#For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses

[pedropascalunofficial]

What are your favorite things about Pedro?

What are my favourite things about Pedro Pascal?

The little glimpses of what he can do when the role allows it. He doesn't always get good roles but when he does, watching Pedro brings me back to when I was a kid staying up past midnight to watch Paul Newman. There's more there than just a performance. Like someone is sharing tiny bits of their soul.

This is sappy af. Apologies.

[sixhours]

Pedro Pascal in "For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu

[writer-darling]

For All the Sad Mad Poets

Rating: T - TEENS (13+)

Pairing: Marcus Pike (The Mentalist, 2008) x GN!Reader

Warnings: Gender neutral reader. Pre-established relationship. Post-breakup. Whole lotta angst. Cursing. Mentions of being drunk. Love confessions. Crying. If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary!: Inspired by Pedro’s “For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses” monologue for The 24 Hours Plays channel on Youtube

******

There’s a single-note ding and your phone lights up your nightstand in the black of your bedroom. Your eyes squint to fight the intense brightness before they adjust as you grab your device as you turn over in bed. What time is it? The corner of your phone screen reads 12:34 a.m. The banner notification of the new message on your screen has no contact name, just the usual 10-digits number combo, but you recognize it immediately. Without a second thought, you open it up and see that the message has no text, just a video. Now you hesitate, but you still press play after a microsecond’s deliberation.  

He’s drunk. You can tell that almost immediately. The too-red of his face, the glazed haziness of his deep brown eyes. His lopsided, closed-lip smile that accentuates his dimple. All classic symptoms of a very inebriated Marcus Pike. Which makes perfect sense. There’s no way he would’ve recorded this video sober. Even less of a chance that he would have sent this to you. Especially not looking like this. The Marcus you knew always maintained a cleanshaven, neat appearance. But his hair is longer, a slight wave to the fringe that frames the right side of his face. He’s also let his facial hair grow out in a moustache and patchy beard. It’s very unlike him but he looks incredibly handsome.

And you? Well, you’re not doing so hot either. The tears that lulled you to sleep last night have long-since dried off, leaving itchy streaks down your face. The shirt - one of his old T-shirts you’d kept - you’re wearing and shorts that you haven’t even bothered to change out of all weekend. You’re also too damn curious or maybe just too damn stupid enough to open up the attachment. Even after ten months, your heart skips a beat. Even after ten months, you’re still crying and caring about him. You hear a soft exhale and your eyes are drawn to him again, your heart warming at the familiar sight of him and the dimple on his right cheek. He glances down for a second, before looking up once more as he lets out a throaty chuckle.

“Hi,” His voice is steady, confident, but then he drops the smile as if already regretting this. “I was thinking about you. I always do, around this time - every time of the day, actually.” The admission is slightly rushed as he averts his gaze again. “Anyway, uh probably not even thinking about me. Do you ever think about me? A little?” There it is, the famous puppy dog doeness of his brown eyes that gives him an instantly boyish demeanor and made you fall head-over-heels for him what seems like forever ago. He gives a slight shake of his head, even as you’re nodding along to the question. Not that he can see you of course. But of course you think about him. It’s impossible for you not to think about him. Even now.

He glances off as a look of confusion crosses his features, a sigh escaping him. “What was I saying? What am I-?” He cuts off, sighing again, “What am I saying?? Don’t lose track, fuck.” He mutters to himself. He steps back, before dropping down close to the camera again, another drunken smile appearing for a moment, self-amused for losing his train of thought. Or maybe the courage the alcohol gave him, you’re not sure. He suddenly slaps both of his palms over his face and drags them down his face, contorting his features in the process and making a soft laugh involuntarily escape you as he whimpers once quietly. A loud clap from him makes you jump and then he points at you, making you resomber. 

“Do you remember… Do you remember,” He snaps before continuing, “when we saw that uh, what was it, uh?” Two snaps this time, with both hands. “You remember?” He gives up and backtracks, “They used to be in these big ass expensive fuckin’ buildings, you remember? What were they called, um?” His desperation is palpable, even through the screen as he turns to walk directly away from the camera before crossing diagonally to your right. There’s a commotion of sound, as if he’s tossing everything around in search of something specific. As it grows louder for a moment, you almost grow worried but then he’s filling your view again with a familiar playbill next to him and a wide grin on his face. “Plays!” He exclaims, proudly. The site of the cover of the playbill with its tattered edges and faded coloring tugs at your heartstrings. He’d kept it all this time? “This??” He accentuates the question by tapping the title on the cover. You’re reading it aloud along with him, though you know the name of it from memory. “The Last of the Sad, Mad Genuises.”

