marcusmixes

[marcusmixes]

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Working on something different.

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📸: @maggiemeichance

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@producermarcus: Well done, Dante.

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Our first year in the bag. See you in 2025, @jaxxyotto4?

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@producermarcus: Nige.

@producermarcus: That was supposed to say “nice”.

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How many races until winter break?

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For the most part, Marcus was at his most relaxed and easy-going when he was at work. That wasn’t always the case, of course, and it depended heavily on who his client was, or whether he was reporting to someone far higher up in the food chain. It also didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t awkward and stiff, but he knew Maggie didn’t give a shit about that. As far as music was concerned, he could hold a conversation, and the girl beside him couldn’t give a flying fuck if he was stiff and distant, laser-focused on the lyrics in front of him. In fact, that was exactly what she wanted from him – professionalism and somebody who would take her work seriously. 

Maggie’s notebook was very different to his own. Glitter handwriting dotted the pages, bordered as it was by shining doodles of stars and love hearts, flowery squiggles trailing along the sheet. He knew how the industry worked, and he knew that most artists these days had to prove themselves through tiktok trends and quirky dances rather than through the art that they were trying to sell. In a weird sense, Maggie seemed to fit quite well into that strange, nonsensical world that, for the most part, tended to go straight over the Brit’s head. Still, she was immensely talented, and Marcus was glad she’d had enough opportunities in life to allow her a head start before the industry had taken a complete nose-dive in the wrong direction. Admittedly, her parentage had helped, but he was pleased she’d stumbled upon his studio when she had, happy to work with someone such as Marcus and not one of the brain-dead lackies that her father so heavily relied on. 

He listened intently, eyes scouring over the page ahead of Maggie as she sang along with the lyrics, shoulders hunched awkwardly as he tried not to lean in too close to the other girl. He nodded when she gave him the go-ahead to move in, to offer her his honest opinion. The or whatever bookending her sentence almost degrading, her language always quietly and masterfully littered with insecurities. It wasn’t Marcus’ place to pry and so he wouldn’t, but his mums had both taught him well enough to know just when somebody was undermining their worth in the world, and working with artists so frequently tended to make you wiser to other people’s diffidence. Marcus hadn’t ever been great at reading body language, nor was he especially good at picking up on louder, more vocal hints from those around, but this was where he excelled. He excelled in bringing out the best in the artists he worked with and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. 

“It’s good,” he told her, point-blank. No bullshitting, just how they both liked it. 

He drummed his fingers absently against his knee, quietly humming the lyrics to himself, sounding it out alongside the notes and vocals Maggie had already given him. He shut his eyes, exhaling as he immersed himself in it momentarily, head gently bobbing as he tried to piece it together in his mind. He could practically here the soft thrum of an acoustic guitar spilling out around them. 

Kicking his feet against the carpet, he wheeled himself further away from Maggie, lowering his sneakered feet to the ground once more as he came to a stop at his guitar. Pulling it into his lap, he lifted a hand to beckon Maggie towards him, before returning it to its neck, thumb carefully gliding over the strings. His voice wasn’t as delicate as Maggie’s, but he let the opening lyrics fall from his lips – clumsy and slightly inaccurate, his memory failing him on certain lines – before lifting his gaze to scope out here reaction. 

“How’s that for a start? I think - you might be right about your concerns with the puff pastry line?” Marcus pondered, too lost in thought to leave space for her to respond. He was hardly the romantic type, but he had an inkling that any girl she might be interested in would take offence to such a comparison. “Does she have flaky skin? The girl you’re interested in...” 

Still clutching her notebook, Maggie's bum hit the seat next to Marcus, making sure to keep her distance. He'd pulled out her chair just enough so that there was a respectful distance between them, assuring their knees didn't touch. It usually started out this way, perhaps Maggie tugging herself a little closer to the monitor so she could watch as Marcus explained his process, brushing her wild curls off the keypad as she leaned in, curious. Maggie knew Marcus didn't like to be touched all that much, which she got. People were always thinking they could touch Maggie - put their arms around her for a photo, their lips to her cheek, fans tugging at her clothes and clinging onto her boots at shows. It got pretty exhausting after a while, so Maggie made sure to hold back her usually tactile self.

