through his concentration every few seconds until Mark is hitting the keys harder than necessary and gritting his teeth in frustration.
He’s tried putting on headphones, putting the music on loud, but that made him unable to concentrate as well, so he’d been forced to take them off. All that’s left now is to listen to the laughter coming from the common room, occasionally there’s an exasperated “Dustin!” coming from Chris or Eduardo, but mostly, they’re making a hell of a lot of noise.
After hitting the ‘enter’ key with so much force that he’s afraid he might break the bone in his finger, Mark decides he’s had enough. Gritting his teeth, he saves his work (he’s nothing, if not careful) and dares to venture out into the common room, with the intention of scolding his friends and telling them exactly where they can stuff their Christmas cookies. Three of them don’t even celebrate Christmas. Okay, maybe two of them, because Dustin celebrates everything as long as it’s a holiday and he can get away with it.
The sight that greets him stops him in his tracks. Their little kitchen area has transformed in what can only be the result of some kind of bomb exploding. There’s flour everywhere and something that looks like egg-yolk is dripping down from one of the cabinets.
Eduardo is wearing a ridiculous flower-y apron and has his shirt sleeves rolled but flour is still sticking everywhere on his person. His purple shirt has white stains and Mark can even see some flour in his hair. Dustin is a complete mess, covered in various substances that Mark doesn’t even want to categorize. Chris is the most put-together with only a smudge of flour on his cheek.
“Could you guys maybe keep it down? I’m trying to code,” Mark says, gruffly, raising his voice enough to be heard over Chris berating Dustin about something with the egg and Eduardo muttering in Portuguese under his breath.
All three turn to look at him.
“Mark! We’re backing cookies. See? We’re going to bake them in the shape of trees!” Dustin exclaims, excitedly waving a piece of paper around, which Mark figures holds the recipe. Eduardo plucks it from Dustin’s fingers and puts it back on a relatively clean looking part of the counter.
“Don’t get that dirty, Dustin, I need to be able to read it. Mark, we told you we were going to bake today,” Eduardo tells him patiently, as if a heads up somehow makes up for the fact that Mark can’t concentrate because of the noise.
“You don’t even live here!” Mark notes, because, really, he doesn’t, even if he spends most of his time here and cleans up more than they do and brings Mark food on a regular basis.
Mark expects Eduardo to at least be partly offended, but he rolls his eyes and turns back to his bowl of … something, going back to stirring the contents clockwise with his whisker and paying no further attention to Mark. Mark thinks he should probably feel offended at being blatantly ignored.
“Take a break, Mark,” Chris tells –no, orders– him, before his attention is on Dustin, trying to prevent him from getting flour all over the couches.
Mark scowls, but doesn’t go back to his room because the chances of him being able to focus are close to zero and this seems like a disaster waiting to happen. It’d be nice to have something to tease them with for all of eternity, so he takes up residence on the couch, ignoring Eduardo’s and Chris’s attempts at getting him to help and Dustin’s exclamations that he wants to be a pastry chef, screw Harvard.
It’s mildly amusing, watching the three of them work. Eduardo seems to have some kind of idea what they’re doing while Dustin is mostly getting in the way, with Chris trying to keep him out of the way.
Eventually, they get the dough ready and Eduardo sets to work creating the Christmas trees, making perfect triangles without having to use any of the baking forms they seem to have acquired at some point without Mark’s knowledge. Mark moves in closer, admittedly, mildly impressed with how steady Eduardo’s hand is and how well the Christmas trees look. Eduardo fills the baking plate before sticking it all in the oven.
“While we wait, we can clean up this mess,” Eduardo says. He pointedly looks at Dustin and then to the egg-yolk. Dustin gives him the thumbs up.
Mark somehow gets roped into helping, even though he didn’t even do anything but Chris threatened to let Dustin have all the cookies if he didn’t help clean. It’s wildly unfair, really, but Eduardo has never baked anything for them before so he is curious about the result.
“I promise the cookies will be worth it,” Eduardo says, bumping his hip against his, while handing Mark another bowl to towel-dry.
“They better be. I could be coding right now. Do you realize you have flour in your hair?” Mark asks, momentarily distracted by the white streaks that are completely out of place and annoying him a little.
Eduardo makes a face and rubs a hand through his hair to dislodge the flour. “Gone?”
