lonely little soldier

Well, I can promise you paradise. No need to serve on your knees. And when you're lost in the darkest of hours take a moment and tell me who you see. Won't tell you who not to be... Now you know I am your pride, agent of wealth, bearer of needs. And you know it's right. I am your war, arming the strong, aiding the weak. Know me by name: shepherd of fire.

[tucksxeverlasting]

"Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. The premise is pretty depressing, ain’t it? When the girl’s sick, the guy’s healthy. When the guy’s sick, the girl’s healthy. Pretty good representation of reality." Tuck remarked, a small grin forming on his lips. Nodding his head, he added, "Yeah, it’s a real good movie, I’m not saying that it’s not. It’s really, really good. It’s just… I’m not usually one to cry at movies, but… Man, I know what happens in that movie like the back of my hand, and I still can’t help but cry when that scene comes on. It’s emotionally exhausting.” 

[marcusconley-blog]

"I mean, it seemed like it'd be a lot happier, but once I knew she had cancer..." Marcus shook his head, a frown on his delicate features. "But yeah, a good representation. When he, y'know, I about lost it. A little embarrassing, since it's really not- Emotionally exhausting, for sure."

[tucksxeverlasting]

"Okay, I just got back from seeing The Fault in Our Stars - for the fifth time, okay - and I still don’t get why my sister loves it so much. It physically and emotionally drains us every time we see it, and Dixie still wants to see it again. I really don’t get it! It’s a nice story and all, but… We’re going through the Kleenex stash really fast. This can’t be healthy!” 

[marcusconley-blog]

"Oh, I saw that one." Marcus smiled. "That's the one where the girl has cancer, right? And the guy does, too? I heard it was actually based on a book. I saw it about a month ago. I thought it was good. I definitely cried when— Well, I don't want to spoil it if people around us haven't seen it. But I'm sure you know the part I'm talking about."

[marcusconley-blog]

Hurt Myself Again Today ♦︎ Marcus & Hayden

[hayden-connolly-deactivated2014]

The room was stifling, all stale air and suppressed emotions that Hayden could feel crawling over his skin like insects. He didn’t do well like this; he never had. There was something about being in a blocked off room with one entrance, two dozen damaged people and himself that made his skin tighten across his bones, his body tingle with a need to get out. His fight or flight had been firmly engaged in fight and flight since he’d been discharged, and being in a place such as this just heightened every response his brain fired off.

He wiped his hands off on his thighs. Hayden hated settings like this. Even his therapist’s office had been too much for him, the hot, scorching, stifling feeling of everything bearing down on him consuming his mind until it was just a constant loop of adrenaline that fired off to keep him alive. Hayden’s survival instincts had been locked into overdrive for so long that he couldn’t get out of the mindset sometimes. He didn’t like the feeling of a crowd weighing down on him. Everyone in the room was an anvil of emotion that Hayden wanted to avoid, rather than get to know.

Still, he would stay. For his father, his sister, himself. He wasn’t a stupid man. He would never shuck off this thick, violent war that raged on in his head without help. This was part of the process, even if he hated it. Even if he didn’t care about the people around him, he was supposed to pretend and play the part of normal human being because that was what he was expected to do. He could play pretend for a few hours, at least. Even if he didn’t want to, because his father had asked him to, and Hayden was always weak to the near-pleads from the man.

Hayden stared at the man for a moment, eyes drifting down from his face. He spoke too much and said too little. Hayden wasn’t a fan of people who did that. Even if it was to fill in the gaps of speech that Hayden himself refused to fill, he didn’t like mindless chatter. He never had, as far as he could remember, because there were too many things that went unsaid as it was, and he didn’t need to try to navigate around the shapeless filler that people injected into their conversations just for show. Small talk made him uncomfortable. Deep, intimate conversations more so. He could never win with this.

“You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to,” Hayden said slowly, eyes slipping back up to rest on the man’s face. He was young – younger than Hayden, even. Trauma didn’t discriminate, he knew, but it didn’t stop him from wondering what had been so horribly done to this man that he’d ended up in a group like this. Hayden knew why he was here, because his body still bore the scars in a way that his mind did too. This man – who was little more than a boy, really – didn’t show the signs on his skin like Hayden’s own scarred knuckles, palms and forearms. Even his face, with the deep cut over the bridge of his nose and slashing over his cheekbone, showed his trauma.

