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It started with a simple missing person case. The client wanted them to track down her brother, who had run away from home a few weeks ago. It wasn’t a particularly exciting or interesting job, but Healy had insisted that they take anything that came their way while they were working to build up their new business. Not that March was complaining, the young woman who hired them was obviously a fat cat and more than willing to pay twice the going rate to track down her brother. When she explained that he had run away because, as she delicately put it, their parents didn’t approve of his, ah, lifestyle, Healy and March simply exchanged a look and silently agreed that a case was a case.
So that was how they found themselves at a bar March had never been to before (“Small miracle,” Healy quipped), the name of which their client had found on a matchbox tucked away in her brother’s bedside drawer.
Contrary to what some might assume, March didn’t frequent this sort of bar very often, but upon arrival, he found he didn’t feel entirely out of place. After all, he had been to plenty of bars in the middle of the afternoon, and aside from some minor details like decor and clientele, he didn’t see how this one was much different.
A few patrons were scattered around the dimly sunlit space, and the air buzzed with the faint hum of an unseen air conditioner. They had come in the middle of the afternoon hoping to strike up conversation with the bartender, and they were in luck. The place was practically deserted, and the scattered patrons barely reacted as they walked in — except one man at the far end of the bar, who appreciatively eyed March as he took his seat, even offering a small, flirtatious smile. March had no interest in the man, but he still preened at the stranger’s attention, leaning over to whisper smugly to Healy, “Well, would you look at that. I’m already a hit.”
Healy followed March’s line of sight down the bar, before rolling his eyes and scoffing, “We’re here for a case, remember? You can flirt with strangers in your free time.”
March blushed and muttered something about not actually flirting, but his protest was quickly swallowed up by the bartender’s approach. “What are we drinking today, boys?” he asked cheerfully.
March ordered a scotch on the rocks, and Healy ordered a coke. When Healy placed his order, the bartender paused, regarding him with a small crease in his brow.
“You look familiar.”
Healy shrugged, unfazed, “Just one of those faces.” Then, taking advantage of the bartender’s apparent willingness to chat, he added, “You happen to know a Michael? His sister is worried sick and asked us to find out if he’s okay.”
“Sorry, don’t think so,” he replied, returning to his work behind the bar and quickly serving the two detectives. The drinks were already sweating when he set them down, and March gratefully wrapped his fingers around the cold glass. The air conditioner, wherever it was, wasn’t doing much against the mid-afternoon California heat.
“Hm, actually,” the bartender said, “I only started working here recently, so if the kid hasn’t been around lately, I wouldn’t know him. But if you wanna stick around for a few hours, Larry has a shift and he’s been working here for years. Super social too. If Michael was a regular at any point, I bet Larry would know.”
They thanked the bartender for the information, and he took off. Healy nudged March’s shoulder, “You got plans tonight?”
“Nah, Holly’s at a sleepover,” March replied. “Someone’s picking her up from school too, so we don’t even have to worry about that.”
“Perfect,” Healy replied. “Then we’ll wait.”
He leaned back, settling into the cracked leather of the bar stool. He lifted his drink to his lips and took a sip. He sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth before declaring, “God, that’s strong.”
March’s eyes twinkled with inspiration. “Well,” he raised his glass, clinking it lightly against Healy’s with a wink, “I know what we can do to pass the time.”
He tipped his head back and, with one smooth bob of his throat, downed the rest of his scotch.
-
A few hours later, March’s head was swimming, his stomach warm with liquor. His fingers were loosely wrapped around a half-finished bottle of whiskey, and he was laughing at something Healy had just said (even though he could barely hear him, Healy’s wheezing laughter just made him want to laugh too).
The bar had gotten significantly busier as day turned to night, and the space was now crowded with new voices and bodies. Larry had arrived for his nighttime shift, but they hadn’t managed to catch his attention yet. Not that March was in any state to try. Stranger’s shoulders kept bumping against his, crowding him into Healy’s personal space and forcing their knees together. March’s attention had narrowed to a pinprick around this small point of contact, and everything else was now just a pleasant, background thrum.
Eventually, Healy caught the bartender’s eye with a wave, and Larry made his way toward the two detectives.
“Hey, Jack, what’re you having?” he greeted.
March dimly registered some part of that sentence as interesting, but his detective skills were a bit dampened, probably having drowned sometime after his fifth drink. As he cursed his limited capacities, Healy continued to chat amiably with Larry. March heard Healy ask about their client’s brother, but the other man’s response was drowned out by the din of the bar. March lost himself in his thoughts again, suddenly preoccupied with the line of stubble on Healy’s jaw. As he contemplated the slope, he wondered how rough the skin would feel in his hands, and his fingertips thrummed in anticipation.
