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The beach was March’s idea.
“Fresh air,” he’d declared, striding into Healy’s apartment that morning, wearing a loudly patterned shirt and pale linen shorts that cost far too much for someone as clumsy as him. “Sunshine. Good for the soul.”
“By all means, come in.” Healy looked at him for a long moment over his coffee. “You’re awfully chipper this morning.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” He placed both hands on the table in front of Healy and leaned forward. “We’re going to the beach.”
Healy looked down at his own shirt and khakis. Hardly beach attire. “No.”
“Come on!” Holland whined. “It’ll be fun. Please?”
“You don’t do ‘fresh air’ without an ulterior motive. What’s the angle?”
“No angle,” Holland said, too quickly. “Can’t a man suggest a wholesome outdoor activity without being interrogated?”
“No.”
Holland hesitated, just a fraction too long, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… nice, you know? We don’t do nice things.”
Healy softened at that. March may be deeply irritating at times, but he was sincere. He sighed. “Let me get changed.”
Holland’s face lit up. “Yeah, sure. He said yes,” he added, calling to Holly, who had just appeared in the doorway with a towel under her arm. Holly matched her dad’s excited expression, and Healy was reminded again of just how alike they were.
His chest tightened and he fought to hide his smile as he passed Holland and went to change.
And so, here they are – after a short but chaotic car ride involving three near-misses and an incident with a flip flop – standing on the beach.
It’s hotter than Holland expected. That’s the first flaw in his plan. He feels like he’s walking on the surface of the sun. Sand is already everywhere – his shoes, his eyes, somehow his wallet – and within five minutes, he’s sweating through his shirt and rethinking every decision that led him here.
Healy, meanwhile, looks… fine. Of course he does.
Sleeves rolled up, sunglasses on, carrying the cooler Holly had filled with sandwiches like it weighs nothing. The beach suits him.
Holland notices. He tries not to notice.
He notices it more.
“Stop staring,” Holly says from behind him.
“I’m not staring,” Holland says quickly.
“You walked into that guy’s umbrella.”
“I was assessing the situation.”
“You assessed it with your face.”
A few feet ahead of them, Healy drops the cooler. “Are you two done bickering? This looks like a good spot.”
“We’re done!” Holland grins, giving Healy an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Nothing to see here.”
Holly rolls her eyes.
It starts with the sunscreen.
Holly insists on it like she’s the only adult present – which, to be fair, isn’t far wrong. “You’re both going to burn,” she says, already handing the bottle over to Holland.
“I don’t burn,” Healy says.
“You absolutely burn.”
“I tan.”
“Turning red is not tanning.”
Holland is only half-listening, too busy trying to open the bottle without spraying it everywhere. Which he does, immediately.
“Alright,” he mutters to himself, wiping the droplets on his arm. “Good start.”
Somewhere to his left, Healy snorts. Holland looks up, retort ready on his lips, and–
Healy is shirtless.
His brain short-circuits.
Jackson Healy is standing before him in nothing but his shorts, a vast expanse of bare skin and broad shoulders and chest hair and–
Holland is staring. He forces his gaze away. They’re at the beach, for Christ’s sake. Of course Healy’s going to take his shirt off. That’s what normal people do.
He doesn’t realise he’s said that last part out loud until Holly clears her throat beside him. “O…kay, that was weird.” She grabs the bottle of sunscreen and squirts some on her hand. Then she looks at Healy. “Turn around.”
Healy hesitates for a second, then shrugs and does.
Holly, very deliberately, hands the bottle to Holland. “Go on.”
Holland has to remind himself to breathe. Healy’s back is broad. Solid. Close enough that Holland can see the small scar near his shoulder, the way his muscles shift when he moves, the faint line of tension.
This is bad.
“Dad?” Holly waves the bottle in front of his face.
“Yeah,” Holland says, quelling the panic in his voice. “No, yeah. Of course. Sunscreen. Basic. I know how to– this is a normal thing.”
Healy glances back over his shoulder. “You gonna narrate it or do it?”
