marcusmixes

[marcusmixes]

@producermarcus: @kaitucker Cool. We’ll save you a seat. I’ll get a round in.

@producermarcus: @kaitucker Charlie had to go, I’m sorry. I hope you still want to join?

↳INSTAGRAM: @kaitucker uploaded a photo:

When it’s finals week n you have to reckon with the fact that 80% of your students have been using chatgpt for their essays someone get me a drink I’m going fucking insane what the fuckkkkk

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@producermarcus: Do you want to join me and Charlie for a drink? We have our own booth.

↳INSTAGRAM: @kaitucker uploaded a photo:

When it’s finals week n you have to reckon with the fact that 80% of your students have been using chatgpt for their essays someone get me a drink I’m going fucking insane what the fuckkkkk

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CARMEN "CARMY" BERZATTO in every episode of THE BEAR (2022 — PRESENT)

2.07 “FORKS”

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don't call me son.

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Oh. Yeah, I am. He's fun. He makes good music and he's nice to me. My mums really like him.

Yeah, sometimes it's best to leave things out of print. Oh, I just mean. You sound fond of him, or somethin'.

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I don't know if that's a compliment but I'd rather just be a person. Um, does he? How would you know? You don't know him. Charlie knows a lot of people.

I think you'd make a great book. It sounds like this Charlie guy is your friend, anyway.

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I'm not a book you're trying to write. Um, no? I just don't really have friends. Hence Hendrix.

I don't know, I'm a writer. I should be better. You think? What, is there like, romantic tension there? Heh.

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If you say so.

What? Why would I tell someone? Charlie’s my friend, I think. He’s a DJ.

'Cause Prufrock sounds cooler.

Sometimes you don't know you're lonely 'til you've got friends again. Wait, that was awful - don't tell anyone I said that. Who's Charlie?

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So why didn't you name your cat after... Um, Magical Miriam Margolyes, or whatever.

I figure they're the same, probably. I don't know if I knew I was lonely before. I have friends, I think. I have Charlie.

I didn't make them up. T.S. Eliot did. Don't worry, we're kind of sharing the cat now.

Aw, I didn't ask if you were normal. I asked if you were less lonely. Normal's overrated.

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Oh... Would it be considered, um, antisocial if I said those sound like words you just made up? Because they do. You should ask your boyfriend to give your cat back.

Dunno. You tell me. Do I seem "normal" to you?

You know - the practical cats? Rum Tum Tugger? Magical Mister Mistoffelees? No? Alright. And yeah. Pretty weird.

Has it helped?

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The what poem? Oh ok. And he didn't give it back. Weird.

Ok. Um. I dunno. They thought I was lonely. Or something.

Oh, uh. Sorry. My bad. It's a poem that I like, by T.S. Eliot. Ironically, the guy who wrote the cats poem. He was just sort of - looking after my cat.

I promise not to call you Marc. You can call me Lou. So how come your Mums saddled you with this gorgeous boy, Marcus?

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You said "J Alfred Prufrock" as if that would clear things up. Ah, writers. That makes more sense. I'm not really a literature sort of guy. You gave your cat away? To your boyfriend? Ok. Oh, um. Hi Louis.

Oh. Sorry. I'm Marcus. Just Marcus. Don't call me Marc.

Yeah, I think he does. Good boy, Hendrix! Well, Pru's government name is Prufrock. As in, J. Alfred Prufrock. And Sybil's after the female character in Dorian Gray. Ulysses is after Joyce. I don't think he is, though he might have read the Percy Jackson books, I'll have to ask him. We're both writers - though all the tragic names are down to me. Heh. It's a long story, Ulysses was mine first. I'm Louis, by the way. Lou.

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He's okay, yeah. He likes you, I think? Those are odd names for cats. Is your boyfriend a fan of Greek mythology? I think if it's your boyfriend's cat then that doesn't make it yours. Unless you live together. It's fine, I think. You can talk about him.

You're right, Hendrix is much cooler than Lulu Belle. Aw, he's sweet, isn't he? Oh! They're called Pru and Sybil. And technically I still got Ulysses, but the uh, aforementioned boyfriend has custody of that one. Sorry. I don't want to be one of those guys who keeps talking about their boyfriend. Or my cats, really.

What was your name, again?

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My mums got him for me without asking. He's grown but I've only had him for a couple of months. He's a rescue. His name was Lulu Belle which I thought was stupid so I renamed him. You can pet him, he doesn't seem to mind. Oh, I think I'm supposed to ask you what your cats are called?

You must love dogs at least enough to have one. And this one's a cutie. Hendrix, right? Cool name. Can I pet him? Cats are kinda their own beast. Mine are just kittens, so they love everyone right now.

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Oh. I don't know if I love dogs either yet. I know people with cats. Cats don't like me. I didn't ask, no... Um... but you didn't ask Hendrix to lick your knee either. So...

That's okay. No harm done - I love dogs. Actually, that's uh, not strictly true. But my boyfriend has a dog, and my housemates, so I'm used to them. I have cats. Which, you didn't ask about...

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Sorry. I don't know why he did that. This is my first time having a dog. I've never seen him do that to a stranger before.

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The other man’s obvious bewilderment was doing nothing to calm Marcus. Usually, he didn’t especially care too much if others were bothered by his general indifference or – as Regina had put it as she’d been caught cheating on him – blatant disregard for the feelings of others. It seemed to bother him now though. He found himself grimacing and throwing his eyes up to the sky, eager to ignore the discomfort that seared through his skin. Marcus didn’t like to feel overwhelmed; He didn’t like the sensation of his body betraying him as it throbbed, the noise of the cafe loud and unbearable. To have it coupled with the stranger’s obvious look of confusion at what he’d thought was a simple request was too much for Marcus to handle. 

