It’s not Mark’s idea to go to Brazil. It’s not Mark’s idea to go anywhere, really, because traveling isn’t really his favorite part of being CEO of a monolith of a company as much as it is just a frequent inconvenience. Because who needs to travel out of the country nearly every week, doing PR or going to functions or doing endorsements in Singapore? Outside of Dublin, which he kind of put himself in the position of needing to visit regularly, anyway. But that still doesn’t mean he likes it.

Anyway, so Mark has to go to Brazil for something or other. He doesn’t know if it’s for a charity or to help with his public image (thanks Chris) or somewhere in between, but, you know. He’s in Brazil.

Specifically, he’s on a sizable farm in Brazil. There had something about Mark being less attached to tech and being surrounded by agriculture, which is kind of bullshit anyway because outside of being a vegetarian (as a dietary choice), Mark admittedly doesn’t care that much. But Chris had something about “impressionable,” and Divya said “strategic,” and Tyler had said “get your lazy ass out of your chair every once in awhile,” so, unfortunately, Mark is outside and fifty miles away from wifi.

South America is sweltering, which fucks with Mark’s New England-sensitive skin despite having been in California for a few years now. He takes his hoodie and ties it around his waist as they walk through the chicken farm, one of the farmers saying something in Portuguese and a translator relaying it back to Mark, who is only half paying attention. There’s a video camera here too, and Mark thinks he should probably look attentive, but he also doesn’t care that much. Chris will have his head when he sees, and then edit the tape when they finally post it to Facebook. Everyone wins.

“Ah, and here we have the chicken farm,” the translator says as they make their way into a large barn. There are rows and rows of chickens, clucking and poking at feeders in the shade. Mark squints as the cameraman turns a camera light on.

The farmhand who had been guiding them through the crops and corns says something. The translator tells Mark, “And the main chicken farmer is here, who can tell you about the chickens.”

“Because I want to learn all about them,” Mark says dryly.

The translator shoots Mark a dirty look, but says nothing.

To Mark’s surprise, though, although he’s not sure what he had been expecting, the chicken farmer who is beckoned over has swoopy hair and a nicely chiseled face and a dark gaze that makes something in Mark’s stomach tug. The guide speaks to him in Portuguese and something that sounds like Mark Zuckerberg and the chicken farmer replies, chuckling. Then he comes over to Mark and the translator and the rest of the reporter people with the cameras and the microphones that Mark likes to forget about.

“Hi, I’m Eduardo,” the farmer says cheerfully, shaking the translator’s hand before turning to Mark. Most people would’ve acknowledged Mark first. “I can speak English, so you don’t need to translate for me.”

His tone is surprisingly accent free, and Mark can’t help blurting, “When did a farmer learn English?”

Eduardo’s eyes widen, like he hadn’t expected Mark to say something so forward. Well, no one does. “I did grow up in Miami,” he says to Mark, looking amused. “But I came back down to help with my family.”

“Your family owns the farm?”

“We’re well-known for our contributions to the Brazilian agriculture industry, or whatever the Wikipedia page says these days,” says Eduardo. “You can look it up.” He shoots Mark a grin before saying, “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Mark is bewildered as everyone else begins following him. He’s pretty sure that the translator smirks at him.

“So what are the perks of being a chicken farmer?” Mark asks, as they make their way outside. The person in charge of shooting the film – the director or whatever the term is – wants some shots of Mark being conversational with Eduardo, especially since he can speak English. Mark doesn’t terribly mind.

Eduardo is wearing a dark flannel rolled up to his sleeves and jeans. Without the grungy appearance of being a farmer, he looks like he could’ve enrolled in Harvard with Mark, or at least in Texas.

“Compared to every other job in the world, you mean?” Eduardo says, and when Mark quirks his lips at him, he laughs. “Well, there are financial and career benefits when your family join-owns this land. And hey, you’re the CEO of Facebook, so I’m pretty sure no job is going to be as cool as yours.”

Mark thinks about all the charities he has to attend – it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just the attending – and says, “No job is perfect.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not in the position to say something like that,” Eduardo says cheekily.