He straightened his back against the hard plastic chair. “It’s supposed to be a safe place or some shit,” he added. “They can’t make you talk.” It was the one merit to coming to these meetings. Hayden had promised his father he would go, but he hadn’t promised that he would actually open his mouth and speak. It wasn’t mandatory therapy; it was using words to express and try to cope.

Hayden blinked. Marcus? Oh. The kid’s name. Right. “Hayden Connolly,” he said after a moment, turning his head forward and towards the clock. Eleven minutes passed the hour already.

[marcusconley-blog]

Marcus was comforted by the man’s words, a slow, nervous smile spreading across his lips as he stared down at the floor. He was listening, but his mind couldn’t seem to control his head or his eyesight as he struggled to look somewhere else in fear that the people around him thought he was weird. It was practically inescapable, really, for others not to find him weird and odd and extremely peculiar, but the knowledge of that still didn’t ease his mind. He hated being stared at and talked about behind his back. He hated being ignored, yet at the same time, he wanted to be known. He wanted people to know his name, and talk with him instead of about him. He wanted to make friends easily, and live a normal life where he wasn’t afraid to make eye contact with anybody. He wanted to be free. And yet, his every day problems constantly blocked him from doing so — and that alone was frustrating in itself.

If he didn’t have so many problems, maybe his life would be better. Maybe he would be better. But Marcus had come to the conclusion that he would never know, because in his twenty three years of living, nothing had changed except for the fact that he now lived in a different place in the world. He still didn’t have friends. He still didn’t talk to his family. He still was plagued by nightmares and anxiety from the battlefield. He still was stuck with his injury. He still was stuck with his pathetic, weak, lonesome self.

Marcus hung his head, defeated. What was the point? His mind struggled to grasp a cohesive reason as to why he was at this damn support group. Yes, he was a sufferer and a survivor of a terrible ordeal. Yes, he still woke up screaming and jumped fifty feet in the air at the littlest of noises. Yes, he still couldn’t go near any place that reminded him of his times as a soldier. And the support group was to make him better, was to relieve him of those nightmares and fears, but Marcus couldn’t wrap his head around it no matter how hard he tried. He wasn’t going to get better. He wasn’t going to get rid of his problems. So, what, exactly, was the point? There was none. Not for him.

He placed his head in his shaking hands, breathing out slowly as he tried to calm his pounding heart. He couldn’t have a breakdown here — no, not in front of all of these people. He had to be calm. Calm, calm, calm. The word seemed nonexistent in Marcus’ vocabulary. If he focused on his breathing, if he focused on happy thoughts, his anxiety would slowly ebb away. Calm, calm, calm. He took another breath, his palms now stopping their shaking. Another, and he felt his delirious thoughts disappear. The next thirty seconds were spent on his heart, knowing that he couldn’t accomplish anything if his heart was beating out of his chest. And finally, finally, the boy had calmed down enough to lift his head up and face the man he was talking to. His cheeks filled with color, embarrassed for his lapse.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” He apologized quickly, needing the man to hear his words. It was the only way he’d get over his embarrassment faster. “That normally doesn’t happen- Um, not often, I mean. I… What were you saying?” He stared, confused, for a minute before the sentence surfaced to the front of his brain. Oh. They were talking about talking. He lost the confused expression. “Oh, right. Right. Um, talking. That’s good that I don’t have to…”

His voice trailed off as he looked at the surrounding people. How many of them would talk? Most of them were here for a reason, like he was, like the man was. He figured that a good majority, if not all, of them would speak. Suddenly he was curious about their stories. What had happened to make them this way? No doubt that they were probably thinking the same about him. The blonde across the ways from him certainly didn’t seem like she’d be struggling with something like PTSD, but he didn’t know her. He didn’t know any of these people. At least he wouldn’t have to see them after this session.

Marcus nodded when the man, Hayden, said his name. It was a nice name — it certainly seemed to fit. He hadn’t really expected anything else, really, except maybe for another manly name. Like Benjamin, or something. “It’s nice to meet you.” Marcus replied, the words slipping past his lips on their own accord. It came easily to him, as if it had been programmed within him to just say them once he met someone, even if it really was nice to meet them or not. With Hayden, however, his words had been true. Even though the guy scared the daylights out of him, and even though he wasn’t much of a talker, it was nice to have one sorta-friend — acquaintance? — in the support group.

