Holland March (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
questioningmermaids) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-09-03 10:55 am
questioningmermaids) wrote in singillatim2023-09-03 10:55 am
green peppers; ota
Who: Holland March + anyone
What: March is not handling things very well and being a nuisance
When: Early arrival, throughout the day and also 2am
Where: Milton (town house, outside, the general 'all of it.')
Content Warnings: standard alcoholism warning for march
[ This place sucks. It's a shit hole even without the added shittiness of it being a frozen wasteland in Canada, and that's a very strong opinion and the hill he wants to die on. March never shies away from telling people exactly what he thinks, oftentimes to the point of annoyance, and anyone who's talked to him for more than 20 seconds knows that he, like most people in this godforsaken tundra, would rather literally be anywhere else.
March's problem is that as much as he kicks up a stink and complains he's got that insatiable curiosity pumping through his veins. It's the whole PI thing, the whole detective business: you can't not be a little insane and want to check things out. Sure, there's a survival aspect but what wins March over in terms of going to explore is absolutely pure nosiness.
He's bundled himself up at least and can easily be found rifling around abandoned houses trying his best to ignore the important things like 'corpses' and 'the crushing and highly depressing feeling of being put in an insanely specific survival scenarios with absolutely no self preservation instincts whatsoever.' It's fairly easy to guess where he is: as he's rooting (looting) buildings, he's singing very loudly to the song in his head, only he can't remember the actual words. It's keeping him sane, even if it might be driving others up the wall. ]
[ There's no way this bottle of scotch isn't his. It's literally the same one he bought to congratulate himself, complete with the bag proudly displaying that it was purchased at Dale's Food Mart, EST 1955 and a price sticker. It's also right next to a framed school photo of his daughter; one of the few things that the fire spared.
So yeah, it's his bottle, so yeah, he's going to drink it, 'cause that photo is a little bit of a fuck you to him on cosmic level. It's been a tough day. Tough night, tough everything, and between the whole 'we're going to freeze to death' and general bone deep concern for everything and everyone he's met so far it doesn't take him long to finish off half the bottle. Probably he should save it. Probably. But he's treating the booze like the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket: like it's normal, like he can continue to chain smoke and toss back his limited supplies. If anyone exploring comes across the little cabin he's found it in, be prepared for a very drunk and raucous welcome from where he's sitting on the floor, arms wide in delight like an old friend has just walked in for the first time in years, absolutely delighted and grinning a mile wide. ]
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!
[ The problem is that sometime between one am and two am that bottle is nearly empty and Holland March has consumed almost all of it. That's when he gets it: the best idea in the universe.
If he goes outside, he'll find more. It's probably not even that cold out anymore anyway, 'cause he's feeling warm. It's that nice little tickle in his chest that comes with a lot of booze and forgetting just how fucked they all are. March is smart, not stupid, obviously, so of course he brings a jacket. It's his suit jacket from home, all light linen, and his dress shirt is completely open exposing his tank top because yeah it's snowing or whatever but he's still, like, warm and shit.
He doesn't get very far in his mission to find more, but that's okay. One hand holding his flask from home, the other the almost empty bottle of scotch sans paper bag, March gasps loudly at the night sky. ]
I gotta show Healy this. The moon.
[ With absolutely no regard to any sensible people trying to sleep, March begins to shout as loudly as he possibly can, voice cracking and sounding rather girlish. ]
HEY HEALY! Healy! Healy!
[ He'll simmer down after no response or if no one stops him. Unfortunately, he still has that song in his head. Fellow interlopers: there is a very drunk, extremely loud man in the middle of the town square singing--slurring, more accurately--the words to an old 70s funk tune. ]
[ How he's managed to somehow wake after the previous nights events is beyond even his comprehension, but he's here. Alert isn't accurate, but March is technically awake and alive, staring miserably at the wall in the Town Hall, a cigarette dangling between his lips that hasn't been lit despite the gold lighter literally in his hand.
Possibly, he may be dying. Or just incredibly hungover. could go either way. ]
Feel free to DM me if you'd like a personalized starter, etc!
