Work Text:
Phone, keys, wallet, bag.
Marc frowned as he stared at the dresser in front of him. "...I'm missing something."
"Check the table in the kitchen, maybe?" Steven chimed in.
"Like hell I'm gonna find anything with all the books and shit."
"We accidentally leave stuff there all the time! It's a good guess," Steven exclaims.
Marc rolls his eyes. Counts what he's got currently on him again.
Steven's phone, Jake's keys, their collective wallet, Steven's messenger bag that looks kind of dorky but it's what they've got...
Marc looks down at his slippers.
...... His slippers.
“... damnit.”
Marc rifles through the sock drawer. His hand hovers in the air for a moment. He frowns. They're running somewhat low on laundry, and to Marc's dismay, the only clean pairs he sees are Steven's fuzzy socks with cats and cowboy dinosaurs on them. Marc did not want to deal with seamed socks today.
The general rule of thumb between the three of them is whoever is fronting at the time gets to pick the clothes for the body. It's Steven's shift they're getting ready for, but they can't always control who's in front, so it's Marc who dressed them up in a monochrome white hoodie and black joggers.
Oh, wait. There's one solid pair of black compression socks squished in the back. Marc gratefully snatches the pair and heads to a chair to get his shoes.
He pauses in front of the apartment door. “... Wait, what's the weather like?”
"Seems pretty cloudy today," Steven mutters.
He fumbles through Steven's phone until he finds a weather app. Ugh. Rain in and out through the day. Also, a little too cold for just a hoodie.
Marc shuffles over to the coat rack. The only coats they own are leather, both bought by Jake. He shrugs on the longer jacket of the two.
Wait. Do leather jackets get damaged by rain? … A vague memory gets shoved onto him. Water-resistant, but not waterproof.
Marc isn't sure where he learned that.
He rolls his eyes. "The coat will survive a bit of light drizzle."
The kettle goes off, startling him from his thoughts. Marc doesn't remember putting a kettle on, but he knows Steven likes having a cup before work, so he grabs Steven's thermos and a tea bag (chamomile, because in Steven's words, 'they need to f-ing relax for once'). Do you put the hot water first and then the tea bag, or the tea bag first and then the hot water? He fumbles his way through on muscle memory and instinct, spilling a bit of hot water over the edge.
"Time and temperature, Marc, time and temperature," a voice sounds in the back of his head.
Is there anything he's forgetting? Phone, wallet, keys, bag, shoes, Steven's tea...
"Wait!" Steven cries out in the head. "We haven't eaten anything aside from a bowl of oatmeal two hours ago!"
It's fine, Marc doesn't feel hungry right now. He's starved for longer. A swooping feeling churns in his gut.
He stomps towards the front door.
"Pleaseeeeee. I'm gonna be starving once I front. At least grab a snack, just in case."
Marc resists. He's not hungry, it's fine.
Steven sends a persistent wave of noodly pressure that pokes against his skull.
"Stop guilt-tripping me, Steven." He stomps back and snags a granola bar off the kitchen counter.
Steven sticks his tongue out on the warped reflection of the toaster.
Marc glances at the oven timer on his way back. Oh, crap, now they really have to go. Marc bursts out the door, stumbling through the hallway as he adjusts Steven's messenger bag.
As he shoves past the broom vendor on his way out, he ignores the way his cheeks itch from loose bangs jostling with every move. He's supposed to be Steven right now, and Steven would never gel back his hair, so he deliberately avoided slicking his hair back today. Still, it really itches, which is going to continue to bother him until he inevitably switches out.
Somehow, despite the entire haze of the commute to work, he's still himself and not Steven. Marc groans. He's gonna have to do part of Steven's shift, isn't he.
"Hi, Gemma." A nasally British accent comes out from the body.
It feels wrong to speak like that. Marc can mimic the accent somewhat, same body, same vocal cords, but it's like squeezing inside a too-tight mask. There's a degree of separation between himself and the body. It's not him when he speaks. It's not his voice.
"Are you alright, Steven?" The lady asks.
"Just a bit under the weather, yeah?" Marc awkwardly replies.
"I do not sound like that," a distant voice replies in the back of Marc's head.
"Then take over, damnit," Marc mutters. He digs around his head for Steven's presence, but the voice fades further the harder he pushes.
"Oh no, hope you feel better soon."
Marc sighs, slipping into a more natural cadence. "Me too."
Marc tries to force Steven to come to front. He focuses on Steven's posture, the way it feels for him to inhabit the body, his voice, his laugh… It sort of works? But now he feels really choppy and disoriented, like he put his brain in the metaphorical dissociative blender and it won't come out.
…. And worst of all, he's still himself. A very staticy and confused self, but he's still the one in front and forced to work.
Damnit. His bangs itch.
For hours, he's stuck unloading and unpacking boxes. With time, he naturally starts to zone out. His body moves on autopilot until it feels less like autopilot and more like a separate entity disconnected from his will. He couldn't get himself to stop if he tried. Tunnel vision crowds the edges of his vision, and his thoughts gradually fade...
"Oh!" Steven awoke to the slam of a cardboard box. He blinked rapidly, refocusing on the present. "I'm me again. What time is it...?"
According to his cellphone, half past five. Apparently, he missed over half of his shift. He quickly scrolled over to the notes app, hoping for some clarity.
It was Marc who was here last, so of course there were no new notes. Wonderful. He quickly jotted down a little reminder about when he started fronting, as well as what he was doing. "Shift until 9, bus leaves at 9:15! Don't miss it!"
A sudden pain shot through his stomach. Steven winced and keeled over. Oh, ow, he was starving. They must not have eaten in hours.
"Marrrc," Steven mumbled. "This is exactly what I was--"
Shoving his hand into his pocket on instinct, he pulled out a granola bar. "Oh."
As he carefully peeled open the snack and took a bite, a small smile worked its way across his lips.
“Alright, then.”