“Doing it,” Holland says immediately.
He pours way too much into his hand. Way too much.
Healy looks at it. “You planning to drown me in it?”
“Better safe than sorry,” Holland replies, and puts his hands on Healy’s back.
Yeah, this is bad.
Healy is warm from the sun, solid under his hands, and Holland’s brain is just. Gone.
He starts rubbing in the sunscreen, badly. Too fast, then too slow, then too… careful. He forgets how to move his hands. Can Healy tell? Healy can definitely tell.
“Uh, Healy says. “You alright back there?”
Shit. Healy can tell.
“Perfect,” Holland says, voice climbing slightly. “This is textbook application. They teach this.”
“Who teaches it?” He can almost hear Healy’s raised eyebrow.
“People.”
Holly makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.
Holland tries to act normal, which only makes it worse. He’s hyper-aware of where his hands are, whether they’re lingering (they are), whether this is it, this is how everything ends–
He pulls his hands away too fast. “Done,” he says.
Healy turns around slowly. There’s a pause. Holland deliberately avoids his gaze.
“…You missed a spot.”
“I did not miss a spot.”
“You missed, like, half my shoulder.”
“That’s intentional.” Holland sniffs indignantly. “Ventilation.”
Holly actually snorts.
Healy looks between them, expression unreadable. Then he takes the bottle of sunscreen and fixes it himself.
Holland stares intently at the ocean like it personally offended him.
Holly is the first one in the water. She runs straight into the waves, shrieking with delight as the cool water hits her legs.
“You’re coming in!” she yells.
Healy watches her over the top of his book, reclining in the sand. “I think I’ll watch from here.”
“Spoil sport,” Holland calls over his shoulder, already racing down the beach to join his daughter. He lets out a high gasp at the temperature but pushes forward. As the water reaches his waist, a rogue wave hits him suddenly in the chest and he flails for a moment before regaining his balance.
Healy watches him. “You good?”
“Fantastic,” Holland calls, coughing. “Ocean tried to assassinate me, but I won.”
That earns a huff of amusement from Healy. March grins back at him.
Holly jumps on his shoulders without warning, and Holland shrieks, letting her pull him under.
Healy’s book sits forgotten on the sand beside him as he follows the movement, watching the two of them. He tells himself that this is supervision. Not concern, not interest, just… a responsible adult, watching out for a friend.
They’d got a ball from somewhere. Holly must’ve brought it in her bag, but he hadn’t seen it. She’d roped Holland into some game or another, tossing the ball between them in increasingly elaborate ways. Every now and then, a wave would hit and Holland would disappear for a second, coming up spluttering exaggeratedly to make Holly laugh. It worked every time, and March looked exceptionally pleased with himself. Jackson snorts. Fool.
Except March turns, just for a second, treading water now, shaking hair out of his face, and looks towards the shore.
Not at Holly. At Healy.
It’s quick, barely a glance, but it lands anyway. Healy straightens slightly without meaning to.
Holland says something – Healy can’t hear it over the waves – but he’s smiling when he says it. Not his usual manic, mile-a-minute smile. Something realer, more relaxed.
Then Holly splashes him again and he’s gone back under, flailing like nothing happened.
Healy looks out across the water. He tells himself again, it’s just supervision.
But Holland comes back up, laughing, and Healy’s attention follows him anyway, like it’s decided on its own where it wants to go.
Later, Holland comes stumbling out of the water, wet hair plastered to his forehead, and collapses on the sand beside Healy. He’s a little breathless, but his smile is wider than Healy has seen in a while, and that makes his chest clench.
Holly trails after her father, still chattering loudly about a fish she’d seen in the water. Cocooning herself in her towel, she drops onto a mound of sand and sighs contentedly.
There is a moment of silence, and then: “I want ice cream.”
“That is a great idea!” cheers Holland, sitting straight back up. Stray droplets of water spray Healy across the face and chest at the movement. “What do you want?”
