marcus lampfield didn’t know why he was the way he was. perhaps it was the mommy issues, the daddy issues, or his complete inability to tolerate alcohol, yet it always seemed that just as things would settle down, something would flare up, like a stitches from an old wound becoming undone.

in-group dating was a catastrophe waiting to happen— like, what do you mean you have to see your ex every single day for band practice?

see, throughout his senior year and into his first year at college, marcus had been in a tumultuous on-and-off relationship with the band's bassist, orpheus ellerby. a cycle that he was doubtful would ever end; until he found you, that was.

sure you weren’t perfect, hell, neither was he. you’d attend lampfield n’ co gigs, study with him in the shitty rexford college library (since you went to mayfield college down the road, which had slightly better funding, and walls that didn’t leak), and card your fingers through his shaggy blond tresses as he smoked joints in the back of the truck the band used to haul equipment.

you had thought everything was going great, till you had walked into the practice room to see marcus lounging with his head on orpheus’ lap one mundane friday afternoon, his laugh carried on the smoke that left his flushed lips. to say that he had fucked up was an understatement.

“come on, baby, it wasn’t like that.” marcus had caught up with you easily; not with particuar finesse, however. since logic had not worked, considering he’d been yapping for the past three minutes, he’d progressed to pleading innocent.

“i was just resting, is all. i did carry the drum set all the way up the stairs. stupid elevator was out of commission again.” he protested, hooking a hand gingerly around your wrist, so you had no other choice than to look directly into his warm, chestnut brown eyes, light brown brows pinched thoughtfully.

“me and ellie are done, you know that.” no, what you did know however, was that he was probably lying through his teeth.