“March?” Healy’s voice broke through these thoughts, startling the younger man. March stared at him, glassy-eyed and caught out. He was mildly worried Healy could read his mind.
“Did you hear anything we just said?” Healy asked, sounding annoyed. March struggled to catch up. Where had Larry gone? It was just him and Healy (and the press of their knees) again. March scanned the line of bodies at the bar, and he spotted Larry leaning in to chat with another patron.
“Christ, how drunk are you?” Healy’s deep voice interrupted March’s wandering thoughts again. Despite the distant look in his partner’s eyes, he continued, “He knows Michael, we got an address, and we can follow up tomorrow. Case closed.”
March nodded dumbly, swaying slightly in his seat. Healy scoffed and, with an accusatory tone, asked, “Can you walk like that?”
“Can you??” March retorted nonsensically. Healy raised an eyebrow.
“C’mon, I’m driving you home,” he said.
“Aren’t youu drunk,” March slurred, prodding his finger into Healy’s chest.
“No, because I’m a professional,” Healy replied, “and I knew one of us was going to have to peel you off the floor.”
March’s mind snagged on an image of Healy peeling something off of him, while, in the real world, Healy just peeled March off the bar stool. In one inelegant motion, the younger man lost his balance and collapsed into his partner’s chest. Healy steadied himself, preparing to guide his partner out of the bar while he was draped sloppily over his shoulder. Thankfully, this was the sort of place where people wouldn’t think twice. Still supporting March, Healy dug some bills from his pocket and threw them on the counter. Larry had reappeared to collect their empty glasses.
“Thanks, Jack. Have a good night!” he said.
March’s brain stuttered again. Jack. That was what was interesting about their earlier interaction. Larry the bartender had called Healy by his first name. Not just his first name, but a nickname. Jack. Like they were close friends. Like they had met before…
March lifted his head with urgency, but, between his lack of coordination and their awkward movement through the crowd, he only managed to press his face into the crook of Healy’s neck.
“Jack,” he muttered. He felt Healy’s shoulders stiffen beneath him.
“What?” he asked.
“Jack,” March insisted, now practically pressing his lips to Healy’s neck. March’s warm breath tickled against his skin, and the older man couldn’t suppress a small shudder. His face didn’t betray anything besides annoyance though. March tried again, “The bartender called you Jack.”
“No he didn’t.” Healy’s tone was clipped. Then, likely realizing that March probably wasn’t so drunk he could convince him he hadn’t just seconds ago heard a name that he was now repeating, Healy amended, “I told him my name earlier. You just weren’t paying attention.”
The two men stepped out into the warm night air as March pondered this possibility. Thankfully, Healy’s car was still parked in front of the bar - a small blessing from their midday arrival. The street had been practically deserted then, but now it teemed with life, as voices and music spilled out of clubs and bars.
Healy gently stepped away from March, who clumsily relinquished his hold on Healy’s waist (wait a minute, when did he put his arm around Healy’s waist?). Healy regarded the other man with concern, unsure whether he could support his own weight. Although March swayed a little, he stayed upright, and so Healy moved to unlock the car door, directing March to the front passenger seat. March folded his long legs into the car and practically fell into the seat. Annoyed, Healy pushed the door shut with just a little more force than necessary, and March startled.
Once the door was shut, March settled in, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. He dimly registered his partner getting into the driver’s seat and the car engine purring to life. The sound lulled him to sleep, and his eyes, suddenly heavy, began to drift shut.
But right before he completely lost consciousness, he managed to form one last coherent thought: Larry had definitely greeted the other man as “Jack” before they started talking, and Jackson Healy was a liar.
-
The next morning, March woke feeling like shit. His stomach lurched with the familiar churn of a hangover, and there was a dull ache behind his eyes. He was splayed out on top of his bed, with his shirt unbuttoned and his pants loose around his waist, like he had tried to take them off but fallen asleep midway through the project. He blearily lifted his head, squinting at the (mid-morning?) sun, and slowly became aware of voices in a distant part of the rental house.
With a lot of effort (and even more whining), March extricated himself from the rumpled sheets and stumbled towards the kitchen, where he found Holly and Healy chatting over breakfast.
“Good morning,” he greeted. His throat was scratchy, probably from the who-knows-how-many cigarettes he’d smoked last night. God, a cigarette sounded great right about now. His fingers fumbled around his shirt pocket, but no luck. With a sigh, he sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He debated adding vodka.