[marcusconley-blog]

Marcus:

Hurt Myself Again Today (with Hayden)

Dusty Gif Chat

Zach:

A Minor Accident (with Laura)

Tennessee Gif Para

Jonathan Gif Para

Would it also be a really bad time to rec my plots page for Zach? Yes? No? Anyways. Give it a look if you'd like, and if anything catches your interest you are free to message me and we can work something out! :)

[marcusconley-blog]

At an Arm's Reach ♦︎ Marcus & Clarice

[claricebrowning-deactivated2016]

Clarice breathed out a soft chuckle at his response and shook her head. “Rest assured that I am not armed. I am a pacifist!” she insisted with a roll of her eyes. Her grip on his hand was gentle, almost delicate, as if she did not dare to hold him too tight, though it wasn’t clear whether she was afraid to hurt him or herself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcus.” The blonde wasn’t a social butterfly herself, she had never been a proper party girl, not even when she was in her teens, but Clarice always made an effort to make those around her to feel more comfortable and at ease. That was the whole point behind her career – to get people to talk to her about their demons… and healing, of course.

“I’m not very social myself”, Clarice leaned closer to him to whisper her confession to the stranger, following it with a guilty smile. “But I like to be around people when I’m not supposed to do something, you know?” She tore her glacial blue eyes away from the room and looked up at him. “Just be around them without the need to talk or do something you’re not interested in. It can be peaceful… and very enlightening, depending on how much alcohol they have had.” Her smile grew cheekier with the joke and she wrinkled her nose apologetically. She had never been the clown class—and, in all honesty, the blonde used to make fun of those who were. She regretted half of the things she had said and done in her earliest twenties.

The man’s reaction to the commotion caught her attention, though, and snapped her out of her thoughts. Clarice’s relaxed expression changed into a worried one: while the crash made her whip her head towards its source instinctively, his startle forced her to face the man once more. She frowned. His face was stained red in embarrassment and Clarice began to suspect he was the type of person who’d apologize for everything. “Are you alright, Marcus?”

Her expression softened again at his fumbled words, understanding. “I’m sorry to hear that”, her tone was gentle. “I was very close to mine. I couldn’t imagine life without them.”

[marcusconley-blog]

Marcus, as a natural instinct, had found it strange that this woman found him to be of interest. Surely she couldn't think he was a pleasure to meet? He'd been told time and time again that he was the opposite — the stares that were given towards him all through primary and college were proof enough, as were the short-lived conversations he seemed to constantly have, and most of all: his lack of companions. He had one or two at the most, but even they were a bit dodgy to be called 'companions'. The thought puzzled him to the very core, and no matter how hard he tried not to dwell on Clarice's words, he couldn't shake them from his head. He couldn't be interesting, or a pleasure to meet, or anything correlating with compelling. It was not in his DNA. And yet, Clarice was not one of those people whom he mushed into his mental 'bully' pile, because all she was doing was being friendly. No, no, perhaps — for now, at least — she would be stored under the 'potential friends' pile; a pile that was very few and seriously lacking.

The young man smiled politely as she spoke, his light eyes taking in her features once more. She was so elegant in the way that she carried herself, and it surprised Marcus more that her features, too, were elegant. It was almost as if she wasn't real, as if she was a figment of his imagination or fiction altogether. Maybe if they lived in an alternate universe, where there were dragons and knights and kings and queens, she would be the ruler of the realms, reigning with justice and kindness — everything a good ruler should be. But alas, they were not in an alternate universe and Clarice was not a queen; so why did Marcus still feel like a poor peasant? It was as if he was being given a chance of a lifetime but was not taking it for its worth.

He frowned, not fond of the thoughts that continued tormenting his mind.

"So, you like to people watch?" He spoke slowly, finding himself staring at something beyond her shoulder. It was a candle, already lit for the oncoming darkness of nighttime. The flame flickered every so often. He was unable to tear his gaze from it. "I do that sometimes, too. Not often — I'm always afraid someone'll catch me looking — but when I'm bored, I like to just sit and watch." His eyes broke from the flame, and he met Clarice's with a bit of a dazed look. The corners of his lips quirked upwards. "Although I kind of just like to do that anyways, even if I'm not bored. Sit and watch."

