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The lights are… bright, March notices. Or are they more dim? The mood lighting of the bar is cozy and nice, March slumped against one of the brown couches, alone of course. The lights are only really bright when he looks into the lightbulbs. Like the lamp right next to him. If he leans his head to the side and under the shade then it’s REALLY bright and it makes his head spin.
Oh who was he kidding, his head was spinning regardless.
The music consisted of a lone young man playing some sort of jazz on the piano. March had been enjoying the piano until the man had started playing some more somber songs, which really got into some peoples feels. His included. March didn’t even know why the music made him emotional, he’s pretty sure it’s because he’s an empath and saw someone else crying.
March lays his head back against the couch, closing his eyes and letting the world spin around him, leaving himself a bit of a daze. There’s a whisky in his hands, the eighth of the night, on the rocks. Six was when he started really feeling it, eight being when his head was really spinning. It was when he wasn’t really able to think straight, let alone walk straight. He couldn’t concentrate on anything except what was right in front of him. Which was good. He didn’t want to think about anything else.
The song on the piano ends, and there’s clapping from around the room. March claps with a hand tapping his thigh half-heartedly, eyes still closed. Just then, a woman comes up and slides up against him, taking his hand from his thigh and onto hers. March’s eyes widen with surprise, his heart jumping in his throat and his whisky spilling when he jolts up. The woman, probably a bit younger than him, smiles at him and he feels the urge to vomit.
“Uh I- have you seen Joanie?” March asks her, and her face shifts, just slightly, the tick of her smile shifting just slightly, the look of jealousy that she got to him too late. She doesn’t know how late she really is, at least 20 years.
“Oh, no I haven’t. But I can keep you company in the meantime.” The raven haired woman says, sliding the hand further up his thigh and March struggles to put down his whisky glass, but instead decides to gulp it down in one go, slightly choking on a piece of ice. The brown haired girl is being put off more and more by the second, and not even to March’s real attempt yet. Wait, wasn’t her hair darker?
“No thanks, that's my wife. She’ll be upset if she sees someone else flirting with me,” March replies, shaking his head and his head feels heavy, like his neck can’t support the weight. He decides to rest it back on the couch. That gets the ginger to get up quickly, and March frowns at her as she walks away, now completely confused on what colour the girl's hair was.
March shrugs and closes his eyes, going back to listening to the music only to realise there IS no music. So he just has to pay more attention to the spinning of the head. It’s like watching water going down the drain, slowly spinning down and down into his spine. He groans and touches his forehead, the other hand going to twitch at the ring around his neck. Someone’s walking over, again, and he groans.
“If you’re not Joanie, I don’t want to talk to you.” He complains loudly, and he feels a much heavier weight sit next to him, and a grunt he instantly recognises.
“If you’re waiting for Joanie, you’ll be waiting all night.” Healy replies, and March doesn’t even have to bother lifting his head to look at him. Healy’s seen him like this more than he was probably sure that Holly could count up to, he didn’t need to pull himself together. Instead, he pats himself for his cigarette box, keeping his eyes closed as he puts the cigarette in his mouth, struggling to light it with his eyes still closed. But Healy’s hand gently guides March’s, more on the premise that March will burn down the bar before he finds the cigarette end.
“I’ve waited a lot longer than a night.” March drawls and Healy falls quiet. Healy never knows what to say when March brings up his dead wife, which was a very rare occasion. Only when he was particularly mourning her, which Holly had told Healy it didn’t happen often. March would prefer to act naive than mourn.
“Holly deserves more than this.” Healy replies instead and March opens his eyes, but only to squint at Healy, annoyed.
“She’s fine.” He protests, tiredly though, his head is still too heavy to bother lifting to look at Healy properly. “She’s at home…. Probably doing homework or something.”
“She should be asleep by now, it’s one am. She better not be doing homework. And that's not my point March. Aren’t you tired of this?”
“Tired?” March yawns, nearly knocking his empty glass as he lifts his arms over his head to stretch, not caring as his shirt slips up a bit as he truly stretches himself like a cat, acting like his home couch rather than a couch at a bar. “Yeah, you’re right. Just one more drink.” He says, putting his cigarette out before going to stand up, and Healy grabs his shoulder, rough, and pulls him back down onto the couch.
“No. You're cut off.” Healy commands confidently, not leaving wiggle room where March can try and squeeze just one more drink, preferably now out of Healy’s pocket rather than his.
