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“Clyde, baby, go to sleep,” Doug mumbles, rubbing his eyes as he slowly comes to. Clyde is sitting on the bed, his legs tucked under him, hunched over his phone. His back is turned towards him, so Doug can’t see his face, but he assumes that whatever is going on is not good. Nothing really rouses Clyde from his sleep.
“In a second,” Clyde mumbles absentmindedly, indifferent. When Doug blinks to clear his vision, he sees Clyde’s fingers moving furiously on his phone, at breakneck speed. From the corner of his eye, Doug looks at their clock — it reads 12:03 AM, and Doug really wants to go back to bed. He just can’t do it without Clyde. He mumbles for Clyde again, but Clyde doesn’t respond. Sighing, Doug slowly rises from his place in their bed, leaning closer to Clyde and wrapping his arms around the man’s middle, resting his chin on his shoulder. He overlooks Clyde’s phone, but he can’t see who he’s texting. Before Doug could ask, though, Clyde shuts his phone off and haphazardly throws it onto their bedside table. He doesn’t move from the bed — he just sits and slumps forward, unresponsive to Doug’s hug.
“Who was it?”
“My dad,” he breathes, rubbing his eyes. “He’s here. Again.”
There’s an emotion that Doug can’t place in Clyde’s voice — it’s a mix of anger, of melancholy, of just plain exhaustion that Doug wishes he could take away from him. Clyde folds in on himself, and Doug doesn’t find words to say — he tightens his hold around him, and just holds him for a little while.
Clyde doesn’t talk about his father a lot; when they ask about him in public, Clyde prefers to make jokes about how he was a shit father, then leave it at that. Marty and Jeannie don’t ask, either. Doug assumes Clyde has told them about him, about all the things he did (or didn’t do) to him and his mom. Doug doesn’t push the topic with Clyde — but just a few months into their friendship at work, Doug asked him about his father. He didn’t really know what to expect.
(“All you need to know,” Clyde told him, voice stern, eyes unmoving from his computer, “is that he isn’t worth any of your fucking time.”
Doug didn’t push after that. Even if he barely knows anything about Clyde’s father, he knows he hates him. He’d scoop out his guts, if Clyde asked him to.)
“What does he want?” Doug asks, quietly. Clyde picks at the of his forearm, before answering, “money, probably. Maybe a place to slay. Maybe he wants to fucking live here, who the fuck knows!” His voice rises at the end, and Clyde stands abruptly, with Doug trying to keep his balance on the bed. Doug can barely see his face in the dark, but he can hear his feet pad on the ground, his breathing heavy, and he’s just — not Clyde. Before Doug can get up, the phone on the table pings again, and Clyde races over to get it. His lock screen lights up his phone, and Doug gets up to get closer and get his glasses.
“He wants to meet,” Clyde scoffs, “probably money.” Doug waits for Clyde to type a no, but Clyde’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, hesitant. “You’re gonna tell him no, right?” Doug asks.
But Clyde looks up at him, face weary.
People don’t think it — but Clyde does hold love in his heart. Or affection — something akin to that. It’s hard to see, it’s hard to get out of him — but it’s there. There’s a softness to him that only Doug gets to see — and it’s evident in the way he hesitates with his response. Doug isn’t stupid — he can put together the missing pieces of the puzzle, even if Clyde doesn’t talk about his father. To others, perhaps this decision would be a no-brainer, a fuck no. But with Clyde…
“You’re tired,” Doug states, gently plucking the phone from Clyde’s hands. He shuts it off, placing it back down on their table, along with his glasses. He rubs his hands against Clyde’s forearms, vaguely aware of the stare that Clyde gives him. “We have a busy day tomorrow. Or today, actually,” Doug pauses. “You can answer him tomorrow.”
The two of them flop back onto the bed, pulling the comforter over them. Doug instantly wraps Clyde up in his arms, and Clyde lets him. He rests his head on his chest and Doug lets him tuck his hair under his chin, the warmth engulfing them two.