“Remember plays?” He asks, and his tone is soft in its innocence. “Songs? Poetry?” A brief hopeful smile flits across his features but it's gone in an instant. “Yeah, me neither.” His tone drops instantly from playful to somber and he averts his eyes, ruefully. He talks about these things as if they no longer exist, as if they were from a past life. But you know instantly what he means. Since him, since Marcus, there’s stuff you can’t enjoy anymore. You can’t watch any black and white movie because it’ll just remind you of the countless Cinema Nights you two spent on his couch, cuddled up close as he whispered movie trivia to you ad nauseum. Oogum Boogum by Brenton Wood still makes you cry because all you can picture is when Marcus sang it terribly offkey to you on your third date at a Karaoke bar. 

“Remember we saw this play? And you laughed so hard you peed a little?” You should have been embarrassed, mortifyingly so, but you just couldn’t be. You were so comfortable with him, and he never made fun of you for it. “And, what was that fucking line in the play?? How the fuck did it go??? If,” He closes his eyes, his dark brows furrowing in concentration, “If, If, If-?” He opens his eyes and points again, “If you’ve got one friend when you die, you got something most people never have.” You nod again, impressed he was able to recall it. 

“And I tried to quote that shit back at you, and you laughed at me cuz I fucked it up.” He lets out a reluctant chuckle. “And I kissed you,” He pauses and looks up at you again. Your heart squeezes in response to the look in his eyes, even when he tears his gaze away again. He shudders. “And you let me?” He whimpers again and you release a shuddering sigh in response. “And it-” He swallows, his voice thick as his eyes have a faraway look in them as he looks at anything but the camera. 

“It rained like we were in a fucking movie, and life was never better than that.” You hate to admit it, but you feel the same way too. That moment had been torn right out of the pages of your romance novel and you thanked Cupid himself for allowing you to experience it. Especially with Marcus. “Shit, shit!” As he begins to break down, releasing these gasping, shuddering breaths that move his shoulders, your heart lodges itself in your throat as tears brim your own eyes, even as you recall such a sweet memory. 

The way he had held you close against the sudden chill of the rain, his body warm and sweet and safe. The loud pattering of the raindrops as they hit your bodies and the pavement underneath your feet. The softness of his lips on yours, and the same doeness of his eyes. It had been nothing short of magical. “Why did you have to love me like that?” He asks softly. Your hand instinctively touches your phone screen as if it’s his face, caressing the edge of the device gently. He seemingly regains his composure, but then he covers his mouth and releases another gasp, 

“WHY DID YOU HAVE TO LOVE ME BACK?!” The eruption from him makes you jump so much you almost drop your phone, not realizing you had leaned in so much the further you watched the video. You sit up straight and readjust, “Y’know? Why’d you do that? You… You had to have known that-that it, you’d send me into a kind of madness. Y’know? So-Sometimes, sometimes I think maybe-” He cuts off before trying again. “Sometimes maybe uh, I made you up… uh… sometimes.” Your heart breaks all over again at his confession and this time a couple of tears fall as you continue to watch, too enraptured by his madness to look away. 

“So, I go,” his gaze travels off to glance around the room he’s in for a moment. “into the quietest parts of this house and..,” He looks directly at you again. “I whisper your name.” A shiver runs down your spine at that. “I wish I could scream it.” Your body feels hot all over even as more tears begin to fall at that. “I should,” he continues. “Should I scream it?” You’re nodding again and so is he, a sudden determination in his voice. “I will, I should!”

He draws in a deep gasp. You can see that he’s about to do it, ramping himself up. Your own body tenses in anticipation, the hand holding your phone tightening its grip while the other tightens up into a fist as it rests against your thigh. You swear you can practically see his lips begin to form the letters of your name. But then he releases the energy in a slight hiss from between his teeth, followed by a defeated sigh and a slump of his shoulders. 

“Yeah I… I can’t send this.” He mumbles. He lets out a humorless laugh. He grabs the playbill again and straightens up and away from the camera finally releasing you from his stare. He places the bill with both palms against his chest, his heart, clutching it tenderly before running a hand through his hair. He moves close again, dropping his hands and the bill. “You’re just making a damn fool of yourself, Pike. Fuck it.” The black screen greets you next and you’re up and out of bed in the next moment. Without a second thought, you’ve put on your shoes, grabbed your keys, and headed out. He’s awake, you think. He’ll open the door. You’re sure of it.

*******

So this was fun. My first time writing for Marcus Pike and I was too tempted to do this angsty piece. I rewatch this monologue a lot but to actually study and pause it continuously to try and find the best way to describe Pedro’s incredible emotional performance in this was so challenging, but I adored every second of it. I’m tempted to write a part 2 to bring some closure to the story but I also do like it as a standalone. Idk, I guess you all will tell me what you think. Either way, thanks a million for reading, hope you enjoyed, and see you in the next one!

Tag List: @pedrocentric @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish @klara-luise18 @supernaturalgirl89 @december-gal1 @pbeatriz @castleamcc @hillarymurray4​ @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20​ @sherala007​ @littlemisspascal​ @practicalghost​ @donnaa​ @scorpio-marionette​ @kayleezra​ @amandanik23​ @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mswarriorbabe80 (hope it’s ok that I’m tagging you all!)

