Chapter Text
It was around five in the afternoon when March decided to call it a day.
He glanced out the window, studying the people below his office building. They scurried and scattered around like ants. He drew his hand up, pressing his thumb and index finger together to make a squashing motion. He sighed, then drew the blinds closed.
Things had been better. Not good, but better, and that was something that rarely applied to his life. For the longest time, feeling content was something that felt out of reach. He still had the temporary tattoo marked on his hand: you will never be happy. March glanced at it and scoffed. He then shoved his hand into his pocket. It might as well be permanent.
The truth was, he was still hurting. Deep down, he knew he’d always still hurt. He knew that grief wasn’t something he could just shake away. It became glued to him, attached to him like a second skin. It gnawed through him deep each day, and hell, he’d be lying if he said he still didn’t blame himself.
He took a seat down at his desk and sighed. This was, supposedly, ‘the good life.’ It didn’t feel that way, but—with a successful business, a loving daughter, a strong willed best friend and partner, many suits, ties, and luxury cars—yeah, it was. He had no reason to complain. He should’ve left behind those wallowing days filled with self-pity.
You will never be happy.
“Yeah, whatever.”
He rose from his seat and glanced over at the empty keyrack. Right. He’d given his keys to Healy. He’d promised to pick Holly up from school.
That was another thing. Their life was turning a little too domestic. The two men—they were more than just friends, more than just business partners—but they never put a label on it. March figured it was better that way. Some things didn’t require a label or an explanation. Holly never asked, so he never answered.
March figured that Healy had already collected her from school. He probably took her out for a movie, he figured. That was fine, it gave him more time to think and relish the silence. The only problem was walking back home in the sweltering heat.
XXX
The moment March stepped outside, the hot air hit him like a brick.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
It had to be over 90°F. Already, he could feel his sweat beading up against his forehead. With a sigh, he wiped it away.
He began his walk slow and steady, cautious to conserve the last of his energy. These days, he’d felt a little more than just worn—like life was quite literally draining him of every drop he had.
March studied the passerby as he roamed through the crowded roads. He felt something sharp and assaulting swarming through him. Envy, perhaps. He swallowed it down, averting his gaze, trying to instead count the many cracks lined up against the sidewalk—to no success. Fuck. Today was one of those days. Again. He stepped aside, pressing his hand against his chest, trying to count the seconds as he inhaled, then exhaled, one of the meditation techniques he learned in AA.
AA.
What a load of horseshit.
Just like sobriety.
His heart wasn’t in it, not really. But he made a promise to Holly, to Healy—never himself, though. They’d taken him to his first meeting a little over a year ago. From the front seat, they’d glared at him with pleading eyes, Get some help.
So he did, unwillingly.
Sob story after sob story—that was all he ever heard. He had one to offer, but never did. The mystery wife remained a mystery. No one needed to know, and at the end of each meeting, both Healy and Holly would pick him up and he’d be rewarded with a cheeseburger and a milkshake. A whole load of horseshit, really—but he wanted to keep them assured that he was fine.
He was doing better these days.
He fiddled with the sobriety chip in his pocket. March took it out and glanced at it. It shone brightly under the sun. He let it slip from his grasp. The small coin rolled down the pavement before taking a dip and disappearing into an open sewer line.
“So long,” he said, guilt no longer in place.
He’s always been a weak minded person.
March didn’t need his father, nor his wife, nor Healy, nor Holly to tell him that. The truth dangled high above him as his gaze shifted toward the open bar down the road.
XXX
March took a seat up front near the entrance, sliding into it with a casual ease. The barstool felt a little too comfortable, a little too familiar.
He shook away the last of his nerves as he called out for a scotch. The bartender hardly spared him a glance as he got to work. Once he was served, March glanced at his drink in deep contemplation. He thought about her as he always did, each time he drank.
He bit down against his lip, wondering what she would think of his success.
It’s a shame she isn’t here to share it with you. And why is that? Because you’re a no good, useless sack of shit who can’t smell to save someone’s life. Yeah, alright.
March grabbed the glass and took his first sip, letting it dampen the back of his dry throat. Smooth, satisfying. He shivered as he felt a chill run down his spine. He set the glass down and sank into his seat. It was only five thirty, yet business was already steady with the late-afternoon drunkards sauntering in.