“Doug,” Clyde starts, voice wavering. “He always pops up… when I’m happy. When things are going well, it’s like — he knows that. He left when I was a kid and I wish he just fucking left me and my Mom alone, but whenever things were going well with the two of us — he comes back and ruins everything. Then he’ll leave again,” he continues. Doug tenses, his grip tightening around him.
“I won’t be happy until he's dead.”
How do you respond to something like that?
—
“You don’t have to come,” Clyde says tiredly, his face lit from the glow of his computer. It was Friday, almost time for them to leave and meet Clyde’s father at the bar a little bit more in the city. Doug can’t count the amount of times Clyde’s said that.
(“He wants to meet you at a bar?” Doug had asked, when Clyde got more texts from his father over the week. Clyde shrugged — like it was nothing, like it was a regular occurrence. Doug held Clyde’s phone in his hand, rereading the short messages he was sending Clyde. Clyde never responded with more than one or two words — an “OK.” or “Sure.” He showed indifference, but Doug knew he hated him.
The thing is — Doug isn’t even surprised that Clyde agreed to meet him. Doug loved Clyde — he knew, deep in him, that he had a heart. He held affection, even forgiveness somewhere deep in there. And Clyde’s let his father back into his life so many times; he’d held onto some semblance of hope that he’ll stay. He’s told Clyde his opinion about it — the obvious answer, the obvious fuck off, but Clyde was stubborn. What else could Doug do?)
“And you don’t have to meet him in the first place,” he claps back easily, looking up at him. Clyde tenses, his shoulder’s straightening and his hands ball up into fists above his keyboard. He lets out a couple breaths, before leaning over and shutting his computer off. “I’m not leaving you with that piece of shit, man,” Doug adds. Clyde lets out a snicker, and sits back in his office chair. Doug watches as he presses his hands against his face — sighing behind them. Doug looks at the clock — it’s five minutes to five, and fuck — they really did need all hands on deck now. They’ve been working overtime every day for the last week — getting fucked over by Gage, trying to keep their shit afloat — it was a lot, but fuck it. All the harm’s been done, there’s no way it could get worse if they shut their shit off early on a Friday. He’s sure Clyde hasn’t gotten anything done in the last two hours.
He shuts off his computer too, looks around at everyone in the office starting to leave. He’s sure Marty and Jeannie are somewhere, but he couldn’t care less. Doug walks over to the desk across his — and it’s easy for him to wrap himself around Clyde. He struggles against him for a second, then stops and leans against him, and his arms come to wrap around his middle. Doug can feel his cheek pressing against his stomach. It tugs at his heart as he runs his hands through Clyde’s curly hair.
“We don’t have to go,” Doug says. He tries to lighten the mood, “you can come with me to D&D night?” (He’s already taken Clyde to D&D night with some of his buddies in town. It didn’t exactly end up well — Clyde raged a little, and honestly, it was very amusing to Doug. He didn’t really grasp the game, and it left him feeling so out of place that it’d take something crazy for him to go and play again. I’ll like, sit on the couch or something? You’re a fuckin’ geek, Doug, he said on their way home.)
Doug smiles when that elicits a chuckle from Clyde. Clyde lifts his head off his stomach, rests his chin and looks up at him. “I’d actually prefer that over seeing my dad, believe it or not.”
“Okay, then,” Doug continues, “let’s go.”
Clyde smiles back, one that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. He stands, “he’ll keep calling.”
Doug knows there isn’t anything that could sway Clyde. All he could do is hop alongside him, press their legs together under the table at the bar, and dig his nails into Clyde’s palm so he doesn’t reach over and strangle the man who’ll sit just a couple feet away from them.
—
Doug keeps a neutral expression when Harvey Oberholt bumbles into view. He’s balding, a little grey-haired and stout. He’s shorter than Clyde, and he imagines that Clyde got his height from his mother. (Who he’s also never met, but Clyde’s never said anything bad about her, so.)
The bar is dark, a little loud and full and Doug absolutely despises it. He doesn’t drink that much anymore anyway, so he sits with a coke and kind-of wishes he wasn’t sober for all of this. He glances at Clyde, who almost shrinks at the sight of his father — and Doug knows that he’s going to hate Harvey Oberholt for more than an eternity.