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[doughmonkey]

Watch "Pedro Pascal in "For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu" on YouTube

[dekaohtoura]

Δείτε το βίντεο "Pedro Pascal in "For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu" στο YouTube

Rollercoaster of emotions

[monicapennington]

Watch "Pedro Pascal in "For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu" on YouTube

I love this ... I imagine sometimes that he is talking to me.

[heythere-mel]

“Do you, ever think about me? A little?…”

[bring-me-in-warm]

undefined

Sometimes... I whisper your name. I wish I could scream it.

An except of Pedro Pascal performing “For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu. It was written, rehearsed, and performed in 24 hours. - (x)

[themassiveweightofpedrostalent]

Watching respectfully

[longitud-de-onda]

Porque el querer causa pena, pena que no tiene fin

pairing; mad sad genius (we never got a name) x reader summary; you can love someone with all your heart, but nothing compares to the madness that exists in their absence rating; t warnings; language, a bit of alcohol, angst, it isn’t specifically covid-19 but it is a pandemic science fiction story, so the quarantine and other situations are taken to the extreme which could be potentially triggering depending on how you’re handling the quarantine. word count; 3.0k a/n; this is fanfic for ngozi anyanwu’s for all the lovesick mad sad geniuses which aside from pedro’s amazing performance, is a brilliant monologue. we’re taking the title from the rosalía song (maldición, cap. 10: cordura) that helped inspire this.

You met him at an art gallery. It was your own show, and you were standing in the corner drinking wine from a clear plastic cup, the edge of which was sharp against your lips. You held a paper plate with five almonds, a mozzarella and tomato crostini, and a mini chocolate cupcake carefully balanced in your other hand.

He was standing in front of your favorite piece. No one else was. Probably because the gallery owner told you it wasn’t the sort of work that would stop anyone. That out of all the work in your collection, it was the type that belonged in the back, where it would be found by the people who cared enough to wander there, whose interest would likely be piqued enough for them to enjoy it. It hurt to hang it up on the back wall and not up in the front where you wanted it.

But he hadn’t stopped at everything else. He had walked into the gallery minutes before, giving every painting a quick glance before settling on the one in front of which he was standing. He had been there for almost five minutes before you decided to walk up next to him.

He looked over upon seeing you approach and your heart stopped. He was the most beautiful person you had ever seen. His smile reached his eyes and you found yourself falling into them. You almost asked him if he would model for you.

You didn’t paint portraits.

“This one is beautiful,” he told you.

You smiled and took a sip of your wine. You didn’t need convincing that it was beautiful. That much you already knew. It was the one piece you were confident beyond belief about.

“What do you like about it?” you asked, jutting your chin up at the painting in question.

“The artist seems to have cared. You can see the brushstrokes. They’re more detailed than the others. Someone only spends that much time on something they really care about.”

That was when you fell in love with him. Thirty-three words. That was all it took.

Your first date was dinner after the gallery closed for the night and he dragged you out to his favorite burger joint because he said you deserved it after opening an exhibition. After wolfing down more than enough food and splitting a tub of fries, you spilled out onto the streets in a pile of laughter and joy and you’ll never forget the look on his face when you asked for his number.

Your second date was a night you’ll never forget. He had taken two days to contact you after the first night, and you had begun to worry you would never hear from him again, but he called you and said he wanted to meet you at 6pm the next day and to dress nicely. You showed up where he told you too and he was there with that goddamn smile.

He took you to a Chinese restaurant and said I’d take you somewhere nicer but I don’t think you’re that kind of woman. And you would have slapped any other guy in the face but he looked so earnest and he was right about you. It was like he could read you like a book. And when you laughed he’d sometimes stop laughing with you just to stare with a certain reverence that made you question what you did to deserve the sort of man who looked at you that way.

He took you past all the big theaters showing musicals and stopped at one tucked away with a modest set of doors but the grandest entry hall you had ever seen. You let him lead the way as he took you through the doors into the auditorium and you walked down the aisles to seats near the front.

You didn’t know what you had done to let him know you loved comedies, but he had picked out the perfect play. By the time it was over your stomach hurt from laughing so hard and your eyes held the watery ring around them from your tears. You hit the cool night air just as it started raining, and any other time you would have run for cover but with him and his smile next to you, you didn’t give a shit.

The aimless wandering that night was your favorite part. You were doubled over laughing as he told you the parts of the play he liked, and the parts he didn’t.

“She was a fucking genius and a poet, you know?” he said.

“Who?”

“The playwright.”

“What? Why?” you asked.

“She wrote a play about another fucking genius,” he said. “And despite it being the funniest shit ever made, it still had all those deep-ass lines. You know, like, ‘If you got one friend when you die then most people never have something like you.”