There are acres and acres of cornrows, and Mark is tempted to ask Eduardo if he owns a pair of overalls. He doesn’t, though, and just asks, “What were you in Miami for?”

“Oh, I…” Eduardo glances at the camera pointed in their direction–it’s a little ways off, where Mark and Eduardo can see them but scaled far away enough like they were shooting an angle for some sort of dramatic landscape scene. “I was on a kidnap list, so my father thought it would be safer,” Eduardo says quickly.

“The poultry industry must be dramatic,” Mark says.

“You have no idea,” Eduardo says sincerely. “I’ve had to smuggle chickens to and from São Paulo, it’s serious.”

Mark stares at him, but Eduardo’s face is earnest.

“You’re fucking with me,” Mark decides.

Eduardo’s expression cracks into a smile.

Mark huffs. “You’re fucking with me!” he says again, though he doesn’t really care. Eduardo is laughing at him now, and it’s kind of nice as their shoulders bump together.

Eduardo shows him the rest of the farm, the translator now deemed kind of useless as Eduardo claims he doesn’t have anything better to do and doesn’t mind showing Mark how the chicken feeders work or the whole egg packing process. One of the workers he introduces as his cousin but the rest seem to be associates or coworkers. Eduardo is pretty friendly with most of them, laughing about something with one of the corn farmers, resting a hand on the waist of a woman who’s working a packing machine. Mark tries not to get jealous because, really, he barely knows this guy.

It doesn’t make a difference when afternoon falls, though, and they’re back outside in the cornfields and the camerapeople or whatever are packing up the van they came in and suddenly Mark doesn’t want to go just yet. He turns to Eduardo, who’s seeing them off.

“I,” Mark says.

Eduardo smiles charmingly at him. “Yes?”

Without thinking, Mark fumbles in the pockets of his cargo shorts. He’d left his phone at the hotel which had been half of his misery all day before Eduardo, but now he takes out a pen and one of the cards Divya always makes him carry around and says, “I’m–on Facebook, obviously, I don’t know if you are but you can just.” He finishes scribbling down his email and hands the card to Eduardo. “If you want.”

Eduardo eyes him with a calculative look, but then he takes the paper. “Okay,” he says easily.

“Okay?” Mark says uncertainly, as Eduardo reads over the print.

“As long as you don’t feel the need to write down your contact information with a card that already has your contact information.” Eduardo shows Mark the front of the business card, which indeed under i’m ceo, bitch has Mark’s phone number, email address, and the Facebook address. Mark blushes.

“And what’s this all about?” Eduardo says, pointing to the middle text. “‘I’m CEO, bitch’? Am I the bitch in this situation?”

“I was nineteen when I made those cards, okay, I haven’t had a chance to change them yet,” Mark says, cheeks still pink.

“When you do, I hope you print them with your info twice too.”

“I’m starting to reconsider inviting you to email me,” Mark says, though not seriously, and not making any movement to take the card back.

Eduardo seems to detect so too, grinning instead of looking offended. “Well, I’d Facebook you then.”

“You can’t friend request me, you know.”

Eduardo frowns. “That doesn’t seem fair,” he says.

Mark points at the part on the card where it says i’m ceo, bitch. “Do I need to remind you?”

“Okay, okay,” Eduardo says, and then laughs again. “Well, I appreciate you coming out here, and–well, and this, I guess,” he adds, gesturing with Mark’s business card. “I would enjoy contacting you again, and if you would Facebook friend request me.”

Mark nods his head jerkily, suddenly feeling awkward. “Of course,” he says, and then coughs. “I. I look forward to it.”

Eduardo waves as Mark boards the van with everyone else. Mark watches from the corner of his eye without making it obvious as he’s staring. When the van starts, he sends Eduardo a brief wave; Eduardo’s grin is visible even as the van drives off.

Back in California, Mark shows up unceremoniously early to work, having been awake for too long during the new code push and then passing out for eighteen hours. The graveyard shift is still in attendance, but so is Dustin, who says, “Look who’s back! Daddy’s home!”

