Summary: There’s always been something about Holland March. You’ve been neighbors for years, and harboring a stupid crush. What becomes of it one night, over too much whiskey and one too many cigarettes?
cw: m/f, age gap, drinking, smoking, drinking games, scars, eventual smut. (18+)
It was late by the time the front door opened and Holland March walked through it. Alone. Sometimes Mr. Healy crashed here, but not often. You could probably recite the pattern of their days. Him and Healy chasing whatever clues until they called it quits hours ago and hit the bar. Healy was usually just there to keep an eye on March, keep him alive.
You should've went home hours ago, could've at least. Holly crashed early tonight. She normally tried to stay awake, to hang out longer, to see her dad. You weren't like her babysitter or anything. You were twenty-two.
You just lived next door and kinda hated the way March wasn't around. Holly was alone a lot or either going off to friends. When she didn't, you kept an eye on her. Sometimes you'd come hang out, bringing magazines and nail polish. You taught Holly what it was to have a girls night.
That's what you'd done tonight. Gossiped and watched trash tv and painted your nails. You still had your bare feet propped up on the coffee table, where'd you'd been letting them dry, when March walked into the living room. He wasn't surprised to see you in the least.
Like you'd said, normally you were gone by now, but a sometimes...sometimes you found excuses to hang around until March got back.
Tonight was different though. You were feeling careless. A little frustrated. Tonight you didn't care to make up any excuse other than March had the good booze and cigarettes.
Part of you hoped he wouldn't mind. The other part was kinda curious to see what Holland March looked like pissed off.
He smiled, warm and polite, his jacket off and slung over his forearm. The house was too quiet for Holly to still be awake, so he knew even before he asked. "She out already?"
You take a long drag from the cigarette between your fingers, nodding. He sounds kinda sad. It was small and thin and buried in his voice. Then again, you don't think there was a time it wasn't there. You didn't know them before they moved in next door, but Holly had told you about her mom. You knew.
"Crashed before midnight. Surprised me," you say through the stream of smoke. He ditched his jacket on to a chair and made his way to the fridge. You could hear the condiments rattling in the door.
He popped the top off the beer he pulled out, and peered down the hall towards Holly's bedroom.
The thoughts were practically physical. You could see them, malleable and flickering outside his mind. It was brief. That sadness. Visible for barely a second.
'Thank you," he said, turning his eyes to you quickly. You could see his throat working as he swallowed. He gave you a nod, and just stood there for a moment, resting the bottle on the table, hand on his hip like dad's sometimes stand.
He wasn't drunk, yet at least, which was rare this time of night. You'd seen March in all sorts of ways coming home from the bar. Stumbling, crawling. You'd found him in a bathtub once.
You're pulled from your thoughts by the sound of his footsteps, his voice. He walks over to you, fishing for something in his pocket.
"I know you've said no before, but let me pay you. You don't have to do this, but I appreciate it."
You're already shaking your head and sitting up by the time he pulls out a wad of folded cash. He thumbs through it quickly, standing right in front of the coffee table now.
"No, Mr. March, 's alright. I don't want your money."
Wow, dumbass, you think to yourself. Great way to word that. I don't want your money? What do you want? Oh, I don't know Mr. March...your time, your attention, your cock.
You're hoping he didn't pick up on how ridiculously odd you just sounded. The look on his face isn't helping though.
March's hands are frozen, paused on the money. His eyes had drifted, and now they're on the open whiskey bottle.
He points to it, his voice quiet. You quickly slip your feet from the table, leaning forward to put out your cigarette. March's eyes follow the movement, and then lift to yours.
"I'm sorry, Mr. March. I just -"
March's eyebrows raise comically, and then he laughs. His shoulders seem to relax, and he lets his hands fall to his sides while he just looks at you. You're not sure what he sees, but he doesn't seem mad.
He's smiling, and before you can say anything else, he's stuffing the money back into his pocket. He swipes the whiskey bottle up by the neck, his voice teasing, "Don't be. Sounds like my kinda night.”
He heads for the sliding glass door, the one that leads to the empty pool. The cooler air rushes inside as he opens it. He's already a few steps outside before he turns around and gives you a look. "You comin'?"
You're stunned, to put it mildly. This is uncharted territory. Sure, you've been alone with March before, but just long enough to say goodnight, or listen to him talk about work or Holly.