While the impact of glass on tile had been five minutes passed, his heart still continued to pound in his chest and spark anxiety through him once more. His hands shook of their own accord, slowly traveling up his arms until it was his entire body. He hadn't a clue what he was actually shaking over, but the first immediate thought that came to mind was fear. Green eyes travelled the room to make sure that people weren't staring at him, wanting to make sure that he wasn't being oogled at like some science project. His face felt hot — but no, that was just the flush of embarrassment. He watched Clarice's lips move yet the noise couldn't make it to his ears, not even after he blinked like it was the first time he was seeing her. It was only until after she repeated herself that he was finally able to understand what she was saying.

Was he ok? Oh, god, he really didn't know. He didn't feel like he was ok, but then again, he felt like that all the time. Marcus brushed aside the bangs that fell in front of his eyes when he jumped. Why couldn't he stop shaking? "I—" His voice was scratchy against his throat, and he had to suck in a deep breath to try and continue. Even his voice was shaky. "Um, y-yeah. Yes. I'm—" Oh, who was he kidding? "It just... I don't do well with, with um, crashes. And any loud noises, really. I don't..." Marcus swallowed hard, his adams apple bobbing up and down as he tried his hardest not to make eye contact with the woman. Would she know? Someone as smart as her probably would've had it figured out by now. It's not as if he was subtle about his condition.

Perhaps talking about something else could help. It might've been a harder topic to handle, but he could take talking about his family rather than his PTSD. At least he understood one more than the other. "That sounds nice." He said, praying that the anxiety had left his voice. "Sometimes it's hard being without them, but I... remember what they did and I— I can't." He clasped his hands together. "I wish that it wasn't the way it was, though."

[marcusconley-blog]

Hurt Myself Again Today ♦︎ Marcus & Hayden

[hayden-connolly-deactivated2014]

This entire ordeal had started with a phone call. A phone call from Hayden’s father, to be exact. He had been expecting it for weeks and, although he knew how his father could be, he hadn’t prepared himself for it. The simplest of questions tended to make Hayden feel like a child who still needed taken by the hand and guided about so he didn’t stumble over his own fuck ups. A simple have you gone to a meeting lately? made him want to curl his lip and respond with have you gone to a meeting lately? like a juvenile who was so clearly in the wrong but didn’t want to admit it and refused to back down.

Of course, Eric Connolly wasn’t an addict and he didn’t suffer from extreme distress at the most inconvenient of times, so Hayden had known what the answer to that was going to be if he bothered to spit it out. So, instead, he’d said no and promised his father that he was going to find a meeting in Alexandria and actually attend. After putting it off for nearly a week (he’d never promised his father when he was going to attend, as childish as it was), he’d finally gone online and found a group, figured out a way to fit a time into his schedule and actually driven there. Drinking bad coffee and sitting in a hard plastic chair was supposed to help him connect and overcome or some bullshit. Hayden still wasn’t sure how it was supposed to make him feel better.

Thumbing over the edge of his Styrofoam, he glanced around the room. No one looked familiar, like someone he had passed on the street or someone that he had met through work. That had been a fear, one of the reasons he had taken his time getting to a meeting. People tended to treat him differently when they knew. Hayden could deal with people touching him and making him flinch, but he hadn’t found a way to deal with people walking on egg shells around him. His sister had done it when he’d first gotten back, like he was someone who needed a gentle touch, treated like a delicate fucking flower. Hayden loved Eve, but there was only so much hesitation that he could take from a woman he had known since he was born.

Hayden wondered about the people in the room. Every one of them had suffered some kind of trauma, had had their brain rewired to constantly relive it and be on high alert. Without a doubt there would be veterans in the room, men and women how had gone through intense training to protect their home and country like Hayden had. Statistically there would be an assault surviviour or two in the mix. Someone who had been in a horrific accident, one where they had probably lost a loved one. Hayden didn’t care. That was probably part of his problem.

Tossing his cup, he wiped his hands off on the backs of his thighs, moving to the nearest empty chair and sitting down. He had never been good at sharing time. Show and tell had been bullshit for him when he’d been a kid. Being on display had always been weird for him, making him feel like his skin was stretched too tightly across his skin. Even one-on-one was too much for him. Mandatory had involved a lot of prompting from his therapist. That was the one upside to meetings; you didn’t have to talk if you didn’t want to.

But he was supposed to. God, he could just imaging the third degree his dad was going to give him. It was like kindergarten all over again. The constant probing for if Hayden was making friends, were people being nice to him, if he was having any problems and why was he not inviting anyone over to the house on the weekends? His dad could read him like a book. It was a problem.

