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Archie couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he first saw Malcolm Gold. It was the strange feeling of recognizing someone when you know you’ve never seen them before - he recognized Gold’s nose, recognized his strained brown eyes and pointed ears. But it was odd to see them in someone twenty years older and half-a-foot taller. Malcolm’s hair was shorter than Gold’s, but Archie still got the impression that it was overgrown.
He wandered home in a daze, unsure what he’d just seen. He went through the motions of greeting Gold -- kissing him on the cheek, murmuring a hello. Gold was chopping celery, and Archie wound up standing by the stove, staring into midair, unaware of Gold’s concerned expression.
“Archie?” Gold said tentatively. “Are you alright?”
Archie jolted; he opened his mouth to dismiss the question, then thought better of it. “Uh, Gold?” he said. “Did you know there’s someone in town who … uh, who looks just like you?”
Gold’s face gave nothing away.
“Like a doppelganger,” Archie said, “but older. Twenty years older.”
Gold grimaced and turned back toward the cutting board. “Like my father, maybe?” he said flatly, tucking his hair behind his ears. Archie’s mouth fell open; he just stood there for a long moment, staring at Gold in disbelief.
“Are you serious?” he asked finally. Gold’s eyes flickered toward him and then away again. “Gold … does your father live in town?”
Gold dumped the celery in a pot and added a little too much cayenne pepper into the soup. “Do you want spicy soup or spicy tilapia?” he asked. “You may be getting both. I’m already making soup. And the fish.”
“Gold.”
Gold glanced over at him, looking pained. “He lives here,” he said. He bit his lip and looked like he might say something else, but the oven beeped before he could, and he busied himself for at least five minutes seeing if the fish was ready.
“Your dad lives here,” said Archie. “In Storybrooke.”
Gold nodded. He plated the fish and reached around Archie to turn the stove up, bringing the soup to a boil within seconds.
“How long?” Archie asked. Gold sighed.
“Can you get two bowls out, please?”
Archie did so, but he made sure to glare at Gold the whole time. Gold caught his eye and gave him a sardonic look.
“He’s lived here for five years,” he said. “We don’t talk much.”
He handed Archie a plate silently and brushed past him to the living room, limping heavily. Archie followed, set his food down, and then went back for Gold’s cane. He set it next to the couch.
“Thanks,” Gold murmured. Archie sat down next to him with a heavy sigh.
“Can I meet him?” he asked. Gold winced.
“Just eat your dinner,” he muttered.
“He raised you alone, right?” Archie said. “You mentioned he was a single parent once. I’d like to meet him.”
Gold didn’t respond; he turned on the TV and took a big bite of tilapia, deliberately avoiding Archie’s eyes.
“Is he a homophobe?” Archie asked, his voice hushed and serious. Gold’s expression didn’t change.
“No,” he said. “I think he’s pan.”
“Well--”
Gold interrupted Archie with a sigh that seemed to last forever. He balanced his plate on the edge of the couch and used his hands to pick at his eyelashes, a nervous habit that always made Archie wince. “We just don’t get alone, Archie,” Gold said, jaw tight. “Every time we speak it’s another argument--”
“You just don’t get what?” Archie asked, eyebrows furrowing. Gold looked at him, confused, peeking at Archie through splayed fingers.
“We don’t get along,” he said.
“No,” said Archie, sitting up straighter. Gold leaned away by reflex. “You said alone.”
“What?”
“You said you just don’t get alone,” Archie said. Gold rolled his eyes and turned back to the TV. “What does that mean?”
“You heard me wrong,” said Gold. He was still tugging on his own eyelashes, and at this angle, his hands completely covered his face.
“I didn’t.”
“Well, then I misspoke,” said Gold. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, I’d still like to meet him,” Archie said, slumping against the back of the couch. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. You’ve never said anything bad about him.”
Gold tore his hands away from his face, revealing an expression of deep exasperation. “There’s isn’t anything bad to say!” he said. “He was a fine father, alright, but that doesn’t mean you can strongarm me into a fucking visit to him!”
Archie scowled and set his plate down, too. “I’m not forcing you,” he said. “I’m just asking. I want to meet him and I think it would be kinda weird if I just showed up on my own like, ‘hi, I’m your son’s boyfriend.’ I don’t even know where he lives.”
Gold gave a testy sigh and brought his hand up to hide his mouth; Archie knew from experience that he was twisting his bottom lip between his finger and his thumb. He’d seen Gold do that plenty of times, usually when he was too pissed for words. On one or two occasions, Gold had twisted hard enough to hurt himself, fingernails digging into his lips and drawing blood.
Archie closed his eyes and gave himself a few seconds to regain composure. When he finally spoke, he was careful to use his softest, gentlest tone.
“Remember when we visited my parents?”
Gold’s eyes were blank and he was silent, worrying at his lip. But eventually, he turned and studied Archie’s face, eyes flickering up and down. There was a guilty look on Gold’s face.
“Yes,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“It wasn’t pretty,” Archie admitted. His parents had been living in a caravan in rural New York, so Gold and Archie had been uncomfortably close to the elder Hoppers the entire time. Gold had lasted nearly forty-five minutes of insults and ridicule -- some of it directed to him, but most of it for Archie -- before he’d started snapping back. After that, everything was tense and it just kept escalating until finally, two hours later, Gold and Archie’s father had gotten in a fistfight, and then Archie’s mother had joined in, bloodying Gold’s nose, and Archie was forced to drag Gold out the door before he committed murder.