He's certainly never walked off into the shadows of his backyard, beckoning you with a bottle of booze to follow before.
You're on your feet immediately.
"Bring the smokes, and the lighter," he calls out.
You swipe both off the table, and try not to seem too eager as you step outside. The asphalt by the pool is cold beneath you bare feet. Your newly painted toes, a dark plum, stand out even under the stars.
March is already sitting on the diving board. He's sitting on it sideways, already lighting a cigarette of his own, the bottle beside him. You're unsure if that's where you're supposed to go as well until he raps his knuckles against the board.
"Careful." He reaches up, offering a hand. You take it. It was probably sixty seconds of contact, at most, long enough for you to edge closer and sit down straddling the board. You soak it up anyway. His palm was warm, and calloused.
Neither of you speak at first. There's just silence, the quiet sounds of March inhaling. You pull out another cigarette for yourself, just to give your hands something to do. The flicking of the lighter makes him look at you again.
He watches you light it and pull the first drag.
Thankfully, he reaches for the bottle separating you. He pulls the top free and tosses it somewhere in the empty pool, amongst the many, many cigarette butts. It's evident March doesn't plan on there being any left.
He takes a drink. You try not to stare, but fuck, you'd really like to meet anybody who would blame you. His throat moves as he swallows, and his mouth is wet and shiny when he pulls it away from the rim.
You cast your eyes down, focusing on the cigarette in your hand, and the heavy, buzzy feeling in your limbs. March looks back to you, placing his own cigarette back between his lips.
He extends the bottle in offering.
You stutter, and then brace yourself to stand again. "Oh. I didn't bring my glass."
March scoffs, and even rolls his eyes, shaking the bottle at you. You take it.
"Are you even old enough to drink?"
Huffing, you snatch the bottle from his hand and shove him in the shoulder.
"You know I'm twenty-two, asshole. I've been your neighbor for what, three years now?"
You're not actually sure he knows that. Maybe? March does forget a lot of stuff. He laughs though, slightly.
He watches you again, as you take a long drink. You embrace the burning and try to replace the embarrassment with other thoughts. Like how your mouth is touching where March's had. Like if you try hard enough, you could taste him instead of the whiskey.
His next question hits a little different. "So, why are you drinking? Tonight that is?"
Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and look at him. "Why not?"
March doesn't even bother pulling the cigarette from between his lips. He speaks around it. "Well, like you said, it's been three years. You've never drank my liquor before."
He's not even questioning if you have. He knows you haven't. That smile is still on his face but it's softer now. He lets out another plume of smoke, shrugging his shoulders.
"I don't know. You just seem different toni-"
"My boyfriend. Ex boyfriend, I guess," you blurt out, cutting March off. You don't mean to. You shake your head, cringing both internally and externally.
"Anybody I should worry about?" March actually looks serious for a second. He's just taking another drag, but his face changes. You figure this is business March. Concerned with a guy who might be bad news, hanging around the neighborhood. Why else would he care?
You raise the bottle to your mouth again. More alcohol was needed if this was going to be the conversation topic. The bottle clunks against the diving board when you set it back down. You can't keep the grimace off your face this time, groaning and coughing at the burn.
"Easy," March whispers. His eyes flicker all over you.
You shake your head. "No. He's no one to worry about. He's too busy, off at college, drowning in pussy."
You can hear the searing sound coming from March's cigarette. It burns louder and faster when he inhales a bit harder. He coughs himself, briefly, turning his head away and then back towards you.
He's shocked by your words, you can tell.
"So that's why you're drinking? Because he left?"
You watch March as he flicks the ashes down into the empty pool. You do the same and laugh sarcastically. "Oh nooo. I would be drinking because of the blonde with her tits out in his dorm room."
March gets it. Obviously. He'd be a real shit P.l if he couldn't pick up that this blonde shouldn't have been there.
You keep talking. March doesn't try to stop you.
"We said we'd do long distance. Even though it's not really that far, but he got in and I hadn't applied that year. Should've known. I mean, he's twenty something, ya know? Dude's gonna wanna get his dick wet on the regular. More than I can go up there and visit."
