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Jesus fucking Christ, March. Is it that hard to pick up the fucking phone?
Healy had rung him three times before entirely giving up and deciding to head to his rental. When he first met him, he seemed like the type of guy to never pick up the phone considering he was daydrinking at his own daughter's birthday party the second time they ever met (the first time doesn't count), but that phone call could be anyone. Someone in need for a detective. So of course he would always pick up the phone if it lined his pockets. It's like he chose when and where to be competent.
Which is why Healy is worrying like a fucking baffoon as he pulls up to the rental. He feels stupid for worrying when March is likely fine. Probably passed out in the living room, or maybe he finally passed on into the afterlife after drinking his liver to death. Who knows. Healy wouldn't put it past him.
The front door is unlocked, which means Holly isn't home. She would have locked the door, would've made sure the house was at least secure before leaving her father to his vices.
Can't even pick up the phone and now Healy is walking around the rental to make sure nobody broke in. He feels more akin to a damn babysitter than his partner-in-cime, if he can even be considered one.
This is fucking stupid.
It isn't until the third room Healy checks - which happens to be the bathroom - where Healy overhears the sound of spilled water and walks in on a familiar body in the bathtub.
"Fuckin' Christ, March."
The tub is overspilling with water, March fully dressed in his suit with the tie undone and around his neck, back pressed against the porcelain with his eyes closed. There's an unlit cigarette in his mouth and an almost empty glass in his hand with some abandoned ice. And of course the perfectly placed newly opened bottle of vodka that sits next to the tub. Enough of it is empty for Healy to assume that March is drunk. He obviously looks like a mess (that's nothing new) and there are tears in his eyes like he was in the midst of a sobbing-session before promptly passing out.
It isn't until Healy speaks that March is turning his head, confused, then his bottom lip quivers. Like he's about to start crying again. It's a pitiful sight, all things considered.
"The fuck are you doing?" Healy's voice has bite to it, but he struggles to care about that right now. "Called you, like, four fucking times and you didn't pick up."
March's head slowly turns. His eyes land on a bright red telephone sitting on the other side of the bathroom, plugged into the wall.
"Split… somethin' on the phone. Sorry." March shrugs mindlessly. Healy can only assume it's vodka. "Doesn't work anymore."
"Wh-" Healy has to take a deep breath to control himself. He knows how unserious his fights with March can get, considering he's spent the better half of a year with the man. "What if we get calls from customers who need us?"
"Can you refill m'drink?"
"Jesus Christ, March. No."
A sniffle.
"Are you crying?"
Clear as day, there are tears in March's eyes as he warbles out, "n-no. I'm not crying. I'm fine."
And here Healy thought March was actually getting better with the whole drinking thing. Of course, leave it up to Holland March to exceed expectations!
"Where's Holly?" Is the next question on Healy's checklist.
March sniffles again. "Friend's house. Sleepover."
Okay. This gives Healy time to reevaluate. It's just March at home, alone, drunk (nothing really new there), fully suited in a bathtub, sobbing.
Well, they have shit to do tomorrow, and Healy is going to be beyond annoyed if he wakes up to March drowned in a bathtub.
"Come on. Out of the tub."
March's bottom lip quivers again and he tries to give these puppy dog eyes that drives Healy up the goddamn wall.
"We have shit to do tomorrow, March, the least I'm doing is getting you out of wet clothes and making you drink water so you're at least competent in the morning."
March stares at Healy. Still playing those puppy dog eyes that do quite literally nothing for Healy. Nope. Nothing.
"Get out of the tub. I'm not waiting for you."
A sort of pathetic noise comes out of March. Dangling the cigarette in between his teeth, he mindlessly throws the glass into the tub, the ice cubes shrinking as it melts into the water, and he uses his hands to settle at the edge of the tub. Using as much strength as he can muster (which, to be fair, is not a lot), he pushes himself up and out of the tub, dripping water all over the tiles.
Healy watches in this weird mix of annoyance and disappointment as March tries to pull a leg over the tub. To no one's surprise, his foot gets caught behind the wall and he ends up tripping, body tumbling out of the tub and onto the floor. He ends up landing on his knees with his ass up in the air.
