Marshall was lying on the couch. His inky hair was a mess, falling over his face and eyes and sticking up both this way and that. His eyes were shut, and he held a cigarette in his hands lazily, which was ironic as he was wearing a no smoking tank under his army utility shirt. His feet were propped up on the couch, clad in military boots over tight and dark denim. He looked disgruntled and dismal, though most would blame that on the youth's addiction to sex and chaos. However, it was not the sex he had just shared with his boyfriend in the stranger's closet, nor was it the mess of his life giving him this look. It was the previous yelling that had taken place only moments ago. His lover had yelled at him, he was distraught and screamed and cried at Marshall. And then he left. But could Marshall really blame him? Wasn't Marshall so inconsiderate of the other's feelings, and insensitive to the recent events? He sighed, letting the smoke leave his mouth. So what if he didn't understand the aspects of emotion? Did that really matter in the long run? The party around him kept going, and his mind kept spinning. Barnaby had left. The raven-haired male just hoped it wasn't for good.

Meanwhile, Barnaby is sitting on the steps to the old house, where his lover was only a few long strides away from him. He runs a shaky hand through his dyed-pink hair before the barely-adult male stands and paces the steps. He smooths his maroon blazer and hastily fixes the striped and deep pink shirt underneath. He supposed he looked queer, decked in his all red, violet and pink clothing, but the young male didn't care. He had accepted that he was a flaming homosexual years ago. He sighs deeply, running his hand over the various hickies on his neck stud. On experiencing the slight tinge of pain, his already rosy cheeks go redder and he pulls the ends of his pastel hair down in hopes of covering the violet splotches. Marshall Lee gave him love bites in the most obvious and indecent places. Honestly, who did he think he was? Certainly not the ruler of Barnaby B. Williams, that was for sure. God, he was so impossible. The youth's head was full of the delinquent in a matter of minutes, and he collapsed back onto the steps, sobbing. The disobedient miscreant had fought his way into his heart, and now he was stuck wallowing in the poison that was Marshall Lee Evans.