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It’s open mic night at the comedy club, and March is taking it as a personal affront.
“God, this is terrible,” March groans, sprawled on Jackson’s couch in just his undershirt and suit pants, which Jackson is trying not to do anything about on account of it being late and March having to get home at some point this evening. “I can’t figure what’s worse, when you can hear them laughing down there or when you can’t.”
Jackson shrugs. After so long living in the place the sound of the comedy club downstairs just recedes into the background, like living next to a train track or keeping a grandfather clock in the hall. Who even notices, after a while?
March notices. Boy, does he fucking notice. He has no end of complaints about Jackson’s apartment: how much he hates the traffic on Sunset and how you can never find a goddamn parking spot; how the security guys keep looking at him funny when he comes by; how Jackson’s mattress hurts his back and the water pressure in his shower sucks. Tonight he’s picked the sound of the audience, or the lack of it, whichever gets him going.
“When you can hear ‘em down there it’s annoying, but when you can’t hear the laughing you know some poor schmuck down there’s dying on his ass,” March continues, “and that’s just sad.”
“So don’t think about it,” Jackson says. He shoves a bunch of papers in March’s direction. “Think about the case.”
“I can’t not think about it,” March says. “It’s under my skin. I got second hand embarrassment for some guy I don’t know.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “You wanna go down there and laugh, make him feel better?”
“Fuck, no,” says March, to the ceiling. “I want you to move in with me.”
Jackson looks up. Right on cue the poor schmuck downstairs finally lands one and the crowd erupts into life, like canned laughter piped in to personally fuck with Jackson.
“Atta boy,” March says. He sits up straighter, rolling his shoulders like he’s limbering up. “Okay, I feel better now. Lemme see the credit card bill, I still think there’s something shifty about the wife.”
Jackson doesn’t immediately hand the file over, on account of how his mind is skipping in place like a busted record player. Move in with me. Move in with me.
March snaps his fingers. “Hey. You want me to look at those or what?”
“I should’ve broken both your arms while I had the chance,” Jackson says, finally, and hands over the credit card file, which March gives every appearance of being genuinely absorbed in. “Hey. Asshole. Move in with you?”
March looks back, eyebrows raised slightly, all wounded innocence. It’s the little tilt at the corner of his mouth that gives him away, every time.
“What,” March says, shrugging. “Because you’re so attached to this place? You like the ambience?”
“Maybe I do,” Jackson says. What he really likes is that the landlord cut him a good deal on the rent, though truth be told he’s been making disgruntled noises about that deal since Jackson stopped having reciprocally discounted discussions with any of the landlord’s troublesome business associates.
“Bullshit,” says March. “Come on.”
“You come on,” Jackson says. All of a sudden, he can’t stand the way that March is looking at him, that little half-smile. He gets up and goes over to the refrigerator and gets a beer, pointedly not offering one to March.
“Well don’t get mad about it,” March says, indignant. He’s unbelievable, Jackson thinks. He really should have broken March’s arm while he had the chance.
“I’m not mad,” says Jackson, which is true, he isn’t. He pokes curiously at the feeling, like a bruise. “Just, don’t joke about it, okay?”
“Who’s joking?” March demands.
Jackson puts the beer down on the counter, maybe a little harder than necessary. “Drop it.”
“Who’s joking?” March demands, throwing his arms out wide. “Come live in my house, I’m serious. I’m serious as a heart attack. I’m asking you.”
“You want me to move in with you?”
“I would like that, yes,” March says, slowly, as if he’s talking to someone whose grasp on the language is slender at best, which, honestly, is kind of how Jackson feels right now.
“Why?”
“Here’s a couple reasons,” March says. He counts them out, lifting a finger for each one, “One, I am so sick of trying to park out on that goddamn street, you cannot imagine. Two, I have become intimately acquainted with every spring in that torture device you claim is a mattress and I am too old to go without adequate support. Three, I can’t even smell and I know this place stinks of beer and bar snacks, not in the good way, and -”
“Those are just reasons for me not to live here,” Jackson cuts in.
“Four,” March says, brandishing four fingers at Jackson, “my landlord fixed it so you can hardly see any of the bullet holes anymore, plus he filled in the pool, how’s that for a sweet deal.”
“You don’t have a guest room,” Jackson says.
“Are you a guest? Aren’t we partners? In business and in, uh,” March falters for the first time, eyes darting quickly away and to the side, bony shoulders hunching a little, “you know. Life.”
Oh. Jackson stares at him.
“I’d piss you off,” he says, voice sounding kind of strangled even to him.
“Yeah, and? Like that would be such a change of pace?” March shrugs, one-shouldered. “I’d piss you off too, fair’s fair.”
It would be annoying to live with March. March is unbelievably annoying, and Jackson hasn’t lived with anybody since his wife walked out. Maybe part of the reason they’ve kept it together this last year or so is the fact that they both go home at the end of the day - most of the time, anyway.
“What about Holly?” Jackson says.
“Are you kidding? I’m already second favourite.”
“No, I mean.” Jackson gestures between himself and March. “It won’t be weird for her?”
“Weirder than what?” March says, which is fair. Holly’s a smart kid, she can put a situation together, and it’s not like she’d be shy about voicing any displeasure she might have about the idea of her dad and his business partner being more than just work associates, either. It’s not like Jackson hasn’t sometimes crept into March’s room at night on the occasions he’s stayed over and maybe not made it back to the couch in the morning.
“What about the fish?” Jackson says, nodding in the direction of the tank.
“The fish? Are you seriously asking me about the fish?” March yelps. He gets up and stalks over to Jackson, plants himself right in front of him. He puts his hands on Jackson’s face, framing it, and says seriously, “Come live with me in my house and you can turn the swimming pool into a god damn aquarium.”
Jackson laughs in spite of himself. He reaches up and wraps his hands around March’s wrists, holding him in place.
“I’ll think about it,” he says.
March leans in. Downstairs some poor schmuck lands another one, and the crowd goes wild.