His grip instinctively tightens on Clyde’s thigh, as Harvey grins at them.
“Not even a hug, Clyde?” he bellows, his voice loud over the noise. It’s firm, unwavering. Clyde’s slight wince doesn’t escape him. He rolls his eyes at his father, “fuck off, Dad.” Still, he puts out a hand to shake and his father takes it, his hand squeezing Clyde’s. Harvey looks over at Doug as he sits, commenting, “he hasn’t seen me in over five years and I can’t even get a hug!”
Doug blinks at him, as Clyde takes his hand away quickly. Harvey leans on the table, and puts out a hand to him, too. “Harvey Oberholt. And you’re…”
“Douglas,” he says firmly, gripping Harvey’s hand a little tighter than one should. He hates using his full name like that — but he doesn’t want to give Harvey the satisfaction of using his name. It’d probably sound like shit, coming from him.
“I didn’t know my son was bringing a friend. Hah, if I’d known, I’d have brought my new—”
“I don’t wanna know, dad, please. I could not give a shit.”
“Well, I thought it was just going to be the two of us! Father-son bonding?” Harvey sneaks a glance over at him, almost like a signal to Doug. He’s not wanted, like he couldn’t give a shit about him. He feels Clyde’s palm on his thigh — firm, keeping him in place.
“He’s not leaving. Let’s just get this shit over with.”
“Eh, it might be for the better. Honestly, Douglas, I’m glad Clyde has a friend he can count on. When he was a kid, he used to come home and cry about not getting along with anyone at the elementary school! Could you believe that?”
Doug hates that he can hear Clyde in his voice — the inflections, the way he draws out his words. He hates how Clyde doesn’t fight back — it’s jarring, to see how easily he concedes here when in every other area of his life, Clyde has always been the one to get the last word in. He hates that he can see similarities between the two of them — because he sounded so awful, so horrible that it feels hateful to compare Clyde to his father.
“I don’t want to hear about that,” Doug says evenly, trying to quell his anger. Harvey snickers, rolling his eyes, “I’m joking! Lighten up, you two! Where’s your drinks — Douglas, what’re you having?”
His voice pierces Doug’s ears, and he looks over at Clyde. His face is a little red and his eyes are closed. Still, he has an iron grip on him — like if he lets go, Doug’ll just leave forever. He grips Clyde’s hand even tighter, letting him know that he’s there.
“Coke. I don’t drink that much anymore,” he says monotonously, getting an eyebrow raise from Harvey.
“Jesus, fuck. Couldn’t imagine that. I’ll add some rum to that — where’s our server? I hope she’s sexy, huh? Oh, and this’ll be on you, right son?”
Doug wishes he got a beer instead.
—
The night pushes on just like that — his father carries the conversation, with Doug awkwardly chipping in. Sometimes, Clyde’ll say something — but it’s painful, and fuck, Doug couldn’t imagine being with this man for more than an hour. He supposes that if he didn’t know much about him, or Clyde — he sees the charm, the salesman facade he puts on. But he sees right through it, how it hides everything underneath.
But at some point, after the handful of rum-and-cokes Harvey downs, it becomes too much. Now, Harvey and Clyde were fully conversing — a topic that’s flying over Doug’s head. It’s something about money, about sickness, about his mother — but Doug can only see the vitriol in Clyde’s eyes.
Doug isn’t a violent person. He’s never been. He isn’t confrontational, either. And it should’ve been a problem for his line of work, but it's never been. He has Clyde to thank for that, really. But here — he contemplates an idea in his head. He thinks he could do it — lean over, get his hands around him, and get away with it. He’ll look him in the eye, spit out a fuck you and get it over with.