Hayden cast a glance at the man to his left, eyes sweeping over him. He reminded Hayden of Eve when she’d been in trouble at school, curled in on herself, avoiding eye contact and sitting on her hands because she knew she was in shit. He looked to his right. A woman a bit younger than him, looking on the cusp of tears, her eyes ringed red. Jesus Christ. He couldn’t deal with tears.

“Hey,” he said, looking back at the man on his left, voice husky and thick, like he hadn’t used it in weeks. And maybe he hadn’t. Starting conversations with total strangers wasn’t something he was good at, and he was still new to the city. Everyone was a stranger to him.

[marcusconley-blog]

Marcus could've stopped breathing when the very man he'd thought to avoid started talking to him. Well, maybe it was a bit of an overreaction, but the boy literally couldn't help himself. This man was like the embodiment of his ex-Officer, except he had nicer eyes and he appeared much more friendlier than Carlisle originally had. Gulping down a nervous noise, hesitant eyes flicked over towards the man, examining him once more as subtly as he could. (Marcus should've known that when he was subtle, he was entirely obvious.) A small, apprehensive smile made its way on his face for reasons unknown. How could he be so intimidated by this man when he didn't know anything about him? Hell, he'd even made the first move. He'd instigated the conversation, not the other way around. The least Marcus could do would be to respond back.

Trying his best not to fiddle in his uncomfortable seat, Marcus turned his head so that he could properly face the bearded man. His appearance once again struck him in the face — those eyes — and his smile grew just the tiniest bit. "Hello." Marcus replied back, his voice small and weak. He inwardly cringed at the noise. His tone was much too high and much too fragile. It was totally unacceptable in this situation. Clearing his throat once, twice, three times, he smiled more, hoping that it would help with his confidence issues. He tried again. "H-Hello."

There. That was a little better.

The boy scratched at his neck and let his eyes wander past the man to the woman crying. His smile slowly turned into a frown. Clearly, something horrible must've happened to her to be in this place. The tissues that were all but falling out of her pockets was proof enough. He felt a twinge of sadness for her — who had she lost? A brother? A father? A husband? — but it was gone in a flash when he remembered that everyone in the room was dealing with their own problems. Green eyes left the woman to stare about the room some more, wondering just where the group leader was. Wasn't he supposed to be here by now? If Marcus had a watch, he would've checked it.

His gaze returned to the man sitting next to him. Maybe he would have an idea about where he was. Chewing on a bottom lip, Marcus sucked in a breath before regarding Hayden. "Have you been here before?" He asked, a little cautiously. He didn't want to offend him by saying the wrong thing. Especially not when he looked like he could pummel Marcus into the ground. Before the response could be given, however, the boy had already started speaking. "I hope the group leader doesn't come soon. Maybe if he takes too long, I won't have to speak."

God, he really hadn't thought this whole group thing through. He, naturally, hadn't realized that he'd had to speak until he got to the building. It had flown over his head, and now he was seriously regretting not knowing sooner. He couldn't just tell everything. It'd be mortifying. Surely the others in this room would judge him for it. What if — oh, lord — what if he slipped up and said something about Officer Carlisle? It was the biggest reason why he suffered from PTSD, but obviously it could be avoided, right? Right?

Marcus' palms started to sweat. He was a goner.

Licking over chapped lips, his gaze once averted to the noises in the room as some began to grow restless. He couldn't blame them. The chairs were horrid to sit in. Marcus crossed his arms over his chest in order to stop picking at his jeans even more. He needed to relax. After a moment's hesitation (really, what did he have to lose?), Marcus regarded the bearded man again. "I'm Marcus." This time, his voice wasn't as weak as it originally had been. It was a step in the right direction.

[peppervodka-deactivated20160608]

"White people are so weird", she let out without a second thought. "You know, crossdressing is not that much of a big deal. It’s actually pretty popular in Japan… and England, I don’t know why. English people are weird." Pepper shrugged.

Then, she laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I get stared at all the time, but it’s almost never because of my feet. It’s kinda refreshing.”