Being over-caffeinated, and smoking himself into an early grave—none of that hit the same way this did. March took another sip, unable to restrain himself before guzzling the rest down within a matter of seconds. He let out a sigh before waving his hand for a second round.
The bartender took his change, and did as told.
“I’ll give you good business tonight,” March said.
The man’s only response was a faint grunt as he slid over his second drink.
That was fine. Being ignored was something March had grown accustomed to over the years. It was just another occurrence.
XXX
He lost track of how many he had down the line.
Slumped against the sticky wood, March kept his eyes shut.
Nausea crept up his throat, but he swallowed it down. He missed nights like these with the world spinning beyond his control; the illusion of comfort attached to his drunken stupor.
Determined was what he was as he lifted his head up from the counter. He waved his hand, signaling for yet another round, but the bartender hardly budged. He sighed before offering him a frown.
“Why don’t you take a walk, pal? You’ve been keeping that stool hot all night long.”
“So what?” March slurred. “Isn’t this good for uh—business?”
“Gettin’ tired of seeing your face.”
Even in his intoxication, March knew what this was. Concern. Pity, even. He sat upright, or at least tried to.
Fuck you, he thought.
Those words were resting on the tip of his tongue before he let out a loud groan, tossing over the last of his change.
“G’night to you too,” he said before sliding away from the stool.
March stumbled into the open night as he threw himself out from the establishment. He sucked the fresh air into his lungs as he staggered, leaning against the wall for support.
Christ. He was drunk, piss drunk. His vision swarmed, followed by a rolling sensation in his stomach.
He’d spent the entire evening drowning out his sorrows. Again. Just like he used to. He wasn’t done, though. The desire to keep going pumped through him like fuel. He let out a bitter laugh as he roamed through the streets, head hung low. Boiled beneath the surface was a deep sadness he knew he could never be cleansed of.
He thought about Holly as he entered the nearest liquor store, then Healy as he slid over some bills in exchange for a bottle of bourbon. They’d been so proud the night he returned home with a one year chip. Holly’s smile was wider than ever, and the gratitude on Healy’s face was brighter than anything he’d ever seen.
He swallowed the thought of them away after peeling the lid off and taking a long swig.
March drew the bottle away from his lips with a strangled cough, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as saliva pooled in his mouth. It dribbled onto his now-wrinkled shirt. He looked like a goddamn mess—but to hell with it. Everyone was a mess these days in Los Angeles.
He gave himself a few minutes to collect himself.
The moment he felt composed enough, he began the walk home. As he did so, a vicious thought came to him, one of truth:
I’d choose this over everything.
He paused for a moment. Was it the truth? Or was it just the booze talking?
March shrugged.
XXX
He arrived home at around ten. He found the house empty. He figured Holly was either out with a friend, or had been taken for an extended dinner. This was to his advantage. He released a sigh, finding comfort in the empty home.
It was almost peaceful, safe for the relentless pounding in his head.
March took the bottle with him out back as he swung his legs over the empty pool littered with cigarette butts. His vision swarmed as he glanced down, drunkenly trying to count the number of butts scattered along the pavement. There were far too many to count. He gave up within a matter of seconds.
He leaned back against the diving board and brought the bottle to his lips, glancing up at the stars. They studied him in return, bright and knowing. The stars were all he had for company. That thought depressed him.
March straightened up and glanced at the bottle in his lap. Loneliness swarmed through him. He took another swig, hoping to drown out the last of his sorrows—to no avail. He choked a little. Fuck this, he thought, forcing himself up from the board. He stumbled through the yard before eventually finding his way back inside.
He made it to his bedroom miraculously in one piece.
When he stepped in, his eyes began to wander. The photographs on the wall—they stared at him in a manner that almost felt mocking. March frowned as he kept his eyes attached to the photo from his wedding.
There she was, alive and happy. Beautiful, like he always remembered her to be. A shame, really. A shame that you failed her.
March flipped the photo over. He didn’t want to be reminded.
As he pulled away from the wall, he lost his balance. March tripped over his feet and fell forward, crashing down hard against the floor. Stars obscured his vision as he lifted himself up. Jesus.
March lifted his hand and rubbed it against the bottom of his chin. When he drew his hand back, he noticed a faint dash of blood. Well shit—how hard had he fallen?
Hard enough, apparently.
He sank back against the wall, feeling the steady, bruising thrum. Then, it dawned on him.
