Who: Marcus and Sarge Where: Sarge's shack or nearby What: Realtalk... because Marcus can realtalk. When: Day after Sarge's Sweet-Ass Survival Shindig, sometime post-hangover.
Wild nights had predictable consequences, and Marcus doubted he was the only one to wake early that morning with the telltale swimming at the edges of his vision and overwhelming sense of vertigo that screamed hey, guess what, fucker? You're still drunk! A situation more daunting in many ways than the common hangover, because it meant that the hangover was still on its way, and he wouldn't even get to have the pleasure of being unconscious through any of it.
It wasn't the first time he'd managed this feat, however, so he was able to take it in relative stride, groaning and grunting his way through something that resembled a ritual, and keeping to himself while he wasn't at full capacity.
As he tried to hydrate over a breakfast of mostly aspirin and whatever stale, bland carb sources he could readily gather, he began to piece together the events of the previous evening. This wasn't an easy endeavor, it turned out. There'd been dancing, between the drinks. Psychedelic tequila Trojan Horse jelly bugs. Plastic dicks on chains. Possibly a marriage proposal or two. And he was sporting a lot of bruises that suggested that the night had either taken a very bad turn at some point, or a very good one. But whether he'd been fighting or fucking was lost in the mess of broken memory shards. He had asked someone for a safeword, he remembered that, but had it been sincere or sarcastic?
Fuck.
It had been a long, long time since he'd drunk to the point where reality dissipated like a half-remembered dream. He hadn't blacked out, really... so much as he'd just rendered himself a highly unreliable narrator of events. There was an almost welcome nostalgia to it all. Not to mention the fact that it was also the first night in a long while where he hadn't been plagued by nightmares.
But it couldn't become a habit. Not now, when he'd maybe finally found a place where he could be fucking useful. People that might be worth living and dying with. There wasn't room here for him to fuck up. He knew where that road led. So after his shitty breakfast, Marcus set to work making himself resemble a human again. The hangover hit him hard, but not as hard as it could have. By afternoon, he wasn't even wincing at every sound, or hoping the sun would do them all a favor and blink out of existence for the rest of the week. Clean clothes and a shower made him seem that much more alive. He was functioning as a diminished version of himself, but he was functioning, at least.
And he remembered that he hadn't yet paid a visit to the man whose continued survival had been honored last night. Now that there weren't any beautiful people providing him with so many gorgeous distractions, it seemed like a good time to do that. So he went looking for the man... Sarge.Cenicienta had called him Sarge, and Marcus always made a point to remember fairy tale girls.
The shack was easy enough to find. That was something he remembered, as well, though this time he knocked politely, rather than breaking in. He keeps an eye out for the man as well, peering through tinted sunglasses at the surrounding camp, figuring it was possible that Sarge might not want to spend any more time indoors, so was hanging around outside now that he was able. With an amount of patience that could only come from a state of mind that balked at any sudden movements, Marcus hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and leaned casually against the wall to wait.