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ex_aroceu318) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
twodongs2017-05-06 01:00 am
ex_aroceu318) wrote in twodongs2017-05-06 01:00 am
Entry tags:
round one (8 may - 14 may)
TOP LEVEL COMMENTS ONLY
| DAY | PROMPT | PUNISHMENT |
|---|---|---|
| Monday (May 8) | retroactive title drop | no wip for isy next time; no new fic for aro next time |
| Tuesday (May 9) | describe light in 50 words or more | not allowed to dm (one/both) |
| Wednesday (May 10) | femslash | not allowed to dm (one/both) |
| Thursday (May 11) | use the word “obsequious” | namedrop someone we hate in public |
| Friday (May 12) | write for a fandom we’ve never written before | not allowed to dm (one/both) |
| Saturday (May 13) | write a minimum of 4000 words | write 300 words of iwaoi |
| Sunday (May 14) | aro: describe hands isy: describe eyes |
not allowed to dm (one/both) |
* feel free to edit/add new comments if more is written on the day; comments are meant to encapsulate everything that is written, not just the part that fulfills the prompt
** clarification - "not allowed to dm" is a punishment for the day after, not a preexisting condition
MONDAY, MAY 8
wherein eduardo is a chicken farmer (1/2)
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. Which hadn't even been his idea, still.
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.
Brazil 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 says something 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," he 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 Sao 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 Sao Paolo 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.
*
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 both the 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, turning back from the plasma screen TV.
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. "Who's ES?" he asks Chris.
"Someone important, apparently." Chris grins. "Someone Mark writes emails to."
"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 does know, 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.
wherein eduardo is a chicken farmer (2/2)
*
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--?"
Re: wherein eduardo is a chicken farmer (2/2)
(really i love this)
Re: wherein eduardo is a chicken farmer (2/2)
TUESDAY, MAY 9
sb3 fodder perhaps
The light in London is different when it’s grey. When Percy’s eyes finally open, they’re drawn to the dull yellow glow on his beige walls, elongated swathes of new colour where the morning sun catches the windowpanes, cut across with the moving shadows of the curtains. And in the corner by the window, a rainbow reflection, bright splotches of fiery red and orange, artificial yellows and greens, and indigo and violet so pale they’re barely there. Percy wishes he had a camera. He wishes he could paint. More than anything, he wishes he could stay in bed forever, until the rains come, and watch the way the light changes on the walls.
His therapist tells him to focus on the little things. He tells her he does focus on the little things. He’s always focusing on the little things, making sure he gets out of bed on the same side every morning and stepping around the cracks on busy city pavements. He’s even getting better at eating proper breakfast each morning, at brushing his teeth every night. She says that’s not what she means—it’s about appreciating the details of life, like the way the light plays across your bedroom in the early morning. It’s about realising that work isn’t and never was the be-all and end-all. The goal, she says, is living.
Well, Percy couldn’t go to work even if he wanted to. He’s on an enforced leave of absence. Minister Shacklebolt says he can’t return until November. It feels like years away. Percy had argued, and Shacklebolt had said, “Let me rephrase that. The Minister has no need of a Senior Assistant until November. You may resume your work as soon as I have need of you, and no sooner. Do you understand, Percy?”
He understood well enough. It’s what Shacklebolt doesn’t understand, what Percy’s therapist doesn’t understand, what his family will probably never understand. He never thought work was the most important thing in his life. He didn’t work because he loved it, because he couldn’t do anything else. He did it because it was what he was best at, and there’s never anything he’s loved so much as knowing he’s the one needed for the job.
It’s not so easy to place himself now, adrift with nothing to occupy his time but his own crushing guilt. There’s nothing for him to be the best at around his tiny flat. He can perform the same cleaning spells until there’s not a whiff of dust around, and he treat himself and go to the upmarket Muggle greengrocer around the block, he can come home and cook something he can’t even pronounce. But without anyone around to see it—
He’s never been a dependent person, never needed other people around to bolster his happiness. But he’s always hated being ignored.
At last, he gets out of bed. He walks to the window, and the light shrinks away from him like it’s been hexed, dimming to dull as clouds crowd over the sun. The street outside grows darker and a few drops of rain fall, pinpricks across the pavement. Great, knobbly oaks and sweeping acacias provide some shade to the red bricks and wrought iron. Someone’s car—navy, almost black—draws past, windscreen wipers lashing out harshly and the gentle rain. Passingly, Percy thinks, Arthur would know what kind of car that was.
Not that he’s spoken to Arthur yet. Since the funeral.
Actually, Percy hasn’t spoken to anyone since the funeral. He’s just stayed in bed and watched the light and pretended everything was fine and dandy, thank you very much. Today, though…
There’s a French-owned patisserie a short walk from his flat. Their raspberry tarts are better than any social contact. Percy gets dressed and showered quickly and tucks his wand into the deep pockets of his most faded jeans—passing for a Muggle, he walks out into the rain without an umbrella and he focuses on the little things, the lights that flash by with the traffic and their reflections off windows and the way the colour of the pavement changes when the rain falls, pooling in the cracks grown over with miniscule weeds, as Percy watches and takes care not to step on them, one step at a time.
Re: sb3 fodder perhaps
also i really like that his therapist told him to focus on little things and percy's immediate/natural response!!! SUCH AN INTJ
can't wait for u to continue this for sb3 >:)
Mirthful (1/?)
Eleanor wakes up with an unfamiliar feeling of needing to make herself smaller. This makes no sense, as she's small as it is, and her bed isn't manor-sized but it certainly isn't like those tiny ones she's seen on uni sites for dormitories before she got discovered just a few years ago. She scrunches her eyes; it's dreadfully early, judging by the dim overcast from her open windows. She turns on her side to go back to sleep.
And immediately crashes into a bare shoulder--another body in her bed.
Eleanor shrieks, jumping out, the waves of nausea immediately hitting her as she stands up. This is why she hates drinking--she doesn't know immediately in the morning that she's hungover, unlike most people. She stares at the weird tattooed (and admittedly fit) person lying in her bed, rolling over and groaning, "Come back to bed, babe, it's early."
"Who..." Eleanor starts, but as the guy turns over, Eleanor does recognize him. More than she'd admit, anyway; he's a fan, she supposes, but not like the creepy ones who send you threats disguised as gifts, but more the ones who spam your Instagram notifications with likes and come to every one of your shows and sometimes try to carry a conversation with you between bodyguards. And now he's lying in her bed, scratching his naked chest and squinting at her beneath the blue of the dawn light.
The not-quite stranger frowns, face falling at the sight of Eleanor's shock. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you forgot me after our first night together."
"Well, forgive me," Eleanor says, hesitantly climbing back into bed. "But I can't say that I'm used to waking up with strange boys in the morning." Neither of them are naked, at least. The guy's still got his jeans on and Eleanor is in a cami and pyjama pants, so maybe they didn't actually sleep together. Eleanor's not sure if she's ready for that type of drunken mistake yet.
"I sure hope not, I don't think I'm a strange boy," not-quite stranger says. He grins at her, though, something bright. "But since you asked, I will forgive you."
Eleanor rolls her eyes. "Right," she says. "Who are you again?"
Not-quite stranger clutches his chest dramatically. "So you did forget."
"Need I remind you I was hammered the night before," Eleanor says to him. It's strange to sit on her bed and carry what she presumes is pseudo pillowtalk at what has to be four in the morning, but even stranger in that it's comfortable the way the guy just grins.
"Weren't we all," he says. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't expect more from fashion show afterparties. I'm Louis, by the way."
"There we go," says Eleanor. "I'm Eleanor. As I'm sure you might know."
"Can't forget," Louis says cheerfully. "Can't forget a face like yours."
His hand twitches like he wants to touch her cheek, or brush his hair, but he doesn't do either of those things. Eleanor doesn't know why she thinks this.
"Well," says Eleanor, and glances precariously at her bedroom door. As much as she really doesn't mind the warmth of Louis being in her bed--he takes up space, but not in a way that makes her feel like she can't take up her own space--it's still. Weird. People don't do this. She doesn't do this.
Louis sighs like he knows what she's thinking. "I suppose this is the part where you tell me to run my arse to my house and pretend like this never happened and we'll never see each other again?"
Eleanor's stomach turns. Not because of the hangover - well, likely a little bit because of the hangover - but she's a nice girl, and if she kind of likes the weird, space-sharing feeling of someone else in her bed, then what's wrong with that? Louis doesn't send her weird convoluted letters (not that she knows of, anyway), just attends her shows and stares at her too long like a normal person. Like he's doing now.
Eleanor gives into temptation and says, "Or we can go back to sleep and talk about this at a normal time," and Louis's face absolutely lights up despite the dusk in the room.
"Also an excellent idea. I like the way you think," he says, and shifts to give her room.
For someone who Eleanor knows is obsessed with her, he is weirdly polite with not touching her, and giving her so much of the bed that he honestly looks like he's going to fall off. "Oh, come closer," Eleanor says, tugging at his bare elbow so he's at least occupying half the bed. "We don't have to spoon but you can still rest."
"Hush, I can't think about the hypothetical idea of spooning you right now," Louis mutters, and his cheeks actually darken at this that Eleanor is fascinated. She kind of wants to find out how she can do it again.
She props her elbow on her pillow and her head on her hand. "And also," she says to the back of Louis's head. "We didn't sleep together last night, did we? Because you don't seem the type, but I could be wrong."
Louis peeks over his shoulder. "The type to what?"
"To take advantage of me," says Eleanor.
Louis rushes to turn around, shaking his head rapidly and blinking. "Oh, no, I would never--I mean, I ought not to assume that you would just believe me, but I--wouldn't."
He's so earnest and Eleanor doesn't trust guys right away, she really doesn't, especially when she wakes up with them--but this is the first time it's happened and Eleanor wants to like him, to give him a chance. "Okay," she says, watching his face as, in the first rays of the early dawn, some relief comes into his eyes. Not all, but she's not sure if that's because she doesn't sound like she believes him or if he's not convinced that he'd done a good job of saying so. "Because I've never--it's never happened before, so, you never know."
"You don't, that's right," Louis says, nodding vehemently. "If it's any consolation, I sure hope that if I sleep with--anyone," he coughs slightly, "I would be wearing slightly less the morning after." He gestures to his much more covered lower half, which Eleanor laughs at.
"Yes, I feel like even if we did then we must've been doing it wrong," she says, looking down at her own clothes.
This time Louis seems more relaxed. "Yes," he agrees, tilting his head towards her. "Shall we sleep like normal hungover teenagers and deal with the aftermath when we're supposed to be awake?"
"Gladly," says Eleanor, turning in.
*
When Eleanor opens her eyes again, she's expecting it a bit more to see the curve of Louis's bare shoulder, the half of some strange tattoo on his upper arm. They're stark in the morning light, and her eyes trace the black marks, wondering what's on the other half. He's snoring softly, and she rolls on her back, blinking up at the dust motes swirling, trying to evaluate her situation. So there's a fit bloke in her bed whom she hadn't had sex with--which at this point she knows, because she remembers the rest of last night now, Taylor and Selena catcalling when she'd drunkenly introduced him to everyone, Karlie telling them that they were too wasted to properly party, talking and mumbling between them as Louis insisted that he had to go home and Eleanor insisted that he should stay over because it was too late even though she'd just really like how warm he'd been in the car ride over. He's a fan--still a stranger, really, and Eleanor stares at the glowish tan of his skin and wonders what she's getting herself into.
Someone who sleeps like the dead, apparently, since Eleanor gets up to get a cup of tea and stumbles over her comforter and crashes to the floor. "Oops," she mutters to herself, but when she looks up, Louis is sound asleep. Something's wrong with him, she decides, as she heads to her apartment kitchen.
Her roommate isn't in yet, probably from last night's party, so Eleanor shuffles with all the noise she wants as she waits for the water to boil and pours two cups of tea. It's ten in the morning, a Saturday, and all Eleanor wants to do is nap and shop. Or shop and then nap.
She goes back into her room with both mugs of tea and stares at Louis's still unconscious body. Best not to wake a sleeping stranger, so she grabs her laptop from her bedside, puts both mugs down, and browses Pinterest while drinking her own tea and trying to ignore how domestic this feels.
About an hour later is when Louis stirs, and Eleanor gets his mug and holds it in his face with one hand, scrolling with another. "Wha?" Louis mumbles, kind of adorably, sunlight against sunlight.
Eleanor pretends she isn't looking at him from the corner of her eye, still clicking on her laptop. "Good morning," she says.
Louis stares, and then blinks at her. "Am I dreaming?"
Eleanor pauses this time. "Did you forget our whole conversation from earlier?" she says, and then bumps his shoulder with her mug. "And also I made you tea."
"You're an angel," Louis says, taking it. "And what conversation?" He sips the tea before making a face. "Ugh. It's cold. I take that back."
"The conversation we had last night," Eleanor says, and then, "I mean, this morning. Where you told me we hadn't slept together and you'd said that if we did you'd want to be wearing less clothes."
Louis crawls out of Eleanor's bed and makes his way down the hallway. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember saying that! Also," he pokes his head back in. "Where's your kitchen?"
Eleanor rolls her eyes and closes her laptop, following him out and leading him to the microwave. "Want me to warm it up?" she offers, but Louis makes a face and shakes his head.
"What are you, an animal? We're boiling another kettle of water."
"This is my apartment," Eleanor reminds him.
Louis sends her a cheeky grin. "Please," he adds.
Eleanor scoffs, but a smile is fighting its way onto her face. "Since you asked so nicely," she replies, and turns on the stove. "I didn't realize I'd spent my evening with a tea snob."
"And I didn't realize you, Eleanor Calder, fashion model extraordinaire, were so uncultured in the world of tea," Louis fires back. "I must educate you, clearly."
Eleanor laughs, big and bright as the midday sun shines through the kitchen light. "Oh, clearly," she says.
Louis's grin has dopey for some reason, and his eyes are soft on her, fond. "It seems like it."
"And don't tell me you actually forgot the first time we woke up," Eleanor says. "It was an enlightening conversation. I basically told you I'm a virgin."