Mark ignores him and goes into the office.

Of course, Dustin ignores him ignoring him and only follows Mark. “So how was Brazil?” he asks, swinging onto Mark’s desk as Mark boots up his computer.

Mark flits his eyes up at him, and then away. “Adequate,” he mutters, opening up his email.

“Did you go to the beach?” asks Dustin.

“I hardly go to any beaches here, what makes you think I’ll go to a beach anywhere else?”

“The powers of Chris,” Dustin says wisely.

Mark gets onto his site and quickly types in Eduardo Saverin, hoping that Dustin won’t notice to ask any questions. There’s only one result, though, the picture of Eduardo’s familiar silhouette with a cornfield backdrop, his face angled slightly and grinning off to the side. Mark’s chest does an annoying thing as he hits Add as Friend before quickly going to the homepage.

“How was the filming though?” Dustin asks. “When’s the video supposed to come out?”

Mark shrugs. “Ask Cam.” Cameron’s also in HR with Chris, except Chris determines what their public image is going to be like, and Cameron actually makes sure everyone gets along. Well, and also Cameron has a soft spot for film that he told Mark about.

“Ugh, Cam,” Dustin says, picking himself up off Mark’s desk and groaning dreadfully. “Six foot, blonde, athletic–”

“I can’t tell if you’re jealous or gay for him.”

“Generally unfair to the rest of human existence!” Dustin exclaims at Mark’s door. “Don’t tell Ty I said that though,” he tells Mark seriously.

Mark ignores him again.

“Or Chris,” Dustin adds thoughtfully.

Mark throws a pencil at him, and Dustin squawks and leaves.

Mark goes to click in his email, but it’s disappointingly empty. It doesn’t take long for someone to write an email, or for an email to travel from São Paulo to Palo Alto. Mark refreshes his inbox fifteen times and grits his teeth. It hasn’t been that long. Hopefully he’ll get a friend request acceptance sooner.

That afternoon, when Tyler and Chris have dragged him from his office to the game room where they’re playing Wii tennis and Mark is pretending not to pay attention from his computer, he gets notifications for both a friend request acceptance and an email at the same time.

Hi Mark. Sorry if this is slightly delayed, but there were some financial issues I had to help sort out. How are you?
E.S.

It’s painfully short, but Mark’s chest does an annoying thing anyway. He hits Reply, but his fingers hesitate. He doesn’t know what to say.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tyler says, apparently noticing the lack of the sound of Mark’s typing.

Chris turns around too. “Is Mark broken?”

“Shut up,” Mark says. “I’m trying to write an email.”

Chris narrows his eyes at him. “You never write emails,” he says, before going to hover over Mark’s shoulder. Mark gets his laptop lid shut quickly enough, but that doesn’t stop Chris from asking, “Who’s ES?”

“No one,” Mark says immediately.

Tyler looks between the two of them in confusion. “ES?” he asks Chris.

“Someone Mark writes emails to.” Chris grins. “Someone important.”

“The only email I ever got from Mark was the one where he told me to bring him a sandwich from the Kirkland dining hall,” Tyler says, starting up a new Wii tennis game. “While he was in his dorm.”

“I’m going back to my office,” Mark says, standing up.

“I’ll find out eventually, you know!” Chris calls after him.

Mark doesn’t doubt it, but it still feels weird to necessarily share it. Not everyone at work is his friend, but the company was founded with his friends, so everything does feel kind of shared even if Mark is their boss. (Which, half the time, doesn’t feel like it with Chris or Cameron anyway.) Eduardo is kind of like a secret, which is nice to think about before that dumb video gets launched.

Once he’s back at his desk, he tries not to think too much while composing a proper email.

Financial issues? I thought you were a farmer.
It’s not too late. I’m glad to hear from you. I’m slightly sleep deprived, but I don’t even hate flying. I just don’t want to do it every week. Although this is the part where I’d imagine you saying something about my being the CEO of Facebook again, so you don’t have to say it when you reply.
Or you could, but it would be redundant.
MZ

He feels ridiculous after he hits Send, but with his email traveling through cyberspace, he has something to look forward to in a matter of time.