"I'm not waitin' for you," Healy repeats, motioning March to follow him.
Past the blonde hairs that fall over March's forehead, he looks at Healy and reaches up to pull the cigarette out of his mouth before putting it back in between his teeth. It's not even lit.
"Takin' your sweet fuckin' time, princess," Healy breathes, then says under his breath, "hurry the fuck up."
Now, don't get Healy wrong, he can sympathize with a guy who has a drinking problem. He saw himself in March's position all those years ago, when he was living across the country in NYC with a wife who wanted nothing to do with him anymore and knuckles painted in weird shades of purples and yellows from constant fistfights. But guess who pulled him out of that hole he found himself in?
It certainly wasn't his now-ex-wife. It wasn't another woman, and it definitely wasn't the choice between being shipped to California or being forced behind bars in New York.
Healy's always been a 'pull yourself up by the bootstraps' type of guy. Stuck to the things he knew, the things that worked for him, and when things went wrong, it was his responsibility to dig himself out of that hole. It's why he lived above a comedy club for the betterment of his life.
So seeing March like this boils his blood the way nothing else ever has and ever will.
Speaking of, the guy has gotten on his hands and knees, and has resorted to crawling towards Healy like a child. Healy stares, unimpressed, watching as March crawls with the cigarette in his mouth and his clothes soppy and the trail of water he's leaving behind. He didn't even take off his dress shoes before getting into the tub.
Once he's reached Healy's shoes, March pushes himself up slightly so that he's on his knees, staring at Healy through blonde eyelashes and those familiar puppy dog eyes. They look more endearing now that Healy can point out every blemish and imperfection on March's face.
"Hi," March says in this almost lovesick voice. Healy doesn't hold back the disgusted furrow of his eyebrows.
The hell is his prerogative?
"Get up."
"I will," March says. He really isn't understanding, is he? Then again, Healy isn't that surprised. "Can y'do me a favour?"
"I've done you more than enough favours. The least you can do for me is to change your clothes."
"Just-just…" March trails off as if he completely forgets where he was going with his point. "Can'ya light my cig?"
Fucking God.
"You can do it yourself once you change out of your clothes. You're acting like a fuckin' child, March. Get the hell up."
Healy forces himself to take a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He left that piece of nonsensical violence in him back on the east coast. No matter how tempting it is to tap back into that angry man from decades ago, he made a promise to himself that he'd never resort to violence like that again.
"Cigarette first, please."
Something about the way he says "please" has Healy wanting to recoil. His eyebrow twitches and he stuffs his hand into his back pocket to fish out exactly what March is looking for.
A lighter. It's brand new, too. Healy doesn't want to spend the first light of his brand new sparkling lighter on a cigarette he knows he's going to regret lighting, but he swats that thought away and flicks the sparkwheel four times before the thing finally erupts into a flame.
Past the lighter, Healy can see March's eyes slightly widen. A little smile tugs at his lips and he pushes his head out, cigarette sitting there idly. Needy.
Healy scoffs as he lowers the lighter down to the cigarette and lights it. He slips the lighter back into his pocket and watches as March spreads his legs a little further, then takes a drag of his cigarette before looking back up at Healy expectedly.
Without another word as if they've practiced this a million times before, Healy takes the cigarette out of March's mouth (steering clear of accidentally touching his red, slightly chapped lips). Healy slips it in between his own lips, teeth barely grazing the filter tip before he takes his own huff. When he opens his eyes, March is staring up at him with his bottom lip pushed out. Pouting like a brat.
Healy can't help the way the corner of his mouth twitches at the sight.
He can also taste the vodka on the filter.
"Giv'it back," March says, "c'mon, either give it back or burn me with it."
This time Healy raises an eyebrow. He notices the way his cock, trapped beneath cotton and denim, twitches slightly at the thought. Get in line, Jackson, you're not twenty anymore.
"Get up and get changed or I'm not giving it back," Healy says. He hates the way his inflection holds a slight teasing nature surrounding it. Fuzzy at the edges.