Louis chokes on his tea. "Um," he says. "Well I was fucking with you, but I don't think you told me that."
"I might as well have," Eleanor says, shrugging.
Louis averts his eyes, staring pointedly at his tea as he takes a sip again. "I'm not sure how to reply, honestly," he tells his tea. "Congratulations? I hope when you have your first time, it's good? Use protection?"
"Well, first of all, you can talk to me instead of your tea," Eleanor says, and when Louis meets her gaze he blushes. It's strangely enthralling. "Second of all, it's not something I particularly care about. It's just. Y'know." She shrugs again.
Louis shrugs, as if to mimic her. "I do know," he says, not sounding sure of himself.
Eleanor cocks her head. "Have you?"
"Well," Louis says, loudly. "I suppose it's how you define it. There was the time I snogged one of my best mates, Zayn--"
"Snogging doesn't count," says Eleanor, ignoring the twinge of jealousy from somewhere in her middle.
"And also I suppose me and a mate may have fondled each other once in the boys' locker room after PE," says Louis. "You know. Lads."
Despite herself, Eleanor snorts. "I'd say it counts."
"Cheers." Louis gestures with his mug.
He begins to drink from it again, but his eyes drift to the clock on Eleanor's microwave and he swallows so fast it looks painful. "Shit! Is that really the time?"
"No, none of my clocks are aligned and I have the wrong time on all of my devices," Eleanor says, watching as Louis sets his tea down and runs back to her bedroom. She follows. "Have a date?"
"I was supposed to be babysitting this morning," Louis grumbles, wrangling his shirt on. "Where are the fucking sleeves on this thing?"
Eleanor puts her mug on the nightstand and helps Louis get his shirt on proper--or tries to, anyway, as Louis looks like he's spasming for a long moment until the shirt is on, somehow. "Mum's going to kill me," Louis moans, as Eleanor quickly finds his wallet that had fallen on the ground and hands it to him.
Eleanor pats him on the shoulder. "I'll be sure to attend your funeral," she says. "'Here lies Louis, virginity taken by a locker room handjob.'"
"That would make an excellent eulogy, I approve."
Louis is making his way out of her apartment--Eleanor would tell him how to get out, but he seems far too rushed to even consider it. "I'm glad to get your blessing," she calls. "Even though I don't know your last name!"
Louis turns around from where he's halfway sprinting down the hall. "Tomlinson!" he calls back. "And I'll see you at your next show!"
Eleanor watches as he races to the elevator, pushes a button near twenty times, and then runs down the stairwell instead. He's an interesting one--he's more than an interesting one, and Eleanor genuinely hopes he comes to her next show.
Well, she doesn't have much doubts. He always leaves a comment on her Instagram photos when he doesn't.
Mirthful (2/?)
Eleanor rolls her eyes and looks up from her computer. "Why don't you knock anymore?" she complains. "I thought we were friends."
"We are friends, that's why I don't knock," Danielle says cheerfully. She puts her feet in Eleanor's lap. "Ready for Thursday's show?"
Eleanor moans and lies across Danielle's calves. "Please don't remind me, I think Miguel is trying to torture me," she says. "It's not that I don't like wearing black, but there's always so much black--"
"You look good in black," Danielle says, as if that would reassure Eleanor anymore. She drags a flyaway strand of Eleanor's hair and readjusts it so her hair's not spread on all of Danielle's bare legs. "Selena told me you brought a bloke home over the weekend, by the way."
Eleanor lifts up and glares. "You gossiping vixens," she accuses.
"That's us," Danielle says with a smirk. "So? Who's the lad? Did you snog him good? Oh," her smirk turns feline, "did you shag him good?"
Eleanor hits her leg and laughs. "I'm not that kind of girl, Peazer, you know that," she says.
"Well I am," says Danielle, grinning. "At least tell me his name."
"I won't so you can't stalk him on Instagram."
Danielle laughs. "Oh, fuck off."
Eleanor whacks her again and then sits back up, going back to her computer. "No, he was... nice. He was nice."
Danielle raises an eyebrow. "Just nice?"
"He's fit! What more do you want me to say?" Eleanor rolls her eyes and pretends very hard that her cheeks aren't warm. Maybe Danielle won't notice. "It was new, I s'pose. I dunno. I was super trashed."
"I'd imagine," says Danielle. "Did you snog him at least? It's been ages since you've been on a date, El."
"Because I'm not really interested in going on dates, Dani." Eleanor kicks the bottom of her foot and Danielle squawks indignantly. "And no, I didn't snog him. Like I said, I'm not that kind of--"
"Not that kind of girl, yeah, yeah," Danielle says, waving her off and trying to kick Eleanor back, only managing to get air since Eleanor curls up tight on the other side of the couch. "By which you mean you are a boring boring prude."
"Hey!"
"Such a boring prude." Danielle snickers, and then reaches over from where she'd plopped her purse on the floor in front of the couch and reaches for her home. "Cheryl out on a gig today?"
"Are you asking so you can wait around to hit on her?" Eleanor says dryly.
"I don't hit, I pull." Danielle sits up, gesticulating with her shoulders in an obnoxious motion. Eleanor laughs. "At least one of us knows how to get the ladies, Ellie."
"Yeah, yeah," Eleanor says, pretending louist91's Instagram isn't open on her computer.
*
Eleanor hadn't really decided to be a model - her Instagram's been full of the vainest selfies since she's had an account, which is almost when Instagram came out, and she knows how to make herself look pretty, not just in her makeup and outfit but in the way she stands, walks, steels her expression in front of a lens or someone else. It's not easy, she'd say, but then she's seen some pretty atrocious pics on the internet and has to remind herself that they're just selfies, even if some people don't know how to pose proper for shit.
She'd been discovered when she was fifteen and posting something from a changing room in Charlotte Russe. Only a month later and she'd been signed to a management, moved into the city, and plonked into an apartment with a roommate.
And most girls go through America's Next Top Model. Good thing Eleanor's not American.
Eleanor's always been relatively good at handling her finances and herself on her own, even though it can get lonely and strangely like missing a limb when she turns around and her mum and dad aren't there to help. She likes being seventeen and feeling like she's twenty-five; on the other hand, she is seventeen.
So the next day when her phone buzzes loudly by her ear, Eleanor is in her graceless seventeen-year old form, hair mussed in front of her face as she groans out, "Hello?" Danielle and Cheryl are splayed on the couch; Eleanor had passed out on the ground.
"Ellie? Where the hell are you?" Miguel screeches into her ear. "You have a shoot today, love, or did you forget like a half-wit?"
"I might be a half-wit," Eleanor grunts, picking herself up from the ground and yawning. "What time is it?"
"Half past noon, you're already a whole hour late! Why aren't you checking your texts? Did you just wake up?"
"No, no, of course not," Eleanor says in a tone that she is pretty sure obviously suggests otherwise. "I'm coming, I'm out, I'm on my way--"
"Well get here, darling, the golf courts aren't going to wait forever!"
Miguel promptly hangs up on her, and Eleanor stares at her phone. Then she looks over at Danielle, who seems to have subconsciously draped herself over Cheryl in her sleep. Or maybe not subconsciously.
"Dani," Eleanor says.
"Hm?" Danielle grunts.
"I hate you."
"Love you too El," Danielle says without opening an eye.
Eleanor rushes through her morning routine, brushing her teeth while getting a sock on and spraying her hair so it at least smells shampooed. Her life isn't easy, but she supposed she asked for it--or she asked her parents, since she's technically not old enough to make that sort of judgment, and her parents had given her permission. No one sees her an adult, but everyone sees her as an adult anyway--and she's perfectly fine with being a seventeen-year old country-famous model, because at least she can afford those Jimmy Choos that came out last week.
She calls a car and peeks out the window--fog and grey sky hang heavy in the air, and it's still spring so it's pretty chilly. She'll need a jacket, but her favorite bomber is nowhere to be found, and near everything else is in the laundry. She's pretty sure she has a grey peacoat, but she can't find it anywhere.
"What the fuck," she mutters as she throws around the clothes strewn on her floor. It seems like every time she tries to find a particular piece of clothing, she can find everything else except for the exact one she's looking for. There's a black hoodie in her piles and it'll have to do for now, so she grabs it and then back in the hall her purse that she had packed, then heads out of the flat.
"Love you!" she calls over her shoulder, and gets two answering groans in response.
*
Miguel is not happy. Neither are the people from Lacoste, who look like they're ready to model the clothes themselves instead of waiting for Eleanor.
"I'm here, I'm here," Eleanor says as she disembarks the golf cart before it's even fully stopped. She straightens the pink polo shirt she'd been wrangled into, and the white bermuda shorts that she'd shoved on so fast that they've kind of wrinkled.
Miguel frowns at her. "You're lucky it's been raining all morning, Ellie," he says, adjusting her collar. "Where in the world have you been?"
"Stuff," says Eleanor, which they both know is code for 'I got drunk with my friends last night and forgot I had a photoshoot the next day.'
The director, despite the scowl on his face, begins getting Eleanor into place, giving her caddy bags or golf clubs as props - and Eleanor knows her share of golf, but there's such an array of caddy bags that it feels kind of ridiculous being stood next to them to determine which set looks the best with her, changing the golf clubs in each for the sake of aesthetic. Eleanor hadn't been looking forward to this shoot in the first place, because it's not fun like Nike or Cartier or Marc Jacobs. Not that there's anything wrong with Lacoste--it's just fucking golf.
At three thirty they go on break, and Eleanor tugs the hoodie that she'd brought in the golf cart over her head and squats on the grass, going through her phone. Cheryl's left her some texts:
can y bring cereal when y come back
also some milk
soy!!!
Im on it. tell dani 2 stop spamming my instagram notifciatons
Eleanor goes to Twitter, because it's more interesting; sometimes she does free follows, because her life is boring and a lot of her fans are high schoolers, even though it does make her feel a tad creepy scrolling through her timeline. Whatever, they followed her first.
She takes a brief selfie and posts it with a caption: Golf shoots are boooooooring, smiling fondly at her own fake pout as it posts to her account. She's signed and still getting paid, but that doesn't mean she's not allowed to whinge. Plus it's not even slander when she didn't mention Lacoste or anything. Though she's not sure if that's what slander actually is. Taylor is weirdly knowledgeable about law, maybe she can tell her later.
Miguel calls for her again, and Eleanor takes the hoodie off and puts her phone away again. Golf shoots are boring; she'll treat herself to Indian for dinner tonight.
Mirthful (3/?)
Of course, it's not the only thing she's wearing, but it's the belle of the ball, this dress. At least her uncomfortable sequined top (and leotard underneath--Eleanor doesn't mind her legs, but sometimes she's convinced that Miguel and everyone else sees something that she doesn't, aside from how scrawny and bendy they look) is fun and doesn't look like a she's going to a fucking funeral.
"I'd rather be caught dead in this than in that," Eleanor's saying to Selena as they hang out backstage, Eleanor staring reproachfully at the black dress. She's wearing the sequined top already. Her mum's surely going to send her some joke text about how she looks like a circus in it or something.
"I think that would negate the point of you going to a funeral," Selena says, taking out the pins of her swishy princessy dress. "Oh, wait, no! You're the one people are going to a funeral for."
"That sounds about right," Eleanor says dryly as her hair stylist puts her hair up in a tight bun. Her makeup artist dabs the corner of her mouth where her lipstick as slightly smudged, and Eleanor keeps her mouth shut.
This allows Selena the opportunity to roll her eyes and tell her, "Whatever. You're the one who's being dramatic. You weren't like this when you brought that guy to the party last week."
"Probably because I had six glasses of gin and tonic."
Eleanor ignores the disapproving look on her makeup artist's face as Selena says, "No, it's because you had a boy with you, girl."
"Pretty sure it was the drinks," Eleanor says.
"You girls," says Eleanor's makeup artist, who is a sweet but strict-looking woman named Lucinda. "All your partying and gossiping will only lead to bad things."
"That is until Eleanor goes on a date!" Selena says, before flouncing out of the room.
"Hey!" Eleanor says after her, but Selena's already disappeared, since she's sooner to be on the catwalk next.
Eleanor huffs. There are twelve of them mainly under this young ladies' management: herself, Cheryl, Danielle, Selena, Taylor, a girl named Ariana that Eleanor likes but disappears too much for Eleanor to actually get to know her, and several other girls that are Taylor and Selena's friends that Eleanor hasn't really talked to much. Which doesn't say anything, anyway, since Taylor is friends with pretty much everyone and Selena is her best friend. Or that tall blond girl Eleanor always sees hanging off Taylor's arm but whom Eleanor hasn't really talked to much is.
Oh, and there's Gigi. But everyone knows her because she's actually the world famous model in the young ladies' group of their agency.
Eleanor likes being surrounded by so many girls, because if there's any competition in the room, it's who occupies the changing room bathroom the longest; and there's no energy for any of them to really get upset with each other when they're all young and working their arses off every day. Eleanor struts her stuff in the sequined top, then some skirt reminiscent of a renaissance painting, then a jacket with a very gauche pink zebra print back, then a hugely woolen thick sweater with tights, then the fucking funeral dress. Each of their agents today had them finish off with something black and serious, so by the end of it, Eleanor is stuffed backstage with eleven other girls who also look like they're going to a funeral.
"I changed my mind, you were right," Selena's saying, as Ariana twirls in her dress. She's the luckiest because she has the shortest dress out of all of them, but she's also the shortest. "We do look super depressing."
"See?" Eleanor says, squeezing by Gigi to grab at her purse. "We belong at a morgue."
"Morgue fashion shows," Ariana pipes up. "That could be a new thing."
Danielle snorts. "Don't get your hopes up, Ari," she says from where she's clutching Cheryl's hand and trying to get them out. "I don't think morticians would let us do that."
"They could if we asked," Ariana says hopefully.
"Who'd ask?" Cheryl says. "I wouldn't."