“Not pretty,” Gold agreed. A shadow of a smile crossed his face, though, and Archie knew instantly what he was thinking about.
“Do you remember that stupid little fox?”
Gold let out a startled laugh, lowering his chin to his chest in a half-assed attempt to hide his amusement. “Yes,” he said.
It was a little wooden trinket, hand-carved, that Archie’s mother had bragged about at least seven times over dinner. She said it was gifted to her by one of Archie’s old friends who still lived nearby, helping the Hoppers with their various scams and generally being a better son than Archie was. After the fistfight, Gold had squirmed out of Archie’s grip and hurtled back inside the caravan to snatch the fox and throw it on the bonfire outside.
“You think it’ll end in a fight?” Archie asked. “If we visit your dad?”
Gold’s smile faded away; he crossed his arms loosely around his stomach and stared at the TV, eyes blank. For a long time, Archie thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Archie,” said Gold finally, “I haven’t spoken to my dad in ages. We’re not … he isn’t hostile, like your parents, but …. There’s no reason for it, really. We just don’t get along.”
Archie said nothing. Eventually, Gold leaned into him, one hand plucking absently at his eyebrows. Archie put an arm around Gold and forced that hand down; there was a moment of utter stillness, and then Gold relaxed, his head resting on Archie’s shoulder.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” Gold said, voice low. “If he wants me to come over … I’ll see about this weekend, if he’s free.”
Archie squeezed Gold closer and kissed him on the top of the head.
“I’ll throw everything he owns into a bonfire if he’s mean to you,” he said.
Archie doesn’t get to hear the phone call between Gold and Malcolm; when he stumbles downstairs for breakfast the next morning, it’s just in time to hear Gold say, “Bye, then,” and hang up the phone. Archie froze in the doorway, raising his eyebrows. Gold pretended not to see.
“I made french toast,” said Gold, turning his back on Archie to prepare a plate. “And Dad said we should come over Saturday night.”
Archie mulled this over, taking a seat at the kitchen table. He had to shuffle a few stray books into a pile to make room for his plate, which Gold slid into place as soon as Archie was done. In one graceful movement, Gold nicked the top book from the pile and took his seat, reading the title absently.
“Did he say what time?” Archie asked.
“Six,” said Gold.
“Pass me the syrup?”
Gold glanced up, located the syrup, and edged it toward Archie with one finger. He opened the book and scanned the first page. “Is this a novel or a … very long poem?” he asked.
“It’s both,” said Archie.
“Christ.”
“It’s Nabokov,” said Archie. Gold looked unimpressed, but he was still reading the book. Archie doused his french toast in syrup and cut it into generous slices, too impatient to really dice it up. “How long has it been since you last talked to him?” he asked.
“I’ve never talked to Nabokov,” said Gold absently.
“To your dad, sweetheart.”
“Ah,” said Gold. He turned a page. “Just this morning, sweetheart,” he said, mimicking Archie’s tone. His eyes flicked up briefly, shining with mischief.
“You’re a dick,” said Archie, not without humor. “You know what I meant.”
“I do, yes,” said Gold, returning to his book with a hint of a smile. “I can’t remember the last time we spoke. We passed each other on the street a while back. Early last year.”
“I see,” said Archie. He let a few minutes pass in silence, his eyes running up the spines of the stack of books near his elbow. When he finished the french toast, Archie brought his plate to the sink and rinsed it out. Gold had left the dirty pan on the stove, the burner on, and the milk and eggs out. Archie looked over his shoulder and found Gold entirely engrossed in Pale Fire.
“Are you eating breakfast?” Archie asked.
“No,” said Gold, not looking up. “Just tea.”
Archie scanned the table, then the counter, and found Gold’s teacup forgotten near the fridge. He deposited it near Gold’s hand and then set himself to cleaning the mess on the countertops. The last thing he did was put the milk and eggs in the fridge, and when the fridge door clicked shut, Gold startled, knocking over the cup of tea and staring at Archie with wide eyes.
“Did I forget to--”
“Your tea,” Archie said, already heading toward the table with a roll of paper towels. Gold looked down at the mess with bemusement and moved the stack of books out of the way. He took the paper towels from Archie and mopped up the mess with one hand, holding his Nabokov book aloft with the other.
“Are you really reading that?” asked Archie doubtfully as Gold dumped the paper towels in the trash.
“Yes,” said Gold. Archie waited to see if there was any further explanation forthcoming.
“You’re reading it awful fast,” he said. Gold shot him a closed, wary look.
“I’m not,” he said.
“You are,” said Archie. “You’re already five pages in.”
Gold craned his neck to look at the clock on the wall, a horrible kitschy thing shaped like a cricket that Archie had welded together in the garage. “It’s been ten minutes,” he said. “When you read, you average two minutes per page.”
Archie’s face softened. He tried to unsoften it before Gold saw, but he didn’t quite make it; Gold caught sight of Archie’s face and instantly soured.
“Don’t give me that look,” he said, turning furiously back to the book.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m trying to speed-read, if you must know,” said Gold.
“I don’t speed-read,” Archie said lamely. Gold shot him another wary look. “Maybe I read faster than normal, though,” Archie added, not convinced that this was true. He moved to stand behind Gold, looking at the pages open before him. “Is it making more sense, when you speed-read?” he asked tentatively.