"Then burn me with it," March states, and it's so different compared to his earlier begging. Like he was drunk and not entirely serious. Acts a fool yet knows exactly what he wants and how to say it in order to get it.
With the type of charm he sports that can't be rivalled by anyone else. Healy guesses it works a lot of the time. It seems to be working on him, too.
"I'm not gonna fuckin' burn you," Healy says, faltly. "You cry whenever you stub your toe. A burn is going to make you inconsolable."
"Won't cry!" March lowers himself to the floor, spreading his legs a little further. Because of how the water practically glues his clothes to his body, Healy can see the outline of March's cock in those already tight dress pants.
Jesus Christ.
"Fuckin' liar," Healy spits.
"I promise! No lying! Give me back my cigarette or burn me with it. Your choice."
He's definitely not faking, considering the dazed look in his eye, the way the cigarette tasted bitter, and the way he's slurring his words like he's forgetting how to speak altogether.
Or maybe he is, and he's playing a gigantic prank on Healy. Who knows.
"Get up," Healy demands.
March stays exactly where he is.
"Get the fuck up, March."
He still doesn't move.
Healy lowers the cigarette. "You'll get up if I burn you with this thing? What are you, a masochist?"
"Noooo," March says, voice climbing into a whine, "just feels better when someone else is doin' it."
"…You've done this before?"
March reaches up to tug on the collar of his shirt, which Healy is now noticing is somewhat undone, and he pulls down. On his bare collar, there's three burn marks the size of a cigarette. They're dark right now, and it'll definetly leave something more permanent by tomorrow morning. Maybe he'll regret it.
Right now he doesn't, however, and the sight is making Healy dizzy.
"Come on," March says, releasing his collar to let the fabric fold up naturally. He leans in, unexpectedly pressing his cheek against Healy's lower thigh.
"Jesus fuckin'—"
"It's not that hard. If you don't do it, I'll do it myself."
Healy stares at March for what feels like an infinite amount of time. Like the hands on an analog clock abruptly stopping. Refusing to move.
Then Healy takes another drag of the cigarette before shaking March off his leg like he's a dog, and he reaches down to tug at his collar. At the angle he's at, he can't fully reveal the skin, so March decides to help him. They're working in tandem, words unspoken between the two of them as March undoes the second and third button on his shirt to show a slip of his sternum.
With finality, Healy pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and presses the butt of it gently against the silver of skin exposed, just under the marks that are already charred.
A sound punches out of March, bordering between a grunt of pain and a moan. Like he's trying not to be loud, trying to take the pain. Like he deserves it.
Satisfication curls deeper inside of Healy. In a way, he does deserve this. Making him worry all damn night only to find him in his bathtub with an unlit cigarette and a fresh bottle of vodka opened next to him, the cup in his hand already empty with some abandoned ice cubes.
As much as Healy knows it's a bad idea, he finds himself desperately rationalizing it. March does deserve this. The idiot that has taken up so much space in Healy's head that he doesn't even know why the hell he decided to drive to March's rental when it's nearly midnight. Doesn't know why he worries so much over him when in all honesty, March just seems like a broken record. Doing the same shit over and over again with no intentions to ever change.
He's everything Healy could have been if he chose to stay in NYC.
Now is also a horrible time to notice the tent he's pitching in his jeans. Just his fucking luck.
The smell of burnt skin is not entirely rancid but it is noticeable. Healy huffs a breath, watches as March's body trembles at the pain, and then he has the audacity to crack a smile.
This man is going to be the death of him.
"Fuck," Healy mutters without much thought. The cigarette dangles in between his fingers.
"Can't smell burnt skin," March says. Healy catches the sight of his canine when he grins like an idiot. "How's it smell?"
"Like burnt fucking skin," Healy bites, unapologetically.
Without warning, he presses the butt of the cigarette against another patch of skin, further away from the other burns. This one is below his collarbone, further left of his sternum, nearing his shoulder.
March's body seizes up, recoiling back to sit on the heels of his soaked dress shoes. The sound he makes is heavenly.
"Fuck, more," he whines. Healy does just that.