The party today is at Taylor's blond friend's house--Karlie, Eleanor picks up as they move around in a swarm of conversation and part eagerness, part tiredness. Danielle has claimed Cheryl into her car, so Eleanor is traveling to Karlie's house mostly alone, meaning with her bodyguard, still in her funeral-ish dress.
All of them pile out backstage and into the sizeable parking garage, talking amongst themselves--Ariana now trying to figure out the practicality of hosting a fashion show at a morgue, while Cheryl and Danielle try to discourage her from it and Eleanor going, "Well I'm not doing it, I hate wearing this dress as it is." Then the other girls are telling her how pretty she looks, which Eleanor rolls her eyes at and whacks Taylor on the arm for especially when Taylor makes a comment about her arse. She doesn't mind, but it's still Taylor.
As Eleanor and her bodyguard get to her car, they hear someone behind them shout, "Eleanor!" Eleanor looks over her shoulder to see a masculine figure running towards them into the night. Some of the other girls have glanced over to see what's going on.
"Miss Calder," her bodyguard says warningly.
But Eleanor says, "No, it's alright. I know who that is."
"Are you sure, Miss Calder?"
"Yes," Eleanor says, especially when Louis gets closer, panting and out of breath, hands on his knees once he reaches them.
"Sor... ry..." he gets out. "Didn't know where you'd be after the show; I had to figure out after you left."
"It's alright," Eleanor says easily, amused.
Louis straightens up. The parking garage is lit bright; but even if it weren't Eleanor is sure she'd be able to see his grin. "How many rules did you break to find me?" she asks.
Louis laughs and rubs his hands on his knees. "I'm not sure if I should answer that," he says. "In case that gets me thrown out in the future."
"I promise I won't tell," Eleanor teases.
"Well, I'd definitely say that I broke at least one," Louis says. He's cracking his thumb knuckles like he's anxious, and Eleanor wonders what it would be like for his thumbs to stroke over the back of her palm. "Um. Excellent show today, by the way."
"Are you giving me compliments so I'll take you home again?"
"I would never do such a thing," Louis says, though not with enough false-offended conviction that Eleanor isn't sure how serious or joking he is.
"Well," says Eleanor, giving in anyway. "There is another party tonight. And since we had such fun last time..."
The smile spreads across Louis's face again. "Are you inviting me to your home, Miss Calder?" he says, in an over the top voice.
Eleanor laughs. "The party's not at my home, if that's what you're asking."
"Indeed it is," says Louis. Then he peers at the watch on his wrist. "I can't stay too long, I'm afraid. I have classes tomorrow."
"Ah yes," Eleanor says, as she begins to get into her limo. "The normal teenage life."
"Which I'm sure you know all about," Louis says, joining her. "With your Twitter updates about golf and all."
Eleanor laughs again, feeling giddy around his presence and slightly lightheaded that he'd even seen her Twitter update from a few days ago. "What, you saw that?"
"Of course," Louis says, then seems to catch himself. "I mean," he says, loftily. "I was just checking my Twitter feed the other day and happened to see your update."
"Nice recovery," Eleanor says cheekily.
"I didn't know you were doing a line for golf anyway," Louis says. "I must get my hands on a copy when it comes out."
Eleanor raises an eyebrow. "You don't do that already?"
"Hush, hush," Louis says without looking at her. Eleanor's certain he's blushing, but that may be the lightning in the limousine. It's started going already, and Eleanor realizes that she's alone with him in this dark, sort of sexy car. She tries not to think too much about it.
"I meant specifically golf," Louis is saying. "Golfing with the lads, you know."
Eleanor laughs. "Is that what you do instead of going to Nando's?"
"Oh, lord, Niall would hate that," Louis says to himself. "No. I mean, yes. I mean, I suppose if I had a choice. Nando's is lovely and all, but golf." He clenches his fist. "Now there's a sport."
"You actually like golf?" Eleanor says, raising her eyebrows. "I'd assumed it was just all men and dads pretending that they were doing something fun while talking about how much money is in their bank."
"You offend me," Louis says, only seeming mildly offended. "I don't have any money at all, and I adore it."
"You must be doing something wrong then."
Louis puts a hand up to her face, which loses its effect when he's so clearly laughing even when he's turned his face away. "Don't talk to me," he says. Then, "Actually," putting his hand down, "next time you go to a golf course, allow me to come along and I'll show you how it's done."
"What," Eleanor says. "Posing for bermuda shorts?"
"No, enjoying golf," says Louis. He pauses. "Though I'm sure you look great in bermuda shorts, too," he adds, earning an elbow from Eleanor.
*
They get their way to Karlie's place which soon enough is a mess much like last time, though Eleanor doesn't have half as many drinks as last time and protests rightfully when Danielle calls, "Leave Eleanor and her boy alone! They need some alone time!" which only just makes everyone smirk at her and Louis despite anyone else's better judgment. Louis doesn't seem bothered at all, as in doesn't try to take advantage of the opportunity. He and Eleanor play FIFA on Karlie's big flat screen TV, and throw back three more shots in the kitchen when Cheryl comes over and declares that she wants a sandwich.
Eleanor eyes the lipstick marks on her neck. "You and Dani were snogging, weren't you," she says.
Cheryl sticks her nose up in the air as she spreads marmalade on a piece of toast. "A lady doesn't kiss and tell," she says, which answers Eleanor's question anyway.
"If you bring her home, don't be too loud," Eleanor tells her.
Cheryl gestures at Louis, who is balancing all six shots in some sort of triangle formation. "I'd say the same for you."
"He can't stay over," says Eleanor. "He has to go before the night's done."
Cheryl rolls her eyes and sticks her sandwich in her mouth. "Whatever you say, El," she says, trouncing out of the room.
Eleanor watches her go until Louis says, "There," pulling back and gesturing to his pyramid of shot glasses with some pride. "Art," he says to Eleanor.
Eleanor knocks them over and laughs when Louis shouts indignantly. "Art," she says, mocking him.
Louis pouts at her. "I'd say I hate you," he says, "except I don't. It just makes me like you even more when you're mean to me."
Eleanor giggles. "You're a, what's it called," she says, pointing. "A masochist."
"Maybe I am," Louis says, nudging her with her shoulder. "Maybe I am a masochist. Why do I like your personality so much?" He genuinely looks sad as he says this, staring right into her eyes. "Why do you have to have a personality that I like, too? Why can't you be boring?"
"I am boring," Eleanor says. "I am terribly, terribly boring."
"You're terribly, terribly not," Louis says. He's still looking deep into her eyes, his own a clear, and with the alcohol a bright blue that makes Eleanor feel rooted to the spot, forgetting how to breathe for a moment.
Eleanor leans in before he does. She knows it.
His lips are soft against her own, and still and surprised at first. It's a matter of time before he's kissing back, one of his hands at the side of her face, clutching her cheek. Thumb pressing and brushing against her cheekbone like she had been thinking of before.
Eleanor tugs back by the smallest amount. "Sorry," she says, because she feels bad--she likes him so much, and he likes her so much, maybe more, and--it doesn't feel fair in some way. She doesn't know why. Maybe it's because Louis doesn't know how much she actually likes him, looks forward to seeing his face in the crowd like she had done today, wants to stay in this world of leaning against Karlie's kitchen island and kissing so softly that Eleanor's not even sure if it's real.
But then Louis says, "I've been thinking about doing that for ages," and then Eleanor can't hold back anymore, because he's warm and on this edge of rough and she slides her tongue into his mouth, making a little whimpering sound when he sucks on it. He groans back against her, a bit of stubble brushing against her chin, and her hand is on the backside of his waist. She feels so warm all over that she's cold, pressing more into him, wanting to be wrapped up into his heat and her own--
"Is there any more--oh."
Taylor's voice breaks the spell, breaks the tightness in Eleanor's chest, just for a second. She pulls away from Louis before he reacts, and says, "What's up," to Taylor as if her lips don't feel bruised from all the kissing.
Taylor looks amused. "I was going to ask if there's any tequila left, but I found it," she says, wrapping her hands around the bottle and lifting it up. "Carry on."
She whisks herself away from the room, leaving Louis and Eleanor alone again. Louis looks slightly dazed. Eleanor stares at her hands.
"That was, um," she says. She brings her gaze up to Louis's again. "Sorry. I was drunk."
Something fades on Louis's expression. "That's fine," he says, his tone more easygoing than his eyes. "As long as you don't regret it, right?"
Eleanor deflates from relief. "Right," she says, smiling up at him. "I don't." She grips his elbow again, pressing into his space. "I really didn't regret it," she says, tilting her chin up in what she's hoping is a welcoming manner.
Louis's eyes scan over her face; but it's for another moment before he's smiling again too. "Okay," he says, drawing their mouths together again.
*
The night ends much too early for Eleanor's liking. It's only one am before Louis says that he should go, and then without him the party feels so much more boring than it was before. Eleanor sits on the living room floor watching Cheryl and Danielle playing FIFA, touching her lips over and over again, not quite feeling back in her body.
Mirthful (4/5)
*
She gets a message from an unknown number two days later while she's jogging, and pauses to frown at the text.
;) ;) ;)))
Eleanor's about to delete the message and block the number, when a few other texts comes in.
This is louis!!! I nabbed your phone # the other night
Wasn't sure to message you the day right after so I waited a day
Thats the rule right?
Eleanor's bright laugh echoes around the block. She grins, mildly disappointed in herself that she hadn't thought to exchange numbers with Louis earlier. Or even ask for his - it's not desperate, really, of either of them, if they're just mates or whatever. Who've stuck their tongues down each other's throat. Louis had snogged his one friend before; who knows.
She ignores the giddiness in her chest and something that sounds like Danielle's voice going doesn't sound like 'just mates' to me, El and responds.
Yes u fckin weirdo thats the rule wait 1 day after u steal a girls number to text her
Someone's sassy ovr text
Eleanor peers down the block, and the distance away from her apartment. She lives right at the edge of the city; and after having seen Louis off the other day, she knows he lives in one of the suburban areas right outside of town. She could put the conversation to rest and keep on jogging - but a part of her knows that she doesn't want to, she won't, so she begins to make the trek back as she types out a reply.
Perhps u wouldv figured this out if u had txtd me earlier
Aw did u miss me ;)
Lst time i saw u u were tlling me how my roomies shoes look pukable
In all fairness I was very drunk
Cheryl's been spending the past couple of nights with Danielle, which Eleanor is happy for but she figures she should also call sometime to make sure that they haven't dropped off the face of the earth. On the other hand, if she doesn't, she has plausible deniability if Cheryl's agent comes knocking and asks her where she is.
Eleanor toes her shoes off and goes to make some tea, leaning against the counter and trying to figure out what to say to not let the conversation with Louis peter off. She saves his number in her phone, adding a little :) where the last name would be, before she can change her mind.
U dont hav to tell me. Also why am i so cold :(
Cuz ur a cold woman!!!!!!!
Jk jk go put a jumper on dummy
Eleanor rolls her eyes. What is it with Louis's texts that make her want to smile uncontrollably?
The hoodie from the golf fiasco - and, honestly, from the past week that she's been wearing it almost every evening - is sitting on the couch, so she pulls it over her head and snuggles into it. She doesn't quite remember where she bought it; but then again, she doesn't remember half of her closet anyway.
Jumper on. what r u doing?
Is this what the kids call 'sexting'
jk jk again!!!! JUst babysitting
Louis's messages come in such quick succession that Eleanor is still blinking at the mention of sexting even after Louis's second text has come through. She tries not to think about it too much (what she knows Louis looks like half-naked, what he might look like fully naked) and triees to reply like a normal person.
Who do u babysit?
Sisters :) I have 4, wanna see?
The attachment of Louis with four young girls crowding around his phone camera (one pulling on his hair) that Eleanor's chest feels warm and tries to tell herself that she and Louis are mates, again.
*
Somehow the first instance of texting leads to a daily banter, whether it's Eleanor at another photoshoot or doing a fashion spread, or Louis in his history class or being teased by his friends at high school lunch. It still feels foreign to Eleanor that Louis is in high school, even though they're both seventeen and should be at the same stages of their lives. Then again, Eleanor supposes that she's the odd one out in this situation.
At one point in the next few weeks, Eleanor is texting Louis in the middle of the day when his typing style suddenly changes tack. Eleanor frowns at her phone for a solid five minutes.
My baby carrots are like our babies and make me think of you, says the most recent text.
And they were talking about the atrocities of Louis's high school lunch food, but this is just on a whole different level. Eleanor doesn't know what to say - it's not even the same as when she feels flushed from Louis, now she's just confused and wondering if Louis's typical idiotic arse has been replaced by another, more idiotic one.
Then, another text:
My name is Louis and I have a fine arse, want to check it out? ;)
Beginning to suspect what's going on, Eleanor rolls her eyes and rings him up instead. Clearly this conversation is going nowhere.
She's answered by the noise of a large crowd and what sounds like chaos. "Is this what high school sounds like?" she asks, to whomever is closest to the phone.
"Louis! Lou! What should I - oh," says a girl's voice, sort of deep and slow and close to the phone. "I've accidentally picked it up."
"Good job Harriet," says what is definitely Louis's voice, getting closer now. "Give it to me."
"No, wait, I want to talk to her," says - Harriet? Then next to her ear, slow girl's voice says, "Hi Eleanor, it's me, Louis's friend Harry. I wanted to say hello because - "
"Give it here!" shouts Louis's voice on the other end.
" - there's no fucking way Louis got your number and is texting you all day when you're a - "
"Really," chimes in another girl's voice. "Eleanor Calder is a supermodel, and have you seen our Louis? Not the type of bloke a girl would - "
"Not that any of us would see him, though," Harry points out to the other girl. "Really."
"Fair," says the other girl.
Eleanor waits, but apparently both of these girls are done. She doesn't know what happened to Louis, though she can still hear his voice somewhere in the background.
"Hi," Eleanor says, finally. "Um. I am Eleanor Calder? I don't know how I would prove myself to you, but, um, I appreciate the kind words."
There's another silence - or at least, as much silence that can be in what sounds like a high school cafeteria. Eleanor herself is eating a microwave lunch in her kitchen. Cheryl had come in for two nights and then left again yesterday, with Danielle again. Eleanor's heard all about a honeymoon phase.