That’s the other thing he hates about Harvey — his eyes were like Clyde’s — a chocolate brown. He knows that Clyde’s eyes are from him — he’s seen a picture of Clyde’s mother and hers were jade. Pretty cruel of genetics to play with them like that — give Clyde the eyes of the man who never gave a shit his whole useless, fucking life. His eyes were beautiful; he sits across from him five days a week, looks him in the eye and he still couldn’t get enough. Doug doesn’t give a shit. Those were his. Not Harvey’s. Maybe he could scoop them out of Harvey’s head. Who knows.
He’s pulled out of his fantasies when he feels Clyde stand — pushing the table back with the amount of force and quickness. It shocks Harvey, takes him back and Doug’s back on edge. He balls his fists as the two of them argue, their voices loud and firm. Their hands fly around, and they seem to mirror each other — Doug feels shameful again for making the comparison. He can make out Clyde’s face in the dim light. He looks tired and exhausted and so completely done that Doug knows he has to put an end to this.
“I don’t fucking understand! How much do I have to give you to fully get the fuck out of my life? You never gave a shit back then, and you clearly don’t give a shit right now. What the hell is it?”
“You’re so fucking spoiled, Clyde! You always think you can get what you want — but this is the real world! So what if I wasn’t there for birthdays or your faggoty-ass school plays, or whatever the fuck you did? Look at you now — you got used to it pretty fucking quick. And be grateful — because some dads left and never came back, and some of ‘em just beat all that shit out of their kids, and maybe I should have—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Clyde yells, his fists slamming into the table. He towers over his father, his breath coming in quick huffs. Doug looks around — the bar has started to calm down, he can feel the eyes of people on them — on Clyde.
“Why can’t you just tell me exactly what you want, so you can get the fuck out? You don’t even have to pretend to give a shit about me or Mom! How is that so fucking hard for you? For once, I have something good going on in my life. I have someone I actually love, and who loves me despite how much of a shitty person I am — and you’re back here again, fucking it up like you always do. Let’s just break this shit off cleanly,” he seethes, his hands to his sides, hands balled up into fists. He’s shaking, like he’s entered new waters. When he looks at Harvey, he sees shock written all over his face — like this was the first time Clyde’s ever stood up to him like this — and Doug supposes it is. It makes him stand along with him, place his hands on his shoulders to hold him back a little bit. He stares at him, and though he’s towering over his father, yelling at him, he seems so small. Smaller than Doug’s ever seen him.
Harvey sneers — at both of them. “Oh, so you’re a faggot now? Not like I didn’t expect it, but I thought you’d be smart enough to get over it. Jesus Christ, Clyde — you’re my son and you embarrass me like this? You’ve always humiliated me—”
Doug’s body reacts before his brain. All he sees is his right arm, his fist — then the pain that blooms as a result of punching Harvey Oberholt. He feels his knuckles against his cheekbone, and the anger boiling in him when Clyde’s father hits the floor. It was a hard punch, and a hard fall to the ground. The bar falls silent then, save for the music that still plays and his and Clyde’s breathing. His father groans on the ground, cradling his cheek and his nose. Doug takes his eyes away from him to look at Clyde — his mouth open, surprise written everywhere. Clyde’s eyes meet his, and they start to move before people could throw a fit.
They gather their coats quickly, and the people around them stare — they don’t help Harvey at all, and Doug’s grateful. The couple to their left — who’s had their night ruined, for sure — both nod to the exit. “Y’all should head out, go,” the woman says, and Doug nods. Clyde’s still in a state of shock, his eyes wide as he doesn’t take his eyes off his father. Doug digs into his wallet, throws a $50 on the table and grabs Clyde’s hand. He helps him slip out from behind the table, but once Clyde is above his father — he crouches, and Doug knows he can’t interfere.
”You are a fucking asshole. And that’s all you’ll ever be to me,” Clyde spits out, with as much hate and anger and vitriol that Doug’s ever heard. Commotion starts to build up around them, and Doug knows it’s his cue to grab Clyde and usher the two of them out of the bar.
—
Once they’re out of the bar, Clyde’s the first to speak.
“We have to — we have to walk this way.”
“The car’s the other way, Clyde.”
“I know that, I know that — I’m not a fucking idiot, Doug!” he yells frantically. Doug watches him pace back and forth, then Doug hears Clyde’s father yell from inside the bar.
