marcus lampfield knew he was more trouble than he was worth. anyone who dealt with him as long as you had deserved an award, perhaps a nobel peace prize; but no, you got his friendship in return.

on the surface, he epitomized the archetype of a teenage misfit; raggedy blond hair, tanned skin, and a smile that was indistinguishable from one of menace, or one of glee. he had a band, that he founded of course, lampfield n' co. though, as much fun as rehearsals and band gigs in the local pubs were, having an ex in such close quarters was a pain in the ass; especially for a pansexual dipshit like himself.

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. you never knew when they were back together; and neither did he.

"god, i miss him." marcus declared for the umpteenth time, dramatically collapsing on your couch, legs carelessly kicked up on your coffee table as if he lived there. you, as marcus' best friend, knew everything about his life-- a little too much, at times.

his wry smirk was intact, but his hazelnut brown eyes were slightly distant, as if in some codependent reverie that he often visited after romantic splits. it was a cycle. he fucked up, they broke up, and then orpheus would inevitably take him back like nothing had happened.

"you think i'm insane, i know i messed up, but come on. with jane it wasn't the same, but orpheus," he made a disgruntled sound when you didn't join him on the couch, lolling his to rest on the backrest, giving you a view of the faint freckles that spattered his neck. "the man he is, jesus christ."