( marc is equally needy in his own way. it's less overt than lottie's specific brand of neediness — there are few I miss yous, fewer off-the-cuff text messages sent at all hours — not non-existent, just not as many as marc's aware lottie would like. marc's neediness makes itself known at inopportune hours, in messages and calls send and made apropos seemingly nothing, expectant in their being answered immediately, not entirely oblivious to the hypocrisy.
what marc and lottie both share is that they're demanding.
los angeles is one of those places that marc, mostly, hates. it's a city of mixed memories — a team that hadn't worked out (shocking), a relationship that hadn't worked out (shocking), and more than one crisis of self. marc's never acknowledged it, would probably not quite be able to recognise it, but los angeles is where he ends up when he's (sub)consciously decided to blow up his own life again, but this time—.
there's lottie. it wouldn't be the first time he'd be able to look back on everything and, retrospectively, blame it on someone that's entirely not to blame, but for now, lottie person is a good excuse.
even if he's let all of her messages go unreplied to. (he's been busy—.)
if she asks how he's found her, he'll say something about coincidence or luck, he'll avoid mentioning the fact that he's paranoid—, but he doesn't think she'll ask, not based off the way that her typing's deteriorated, not based off the videos he's received. (they're shaky and out of focus, amateur in a way lottie rarely allows herself to be.)
she's hard to miss, green hair as bright as ever and silent, then, he reaches a hand from just beside and slightly behind, fingers wrapping around her arm. it's almost gentle, even if he doesn't quite think about whether he'll take her by surprise. )
[ She doesn't hear him β Lottie can hardly hear the LA traffic let alone the familiar footsteps behind her, too busy scrolling up and up and up to see all she's sent, all he hasn't replied to. She's reached last week, when they were texting in that so cute it's dysfunctional way that's them that he first breaches contact. She doesn't feel the warmth of his skin, already positively burning, just a hand that she half expects to belong to Sunny (who has been nosy about Marc, worried about Marc in relation to Lottie that she's accused him of wanting to kiss him so bad he looks stupid).
She's clumsily spinning around, something vapid on her tongue whenβ ]
Oh my god!
[ Marc? Marc?? She jolts and gasps, surprise all over her face. And thenβ Marc! Her phone drops from her hands when he says her name and she's upset and elated all at once. She wonders if he smells like home. She wonders what the hell he's here for with dreamy abandon until her thumb reflexively presses at a phone that isn't there, but clattering down on the concrete. ]
Oh my godβ
[ Horror. It's horror that's in her voice. Her phone!! The screen?? What about the screen??? She looks at Marc with wide eyes, voice cracking with panic as she moves down on her knees. Not without taking him with herβ she's got both hands on his biceps, half to stabilize herself and half to make sure she isn'tβ ]
( if it'd ever been a question (it wasn't), the reality confirms it: lottie's drunk. it's there in her unsteadiness, the way that she holds to him as she lowers herself down to pick up her phone. (not drunk enough, he notes, not to be disproportionately panicked about it, like she doesn't have it insured, like she hasn't got everything backed up to the cloud or whatever it is apple uses—.)
he's sober, almost painfully so in comparison, but between the way she grips at his arms and the way he's pleased — happy — in spite of himself to see her, any criticism he might have had dies a death between brain and mouth. he reaches out for her phone before she does, part thanks to his longer reach, part thanks to aforementioned sobriety, part thanks to the fact that lottie doesn't have a third hand and both of hers are still gripping him.
he crouches, weight resting on the balls of his feet with practised ease as his fingers curl around her phone, as he draws it towards him. a quick, cursory glance, one that says he's not actually all that interested in whether it's damaged, it's more to see who's messaging her, and then he keeps it held as he pries her fingers from his arms, holds her left hand in his left her hand, her right in his, her phone wedged in between. )
[ Her world spins and shakes, legs wobbling in comparison to Marc's steady stance. Her nails dig into his sleeves to ease the vague panic of falling, forgetting about the phone because Marc is a step ahead β he has it in his hands and relief falls at her feet. Colors her cheeks a pleasant, almost hot to the touch, pink.