Holly glanced disdainfully at her father. “You look like crap.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he replied. Then, in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself, “I’ll have you know, we were working a very important case last night, and I had to drink to blend in with the crowd.”
Holly snorted. “Mr. Healy already told me what kind of bar you went to. So much for blending in.” Her eyes narrowed. “He also said it wasn’t a very interesting, or important, case.”
March turned to Healy and grumbled, “I thought they were all important.”
His partner just shrugged. “Holly was telling me about her night, only seemed fair to tell her a little about ours,” he explained. “Although hers did seem more eventful..”
Healy trailed off, inviting Holly to keep talking about her sleepover. With a breath of “oh my gosh, yeah,” she was off, babbling excitedly about a game of truth-or-dare and an embarrassing phone call and something to do with a teal headband. March did his best to follow along, nibbling at a piece of toast and willing the queasy feeling in his stomach to subside.
Later, when breakfast was cleared and Holly had retired to her room to do homework, March and Healy sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee that Healy had mercifully prepared. Making conversation (or, more accurately, trying to piece together exactly how the night had ended after his memories went hazy), March asked, “Where did you sleep last night, by the way?”
“On your floor, obviously,” Healy replied sarcastically. He fixed March with a hard look, “Where do you think, March? I went home to my apartment, passed out for about 5 hours, then dragged myself back here to pick Holly up from her sleepover.”
March winced, feeling both grateful that Healy could pick up his slack and guilty that there always seemed to be so much of it.
“Thank you,” he offered meekly.
“It’s fine,” Healy relented, hearing the genuine remorse in March’s voice. “In any case, we have the guy’s address, so we got what we needed to get. We’re lucky the second bartender remembered so much about Michael.”
At the mention of Larry the bartender, March choked a little on his coffee, suddenly remembering that Larry had called Healy by his first name and Healy had lied about it. The older man shot him a look of concern, but March brushed it off. His mind was starting to race.
“Anyways, I was thinking we could drop by today to wrap this thing up,” Healy continued, “if you’re up for it.”
March agreed distractedly. He retreated to the bedroom to change while Healy waited in the living room. Alone, March’s thoughts spun even more wildly around Healy and Larry the bartender.
Obviously, they knew each other, and well enough to be on a first-name basis — a first-nickname basis, he realized with a jolt. March frantically tried to come up with another explanation, reasoning that maybe Healy had previously gone there once for a work-related reason, and Larry just had an excellent memory. But even he had to admit how flimsy this logic was, especially because if that was really the case, Healy could’ve easily told him so last night. Instead, his partner had lied, not wanting March to know that he was acquainted with the bartender. There really was only one explanation, even though it made March’s ears ring - Healy was a regular (or, at least, a frequent enough client to be recognized) at a gay bar.
As March pulled on his jacket and smoothed his hair, he struggled to wrap his mind around the idea that Healy could be gay. He had been married! Well, March had been married too, and that definitely didn’t prevent certain thoughts from creeping into his head. He never followed through on any of them though. He had proposed to his high school sweetheart in his early twenties, and he was (mostly) happily married for the better part of his adult life. After she died, March was too much of a wreck to pursue anything seriously. Flirting was one thing (which March enjoyed regardless of who he was doing it with), but it rarely led anywhere. And when it did, he was happy enough sleeping with the occasional woman that he didn’t feel the need to explore other, more complicated avenues. The fact that Healy had came as a shock to March. He was probably far more confident in his sexuality (and almost certainly more experienced, a treacherous voice in the back of his head chimed).
Swallowing this realization, March did his best to compose himself as he took stock of his appearance in the mirror. So what if Jackson Healy was gay? March didn’t need to lose his head over it.
-
March was going to lose it. As they drove to Michael’s apartment, sitting in what should have been peaceful and companionable silence, March’s thoughts continued to race. He smoked a cigarette, steadying his nerves, which were especially shaky since he had resisted the temptation to smoothe his hangover with a drink (not that Healy and Holly would believe him, but March was trying to cut back).
Eventually, unable to sit with his thoughts for a moment longer, March blurted, “So, that neighborhood we visited last night.. were you familiar with it?” Healy raised an eyebrow, and March rushed to add, “I saw a gym I thought about joining.”
Healy raised the other eyebrow, now giving March an incredulous look.
“What?” March shot back, embarrassed.
