Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Andy Brown goes down to the bar for a six pack, he’s surprised to find Harold Abbott there. No, he’s not surprised, he’s shocked. It’s late - well after ten, and the bar is full of couples, a few of them dancing in the corner by the jukebox, more couples sitting at tables, turned away from each other, looking at every else but the person they’re with. There’s a rowdy group of young men playing pool - all the local boys a year or two out of high school having gained all the independence they’ll ever have for the rest of their lives. And Harold, hunched over the bar, his shoulders slumped. There’s an open seat on either side of him, and the bar patrons glance at him, then look away. That’s not why Andy’s so shocked, even though he’d always taken Harold as an early-to-bed-with-an-improving-book-in-the-sanctity-of-his-own-home sort of man. Harold doesn’t like bars, doesn’t like being out late, doesn’t like people. None of this is what’s shocking Andy.

Andy’s shocked because Harold is drunk. Andy can see it in the way he’s playing with his glass, rocking it back and forth on the bar top, watching the liquid swirl. In the way his chin is on his hand like a petulant child. Andy smiles as he slides into the seat next to Harold and orders.

“Are you drunk, doctor?” he says.

Harold startles, chin slipping off his hand, glass hitting the bar with a thunk. He looks at Andy with wide gray eyes, his mouth a little open and wet. Andy sees the cogs work in his head, sees when he straightens himself up like a puppet. “Another brilliant diagnosis from Dr. Brown,” he says. It loses its sting a little when his hair is mussed like he’s had a hand in it, when his collar is askew and his sweater vest rumpled.

“I’ve just never seen you like this. What is it, what’s wrong?" He nods to the bartender as he takes the six-pack and pays.

Harold looks at him. “Leaving?” he says.

“Well, I’d stay and have a drink with you, but I don’t know if you need any more.”

Harold sneers at him, gestures at the bartender to refill his glass, and throws down a five. “Not here. Come on.” He gets up, tripping on the footrail just a little, and his head swings around to see if anybody had seen. If anybody’s laughing at him. He’s still got his drink firmly in his hand. Andy feels something pinch and shift in his chest and he swaps the six-pack into his other hand. He follows Harold out of the bar, out into the cold, which burns his face, his hands, and down the street to -

“This is my office,” Andy says as they stop in front of the train depot.

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Harold says.

“Would you like to come in to my office, Harold?” Andy says, theatrically, and Harold tries another sneer, but it doesn’t quite make it. The delicate skin under his eyes is thin and bruised, his eyes very dark under the streetlight just outside. Andy unlocks the door and, Harold, looking over his shoulder again, steps inside first, nearly pushing Andy out of the way. Andy shakes his head as he shuts the door behind them and locks it.

“Leave the light off,” comes Harold’s voice from across the room when he reaches for the switch. “Please.”

“Sure,” Andy says. There’s enough light spilling in through the blinds from the streetlight that he can make out Harold’s lanky form as he walks over to the exam table and sits on it. He lets out a little oof. The plastic creaks under him as he shuffles on it.

Andy is starting to get very, very concerned. He pulls a chair over and sits down.

“Harold, are you alright?” he says. “Only I didn’t know you drank.”

“Can’t a man enjoy the dubitable pleasures of a bar if he so chooses? You were there.”

“I was getting a six pack and going home.”

“What, so you can get drunk while your children are asleep?” he lashes out.

“You don’t want to be at home, do you?” Andy says.

Harold sighs. Andy sees him raise the glass up in the slatted light, drink from it. He licks his lips as he lowers it, streetlight glinting on them. “Rose and I had an argument. One of many. Or, well, the same one, over and over again.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not so bad. Couples argue, Harold-”

“Tell me, Andy,” Harold says, straightening up a little, “are there a lot of homosexuals in New York?”

Andy blinks at the change of subject. Then he takes a bottle out of his six pack and opens it, because what the hell. “Well, I suppose there is a thriving community in larger metropolitan areas. New York is known for being progressive compared to, well, a place like-”

“Like Everwood?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?” He leans forward to try to catch Harold’s eye, but the other man is staring down at his glass. The light stripes across the walls, the counters and cabinets, making Andy’s daytime world strange in the night. Transformed.