There was a long pause. Gold put down the book with a huff.
“Not a bit,” he said.
“Well,” said Archie, trying his best not to sound pedantic, “reading faster...maybe isn’t the best cure for dyslexia, anyway.”
Gold ignored him. He grabbed his cane and stood, crossing to the teapot to make himself a fresh cup. He left Pale Fire abandoned on the table. Archie stared at the book for a moment and then grabbed it, weighing it in his hand. He flipped it over and read the summary on the back.
“Did you get anything out of it?” he asked. Gold kept his back turned, busy with the tea.
“Someone named John,” he said gruffly. Archie flipped through the first few pages and found that this wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
“I’ll get you the audiobook, if you’re interested,” he said. Gold sipped his tea, eyes closed, and didn’t indicate whether the audiobook would be a welcome gift. It was getting close to eight, when both Archie and Gold would have to leave for work.
“You should go get dressed if you want to walk together,” Gold said, finally opening his eyes. He was already immaculately dressed himself, having put a bit more effort into his appearance than he had into cleaning the counters.
“Leave without me,” Archie said. “I still have to walk Pongo, and my first appointment isn’t till ten today.”
“You’re sure?” Gold asked. His eyes roved over Archie’s face, genuinely checking every twitch of every muscle to make sure Archie was comfortable walking alone. It brought a grin to Archie’s face; it always did. He loved how carefully Gold watched people.
“I’m sure,” he said. He leaned in to give Gold a quick kiss; Gold stilled and kept his eyes open. But at least he returned the kiss this time. Sometimes he seemed to forget. “I’ll see you at lunch,” Archie said. “I love you.”
“You too,” said Gold.
Archie knew Gold’s childhood wasn’t exactly idyllic. They led fairly similar lives -- both the children of conmen, both poor, both lonely. Gold never shared much about himself, but Archie knew -- from a very sleepy conversation they had in bed once -- that Gold was homeless for most of his prepubescent years and that he grew so little as a child that people suspected he was horribly ill.
He knew that Gold’s mother left before he was named and came back twice, briefly, when he was three and again when he was six. And he knew that Gold was unsure of his birthday, that he didn’t have a birth certificate until the age of twelve, and that Gold used three different names interchangeably for years.
“They told me to choose one when I was twelve,” Gold said once, not specifying who “they” were. “I wasn’t sure which one was real.”
According to his license, Gold’s first name was Ira. Archie had tried calling him that a few times and found that it fit awkwardly around his tongue, and Gold always gave him an embarrassed look when he used it, so it quickly fell out of use again.
The other two names he’d used had been Ian and Ignatius. His father was fond of Ignatius, Gold had said once with a deeply unhappy look.
Still, with all the sadness in Gold’s childhood -- both the overt and the implied -- Archie had never heard anything truly bad about Gold’s father. Granted, he hadn’t heard a lot about Gold’s father overall, and there were some troubling gaps in Gold’s stories that left Archie puzzled, but for the most part it seemed that Gold was fond of his dad.
“We took in a stray dog once,” Gold said one night, when he and Archie were sitting on the couch, watching Pongo tear into a new toy. “It had a broken leg. My father set it and showed me how to make a splint.”
Then he’d lapsed into silence, his eyes fixed on Pongo.
“What kind of dog was it?” Archie asked. Gold shrugged with one shoulder.
“Some sort of terrier mix,” he said. “A mutt.”
Archie nodded, and waited for Gold to go on. When he didn’t, Archie struggled to think of a question to keep the story going.
“What did you name it?” he asked. Gold’s mouth quirked.
“Pickles,” he said.
“Pickles?” Archie laughed. “Did you choose that?”
“No,” said Gold, his nose wrinkling. “I wanted to name it Sebastian. Dad said that wasn’t a proper name for a dog.”
Archie had laughed uncontrollably at that, and then he’d tried to get Gold to say how old he’d been at the time -- maybe because of all the laughter, Gold refused.
It was one of very few stories Gold told about his dad. The next story came months later, when Archie found out Gold had never seen Mulan.
“It’s sacrilege, frankly,” Archie said. “Mulan is easily -- easily -- the best 2D Disney movie. What else haven't you seen? Have you seen The Incredibles? Have you seen The Muppets Christmas Carol?”
“Don’t make up movies,” Gold said. Archie stared at him in utter shock, his mouth hanging open. After a long pause, he managed a high-pitched, offended sound.
“Make up movies? You’ve never even heard of these?”
“I’ve heard of The Muppets,” Gold said stubbornly, giving Archie a beady stare.
“Okay,” said Archie, putting down his notes from work, accepting that his concentration was completely shot for the day. “Listen, what was the last kids’ movie you ever saw?”
Gold’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t seen a great deal of children’s films.”
“Well, what was your favorite movie growing up?” Archie asked. Gold leaned back in his chair.
“We didn’t have a television,” he said. “We went to the theater sometimes, but my dad really only liked to watch Westerns.”
“Hopeless,” Archie muttered. “We’re watching everything. Have you seen Snow White? Pinocchio? Peter Pan? ”
“I’ve read Peter Pan,” said Gold evenly. “It was my dad’s favorite book. We always owned a copy of it. Really, it was the first book I ever read on my own.”