“Nothing,” Healy said, turning his eyes back towards the road, “I just didn’t figure you were interested in working out at that gym.” He left the implication hanging heavily in the air.
“They had a membership deal,” March hastily lied. Then, remembering his original line of questioning, “So, did you know the neighborhood?”
“Sure,” Healy said. March’s eyes flew to his partner, wondering if he was about to come clean. But his hopes were just as quickly dashed when Healy added, “My ex-wife’s aunt owned a gardening shop in the area.”
March slumped in his seat. Shit, this was going to drive him fucking crazy.
-
At least the case wrapped up neatly. They had no trouble finding Michael’s apartment, and, although the kid was a ball of tension when they first introduced themselves, he softened once they revealed that his sister was their concerned client. He explained that he didn’t intend to leave her behind, he just wasn’t sure how she’d feel about him after his disastrous coming out. But now that he knew she was looking for him, he was happy to give March and Healy permission to share his address, and they delivered it to their client later that afternoon. As a thank you for their quick work, she threw in a generous tip, and they celebrated by taking Holly out to dinner.
As they laughed and traded barbs in the warm glow of a diner booth, happiness settled over March like a blanket. The question of Healy’s sexuality faded to the back of his mind, no longer as important as enjoying this perfectly mundane evening with the two most important people in his life.
Unfortunately, this newfound sense of inner peace did not last. Over the next few weeks, March’s thoughts returned repeatedly to the idea that Healy might be gay, and he became increasingly distracted by the possibility. Although Healy seemed to notice something was off, he never brought it up, and March became increasingly paranoid, obsessively searching for evidence in the most mundane details of his partner’s life.
One night, over dinner, Holly announced that her friend was taking a family trip to San Francisco. “Have you ever been, Mr. Healy?” she asked, and March’s ears perked up.
“Yeah, I’ve been to San Francisco,” Healy replied around a mouthful of food. “I spent a few years living there, actually.”
“Cool!” said Holly. Interesting, thought March.
San Francisco was a big city, of course, but it still carried a certain reputation. March’s imagination ran wild as he tried to picture the contours of Healy’s life in San Francisco. He schooled his face into a mask of indifference, but despite his blank expression, his attention was fixed on Healy.
Of course, the other man noticed March’s strange, blank stare. With a frown, he asked, “What?”
“Nothin’, nothin’,” March rushed to answer, “You just don’t seem like the.. San Francisco type,” He narrowed his eyes, hoping to convey mild suspicion, but Healy just threw him a puzzled look.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
March deflated, embarrassed by his failure to smoothly apply pressure. “I don’t know,” he muttered, “I mean, don’t you hate the rain?”
Healy looked skeptical, but he accepted this explanation with a nod, apparently having decided to disregard March’s strange behavior. Mercifully, the conversation then shifted as Holly asked about Healy’s favorite parts of the city. March spent the rest of the meal glaring at his mashed potatoes.
-
March knew his preoccupation with Healy’s sexuality was making him stupid, and he resigned himself to this new reality. He continued to leap at inane details from Healy’s life, following breadcrumbs that inevitably ended up being proof of absolutely nothing and making a small fool of himself. This was fine by him (after all, Holly and Healy expected stupidity from him, so no big change there).
Actually, it would have been fine, if that was the only consequence of his new fixation on Healy’s sexuality. The other (and far more worrying) was that this preoccupation magnified tenfold how badly March wanted the other man. Prior to visiting that bar, lewd thoughts about Healy had of course crossed his mind, but only in the form of short-lived urges and quick, flashing images. Now, Healy had become a full-blown infatuation, consuming at least half of March’s waking (and sometimes dreaming) thoughts.
One night, about a month later, they were sitting at the edge of March’s empty pool after wrapping up a new case. It had ended well enough, but there was a split in March’s bottom lip and a bruise forming on Healy’s cheek, so they agreed that they deserved a night to unwind. March had polished off a few beers (not enough to get drunk, just enough to feel pleasantly buzzed), and the night had taken on a hazy quality. His limbs felt loose and warm, and his eyes kept drifting lazily to the reddening mark on Healy’s cheekbone. He was enthralled by the soft curve of his partner’s cheek, especially how it moved as his eyes crinkled with laughter. March’s heart squeezed with fondness at the sight.
“Still, not the worst case we’ve had,” Healy acknowledged. He was drinking tonight too, but, like March, not enough to get drunk. He just seemed pliant and relaxed, his edges softened. March liked him like this. “At least you didn’t fall from the roof this time.”