What: March is not handling things very well and being a nuisance
When: Early arrival, throughout the day and also 2am
Where: Milton (town house, outside, the general 'all of it.')
Content Warnings: standard alcoholism warning for march
i. exploring;
[ This place sucks. It's a shit hole even without the added shittiness of it being a frozen wasteland in Canada, and that's a very strong opinion and the hill he wants to die on. March never shies away from telling people exactly what he thinks, oftentimes to the point of annoyance, and anyone who's talked to him for more than 20 seconds knows that he, like most people in this godforsaken tundra, would rather literally be anywhere else.
March's problem is that as much as he kicks up a stink and complains he's got that insatiable curiosity pumping through his veins. It's the whole PI thing, the whole detective business: you can't not be a little insane and want to check things out. Sure, there's a survival aspect but what wins March over in terms of going to explore is absolutely pure nosiness.
He's bundled himself up at least and can easily be found rifling around abandoned houses trying his best to ignore the important things like 'corpses' and 'the crushing and highly depressing feeling of being put in an insanely specific survival scenarios with absolutely no self preservation instincts whatsoever.' It's fairly easy to guess where he is: as he's rooting (looting) buildings, he's singing very loudly to the song in his head, only he can't remember the actual words. It's keeping him sane, even if it might be driving others up the wall. ]
ii. hot mess express;
[ There's no way this bottle of scotch isn't his. It's literally the same one he bought to congratulate himself, complete with the bag proudly displaying that it was purchased at Dale's Food Mart, EST 1955 and a price sticker. It's also right next to a framed school photo of his daughter; one of the few things that the fire spared.
So yeah, it's his bottle, so yeah, he's going to drink it, 'cause that photo is a little bit of a fuck you to him on cosmic level. It's been a tough day. Tough night, tough everything, and between the whole 'we're going to freeze to death' and general bone deep concern for everything and everyone he's met so far it doesn't take him long to finish off half the bottle. Probably he should save it. Probably. But he's treating the booze like the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket: like it's normal, like he can continue to chain smoke and toss back his limited supplies. If anyone exploring comes across the little cabin he's found it in, be prepared for a very drunk and raucous welcome from where he's sitting on the floor, arms wide in delight like an old friend has just walked in for the first time in years, absolutely delighted and grinning a mile wide. ]
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!
iii. hot mess express (2am version);
[ The problem is that sometime between one am and two am that bottle is nearly empty and Holland March has consumed almost all of it. That's when he gets it: the best idea in the universe.
If he goes outside, he'll find more. It's probably not even that cold out anymore anyway, 'cause he's feeling warm. It's that nice little tickle in his chest that comes with a lot of booze and forgetting just how fucked they all are. March is smart, not stupid, obviously, so of course he brings a jacket. It's his suit jacket from home, all light linen, and his dress shirt is completely open exposing his tank top because yeah it's snowing or whatever but he's still, like, warm and shit.
He doesn't get very far in his mission to find more, but that's okay. One hand holding his flask from home, the other the almost empty bottle of scotch sans paper bag, March gasps loudly at the night sky. ]
I gotta show Healy this. The moon.
[ With absolutely no regard to any sensible people trying to sleep, March begins to shout as loudly as he possibly can, voice cracking and sounding rather girlish. ]
HEY HEALY! Healy! Healy!
[ He'll simmer down after no response or if no one stops him. Unfortunately, he still has that song in his head. Fellow interlopers: there is a very drunk, extremely loud man in the middle of the town square singing--slurring, more accurately--the words to an old 70s funk tune. ]
iv. hangover;
[ How he's managed to somehow wake after the previous nights events is beyond even his comprehension, but he's here. Alert isn't accurate, but March is technically awake and alive, staring miserably at the wall in the Town Hall, a cigarette dangling between his lips that hasn't been lit despite the gold lighter literally in his hand.
Possibly, he may be dying. Or just incredibly hungover. could go either way. ]
v. wildcard;
Feel free to DM me if you'd like a personalized starter, etc!
no subject
The gesture is one Thomas could conceivably find insulting if he put his mind to it. He's in a foul enough mood he could whip together the false dignity to be affronted by the presumption. He could forego excuse entirely and lash out all the same, slap the bottle from the other man's hand for the sake of breaking something.
