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Holland March had always been jittery. Jittery, anxious, clumsy. The luckiest loser on the face of the planet.
As for Jackson Healy? He was the man who loved that loser with everything he had.
Every morning started with a brand-new "Ow!", the clatter of dishes, the screech of a startled goose, or the thunderous crash of a body hitting the floor.
Holly was always the first to come running, already dressed for school, hair neatly brushed, bursting out of the bathroom. Jack followed right behind her, groggy and instantly on edge.
"What happened?!"
Jack's voice came out deeper from sleep, rough around the edges.
A sniffle. A shaky breath. Another wet hiccup of a sob, followed by another wet sniffle of a running nose.
Without a word, Holland threw one hand in the air, vaguely gesturing toward the kitchen. He shook his head, gave a jerky shrug, then let out another short breath, like someone had abruptly cut off his air supply.
Jack stepped into the kitchen, worry already etched across his face. Three plates. Two held sandwiches.
The third held a single slice of bread spread with peanut butter and jelly, a butter knife...
...and several drops of something red that definitely wasn't jelly.
Holly let out the weary sigh of someone far too young to be sighing like that. She walked over to her dad, gently rubbing his slumped back while whispering something soft and reassuring before heading off to grab the first-aid kit.
Same thing every day.
Holland didn't always cry. Far from it. More often, he'd shriek and curse out the staircase, or the flared leg of his own damn pants.
Life was hard for Holland.
Trying to be the perfect family man—and a good dad in a family of three—after years of alcoholism came with its own special kind of torture. No drink in the morning. No drink in the afternoon. No drink at night...unless he wanted to wake up with a hangover straight from hell.
But Holland tried.
And Healy appreciated that.
God, did he appreciate it.
His roommate—his boyfriend—was trying so damn hard.
Jack never saw a problem with helping him back to his feet after he tumbled down the stairs or walked face-first into a door and busted his nose.
Rubbing ointment over fresh bruises before bed. Looking up from his book every few pages beneath the glow of the bedside lamp just to watch that exhausted face... those unruly curls.
That was his happiness.
He loved this life—quiet, as quiet as it could ever be, steady in its own peculiar rhythm.
Breakfast. School. Work. Dinner. Breakfast. School. Work. Dinner. A day off.
Breakfast...
Healy had never had anything like this. Not even with his ex-wife.
Sometimes he'd catch himself with that strange flutter low in his stomach—the one he'd stubbornly ignored for weeks before finally kissing Holland for real that day.
Now that all this chaos had become ordinary, he no longer bolted toward Holland like a man possessed every time something crashed.
Instead, he'd settled into a routine his aging heart treasured: take off his glasses, grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom, find March, patch him up while Holly handled the emotional first aid.
_________________________________
May 25, 1979. 5:35 PM.
The couch had molded itself perfectly to the shape of my ass after months of me sitting in the exact same spot every evening.
My mind drifts through little snapshots of today.
The girls laughing at the stingray's face —first time I'd ever really looked at one myself, gotta admit, it is pretty funny. Two dot eyes and a big smiley mouth—, the depressing amount of popcorn I spent a small fortune on —worth every damn cent for Holly and the girls—, and the little stuffed seal sitting comfortably atop my popcorn-filled stomach.
It reminds me of March.
Those huge, watery eyes.
Five bucks. Highway robbery courtesy of those aquarium pencil-pushers.
I catch myself frowning.
Then I look into the seal's round, almost apologetic huge eyes, and my face softens.
"Yeah... it's not your fault. Quit looking at me like that..."
I sigh and close my eyes.
The front door slams.
Then comes the grumbling.
For reasons I'll probably never understand, the sound of grumbling tugs a brief smile onto my face.
"...and then the guy goes, 'Dude, turns out they'd been sitting in the drawer under my underwear this whole time.' I dunno what's worse—spending three goddamn days looking for a five-thousand-dollar watch, or finding out the asshole wore the same underwear for three goddamn days."
March tugs at his tie.
Once.
Twice.
Rrrrip.
The fabric tears.
His eyes go comically wide.