“You know, you could sound less disappointed about that,” March replied with a smile, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Healy breathed out a short, affectionate laugh, and took a puff of his cigar. Then, he reached up to gingerly prod the new bruise on his cheek, adding, “To be honest, I didn’t think I’d still be dealing with shit like this as a P.I.”
“One of us has to,” March shrugged. “And you broke my arm, so you still owe me or somethin’.” He grinned, feeling buoyant.
“Careful, don’t let Holly catch you saying ‘or somethin’,” Healy teased, “She’s gonna make you put a quarter in the grammar jar.”
March laughed in response. The grammar jar was a real item in their household, proudly displayed on the kitchen countertop next to an actual (and usually fuller) swear jar. The whole thing had started when Holly pointed out that the two most prominent role models in her life probably shouldn’t be so comfortable swearing around a kid, and March had retorted that maybe she shouldn’t feel so comfortable using poor grammar around her father. In the end, they all contributed frequently to both jars. Even Holly, who had picked up a few habits from her foul-mouthed father after all.
Lost in thought, March mused, “She’s a good kid.”
“Yeah,” Healy replied solemnly, “she is.”
They settled into companionable silence, smoke curling in the air around them. The night seemed to invite intimacy, and there was so much March wanted to know about the man sitting next to him, with whom he was now pretty much sharing his life. Feeling brave, March broke the silence, “Did you ever want kids, with your wife?”
“Nah, never really crossed my mind,” Healy said thoughtfully, “We weren’t all that happy together, to be honest. Even before she fucked my father.” March barked out a laugh at Healy’s deadpan delivery, the sound echoing in the night air, and, for once, the older man found it easy to smile at the ridiculousness of his wife’s betrayal.
March, still feeling brave, decided to follow up. “Why’s that?” His voice had taken on a slightly softer edge.
“Well, for one, she didn’t exactly approve of how I spent my free time,” Healy shrugged.
“What do you mean?” March’s curiosity was piqued, and he wondered if he should read anything into the other man’s answer.
“Oh, the places I went to, the people I went with,” Healy said, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
March nodded with an understanding he didn’t entirely feel. Was Healy alluding to a secret life, one filled with clubs like the bar they’d been to weeks ago? Was this the reason Healy’s marriage had broken down? As much as he hoped for confirmation, March was beginning to doubt it would ever come — at least not from Healy himself. While March continued to tirelessly search for evidence of a secret double life, the other man remained impenetrable, and March had pretty much given up hope that he would ever reveal anything on that front.
So, not wanting to ruin the night with more of his recently-trademarked stupidity, March didn’t bother trying to pry. Instead, he listened attentively as Healy continued to share more about his past marriage, explaining that his wife didn’t approve of his work as a bruiser because she didn’t understand his need to feel useful. March did, and a warm feeling unfurled in his stomach that had everything to do with how Healy trusted him to understand.
While he basked in this knowledge, he gazed at his partner, noticing how the dim yellow glow of the living room fell on Healy’s back, giving him a kind of halo. March’s chest ached with how badly he wanted to brush his hand over the nape of Healy’s neck, chasing that warm glow. Instead, he settled for studying the loose curls that fell across his partner’s forehead, feeling unreasonably fond of those stray strands. He imagined brushing them aside to press a soft kiss against his skin, and he wondered idly if any other men had ever shared moments of tenderness like that with Jackson Healy. Despite his gruff exterior, March knew Healy could be soft, especially with him and Holly, and he craved that softness.
Quietly, almost casually, he was also struck by the realization that he wanted it all for himself.
Oh, he was so fucked.
-
In the end, Healy was the one who brought it up. Holly was out at a birthday party, and the two men were sitting on the couch watching television. Even though Healy’s eyes were fixed on the small screen, the show wasn’t that interesting to March, who was fidgeting in protest. His ears perked, however, at a familiar three-letter insult, and his eyes instinctively flicked to Healy, hoping to gauge the other man’s reaction to the slur.
Healy sensed March’s eyes on him and let out a long-suffering sigh. Without turning his attention from the television, he prompted, “Is there something you want to ask me, March?”
March opened his mouth to speak, eager to finally end this pointless investigation with a simple and straightforward “are you gay?” But, to his horror, he instead heard himself blurt in an accusatory, almost jealous tone, “How do you know Larry the bartender?!”
Healy turned to face March with an incredulous look. “That’s what you want to know?”