[marcusconley-blog]

Wait, what? Marcus' eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as the woman started rambling, not being able to follow what she was talking about any longer. What did she mean cross-dressing? What did white people have to do with the conversation? It didn't make sense — and Marcus wasn't about to go and figure it out. He shuffled awkwardly. People were weird in general. "I, I guess? I mean—"

He was cut off by her laugh, promptly shutting his mouth. He wasn't sure if the laugh was directed towards him or at the topic. His apprehension was appeased little by little when she told him not to worry. That couldn't be said for his confusion, however. "Refreshing? For... feet?" His mind scrambled to find a connection but could find none. Maybe she has a foot fetish or something like that. He didn't know. And he suddenly felt self-conscious about his own feet. Would she try to get him to take off his shoes, too? Marcus sent a worried glance towards the bus sign, hoping that his transportation would arrive soon.

[anniemayhew-blog]

"I worried it might materialistic and — weird? I don’t know. It’s nice to know that I’m not alone in it." She shrugged, her smile softening her features. "But I’m the complete opposite! I prefer pencils, because then it’ll be ingrained in me that my mistakes are not permanent, and I won’t worry about them. Or, well — semi-permanent, I guess. And I love new notebooks! It’s always a little heartbreaking to spoil them."

[marcusconley-blog]

"Anything can be considered weird today, if you think about it. But no, I'm sure it's completely normal. There are probably thousands like you." Marcus smiled at the same time as her, and then nodded his head at her next words. "I can see how you'd think of it that way, yes. It definitely makes sense. We can't all be the same, I guess!" A light chuckle fell from his lips. "I wasn't a good student, though. I mean, I tried my best but I wasn't very good at the whole 'homework and study' thing. It was hard for me to focus on one thing for too long."

[marcusconley-blog]

[marcusconley-blog]

At an Arm's Reach ♦︎ Marcus & Clarice

[claricebrowning-deactivated2016]

Clarice let out a colorful laugh when he was quick to reassure her—then one after the other when he raised and lowered his hands in surrender, muffling her fit of laughter with a palm and looking over at the flustered young man with her glacial blue eyes, apologetic. “It’s alright! I didn’t take it to heart, promise”, she said with a smile that made her look a few years younger. The blonde watched as he sipped from his soda can and lowered his head, perhaps to hide the flush on his cheeks… to no avail, as it reached his ears and colored them red. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, or to laugh at you, for that matter”, Clarice apologized, pressing her lips into a line. “The surrender was a little too much, though, wasn’t it?” Her solemn expression faltered, breaking into another gentle smile. “I am not even armed.”

She offered him a hand to shake. “I am Clarice—Clarice Browning, and this…” The blonde motioned at the room with a wide gesture. “…is my first neighborhood party, hence sitting at the corner by myself.” Clarice sipped at her glass of wine while taking another look at their surrounds. Then she landed her sight on the man beside her. “What is your excuse?”

The room was wide and spacious and people passed by them from one side to the other in constant motion, making acquaintances and getting to know each other while she stuck to her seat as if she had been glued to it, unmoving and unwilling. If she hadn’t been approached by the man who now kept her company, Clarice was sure he’d have come and gone from the event without speaking to a single person. It was hard for her to make the first move, especially when she landed in situations like those: out of her comfort zone, but the sweet, flustered man had done the hardest part pushing that door open and, just like that, she was comfortable to make conversation with him. She took it as an invitation. “Does this make you think of Sunday barbecues with your family too?” Clarice whispered to him, shifting her sight towards their hosts. “Father and mother dressed in their best Sunday clothing to receive a lot of strangers into your house and expecting you to be in your best behavior…” She wrinkled her nose. “I hated Sundays.” 

[marcusconley-blog]

Marcus had to mirror the woman's smile when she directed it towards him, unable to stop it from turning up the corners of his lips. He looked at her — blonde, beautiful, elegant — and wondered how she was speaking so civilly to someone like him. He'd always been a bit insecure about the way he looked and how he acted (as if his accent didn't bring enough attention when one lived in America — the amount of times he'd been referred to as 'the One Direction-speaking guy' was astounding). This woman, Clarice, made him feel normal, almost. Maybe she knew what it was like to be stared at and spoken about behind one's back.

Messing with a stray strand of hair on his forehead, he brushed it aside as he listened to her speak. A chuckle fell from his lips, not fully amused but enough to have the sound escape. "For all I know, you very well could be." He responded after a moment's thought, allowing himself to get wrapped up in the idle joke. When she extended her hand, he shook it gladly, keeping his grip just the right amount of firm. He'd always been taught that you could tell a person by their handshake, and Marcus had (at a very young age) made it his mission to have an assertive shake, even if he was the farthest thing from it. "I'm Marcus."