"Then the fucker should've ended things, the right way." March jumps in. He actually sounds annoyed, his voice a little sharper. He picks up the bottle and takes a drink himself.
Your eyes fall to his mouth. His lips are wet again from the whiskey, and even a few hairs from his mustache. God, you love his facial hair. You want to know what it feels like. Against your own lips, dragging across your skin.
"I'm sorry sweetheart," March offers, pulling you from your daydream.
The blush settles heavily across your cheeks. You're afraid he'll be able to see it, even out here in the dark. You clear your throat and shrug, like it's not a big deal. "Yeah, well."
"Well nothin'. You didn't deserve that. Guys a dumbass." March moves then, swinging one leg over so he can straddle the diving board too. You're facing one another now. It feels intimate somehow.
"You didn't see her." You laugh, even though it's not funny. March can hear the slight crack in your voice.
March just gives you a look.
You take another swig from the bottle, and look down at your own chest. The tank top you're wearing is cute. It wasn't too low cut or anything. It let just the tiniest edges of your lace bralette poke out. "Let's just say she had uh, more."
She had. She was absolutely gorgeous, and had a rack like you only see in the pornos. What does it say that you can't stop thinking about the girl's boobs your boyfriend cheated on you with, and not the boyfriend himself?
You're about to laugh again when you notice March is silent. It's only for a second but you look to him anyway, and his eyes are where yours were, on your chest.
Fuck. Holland March is staring at your tits.
Okay, staring might be an exaggeration. He looked for maybe five seconds, but he looked.
His eyes flicker back up. "I think you’re doin’ alright.”
You almost choke at his words. The tone of them. His voice dropped lower, to something deeper, smoother. You feel a different kinda warmth now, one not from the smoke or alcohol.
Whatever that was though, it was like March felt it too. The sudden change in his tone is evident. He snatches the bottle back up and laughs, it's like he's physically shaking whatever that was off.
"Alright, enough sad shit. Let's play a game."
You do. For the next forty-five minutes, you and March create your own drinking game. It's completely ridiculous and you keep getting the rules mixed up. It's loosely based on Jacks, except with no ball and no real Jacks.
You use one of those rubber poppers instead, and cigarette butts for the pick up. Looser drinks.
When the popper bounces too high and to the left though, dropping to the bottom of the pool, you both just stare at it until you start laughing.
A comfortable silence falls over the backyard. There's nothing but the sound of the bugs in the bushes, and March taking another drink. You can hear the liquor splashing inside the glass. It's almost empty.
"So if you don't want my money for watching after Holly. What do you want?"
You'd gladly forgotten about sounding weird as hell earlier. It wasn't like you'd meant to, but just the way you said it. There were implications there, and evidently March was going to pull at the thread. To simply tease you or what, you didn't know.
You let out a deep breath, and for once your nerves don't fuel your response. Yeah, you've definitely had too much to drink.
You answer honestly. "I told you, Mr. March. I don't mind. Hell, I like hanging out with Holly. I don't need anything in return."
March quirks an eyebrow, teasing. "You like hanging out with my thirteen year old kid on a Thursday night?"
Something about the way he says that hits different, and wrong. You're not sure who to feel more offended for, you or Holly. It sounds like he's saying it's more fun to hang out a bar, and not even make it home to see his kid before she falls asleep, and that you're lame for choosing to be here.
You know he doesn't mean it that way though. March hears it too, and for another split second, that guilt and pain he wears underneath shows through the cracks. It makes you ache.
He clears his throat softly. "What I mean is...at your age, shouldn't you be somewhere doing something incredibly stupid? Making bad decisions?"
It's funny, really. The way everyone just assumes all bad decisions look the same. That everyone in their twenties are chasing the same high.
That carelessness you felt earlier tonight, the frustration, it bubbles back up. For a good moment, you just don't give a fuck. You look March dead in the eyes, your lips wrapped tight around another cigarette.
It lands just as heavy as you assumed it would. March looks almost stunned. He tilts his head and just blinks at you, and then looks away.
His mind is racing, and losing terribly. Everything's starting to feel a little too slushy. There's no way you meant it like that, March thinks to himself. No. No way.
March hears the way you thumb at the top of your pack, pulling it open. It takes him a moment but he catches up. He opens his own. There's only one left. His lucky.