"No way," says Harry's voice again. "There's no fucking way - Zayn?"
"Yeah?" says another girl's voice. Are all of Louis's friends really girls? Eleanor's heart lurches at the familiar name - the girl Louis had snogged at least one time, apparently.
"Is this Eleanor Calder's voice?" says Harry's friend.
Zayn sounds mildly offended when she says, "How d'you expect me to know?"
"Well you do all that fashion shit - "
"Give it here, this is my phone," says Louis's voice again, and then suddenly his voice is much closer like he's holding his phone again. "And by the way, I know more about Eleanor Calder than any of you," he says to his friends, before he's closer to the mouthpiece to say, "Hi."
"Um," Eleanor says bewildered. "Why don't your friends think I'm really me?"
Louis sighs. "Because I may or may not talk about you all the time."
Eleanor can't help it - this whole conversation has kind of been an out of body experience that a laugh bursts out of her.
Louis, appropriately, says, "Don't laugh," but Eleanor says, "How can I not? You lot've been talking about me like I'm not even on the other end of the line."
"Put her on speaker!" says fourth girl's voice this time, bright and tinny. "We need to compare!"
"And also 'cause I want to say hi!" says Harry's voice.
"You already said hi," says her friend.
"Ugh," Louis says, but does accordingly that the sound of the high school cafeteria explodes into her ear. "El, say hi to my friends, Harry, Liam, Zayn, and Niall."
"You know I don't know who you're talking about if I can't see them, right?" Eleanor says.
"I'm Harry," says Harry.
Eleanor chuckles. "I've got that - you, already, thank you."
"I'm Niall!"
"I'm Liam."
"Zayn."
"So there," Louis says, sounding put upon but amused. "Happy? All of you?"
"With you?" says Zayn's voice. "Never." But then there's a loud smacking noise, and what Eleanor thinks might be the one called Niall giggling, and Zayn going, "Hey."
"All my friends are lesbians," Louis says quickly, into the phone. "In case you need the. Ahem. Assurance of anything."
"Very smooth," says what might be Liam's voice.
Eleanor's blushing and wishes she wasn't, even if it's not evident over the phone. "Thanks," she tries to say as wryly as she can. "I feel very assured."
"I still can't tell if it's really her," Niall is complaining again. Somewhere in the background Eleanor can hear something that sounds like her own voice - not an echo, but like someone's listening to a recording of her on the other end.
"Which one are you - oh, that one," Louis says, and then his voice is angled off from the phone. Eleanor smiles even though this isn't a real conversation, really. "The Vogue one is good, watch that one - "
"Are your friends comparing videos of me to our phone call?" Eleanor says.
"You know what," says Liam. "I'm convinced. Hi, Eleanor. I hope you don't hate us too much."
"I wouldn't hate Louis's friends," Eleanor says honestly, and Liam says, "Ooh, does this mean you like - "
"Don't finish that sentence Payno or I'll pour juice into your pasta," Louis warns.
Harry says, "Well I'm still not convinced!" and Louis tells her, "I absolutely loathe you. Loathe you."
"I don't loathe you," comes Liam's voice.
The sound of high school gets cut off and drowned out again, suddenly Louis's voice big and close to Eleanor's ear again. "So those are my friends," says Louis. "Sorry if it was kind of - "
"No, it was fine," Eleanor says earnestly. "Really, I'm - glad to meet your friends."
"Are you sure about that," Louis says, and Eleanor laughs.
*
Eleanor's next show is on Saturday. This show's theme is focused on color, which Eleanor is grateful for after the morbidity from last week not to mention the mild existential crisis Ariana had inflicted upon all of them. Eleanor's favorite has to be a massive, ornate peacock-inspired dress with an obnoxious collar and a feathery belt that hangs off her nonexistent hips. The first time Eleanor tries it on she laughs so hard that there are tears; Miguel would have berated her if he hadn't been laughing too.
She mentions it in one of her texts to Louis during the week - Nxt show is gonna b inSAne, i luv this dress x
;) Care 2 show pics?
Its a srprise!!
Louis doesn't tell her if he's going or not, but Eleanor knows he's going to because that's what Louis does - before all this, even, when someone goes to your show enough, even if it's just a face in a crowd, you begin to notice. That, and a few times Louis has tried to break into backstage to talk to her and Eleanor has been there at least twice when he gets dragged away.
She's waiting for the bathroom while at rehearsal for the show, scrolling through her phone as Selena takes god-knows-how-long on the toilet. By instinct, she opens up Louis's Instagram again - it would feel creepy if she didn't know that he did the same to her, so it's only fair, she rationalizes. His Instagram is very typical high school boring, in that there's some pictures of coffee or trips to the mall or pictures with his friends. And since the phone call, she's been able to deduce his friends by the captions and comments that are left - Zayn is the incredibly pretty one, tall and dark-haired with eyebrows that would make Gigi jealous; Liam is the cute jocky one who's always wearing flannels or jeans, usually both; Harry is the one with the curls and a wardrobe that fluctuates from big men's sweaters to floral skirts; and Niall is the blond one (dyed, it looks) who's probably wearing the tightest shirt or shortest shorts at any given time.
There is that jealousy that comes with - well, Eleanor would say crush at the very least - with seeing Louis with all his girl friends, or boys from the footie team. But there's also that it's so obvious that their worlds are so different, and even though Eleanor is staying here for the near future, it's not... She doesn't want to hope for something that she can't afford to hope for. Like the way Louis grins in a photo from earlier this year, or posing with Liam and Zayn near the earliest bit of his Instagram history. Eleanor opens up the photo to look at the caption.
Her thumb twitches and then she's accidentally tapped on the photo while it's open - accidentally liked it. The heart blooms over the photo, and, in horror, Eleanor keeps tapping the photo to unlike it.
"Fuck," she mutters, as nothing happens. "Fuck," she says again, when she remembers that you have to physically click on the heart in the corner to unlike it. She moans and goes to unlike it, hoping that the Instagram gods, or at least the power that comes with being coworkers with Selena (who is still on the goddamn toilet) can make it so that Louis hadn't seen her slip up.
Selena comes out of the bathroom then, noticing Eleanor wringing her hands over her phone. "What's up?"
"Nothing," Eleanor says despairingly. Then, "Instagram woes."
Selena pats her on the shoulder. "I feel you," she says sympathetically, before leaving.
Mirthful (5/5)
So, Saturday.
Eleanor's not sure if she's dreading it or not. Hopefully Louis didn't notice her tiny little Instagram slip-up for when she liked a photo from twenty-fucking-eleven and they can laugh about her peacock dress and move on. It's a great dress and public humiliation is not.
And, if all else fails, she can get him kicked out again.
Not that she wants to, or even would. Louis is a nice guy and really only teases her for the trite things, like Don't know if anyone told you but you're hair is in a ponytail when she sends a selfie and asks how her bedraggled hair looks, or when they go back and forth about his sisters, or Cheryl and Danielle when they're over and feel like Eleanor's sisters.
So, Saturday Eleanor is in some violet shawl as her first outfit, sneaking glances to her phone at her dresser every once in a while. On her first run down the catwalk, she might be thinking too hard that she mentally checks out, and doesn't really look into the audience; or that it feels so fast that she's walked down and back up before she even realizes it. Either way, she has eight more outfits to go.
But on her fourth walk down about an hour later, she's pretty sure she's scanned the crowd in full with her eyes and hasn't seen Louis's stupid familiar smirk. Or the sixth time when she's in bright green sequin pants and recalling the practice she had done during rehearsal so that they don't clatter loudly against each other.
Even when she's in the dumb peacock dress, there's nothing familiar about the crowd. She hates when people say that you can feel if someone is looking at you - Eleanor never bought into it, and now even more she wishes that there was at least an ounce of truth so that she knew that Louis was in the crowd even if she couldn't see him. She stands maybe half a second longer than usual, gaze searching - but there's nothing, and she walks back without looking too visibly dejected.
There's an afterparty, as usual, at Taylor's house. Louis hasn't texted or even called, and Eleanor's mind goes from the worst, to that Louis is just busy, or maybe he doesn't want to talk to her for some reason. Eleanor works on autopilot as she heads to the party, but she doesn't drink, staring at the bottom of her cup of water.
Cheryl piles down next to her where she's sat in the living room, as Taylor and Karlie yell at each other over Mario Kart. "Hey girl," Cheryl says, bumping shoulders with her.
Eleanor tries to smile. "Hey."
"I won't be coming home tonight," Cheryl says, and Eleanor's face breaks out into a real grin this time.
"You and Dani are really having a good time, aren't you?" she says.
Cheryl snickers. "I s'pose you can say that," she says. "Just - really. Are you okay? Will you be fine alone?"
Eleanor sighs, and then looks at the bottom of her cup again. "Yeah, I'll be fine," she says, then shakes her head, trying to absolve it of her thoughts. "Just being dumb," she admits. "Over a boy."
"Over a boy," Cheryl says, and pats her knee. "There's no way to interact with a boy other than to get on his level of dumbness."
Eleanor hums in agreement.
"But you're a catch, Eleanor," Cheryl says reassuringly. "Any boy who can't see that is far too dumb for you."
She leaves to go cuddle Danielle on the couch, and Eleanor smiles after her roommate.
*
Eleanor's among the first to leave, which really means that she leaves half past midnight, saying bye to Selena and not bothering with Taylor, who is in the middle of snogging Karlie on the couch anyway.
Her driver drops her off, and Eleanor makes her way upstairs, sort of disappointed that she hadn't bothered to get drunk tonight. That would make things better. Or, worse. She's honestly not that torn up about Louis not showing, she figures, just disappointed. Even with when she liked his photo on Instagram and might have to face that. She'd been looking forward to it - thinking about seeing Louis at one of her shows again, grinning and cheering like some crazed fanboy (which, appropriately, he is), rolling her eyes and teasing him for being her fan.
She changes into pyjamas and her hoodie (which disconcertingly might not be hers after all, but if she stole it from her dad or an uncle or something, well, whatever) and is ready to tuck in when she hears a knock at her door. She's half asleep already, having already had her bedtime tea, that she yawns when she opens up the front door.
Louis is standing there, looking wild and distressed.
Eleanor feels suddenly much more awake than a second ago.
"I'm sorry," Louis spills out. "I mean, for waking you up, or whatever - didn't you have a show?"
"Yeah," Eleanor says, yawning again despite herself. "Just got home."
"Well, I'm - "
Louis looks like he's at a loss for words, looking from Eleanor's face to her hoodie then back up again.
"You've been," he says, "so kind to me, for the past, um, I dunno, it feels weird because I've really, um, liked you for so long, and before it was very kind of delusional and not real but now it's very real and you've talked to my friends and I have your number and we snogged, once, and I like being your friend but it's also driving me mad?"
Eleanor opens up her mouth to respond, but Louis continues.
"And not even in a bad way, really, I like that you drive me mad, you, you - " He takes a second, then, "And I haven't, I didn't want to tell you because you look so good in it, but that's my hoodie - "
"Wait," Eleanor interrupts, going to take it off. "This is yours - "
"I left it the first time, I'm." Louis is speaking even faster. "And when you liked my photo on Instagram and you posted that picture of yourself in this and I've been - I've been head over heels for you since day one, since I woke up in your bed and everything became real and then I couldn't come to your show today because I was babysitting but I was also terrified of this - this, being real, I'm not making any sense am I - "
"You're making a lot of sense," Eleanor says softly, reaching for his hand and effectively cutting him off. He's not - He's not something to hope for because he's here, now.
Eleanor tells him "You've said a lot of the stuff I've been thinking, and put it into words. And it's okay that you didn't come to my show tonight, even if I did want you to see my ridiculous dress." She ducks her head down, smiling shyly. "And, um, sorry for stealing your sweater."
"It's fine," Louis says distractedly. He's pretty focused on their intertwined hands. "I'm - I would've wanted to see your dress too, but, are you - Really? Because - "
"You have a lot of stuff on your Instagram and your friends comment all the time," Eleanor continues, because he did this to her. "I was just looking - "
Louis throws his head back, suddenly the one laughing this time, and the hallway light is so dim but it doesn't feel like it, right now. "'Just looking,'" he says. "I've heard that before."
Eleanor raises an eyebrow. "Really? Who else is stalking your Instagram? Because I might have to fight them."
"Oh, shut up," Louis says, and to her surprise he darts in quick for a kiss on the mouth. He looks wary right after, and says, "That was alright, right? Was it?"
"It was - " Eleanor says, and then touches her lips. "You might have to do it again."
Louis grins, then tugs her in by where they're still holding hands, drawing her into his body and kisses her deep. Eleanor feels lost in his taste and the shape of his hands on her cheeks, moving so slow and languid like they are at a fixed point in the world while it rushes beneath them.
He releases her and she breaks away, breathless. Her eyes feel bright but she doesn't care.
"We should buy condoms," she says. "If you want."
Louis's eyes go so big it would almost be funny. "If I - " he says, then coughs. "Do you want - "
Eleanor nods emphatically.
"Then, um." Louis takes her by the hand and begins to lead them out. "Yes, we should."
"Wait, wait," Eleanor says, running back into her flat. "I need my keys."
"Right," Louis says, and waits as Eleanor, in a rush, grab her keys and then joins him back in the hallway, closing the door behind her.
"Okay," Eleanor says, grinning up at him.
Louis blinks at her. She's grabbed his hand again, and has no intention of letting go. "Is this really happening?" he asks.
Eleanor's chest is bubbling, and she feels stupidly, stupidly giddy. "Yes," she says, leaning into him. "It is."
WEDNESDAY, MAY 10
only smth short today :(
Padma looks up from her book. The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. It’s Victoria station, afternoon rush hour. Padma is unobtrusive in a blue peacoat and a sensible charcoal pencil skirt, like one of the many women on their way home from work—not that she needs to blend in, given the layers of Disillusionment she’s operating under. In the last few months, Pansy has become particularly adept at breaking through Disillusionment charms; they’re Padma’s specialty.