March nodded, internally kicking himself, and Healy shook his head in disbelief before answering, “Well, alright. Larry hired me for my services a few years back. Some guys were messing with bar patrons on their way in and out, and I acted as a bodyguard of sorts. Just for a few nights, enough to scare them off. I haven’t seen Larry since, but he was pretty grateful, and I guess he didn’t forget my name. That’s it.”
Now it was March’s turn to be caught off guard. He couldn’t believe it. All those weeks obsessing over his partner’s sexuality, and it turned out that his original, outlandish theory was correct? Maybe he really was the world’s worst detective. He’d have to ask Holly to buy him a mug.
“That’s how you know him?!” he exclaimed. “Jesus, Healy, I’ve been working myself up for weeks thinking that you were a regular or something.” He started to chuckle. “I even convinced myself you were gay.”
“Oh, well, I am.”
With four simple words, Healy wiped the smile right off March’s face, replacing it with a gobsmacked expression. Healy smirked, pleased to have regained the upper hand, and amused by how March’s mouth was actually hanging open in shock.
March reeled. Healy was gay. Healy was gay. March cursed himself for not just asking sooner, almost unable to believe how casually Healy had just come out. He thought about the feeble scraps of evidence he had collected over the past month, and his mind spun over how their credibility had doubled in the span of seconds.
Alarmingly, his thoughts also returned to the fantasies he had been harboring with increasing frequency, which now took on a new edge of reality. Suddenly, March felt a little dizzy. He swallowed, unable to meet his partner’s eye as images flickered through his brain, now seeming all the more authentic and possible.
After a beat, Healy spoke up, “Is that a problem for you?”
“Fuck no,” March replied immediately, snapping his head up to look at Healy. There was a wild look in his eyes, and his pupils had gone dark.
Tension hung in the air as the two locked eyes. March’s skin thrummed with anticipation. Without thinking, he threw himself at Healy, crashing their lips together. He didn’t feel entirely in control of his body, he was acting purely on instinct.
At first, Healy didn’t react, probably struck by his own realization that March was gay (or, at least, not straight), but he quickly registered the press of March’s lips against his, and he smiled into the sensation. He effortlessly took control of the kiss, steadying the other man’s eager pace.
His hands moved to March’s jaw, gripping gently but surely, and his tongue swept into March’s mouth. March made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. As the kiss deepened, Healy guided March backwards, until the younger man found himself caught between the couch armrest and Healy’s warm, broad torso, which was twisted over his.
Healy used his grip on March’s jaw to tilt the other man’s head back, kissing down the line of March’s jaw until he could nuzzle at his neck. At the rough scrape of Healy’s stubble, March keened.
“Is this okay?” Healy mumbled into his skin. March could only nod, borderline delirious with desire.
Healy continued to mouthe at March’s neck, occasionally scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin and making the younger man squirm. March felt pinned under Healy’s tongue. Clenching his hands against his thighs, he noticed that his pants were already starting to feel tight.
When Healy tore his lips away, March shivered as the cool air hit his wet skin. Their mouths met again, and March’s lips parted easily with a sigh. One of Healy’s hands moved to March’s chest, pushing into his undershirt, and skimming lightly over the familiar chain around his neck. Healy palmed at the warm expanse of skin, and March moaned.
“Shit,” Healy gasped. His palm roamed across March’s chest, sending pleasure shooting down his spine. March keened again as the pad of Healy’s finger brushed over his nipple.
When Healy removed his hand from March’s undershirt, the younger man arched his back, instinctively seeking more contact. In response, Healy nipped at his lower lip, then quickly smoothed his tongue over the same spot. As an apology, his hand moved to March’s stomach, pushing his undershirt up to feel the soft, warm skin. March tensed, feeling hyper-aware of Healy’s hand on his abdomen (so, so close to where he really wanted to be touched).
Healy pulled back to look at March’s flushed face, and March stared at him with a glassy-eyed expression.
“Shit, you’re a mess,” Healy said. March’s lips were swollen and wet with saliva, and his mustache had been clumsily flattened, the hair now sticking out at an awkward, almost comedic angle. The sight made Healy’s dick twitch.
March lifted his arms to Healy’s shoulders, tangling his fingers in his partner’s short hair. He used the leverage to pull Healy into another kiss, earning a low, guttural noise in response.
Now, Healy’s hand moved even lower, settling firmly on the growing tent in March’s pants. March’s hips stuttered in response, and he let out a gasp. As Healy started to rub his hand over the bulge, coaxing March to full hardness, his pants became almost unbearably tight.
“Fuck, help me get these off,” he whined.