He's real and alive and holding her hands, phone wedged between but she's not paying it much attention (if she did, she'd see the texts from Esther, the ones from Meg urging her to reply to Esther because it's getting awkward without her there).
People are complaining about the random ass couple crouching in the middle of the sidewalk but Lottie doesn't care. It feels like they're sharing a secret down here, with her achy knees and his rough (warm) hands on her. She stares at him, smiling, a little dopey. Quiet. Wondering if she can get him to carry her inside the bar and wondering when it was last he put chapstick on. And thenβ ]
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what marc and lottie both share is that they're demanding.
los angeles is one of those places that marc, mostly, hates. it's a city of mixed memories — a team that hadn't worked out (shocking), a relationship that hadn't worked out (shocking), and more than one crisis of self. marc's never acknowledged it, would probably not quite be able to recognise it, but los angeles is where he ends up when he's (sub)consciously decided to blow up his own life again, but this time—.
there's lottie. it wouldn't be the first time he'd be able to look back on everything and, retrospectively, blame it on someone that's entirely not to blame, but for now, lottie person is a good excuse.
even if he's let all of her messages go unreplied to.
(he's been busy—.)
if she asks how he's found her, he'll say something about coincidence or luck, he'll avoid mentioning the fact that he's paranoid—, but he doesn't think she'll ask, not based off the way that her typing's deteriorated, not based off the videos he's received. (they're shaky and out of focus, amateur in a way lottie rarely allows herself to be.)
she's hard to miss, green hair as bright as ever and silent, then, he reaches a hand from just beside and slightly behind, fingers wrapping around her arm. it's almost gentle, even if he doesn't quite think about whether he'll take her by surprise. )
—Lottie.
no subject
She's clumsily spinning around, something vapid on her tongue whenβ ]
Oh my god!
[ Marc? Marc?? She jolts and gasps, surprise all over her face. And thenβ Marc! Her phone drops from her hands when he says her name and she's upset and elated all at once. She wonders if he smells like home. She wonders what the hell he's here for with dreamy abandon until her thumb reflexively presses at a phone that isn't there, but clattering down on the concrete. ]
Oh my godβ
[ Horror. It's horror that's in her voice. Her phone!! The screen?? What about the screen??? She looks at Marc with wide eyes, voice cracking with panic as she moves down on her knees. Not without taking him with herβ she's got both hands on his biceps, half to stabilize herself and half to make sure she isn'tβ ]
I'm not hallucinating, right? You're real??
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he's sober, almost painfully so in comparison, but between the way she grips at his arms and the way he's pleased — happy — in spite of himself to see her, any criticism he might have had dies a death between brain and mouth. he reaches out for her phone before she does, part thanks to his longer reach, part thanks to aforementioned sobriety, part thanks to the fact that lottie doesn't have a third hand and both of hers are still gripping him.
he crouches, weight resting on the balls of his feet with practised ease as his fingers curl around her phone, as he draws it towards him. a quick, cursory glance, one that says he's not actually all that interested in whether it's damaged, it's more to see who's messaging her, and then he keeps it held as he pries her fingers from his arms, holds her left hand in his left her hand, her right in his, her phone wedged in between. )
I'm real.
no subject
He's real and alive and holding her hands, phone wedged between but she's not paying it much attention (if she did, she'd see the texts from Esther, the ones from Meg urging her to reply to Esther because it's getting awkward without her there).
People are complaining about the random ass couple crouching in the middle of the sidewalk but Lottie doesn't care. It feels like they're sharing a secret down here, with her achy knees and his rough (warm) hands on her. She stares at him, smiling, a little dopey. Quiet. Wondering if she can get him to carry her inside the bar and wondering when it was last he put chapstick on. And thenβ ]
..What's Marc's favorite color??