Archie processed that information. “Well, that’s touching,” he said eventually, “but it doesn’t make up for your complete unfamiliarity with Western animation.”
“I’ve seen South Park,” Gold said, giving Archie a wry look. Archie tossed his papers at Gold’s head and Gold ducked them, laughing.
“You,” said Archie, “are an uncultured swine.”
The visit with Malcolm was approaching fast, and though Gold didn’t seem willing to admit it, it was making him awfully tense. Archie could always tell when Gold was nervous or upset because he cleaned up after himself without being asked. The first warning sign was when Archie came down to breakfast on Thursday, after sleeping through his alarm three times, and saw that Gold had not only made breakfast, but also tidied the counters and kitchen table.
Archie stopped in the doorway and scratched his head, raising his eyebrows at the gleaming tile. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” said Gold, making himself a cup of tea.
“You’ve cleaned the counters,” Archie commented. Gold’s mouth twitched.
“Right. Because if I clean something, I must be ill,” he said, voice clipped. Archie said nothing, privately thinking that this was more or less true. Gold was most comfortable in a cluttered house, and really only strove to alter that situation when he was feeling down.
They walked to work together silently, Gold leaning heavily on his cane. In the morning light, Archie could see dark circles under Gold’s eyes that hadn’t been fully visible indoors. Gold hadn’t been eating, probably hadn’t been sleeping, either.
We should call off the visit, Archie thought. But on Friday night he was standing in front of his mirror, trying to figure out which outfit would impress Malcolm the most. He desperately needed Gold’s opinion, but Gold hadn’t come home yet. He’d been staying at work later this week, and Archie strongly suspected that he might try to sleep there tonight. He resolved to call Gold if he wasn’t home by six.
Archie sighed at his reflection and looked through his closet again. He could pair his green tie with his striped brown vest, or his blue tie with the grey plaid. Or … he hesitated, searching through his ties for the deep red one, the one he’d been wearing when he and Gold had first kissed. It had never been a favorite of his before that day, but now it made him feel inordinately confident.
Downstairs, the front door opened. Archie sighed in relief and switched the red tie for the blue, then switched again. When Gold came into the bedroom, still wearing his overcoat, Archie flashed him a smile.
“Thank God, you’re here,” he said. “I can’t decide what to wear.”
Gold’s eyes swept over Archie’s sweater, then to the waistcoats and dress shirts laid out on the bed. His expression didn’t change, completely unreadable to Archie. Without speaking, Gold moved past Archie and shifted the grocery bags hooked over his elbow to the floor. Archie focused on them, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to figure out what they’d needed from the grocery store.
“Don’t make fun of me,” Gold said warningly, feeling Archie’s stare on the back of his head.
“What?” said Archie. That earned him a brief, pleading look from Gold as he pulled a flannel shirt from the grocery bag.
It was the most average, mediocre flannel shirt Archie had ever seen. The colors were an unbelievably normal mix of white, black, red, and blue. It was a shirt Archie had seen millions of times before, on truckers, on mechanics, on farmers. On Leroy.
“Gold,” said Archie carefully, “what’s that?”
Gold’s mouth tightened and he hung the flannel shirt up in the closet without a word. The next item he pulled from the bags was a dull blue t-shirt, and then a pair of light-blue jeans, and then a pair of sneakers. Archie’s eyebrows climbed higher with every item, and reached their peak when Gold hung up the pièce de résistance -- a painfully ordinary brown bomber jacket.
“I said don’t make fun,” Gold said again when Archie opened his mouth. Archie fumbled for words.
“Gold, I -- I don’t -- are those --?”
“It’s what I’m wearing tomorrow,” said Gold without emotion. One of his hands stole up and started picking at his eyelashes.
“Sweetheart, no,” Archie said. He closed the distance between himself and Gold, grabbing both his hands and squeezing them. “You don’t belong in flannel shirts. Trust me, I’d love to see you in one -- I think it would be adorable -- but you … you shouldn’t try to be someone you’re not.”
Gold rolled his eyes and tried to pull away. “I haven’t been wearing suits my whole life,” he said.
“Only for the past forty years,” said Archie.
“Not even,” said Gold. He tugged his hands away and gave Archie his gentlest smile. “I’m an uncultured swine, remember?”
“But your dad’s seen you in suits before,” Archie spluttered, unable to comprehend what was happening. “I-I thought you were gonna come home and -- and tell me none of my ties were good enough, or something.”
Gold looked stricken. “You’re planning to wear a tie?” he said.
“Oh, dear Christ,” said Archie. He pulled Gold into a tight hug. “What’s happened to you? You’re traumatized.”
Gold laughed against Archie’s chest.
“Really, please tell me you didn’t take the tags off those clothes,” said Archie, reaching up to play with Gold’s hair. “There’s no way your dad would … I mean, what parent wouldn’t be happy to see their son wearing a tailored suit?”
Gold laughed again, but this time it was a bit too bright and airy to sound natural. “I just don’t want to make him uncomfortable,” he said. He wrapped his arms around Archie’s waist. “He’s seen me in suits before, as you said. I’m not certain he liked it.”
Archie groaned. “Gold, please,” he said. “I don’t think I could survive seeing you in jeans. Why don’t you just … I don’t know. Stick with your usual stuff. Tone it down a little. Maybe don’t wear a jacket.”
Gold said nothing, but he didn’t pull away, which signaled to Archie that he was at least considering it.