Healy, always eager to be helpful, quickly moved to undo the zipper, while March lifted his hips, impatiently wiggling his pants down just far enough to free his cock. It sprang forward proudly, already achingly hard. Healy wrapped his fingers around the length with another rough swipe of his tongue into March’s mouth, and March gasped, tightening his fingers in the other man’s hair. Healy hummed in response, giving March’s dick an experimental tug. When March winced at the dry friction, Healy broke their kiss to spit in his palm.
“Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” March teased, in a breathless voice that significantly undermined the sarcastic tone he was aiming for. Jesus, he sounded like he was in a porno.
Healy rolled his eyes and began stroking at a firm, almost rough pace. As the spit on Healy’s palm started to dry, the older man swiped his thumb over the slit of March’s cock, gathering the precum that was now leaking out. At this touch, March’s hips bucked as if pulled by an invisible string. The sensation was overwhelming. Healy knew exactly what he was doing.
March’s moaned once more into Healy’s mouth before tipping his head back against the sofa. He closed his eyes, breathing roughly as he concentrated on the slide of Healy’s hand up and down his cock. Healy pressed his face into the sweaty crook of March’s neck, again mouthing and biting at the sensitive juncture just above his collarbone. March’s breath hitched as the other man increased his pace.
Healy lifted his lips to March’s ear, and, with a breath of hot air, murmured, “That’s it, sweetheart.”
March let out a curse, bucking his hips wildly into Healy’s fist. As he continued to pant and fuck into Healy’s hand, the other man kept up a steady stream of encouragement. His deep voice took on a gravelly, wrecked edge as he spoke, “C’mon, baby. You look so pretty like this. Come for me.”
When Healy’s tongue grazed the shell of March’s ear, it finally tipped him over the edge. A sudden rush of warmth poured down his spine, and his muscles tensed as he came, painting his stomach (and Healy’s hand) with come. As pleasure flooded his brain, Healy continued to loosely stroke March’s twitching cock, gently working the other man through his orgasm.
“Jesus,” March tipped his head back against the couch, heart racing, as the aftershocks of his orgasm faded. He felt boneless and untethered, and he stared at the ceiling while Healy pressed kisses against his jawline.
When Healy reached out to brush a curl from March’s sweaty forehead, March turned to look at the other man. Their eyes met, and March smiled languidly.
“That was good,” he declared. “That was really good.” Healy hummed in agreement, still petting March’s hair.
Neither of them made any move to get up. March’s breath slowly evened out, and he realized that TV was still on, now faintly playing a cheery commercial that March had seen about a thousand times. He considered getting up to turn it off, but he didn’t want to move and disturb the peaceful moment. A few more commercials played, and they watched in comfortable silence.
Eventually, March was the first to move, lifting himself off the couch only to abruptly drop to his knees in front of Healy, whose breath hitched in response. March met his partner’s eyes with an open, questioning gaze.
“Can I…?”
Healy nodded sharply. “Fuck,” he breathed, “Yes.” His cock was already stirring at the sight of March’s flushed face, and his heart flipped a little at the vulnerable, trusting look in his partner’s eyes.
March laid his hands on Healy’s thighs, gently prying them open so he could sit more comfortably between the other man’s legs. He smoothed his palms over the rough jean material, pressing warmth through the thick fabric and slowly edging his hands upwards. He had intended to take his time, savoring the contact and gradually building up anticipation, but impatience soon overtook him when his fingertips brushed against the prominent bulge in Healy’s lap. His hands flew to the other man’s belt. Fuck it, he thought, they could take things slow another night.
March unzipped Healy’s jeans, pulling them down just enough to free his partner’s half-hard cock. Saliva rushed into his mouth at the sight and his lips parted hungrily. He leaned forward without thinking, ghosting his warm breath over the newly exposed skin.
“Shit,” Healy rasped. “C’mon, man.”
The rough edge in his voice spurred March into action. Healy’s desperation rang like music in March’s ears as he bent to wrap his lips around the head of his partner’s cock. He ran his tongue around the tender skin, feeling the soft and spongy texture. He flicked his tongue over the slit, making Healy shudder. Emboldened, March sank further down on the older man’s cock, stretching his lips around the growing hardness.
March hollowed his cheeks like he had seen in a porno (funnily enough, one that he had watched while thinking about this exact scenario), and he was rewarded with another groan from Healy, who tangled his fingers in March’s hair.
“Can I?” It was Healy’s turn to ask, tugging lightly at the blonde strands.