He puffs out his cheeks, wrestles the tie off over his head, then tosses it at me.
It smacks me square in the chest, making me jolt and finally open my eyes.
I smile before I even realize I am.
I toss the tie onto the couch, stand, slip an arm around his narrow waist, and help him undo the first couple buttons of his shirt.
He lets out that loud, relieved sigh of his.
The dead weight of him melting into my arms is comforting.
Holland's home.
"If you'd been theeeere..." he drawls dramatically, "at least you'd've laughed."
I snort, half-carrying him—his feet dragging lazily across the floor—back toward the couch before lowering him onto it.
He groans again.
"Hey. They paid you."
As I head for the kitchen, an idea quietly blooms in my head, and I find myself smirking.
I've been catching myself wanting to do something unexpected more and more lately.
"Drink?"
I pull open the refrigerator door and glance back at him.
Holland tears his eyes away from the stuffed seal in his grip and immediately turns it toward me too.
March looks interested.
Seal looks interested too.
"Alcohol...?"
"Juice."
Holland lets out the longest, most disappointed sigh imaginable, absentmindedly fiddling with the seal's stuffed flipper while staring at it through half-lidded, utterly betrayed eyes.
"...But we can pretend."
His eyebrows shoot up. He looks from the seal to me.
Then, slowly...
A grin spreads across his face.
_________________________________
"Dance!"
A dramatic pose.
A spin, a glass of juice in hand.
One arm thrown skyward.
"Boogie Wonderlaaaand! Ha! HA!"
May 25, 1979. 6:03 PM.
I could watch this miracle of mine for days.
The way he moves, feet gliding like some disco diva, drunk on nothing but his own ridiculous dancing. Sweet, sticky juice sloshes over the rim of his glass while his thin arms slice dramatically through the air.
Holly's school year was over. Another case—ridiculous as it had been—was finally behind us.
Wasn't that reason enough to celebrate?
Besides, Holly was spending the next two days at a friend's house.
The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen.
It pulls him out of the darkness of the hallway, bathing him in that warm yellow glow.
The sheen of sweat on his skin catches the light, and for a second I can't shake the feeling that he's standing under stage lights instead of our cheap kitchen fixture.
If someone showed me a recording of this dance and told me Holland March was a superstar...
I wouldn't question it for a second.
He shimmy-shuffles toward me.
I choke on my juice and start coughing.
"♪ I find romance when I start to dance in Boogie Wonderlaaand~ ♪"
March's voice bounces a little, but he lands the high note almost professionally.
He crooks a finger at me.
Then he pulls the kind of face you'd only ever see on the cover of one of those magazines sitting around a barbershop waiting room.
I get up and awkwardly dance my way over.
Compared to my younger partner, my legs feel like a pigeon-toed bear's. Not that it bothers me.
I'm not comparing us.
March dances even harder, silently proving to me that he's magnificent simply because he exists.
Sometimes that flatters me. Most of the time it just makes me smile.
He's so damn charming in the complete absence of self-awareness. I was crazy about him—and every ridiculous thing he did—long before we started dating.
Long before we started living together.
He reaches for me first, playing the seducer and plants a bright, playful kiss on my half-open mouth, cutting the song off mid-lyric.
For a heartbeat we simply stare at each other.
Then we both burst out laughing.
He snorts twice, collapsing against me with all his weight. I don't waste a second. I scoop up his surprisingly light, supple body, letting his long, skinny legs wrap around what he insists on calling my waist—not exactly the narrowest part of me, but I've learned to trust his judgment on aesthetics. He's the one who matches the color of his holster to his outfit, not me.—
The forgotten glass of juice stays somewhere on the kitchen counter.
I couldn't care less.
Not while this miracle is laughing in my arms, nearly slipping right through them.
I hitch him a little higher and carry him toward the bedroom, kissing every bit of exposed skin from tender spot just beneath his ear down to the slope where his neck meets his shoulder.
He squirms away from the tickle of my stubble, letting out those tiny, high-pitched squeaks that always make me smile.
Something warm knots itself inside my chest. A happy knot. It presses against my lungs until breathing feels just a little harder.