Their handshake lasted no more than a few seconds, and the man was left to stare awkwardly at nothing until he was spoken to once again. He wasn't very good with conversation. It'd been something he had never been good at, and while he desperately wanted to change his antisocial behavior, some things were easier said than done. He'd shown up to the party at least, right? There was a step in the right direction. And again, he was speaking to Clarice, even if the conversation wasn't going very far. He must've been doing something right.

"My excuse?" Marcus' expression grew troubled, thick eyebrows scrunched together to stare confusedly at the woman before him. The look relaxed after a moment, and he nodded his head. "I don't have an excuse. I guess I'm just not very..." He paused, unsure of how to put his next words. Should he just say it? "...um, social."

He felt a little better saying the word, but he knew that with it would possibly come questions. Always so many questions. Really, Marcus knew that his life couldn't have been so interesting to others. How could it be? He'd gotten shot in the leg after making a foolish mistake, one that cost him his career and could've cost him his life, and— A tray tipping over with glasses caused a loud crash, and Marcus about jumped fifty feet in the air. His heart hammering in his chest, it took him a second, two, three, before he calmed down enough to realize that he wasn't in any immediate danger. His cheeks turned pink once more, embarrassed over his reaction. He really needed to look into working on that.

"Um, family?" Marcus wasn't comfortable talking about family at all. No, he'd never think of bringing his father or his mother up in a subject, but this woman— she seemed all too willing to do so. The thought made the man uneasy. The correct response would be to speak about his family and what they did on Sundays, but Marcus didn't have a correct response to anything pertaining his dear Mum and Dad. In fact, he really had no desire to speak about them at all — but this woman was expecting an answer, and he couldn't just ignore her. "I don't — didn't — really, uh, spend too much time with my family. We didn't... I just wasn't very close to them."

[anniemayhew-blog]

"Exactly! It’s illogical, but I feel more equipped to handle school when I have cuter stationary? It’s a kind of ‘look good, feel good’ mentality, I guess. There’s just something about new, clean notebooks and pencils, and things."

[marcusconley-blog]

"Who said it was illogical? Certain things help people better." Marcus then laughed. "For me, I'm not fond of brand new notebooks. It irked me when I was in school — I always felt like if it wasn't completely full, I wasn't doing my job as a student." The boy shrugged his shoulders. "And I strictly wrote with pens. I could never handle the smudging of pencils."

[dusty-siseal]

Dusty busted out into laughter when he heard that feminine squeak escape the dude that was now talking to him. He was trying to be polite, but that was about the least he could do at the moment. MJ was wagging her tail at the sound, happy since her companion was as well. Dusty calmed himself down for a few moments, raising an eyebrow when Marcus tried to speak up.

"Me? What? Are you fucking blind?" he laughed, "I didn’t drop shit." He put a hand over his mouth to try and hide his own smile, "I fucking threw it. It’s yours now. You sound like you need it anyway."

[marcusconley-blog]

Marcus had to bite down on his bottom lip in order to stop the sound of protest that wanted to leave his lips. What did he mean, 'you sound like you need it anyway'? The two hadn't even talked to each other for more than a couple seconds and this guy was— he just couldn't— Was Marcus really that easy to read?

Scratching the back of his ear, Marcus let out a heavy, distressed sigh. Rather than the guy being humiliated, it was now him who had to deal with the feelings that came over him. Oh, gosh. He'd said it was his now. "No." Marcus said, shaking his head as he spoke. "There's no way I'm touching... that. I don't even know where it's been!" He took another step away from it, this time off to the side so he'd avoid stepping into the street. His expression grew mortified. "You threw it at me."

Oh my god. It touched me.

[anniemayhew-blog]

"Okay, honestly? I am 100% excited for school, and 99% of that is due to super cute stationary. I have no regrets. Only adorable notebooks and highlighters."

[marcusconley-blog]

"Stationary is important." Marcus chuckled. "Keeps the motivation alive, right?"

[peppervodka-deactivated20160608]

"Don’t be such a man", Pepper shot back at him with a pointed look and a little smile. "Girls all over the world are putting up with incredibly uncomfortable shoes because they are so cute, therefore worth it.” She took a quick look at him. “I suppose most men wouldn’t understand.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “God, no, do I look like a savage? You are looking at me like I’m a savage, but I’m not—I’m French. I live a few blocks away actually, I just needed to give my feet a quick break. It’s not a big deal! I don’t have a sixth toe or anything weird.”