Tearing his gaze from a drop of water rolling down Holland’s collarbone, Healy belatedly realises he’s been asked a question. “Oh– I don’t mind,” he says quickly. “Something, uh– something cold.”
March blinks at him. “That’s not a flavour.”
“Gold star to you.” He opens his book and stares blankly at the page, desperately willing March to leave him for a moment to gather his sanity.
Thankfully, he jumps up, pulls on his shirt and heads across the sand towards the ice cream shack, humming to himself as he goes.
“’Something cold’?” Holly repeats, laughter in her voice. When Healy doesn’t reply, she smiles to herself and stretches out on the sand.
Ten minutes later, Holland returns triumphantly, balancing three ice creams in his hands. “Chocolate for Miss Holly, with extra sprinkles” – he presents the cone with a flourish, and she takes it happily – “bubblegum and mint for me” – he holds up a swirl of pink and green, and Healy winces internally – “and a vanilla for Mr. ‘Something Cold’,” he finishes with a wink, passing the final cone to Healy, who grumbles a soft, “thanks”.
“Don’t mention it.” Holland grins brightly, then drops back onto the sand next to Healy. Their shoulders brush, and Holland fights the urge to freeze, staring straight ahead like he hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t move away. Neither does Healy.
He licks his ice cream, focusing on the sharp tang of the contradicting flavours, and lets out a soft sigh. “We should do this more often.”
“Best day ever,” Holly agrees.
From the corner of his eye, he spots Healy staring at him. His neck starts to flush. “What?” he asks eventually, turning to look at him.
Healy’s eyes go wide, like a deer caught in the headlights. “You’ve, uh– got a little–” He reaches out with his free hand and wipes a blob of ice cream from Holland’s chin. Holland’s breath hitches at the contact and he fights the blush rapidly rising up his cheeks. Healy himself looks mortified at his own actions and quickly drops his hand. “–ice cream,” he finishes stupidly.
“Oh. Thanks.” Wow, real smooth, Holland. Almost sit on the guy and then cover yourself in ice cream? Real smooth.
After lunch, Holly declares that she and Healy are going on a hunt for shells. Jackson, amused but not unwilling, lets himself be dragged up and away from March, who has now sprawled out on his towel, shirt unbuttoned and sunglasses low on his nose. He waves them off with a one-handed salute and turns his gaze back to the horizon.
The two of them wander slowly through the wet sand, Holly stopping every few feet to examine shells while Healy follows patiently beside her. Holland tracks their movement from behind his sunglasses. He can’t make out their conversation, but Holly looks comfortable, relaxed, and he’s once again struck with gratitude for Healy coming into their lives. Not just for himself, but for Holly. Seeing Healy laughing at whatever Holly was saying, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were in the city. He just… fits.
Every now and then, Healy turns back, like he’s checking Holland is still there. Holland quickly averts his gaze every time, afraid that Healy will feel his stare even through his dark glasses.
“…talk to him about it,” Holly says, her voice drifting faintly up the beach on the wind.
He freezes, turning his head to follow the noise.
“No,” Healy replies firmly.
“Why not?”
“It can’t change anything between us.”
Something inside Holland dropped hard enough to make him feel briefly nauseous.
The wind swallowed Holly’s reply. Then Healy again, quieter this time: “I’m pretty sure he’s figured it out already.”
Holland turns sharply away, heat crawling slowly up the back of his neck.
Oh.
Oh, god.
He looks back along the coast at them before he can stop himself. Healy has his hands shoved into his pockets now, gaze lowered towards the surf while Holly talks beside him. The line of his shoulders is tense.
And Holland suddenly feels horribly, painfully certain he understands the conversation he’s just overheard. Healy knows. Knows Holland has feelings for him, and– Well, clearly, he isn’t interested.
God. What an idiot he is.
Holland’s stomach twists painfully. Every interaction they’ve had in the past few weeks replays in rapid succession: every time he’s stared too long, every awkward silence, every failed attempt to sound casual around him. He thought he’d been subtle, but apparently not.
Down by the water, Healy glances back towards him. Their eyes meet. Holland looks away so fast he almost pulls a muscle.