And he didn’t know why you started giggling until you calmed yourself enough to tell him what the real quote was in between fits of laughter. He had that look from earlier that night on his face. The one where it was like he didn’t even know you could see him. He gazed at you like he could see you. Not just on the surface, but underneath everything too. Like he could see every thought that went through your head and took the time to hold every one and appreciate it before letting it go.

He leaned down to kiss you and you tilted your head up to meet him and you wondered how you hadn’t kissed him before. Why you didn’t when you said goodbye your first night. Why you didn’t when you were getting to know him over a burger. Why you didn’t let him kiss you that first fucking moment when you fell in love, right there, after he told you about your own goddamn brush strokes.

You fell in love all over again the following weekend when he took you to his favorite spot in the park, a large grassy hill overlooking all the kids playing below and you spread out a blanket and ate sandwiches that he had put into little ziploc bags. You told him that he should have packed some wine and he said baby, we didn’t need any alcohol our first two dates and you flushed and told him about the wine you had at the gallery and he laughed.

“I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to walk up to you without it,” you protested when he jokingly expressed mild disappointment.

“If you hadn’t walked up, I probably would have shouted ‘where’s the fucking artist, I need to talk to her!’ by the end of the night,” he said, and you found yourself laughing again.

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened at one of my exhibits,” you said.

You met him every morning before work to go out for coffee, even if it meant waking up an extra hour early because he’s a morning person. You had his coffee order memorized by the third day.

He invited you to his apartment one day and you found yourself laughing over home videos of him as a kid late into the night. When you said goodbye, your heart yearned to stay. To take one of his shirts and wear it as you curled up next to him in bed. Instead, you kissed him good night.

After dinner one evening, you brought him to your place and showed him the little studio you had in the most well-lit room. He spent almost an hour exploring it, asking you questions about every little thing, the brand of paints you liked best, the angle you preferred to set your easel, your favorite tools, your favorite color, and telling you how honored he was to be in the workplace of a genius.

You didn’t tell him he was the smartest person you had ever met.

You didn’t tell him that he was the genius out of the two of you. That he could talk about his work and you could listen for hours to his voice but not understand a single word he said. That he would talk like no one was listening and then say the most serious shit. The sort of thing that made you rethink life, and by the time you had escaped from your thoughts he was already on another topic, rambling about the multitudes of things he loved. He saw the beauty in everything.

How the hell could a man like him love you?

He was the sort of person you would hear about in movies. The type to never stop dreaming. Someone watching the two of you would think you both mad. He had his head in the clouds and you would watch from below in awe as if his brain was firing off fireworks, and then you would speak about anything and he would give you that smile and that goddamn look that drove you crazy.

Your entire life he was there, living his own life without ever having met you, and you often wondered how many times you had almost met. You lived in the same city, surely there must have been times. Hundreds if not thousands of moments in which your paths nearly crossed. Whether what kept you from meeting was a mere 3 feet of distance in a crowd or a mere 3 minutes of time and space in which one of you was running late or early to something along which way you would have found him.

But you were lucky to have met him when you did. Gotten to share the brief moments while they lasted. That was before the virus hit.

You were sitting on his kitchen counter, covered in acrylic paint he had bought at the grocery store as the two of you detailed messy renditions of Van Gogh’s work on his cabinet doors, and he had wrapped his dirty hands around your waist, leaving two purple handprints on your painting shirt, and pulled you into a kiss. And this one was different. It was deeper, searching for more. There was more heat and passion. Your whole relationship, months of it, had been slow and beautiful and intimate, but there were times where it was more like friendship then romance and neither of you minded as you walked along the fine line between the two, happy with the state of things as they were. But you had loved him since the first day and you didn’t mind the idea of, one day, collapsing naked and sweaty into bed with him instead of snuggling up against his side as he wrapped you in his arms like he usually did when you did decide to spend the night.

But that was for another day. You broke apart after minutes to return to your project. By the end of the night you were screwing the doors back in and he was admiring everything. If you were being honest, he was completely helpless when it came to handiwork. Couldn’t hammer a nail, tighten a screw, sand some wood, or even recreate a decent Starry Starry Night, but that didn’t matter. Because his kitchen looked vibrant and beautiful and the art reminded you of all the ideas you could see swirling in his head. The fucking genius.

The reports had started to come in by then, but it wasn’t until the following morning that you realized how serious everything had gotten. Schools announced that day that they were closing. He called to tell you he was working from home. You got the call that evening that you would be too.

A week later and you had met with him once, in the park. It was a long trek for both of you, living on opposite sides of the city. But the brief kisses, kind words, and soft touches on the waist, thighs, arms, neck, jaw, nose, back, anything? Those were all worth it.

The following day you learned you couldn’t leave your neighborhood. You video-chatted with him in tears. If only you had let yourself follow the thoughts of moving in with him instead of stamping them out as soon as they started to take root in your head. If only you had let him spend the night one more time. So you wouldn’t be clinging to his fading smell on the t-shirt you stole from his closet.