[marcusconley-blog]

The term don't be such a man caused an amused grin to take over half of Marcus' face. He was anything but a man. This woman really had no idea. Shifting his weight from one side to the other, Marcus slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, chewing on his bottom lip. "Most wouldn't." He repeated, nodding his head. He supposed that meant him as well, seeing how he'd judged her for taking off her shoes in the first place. "I'm sure they're uncomfortable."

Marcus' lips parted at her questions. Savage? His cheeks turned pink and the boy ducked his head. He couldn't believe that he was staring at her like that. Was he really being that rude? "I'm- It's not my place, really. To... To stare so rudely." He looked up and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

[fuckyeahaneurinbarnard]

Aneurin photographed by Alex Rumford

[peppervodka-deactivated20160608]

Pepper whined the whole time it took her to get to the bus stop, flopping down on the seat without further ado. Her shoes were off in a matter of seconds and she let out a relieved sigh, fluttering her eyes closed for a moment. “God, this feels good.” Once she reopened them, she noticed the presence of another person at the stop who looked back at her, which made her feel embarrassed. “I’m sure that happens to a lot of people… damned high heels weren’t made for walking.”

[marcusconley-blog]

Since Marcus was without a car, he'd had to travel by bus since he'd arrived back in Alexandria. He was used to it now, whereas before he was a little wary to get on something so public (who knows what people had done on there!). His issue with the transportation was gone within the month, and Marcus waited patiently in his work clothes to get home. His eyes wandered over the surrounding area before they stopped on a woman who was taking her shoes off. Marcus tried not to stare — he really did — but the sight was so appalling that he couldn't stop. A blush tinged his cheeks when he was caught, immediately shifting his gaze even though she was now addressing him.

"Not... Not really." He said after a while, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. It was both for the woman and himself. Was she seriously talking to him about her shoes? "I mean, not here, at least. Other places, maybe... Um. Are you- Are you going on the bus like that?" Oh, lord. Marcus really hoped not.

[marcusconley-blog]

Hurt Myself Again Today ♦︎ Marcus & Hayden

The building loomed over Marcus as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. It wasn't anything frightening or something of the sort, but what was inside of it caused the boy's hands to tremble. He'd agreed to go see a group after his chat with Clarice, knowing that he wasn't going to get any better if he didn't at least try, so here he was, going out of his comfort zone and doing something right. But if it was so right, why did he feel like running the other way? He wiped his sweating hands on the blue jeans he adorned, frayed at the knees from endless hours of picking at the threads, and sighed heavily as he pushed open the doors to the building. The air conditioning was like a smack in the face once he entered and broke Marcus out of whatever he was feeling towards the situation.

Finding the group was easy enough once all the anxious thoughts were gone from his head. They sat in a circle, some sitting awkwardly with their hands in their laps and some talking animatedly about a topic he wasn't willing to understand. Marcus was thankful that the group hadn't started yet — was this a first in his life that he was on time to something? — and sat down in one of the chairs, comfortable with not speaking to anyone until he was spoken to. It was going to be a long wait, he remembered, because mostly everyone had to be present for the group to start and by a certain time. If you didn't show up, that was your own fault.

Nimble, pale fingers busied with the loose threads at his knees. He almost didn't show up. A light blue string of fabric was yanked out of the trousers, held delicately between his index and his thumb as he worried over himself. I'm such a hypocrite. The string fell to the floor as he started on a new thread. Marcus continued for a couple minutes more before he took to studying the people around him. It was odd to think that most of the people in the room suffered from PTSD. He didn't know their reasonings, nor did he know how they had even gotten into something to provoke PTSD, but he was one of them too, and he had to remember that.

Marcus' eyes fell on a man with a long, brunette beard and striking eyes. He was first reminded of his officer — the one who had stolen his heart on the battlefield and never gave him more than two seconds worth of attention. He was then reminded why he had PTSD in the first place, why he jumped at every little sound and was paranoid about the world around him, why he would wake up from terrible flashbacks of the war he was in and be unable to fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. A shudder ran through him. The boy's eyes fell back to his lap.

Maybe it's best if I avoid him.