“Why,” Padma says, “are you worried people will think we’re friends?”
Pansy scoffs at that. “I would hardly make that assumption. Look at you. So pedestrian.”
“Because trouser suits and shoulder pads didn’t die with Lady Di,” Padma says.
“Very funny,” Pansy says, because the alternative is owning up to the fact that she has no idea who Lady Di is—some Muggle celebrity, no doubt—and the one thing she can tell is that Padma’s teasing her. “So who’s your line?”
Padma raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your line,” Pansy says, “your inside man. Do I have to teach you everything?”
“Just the lingo,” Padma says. “I have no inside man. I got this tip-off on my own steam.”
“Figures.” Pansy sits back on the bench, folds her arms across her chest. “Let me teach you something else, IKB: it’s common courtesy to keep your fingers out of other people’s pies.”
“Enough with the metaphors,” Padma snaps.
Good. Pansy wants to wear down her patience. She watches as Padma taps out a rhythm against the spine of her book. It’s getting closer to the drop time.
Plainly, Pansy says, “This is my purchase to make. Not yours.”
“It was advertised as open to the highest bidder,” Padma says.
“And the highest bidder is always me,” Pansy says. “When you’ve been in this business for a little longer, you’ll understand. Nobody steps out of line on my manor.”
“What, and the entire city of London is your manor?”
“My deals are my manors.” Pansy gives Padma her best intimidating glare, tilting her chin up—they’re about the same height when seated, so it’s the best Pansy can do.
Padma smirks, folding her book closed and dog-earing a corner. (Pansy nearly flinches at that.) “Seems like you just decided this now.”
“Well, Padma,” Pansy says, “may the best woman win.”
nsfwish eduardo/mark femslash kink negotiation (1/3)
When it comes to sex, that's one of the things they have to talk about but are kind of bad at, because Mark won't talk about a problem if it's not in the room, and Eduardo likes to pretend problems don't exist until they become so prominent that her face turns red and she yells and/or breaks things. And sex isn't a problem, really; but needing to talk about, like, doing something different, something new can certainly feel like a problem, and it's much easier to just keep kissing and kissing until it becomes inevitable that Mark is going to go down on Eduardo in the shower.
But talking about sex--or, really, kinks, if Mark is being honest--becomes a requirement when Eduardo makes an off-hand comment to Mark one day, "I like taking care of you," and suddenly it's all Mark can think about. Eduardo taking care of her, calling her miss, asking if she needs anything else, offering to dress Mark and dry her hair in the mornings. Being in a french maid outfit and dusting the house while Mark goes off to work. Untangling her hair or combing a brush through it or petting her awake, like she used to do at Harvard except Eduardo hadn't actually been trying to wake Mark up back then, Mark just pretended she was still asleep while Eduardo threaded her fingers in Mark's hair. Mark doesn't know if there's some sort of internalized misogyny kink or something going on, but she's a lesbian and it helps her get off when either she or Eduardo have to fly out away from each other on business, so whatever.
Eduardo doesn't necessarily take care of Mark, even; she frowns when Mark doesn't sleep enough or ungraciously piles vegetables into her bowl of stirfry, but in a way that girlfriends are supposed to do. Mark thinks. She's actually not sure; she hasn't had many girlfriends before.
She brings this up casually to Chris, one day, in the most subtle way possible.
"Hey, is it weird that Eduardo takes care of me so much?"
Chris snorts, not looking up from texting his fiance. "Weird in what way?"
Mark lifts a shoulder. "I don't know. Like, in an Oedipal complex way?"
This Chris lifts his head up for. "You do know what an Oedipal complex is, right?" he says.
"Yeah, I know, I'm not a dude, but it's still a matron thing." Mark frowns in thought. "Is Wardo being matronly?"
"She's being Wardo," says Chris, "which means that when your girlfriend has an asinine sleep schedule and frankly fatal capability of looking after her health, you're pretty much obligated to make sure that you stay alive."
Mark says, "Criticism isn't attractive on you."
"You asked for my advice, Mark," Chris says. She had come to his office, slouching in the chair opposite him. "Besides, if Sean had half the lifestyle that you have, I'd be fussing over him too. You'd take care of Eduardo if she was self-destructive, right?"
"I'm not self-destructive," Mark says defensively.
But the point's made. Well, not really, but Mark is comforted to know that she's not harboring some sort of weird psychological association, especially considering her mom is a psychologist. Actually, her mom probably went out of her way to make sure that Mark or none of her sisters ended up with a parental complex.
So that makes Mark feel a bit better. She still likes the idea of Eduardo taking care of her, though, especially when they do fuck and Eduardo has a finger slotted in Mark's cunt, her other hand stroking the inside of her thigh and murmuring, "Yeah, come on, Mark, come for me, you can do it." Mark's orgasm squeezes out of her with a shiver and a thrust of her hips, moaning out obscenities around Eduardo's shoulders before climbing over her and kissing her and making sure it's reciprocated because Eduardo's always so good to her. Eduardo smiles into her kiss like she expects it, but sometimes Mark just wants to let her know how much she loves her, how much she appreciates her, not from a place of expectation but because she does.
She doesn't quite know how to broach the topic, though. A few evenings later when their sleepy kisses are getting less sleepy and more heady, the thought intrudes in her Eduardo-kissed haze and Mark absently grabs Eduardo's hand which is gripping onto Mark's sleep shorts, and drags it up to her head.
Eduardo breaks away from Mark and looks at her with an adorably confused expression on her face. "What are you doing?" she asks, lips distractingly bruised from all their kissing.
Mark stares at her, and more pointedly shoves Eduardo's hand into her curls. "Nothing," she says, hoping Eduardo will get the hint.
But Eduardo squints at her. "Do you not want to have sex tonight?"
"No," Mark says, so quickly that Eduardo's frown deepens. "I just - you can put your hand here." She pats at her hair with intent, imagining the way Eduardo had done her hair for an event, or sometimes would absentmindedly stroke it back in Harvard when Mark would accidentally fall asleep on her shoulder, tights and tugs and the tangle of Eduardo's fingers tickling over her scalp.
Eduardo looks worried, or - suspicious. "Is there something you need to tell me?" she asks.
"What would I need to tell you?" says Mark.
"About why you don't want me to take your underwear and pants off."
"It's not - " Mark breaks off and sighs. Eduardo is hovering above her, on her elbows, with a look in her eyes that says that she's going to get an answer out of Mark and that if she doesn't, she's either going to passively aggressively go to sleep or start yelling or something. Mark doesn't really want it to go either way, but she also doesn't want to say hey you should play with my hair every once in awhile, also like when I eat you out you should totally pull it and also take care of me and making sure that I'm healthy and alive and happy.
"Never mind," Mark says. "We can - " she tugs down her shorts and wriggles them off.
"No, hold on," says Eduardo, putting a hand on Mark's wrist. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," Mark says, but Eduardo's gaze is pinning her to the bed - well, that, and she's literally pinning her to the bed still, so Mark manages to get out, "I just want you to touch my hair sometimes, or a lot, it feels good, especially when you brush it or straighten it or pet it." She turns red after saying pet it - that feels like too much.
Eduardo exhales through her nose. "That's what you wanted to tell me?"
"It wasn't easy! And you forced it out of me."
Mark immediately goes silent when Eduardo drags a hand through Mark's short curls, putting light pressure on her scalp and tucking a strand behind her ear. Mark can't help it when she lets out a low shudder, glaring as this gets a smirk out of Eduardo.
"I don't mind it," she says. "I mean, I like it. But I wasn't sure about your boundaries--"
"I don't have a lot of boundaries when it comes to you," Mark says honestly.
And that's how approximately several minutes later, Mark's head is between Eduardo's thighs while Eduardo has a hand stuffed in Mark's hair, rubbing and digging into her scalp so tight that Mark comes by grinding against the bed.
So they go to bed sated and happy, though it's still just--the hair is a part of it. The roleplaying thing that Mark now fantasizes about. She hates the idea of roleplay in the bedroom because she just wants herself to be Mark and Eduardo to be Eduardo, but--well. Eduardo as like, a maid or something would be hot. If she was an actual maid or not--and now that Eduardo knows, the next morning she kisses Mark awake while running her fingers through her hair, braids it absently on a flight to Norway that they both have to go to several weeks later, sifts through Mark's curls when Mark lays her head on her lap, instead of just resting her hand on her head.
And Mark has never had any doubts that Eduardo cares about her. (Well, now and after everything at least.) Sometimes Mark wants to curl into Eduardo's side and just stay there, because there's nowhere else she'd rather be and Eduardo can do all the heavy lifting, except for when it comes to anything technology-related because Eduardo is pathetic at that. And other times Mark wants to curl around Eduardo and do all the heavy lifting herself, especially when Eduardo's mouth tightens when her father calls, or when she comes home anxious with stressed and wild hair, or when sometimes Mark can read it in her eyes that Eduardo never feels like she's doing enough, in their relationship or at work or anything.
But Mark's just pretty sure all that comes with the territory of being in a relationship. Or at least she thinks so. Erica and like the two other girls she hooked up with pre-post-pre Eduardo aren't much of a comparison to go off on, but Mark's not super worried about, well, feeling too much.
Wanting Eduardo in a french maid costume is not feeling too much. It's wanting Eduardo in a french maid costume.
So the hair-petting thing is good--it gets Mark into a weird submissive headspace that they discover once when Eduardo is petting her head while they're watching TV and Mark unwittingly lets out a moan (leading to sex on the couch during Prison Break.)
And so in this, during another time when Eduardo is practicing some presentation she's giving at a function in a couple of weeks on the couch, fingers absently toying with Mark's curls while Mark is sitting on the ground, that Mark is so distracted by the feeling that she decides to just pull up a picture of a french maid in Google images and props up her laptop and says, "Would you wear this?"
Eduardo's muttering, "'It's only natural to believe' - what?" She looks up at Mark's laptop. "Mark, what is this?"
Mark huffs. "What does it look like?" Eduardo's fingers are still combing through Mark's unruly curls, out of a now-developed habit.
"It looks like a french maid dress," Eduardo says, raising her eyebrows.
"Outfit," Mark corrects. "French maid outfit."
Eduardo eyes her. "Do you want me in a french maid 'outfit'?" She uses finger quotes.
Mark quickly pulls her laptop back down. "I may have thought about it once or twice," she says without meeting Eduardo's eyes, closing the tab. "And it was just a suggestion."
"Nothing you say is just a suggestion," Eduardo points out. "Like this." She tugs at a fistful of Mark's curls, and Mark has to cross her legs at that. When she glowers up at Eduardo, Eduardo's smirking again.
"Okay, fine," Mark relents. "Yes, I think about you being in a french maid outfit a lot. And like, taking care of me. More than you do, I mean. Actually not in the way that you do, but in a way that a french maid would do. Or just any maid. Like a personal maid who looks after me. Which is redundant."
Her cheeks feel warm by the end of her ramble, but when she peeks up at Eduardo again, Eduardo's grinning - not in a way where she's making fun of Mark, but in that she's glad that she got so many words out of her. And there's something dark and curious in Eduardo's eyes, too, which Mark also recognizes.
"You know," she says, setting her papers down and sitting next to Mark. "If you said that earlier, you'd know earlier that I'm really not against any of that."
"I'm saying it now," Mark grumbles.
Eduardo kisses her pout away, curling a hand at the side of Mark's neck and pushing into the curls at the back of her head. Mark makes a small noise into the kiss.
"We can buy a french maid outfit," Eduardo says. "If you want."
*
nsfwish eduardo/mark femslash kink negotiation (2/3)
"Good morning," she says, eyes flickering over Mark's face. "Miss Zuckerberg," she tacks on, smirking when Mark glares at her.
Mark would say something like I shouldn't have to tell you to call me Mark, but that would also be breaking the role and they did agree earlier that it was--they'd both have to play the part, otherwise it just wouldn't have the effect. Plus Mark doesn't really mind for Eduardo specifically, in this roleplaying situation, to call her "Miss Zuckerberg," because it gives her a kind of thrill of power she never had before. No one at Facebook, not even the interns, call her that--not that Mark would want them to--but in that it's new, that it's only Eduardo--it's special, their thing.
So Mark lets it go and mumbles, "Good morning," clutching her towel around her torso and shuffling into the room. Eduardo has lain out her clothes for the day on the bed, which she must've gotten while Mark was in the shower. It looks kind of pathetic in comparison to Eduardo's black flared skirt with white ruffles underneath, corset and faux apron, fishnet stockings, black pumps (that she already owned--"I don't really need new heels if I already own a pair that works,") topped with a lacy white and black hair band--but Eduardo looking like this is something only Mark will be privy to, which makes Mark feel smug and hot.
Eduardo takes the cordless hairdryer that Mark rarely and only Eduardo really uses and blows it through Mark's hair. It's warm and kind of annoying, but only until Eduardo is stroking her fingers through Mark's curls separating by strands. It feels really fucking good but lasts only for a few minutes, until Eduardo says, "There, we won't want your hair to end up all frizzy, will we?" and turns it off. Mark would make her dry her hair more, but Eduardo does have a point.
Then she hands Mark her underwear and sports, while actually blushing, which Mark can't tell if it's acting or genuine. "I can leave the room while you change," Eduardo says, something they've never been concerned with before. So, acting then. "If you want."
"It's fine," Mark says, and then drops her towel to see Eduardo faux blush harder and immediately turn away.
Mark wrangles her underwear on, adjusting her bra strap as Eduardo pretends she isn't watching and turns back around. "Do you have a preference for breakfast?" Eduardo asks, as she hands Mark her t-shirt and straightens it out as Mark tugs it over her head, passing her her jeans next.
Mark shrugs. "Eggs and toast?" she says, getting done the button on her jeans. When Eduardo wraps the hoodie around her shoulders, Mark fights the urge to kiss her--as they do in the mornings, and as they had before the day started and Eduardo had gotten into this dress. But as Eduardo zips up her hoodie, pursing her lips and then peering up at her through her eyelashes, Mark has to restrain--she's supposed to be in-character too.