It was like your whole world cut out when the strikes started. No internet. No cell service. No connection. The postal service was all but gone, and you had no way of connecting with him. Your only source of news was the newspaper, three times a week, delivered to your doorstep. And your neighbor who got it every day and would shout to you the important things.

You wished you had photos of him framed around the house. 

Then when you did, the sight of him staring at you from every corner of your apartment was enough to drive you mad with longing that you took them all down. 

When the government got the strikes under control, they started to introduce the plans for rolling out the internet services again. Things had become grim. You spent every night dreaming of him, but you were starting to forget his face. Did his nose curve that much?  Were the creases around his eyes that deep? Was his shabby beard that full? Did he have dimples, or were you just making that up?

You would stare at the photos on your phone, desperately trying to commit him to memory. Remember how he looked when the man in the photo came to life in three dimensions. How did he walk? How did he wave his hands?

By that time, life was different. You didn’t make art anymore. What was once your life had been shoved into your studio room, the light turned off, and the tubes of paint left to dry up. Your apartment didn’t smell like clay and charcoal and linseed oil anymore. You didn’t have it in you to keep painting. You went to the grocery store once every fourteen days, grabbing produce and frozen goods, bottles of alcohol and some cleaning supplies before handing over your newly minted ration card to receive the staples. Rice, pasta, beans, eggs, flour, sugar, a couple bags of dried fruit, a bottle of milk. It wasn’t so bad when you lived on your own, but you felt bad for the mothers and fathers in line behind you, knowing that their children might be too picky to even eat the food they were lucky to get.

The introduction of connectivity services was a slow process. Neighborhood by neighborhood across the country so as not to overwhelm the systems. There were new rules. It was only to be used for three things: education, work, and essential communication between legal family members.

Your finger hovered over the call button next to his name hundreds of times, but you could never press it out of fear that someone would be watching or listening. You knew that when you walked the streets they were. It was likely the same for your phone now too.

One day in a drunken fit of anger and yearning and the craze of love, you deleted all the photos on your phone, hoping that maybe without them you could forget how much you missed him.

You tried to forget him. But every night you dreamt of his slowly warping face. You wondered if he was doing the same.

Sometimes you would watch the DVDs you had and try to replace his image in your head with the actors. Sometimes it would work and weeks would go by with only dreams of the movies. But it would always lose its effectiveness. Usually around the time that you remembered that he was probably your soulmate and you didn’t get enough time.

In every single one of the possibilities of your lives together that you daydreamed about for hours every day, there was never enough time. But this reality was the worst. You were sure of that.

You had read every book in your house. Read every poem you could get your hands on, even the ones you had risked your life for in searching them on the internet, carefully saving pdfs and screenshots and printing them out on the dwindling paper in your apartment. Words didn’t do the same thing they used to anymore. They didn’t bring joy and excitement and escape. You stopped reading them.

You talked with your neighbor for the first time in a month. It seemed that almost everyone had stopped reading books. You wondered if people stopped doing other things too. 

The world before was starting to blur around the edges. You couldn’t remember if the path you liked to walk in the park had such an erratic course or if it was more subtle than you could remember. What did you like to do on the weekends? There was a place, a building, that you liked to go to. You couldn’t remember what it was called or what was inside, but you remember the feeling of standing there. The musty smell and the awe and the sensation that you were staring out at all of humanity. And you had no idea what the fuck it was. 

You weren’t sure how much of the world before you had forgotten. But you couldn’t shake him from your memory. You wished you could. 

When you weren’t working you were cooking or eating or sleeping. And when you weren’t doing that, it constituted the dangerous time where you didn’t have anything to do and nothing to interest you.

And every fucking thing you did, be that making pasta or lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, made you think of him. You had loved him as you’d never loved anyone before. And you never told him. Did he even know that you loved him? Did he know that you knew he loved you back?

You would close your eyes and the only thing you were sure of in your mind’s image of him was that goddamn smile.

.

taglists; (let me know if you want to be added, removed, or moved around)

perm taglist; @turquiosenights @el-lizzie​ @sparrows-books​ @dxxkxx​ @opheliaelysia​ @trashbin2​ @rzrcrst​ @arcadianempress​ @stevieharrrr​ @peterparkers-tingle​ @blushingwueen​ @coredrive​ @lokiaddicted​ @mserynlarsen​ @badassbaker​ @1-800-fandomtrashqueen​ @flower-petal-blooming​ @talesfromtheguild​ @eupphoriaaa​ @weirdowithnobeardo​ @gaybroadwayloser​ @randomness501​ @adikaofmandalore​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @poesdxmerons​ @bountyguild​ @sinnamon-bunn​ @readsalot73​ @gooddaykate​ @rage-isaquietthing​

pedro taglist; @pascalisthepunkest​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​ @mrsparknuts​ @souls-rain​ @twomoonstwosuns​ @sophiasescape​

[hansoulo]

"why did you have to love me back?"