The upside down cigarette stares back at him. When he looks back to you, you tilt your box down to show him the same thing. Only one left. Your lucky.
To be fair, the entire pack was March's before you stole it tonight, but he doesn't say that. The fact that you flipped one anyway just makes him smile.
He leans forward, pulling the cigarette from your pack. He puts it between his lips and offers you his. Switching luckies.
Your lucky cigarette, typically your last or if you're especially down on your luck, is special. Giving it to someone means something. March sure as hell hadn't done it before.
In all honesty, March couldn't tell you why he still flipped one. Habit. It wasn't like he was chasing happiness, let alone luck.
You're smiling as you pull it free and bring it to your mouth. March tries to focus on that instead of his ghost, his sadness.
He leans back in, flicking his lighter with ease. You lean in too, placing the end right into the tiny flame. It lights up your face.
March notices your eyelashes, the shadow of them, and the curve of your nose.
"You know l've never really had a best friend?"
Your question is random. It's kinda sad too, but you're still smiling. March rolls with it. "No?"
You shake your head, flicking away ashes. "No. I mean, I had a group of friends in high school but not a best friend, like one on one. At least not one that lasted. So, no late nights. No sleep overs. No stupid friendship bracelets or cheesy half necklaces. Nothin' like that."
March just nods, a little lost. He has no idea where you're going with this.
"That's what you can give me."
You say it plainly, like March is supposed to get it.
"You want a friendship necklace?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "No. No, but something like that. Something that represents that. A bond, or a pact."
It clicks for March now. He understands but he's still confused on how he's supposed to give you that.
He's still in his head, thinking, when he hears your sharp intake of breath. His reaction time is so delayed. It takes him too long to realize what's wrong, to notice you pressing the burning end of the cigarette into your hand.
"What the fuck," March yells. He's reaching for you with both hands, pulling at your wrist.
You're laughing, but wincing too. You look at it, taking in the damage. The small burn is on the top of your hand, placed between your thumb and your pointer finger.
"Why?" March is staring at you, and then it clicks. Fuck.
"C'mon. Don't leave me hanging," you whisper.
March doesn't know if he should be pissed or impressed, or flattered. Concerned. All of the above.
A friendship bracelet, a necklace. A matching scar.
March shakes his head, and then presses his own, no you're lucky cigarette into his skin. He picks the same spot you did.
He's stoic for a moment, before he yelps. It's so high pitched that you laugh. The spot on his hand throbs and it's all so ridiculous, March starts laughing too.
Eventually, he sighs. "Come on. We need to clean these."
Neither of you are proud of the amount of time and concentration it takes to get off the diving board. You're both wobbly, and giggling way too hard. March has a death grip on your elbow so you don't fall.
Back inside, he walks to the kitchen. The lights are on and it's a stark contrast to sitting outside in the dark. You like it though. Everything feels warm, cozy.
He beckons you over to the sink. The water runs for a moment while he grabs the soap. You can't help but fidget a little, your bare toes wiggly into the fuzzy rug you're standing on.
"Gimme." You stick out your hand like he ask, and March grabs it immediately, and it's immediately more difficult to breathe. March doesn't just squirt some soap onto the burn and hose it off. No.
Both of his hands envelope your one, gently bringing it beneath the stream of water. He leans his elbows onto the counter, making it so you have to step in again. Your elbows come to rest on the edge of the sink too.
He glances at you, voice low, "Water okay? Not too hot?"
You don't trust yourself to speak so you just shake your head no. He turns back, but you can't seem to look away. He's so close. You've never been this close to him. You can see everything. The light smattering of freckles on his nose.
The warm water washes most of the black smudges of ash away. What it doesn't get, March does. He rubs his thumb around the edges of the small circular burn, cleaning it throughly. When he grabs the soap, you try to pull away.
"Wait, it'll sting," you say.
March huffs a laugh, amused. Burn yourself with a cigarette but afraid of a little soap? He grips your hand harder, keeping it under the water. "Stop bein' a baby.”
You open your mouth to talk back, until you realize. March carefully places no more than a dollop of soap onto his thumb, and does the exact same as before, cleaning just around the edges. He was never gonna dump it right onto your burn.
It sends you spiraling a little. Everything feels slowed down, and broadened. You're staring again, at all of him. He's so focused on what he's doing, on taking care of you.