And somewhere down near the tide line, Jackson Healy watches him close himself off in real time, and has absolutely no idea why.
Healy notices the change in an instant. Of course he does.
One second March is watching them, fairly obvious, from behind his sunglasses, and the next he’s turned his whole body away so abruptly it almost seemed guilty.
Healy’s chest clenches a little.
Beside him, Holly digs through a cluster of shells near the tide line. “I still think you should tell him,” she says, quieter now.
Healy sighs. “He doesn’t want to hear it from me. Trust me.”
The truth was, he hadn’t meant to say anything at all. Certainly not to March’s kid. But she was more observant than he’d given her credit for, and the moment they were out of earshot, she’d turned to him with a knowing expression and plainly told him in no uncertain terms that she knew, and he was being an idiot.
It was a little humiliating, honestly.
“He won’t hate you,” Holly says, interrupting his train of thought.
Healy glances back towards March. He’s still turned away, almost curled in on himself.
“No,” Jackson says carefully. “But it might make him uncomfortable.”
Holly frowns, “He won’t be–”
“Every time I touch him, he looks like I’m going to hit him.” Again, his brain adds unhelpfully.
“That’s because he’s weird.”
Healy snorts. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“And you did break his arm that one time.” Holly straightens, brushing sand off her hands. “Mr. Healy, my dad thinks very highly of you. I think you should give him a chance. He might surprise you.”
“…What?”
But Holly has already crouched again, a few paces away, distracted by another shell. “Ooh, this one’s pretty.”
Something tugs painfully in Jackson’s chest. Wanting March was one thing. He’d made peace with that a long time ago. But wanting him and still getting to keep this – lazy afternoons at the beach, listening to March ramble in the passenger seat until he’s half asleep – that already felt dangerously close to more than Jackson deserved. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin it by saying something selfish.
Down the beach, March finally looks up again. Their eyes meet for half a second. Then he immediately looks away.
Healy exhales quietly. Yeah. That probably answers that.
For the first two minutes after Healy and Holly return, Holland convinces himself he’ll be able to keep it together. He ‘oo’s and ‘aah’s at the shells she’s found, listens to her recount a joke Jessica had told her, and studiously avoids Healy’s gaze. Then Healy sits on the sand beside him, and he can’t stop himself from stiffening, shifting just an inch across in a painfully obvious attempt to put space between then.
Healy stills like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
Holland clears his throat. “I, uh– It’s probably home time, soon. It’s almost getting dark.” He doesn’t look up at the bright sun, still high in the sky. “Holly, start packing up your stuff.”
She looks to Healy, and then back at Holland, eyebrows furrowed. “O-kay. I have no idea what’s going on here,” she says, gesturing between the two of them, “but I’m going back in the water.” Before Holland can splutter a rebuttal, she’s gone, already knee-deep in the rocky shallows.
Holland lets out a deep breath. Well, he tried. Time to fling himself into the Pacific ocean and be done with it.
“You’re acting weird.”
The words make him freeze. He shrugs, stiff. “I’m always weird. It’s one of my best qualities.”
“No, this is different.”
“Maybe I’m tired.”
Healy hums noncommittally. The silence extends a moment longer, then he says, “Did I upset you?”
Holland blinks. No, he supposes, it’s not Healy’s fault that he’s upset. Not his fault that he doesn’t– He shakes his head rather than follow that chain of thought. “No, we’re good.”
There’s a pause as Healy looks at him, really looks at him. Holland feels stripped bare, but can’t bring himself to look away. “You’re a terrible liar,” he says quietly.
Holland feels like his skin is on fire. He leans forwards, pulling his knees to his chest, and stares resolutely forwards, watching Holly dart in and out of the waves. Unable to bear the silence any longer, he closes his eyes and mutters, “I heard you and Holly talking earlier.”
“Oh.”