“How many homosexuals would you say there are in Everwood?” Harold asks.

“Well, I really don’t like to assume-”

“How many?” He sips, noisily. Andy wonders how drunk he is, how many he’s had? His voice is a little more abrupt, a little slurred. He’s flushed, eyes glittering. Where is this going?

“Well - alright.” Andy pulls on his beer to buy him some time. “Twenty? Thirty? Are we counting those who are admitting it to themselves, or, or their loved ones?”

“Wrong,” says Harold, dramatically, “There’s one.” And, oh. That’s what this is about. Andy straightens up, tries to catch Harold’s eye.

“Are you sure? That seems an unrealistically low number.”

“I’m sure.” Andy can see as Harold shifts again and lays back, slowly, until he’s on his back. The light stripes over him. “It’s not like Everwood is some homosexual paradise.”

Andy calculates, briefly. It takes no time at all. “If it was, I might’ve moved here sooner,” Andy says. Harold’s head turns towards him. Andy can see his eyes glitter in the dark. “Besides, I can think of at least three.”

“Three?”

“Are we counting bisexuals?”

“Oh, why not. Everybody else does.”

“Well, then,” Andy says, and flashes him a smile. “Make it three. I’m afraid I can’t tell you the third. Sworn to secrecy.” He winks. Harold’s mouth parts as he looks at him, and then, hand shaking, takes a noisy sip. He spills a little, since he’s laying down, swipes at his mouth with his fingers, then wipes them on his vest. “Harold, there’s nothing wrong with being gay,” Andy says, in his best bedside voice. He leans forward, his hand very close to Harold’s ankle on the table.

Harold takes in a breath. “No?” he says. “That’s easy for you to say. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with it in, in New York City. Or when you’re not-”

“When you’re not what, Harold?” Married? Catholic? Harold Abbott? Suddenly it is absolutely important he knows what Harold is trying to say. But Harold just presses his lips together and shakes his head, then stares at the ceiling again.

The clock ticks, faintly, in the corner. They sit in silence, just their breathing.

“Physician, heal thyself,” Harold says.

“Good thing there’s two doctors in town.”

Harold turns his head to look at Andy. “It’s like the old joke. There’s two barbers in town. How do you know which one to go to?”

Andy knows the answer, but he says, anyway, softly, “How?”

“Whichever one is in worse shape.”

“And which one of us is that?”

“You tell me, Doctor Brown.” Something mocking in the words, something soft.

“Are you in pain?” Andy says, standing now, leaning on the table over Harold.

“Yes,” says Harold. Just a breath.

“Where?”

Harold just shakes his head.

“Tell me where it hurts,” Andy says. He puts his beer down, takes the glass from Harold’s hand, and puts that down, too. He looks down at Harold in the striped light - Harold’s dark eyes, the silver flash of his hair. His hands clenched tight and empty at his sides. Andy takes a deep breath, and then puts his hands on Harold’s calves. “Any pain?” He begins to push and press, firmly, prodding, feeling Harold under his hands, the shape of his muscles, his prominent bones. “Any pain here ? How about here?” At each spot as he moves across Harold’s body, Harold shakes his head, or says, no, softly. No. He’s warm. When he presses on Harold’s thighs, squeezing a little, Harold swallows, hard. When he presses his fingers to his groin, firm but gentle, Harold’s breathing picks up. Everything is normal, Harold’s body under his palms more a revelation than an examination. Tomorrow he will sit next to Harold at the diner as he does every morning, their shoulders brushing as they move closer together to let someone else in; sometimes their knees bump. Andy continues. He touches Harold’s stomach, his arms, his armpits, the base of his throat, under his jaw, fingers softening to a brush, feeling the scrape of stubble, feeling him swallow. Finally, Andy presses a palm flat to Harold’s chest, flexes his fingers. He can feel Harold’s heart pounding, feels his ribs rise and fall in rapid breaths. “Any pain?” he says, staring into Harold’s dark eyes.

“There,” Harold says. “Right there.”