“Okay, whatever you say Joanie.” March yawns again, and he looks like he’s about to fall asleep on the couch, and Healy grips his shoulder harder, enough to hurt. Enough to get March’s attention.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” March yips, bouncing up to sit up attentively and Healy gives more leeway.
“When are you going to learn that you can’t just go out and drink every single night, calling everyone your dead wife’s name until she shows up. She’s not coming back Holland, and you need to start acting like an adult and not a fucking child.” Healy says, and he doesn’t expect March to flinch, like he’s been slapped. His head is turned to the side, and he’s breathing heavily. This conversation is hard as is, but being eight drinks in does not help March’s cause.
“You need to learn to have some empathy like me, Healy. You need to listen to that guys jazz piano bullshit and do a bit of crying, and you’d get me.” March replies, turning his head back, his hand generally flapping in the direction of the piano, where the young man was now playing some different, upbeat song.
“But not this music, the- the sad shit. HEY PIANO MAN! PLAY SOME SAD SHIT! MY FRIEND HERE DOESN’T HAVE EMPATHY!” March shouts, waving his hands to get the man’s attention and the blonde does falter, frowning as he tries to figure out where the sound is coming from before turning his head back to concentrate.
“Oh come on man, leave Seb alone.” Healy growls, grabbing March’s wrist and pulling him down, looking at people apologetically, one young snazzy looking man turning to an older man muttering ‘So that’s what you don’t want to look like Cal. A drunk guy mourning his wife’. March frowns.
“How do you know Mr Jazz’s name?” March asks but Healy doesn’t even bother trying to answer the question.
“March. Listen to me.” He says, holding both wrists tightly together, forcing March to face him. “You need to give this shit up. It’s ridiculous. You’re embarrassing yourself.” March groans loudly, flopping his body back dramatically, but Haley doesn’t let him go, just letting his body weight jerk Healy forward slightly. Only slightly.
“Noooooooo, stop touching me,” March whines loudly, causing more people to turn their heads and watch the scene, some with amusement and others, who had been there for a while, glad that March finally might leave. Healy grits his teeth, seriously getting over March’s behaviour.
“Fuck, I’d commit arson too if I had live and put up with you,” Healy grunts, mostly just to himself, but that makes March pause and frown deeply, feeling his heart sink. The playfulness was over. Healy was saying hurtful things now, and March couldn’t just shrug it off like he normally did with Healy’s off-comments.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” March asks, his voice slightly softer, and he seems offended and hurt. Healy hadn’t meant to hurt him.
“That you’re annoying March. Fucking annoying. I have to babysit you because you can’t deal with your emotions properly, and make everyone suffer around you.” He decides to stick to the bad cop idea, even though the shift in March’s face was only once seen before, when Holly had told him that he was the world’s worst detective. March had pretended to play it off, but the way that he had grit his teeth and then proved his worth in the next breath, choosing to show that he is good, is what Healy wants right now. For March to prove him wrong.
“Holly deserves more. She doesn’t deserve this bullshit.”
“Fuck off, I’m not fucking annoying.” March growls, not liking this game anymore. He pulls from Healy’s grip, but Healy stays strong, so March instead goes to use his feet, pressing against Healy’s stomach and kicking hard. Healy coughs and let’s go, grabbing his stomach as March stands up, grabbing his glass to take it back to the bar.
But March stumbles and tries to use the same hand to lean against the arm rest and the glass shatters under the pressure. There’s shards cutting deep into March’s palms, and it feels oddly calming. Like the hot pressure pulsing through his veins has been released, like the balloon that feels like his brain right now has been popped with a needle. Healy is staring from the couch, and Seb has already made his way over from the piano, pressing a cloth to March’s hand. March pushes Seb away with his good hand, which had been his bad hand thanks to the cast, his hand gripping the cloth tightly though, watching the blood staining, the white turning red. He feels oddly satisfied. Released. His head has stopped spinning.
“March.” Healy tries, but he doesn’t have anything to say. He doesn’t want to back down, and apologising would mean backing down. March turns to Healy, to Seb, and then to Healy again before saying.
“Well maybe I should have burnt in that fire with her then huh?” He says coldly, before walking out the bar, the door slamming behind him, leaving the mess behind him and ignoring it, just like he always does. Healy lets out a sigh, looking at Seb and shaking his head when the pianist looks like he’s about to go after March.
“Don’t bother. He’s not going to change.”