Clearing her throat, she trudges out and asks, "Breakfast?"
"Yes, Miss--um--" says Eduardo. "Yes."
They make their way downstairs; Eduardo is only an inch taller than Mark at their regular heights, but with the pumps on she towers over her more significantly and it's kind of hot. Eduardo begins making breakfast while Mark boots up her laptop at the kitchen table, checking the work from the night shift and pretending she's not staring at Eduardo's cleavage when Eduardo reaches over to turn on the stove fan. Eduardo tuts and makes food as Mark works; this is completely foreign to when they're both hunched over their breakfast and working on something or other at the table while playing footsie.
Eduardo brings her breakfast over, and Mark blurts, "Have you eaten yet?"
The smile on Eduardo's face flashes amused before it turns shy. "Of course," she says. "I had breakfast while you were in the shower."
"Oh," says Mark. "That makes sense."
Eduardo just keeps smiling as she goes over to dust something. It's weird to have her just... explain without snarking back at Mark. It's certainly not preferable, because being able to argue with Eduardo is one of the reasons Mark loves being with her in the first place, but it's just the weird power thing, Mark supposes, about how she doesn't really mind it either. And Eduardo seems to be having a good time pretending that it's her job to work for Mark like this, judging by the way she's humming to herself while she dusts the top of the refrigerator.
Mark gets lost in her code soon enough, as it is inevitable. She can hold her toast in one hand while she types, but eggs are a different story and it's soon enough where her eyes are so glued to her laptop screen that her scrambled eggs go cold. It's been maybe half an hour since Eduardo's placed her breakfast on the table, when she comes back from whatever she'd been cleaning (they'd been needing to dust around the house more anyway) and says, "You still haven't finished your eggs?"
Mark mumbles something and continues typing on the screen.
Eduardo lets out a little huff. Before Mark knows it, Eduardo is sitting next to her at the table, scooping up a forkful of eggs, and holds it up to Mark's face.
Mark stares, and blinks at her. "What are you doing?"
"Finish your food, Miss Zuckerberg." Eduardo has managed to make servitude sound commanding.
Mark glares at her, and then the eggs. But, well--fine. She had thought about Eduardo feeding her, so she opens her mouth and lets Eduardo slide the fork of eggs in. Mark closes her lips around the prongs, sliding it into her mouth, chewing, and then swallowing. She opens her mouth again expectantly. Eduardo's eyes go dark.
They don't say anything as Eduardo finishes feeding her the rest of her eggs, while Mark continues typing on her laptop like she's ignoring her. Finally, when they're done, Mark packs her laptop into her bag and picks up her keys, heading out to the garage. Eduardo goes back to cleaning, but there's a palpable tension that will just result in Mark staying at home for the day and getting the fishnet stockings off of Eduardo's legs way earlier than they would like if Mark doesn't leave now.
"Have a good day at work, Miss Zuckerberg," Mark hears Eduardo call to her, before Mark closes the door behind her.
Mark drives to work with a frenetic ball of energy in her chest, trying not to think too hard about Eduardo being home alone in her maid outfit. They had discussed if Eduardo would be allowed to take it off, or go to work while they weren't in the vicinity of each other or at home, but Eduardo had said that playing the role even if Mark wasn't around would get her more into the headspace, feeling real more than a part that she plays only when Mark is around. Which Mark is perfectly okay with, and actually finds kind of hot--just the idea of Eduardo being alone in the big house, and still wearing the french maid outfit. And cleaning things that need to be cleaned anyway, since Mark is kind of the worst at caring about that in the first place, and while Eduardo has dragged her for a few weekends in the past to dedicate the entire day to cleaning down the house, it doesn't happen often enough since Mark doesn't care and therefore Eduardo doesn't have much of an incentive to work outside of her own desires.
This--thing, though. While Mark still presently doesn't care much about the cleanliness of the house, she's in that position of expectation to and that more easily drives Eduardo to work. And Mark is proud of Eduardo, anyway, for wanting to work and now utilizing this need to.
The whole day drags on longer than necessary. Mark is trying so hard not to think about Eduardo in that stupid sexy french maid dress that Dustin peers in and says, "Is there something wrong, or do I need to defibrillate you?"
"Nothing," says Mark, before her brain processes Dustin's question. "I mean. Nothing's wrong."
Dustin squints at her. "So I do need to defibrillate you?"
"I'm fine," Mark says, averting her gaze back to her computer screen. She clicks kind of pointlessly. Eduardo hasn't played her turn on Words With Friends yet, which means she probably is still playing the part in her french maid stuff, and now Mark's thinking about it again.
"O-kay," Dustin says uncertainly, "because you look like something's bothering you. Everything good at home?"
"Yes," Mark says quickly, because she doesn't want to tell--well, and he probably wouldn't to hear, anyway--about Eduardo in her new french maid costume.
"Are you suuuuuure?"
"Yes, Dustin, I'm fine," Mark snaps. The clock in the corner of her computer says 1:45PM. "Why won't this day go any faster," she says to herself.
Dustin leaves her office, muttering about antisocial CEOs.
At exactly 6:00, Mark leaves the office to go home--she's actually had a surprisingly regular schedule since she and Eduardo had become this--thing, so it's nothing out of the ordinary. When Mark gets home, she's greeted by the smell of dinner and suddenly realizes how hungry she is. Her thoughts had been so occupied with pointedly not Eduardo, and Eduardo, that she may have forgotten to eat lunch. Not like she'll mention it to her. (Not now, anyway.)
"Welcome home Miss Zuckerberg," Eduardo says from frying something on the stovetop. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, if you want to sit down."
Mark awkwardly inclines her head. Eduardo shoots her a fond grin--one of her actual ones, not just for the part--like to remind her of the secret. She doesn't look like she's taken off the outfit all day, and everything in the house does look just a bit shinier, and Mark can't really think about it for too long or else she'll forget about anything else, like she did at work today.
Eduardo sets the table for Mark's dinner. She doesn't add an extra set of plates and utensils, so she probably ate before Mark came home too. Mark gets to eating, and says, "How was your day?" because she's not really sure if CEOs talk about their own day to their maids the way Mark would do normally with Eduardo.
Eduardo laughs lightly under her breath. "The same as usual," she says, which is bullshit and a cop-out and Mark tries not to snort. "What about you? I'm sure yours was more interesting than mine."
"I'm not paying you to be obsequious," Mark says, hiding a grin when Eduardo instinctively opens her mouth probably to say that Mark isn't paying her at all, and then immediately shutting it. "You can tell me about your day, you know."
"I'm sure you want to hear all about the toilets I cleaned," Eduardo says, getting up. "Are you stressed? I can give you a massage if you want."
Mark kind of wants to call her out on changing the topic, but the thought of a massage is too much for her to say anything other than, "Yes please." Eduardo goes around behind her and begins rubbing her thumbs at Mark's neck, with a hard enough pressure that Mark almost chokes on her food.
"Oh, sorry," Eduardo says, gripping Mark's shoulders between her fingers instead, thumbs pressing into Mark's upper back.
"It's fine," Mark murmurs. Eduardo's hands are magical, relaxing and unraveling the tension in Mark's muscles, the knots of stress that have kind of just formed there just from working nearly every day. Mark eats, and the food is delicious, but it's also hard to concentrate on the meal as Eduardo rolls Mark's muscles in her fingers, using her palms to stroke and push at the tightness in parallel with Mark's spine like piano wires. And then it goes from just every day stress to a high-strung erogenous zone, with each point of pressure of Eduardo's fingertips sending tingles from her shoulders to her toes, her elbows to the back of her thighs, the dip of her neck to the space between her legs. Mark struggles not to moan as she finishes her dinner, but Eduardo's thumb presses at a dip in her back and Mark makes a small noise despite herself, hot electricity thrumming beneath the surface of her skin.
When Mark finishes her dinner, Eduardo pulls back and is smirking to herself. "All better?" she asks.
"Yes," Mark bites out, despite herself. "Thank you."
Eduardo's eyes widen in surprise and bends down for a second, near Mark's face--a moment later she's jerking back, like she'd just remembered herself.
"You're welcome," she says, and Mark is pretty sure the flush in her cheeks is genuine this time. "I'll do the dishes."
"I'll be in my office," Mark tells her, because she's not sure how long she can actually handle this sexual tension anymore.
Her office is more the office, which means it's more both of their office, which really means that Eduardo is here most of the time because she tends to work from home more than Mark, unless they both are in which they share the space. Even though Eduardo has her own office space, it's technically rented out and she electronically communicates with her clients more than anything, as compared to Mark who is, well, Mark Zuckerberg.
Still, right now Eduardo is her maid, so the office Mark works in is hers. Working in the evening is really double-checking some of the emails her COO sends her, responding to the chief designer about format changes, fighting about what new functions should be on the next code push, and fixing some shit algorithms Mark had bullshitted her way through during the day. Mark works accordingly, sitting in the big leather chair and typing rapidly on her laptop. It's actually easier to focus at home today, but probably because if Eduardo as her maid isn't anywhere nearby, Mark can't stop thinking about her.
Eduardo comes into the office soon enough, looking over the books on the bookshelf, tapping her chin and rearranging some things with a frown. The book on that shelf are hers, anyway; Mark's are on the opposite wall.
"Wardo," Mark says absently, scowling at her computer screen and hating math. She forgets that she'd called Eduardo's name until Eduardo appears at her side, looking expectant. "I need your help with this algorithm," Mark says, pointing at her program.
Eduardo hovers over her shoulder. "Oh," she says. "I see what you're trying to do. But maybe if--"
She grabs the notepad and a pen from the desk, and scribbles an algorithm on it. "This would probably work better," she tells Mark, setting the pen down.
Mark looks up at her. "Thank you," she says, and Eduardo beams at her, because that's what she does.
Mark curls a hand around Eduardo's elbow, and then tugs at the hem of her short sleeve, encouraging her down. Eduardo watches her, but follows the movement, leans down to meet her when Mark presses up for a kiss. Mark peppers Eduardo's sweet mouth with kisses, and Eduardo responds accordingly to every one--the slight delay as she waits for what Mark wants to do, bend forward, hands folded in her lap while Mark's hand is shoved at the back of Eduardo's neck and into her hair.
Mark gets her other hand at Eduardo's waist, tugging Eduardo onto her lap, knees between her spread legs as Mark kisses the corner of Eduardo's jaw. "I'm, ah, not sure if you're allowed to thank me this way," Eduardo says, as Mark skims a hand over her bodice, her mouth making a way down Eduardo's neck.
"Allowed according to what?" Mark murmurs against her skin. "This is my way of paying you, isn't it?"
Eduardo lets out a little gasp as Mark spreads Eduardo's legs around her, closing her own thighs between. Mark tucks a hand under Eduardo's skirt, gliding over the ridged patterns of fishnet lace and Eduardo's smooth skin, and Eduardo lets out these breathy noises that make Mark get wet in her jeans.
VERY NSFW eduardo/mark femslash kink negotiation (3/3)
"What did you do today," Mark asks in the crevice between her chest.
"I took off my stockings," Eduardo says. "I touched myself and I thought of you."
The thought is so hot that Mark's vision whites out for a moment. "You took off your stockings?" she asks. "Did you take off anything else?"
"N-No," says Eduardo, as Mark puts pressure around where she knows Eduardo's nipple is, through the tight corset. Mark kind of wants to tear the whole torso bit apart, except then that would like, break the outfit, and they'd have to buy a new one.
"Not even the heels?" Mark asks.
"No," Eduardo says. "I was just--in my panties, in the dress, in the heels, thinking about you."
Fuck. "You fucked yourself with your fingers?" Mark murmurs, mouthing at the plush of Eduardo's breasts. Eduardo's breathing is getting faster, and she lets out a sexy little whine that makes Mark want to fuck her to oblivion. "Getting all wet and thinking of me?"
"So wet," Eduardo breathes, and Mark ducks a hand under Eduardo's skirt and she can't feel a lot through the layers of cloth, the stockings and Eduardo's underwear but it's still hot down there and makes Eduardo groan against her. Mark slips her hands around Eduardo's big thighs, massaging and squeezing, going around to clutch Eduardo's tight ass in her palms while she buries her face in Eduardo's tits.
"Mark--" Eduardo gasps. "Mark."
Mark doesn't realize Eduardo's trying to say something to her until Eduardo manages to wrangle herself away. Mark frowns at her. "What do you want, Wardo?" she asks.
Eduardo, with her deeply flushed face and the line of wetness across her breasts from Mark's mouth, tucks her hair behind her neck and says, "I want to know what you want." She straightens herself up a little. "I want to take care of you."
And, well--isn't that why they're doing this in the first place? Mark's mouth goes kind of dry because she's torn between wanting to fuck Eduardo and get fucked by her and she doesn't know how to do it all. "Yeah," Mark says, despite herself. "Yeah, that sounds good."
Eduardo slips off of her, and it's disappointing at first until Eduardo has her hands on the button of Mark's jeans, and Mark is helping her slip them off. "I'm supposed to make you feel good, remember?" Eduardo says, getting Mark's boyshorts off too. Then she's just naked from the waist down and Eduardo is pressing kisses to the inside of her thigh, and Mark's skin is tingling from the sensation while her mind can't get the thought of Eduardo being so wet under her maid outfit out of her head.
"Yeah, Wardo," Mark gets out, as Eduardo kisses just the side of her pussy, where the hair tickles Eduardo's cheek. Eduardo nuzzles it, rubbing her nose against Mark's clit, a soft pressure that has Mark whining already.
Eduardo drapes Mark's legs over her shoulders so that Mark is slumped slightly in her seat, ass digging into the leather while Eduardo heaves her body towards Mark. She presses a light kiss against the hood of Mark's clit, making Mark squirm; then the rest of her mouth is spread against Mark's wet lips, plush against where Mark is sensitive, kissing at her with an obscenity that she's actually moaning at. Eduardo is moaning into her while she eats her and her tongue is so thick and velvet that it's only a matter of time before Mark comes with a hard tremble around Eduardo's face, twitching and twitching in the aftereffects.
