(There's something else that bothers him about Eduardo's words too, though, that hit him more directly and sharply even than Erica calling him an asshole. I want you here, okay? I don't know what that says about me. But he should be used to that anymore, right? He did, after all, create FaceMash. He did, after all, cut his best friend out of potentially billions of dollars, and cost what was possibly a huge leap forward in the relationship between Eduardo and his father. It's his own fucking grave, and he's jumped into it with full force, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't still sting on the way down, or that some part of him doesn't still want someone to reach down and lend a hand.)
"You don't need to apologize," he says tersely, before he suddenly realizes that he's still holding onto his glass and plate, the latter of which is starting to tilt from inattention. Correcting himself, he swivels until he's directly facing the table again, setting both down with gentle clicks. He tries to think of something, anything else to say, but he's coming up blank, but maybe there's a certain light in his eyes that shows that struggle regardless. Shadows that cast a darker look to them. When words finally come to him, of course they're the wrong ones, but that doesn't stop him from saying them anyway. "You trip over your words when you're drunk."
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(There's something else that bothers him about Eduardo's words too, though, that hit him more directly and sharply even than Erica calling him an asshole. I want you here, okay? I don't know what that says about me. But he should be used to that anymore, right? He did, after all, create FaceMash. He did, after all, cut his best friend out of potentially billions of dollars, and cost what was possibly a huge leap forward in the relationship between Eduardo and his father. It's his own fucking grave, and he's jumped into it with full force, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't still sting on the way down, or that some part of him doesn't still want someone to reach down and lend a hand.)
"You don't need to apologize," he says tersely, before he suddenly realizes that he's still holding onto his glass and plate, the latter of which is starting to tilt from inattention. Correcting himself, he swivels until he's directly facing the table again, setting both down with gentle clicks. He tries to think of something, anything else to say, but he's coming up blank, but maybe there's a certain light in his eyes that shows that struggle regardless. Shadows that cast a darker look to them. When words finally come to him, of course they're the wrong ones, but that doesn't stop him from saying them anyway. "You trip over your words when you're drunk."