“And, um. It’s ok,” Holland continues quickly. Now he’s opened the wound, he wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. “I get it, it won’t change anything between us– I mean, if you want to still be friends, if it doesn’t make you– uncomfortable, or–” He takes a breath. Healy says nothing, and Holland cannot bear to look at him. “How did you know?”
From his left, he hears Healy’s breath hitch. “How did I know?”
“Yeah, that I… you know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “That you–”
“Don’t,” Healy says softly, and the pain in his voice makes Holland look up, surprised, and meet his gaze for the first time. “Please don’t ask me that. I know you can be dense, but I didn’t think you were cruel.” He runs a hand over his face wearily. “Let’s just… put this behind us, ok? I’ll get over it, I won’t make it weird.”
Holland frowns. This conversation is not going how he had expected. Healy looks genuinely hurt by his words, not uncomfortable, like he’d expected.
“I’m sorry,” Healy adds, mistaking Holland’s silence for discomfort. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Have I missed something?”
“What?”
Holland shifts position to face him fully now. “Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy? I should be the one moping here, you know, because I– and you don’t– you’re not into it, which is fine–” His voice trembles, despite his best efforts. “Message received.”
Healy blinks at him. Blinks again.
And then his face splits into a tentative grin, which, frankly, confuses Holland even more.
“March,” he says slowly. “What exactly did you overhear?”
“You and Holly. Talking about my… feelings. That you don’t reciprocate.”
Healy actually laughs, the noise almost hysterical. Holland watches him, unsure if he should feel hurt or relieved at this reaction.
“Is that… not what you guys talked about?”
Healy shakes his head, still grinning. “I was talking about me. Holly told me to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That I like you.”
At this, Holland’s brain stops working entirely. He stares at Healy, the sound of the waves turning to static around him.
“You,” he repeats stupidly, “like me?”
Healy’s expression softens fondly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Kind of a lot, actually.”
He shifts closer, slowly enough that Holland could move away if he wanted. His hand brushes Holland’s where it rests in the sand, hesitant at first.
Holland flips his hand over immediately, threading their fingers together.
“You thought I was rejecting you?” Healy asks after a moment.
“Well, in my defense,” Holland says weakly, “It really sounded like that.”
“I thought you were trying to let me down gently.”
For a moment, neither of them say anything. Their hands stay linked between them, resting on the sand, and Holland can’t stop staring at where they join.
“You seriously like me,” he says again, because apparently his brain has latched onto exactly one thought and refuses to let go of it.
Healy laughs under his breath. “March, if you make me confess a third time, I might have to take it back.”
Holland looks up at him. Healy is close now – close enough that Holland can see the tiny scar near his chin, the nervousness he’s trying and failing to hide, and the tender, vulnerable look in his eyes as he meets Holland’s gaze. He becomes acutely aware of every point of contact between them – their fingers tangled together in the sand, Healy’s knee pressed lightly against his own. “I don’t want you to take it back.”
His heart is beating so hard it’s honestly a little embarrassing. And yet, Healy keeps drawing him in. He’s close enough now that Holland can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. His gaze drops to Healy’s mouth, and back to his eyes.
Holland swallows hard. “I think I’m gonna do something stupid.”
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of Healy’s mouth. “I think maybe I want you to.”
Holland reaches up and rests a hand lightly on Healy’s jaw. Then he leans forward and kisses him. It’s gentle, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world. His world narrows down to the sand beneath him and the feeling of Healy’s warm lips on his, and he wonders how it took them so long to get here.
When they finally pull apart, Holland realizes dimly that he’s gripping the front of Healy’s shirt in both hands.
Neither of them says anything for a second. Then Healy smiles softly, a little dazed, and Holland thinks, distantly, that he would happily spend the rest of his life trying to cause that expression.
“Well,” Healy says quietly.
Holland laughs breathlessly. “Yeah.”
“IT’S ABOUT TIME!” Holly yells from across the beach.
Holland groans and hides his head in Healy’s shoulder. “She’s going to be insufferable.”
Jackson grins, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Holland’s head. “Probably. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Holland smiles to himself, contentedly. Maybe the beach was a good idea, after all.