Eduardo drags herself back up to kiss Mark on the mouth. Mark smiles into her, against Eduardo's shiny lips, licking her own taste out of Eduardo. "Fuck, you're so hot," Mark says, as Eduardo lets her, arms framed around Mark's body.
Eduardo kisses her cheek. "I'm not done yet," she says, grinning--and before Mark knows it, Eduardo has slunk back down between her legs, knees arched over her shoulders and mouth on Mark's cunt like she's on a mission.
She fucks Mark with her mouth and with her fingers, two slotted in deep and slow and then so fucking fast it has to make her wrist sore. "Come on, Mark," she says, "fucking come for me," and Mark does, crying out and pulsing so hard that she might squirt a little. And Eduardo licks her up when she does, which is so fucking hot, before shoving her face into Mark's pussy again, sucking and fingering at her that Mark is just jolting against her, grinding against her face, squirming so fucking hard that she might actually fall out of the chair if Eduardo hadn't laid her arm across Mark's hips to keep her in place.
Mark doesn't know how long Eduardo eats her out, how long she fucks her, whether it's Eduardo's fingers pressing into her, thumbing over her oversensitive clit as Eduardo murmurs in between kisses, "Does this feel good? Do you feel good, Miss Zuckerberg?" fingers inside of her moving at the same pace as Eduardo's tongue in her mouth. Mark's orgasms are in bursts and snatches and she doesn't feel like much other than a puddle of euphoria and bliss as Eduardo's fingers curl inside her, another on her breasts and pinching a nipple, Mark's hand with her as she moans and accidentally bumps her knee against the desk table. "Yeah, Mark, yeah," Eduardo pants, and Mark doesn't have the heart to correct her as another orgasm pushes out of her.
Mark squeezes her thighs around Eduardo's head, making Eduardo moan again. "Not," Mark gasps out, "not sure if I can come again." All the energy and horniness and need to come feels dissipated out of her veins, leaving her as nothing but buzzed and loose-limbed as Eduardo continues tonguing at her. Her tongue in her makes Mark want to fuck her face over and over again, but also Mark would be content just sitting here and feeling good without orgasm.
"C'mon, one more baby," Eduardo says, then catching herself. "One more, Miss Zuckerberg, let me take care of you, want you to come, want to make you come." Her fingers work so thick and hot in Mark, squelching and dripping in her thickness, and Mark feels bruised and red all over.
She comes with a shudder and it feels more dry than anything, a high whine that Eduardo watches with hazy eyes. When Mark's done, Eduardo has retracted her fingers out of her, a smug look on her face. Mark lies in the chair to catch her breath, letting Eduardo sit between her legs for a moment, before hoisting her by the shoulder and urging her up.
Eduardo laughs against Mark's mouth. "I think that might be better than the hair petting," she says, as Mark kisses her and kisses her, loving Eduardo and the taste of herself in Eduardo's mouth.
"Maybe a little bit," Mark says, and then Eduardo drags her fingers through her curls and along her scalp again and Mark groans out, "Ugh." When Eduardo laughs again, she says, "I hate you."
"I know." Eduardo smirks. "I love you too."
"How wet are you in those stockings?" Mark says, eyeing Eduardo's long legs.
Eduardo rolls her eyes. "Really fucking wet."
"You should sit on my face while still wearing your dress."
Eduardo's eyes go so dark that she drags Mark out of the office immediately.
*
There are a lot of things that Mark and Eduardo like to talk about together, like what Mark should wear to the next function or bad rhetoric when people try to argue with either of them or something they both overheard at the airport on their way back from a vacation or a business meeting. With Mark's head pillowed on Eduardo's naked chest, her face very wet (from Eduardo's pussy) and muscles very sore and happy, she figures that they can probably talk about this sex--kink--thing more.
"I don't know what else we can try," Mark says, and Eduardo snorts from where her fingers are scraping through Mark's hair.
"Are you serious? There's always something," Eduardo says.
Mark raises her head and props it on her chin. "Well what do you have in mind?"
"We're not going to fuck again, are we?" Eduardo asks warily.
Mark shakes her head no. "When we both have the energy again," she says. "Like tomorrow. Or in a week."
"Sounds good to me," Eduardo says, and then lazily runs her fingers through Mark's curls again. "Well, I've always wanted to have sex in a dressing room or on the beach..."
*
END
THURSDAY, MAY 11
low spoons day but at least i don't have to namedrop someone i hate in public lol
“How did you even get access to these listings?” she asks. “Some kind of secret high society blood pact thing?”
Pansy rolls her eyes, leaning back on the couch; a red leather affair, very modern. “Please. That’s all scare campaign propaganda. We haven’t had blood pacts since the seventeenth century.”
“Oh-kay,” Padma says slowly. “I won’t interrupt again. Promise.”
“No need to be obsequious about it,” Pansy says. “Listen—you have to understand this is a mostly closed circuit. If someone acquires an object from outside the circuit, they sell it within the circuit. If they get something from within the circuit… well, everyone already knows who it’s for, so it’s a done deal.”
Re: THURSDAY, MAY 11
FRIDAY, MAY 12
well. i did it
Mark is stupid about computers. Mark is very, very stupid.
He’s very stupid and he’s very drunk, so he opens up LiveJournal and he vents. This is the kind of shit that’s going to bite him in the bum one day, when he has to put together a flash CV and some cunt’s like, “Hey, aren’t you the dickhead that started that website to rate all the girls on campus?”
Whatever. The guys in John’s get up to this all the fucking time, and worse. The Honi hasn’t done an exposé yet, but it’s all a matter of time. Across the oval in Wesley, Mark holes up in his dorm and bangs together a shitty little website with photos of all the girls he can find on the Women’s College webpage. It’s not pretty—like most of the girls, Mark thinks bitterly—but it’s brutally efficient, and within minutes it’s all over the colleges.
There’s a banging on his door and Dustin from across the hall is yelling, “Dude, what the fuck?”
Mark scrambles to his feet and opens the door. Dustin is there, and Chris too. “Shh, shh, come in,” he says. “Don’t want anyone to know it’s me.”
“It’s got your name on it, you fucking imbecile,” Chris says. “Are you drunk?”
“It doesn’t have my name on it,” Mark says defensively. “I just talked about it on my blog, that’s all.”
“Semantics,” Chris says, waving a hand. “You are drunk.”
Dustin manhandles Mark away from his computer and onto his shitty little dorm bed. “Buddy. Sit the fuck down. Tell me what happened.”
Mark debates for all of a few seconds whether or not he should spill. But Dustin still has his hands on both Mark’s shoulders, so Mark couldn’t escape even if he wanted to. And Chris is looking at him like he knows a guy who could break Mark’s legs, which—it’s Chris. Of course he does.
“I broke up with Erica.”
“Mark,” Dustin says, “I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Okay, she dumped me!” Mark says. He slaps Dustin’s hands away from him. “Happy? She fucking dumped me.”
“Not happy,” Dustin says. “Sorry, man. That sucks.”
“I’m at least vindicated, if not happy,” Chris says. “I told you it wouldn’t last.”
Dustin turns to glare at Chris. “Dude. Not helping.”
“No, it’s alright,” Mark says. “He’s right. It wasn’t going to last. She just didn’t get me, you know? I’m on a totally different wavelength to her entirely. I should’ve known better than to think that any girl would ever truly understand me. I guess I’m a lost cause.”
“Okay, wow,” Chris says.
“I’m calling in reinforcements,” Dustin says. He stands up and gets his phone out of his pocket, flicking through his contacts and—
Mark jumps off the bed and makes a grab at the phone, but Dustin is too fast—or Mark is too drunk—and side-steps easily.
The dial tone rings loud. Dustin’s got it on speaker.
“Dustin?” It’s Eduardo. Fucking Dusting fucking called fucking Eduardo. “What’s up?”
“Mark’s drunk,” Dustin says.
“Big fucking deal,” Eduardo says. “Mark’s always drunk.”
“Am not,” Mark says, from where he has made himself a home, slumped on the floor by his bed, head spinning.
Dustin sighs, like he is the one suffering. “Erica dumped him. And now he’s made a website to, like, rate girls over in Women’s, or something.”
“Okay. Jesus. I’m coming over.”
Mark slouches down further. Maybe this will turn out for the best. Eduardo is his best friend, after all. He understands Mark.
amethyst/peridot thing which will go somewhere eventually 1/?
Earth teaches you to have autonomy. Peridot knew she had autonomy - there was a difference between knowing you were made to do something and doing it, versus obeying orders beyond your will. Peridot had a will. If she didn't, she wouldn't know it. It's not the same as the robots Peridot makes - gears, wires, cycles, predictability. Peridot knew - ugh - that humans and gems were alike in that they weren't predictable. Even Pearl, the most boring clod and a shame to the name of being a Homeworld Gem that Peridot knew, was unpredictable.
Amethyst was unpredictable. Peridot watched from the balcony of Steven's room as Amethyst sat on what was called the kitchen counter, munching on something that was called a donut, and talking to Pearl and Garnet about their previous mission. Peridot squatted and squinted through the railings.
"Whatcha doin Peridot?"
Peridot squawked and jumped back from where Steven had caught her by surprise. "Steven!" she shouted, and then coughed and composed herself. "I am observing," she told Steven. And when Steven continued to stare at her with some bemusement, she added, "I am observing Amethyst."
"Oh, sounds fun," Steven said cheerfully, joining her and dangling his feet off the balcony. "What're we observing Amethyst for?"
"I'm not sure," Peridot mumbled. "But she presently warrants observation."
Steven scrunched his face in confusion. "If I don't know what I'm looking for, then I don't know how to help you," he despaired. "At least give me something to work off."
"Steven, observation is not an activity that requires a goal," Peridot told him. "When we observe that something is off, then something is off. Amethyst is a specimen whose qualities are not all visible."
Steven looked between her, and Amethyst, and then back again. "Is there something wrong with Amethyst?" he said, face resembling the D: emoticon he sometimes typed at her when they used the intra-net, or whatever it was called.
"No," said Peridot. "Not that I know of, anyway."
"Then what's wrong?" Steven asked, but Peridot didn't get a chance to answer because then Amethyst yelled, "What are you nerds doing creeping up there? Get down here!" and threw what apparently was called her donut at Peridot's face and Peridot squawked again and Steven both apologized for Amethyst and laughed.
*
SATURDAY, MAY 13
ARO'S FILLS
a house on fire [1/2] (3,418 total)
"Why are we meeting with this guy again?" Divya asks after checking his watch.
Across the table, Eduardo Saverin and Cameron and Tyler and Mark Zuckerberg are squeezed on the booth across from him, Eduardo the closest to Divya. Divya doesn't know about either Saverin or Zuckerberg, but he does know that both of them were the ones who originally came up with and launched this Facebook idea, when Zuckerberg was supposed to be working for Cameron and Tyler and Divya on ConnectU. Now Divya's a part of this like some sort of fifth wheel, which hadn't been much of an issue until this evening.
Cameron's the one who answers him; Zuckerberg is too busy eagerly looking at the door, and Saverin straight up ignores him, though he's ignoring everyone like he's not happy with this situation either. Tyler is muttering something to him.
"Because he founded Napster when he was nineteen and is interested in giving us business advice," Cameron says, before looking over at Zuckerberg. "Right Mark?"
Zuckerberg's eyes jerk from the doorway to him and back. "Right," he says, seemingly oblivious.
This is when Saverin snorts. "Yeah, business advice from someone who got notoriously fired and screwed out of every one of his past business ventures."
"He also founded the companies," Zuckerberg argues, like it's some age-old adage.
Divya has a feeling they'd had this argument before, especially by the way Cameron and Tyler sigh simultaneously and said nothing to each other. "Ty," Saverin says to his boyfriend. "Please tell your brother to tell his boyfriend that Sean Parker isn't a fucking god, and that he's twenty-five minutes late to this meeting."
"Cameron," Zuckerberg starts, but Cameron speaks before Zuckerberg can finish what he's saying to him.
"Okay, we're not doing this again," Cameron says, ignoring his own boyfriend who is glaring pointedly at him. "Let's just meet the guy and see what he has to say, okay you two?"
"I'm sure it won't be that bad," Tyler adds to Saverin.
Saverin snorts, like, yeah right. Divya privately agrees with him.
It's then when Zuckerberg straightens in his seat suddenly, saying, "He's here." All five of them look to the entrance of the restaurant--Sean Parker in all his suave glory that Divya immediately doesn't trust comes strutting through the room, kissing waitresses on the side of their cheeks, greeting nearly everyone he passes.
"Take your time, take your time," Divya hears Saverin mutter bitterly as Sean slowly makes his way over.
"And he does own a watch," Divya can't help adding. Saverin snorts.
By the time Sean arrives, they've all stood up in their seats in greeting. "Wow, I'm not sure if this table is big enough," is the first thing Sean says to them, extending a hand to Divya first. "I'm Sean Parker. Divya, I'm assuming? Eduardo, and..."
"Tyler," Tyler says, grinning at him.
"So then you're Cameron," Sean says to his twin, who nods in acquiescence. "And Mark. The whole gang's here--it's like a real company already."
"It is a real company," Divya points out as they all sit down.
Sean chuckles to himself. "Clearly, clearly," he says, sitting on the chair next to Divya, across from Cameron and Mark. "And there's no food in front of you--"
"We were waiting," Eduardo says, as Divya also starts, "We didn't want to--"
Sean ignores, or disregards them both. "Tori," he calls to a passing waitress, who grins back and calls Sean Parker baby boy. Divya's already low opinion of him is dropping rapidly. "Can we get some things? That lacquered pork with the ginger confit, lobster claws, hm," he glances at the rest of them, "tuna tartare? That should be enough to get us started. Anyone here have a drink preference?" He casts his gaze over them again.
Zuckerberg shakes his head adamantly; but then to Divya's surprise, Saverin pipes up. "I'll have a Manhattan," he says to the waitress, handing her his menu. "On the rocks."