Ngozi Anyanwu

[keeper0fthestars]

Who knew that six minutes of Pedro’s ‘For All The Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses’ would be enough to kill me

[writer-darling]

Folie à Deux

READ PART 1 HERE

Rating: T - TEENS (13+)

Pairing: Marcus Pike (The Mentalist, 2008) x GN!Reader

Warnings: Gender neutral reader. Pre-established relationship. Post-breakup. Whole lotta angst. Cursing. Mentions of being drunk. Love confessions. Crying. Marcus done goofed big time and he knows it. Reader is stubborn but still loves him. Lotta groveling. Poor Marcus gets ragged on but tbh he kinda deserves it. Teresa Lisbon slander. Both Marcus and Reader are touch-starved (it’s my favorite trope, leave me alone). If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary!: Inspired by Pedro’s “For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses” monologue for The 24 Hours Plays channel on Youtube

******

You wish you could say that you stormed your way into his apartment, guns blazing, and demanded to talk to him. In reality, you almost chickened out halfway to his place. But you knew that if you didn’t go now, you’d absolutely never go again. And you needed to see him. You needed to talk to him. You park behind his Grand Jeep Cherokee and take a second to calm the nerves in your gut. His lights are off and you begin to think maybe he’s asleep already. Oh well.  

You step out of the car, walk across the small lawn, and knock on his door. Waiting a couple of minutes, there’s no sign of him being inside. That doesn’t stop you from knocking again.

“Oh, I’ve been looking for that shirt.” That’s the first thing out of his mouth when he opens the door, his eyes fixated on your torso before meeting your eyes. You roll them in response to his nonchalance and push your way past him into the house.

“What the hell kind of game are you playing, Marcus?” His dark brows draw together in confusion as he closes the door behind you both as you turn to face each other.

“I’m, um, not-not playing a game. I just missed you.” He admits. He’s still buzzed, but his speech pattern is a little more stable and he doesn’t look as crazed as he did in the video. Still, you know it’s from tonight. He’s wearing the same white t-shirt with the red bullseye and his facial hair is as long and unkempt as it was then.

“You miss me?” You ask, scoffing.

“Is that really so hard to believe?” He asks, his hands in his grey sweatpants’ pockets. 

“Uh yeah, considering you’re the one who broke up with me.” You reply, your eyes turning to slits as you give him your nasiest death glare. He grimaces, looking down.

“I-I know, honey I’m sorry. I should have never-”

“Don’t call me that.” You cut him off, the pet name just feeling like salt on the wound. After not hearing it for so long, it stings, sitting like acid in the back of your mouth. He nods, rubbing the back of his neck nervously and glancing up at you.

“Right, um sorry. Force of habit.”

“Why did you send me this video? To mess with me?” You ask. You hold your phone up to him with the text thread open. 

“What? No, of course not. I um, I just thought that uh maybe I could… Jesus, I don’t know, get all my feelings out without bothering you. You made it clear on the day we broke up you never wanted to see me again, and I stayed away. But I- fuck, I just missed you so much. I… I needed to see you. I knew if I sent that video, you would come.” He moves closer and you take a step back, even placing a palm up to warn him to stay away. He respects that and moves back again, even as his eyes lock with yours, pleading with you. You sigh and run a hand through your hair, pacing in place. He continues on, watching as you move in a small circle back and forth.

“It’s pathetic, I know. But, I just-” He swallows, unable to stop himself from taking another, smaller step towards you. “Really fucking missed you.” You scoff.

“You’re right: it is pathetic.” You respond, stopping in your tracks with venom in your voice. He doesn’t argue. You sigh, running a hand down your face. “I shouldn’t have come here, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.” You take a step towards the door but he moves, not towards you but placing half of himself between you and the door.

“But you came. You’re here. Please, don’t go.” He pleads, still keeping distance between you two but you notice his body twitching with the urge to cross the room towards you. You cross your arms over your chest defensively in response to that.

“Marcus-”

“Breaking up was a mistake. I never, uh, never-never meant to hurt you, I never meant for things to turn out like this between us. I-I- shit - I was a fucking idiot to ever break up with you, and I’m sorry for everything.” He looks like he’s about to drop to his knees and your heart tugs at the sight. You’re silent for a few moments, letting the pause linger between you two.

“What about Teresa?” You ask. He’s shaking his head.

“It’s-It’s over. She never wanted me, and I knew it the moment I tried to make it work with her again..” He insists, but he can tell you don’t believe him “I knew she was only playing me. But I still fell for it. I wanted to believe that she cared about me like I used to care about her but uh, I guess she didn’t. And-And I tried to love her like before, but I couldn’t. I knew I wanted you.” His eyes flick up to your again. “I ended it months ago, I swear.”

“Swearing isn’t gonna just fix things, Marcus. Neither is some drunk excuse to see me.” You respond.