“And help me pick out a tie,” Archie said. “I’m thinking the red one.”
He felt Gold smile against his chest. “The one you were when we first kissed?”
“Oh, babe,” Archie said, “like I remember what I wore the first time we kissed. Come on, I’m not obsessed.”
Gold laughed again.
Malcolm lived in a townhouse in one of Storybrooke’s family neighborhoods, which sent a rush of relief through Archie; part of him had been worried Malcolm might be living in one of his own son’s apartments. He’d settled on the red tie - of course - and the plain brown vest, relying heavily on the confidence boost it gave him. Beside him, Gold looked small and self-conscious, wearing the unremarkable new bomber jacket over a burgundy-colored silk shirt. Gold called it his ‘bad shirt’ because he didn’t like the way it looked against his skin. The way it looked against Gold’s skin was exactly what Archie himself loved about the shirt, and he was glad to see it getting some use.
“You ready for this?” Archie asked, leading the way up the front steps. Gold hesitated. He reached up to tug on his eyelashes, then realized what he was doing and stopped. “Here,” said Archie, reaching out to help Gold up the stairs.
They stood in front of the door together, Gold pale-faced, Archie taking a deep, steadying breath.
“Well, here goes,” he said, and rang the doorbell.
It took a while before they got an answer. Archie looked at Gold nervously and was about to try knocking when he heard shuffling noises inside; another thirty seconds passed, and then they could hear the lock sliding and the door swung open, revealing Malcolm Gold.
In all his shirtless glory.
“Hi, pugnacious,” said Malcolm with a shit-eating grin that Archie had seen Gold wearing more than once.
“Hi, Dad,” said Gold, mimicking Malcolm’s cheerful tone. Malcolm’s eyes roamed from Gold, who was struggling to smile, to Archie, who didn’t know what his face looked like. His grin grew wider. “This your boyfriend?” he asked Gold, slapping Archie on the shoulder.
Archie procured an uncertain smile in response. He turned to look at Gold, trying to figure out why on Earth his father had called him pugnacious, but his attention was immediately called away by Malcolm’s booming voice.
“Oh, God,” he said, loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. “You’re not still eating your eyelashes, are you?”
Gold looked aghast, his hand flying back down to his side. “I’ve never--” he started.
“Relax,” said Malcolm, clamping his hand on Gold’s shoulder a bit harder than he had to Archie. “I’m kidding. Why don’t you guys come on in?”
Somehow, Archie ended up leading the way. Malcolm slotted in behind him, urging Archie forward with a brief touch to his back. Archie’s eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the dim light inside when he heard Malcolm say, in a voice barely above a whisper, “God, kid, what are you wearing?”
By the time Archie made it to the living room, where the lights were brighter, he was blushing on Gold’s behalf. There was an overstuffed armchair in one corner, and two plastic fold-out chairs opposite it, looking a bit dusty. Malcolm made a detour in the kitchen to grab a case of Coors Light. The whole time, Gold stayed behind him, seeming reluctant to join Archie in the living room.
“Here,” Malcolm said, handing Archie a beer. “Take a seat, mate.”
“Right,” said Archie. He perched himself carefully on the fold-out chair. Gold was more hesitant, his eyes flickering toward the DVDs stacked on the floor against the wall. Gold ignored the rickety chairs altogether, wandering over to the nearest stack and pulling a DVD from the top, reading the title.
Gold had mentioned once that his dad called him Ignatius instead of Ira or Ian. He’d seemed put out about it, and Archie had assumed it was because … well, because Ignatius was a shitty name. But it rhymed with pugnacious, he mused, opening the beer.
“Dad, these are all kids’ movies,” Gold said, still examining the DVDs. Malcolm unscrewed his beer and took a sip.
“They’re the best movies ever made, you mean,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Hook. Old Yeller. Muppets Christmas Carol.”
Archie started and turned to look at Gold, a surprised grin on his face. Gold scowled at him, but he put the DVD back and took a seat. Like Archie, he seemed a little concerned the chair might collapse underneath him.
“Weird to see you not wearing a suit, Iggy Stardust,” Malcolm said. Gold winced at the nickname and glanced at Archie to see if he had noticed. Archie stifled a smile and pretended to be very interested in his beer. “Whenever I see you ‘round town, you’re always wearing one. Strutting like a peacock, as always.”
“Dad, I--” Gold started. Malcolm leaned over, retrieved another beer from the case, and handed it to Gold. Gold stuttered into silence and took the cap off with a delicacy that normally would have made Archie smile; today, it felt like a red flag. He glanced at Malcolm, saw him watching Gold, too, with his mouth twisting nastily. Archie felt a surge of distaste for Malcolm that fizzled out into dull affection when Malcolm’s face softened and he pulled Gold into a long hug. When he pulled away, Gold looked lost.
Suddenly, Malcolm turned his attention to Archie.
“I’m guessing you didn’t play a lot of sports growing up, eh?” he said, with a pointed glance at Archie’s gut. Archie forced himself to grin at that, though it left a bad taste in his mouth. He couldn’t be positive Malcolm was making a jab about his weight, but if he was … well, 160 was pretty average for 5’11. He wasn’t as thin as Gold or Malcolm, but he certainly wasn’t fat.
“Don’t worry,” said Malcolm, derailing Archie’s thoughts. He jabbed his thumb at Gold. “I wouldn’t expect that one to get with anyone sporty.”