What stops him, more than the offering of reconciliation or the lapse into quiet, is the impassivity of the other man's expression. He's familiar with that sort of indifference. It makes all ranting and ire absurd in the face of it.
Thomas takes the bottle, sweaty fingers squeaking over glass in the abrupt silence. He takes one hard, short swig from it and offers it back, staring at March with brittle uncertainty. ]
Do they not have the moon where you come from?
[ He asks, roughly but quietly, anger restrained like it's been yanked back on a leash. ]
no subject
Yeah, we got the moon. [ March feels stupid for making a big deal out of it now. He squints over at the other as he talks, trying to take him in, observing him despite the fact that there’s two of him just sort of floating around each other. March takes the bottle back, hands curling around the neck and pointing upwards with his index finger. He's not actually looking up at it though. Not with the spins he's currently developing. ]
You know LA? [ Which is a crazy fucking question, everyone knows LA, but this is a crazy fucking place. March continues before Thomas can even actually answer. ] Too much pollution. Smog. Makes it hard to see stars. Never bothered me before.
[ It kind of does now. He’s refusing to internally examine that. ]
no subject
No. But London's the same.
[ It's a filthy city. The air itself leaves a residue on everything, battled daily by armies of drudges scrubbing, mopping, scraping, and brushing away. Even that closest day-star is often obscured to nothing but a pale coin in a grey sky, and that's on the days the skies are empty of rainclouds. The stars gutter like candles in the ever-present smoke.
The air's so clear here that it cuts like glass. Thomas' breath comes in white, blameless clouds that dissipate into nothing. The moon is huge and luminous as he looks up at her, every detail apparent, and countless stars glitter around her in all their variety.
It's beautiful. ]
...one forgets how many of them there are. [ He says, subdued. ] How much light.
no subject
He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a swig. It's a far cry from staring off into space in his backyard, laying down on the diving board of a pool that's never had water in it, flicking cigarettes into the bottom of it like his own personal ashtray, but the feeling's the same even if the feeling in his fingers aren't there.
London, LA. Similar shitty places with shitty people. Ta-da, humanity. March wordlessly hands the bottle back to Thomas for a drink, content to sit in quiet for a while. Like maybe, just for a little bit, this is nice and they're not all doomed and he's not going to die in a week when they inevitably run out of food. He knows a cool new guy who looks like an absolute mess. March knows for a fact that it's not just because he's British, if only because his wife was from London, too--stranger's probably a hot mess all on his own. That's fine. March is, too. ]
Hey. What's rumpy-pumpy?
no subject
There's a rough kind of camaraderie among the dregs of society, Thomas has discovered. Before he was counted among them, he'd largely only seen the worst in them: the grubbing, the backstabbing, the stepping over one another in the gutter. That's real. But so is this.
Then all rumination is cast aside at that question. Thomas, mid-passing the bottle back, goggles at March. Then, to his amazement, he hears himself snicker. The precise formulation of the slang isn't one he's heard itself, but it's close enough to ones he has heard he can make an educated inference. ]
The marital act. [ He says, with a lilting amusement that he hardly recognizes. ] The procreative effort. Coitus.
[ He draws out a conversational beat with nearly schoolboy relish, and concludes with: ] Fucking.
I pray you are baffled by the term and not the act itself, because for that, I would suggest you find some other source for your education.
no subject
And to think, people say March is an idiot. He is, but he's not being one now, which he counts as a win. ]
Huh.
[ March mulls the other's words over, lips quirking up at the not so subtle suggestion that he may not know how to fuck, and as he takes the bottle back, he half-shrugs. ]
Wife said I made a living on it. On rumpy-pumpy. Never asked her what it meant, but you're here and British, so. [ He finally takes a sip. There's a few swigs more left, so he'll hand it right back and ignore the room--the moon, the outside, whatever--spinning. ]
Rumpy-pumpy. S'not wrong, I guess.