Mark shakes his head. Before he can think better of it, he brushes his hand through Eduardo’s hair right above his hair to remove the last of it. Mark pretends not to notice the way Eduardo’s eyes widen or the way his own cheeks heat up.
“Now it’s gone,” Mark declares, wiping his hand on Eduardo’s shirt, which is only fair.
Eduardo’s hair is a mess right now, sticking in literally every possible direction. He’s never seen it quite so messy and he’s seen Eduardo wake up several times when he’d crashed in their dorm. Mark distantly thinks he likes this look a whole lot better than the put-together one.
When the cookies are finally allowed out of the oven and they’re cooled down enough to eat, Dustin all but pounces, devouring a cookie in record time. Chris makes a disapproving face at him, but Dustin doesn’t seem to notice, too busy making ridiculous noises and mumbling something that sounds like praise for Eduardo’s skills but it’s hard to understand while he has his mouth full.
When it doesn’t look like Dustin is going to keel over and die (at least not from something in the cookies, choking isn’t out of the question), Mark grabs a cookie for himself and munches off the top. He has to admit they are really good, rich in flavor for something quite thin. He can taste chocolate and almond, laced with something else he can’t quite identify.
“You’ve been holding out on us, Eduardo,” Chris says.
Eduardo shrugs, cheeks going a little pink. “I used to make these with my mom a lot. This is about the extent of my cooking skills.”
“I’m buying you a cookbook for your birthday!” Dustin exclaims. “Then you can cook us dinner.”
Eduardo rolls his eyes, then turns to him, expectantly.
“They’re …adequate. I’m going back to coding.” He grabs another cookie from the tray, pretending not to notice the pleased expression on Eduardo’s face.
Later, Eduardo comes into his room with his textbooks. He drops them on the bed and leans against his desk until Mark looks up, because for some reason, it’s become impossible to ignore Eduardo’s presence once he’s in the same room. It’s faintly ridiculous and a lot annoying.
“Saved you one,” Eduardo says, dangling another cookie in front of his face.
“What did you have to do to get that away from Dustin?”
“Unspeakable things,” Eduardo whispers, shuddering exaggeratedly.
Mark smiles and takes the cookie, jolting a little when their fingers brush, because that’s also a thing now. Despite himself, it makes heat rise up to his cheeks.
“Thanks.”
Eduardo gives him a sweet smile and moves over to the bed. Mark is momentarily distracted by Eduardo’s reflection on his laptop screen as he settles himself comfortably on his bed, text book open in his lap. His hair is still a mess, clothes wrinkled and stained. If Mark were capable of finding people endearing, he’d probably be feeling that way about Eduardo right now.
--
That hadn’t been the last time Eduardo had made cookies, mostly because Dustin had been badgering him for more cookies, partly because he apparently enjoyed making different-flavored cookies. The chocolate-almond ones are still Mark’s favorite. He’d succeeded in copying the recipe once for still unclear purposes, but now, years later, he’s glad he has it.
As far as grand gestures go, it’s probably a ridiculous one, despite the fact that Mark is actually making use of his kitchen for once. Chris and Dustin would be proud though, it has meaning. Or it’s supposed to, if he can get the damn cookies right. The first batch tragically failed, he left the second batch in the oven for too long, having gotten distracted by Facebook and he’s now on the third batch, which he sincerely hopes is going to go better or he’s going to throw all his baking supplies out the window.
When the third batch is in the oven, he surveys the damage to the kitchen. It closely resembles a battle field, flour and egg everywhere, empty cartons of milk lying around, left-over dough from his second attempt splattered against some of the cabinets (minor disagreement with his electronic whisker) and a growing stack of pots he didn’t even know he owned gathering in the sink.
This is another reason why he is never going to cook or bake again. He doesn’t look forward to cleaning up the mess.
He sighs and sets the timer on the oven and the alarm on his cell phone for good measure. He grabs his laptop from the counter and settles himself cross-legged in front of the oven, not willing to take any risks with this batch.
He checks his e-mail for the umpteenth time, making sure Eduardo is still coming to the shareholder’s meeting the next day. His whole plan is riding on that. He’d rather avoid having to send a box of cookies halfway across the country.
Mark startles when the timer goes off, closely followed by the beeping of his cell phone. He pulls the cookies out immediately, pleased that the color looks okay. The shape is another thing entirely but they at least, more or less, resemble Christmas trees.
When they’re cooled down enough, Mark takes one from the tray and tastes it, more relieved than anything that they taste okay. He can work with this.