Archie faked a laugh and snuck a look at Gold, trying to see if he was as bothered by the snide comments as Archie was. Gold was staring down at his beer.
Malcolm reached down and cracked open another one. He pulled a remote from a crack in the armchair and aimed it at a TV located directly between Archie and Gold’s chairs. A B-grade horror movie crackled to life a little too close to Gold’s ear, making him flinch; Malcolm didn’t seem to notice. He changed the channel to a soccer game and flashed Archie another crooked grin.
“How tall are you?” he asked.
Oh, God.
“Five-eleven,” said Archie, at the same time Gold answered for him,
“One-eighty.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “And you weigh...how much?”
Archie ground his teeth together. Gold answered for him again, quieter this time.
“Eleven stone.”
“What about you?” Malcolm said, turning without comment to Gold. He had an awful lot of confidence for an old, shirtless man. “You’re what, one-sixty?”
“One-sixty-eight,” said Gold, unable to keep the irritation wholly from his voice.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Malcolm with the same shit-eating grin from earlier. “One-sixty-eight. Because that’s so different. And how much do you weigh?”
Gold shot Archie a quick, furtive look before answering, “Nine stone.”
“Nine stone,” Malcolm repeated. He pulled a phone from his pocket, and Archie noted with dry amusement that it was an iPhone -- Gold still insisted on using his flip phone from 2006. “Well, let me check here -- I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure nine stone is …” He typed something in, paused, and then nodded. “Underweight. Interesting. You know, that shirt really doesn’t suit you. Hugs you all wrong. I would’ve guessed your friend here was the same as you.”
Gold winced, and Archie sunk down a spiral of internal despair. He didn’t have any clue how “nine stone” related to pounds, had no clue if Gold had lied or not, but he was grimly familiar with Gold’s body weight, and as of Monday morning, it had been 123 pounds. The healthy body weight for, say, a young woman, decades younger than Gold and several inches shorter. For the past month, Gold had eaten dinner with Archie every day, acquiesced to lunch several times, and even eaten a meager breakfast twice. With comments like these, Archie imagined those lunches were about to go away.
“Don’t get offended,” said Malcolm, holding in his hands up in a mockery of a peaceful gesture. “I’m just saying, you don’t look nine stone. You look, you know. Healthier.”
“So how much do you weigh?” said Archie sharply, unable to stop himself. He flushed at the way the words came out, rushed and stumbling, and then flushed harder when Malcolm just laughed and evaded the question.
“You boys wanna take a shot?” he asked. “I’ve got vodka.”
The visit stretched out to two hours, with Malcolm taking Gold with him halfway through to run to the corner store and get more beer. He deliberately failed to extend the invitation to Archie, leaving him alone and awkward in a foreign home. In those brief fifteen minutes without company, Archie looked over the pictures on the walls, trying to find a photo of Gold when he was a little boy.
There wasn’t one in the living room or the hallways, but in the dining room there was an old china cabinet, with a stack of dusty pictures lying on top. Archie sifted through them, looking at black-and-white images of old men and women he didn’t recognize before finally coming to one of a younger Malcolm, shirtless with long brown hair, smiling broadly at the camera as he lounged in an armchair, beer in hand. A young boy stood close-by, one hand on Malcolm’s leg, the other being licked by a scruffy terrier who was partially cut off by the edge of the picture. Gold couldn’t have been more than five, with white-blonde hair, and he was smiling too, and wearing one of his father’s t-shirts. It reached down to his ankles, looking a little like an ill-fitting dress.
Below this picture was another one, better quality, of Malcolm and Gold -- maybe two years old in this one -- slumped together on an old paisley couch. Gold was the thinnest toddler Archie had ever seen, with practically no baby fat; he was wearing a sweater and Winnie-the-Pooh underwear, his legs bare; his head was resting on his father’s shoulder, and Malcolm held a battered copy of Peter and Wendy open in his lap, his mouth open, his eyes on his son.
Archie wiped his eyes, suddenly, absurdly touched, and wondered how ethical it was to just … steal somebody else’s photos. He tucked it into his pocket, resolving to scan it when he got home and bring it back later. He didn’t want to bring it up to Malcolm, worried Gold might be embarrassed.
In no time at all, Malcolm was back, with Gold trailing behind him and looking more miserable than ever.
“Everyone likes to fool around,” Malcolm was saying, “and I’ve done a fair bit of it myself, as I’m sure you know, but really … you’re getting a bit old for this, aren’t you?”
“It’s really none of your business,” Gold said between clenched teeth. Malcolm laughed sharply, setting a new case of beer down on the counter with a bang.
“Don’t hiss at me. Jesus. I’m just playing around.” Gold stalked into the living room, his jacket still zipped up, and took a seat next to Archie. They shared a quick, foul-tempered look. He was plucking at his eyelashes again, and Archie didn’t have the heart to stop him.
“You work for a living?” Malcolm asked, coming back into the living room with a bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and three shot glasses clenched in the other. Gold grimaced when he saw the bottle. Archie wasn’t sure if Malcolm’s question was directed at him or at Gold, but neither of them answered, and Malcolm didn’t seem bothered about it.
He poured three shots and handed the fullest glass to Gold. Archie could practically feel waves of weariness and disapproval coming off Gold, but he accepted the glass nonetheless.