"You know what," Divya chimes in. "I'll have one too."
Sean grins at the two of them, all shark-like in a way that Divya can't see this dinner ending well. "Excellent," he says to Tori the waitress. "Six of those then, please."
She leaves with their order and menus. Once she's gone, Sean gestures to the five of them and says, "Well this is certainly new. I've never worked with a company run like this before."
"We did take advantage of our college setting," Cameron says diplomatically. "Often businesses don't easily realize that college kids are the--"
"Oh, I'm not talking about that," Sean says, though with an easy smile like he's either being assuring or domineering. Either way, Cameron falls silent but doesn't look too upset about it. "I mean this. Who else has heard of a hot dotcom run on the resources of two gay couples," he points with two fingers at where Cameron and Mark and Tyler and Eduardo are split at the table, "and--I'm not sure what you do," he says to Divya.
Divya says dryly, "I'm the comedic relief."
Cameron frowns at him. "You're more than that," and Tyler says, "Div--"
"I'm joking," Divya says quickly, because Sean's eyebrows are furrowed and Divya doesn't want this guy thinking he's either bitter about his place in the company--which he isn't--or that he doesn't contribute much, even though that's admittedly more true. "I'm the de facto Chief Operating Officer," he tells Sean. "I'm the one who emailed you."
"Oh, yeah," Sean says, grinning again. "Gotta have those. Anyway," he says to the table at large again, as if he hadn't just called out the entire dynamic of thefacebook, "I have to say, I've been up and down the coast in California and this is still crazy new to me."
"What," Saverin cuts in suddenly. "Gay couples?"
Their drinks arrive at that moment, and Divya can tell that both the twins have tensed up at Saverin's question. Even Zuckerberg is glaring at him across both twins, but Saverin's fixated on Sean.
Sean chuckles. "Oh, no, not that. My best friends are gay," he says.
Divya highly doubts that. What kind of twenty-four year old pulls that line?
"I'm just saying, it's unique, this," he gestures. "Thing. I have a friend, down in Stanford - we talk a lot about what could be the next big thing churning out of Palo Alto, you know, typical Silicon Valley talk - and he had this great idea in '02..."
It becomes more and more obvious that Sean Parker is so obnoxiously talk that Divya isn't sure if he's willing to stick around long enough to discover if Parker can also walk the walk. Zuckerberg has been suspiciously silent, awe and worship on his face; even Tyler tries to match and chimes in with Parker, saying things like, "Man, the scene in Silicon Valley must be on a whole other level," and, "What's it like, you know. To walk into a function and have everyone know exactly why you're there?" Sean Parker meets Tyler with every question, practically basking in his verbal attentiveness; and to Divya's dismay even Cameron seems rather caught up in the obnoxiousness of Sean Parker - either that, or the need to not disappoint Zuckerberg has him looking like a puppy waiting to be told to roll over.
As their food and drinks come, the twins and Mark eagerly passing them over to each other, Sean toasting to the six of them, Divya gets more and more agitated. Other than the profoundly weird comment in the beginning, Sean hasn't mentioned thefacebook once. A tray of lobster claws comes out and as Sean wordlessly gestures to Tyler to try one of them, he's saying, "I didn't want to spend my twenties as a professional defendant. Who knew--the music industry doesn't have a sense of humor."
"You tried to sell the company, right?" Cameron says, as Zuckerberg from where he's already drained his own martini is stealing a sip out of Cameron's.
Sean snaps his fingers at him. "Thirty-five million dollars, but they didn't buy it. I guess to them that was like... trying to sell a stolen car to pay for the stolen gas. So we screwed it and declared bankruptcy."
"A big fuck-you," Tyler says, and Sean nods vehemently. "Making a name for yourself."
"In music and business alike," Sean says, gesturing at him with his drink. "And you're dry, Ty. Tori?" he calls to their waitress from before.
Tyler chuckles. "No, it's fine, really," he says.
Divya eyes Saverin--Eduardo, really, next to him. Eduardo hasn't said shit, but he's been drinking steadily and keeping his eye on the conversation. At this point Divya would be drunk (though he couldn't match with Eduardo if he tried), but Eduardo looks way too sober than he would like for this entire dinner. Divya emphathizes with him.
Sean goes onto talk about his other business venture--Divya had researched them both on the internet, and the way Sean talks about them makes them seem glorified, cheap even.
"And I wanted to do it nice this time," Sean's saying. "So I tied my tie, and shined my shoes, but nobody wants to take orders from a kid, so let me tell you what happens to a twenty-year old at the top of a hot dotcom."
Divya raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. He takes a sip of his drink. Across from him, Eduardo does the same.
"They'll hire private detectives who follow you day and night," Sean says in a hushed voice, hunched over. To Divya's dismay, Zuckerberg and Cameron and Tyler have joined him. "You're a target for high priced escorts. And I can't prove it, but I know they tap my phones--"
"If you can't prove it," Divya says, eyeing the bottom of his empty martini glass, "then why do you think so?"
Sean sends him a cursory glance. "Because it's what they do," he says to Divya, which doesn't answer shit at all. "Why else fire me? Why else go into business with me under the pretense that they think I know shit when I do? Private behavior is a relic of a time gone by, and even if somehow, someway, you've managed to live your life like the Dalai Lama, they'll make shit up."
"So what's made up about you?" Eduardo says suddenly.
Maybe Divya misjudged. Maybe Eduardo is drunker than he thought.
But all Sean does is shrug and says, "What people hear about me versus what they choose to believe. All the news articles about me are true, but the words that get passed around from person to person, ear to ear, are much more interesting, much more dangerous. Anyone can go on the internet and read that I've been held down from two internet ventures."
"Because you were," Eduardo puts in. Divya doesn't know if he wants to tell Eduardo to shut up or cheer him on.
Sean ignores him either way. "But not everyone's gonna hear that Sean Parker is broke off his ass and can't afford shelter out of college girl's homes," he says. "And that's what gets passed around."
"Is that true?" Divya asks him.
Sean sends him one of those shark grins again. "Depends on what you choose to believe," he says. "No one wants to buy a Tower Records anymore, but people still know my name. And that could be a good thing. Or a bad thing."
"So you're making the most of it," Cameron says, and Sean smirks at him and says, "Cheers," raising his martini.
Eventually, eventually, some-fucking-how at the expense of both Divya and Eduardo's patiences, they get around to talking to thefacebook. "Tell me about your progress," Sean says, stirring his drink. They've finished their meal so that there is now coffee sitting in front of all of them.
Eduardo's the one who starts. "Well," he says, "we're in twenty-nine schools now, we have over 75,000 members--"
"We're considering expanding to high schools," Divya adds, to which Eduardo nods at.
But Sean ignores them both. "Tell me about the strategy you're using," he says, mostly directly his question to Cameron, Tyler, and Mark.
Eduardo visibly glowers as he sits back and Mark answers. Divya sends Eduardo a look, like can you believe this guy? to which Eduardo rolls his eyes at like he understands. Even Eduardo's own damn boyfriend isn't paying attention to him, lavishing Sean Parker with questions and answers. Divya is tempted to just leave the table with Eduardo to see if the rest of them will notice.
"That's good," Sean is saying to Tyler about something. "That's smart."
"Thanks, that was mine," Eduardo says. He's clearly still paying attention to the conversation better than Divya is.
Tyler gives Eduardo a look, which Eduardo fixedly returns. Tyler seems to put his hand on Eduardo's thigh, but Eduardo ignores him and barrels on to Sean.
"Actually, Sean," he says. "You should settle an argument for us--me and Mark, I mean."
Sean gives him an odd smile. "I don't want to get caught up in all your drama," he says, in a tone that highly suggests otherwise.
"It's not drama," Eduardo says, which is a lie as soon as he opens his mouth again because even Divya has heard this one before, when Cameron and Tyler try to argue it out without arguing it out--or Cameron, at least, trying to acknowledge Eduardo and Tyler's points while championing for Mark's.
"I'm saying it's time to make money for thefacebook," Eduardo says to Sean. "But Mark doesn't want advertising. Who's right?"
Sean scans all of their faces--even Divya's, while Divya is mildly surprised that Sean remembers that he exists. "Well, neither of you yet," Sean says. "Thefacebook is cool. That's what it's got going for it."
He's surprisingly diplomatic by the way that he's blatantly agreeing with Mark who interjects in what Sean's saying like a big fat I-fucking-told-you-so to Eduardo. In all fairness Divya would have to take Mark's side on this one, because what Sean's saying--"It's like you're throwing the greatest party on campus and someone's telling you it's gotta be over by eleven"--makes more sense about what thefacebook is about, why it's so popular in the first place. But by the way Eduardo is clenching is jaw, Divya's pretty sure that if Zuckerberg wanted to get a message over to his best friend, this isn't the way to do it.
"A million dollars isn't cool," Sean's saying. "You know what's cool?"
"You?" Eduardo fires at him.
Divya says, "A billion dollars?"
Sean raises his coffee mug at him. "Good man, Divya," he says. Divya's also surprised that Sean remembers his name. "A billion dollar valuation. Unless, of course, you take bad business advice in which case you may as well have come up with a chain of very successful yogurt shops."
The rest of the dinner seems to take a downhill turn in the sense that Eduardo has gone completely silent that Divya honestly wouldn't be surprised if he just never spoke to Mark or Cameron or even Tyler again for the rest of his life. If that does happen Divya needs to remember to ask him for his number--Eduardo seems to have good business senses, outside of thefacebook.
Sean Parker picks up the check, paying for all six of their martinis, which Divya feels slightly vindicated for. On his way out, Sean turns before leaving.
"Drop the 'the,'" he says to them. "Just Facebook. It's cleaner." He walks out of the restaurant.
Mark says, "Shit."
Divya agrees, but for a completely different reason.
a house on fire [2/2]
They split off on the cab ride back to the hotel, Cameron and Mark in one car, Divya with Tyler and Eduardo in another.
The drive's barely started before Tyler snaps, "Did you have to say all that shit?"
"What shit?" Eduardo says. When Tyler doesn't answer right away, "What shit?"
"All the shit about--advertising, saying all that shit to Sean Parker--"
"What, you just didn't want me to talk?"
"You were trying to pick a fight with him, and you know it," Tyler says stubbornly. "I'm on your side about the advertising--"
"Doesn't seem like it."
"--but don't you want to consider Sean's point? Consider Mark's point?"
"You're calling him Sean now?" Eduardo bites out. "Because you're so buddy buddy with him? Because you and your brother and Mark get along so fucking well with him?"
"Are you seriously jealous?" Tyler demands.
Eduardo makes a sound that is reminiscent of a growl and Divya's not entirely sure if he made the right choice getting in the car with them. On the other hand, it is kind of interesting--and while Divya doesn't agree entirely with Eduardo, he's going to have to take his side in this compared to apparently Tyler and Mark's dumbstruck hero worship and Cameron's indignant stance to remain a neutral party.
"I'm not jealous, he was just a douche," Eduardo says. "Narendra agrees with me, right Narendra?"
Divya turns from where he's sitting in the passenger seat up front. "I'm not a part of this argument," he says, at first. "But--seriously, Ty, you really want to trust a guy like that?"
"It's not about trust! It's a fucking business," Tyler snaps. "Shit. I can't deal with either of you right now."
Divya wishes he could feel worse about it, but he feels justified in the self-satisfied sigh he hears Eduardo let out.
*
In the hotel, Cameron and Mark share one room, Tyler and Eduardo share another, and Divya, thankfully, has a room all to himself. He's going through his emails and working on some homework when he hears a knock at his door.
Divya goes over to open it up to Eduardo Saverin, looking tired and hair bedraggled, in pajama pants and one of his usual button-ups, unbuttoned moreso than usual. "Saverin," Divya says, raising his eyebrows. "This is a surprise."
"It's Eduardo," Eduardo says. "Can I come in?"
Divya lets him in, shutting the door behind him. "What brings this visit?" he says. "I'd thought you'd need twenty hours of sleep after today."
Eduardo chuckles. "Yeah," he says. "Sorry for interrupting your night."
Divya shakes his head, joining Eduardo on the spare bed in the room. "It's fine, man," he says.
"It's just." Eduardo stops talking and clenches at his hair for a moment. "Tyler's being so fucking stupid, and so are Cameron and Mark. About Sean Parker, about the advertisers--about everything--"
"Dude, you've got a hickey," Divya says, pointing. There is a prominent red welt on where Eduardo's shirt is unbuttoned, and Eduardo blushes and quickly goes to cover it. "Don't tell me that you and Tyler fought about this again right before you were about to go to bed."
"He said something, and I just--I don't know." Eduardo puts his face in his hands. "They treat me like I don't know what thefacebook is about--like I don't want the best for thefacebook, because god, I do, it's just--"
"You don't think Sean Parker is what's best for it," Divya says, and Eduardo nods.
Divya sighs. He's been friends for Tyler for longer and Tyler's going to hate him for this, but, "You can stay in my room tonight if you need to. Spare bed and everything," he adds, when Eduardo opens his mouth like he's going to say something about not wanting to impose. "Man, seriously. I can understand how it might feel like they're ganging up on you, but you're not wrong about this. Sean Parker is a major douchebag."
"Thank you," Eduardo says gratefully. "And it's not like I haven't been here since the beginning, you know? Even when it was just me and Mark."
"Well now it's me and you, man. Against those idiots who don't want to see reason." Divya thumps Eduardo on the shoulder, and then thinks for a minute. "And Cam," he adds, because sometimes neutrality is an even more annoying position.
"And Cam," Eduardo says, rolling his eyes. "At least he and his boyfriend aren't sleeping in separate rooms tonight."
"Do what you gotta do, Saverin," Divya tells him. "We'll figure it out in the morning."
Eduardo smiles at him like he didn't realize that he and Divya could be on the same side. And, well, Divya didn't think so either, but you can make friends in unexpected places. Divya knows this.
"Thank you," Eduardo says. "Again."
~400 (and then some)
ISY'S FILLS
SUNDAY, MAY 14
Re: SUNDAY, MAY 14