Making the damn cookies is probably the easiest thing he has to do, seeing as how he still has little idea of what he’s going to say. There’s been polite conversation at previous tech events and shareholder’s meetings, but they haven’t actually talked properly since before Eduardo slammed his laptop to bits.
The prospect is a little daunting. So much has happened, so much has changed. They probably have changed. Just because they were friends once upon a time, just because their dynamic worked one day, doesn’t mean it still will now. The thought that they might not connect the way they did worries him more than what would happen if Eduardo turns him down.
Mark, more than anything, wants to go back to the way things were, he has no trouble admitting that to himself now, but whether or not that is actually within the realm of possibility is another question entirely.
--
Even though Mark has gotten used to public speaking and fielding questions, he still hates it with a passion. The experience is even more terrifying now. He’s absurdly aware of Eduardo this time, even more aware of his eyes on him when Mark is giving the shareholders the updates he can share before he gives the word to someone else, aware of every little move Eduardo makes. He generally doesn’t allow himself to look in Eduardo’s direction when he’s talking, but he can’t help himself today.
He’s glad when he’s said his bit and can let their lead accountant introduce the figures with a more professional explanation. He sits down next to Chris, allows himself a glance at Eduardo who is focused on the speaker, of course he is, and then glances down at the hand-outs of the powerpoint presentation.
As soon as the presentations are over and the shareholders are being led to another room with a buffet, Mark approaches Eduardo before he can talk himself out of it. He ignores Chris and Dustin altogether.
If Eduardo is surprised by Mark blocking his exit, he doesn’t show it, but then, he has gotten incredibly good at hiding his emotions. Mark hates it.
“Eduardo, can we talk? In my office… Please.”
Eduardo’s glance subtly shifts to the door for a second and in that moment, Mark is sure Eduardo is going to turn him down, but then he nods.
The room has cleared by now. When Mark turns, Chris and Dustin are waiting and watching by the door, matching frowns of confusion on their faces. They’re glancing between the two of them, probably trying to gauge their reactions and trying to decide if they should be ready to intervene when it comes to a fight.
Mark gives them a short nod, meets Chris’s eyes long enough for Chris to understand what he’s going to do. Chris nods at them and pulls Dustin away to join the shareholders in the other conference room.
None of the interns and employees turn to look at them when they walk past. All of them know about the depositions but most of them have never seen Eduardo, most of them don’t know him. For a second, it makes him feel a pang of regret, because they could have. If things hadn’t gone wrong, Eduardo might still have been CFO and they would know him.
He’s relieved when they step into his office and Mark can close the door, a glass wall between them and the rest of the world. Mark gestures to the chair and Eduardo sits while Mark takes place behind his desk. The box of his cookies is in one of his drawers and he pulls it out, pushes it across the space to Eduardo. Mark belatedly thinks he should have bought a nice basket.
“What’s this?” Eduardo asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Open it.”
Eduardo gives him a calculating look but opens the box. The surprise is evident on his face and the look of recognition in his eyes makes Mark relax fractionally. Eduardo doesn’t speak, just takes a cookie out of the box and takes a bite. His smile is restrained, barely there, twitching at the corners of his lips.
When he speaks, his voice is devoid of any emotion but there’s something in his eyes that Mark hasn’t seen in a long time.
“These cookies, they’re the first one I baked for you, Dustin and Chris. You remember the cookies I made. Mark, what is this?”
“It’s a gesture. Chris said I should make a gesture. Writing your name in the sky seemed a bit excessive.”
Eduardo cracks an actual smile. “Dustin?”
“Who else?”
Eduardo smirks. “I can’t believe you can bake.”
Mark manages to look vaguely offended. “I am actually capable of taking care of myself now. But it does help having a secretary and two overbearing friends shoving food at me when needed.”
Eduardo laughs, rich and deep, and Mark can’t help but smile. Eduardo takes another bite.
“They’re… adequate.” His eyes are positively twinkling now. Looks like Mark isn’t the only who remembers that day. Eduardo nudges the box closer to Mark and gestures for him to take one.
They’re not okay yet. They will actually have to talk if Mark wants to give their friendship any chance at succeeding the second time around but for now it’s enough to sit with Eduardo in his office, joking around about non-significant things, talking about work. For now, it’s all Mark needs. They can tackle the hard stuff later.
~The end