Tugging open her notebook, Maggie spread it open against her lap, giving Marcus a sneak peak of her innermost thoughts. It made sense the whole thing was slightly chaotic, a perfect reflection of Maggie herself. The exterior was a faded purple, a long-since broken padlock hanging from a small loop. (It seemed silly, and childish, but Maggie had never not padlocked a journal since she was fourteen, and had heard the lyrics to Let Me Go sung onstage in her Father's rough voice, blushing head to toe, 20,000 people hearing the contents of her diary). Inside, the pages were scrawled with her handwriting, lyrics written in glitter gel pen and overstuffed with bits of paper, movie ticket stubs and napkins. She flipped nearly to the end of the book, her tongue between her teeth as she searched for the song.

"Okay, here we go!" she exclaimed, jabbing her purple nail at the page. The song title was written at the very top, covered in a vast array of hearts she'd doodled when she was bored.

"So, these are the opening lines." she traced her finger along the grooves in the page where she'd pressed too hard, she began to read aloud, "'Lacy, oh, Lacy' - that's the song name by the way, it's called Lacy. And then it goes, 'Skin like puff pastry' - I'm not sure about that line, and then, 'Aren't you the sweetest thing'..."

Maggie trailed off, humming a faint tune, bobbing her head a little as she picked up the notebook, extending it outward to Marcus as a few scraps of paper fell to the floor.

"That's kind of how I think it's gonna go, anyway. All the lyrics are there." she said, thrusting the notebook towards Marcus a little more intensely now.

"Knock yourself out. Like I said, I can play you the voice memos or whatever."

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Charlie had fallen asleep. 

For all intents and purposes, there was nothing strange about the image that was laid out in front of Marcus. The lights of his New York flat had been dimmed hours before, the fluorescent glare deemed to bright by the young Brit, overstimulating him as he’d tried to make himself accessible, his attention being shared by both the mixing desk in the corner of his sitting room and Charlie. The other man seemed to like joining Marcus at work, but in equal measure he seemed to enjoy his company no matter where they found themselves. It was surprising. People as loud and excitable as Charlie rarely gravitated towards Marcus, and when they did, they scarcely stuck around. 

With his curtains drawn, lights down low, and the other man’s chipper voice filling the space, it had stuck Marcus just how right it had all felt. He’d found the perfect equilibrium. Charlie contrasted him and the life that he led so drastically, yet Marcus had been drawn to him from the moment they’d met. Tentative as they’d both been – nerves had been plain on the Londoner’s features, a walking advertisement for mental illness; Charlie, on the other hand, was the polar opposite to him and yet also his mirror – the two men had managed to find a common ground in their music, their passion for it. Fear had enveloped Marcus at the prospect of approaching a strange man in the darkened night club all those months ago, and Charlie’s own uncertainty had been tucked behind all his bravado, his distrust mingled with curiosity. In that regard, they’d been two sides of the same coin. 

It was a strange sensation to feel so accepted, but that was how Charlie made people feel. He was warm and eager to let people in. As cuddly and affectionate as he was, he’d soon adjusted to Marcus and his own aversions to touch, his discomfort when faced with loud, boisterous behaviour. The other man never pretended to be something that he wasn’t, but he adapted and eased Marcus into their friendship – he hoped he could call it that, he hoped Charlie wouldn’t mind being called his friend – and had carved out a safe space for him. He’d shown no signs of mocking or teasing him, had never called him annoying or weird. 

Sufficed to say, Marcus was comfortable. And as he stared across at the other man now, it occurred to him that he’d never been comfortable before. 

So, yes, Charlie had fallen asleep, and it was altogether a strange image for Marcus to process. He wasn’t used to people staying late, and he certainly hadn’t predicted that he’d leave the room for a short time and return to... this. But it was okay, and it was nice, and he found that he didn’t want to disturb him. As partial as he was to a few drinks and a joint with the DJ, it hadn’t gone unnoticed to him that Charlie wasn’t always able to stop – or slow down, even. When he’d stopped by that afternoon his eyes had been red-raw, he’d been jittery and talking at full speed, seemingly with no desire to pause for breath. On the surface it had seemed like the other man hardly even knew how wired he was, that there was a cause for concern. Marcus had been uncertain, but ultimately he’d known he needed distracting. He’d carefully supplied him with glasses of water between cans of coke and red bull – he'd slipped away on more than one occasion to water down the caffeinated drinks, shame buried deep in his gut – and they’d poured over countless demos and new records as Charlie had come down from his high. 

Marcus had only been gone for ten minutes, slipping away to order food. By the time he’d returned, he’d stumbled upon the image before him now; Charlie, with his head slumped against the arm of the sofa, his legs curled up beneath him, hand limp as it rested at his side. In spite of how the afternoon had started, Marcus couldn’t help but smile. If sleep was what he needed, then he wouldn’t begrudge him that. He wanted him to be healthy and safe, to be taken care of and to always have somewhere he could turn. It wasn’t in anybody’s best interest for him to baby the other man, to belittle him and raise talks of cravings and addiction, but if he could draw him away from dangerous substances, distract him with art and life and laughter, then he’d try to do that. 