“Then what will? Tell me, please, Christ I-I’ll do anything.” 

“Anything? Gee, why don’t you pay for my next $100-dollar-an-hour therapy session?? Or uh I know, how about giving me the last ten miserable months of my life back??” Your tone is cruelly sardonic, but you don’t care. You’ve been through hell for almost a year and he never once tried to reach out until now. He still doesn’t argue, just gives you those same sad eyes, and that makes you angrier. “You broke my fucking heart, Marcus. And what’s worse is: you did it for your fucking ex.” The ex that practically used him as a rebound. The ex that broke his heart and then threw it away at the last possible second like yesterday’s garbage. No tears come this time, and you’re glad for it. You don’t want him to see you cry.

“I know I did, and I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know. So, let me make it up to you. Let me show you that I won’t ever make that mistake again.” He tentatively approaches you, his eyes searching you for any sign that you still want him to stay away. You don’t though, your resolve lessening, and that gives him courage. He places his hands on your upper arms, still moving as slowly as he can. When you don’t push him or step away, one corner of his mouth turns up into a small smile. “I’m an idiot and an asshole and I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“No, you don’t.” You say, but the anger in your voice is gone, visible shivers going down your back from his touch. He brightens up a bit at that, a hopeful glimmer in his eye.

“I know… Stay, please? Even if it's just for tonight? Please?” He asks again. He uses your ultimate weakness, rubbing open-palmed from your elbows up to your shoulders. You shiver again, the warmth of his hands making you lose your focus, even making you shut your eyes. Damn, you really had missed him. “Please, honey, stay with me. Let me make it all up to you.” 

You shouldn’t do this. Giving him another chance would destroy you, wouldn’t it? And, shit what does this say about you?? Going back to an ex just like him. It’s stupid, pointless! But ever since stepping into his place, since even seeing him, you’ve been itching with the urge to touch him too. To be near him again. He waits as you think, his eyes scanning your body language, your face, for any inclination to what you’re thinking. Finally, you make your decision. You open your eyes and meet his gaze. 

“You can start by taking a shower because you smell like a fucking liquor store.” You respond, stepping away from him. Your tone isn’t angry or cruel, just serious. Your body immediately misses him. He grins wide, and immediately turns to go, not even giving you time to change your mind. That doesn't stop you from speaking up though, "Marcus?"

"Yes?" He asks, looking at you from over his shoulder.

"The facial hair looks good on you." His grin returns, wider this time, and he goes.

 Your attention zeroes in on him the moment you hear the shower shut off. When he exits the bathroom after a few more minutes, he’s sobered up and smelling like his tea tree oil shampoo. You’ve been sitting on the couch, waiting for him. You’re exhausted now, this rollercoaster of emotions draining you more than you could’ve expected.  

“Better?” He asks, making you take a good look at him. The healthy post-shower flush gives his skin a glowing rosiness, his hair is slicked back, water droplets plopping down the fabric of the dark blue t-shirt he’s wearing. His brown eyes are no longer glassy or red-rimmed, making him look more alert. He’s kept the facial hair, though it’s trimmed and neat now, making him look less disheveled. Your eyes can’t stop themselves from travelling down further, taking in the planes and angles of his body. The urge to touch him again overtakes you and he notices, smirking a little. You avert your eyes, sighing and standing up. 

“It’ll do for now.” You respond. You walk over to his linens closet and open it up, grabbing some extra blankets and one of the extra pillows he has in there. He stays quiet, until you begin spreading one of the blankets out on the couch.

“What are you doing?” He asks as he watches you..

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m setting up the couch so I can get some sleep.”

“What?? No, absolutely not. Go to the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He says, making a grab for the other blanket.

“Marcus-”

“Go.” He says, his voice soft but unwavering as he meets your eyes. You give him a long look but he just smiles, nodding in encouragement towards the bedroom. “C’mon, for me, hon.” You reluctantly let the blanket go, into his hands. You’re too tired to argue anymore. You take a few steps towards the bedroom, but pause when the scent of him wafts over to you from the open bathroom. You turn to look at him over your shoulder.

“Come to bed with me.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t have to be told twice, immediately walking over. 

“Are you sure?” He asks. You decide to be honest, shaking your head as you grab his hand in yours and guide him to the bedroom.

“No.” You give him a tentative smile and he returns it, nodding and following along quietly.

There’s a brief moment before fully waking up that makes you think this is another dream. Another perfect subconscious scenario where you wake up in Marcuses’ arms and you’re perfectly happy. Right before there’s literally a rude awakening and you’re forced to ignore the hollow sadness in your chest for the rest of the day. But this time, it doesn’t come. His warmth doesn’t melt away as your mind pulls you from your fantastical refuge. The tears don’t suddenly flow from your eyes as you take in your surroundings. Your heart doesn’t skip and stutter when you realize you’re alone and lonely as ever. 

