That quickly, so quickly, Eduardo goes tense, a visible straightening of his spine and locking of his shoulders, jaw set as he stares across the table at Mark. He remembers his burger, but catching sight of it out of what approximates to peripheral vision, he finds that he's completely lost his appetite. It's a textbook fucking Mark statement, but it isn't just about him, now, someone else being insulted in such an implication, someone he cares about — loves as deeply as he's only ever loved Mark, the same and not all at once — who was once believed to have been trading sex for money. Mark doesn't even know her, and already he's written her off as something similar. There's a lot Eduardo will stand for, even now, after having been cut out of the company and Mark's life, but this isn't one of those things. He has a limit. He reached it in a Palo Alto hallway and he reached it slamming a computer against a desk and he's reached it now, on Olive's behalf.
He wishes they'd kept talking about Facebook.
(The funny thing, the really fucking ironic thing, is that if it were only him being insulted, or him and some girl he might have thought hot, it wouldn't have mattered. Hell, it would practically be keeping to a pattern. How do you do that thing where you manage to get all girls to hate us and why do I let you? he asked Mark once (possibly more than once); this would be nothing more than a reversal of that. Where Mark prevented him from getting laid before, he'd be enabling it now, with his company and the fame that brought with it. In the days of groupies, Eduardo had no problem with that, was perfectly willing to take whatever perks came with being Facebook's co-founder. That was before California, though, and three-hundredths of a percent, and whatever fractured remains their friendship has broken down to. He could take it, is perfectly used to being put down by Mark, intentionally or not, but he still wouldn't capitalize on the inherent offer.)
"It's not like that," he says tightly, colder than he's used to being with Mark, one hand curled around the edge of the table just for something to hold on to. In a way, it feels strangely like talking about Mark: like he would have if the Winklevosses ever let him give them a piece of his mind, or like he did with several people following FaceMash, so quick to defend whatever the cost. He wonders, briefly, if Mark will recognize that, wonders what he'll think if he does, then pushes the thought aside. "She's not like that. It's not — this isn't Christy and Alice dragging us into a bathroom to blow us. When I say I like her, I mean I —" He falters, briefly, tip of his tongue pressed to the bottom of his teeth. "I love her." The words hang too heavy in the air between them, foreign even now in the way they feel to speak, and finally, he averts his gaze, glancing at the food he has no intention of eating. "And it'd be hard to get far on being the co-founder of a company you were written out of."
no subject
He wishes they'd kept talking about Facebook.
(The funny thing, the really fucking ironic thing, is that if it were only him being insulted, or him and some girl he might have thought hot, it wouldn't have mattered. Hell, it would practically be keeping to a pattern. How do you do that thing where you manage to get all girls to hate us and why do I let you? he asked Mark once (possibly more than once); this would be nothing more than a reversal of that. Where Mark prevented him from getting laid before, he'd be enabling it now, with his company and the fame that brought with it. In the days of groupies, Eduardo had no problem with that, was perfectly willing to take whatever perks came with being Facebook's co-founder. That was before California, though, and three-hundredths of a percent, and whatever fractured remains their friendship has broken down to. He could take it, is perfectly used to being put down by Mark, intentionally or not, but he still wouldn't capitalize on the inherent offer.)
"It's not like that," he says tightly, colder than he's used to being with Mark, one hand curled around the edge of the table just for something to hold on to. In a way, it feels strangely like talking about Mark: like he would have if the Winklevosses ever let him give them a piece of his mind, or like he did with several people following FaceMash, so quick to defend whatever the cost. He wonders, briefly, if Mark will recognize that, wonders what he'll think if he does, then pushes the thought aside. "She's not like that. It's not — this isn't Christy and Alice dragging us into a bathroom to blow us. When I say I like her, I mean I —" He falters, briefly, tip of his tongue pressed to the bottom of his teeth. "I love her." The words hang too heavy in the air between them, foreign even now in the way they feel to speak, and finally, he averts his gaze, glancing at the food he has no intention of eating. "And it'd be hard to get far on being the co-founder of a company you were written out of."