“Mmhm,” March hummed. He started to bob his head up and down, grateful that Healy could now help guide his pace. As he sucked, his hands roamed experimentally, pausing first to press into the soft, round skin of Healy’s stomach, before tangling in the rough hair at the base of Healy’s cock and clumsily palming his balls. He felt overwhelmed with pleasure, and the grip Healy had on his hair made his scalp tingle.
Healy kept up a steady stream of curses as March sucked his cock. Distantly, March thought about the swear jar and smiled to himself. He was almost tempted to make a joke about it, but quickly decided he’d much rather keep his mouth exactly where it was. Christ, why did this feel so good? He wasn’t even the one getting his dick sucked.
March’s pleasure intensified when Healy started to fuck up into his mouth, using his grip on March’s hair to bring his head down against the increasingly harsh rhythm of his thrusts.
When Healy’s cock first nudged the back of March’s throat, the younger man’s eyes flew open, and he looked up at Healy. Healy immediately softened the roll of his hips, meeting March’s panicked gaze with a fond, apologetic expression.
“So good, baby,” Healy murmured, reassurance coating his words like honey.
And that was all it took. March moaned around Healy’s cock, closing his eyes as he redoubled his efforts to match the older man’s thrusts and relaxed his muscles around the intrusion at the back of his throat. Healy responded to this new enthusiasm by tightening his hold on March’s hair, sending sparks cascading down the younger man’s spine. He pushed further into the soft wetness of March’s mouth, starting to build up a faster, more demanding pace. His breaths came in short huffs, and March savored the sound, dizzy with the knowledge that he could make his partner feel this good.
March lifted his eyes toward Healy again, and the sight sent a jolt of pleasure down Healy’s spine. March’s cheeks were flushed with exertion, and his pupils had gone completely dark with desire. His swollen lips were stretched around Healy’s full cock, shifting slightly as his tongue moved along the underside. The debauched sight sent Healy careening toward his own orgasm, and after a few more clumsy thrusts, he came down March’s throat with a strangled, mostly unintelligible warning.
March did his best to keep dutifully working his mouth over Healy’s cock as the other man came, but, for all his pornographic fantasies, he choked when the strange, salty taste hit the back of his throat. He abruptly pulled away to cough, tears prickling the corners of his eyes.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Healy asked in a low voice. He sounded out of breath and a little dazed.
March nodded as he continued to cough, finally managing to gulp a steadying breath of air. “Just so you know, that wasn’t very gentlemanlike,” he pointed out petulantly. March’s voice was scratchy, and his throat felt raw.
Healy’s stomach shook with a small, silent laugh, as he reached down to pull March up from the floor with a mumbled apology. March settled on the other’s man thighs, straddling him, and Healy pressed a kiss into March’s mouth, slowly coaxing his lips open. A possessive feeling curled in his stomach when he tasted himself on March’s tongue.
They continued to kiss, relaxed and unhurried, until March turned to rest his chin on Healy’s shoulder. Healy traced idle patterns up and down March’s back, and they sat in silence for a moment. The light of the television flickered gently around them.
“Hey,” March mumbled, a belated thought just now occurring to him, “how come you didn’t just tell me that was how Larry knew your name when I asked you at the bar?”
“March, your lips were pressed against my neck, and I was doing my best to maneuver us both out of a crowded bar. I was a little distracted.”
“Oh,” March breathed, smiling against the other man’s ear. “Well, I certainly got the wrong impression.”
“Did you?” Healy mused, shifting March’s weight in his lap as if to make a point. March huffed out a small laugh.
Then, noticing the sticky mess drying on his stomach, March made a small noise of disgust. “Alright well, as sexy as this was earlier, I am now just sitting in my own spunk.”
Healy laughed and patted March’s thigh, encouraging him to get up. “We probably wanna clean up before Holly gets home, anyway,” he said.
At the mention of his daughter, March straightened, thinking about how traumatic it would be (for everyone involved, if he was being honest) if she came home to find him and Healy like this. They’d have to throw out the couch for sure. Hell, maybe they’d even have to move, just for good measure.
Healy started to sit up, and March clumsily extricated himself from the other’s man lap. His legs felt like jelly. He managed to stand up, tucking himself back into his pants, and smoothing his rumpled shirt, and Healy did the same.
In a wordless agreement, they walked to March’s bedroom.
At the doorway, March paused and turned to face his partner, leaning in with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So..” he flirtatiously dragged out the syllable, fluttering his eyelids for dramatic effect, “Can I call you Jack now too?”
Healy just rolled his eyes and shoved March into the room.
But March caught the smile on his face, and that was answer enough.