“No chaser,” Malcolm said, winking at Archie. They downed the shots; Archie screwed his face up against the burning in his throat. Beside him, Gold gagged in the middle of the shot and nearly spilled half of it down his front. Malcolm choked with laughter at that but mercifully made no comment.
It felt like a miraculous gift, at this point, for Malcolm not to make a comment. He poured another two shots, this time just for himself and Archie. Gold was the opposite of offended, giving Archie a look full of both pity and relief.
“So,” said Malcolm, abandoning shot glasses altogether and claiming the rest of the bottle for himself. His eyes danced mischievously from Gold to Archie. “When was the first time either of you kissed another man?”
“When I was twelve,” said Gold, with remarkable dignity. Malcolm scoffed.
“I said another man, not another boy. What about you, Arch?”
Archie sighed heavily. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Not counting my dad, I--”
God, he never regretted saying something so fast before.
“Your dad?” Malcolm shouted gleefully. “You kissed your dad?”
He looked at Gold, who quickly conjured up a pale smile, and then turned back to Archie, who was fighting back a blush.
“Not -- I mean, not romantically, obviously,” he said. Malcolm’s laughter vanished, leaving him looking genuinely baffled. Next to Archie, Gold crossed and uncrossed his legs, one hand permanently picking at his eyelashes.
“Arch, I …”
Archie was treated to the unspeakably horrible experience of watching Malcolm Gold mimic sympathy.
“I don’t know how to break it to you,” Malcolm continued, his own mock delicacy ruined by the smile he was fighting down, “but if your dad kissed you, that was…”
He rolled his eyes and made an aborted gesture. Suddenly, Archie was very tired and ready to go. He put a hand in his pocket to make sure his keys were still there and brushed against the stolen photo.
“Most parents kiss their children,” Archie said. In his head, a younger Malcolm with longer hair was reading to his son.
“The mothers, maybe,” said Malcolm. Gold turned a flinch into an unconvincing cough. “Well, maybe not your mother,” Malcolm said, with an acknowledging nod to his son.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Archie. “You’ve never kissed your own son?”
Malcolm made a face and looked at Gold, who saw his father’s expression and mimicked it a half-second too late, banishing his own, more vulnerable look.
“‘Course I haven’t,” Malcolm said. “Do people do that?”
“Yes,” said Archie.
“Yes,” Gold mumbled.
“Their own sons?” Malcolm asked, faux-scandalized.
“Well, not with tongue or anything,” said Archie. “It’s just - I dunno, a form of affection. Everyone kisses their kids.”
“Must be an American thing,” said Malcolm dismissively. Archie could feel all his frustration building together; he looked at Gold, who flinched away again, and Archie realized he must look extremely cold. He wondered about the obvious affection in the old photos, wondered what happened to fracture that -- and then remembered that, for reasons Gold would probably never share with him, Gold hadn’t been living with Malcolm past the age of twelve.
“I think you should,” said Archie decisively. Malcolm snorted; Gold stared down at his hands, looking sick. “I mean, look, I’ve - I’ve been dating your son for a while now, and - no offense, sweetheart, but - he’s got a lot of issues. Caused by you. A little affection could go a long way.”
“I’m right here,” Gold mumbled.
“Kissing him won’t make him less of a pussy,” Malcolm said, sitting back in his chair. “He’s always been a pussy. Might make it worse, in fact.”
Archie sighed and shot to his feet, knocking an empty can of Coors Light to the floor. “Okay,” he said. “Look, I think we should go, we --”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” said Malcolm. Gold’s head shot up, eyes wide. Archie was frozen in place, certain he must look as suspicious as he felt. Malcolm spread his arms out wide. “Little hug and kiss never hurt anyone.”
“Oh, God,” said Gold, speaking up for what felt like the first time in years. He covered his face. “This is ridiculous.”
Archie stared at Malcolm hard, trying to uncover any hint of insincerity. He found none. Malcolm’s face was as placid as a lakefront. “Gold,” said Archie pleadingly.
“Pugnacious,” said Malcolm in the same tone. It made Archie grit his teeth.
Gold shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “It’s … it’s moronic. There’s no point.”
“There’s no point not to,” Archie muttered, torn between seeing this through and just grabbing Gold and leaving.
“Exactly,” said Malcolm, making Archie grit his teeth harder. He’d have a much easier time convincing Gold if Malcolm would quit mocking them. Gold stood up, his left arm wrapped tightly around his stomach and his right hand covering his mouth, a position he always took when he was nervous.
“Come on, Arch,” he said, brushing his hand against Archie’s arm, not even seeming to realize that he’d repeated the nickname Malcolm had been using all night. Archie didn’t move; Malcolm looked between them and grinned wide. He stood up and stepped between them, looking down at Gold.
“One kiss,” Malcolm said.
“God, Dad,” said Gold. “Don’t. This is weird.”
“Come on,” said Malcolm. He held up a finger. “Just one.”
Gold sighed; he tightened both arms around his stomach and then dropped them to his sides, his fingers twitching nervously. He cast a quick glance at Archie, as if looking for help.
Archie gave an encouraging smile.
With a sigh, Gold turned back to Malcolm and nodded.
“Finally,” said Malcolm. He leaned forward, craned his neck, and pressed his lips to Gold’s cheek. Gold’s eyes squeezed shut; Malcolm pulled away and it was all over in a matter of seconds. He lumbered back to his chair and plopped down in it, reaching for his bottle of whiskey.