His name is past your lips before you know what you're doing.
"Mr. March," you whisper.
It's a beat before he pulls his eyes away from your hand. He's sounds so causal, and soft, as he turns his head. "Yeah?"
You're already leaning in.
You don't just kiss him though. You slowly press your forehead to his, and it feels like time stops.
His breath is so warm against your face. When March doesn't move, you crowd in a little closer, tilting your head.
It's barely a kiss. You're not even sure it counts. It's the slightest brush of your mouth against his, before March tilts his head away.
He doesn't pull away completely, his forehead still touching yours. He squeezes his eyes shut like he's in pain though, and takes a deep breath in through his nose. He whispers so softly, "Sweet thing..we can't…”
Sweet thing? Okay, you think he might be trying to kill you.
After a solid three seconds of letting yourself be frozen, cringing internally, you pull away silently, slowly standing up to your full height. You don't meet his eyes.
"Hey. Hey, look at me." March whispers, ducking to try and catch your gaze. There's a worried expression etched into his features.
A startled laugh bubbles up and out of you. You realize the waters still pouring over your hand, your wrist. You pull it away as March twist the knob to off.
"Don't be," he jumps in. He's already grabbing a small dish towel for you. You take it, and focus way too hard on drying your hand.
Everything that is ultimately male in March's body is screaming at him, calling him an idiot, telling him to forget the good he just did and kiss you until you go stupid in his arms.
The other parts of him are louder though. Like the ink written on top of his other hand. His reminder. He feels like those words burn just as much as the cigarette did.
March fucks up everything he touches. It's undeniable, and that's why he can't.
"You mean so much to Holly. I don't wanna do anything to.."
March watches as you figuratively beat yourself up, the realization crashing, like that thought hadn't crossed your mind. You shake your head. "No. Oh my god, no, you're right."
You sigh, and finally meet his eyes. "I am sorry, Mr. March."
He smiles. "And I meant it when I said you don't have to be. You're always welcome here. This doesn't change anything."
Silence settles between you. You nod and smile too, a little awkwardly. Shy. "I should probably go."
With the dish towel tossed onto the counter, March walks you to the front door. His voice is light, curious. "Can I ask you something?”
You shrug. Tonight can't get much more embarrassing. "Sure."
"Earlier. When you were talking about your ex. You said he'd gotten accepted to his college, but that you hadn't applied that year. Why not? I mean, not that you have to, if you don't want to. College isn't the answer to everything. I was just... wondering.”
The topic surprises you. You didn't peg March for giving a shit about something like that. You shrug again, downplaying the whole thing. "I wanted to. Things didn't line up at the time."
March leans against the wall and just looks at you for a moment, like he can see the parts of what you didn't say out loud. It's freaky, how smart he is and how much of an idiot he can be at the same time.
"Promise me you'll apply now."
His words catch you off guard. You laugh, and then you realize he's serious. You balk at him. "Why?"
He holds up his hand at you, showing off the burn mark you walked and guilted him into tonight. "Because this is what you wanted. A bond, right? A pact? You do shit for each other, and I want you to apply."
He watches you swallow and sway a little on your feet. Eventually, you nod. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. I'll look into it."
March can't stop himself from smiling. The feeling of wanting to hold you slams into him so suddenly. He knows he shouldn't do anything to blur that line he just drew in the sand himself. He does anyway.
Before the words are even out, you notice the way his arms open up, and the gentle step he takes towards you.
You practically catapult yourself into his arms.
March huffs a laugh, the air knocked out of him slightly. The hug last way longer than it should. Your arms are looped around his waist, cheek pressed to his sternum. The smell of his cologne is still there. Lingering and filling your head.
March isn't any better. He's cautious of his arms, merely resting them along your upper back. His fingers find your hair though, touching it softly. It smells like coconut. He indulges, and rest his chin on the top of your head.
His voice is quiet when he speaks again. "Promise me?"
You pull away and smile up at him. "I promise."
The sight makes March swallow hard. He opened the door for you, and stands on the porch, watching you walk home.
You wave to him, and call out. "Goodnight, Mr. March.
He is such a fucking idiot.
(I’m so excited for the upcoming parts to this. Lots of angst and smut and feelings 🤭) pt. 2 is here.