Eduardo does respond by the next day, and almost less than twelve hours in between each of Mark’s, which Mark has noted–they’re four hours apart, apparently, but Mark imagines that with Eduardo’s work he probably doesn’t have a lot of time to go online, so at least setting up an expectation helps.

In the next week, Mark discovers that in addition to just being a farmer, Eduardo is also ridiculously adept with math and finances and could probably give Tyler a run for his money. He also says that being a farmer, despite the work, is painfully boring–unlike Mark, Eduardo wants to travel, constantly doing something new, but he had family expectations to live up to and he doesn’t hate doing them. Mark remembers his own parents encouraging him just to do what he wanted, whatever it was he was good at, and understands that they come from different cultural backgrounds.

In turn, Mark tells Eduardo about Chris and Dustin and the twins and Divya, and Harvard, that Eduardo tells him that he almost applied to, before he decided to go home. Mark’s seen Eduardo’s age on his Facebook profile, and he’s only a year older than Mark, so they could’ve been Harvard at the same time if he did. Mark tells Eduardo this, and Eduardo says, I incidentally came across an article from the Crimson that discussed some issues of chicken torture at Harvard, so no thank you. Mark laughs and reminds Divya of his Phoenix incident, which Divya colors at and asks him why he has to drag up the past.

Eduardo’s Facebook isn’t comprised of much (though it does say “Single” in his bio, and the “Interested In” section is suspiciously empty), aside from some pictures in an album by his cousin or something, the same one that his profile picture had come from, with him glowing in the golden sun, laughing and sweating and at work. If Mark thinks about them at night it’s nobody else’s business; but other than that he wonders why Eduardo has one in the first place.

He mentions this in one of their emails, and Eduardo’s reply is, Mark, how much of the population do you think actually cares about Facebook rather than arbitrarily having one?

Is this a question about percentages or demographics because otherwise I’d be inclined to say 80%

It’s about utilization, which I’m going to admit I don’t really use outside of the Messenger function, Eduardo tells him, which is fair enough. And also there’s a game called Farmville, which I take personal offense to.

When Mark reads this email one afternoon, he lets out a snort so loud that Cameron, who’s walking by, stops and says, “Are you sick, Mark?”

Mark ignores him and grins at his computer, typing out a reply.

Cameron turns to Dustin. “Is he sick?”

“Probably just emailing the mysterious ES Chris told me about,” Dustin tells him.

“ES?”

“Elusive Senor and/or Senorita,” says Dustin. “That’s what I’m calling them, anyway. It makes sense that Mark likes making emotional connections over email though.”

“Shut up Dustin,” Mark says without looking up.

“I’m very capable of emotional connections in any medium,” Dustin adds pointedly to Cameron.

“Sure,” says Cameron, before stalking off to HR.

Dustin sighs.

Mark sends his reply, which says, You should create a farmville and only raise chickens. It’s like the app was made for you, and Eduardo’s email, which comes five minutes later, says, I appreciate the fruits of my labor being imitated on a virtual game on your website, Mark, truly and it’s way better than that time Mark got a blowjob in the men’s room after Facebook launched.

The video that Chris indicted and Cameron put together (along with people who actually do film) gets released at the end of the third week since Mark’s come back from Brazil, on his public profile where he has to write some long comment about how much he learned about Brazilian agriculture and other PR bullshit. It is good for his public image admittedly, but sometimes Mark just doesn’t care about it.

Eduardo phones him in the afternoon, when it must be evening for him. “Nice Facebook update,” he says wryly.

“You could share it and show it off to your feed that you’re in an official Facebook video,” Mark says, watching it again. It’s only two minutes long, and he had to do some individual clips where he talked about how much he learned or discovered or whatever, but the parts with him and Eduardo walking and talking are nice. They have plenty of shots like when Eduardo was actually showing him things in the farm, and when they were just walking through the cornfield together, pieced together like they’d talked alone for hours instead of the twenty minutes that already was. Mark thinks he could talk to Eduardo alone for hours.