Charlie’s smile was warm and contagious, just like the rest of him. Whether he was stone-cold sober or wiping white powder from his nose, he never let his compulsions turn him cruel. He had kind words to say to everybody, compassion pouring from him in waves that, at times, overwhelmed Marcus in the best ways imaginable. He was love and light and warmth, and he was his friend. 

With as much care as he could muster, sock-footed and wrapped in the comfort of his own, baggy sweater, Marcus padded across the room, silent footfall against the carpet as he reached for one of the sofa cushions. His touch was gentle as his fingers grazed Charlie’s cheek, fighting off the familiar tremble as he lifted the other man’s head just a few inches higher, releasing it only when he knew there was a soft place to land. He was holding his breath, nervous that Charlie might wake, might be offended by his touch, however innocent. He didn’t stir once, even as Marcus wandered from the room, returning with a few blankets to drape across his body. 

“Goodnight, Charlie,” Marcus whispered. For the first time in years, he felt content. 

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@producermarcus: @charlieinthemix Oh. Did you want to come to the studio tomorrow? Or just grab a coffee? I can be free.

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Missing home.

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Missing home.

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@producermarcus: @danteleept Oh. Thank you? I think. Um, yeah. Thanks.

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Photo by Maggie.

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@producermarcus: @charlieinthemix Thanks? @producermarcus: @charlieinthemix :)

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Photo by Maggie.

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Photo by Maggie.

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@producermarcus: I’m sorry this happened, Henry. I hope you get the rest that you need. The internet is full of a lot of noise, try to protect your mind too. Here if you need an escape.

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all good. 👍 honey is taking care of me. so sorry to the fans who came out to the show last night and didn’t get what they paid for, and to the fans whose tour dates have been rescheduled. i’d love to play these last dates for you guys but was advised by medical to step back.

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TEXTING: CHARLIE Marcus: Yes. My dad is their best friend. He was their donor. Marcus: He owns a record store. I think you'd like him a lot. He's the coolest person I have ever met. Marcus: Oh, sorry. I didn't mean any offence. Gay mums, you know? I think people assume. Marcus: I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure you were loved too. Marcus: I can see that you are now. Marcus: You're very handsome, Charlie. You're going to find someone.

TEXTING: MARCUS

Charlie: u got a dad too? wow. ur so loved man

Charlie: oh haha that’s okay

Charlie: i’m pan so it’s all love over here

Charlie: i dunno her, my daddy either

Charlie: i grew up in the system so

Charlie: i bet she was cool though

Charlie: thanks for sharing ur moms and ur record collection

Charlie: just gotta find me a husband now :-)

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TEXTING: CHARLIE Marcus: I suppose I am. Marcus: They're very cool. Marcus: My dad is great too. Marcus: I'm not gay, Charlie. Marcus: Sorry. Marcus: Don't you get along with your own mum? Marcus: I'm happy to share mine, for the record. They already think you're wonderful. And I'll share my records with you even if I can't marry you.

TEXTING: MARCUS

Charlie: ur such a mamas boy it’s so cute

Charlie: they did? oh man that’s so fun

Charlie: maybe i’ll marry into ur family i could use two moms

Charlie: especially ones as nice as urs

Charlie: we could combine our record collections !

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TEXTING: CHARLIE Marcus: Thanks. Marcus: They really like you too. I love them. Marcus: They thought you were my boyfriend. Marcus: I'm not sure why. Marcus: I do? Marcus: Oh. Marcus: Thank you. Marcus: I don't know what to say now.

TEXTING: MARCUS

Charlie: those people are just fucking stupid like

Charlie: if they can’t take it they’re missing out on a cool fucking dude

Charlie: ur moms are awesome btw, i like them a lot

Charlie: i think you’re imprsssive. u impress me

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TEXTING: CHARLIE Marcus: I don't really see the point in being dishonest. Marcus: I suppose that's probably why I don't have friends. My mums raised me to be truthful, though. Marcus: What do you mean? Marcus: I'm not impressive. I'm just Marcus.

TEXTING: MARCUS

Charlie: nah

Charlie: you’re just upfront it’s nice

Charlie: no bullshit

Charlie: and that means a lot, especially since ur so like impressive