I laugh anyway, despite the pleasant ache in my ribs, as we tumble together onto the sheets.
God...
He's so beautiful.
So slender.
So graceful.
Sometimes, when I touch him, I'm struck by the strangest realization.
It's me.
Not some cop buddy of his. Not somebody else. Me.
These hands—what he lovingly calls my bear paws—are the ones holding him.
March lightly smacks my arm and pouts.
Guess I drifted off again.
My lips find his in a quick apology.
They're chapped. Probably sore from the way he worries at them whenever he's thinking.
He swats me again.
Harder this time and then laughs.
I smile and shake my head.
Ever since he stumbled into my life, I keep zoning out, getting lost like this.
Admiring.
His curls. His blue eyes. The impossible elegance of him.
This time I don't think. I kiss him properly.
I feel his arms slipping around my neck, the warmth of his bare foot brushing slowly against my calf.
My hands work almost on their own, undoing a couple more buttons before resting an open palm over his chest.
His heart flutters like a trapped bird—Lord...where the hell are all these words coming from?
March melts beneath my touch.
His kisses are warm, breathless, lingering.
I can feel everything he isn't saying, every ounce of the love he pours into them.
Those nimble hands tug my T-shirt free, fumbling with my belt.
I kiss his cheek. The stubled line of his jaw. His neck.
He arches into me instinctively, chasing my lips with quiet little breaths, his long lashes lowering as his body gradually gives in, not even noticing when he's left wearing nothing but his boxers.
I wrap one hand gently around his narrow waist. He fits there so easily, Stroke his flat, firm belly almost absentmindedly.
My knuckle trails lightly, brushing the line of light, soft hair, that disappear beneath the waistband of his underwear and he shivers sweetly.
I can't help smiling against the side of his neck as I hear him whisper, so softly it's almost soundless—
"Jack... Jack... please... Jack..."—while my rough, calloused palm slowly caresses the inside of his soft thigh up, where I know every tiny freckle by heart.
One kiss.
Then another.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Lower.
Until I reach the delicate place where his shoulder meets his neck and nip at it.
March's whole body jerks.
He sucks in a sharp, whistling breath and goes perfectly still.
My hands fly up to hold him, pulling his rigid body close against mine.
Did I hurt him?
Did I scare him?
The way he startles at sounds. At touch. At sudden movements.
Did I really hurt him?
Little by little, his body softens beneath my hands.
Only then do I realize I'd been holding my breath the whole time.
March lets out a frustrated sigh, almost annoyed. He fidgets nervously in my arms before finally going limp, the last of the tension leaving him in one long, weary exhale.
He's so fragile.
So precious.
This man stares danger in the face every single day: staircases, the corners of chairs, criminal, doorframes.
He's endlessly vulnerable and somehow...unbelievably brave.
He wages war against kitchen knives before breakfast, then spends the afternoon charging armed bastards with shotguns.
I stroke his hair, slow and careful, holding him just a little tighter as I bury my nose in those curls that smell faintly of cigarette smoke and shampoo.
His breathing evens out beneath my ear. He's asleep.
They say you shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.
God forgive me...
...but if Holland March isn't my happy present, then I don't know what is.
_________________________________
May 26, 1979. 10:15 AM.
The morning doesn't start with coffee.
"Shit..."
I breathe the word out, feeling utterly defeated—and infinitely annoyed—as blood spurts from my finger after the wet little schlk of skin parting.
"First-aid kit... first-aid kiiit... where's my firs—Ah, nice try, table corner. Not today," I mutter under my breath, fully aware nobody's awake yet.
Yeah, right. My little pumpkin's sleeping over at her friend's, and that bear isn't crawling out of hibernation before noon. And honestly, who could blame him—
JESUS-
"JESUS!"
My whole body jolts like I've been hit with a live wire.
I practically launch myself into the air at the sight of sleepy Jack standing there, and my mouth immediately starts running before my brain can catch up.
"I swear to God, whoever invented butter knives can kiss my ass. Why the hell do they make 'em look harmless? Look!"