That felt a little too good.
March was no stranger to getting hurt. Hell, he was no stranger to self-injury. But after having Holly walk in on him once, too drunk to notice her lingering presence as he trembled with a razor blade in his grasp—he stopped. Hearing her cry, and remembering the conversation they had the day after—it was heartbreaking enough.
But Holly wasn’t home. Neither was Healy. He had no one to hide from.
He took another swig as he rose from the ground. March stared at the wall, ideas swarming through him. He set the bottle down and shook away the last of his nerves before throwing himself hard against it—hard enough that he heard a loud pop the moment his shoulder made contact with it.
With a groan, March crumpled towards the ground. He rubbed at his shoulder.
Yeah, it felt dislocated alright. He grimaced once before getting up to do it again. This time, he rammed his knee against the wall. When the first attempt didn’t hurt enough, he tried again, and again, and again—until he heard another pop.
His knees buckled, unable to support his weight. March collapsed onto the ground and cradled his injured body. Manic laughter bubbled through him.
You never get enough though, do you?
“I don’t,” he slurred, forcing his legs to lift him up and carry him over to the bathroom.
March stood in front of the mirror, staring at his disheveled figure.
The bottle of bourbon felt light in his grasp. He brought it to his lips and drank the last of what was left. March set the bottle aside and continued his staring. He swallowed. He knew what was within arms reach.
In the cabinet, he kept a box full of razors. Down the line, he’d eventually earned Holly’s trust again—that he’d be responsible enough to keep them, to use them only for their intended purpose.
He tore open the door to the cabinet. His hand trembled as he grabbed hold of the box. His heartbeat quickened with the subconscious thought of, Maybe I shouldn’t. But there were many things Holland March should have never done and did anyway. This was no different.
He shook away his guilt as he opened up the box. He took one out and shifted it between his fingers. The cool metal calmed him slightly. It’s better in the shower, he thought, and shifted to let the water run. His balance didn’t last for long, though.
As soon as he got the water running, March slid down to the floor. He let his back rest against the side of the tub, listening to the white noise of the running water.
Fuck it.
March rolled up his sleeve and glanced at the scars resting against his forearm. Some were thick and raised, others were faint and faded. The end result of many nights spent feeling worn and lifeless. Many nights in which he got nowhere. The truth was, he liked the tearing of his skin. He didn’t mind the scars left behind with every swipe.
In the end, it was just another thing to talk about when people asked. Now that—well, that was worth the risk. The way their eyes widened, clear with care and concern. How their voices were always hushed and cautious. Then if he was lucky, a hug. Someone who’d coddle him a little. Someone who’d listen with understanding. Yeah, that made it all worth it. He missed that gentle kind of affection. He missed getting it from his wife.
And Healy—hell, he missed getting it from Healy. March could sit with the knowledge of knowing that he always had good intentions. His tone would shift, and he’d rub a soothing hand against his back, and for a while, he felt calmed enough. Assured, like he was worth something to someone.
The difference between when he did it then was, he was never this drunk.
March knew that if he ever decided to start talking in AA, this would make one hell of a story. He laughed, then stared down at the blade. It glistened under the faint light.
He took it and brought it to the mid section of his forearm. Without much thought, he pushed it down and swiped across.
If there was pain, March couldn’t feel it. Hell, he could hardly feel anything at all. It took him a moment to process what he had done—reality felt far from reach until he glanced down and stared at his splattered blood against the tiles.
Oh. Well, it’s still a bit too mild.
He brought the blade back to his forearm, this time swiping with more urgency. He wasn’t able to gauge the depth of each cut. Not until the end when the euphoric rush subsided. He slumped back against the tub and stared down at his mutilated forearm.
Each cut was about an inch long, spanning from the midsection, to slightly below his wrist. March was half conscious enough to avoid going there, though the thought was tempting. He pressed down against a vein, licking his lips. He didn’t feel weightless enough. Desperate, he crawled to the corner of the room where they kept a first aid kit tucked beneath the sink. He fished out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and twisted the lid off. He smiled wryly.
Slowly, he brought the bottle to his lips and took a swig. One turned into two, then three—then the resignation came. He set the bottle down and slumped back into a sitting position.
Fuck.