He wanted to go home. He wanted his other, much less socially acceptable headphones, snug around his ears, blocking out every decibel of sound that tried to break the barrier. Marcus longed for the comfort of his living room, the plushness of his sofa, the texture just right against his skin as he sunk down into the cushions, his cheek pressed to the armrest as he dozed off. He hadn’t wanted a stranger’s hand clasped around his clothed shoulder, guiding him towards the counter. 

He stood in silence as the barista – the blond and bubbly one whose name he’d never taken the time to remember – came bounding towards them, wide eyed and wondering whatever had gone wrong. As if it wasn’t obvious from the way his skin was seared a nasty reddish colour. Then the other bouncy blonde seemed to materialise and Marcus thought the torture may never end. He merely stood there, stony faced and irritated as a sea of golden haired human labradors, inexplicably given the responsibility of running this shop, danced in and out of his vision. 

“I know. It’s quite irresponsible for them to be working here without any first aid training,” Marcus noted. He didn’t have any prior experience with burns himself, but any idiot with at least one working brain cell should surely understand how utterly stupid it would be to try and apply ice to his current injury.  

He thought absently of Kennedy, as he often did in situations like this. She tended to be abrupt with him when she thought he was being rude, but more than that she worked in the medical field. She would have known exactly what to do, and she would have had no such time for imbeciles trying to worsen his fate. He wondered if she would agree that they should let her think she helped, or if she’d also think that was ridiculous. Still, as frustrated as Marcus felt, he couldn’t help but feel slightly... relaxed around the man beside him. Not nearly enough for it to make much of a difference, but he had an air of knowing to him, as though he was well-practiced in looking after strangers. Something about him was calming. 

Inhaling sharply, he gave the other man a stiff nod and allowed himself to be led to the sink. Eyeing him curiously, he lifted his arm carefully, angling it towards the stranger in silent agreement. He grimaced ever so slightly at the minor movement, a fresh bout of nausea stirring in the pit of his stomach, only to pause. 

“You do know what you’re doing, don't you?” Marcus mused, eyes narrowed as he arched a single brow in question. 

Carefully, he placed his arm under the cold stream of water, a shaky gasp getting caught in the back of his throat, tearing through his teeth in a hiss. He blinked rapidly, acutely aware of not only the other man’s eyes steadily trained on him, but the perky blonde with the ice’s too. Withdrawing his arm, he scowled before outstretching it towards his fellow Brit. 

“You can apply it so long as we can do it without an audience,” he supplied, his tone sharp and biting, and not remotely directed at the man in front of him. 

Dante’s eyes widened when the man insisted that, actually, he did mind having a strange pair of hands all over his burned arm. Of course, Dante could respect a firm boundary being set, but it did seem a little counterproductive if he wanted to stop this man’s skin from blistering to the point of it scarring. He knew it wasn’t actually his responsibility - he wasn’t a doctor, he hadn’t taken a hippocratic oath - but he couldn’t very well turn and leave the poor love in pain, could he?

“You… do mind,” he echoed, more than a little perplexed. But still, he didn’t touch the man’s arm, respecting his refusal to allow himself to be touched.

Surprised even further by the way the man suddenly grasped onto his jacket, Dante frowned when he was giving a conditional ‘over my sleeve’. Dante wasn’t entirely sure what good that would do when the man’s injuries lay on his bare skin where the sleeves of his t-shirt didn’t even touch. But as he felt the other man’s hand close into a fist in the material of his own jacket, Dante remembered to be sympathetic to the stranger’s plight. Perhaps the pain was leaving his mind a little muddled and so Dante would help where he could.

“Alright. Over the sleeve,” he agreed, his hand resting carefully on the other man’s shoulder as he steered him towards the counter. “We’ll get you a first-aid kit and you can tend to yourself, but if you need any help…”

He gestured to himself as if to say: remember I’m here.

Simon, a familiar face behind the counter if only from Olly’s Instagram posts, gaped at the pair as they approached the counter.

“Marcus, what happened?” he gasped, as if there could be many different explanations for the angry red burn on the man’s arm and the strong smell of coffee that accompanied it. Dante remained patient in the face of Simon’s shock though, especially since he had a name now. Marcus.

He glanced quickly at Marcus before returning his attention to Simon. 

“Would you mind getting your first-aid kit, darling?” he asked. “I’m going to help Marcus with his burn.”

Quickly, Simon turned and disappeared into the back room, just as another figure approached them, thrusting a paper cup towards Dante.

“Here’s a cup of ice!” the young blonde from behind the counter chirped worriedly. Dante looked down at her nametag. ‘Rae’, it read.

“Thank you so much darling, you’re a lifesaver!” he informed her before waiting until her back was turned to promptly chuck the cup in the bin.

“Ice is horrible for a burn,” he explained to Marus. “But we should at least let her think she helped.”

Soon enough, Simon came back over to them, thrusting the first-aid kit in Dante’s direction. He quickly took it and clicked it open, impressed by how well-stocked it was. He’d heard from both Olly and Amira that there were many injuries in A Novel Idea, mostly self-inflicted at the hands of the baristas and their clumsiness, so he’d expected their medical kit to have dwindled a little from overuse. But evidently Billy kept it well-stocked, meaning Dante found what he needed rather quickly.

“Alright, get your arm under this tap,” he instructed, flipping the faucet on in the sink so a steady stream of cold water ran out. “Then we can give you this balm and get a bandage on it. Would you rather apply it yourself or… You can let me?”