It was uplifting that whenever someone actually agreed with him. Growing up, Mark’s parents had definitely been the type who blocked out anything and everything that he had to say simply because he was a young child and young children, in their minds, weren’t capable of processing worthwhile thoughts. Even as an adult (or semi-adult, anyways) with a mildly successful career
, his parents still gave him shit for the choices that he has made thus far in his life. He never claimed, not even once, that he was a perfect person, but it was still a whole self-esteem thing, you know? It was just kind of nice to have the parental backing to all of your choices, whether they were dumbass moves or not. Jesus Christ
was that a little too deep for being glad that Bailey agreed with him on the subject of weed, but it was strictly stuck in his sub conscious. Mark Ivanov was always on the lookout for some kind of vetted approval. That’s why he loved his job so much, besides performing and working with music and his best friends; the approval they got from fans kept him up when everything else was trying to keep him down. If he ever had a bad day, the resolution was simple – go look for something nice that someone said in a tweet or in a comment on Instagram. Self-esteem problems? Nearly gone.
Well, almost nearly gone. But that’s why there were pretty girls such as Bailey (among others, because Mark would never admit to not spending a lot of time around girls) to fill in the rest of the gaps. They smelled nice and had soft hair and nice clothes; there wasn’t anything that could possibly make Mark feel bad about girls. Well, except for the ones who walked (sometimes very quickly) away from him – those ones didn’t make him feel particularly good about himself. The boy stretched out on the sofa, pushing his feet into the floor and sliding his legs out as far as they go, until his knees were nearly beneath the coffee table. He happy munched on his cookie and happily listened to Bailey as she spoke, nodding in agreement to what she said about black cats moments after he finished his second cookie. ”I always wanted a black cat growing up. Or any color of cat, really, but you know.” Of course, his parents never allowed that. He was pretty sure that even if they weren’t as uptight as they had been while raising their only child, one of them would have happened to have been allergic or deathly afraid of felines and it wouldn’t have happened, anyways. A dopey grin took formation on his red lips when she commented on his ideas about owning an Irish Wolfhound. ”Right?” He mused, rubbing at his chin. Shit. He needed to shave. He shook his head and dropped his hand back down onto his knee. ”Oh, no problem,” he began, reaching forward and grabbing another cookie. ”I was kind of afraid you’d beat me up if I didn’t share these cookies anyways,” he laughed, shaking his head as he took a bite into the delicious baked good. Honestly, he didn’t know how he survived so long without knowing about fucking Insomina Cookies. Who invented something like that? A goddamned genius, that’s who.
”The coolest in the band?” Mark inquired with a raise of his brow and a mischievous grin on his face. He could feel a small heat rise in his cheeks, and he almost cursed at himself out loud before he reminded himself of the shit lighting in the living room. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice. But it was awful nice of her to say that, especially considering the little battle all of the guys’ egos played against each other as far as who was the better one in the band went. Of course, there was never a real battle to decide who was better in the band amongst the small group of boys, although Mark was nearly one hundred percent certain that every guy was thinking it. Personally, he thought he was better – second to Zander, maybe, but he hardly counted because he and Meredith were meant to be together forever, and that was no fun for fans who wanted in on a little fun with the band members. Mark was better strictly because he had cool plants and he played guitar, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. So instead, he grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ”Yeah, thanks, man. Now you just need to tell the other guys so that maybe they stop putting dicks on my ceiling that’s made out of glow in the dark stars,” he joked, except maybe it wasn’t too farfetched of an idea. He didn’t mind the practical jokes because that was kind of their thing (him and Zander especially), but at the same time he did. Like, what would a girl think if she saw that? She’d probably laugh and it’d ruin the whole mood, and that’s not what Mark wanted.