That was the only word playing on repeat. His stomach twisted, and his body felt heavy with lead. In the distance, he could hear the sound of a door being slammed. Or at least, that’s what he thought he was hearing. Fuck if he knew what was happening. He could no longer trust his senses.
March picked up the blade and brought it to his wrist. He felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders as he brought it down—not across. He’d been wanting to do so for the longest time.
Oh.
Now, that thought was no longer subconscious. He consciously thought it. He’d been wanting to die. Now, the uncertainty was no longer there.
Through half lidded vision, March caught onto two figures standing by the doorway. Had he forgotten to lock himself inside?
Apparently. Oh well.
With blurred vision, he could hardly make out who those two figures were. Apparently, they cared enough about him to react with alarm. A shrieking sound came within seconds. He jolted upright, sobered slightly by the sudden noise.
Then it came to him—the sudden awareness.
He wasn’t alone anymore. Holly was home, and so was Healy. And now, desperately, they were trying to reach him.
Within a matter of seconds, Healy dropped to his knees and wrapped a tight hand around his wrist.
“—Fuck have you done to yourself?”
March shrugged.
“Just got a little bored.”
According to Healy, he wasn’t hurt enough.
He punched him square across the face. March winced as his lip caught against a tooth. Holly continued her screaming, still alarmed, still frightened. Healy glanced at him with pure disdain before backing away.
“Hold this,” he instructed, handing him a towel. “Wrap it around your arm.”
March did as he was told, because that was easier than sitting around and taking the punches. Doing it to himself was one thing, but receiving the pain from someone else—that was another.
Healy returned a few moments later, visible tears in his eyes. He wiped them away in a frustrated movement before dropping down to angle with him.
“Get the fuck up,” he demanded, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.
March laughed.
“‘M comfortable here.”
“Get the fuck up,” he repeated, tone rising.
This time, he didn't give March the option to comply. He yanked him up onto his feet and dragged him along, shouldering most of his weight.
“Left the shower on,” he slurred—but Healy didn’t care.
“Fuck the shower, you’re going to a hospital.”
March opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn’t. Instead, he was shoved roughly into the passenger’s seat of the car. He slumped forward and leaned his head against the side of the door.
Whatever happened next passed in a blur.
The one thing that stuck though, was the look Healy gave him as they sped along the highway. The concern on his face was palpable.
March smiled. He missed this, and that said enough. All the proof he needed to know that he wasn’t a good person—especially not one worth saving. He had asked Holly once, “Am I a good person?” And without an initial response, he knew what the answer was—he could see it in her face, the hesitation. The way her eyes softened with uncertainty, maybe even fear.
“No.”
He held onto that recollection as they drove.
When they arrived, March clung onto the seat as Healy threw open the passenger’s door.
“No! No! No!” he yelled in that high pitched, childish tone. “I’m not going in there.”
“You will go,” Healy said through gritted teeth. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind. Holly doesn’t deserve this.”
“You’re a… fuckin’ asshole,” he said, slurring.
The next half of his sentence left his lips without warning. The words escaped his lips so quickly, he had no way of holding them back.
“I don’t wanna be saved.”
Healy stilled. Oh yeah, he most definitely hit a nerve—so hard that the next thing he felt was the brutal force of his fist against the side of his face. March blinked back tears as he rubbed at the now sore patch of skin.
“What the hell—”
“Shut up,” he snapped. “You’re being a selfish prick.”
“Yeah,” March replied. “And that’s exactly why you should give up on me.”
Healy’s expression shifted to one of hurt and less of disappointment. His eyes looked sad, almost apologetic—as if he felt responsible, somehow.
“No, and that’s exactly why I won’t do it. Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ prick, but I know you’re capable of pulling yourself together. Hell, you lasted for over a year. Don’t give me that bullshit.”
March blinked.
“You’re full of shit.”
“No, I’m not,” Healy argued.
With that, March was lifted out from the passenger’s seat, and led into the hospital. A sinking feeling swarmed through him.
He’s felt this before—the dread, the uncertainty. It felt a little too familiar.
Healy did all the talking for him with a nurse up front. March watched as they exchanged a look before glancing over at him. He could faintly hear, “He’s wasted and highly self-destructive.” It was a fact he had always known, but hearing it out loud hit differently.
March felt oddly exposed as he sat in his seat and waited.
Shortly after, he began to cry before throwing up onto the shiny white tiles.