“I could,” comes Eduardo’s voice. “My entire feed of thirty friends.”

“Not my fault you don’t have more friends.”

“Says the guy with fifty billion friends,” Eduardo teases.

“Sounds like you’re jealous,” says Mark.

“Yes, jealous of a capricious number on a social networking site. I’m kidding, by the way,” Eduardo adds quickly, even though Mark’s just smiling into his phone. “I know you revolutionized the internet or whatever.”

“You certainly know a lot about it.”

“Shut up,” Eduardo says cheerfully. “Hey, so–I have to go right now, but will you be free tomorrow morning? I want to call you again.”

Mark’s heart stutters, and he says, “Sure,” and hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate. It is their first time talking on the phone, and even though it’s not the same as talking face-to-face, it’s still hearing Eduardo’s voice, a little better than the emails.

Eduardo hums in acquiescence. “Cool. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then?”

“Yeah,” Mark says, and smiles so hard he knows his cheeks are dimpling.

The next day Mark can barely wait as time progresses since he got in (six a.m.) to be properly morning when everyone else is awake. Even if Eduardo is hours ahead and knows how early and late Mark’s work schedule is, he wouldn’t call to enable it. Mostly because he’s busy, but Mark likes the idea of Eduardo telling himself he’s doing something just because he cares about Mark.

Dustin eyes him suspiciously as Mark glances at his phone every once in awhile, but he’s not barging into Mark’s office so Mark doesn’t care. Chris comes to talk to Divya, while Tyler leans against Chris’s side too. Nine o’clock passes into ten o’clock, and Mark feels constantly on edge for whenever when in the morning Eduardo had been referring to.

He’s staring hard at his computer screen (and the email icon) when a movement in the corner of his eye makes him jolt his gaze up. Cameron’s walking into the bullpen now, along with–

Eduardo’s grinning at him through the glass, in a ridiculous three piece suit and button up, when people said that Mark’s wardrobe was weird. Immediately Mark is off his computer and bursting out of his office, going, “Wardo, what–what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d visit you,” Eduardo says, like it’s an everyday occurrence. He nods towards Cameron and Dustin though (since Divya, Chris, and Tyler are watching with smug looks from Divya’s office), and adds, “Your friends are pretty good at tracking me down and persuading me to visit you when it makes you look like that.”

“Look like what?” Mark says, trying to feel annoyed. He shoots his friends a glare that he’s pretty sure is not wholly successful, judging by the way Dustin is just clinging excitedly to Cameron’s arm.

“Like you found true love on a farm,” Chris chimes in.

“I did not find true love on a farm.”

“Well, you did find me on a farm,” Eduardo says, tugging Mark in by the elbow. “I hope that’s good enough.”

Mark can’t fight back the smile spreading over his face as he looks up at him. “It’ll do,” he says, before Eduardo presses a chaste kiss against his lips.

“Don’t hack into my email again or else I’ll put a picture of you on hotornot.com,” Mark warns Dustin, over lunch. He’s sitting next to Eduardo, whose hand is stroking unconsciously up and down Mark’s upper thigh, and Mark is trying not to noticeably squirm.

“You’ll run, but you can’t hide, Mark,” Dustin says. “Alternatively, I promise not to if you can strand me and Cameron on a farm too so farm love magic will happen to us too.”

Eduardo chokes over his salad, and Mark pats him on the back. “Farm love magic,” he says, blinking at Dustin, “is the worst thing I’ve ever heard come out of anyone’s mouth.”

“You’ll hear worse things the longer you stay around him,” Mark says.

“I’d imagine,” says Eduardo, as Dustin protests something about them being lovey dovey before going to join the Winklevosses.

Mark watches as Eduardo forks at his food. “Do you not have any ethical qualms about eating chicken salad?” he asks after a moment.

Eduardo nearly chokes again. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you even allowed to eat other chickens?” Mark asks.

“It’s not like being a farmer prohibits me from eating the animals I raise, Mark–”

“Does it make you feel like a cannibal–?”

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no good story is without a cannibalism joke

by aroceu

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