I hold up my mangled index finger, blood dripping steadily onto the carpet—whatever. Thing's already filthy anyway.
My middle finger, ring finger—with a Band-Aid wrapped around it twice—and my thumb are already covered in bandages.Real impressive, dumbass.
"Fifth cut this week!... Jack?"
I look at him. My eyes dart right—huh...Holly got something on the wallpaper. How'd she even manage that?Left. Back to Jack.
"...You seriously don't care?"
I ask it with a crooked grin, no hurt behind it, just trying to fill the silence.
Jack still doesn't say anything.
Did I do something? No, seriously?
Maybe he's just sick of hearing me complain all the damn time.Guy gets up to take a leak at ten in the morning and here I am cornering him the second he wakes up. Nice going, Holland.Right? Shit...say something...
Instead...
Those bear paws wrap around me, pulling me in so close my thoughts stop altogether.
It feels...so nice.
Just like last night, when...
I don't even notice the tears gathering until my eyes start burning.
Great. Love's making me cry again.
I hug him back carefully, making sure I don't smear blood all over his T-shirt.
His big, rough, warm hands move slowly across my back, and it's so comforting I could fall asleep standing up.
Honestly, I can't even remember why we never finished what we'd started last night.
The cuddling was nice and I'd been dead tired after work. He always understands me so damn well...
"Love you... y'know that?"
I mumble into his shoulder.
"I know... love you too... more than anything..."
A satisfied smile starts creeping onto my face.
Then I remember something.
I frown.
"Not more than your fish."
I pout, already offended over something I completely made up. I'm kidding. I swear to God, I'm kidding.
"More."
...There it is.
I finally break into a victorious grin.
Take that, Troy. Take that, Mister Stripes. I'm still the favorite.
I stick my tongue out at the aquarium before looping my arms tighter around Jack's neck.
_________________________________
May 26, 1979. 10:30 AM.
The quiet hum of a song he'd only just heard on the radio a month ago mingles with the soft clink of a spoon against the sides of two mugs.
The smell of coffee fills our little kitchen, separated from the living room by nothing more than a breakfast bar.
Holland shuffles barefoot across the carpet, shaking his head to fluff up hair that was already hopelessly mussed from sleep, absentmindedly mumbling his new favorite song under his breath—"Jack, you don't understand. There's so much meaning in this song!"—licking his lips between each dramatic rise and fall of the melody.
"♪ I spent so many nights just feeling sorry for myself... ♪", he taps his heel against the floor, long fingers dancing through the air over an imaginary piano.
My hand slips beneath his loose, stained T-shirt, stroking and gently squeezing the warm firmness of his stomach, freckled by the California sun.
He smiles to himself but keeps humming.
My fingers lace with his, coaxing the spoon from his hand to drift lazily inside the mug.
I spend those precious seconds kissing each of his bandaged fingertips while he laughs.
"Jack..."
He looks up at me with that smile.
"...your coffee's gonna get cold."
Every bandaged finger deserves to be loved.
So does that laugh.
Without warning, my thoughts drift back to the day we met.
The first punch. The second. The arm I broke. The dry crack of Holland's bone.
The painful wail that followed.
That sound still follows me.
Every time I bite into an apple.
Every time an old chair leg snaps beneath my hand—thin as his arm was.
Holland's laughter fades somewhere into the background while I keep kissing his fingers, his neck, tracing slow circles across the warmth of his stomach, over the faint trail of soft blond hair beneath his navel—nothing like the coarse hair on my own body—and gently wrapping my hand around his forearm.
I don't know how he ever forgave me for treating his body so brutally.
How he let these hands touch him again.
Maybe that's just Holland. He's spent so long getting hurt that he got used to it.
But he shouldn't.
These bear paws of mine...
They're never going to hurt him again.
I won't let anyone hurt him again.
"OW!! FUCK! SHIT! FUCK!! SON OF A—!", he jerks back after splashing hot coffee all over himself and takes off running for the bathroom.
Well...I won't let anyone hurt him...except coffee...and butter knives...and table corners...and stairs...and-
God damn it, Holland.