Gold’s eyes opened slowly; he stared down at the floor, not seeming to really see it. Archie glanced between him and his father before finally stepping forward and putting a hand on Gold’s shoulder, startling him out of his reverie.
“Come on,” Archie muttered. “Let’s go.”
The drive home was silent except for the low sound of the radio. Archie kept his eyes on the road, except for occasional glances to the passenger side. Gold’s face was turned toward the window, his chin resting on his hand. He didn’t speak; Archie wished he could see Gold’s reflection in the glass, but the angle was wrong.
When he pulled into the driveway and turned the car off, Gold still didn’t move. Archie took his seatbelt off and looked over at him.
“Gold?” he asked. Gold jumped a little and then sniffed; the hand by his chin moved up a little, so it was lying against his cheek. “Gold?” Archie asked. “Are you okay?”
He could hear Gold try to take a slow, quiet breath. “Mm-hmm,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” said Archie, the energy going out of him all at once. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not crying,” Gold said, his voice thick with tears. Archie swallowed a sad smile.
“It’s okay,” he said. He scooted to the edge of his seat and put a hand on Gold’s shoulder, pretending not to notice when Gold took a shuddering breath and wiped his eyes. “Why are you upset?”
“Don’t know,” Gold whispered. He turned away from the window, glancing at Archie briefly before leaning into him.
“You don’t think it’s because your dad kissed you?” Archie asked. Gold tried to wrinkle his nose humorously and let out a half-sob instead.
“That’s not a sad thing,” he said.
“It kinda is,” Archie said. “In a way. I mean, you’re - you’re fifty years old and this is the first time your dad’s ever kissed you. And anyway, people don’t always cry because they’re sad.”
“I’m certainly not happy,” Gold said.
“Not even a little?”
“Shut up,” Gold growled. He wiped his eyes and leaned harder into Archie’s shoulder, looking miserable. “I don’t normally cry this easily,” he said. Archie snorted.
“You cry all the time,” he said. “You cried three times watching Brave.”
“It was poignant,” Gold groused.
“You cry every time we watch The Last Unicorn,” Archie pointed out.
“Only during the scene with Molly Grue,” said Gold, mortified. “I don’t cry that much!”
“Not a single sad scene in Winnie the Pooh,” said Archie. “Which you also cried watching.”
Gold sat up straighter, counting the sad moments on his fingers like Archie had challenged him, totally distracted from his tears, from the awful night with his father. “When Christopher Robin says you’re braver than you believe and smarter than you think. When Winnie the Pooh says ‘oh, stuff and fluff.’ The very beginning of Brave when Merida is climbing that mountain. The very end when she thinks her mother is dying.”
“How is the beginning of Brave sad?” Archie asked. Gold gave him an offended look.
“It’s carefree and innocent,” said Gold.
“Right,” said Archie. “I agree -- and how is that sad?”
Gold threw his hands up, nose wrinkling. “How isn’t it?”
Archie just laughed, silently deciding not to continue that particular argument. “What about the Winnie the Pooh thing you mentioned? How is that sad?”
“Which one?”
“The one about ‘oh, stuff and fluff.”
Gold jabbed a finger at Archie, eyebrows raised. “I have a legitimate reason for that,” he said. “But it’s sad and it’s going to kill the pleasant atmosphere we have going.”
“Tell me anyway,” said Archie, his eyes going soft. Gold hesitated, then slowly crossed his arms.
“My mother said that to me, when she visited,” he said. “When I was six. Her other kids all said it when they were upset. She wanted me to say it, too.”
Archie said nothing.
Gold shrugged, his mouth twisting. “I said it while she was there,” he said. “But I quit when she was gone.”
For a while, Archie just stared at Gold, his chest aching.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll give you that one.” He sat back in his seat and stared out the windshield, feeling like he could sleep for twenty hours straight. “Gold,” he said eventually, “your dad is a dick.”
Gold was silent for a long time. When Archie looked at him, his eyes flickered, and he murmured, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Archie. “Really. I just … feel bad about it. You didn’t want to visit him in the first place.”
Gold rubbed his forehead, clearly dealing with the beginning of a headache. “I did want to see him,” he said quietly. “Just … I don’t know.”
“Not like that,” said Archie. “Drunk. Insulting us the whole time -- I can’t believe he likes Muppets Christmas Carol.”
Gold let out a weak laugh. “It was nice, though,” he said. “The kiss.”
The car filled up with silence. Reluctantly, Archie opened his door and got out. Gold was slower, more heavily affected by the liquor. They came together at the front door, leaning against each other again while Gold unlocked it.
“Still,” said Gold, “nice as it was, we’re never visiting him again.”
Archie didn’t respond. He put a hand on the small of Gold’s back and led him inside. His left hand stole back to his pocket, to the nicked photo of Gold, two years old, listening to his dad read Peter Pan. Gold didn’t have any photos of himself as a child; so far as Archie knew, he’d never seen one, either.
He hesitated in the parlor. Gold walked on without him, not bothering to turn on the lights as he made his way upstairs. Archie took the photo out of his pocket for just a moment, squinting at it in the dark, confirming for himself that the look Malcolm was sharing with his son was a look of mutual adoration.
He sighed and smoothed out a wrinkled corner of the photo.
He’d show Gold tomorrow.