He burns him two more times, laying them out on his skin like he's back in art class and he's trying to excuse the chalks he threw onto a canvas as a 'think piece' to his teacher who was ready to hand him a failing grade and move on without another care in the world.
Then March presses forward and Healy's heart lodges into his throat when March rolls his hips over Healy's shoe. A hand reaches for his thigh and he uses that as leverage to pull his hips over, over, over.
The sound he makes is unreal, Healy forgets he's holding the cigarette in the first place. The sight of March on his knees at his feet is making him lightheaded, all the blood in his brain quickly rushing to his dick, which only aids in the strenuous pain in his pants.
March is huffing, taking fists of Healy's pant leg, grinding over and over with these little noises coming out of him. He can't help it. He's always had a loud mouth, saying the wrong things at the wrong time, and Healy presumes that that bad habit is showing up now.
Like how he begs for "more, Jack, please—!"
And Healy isn't entirely sure how exactly he's supposed to give March more.
"You can do it on your own," Healy says, "since you want to act like a fuckin' brat all the damn time, making me drive out here to make sure you're not dead."
March whines high and thin and his thrusts become a little more frantic. It'd probably feel better if he took his pants off, and trying to hump something (or someone else) in wet boxers doesn't sound too ideal. He seems a little too preoccuiped for that, however.
"Please," he says, voice reaching higher and higher until a broken sob escapes his throat and Healy's chest squeezes.
"Why are you crying?" Healy asks. He intends for the words to come out angry, but they come out like a coo. Like he's trying to be comforting.
He doesn't want to comfort the type of guys that can get on their own feet but choose not to. Choose to wallow in their own self-hatred instead and make everyone's lives around them miserable just because they're miserable too.
You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. Healy learnt that the hard way.
"Be-because—" March breaks into another sob. He takes a shuttery breath but he can't stop his hips from wobbling forward like he can't get enough of the pleasure it's bringing him.
"I-I deserve this, I—" March hiccups, then sobs unevenly. "I deserve everything bad that's ever happened to me."
Healy pauses. He has a feeling but there's a part of him that doesn't want to know if he's correct for it.
"Is that why you wanted me to burn you with the cigarette?" Again, it comes out like he's consoling March. He has no idea what March does to him or his stupid heart. He fucking hates it.
March takes his bottom lip in between his teeth as he rolls his hips again. "Mm-mmhm," he says, craning his head up to look at Healy. His eyes are glassy and there are tear tracks going down his rosey cheeks.
He looks absolutely ruined. He looks so unpresentable. He looks perfect.
Something twists inside of Healy's stomach. Something wrong and guilty and horrible that weighs on him the longer he thinks about it.
This must be some screwed up way to punish himself. Ruin your life and make sure you deal with the consequences of your shitty actions afterwards. Cancel each other out; two wrongs make a right. Or at least make you feel better about yourself.
Or maybe, Healy argues, you can just be a decent person by getting the fuck off your ass and changing your life instead of accepting that everything will be the way it is forever.
Letting March do this is nothing short of wrong. He shouldn't be humping Healy's leg like a damn dog while he's drunk off his mind. Healy shouldn't have burnt him. He might not even remember this tomorrow morning.
The longer Healy thinks about the moral implications of this, the sicker he feels.
March's hips get more and more frantic until he's throwing his head back with his mouth open. He's whining and moaning Healy's name that he's sure the neighbours can hear, and Healy can't do anything except watch as March rides his orgasm.
His hips slowly but surely grow to a halt, and March, still holding onto Healy like he'll disappear if he ever lets go, meets Healy's wide eyes.
And he finds the audacity to smile. Like nothing is wrong. Like he isn't drunk and using Healy's shoe like a pillow on a desperate night after getting no action for ages.
Healy kicks gently and March gets the idea to climb off his leg.
With the guilt twisting in his stomach like a snake, and the implications of what he just allowed to happen, he gives March one last look before turning around and heading for the door. He chews on his bottom lip as he walks.
"I'll come over tomorrow morning. Get your shit together and sober up. I'll see you."
Without another word, Healy leaves. March is left sitting on the floor of his bathroom, tears in his eyes, and the urge to reach for the bottle again.