Instead, the arms around you pull you closer once he feels you shift. The wispy strands of his hair tickle your jaw from where his face is tucked into your neck. His breathing is even and warm against your skin, while his chest is even warmer against your back. Now, tears do come, but this time for an entirely different reason. You try to keep quiet, to keep him from waking up, but you know you fail when he lets out a groggy, gruff, “Honey, what’s wrong?” He releases you to let you turn in his embrace. He’s alert now, and he grabs your face in his hands, wiping the tears that prick the edges of your vision.

“Nothing, I’m-I’m fine, actually.” You let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. “For the first time in a long… I’m fine.” You admit. His worried expression softens and he kisses your forehead. You decide to change the subject, embarrassed by how much crying you’ve done in the last 72 hours. “How did you sleep?” You ask him, sniffling a bit.

“The best I’ve slept all year.” He replies. You can tell he means it too. You nod quietly, smiling and he smiles back. “You wanna get up yet?” You shrug, enjoying this too much but wondering what he has in mind. He’s always thinking ahead.

“What’s your plan exactly?” You ask. He hums pensively and lets out a relaxed exhale. 

“Consider this my offer, for now: I want to take you to Betty’s Breakfast, come home, and spend all day making this whole mess up to you. I’ll buy you flowers on the way home. I’ll cook for us both. And I’ll shower you with affection.” His offer is tempting. You pretend to mull it over for just a beat too long, and he smiles again.

“It’s gonna take more than one day, you know?” You say, meeting his eyes.

“I know; I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if that’s what it takes.” He swears. You laugh softly again and he grabs one of your hands, bringing your palm up to his jaw. You cradle his cheek, staying quiet. He pauses, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes. You give a soft nod and he moves, kissing you first. You kiss him back, melting into him. It might take days, or weeks, or months, but you know Marcus will make it up to you. And you look forward to letting him.

******

I’ll be 100% honest and say: I did not expect this story to get as much traction as it has been. However, I am very glad for it because it proves Marcus P is a highly underrated Pedro character who deserves so much more hype. I know I racked on him here but hey, c’mon, he kinda deserved it. I left the bedroom makeup stuff up to interpretation, which I don’t usually do, but I liked the ambiguity of it. It gives you folks a chance to decide what you think might have happened. Anyway, thanks a million for reading, hope you enjoyed, and see you in the next one!

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[heythere-mel]

For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses by Ngozi Anyanwu performed by Pedro Pascal

A year later and I still get choked up. So brilliant ✨

[pedroispunk]

Favourite bits of Pedro Pascal performing “For All the Lovesick Mad Sad Geniuses" by Ngozi Anyanwu

[pedrocharacterlove]

Directory of Love

Yup, that’s me! Just a lady who’s terminally in love with Pedro Pascal and the characters he plays. Here’s where to find more love for:

Pedro Pascal

Agent Whiskey ~ Din Djarin ~ Ezra ~ Frankie Morales ~ Javi Gutierrez ~ Javier Pena ~ Joel Miller ~ Marcus Moreno ~ Marcus Pike ~ Oberyn Martell ~ Pero Tovar

...and on this blog:  multi  <3

billy from iris

clint from freaky tales

comandante veracruz from burn notice: the fall of sam axe 

eddie from buffy the vampire slayer

dave york from the equalizer 2 

dieter bravo from the bubble 

jay castillo from red widow 

juan badillo from graceland

kevin 'kip' green from law & order: criminal intent

kyle hartly from csi

kyle wilson from without a trace 

liam from nikita 

lucien flores from the uninvited

marcus acacius from gladiator ii

max phillips from bloodsucking bastards 

maxwell lord from wonder woman 1984 

nathan landry from the good wife

nico from house comes with a bird

noah from i am that girl

omar assarian from lights out

oscar from exposed

paulino from sweet little lies 

pietro alvarez from if beale street could talk

omar assarian from lights out

reggie luckman from law & order: criminal intent 

ricky hauk from touched by an angel 

santos from drive away dolls

shane 'dio' morrissey from nypd blue 

silva from strange way of life

special agent greer from law & order: special victims unit 

special agent ortega from the sixth gun

steve from hermanas

the thief from casillero del diablo 

tim rockford from merge mansion

tito cabassa from law & order

zach wellison from brothers and sisters

zack goffman from body of proof .

pedro in amend: the fight for america

pedro in fire meets gasoline 

pedro in happy socks 'happy holidays'

pedro in polaroid joycam commercial

pedro on saturday night live: - charlie from that one snl sketch - mama flores from saturday night live - mario from snl - mr ben from snl - wing pit guy from snl

.

live theater - horatio from hamlet - edmund from king lear - mark from let me ascertain you: lgbtq all out! - don john from much ado about nothing - dionysus from old comedy after aristophanes frogs - sand - some men - pedro directing underneath my bed .

zoom theater - inigo montoya from home movie: the princess bride - for all the mad sad lovesick geniuses