“Come on,” he grits, turning to the right and walking quickly. Doug follows along, trying to keep up with his pace. “Whenever we meet, he comes out and he’ll follow me to my car. We need to walk for a mile or so then we can circle back.”
“I don’t think he’s gonna be following us after—”
“You don’t know that! Did you even see him back there?” he says bitterly. Doug doesn’t push it.
It’s cold, for a winter night in Los Angeles. They definitely shouldn’t be out walking — Clyde got cold very easily, and he was pretty irritable when he was cold. Still, it doesn’t deter him. The two of them walk with vigor — Doug doesn’t know where, but he follows Clyde’s lead. They slow down after a while, and Doug gets to look at his boyfriend — how hollow, how emotionless he looks. He can only see him — and it’s Friday night in LA. They walk and walk, in silence — until Clyde suddenly stops in his tracks — in front of a Rite-Aid. Doug suddenly stops with him, turning to face Clyde. He leads them to the side of the sidewalk, under the awning of the Rite-Aid.
It’s there, where Clyde buries his face in his hands and breathes heavily, like everything was going to fall apart around them. Doug holds him by his shoulders, keeping him from shaking. He lets Clyde breathe — lets him let it all out because Doug knows he needs to. The air is cold around them, it almost numbs them to the people who pass them by.
“Doug,” Clyde whispers after a while, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you in there. He fucking shit on you and I didn’t do anything ‘cause I’m just a coward around him. You had to see—”
“Clyde,” he calls out softly, running his hands up and down his forearms, trying to get him to calm down. He chants his name softly — cutting through all the bullshit he says, until he shuts up and looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, tears starting to appear and fall down his cheeks. Doug shakes his head and takes his hands in his — he never knew Clyde could look like this.
“I’d never leave you alone with him,” he repeats, like what he said earlier in the office. “He’s so awful, I — I’m sorry. I should’ve hit him harder. I should’ve done it sooner, fuck.”
His hands move to hold Clyde’s face. His knuckles bloom red but he couldn’t care less. Clyde’s eyes close as he starts to breathe more evenly, and Doug starts to get lost in it all before Clyde calls out his name again.
“It’s like I’m at the movies — and I’m watching the previews, because shit, Doug, I’m gonna end up like that. I already feel it. I already know I’m an asshole. But the thing is, is that I have you and I actually — I care about you, and I love you. He never gave a shit about my Mom. So I can’t just — put you through that. We could end this right here, baby, while I’m semi-decent and I swear to fuck that I would never hold it against you. Okay?” his partner nods shakily, frantically — his hands coming up to grasp at Doug’s face. His hands move to his hair as he nods, like he’s trying to convince himself that this was a good idea.
“We’ll just go back to what it was before. I can make fun of you and you can shit on me and we’ll keep working together. And it’d be better, y’know? You wouldn’t have to dread me turning into that and I won’t be scared of fucking you up. Please,” he sobs, his breath catching in his throat and breaking at his name. My god, Doug thinks, I should’ve just killed him.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans forward to tuck Clyde’s head in his neck, closing his eyes as he just holds him. He holds him right there — in the middle of downtown, as Clyde cries into him. It’s something that’s never happened before — Clyde crying in front of someone that wasn’t him, much less in public. He should’ve taken his straw and stuck them right through Harvey’s eyes.
“That’s so stupid,” Doug says into his hair, after his sobs start to die down. “I’d never leave you over Harvey Oberholt. He’s not even close to being worth it.” He feels Clyde snicker against his neck again, bringing Doug some of his own comfort when he hears his laugh. Still, Clyde doesn’t face him and Doug doesn’t force him to.
Instead, he pulls him even closer. “I know you won’t ever be him, because I know you care. I know you care about me, and you love me, and you think about me.” His lover clutches at his back, his nails digging in. “I know you have trouble showing it, but it doesn’t mean you’re heartless. I know you, Clyde. He doesn’t, he never will, and he doesn’t deserve to.”
Doug closes his eyes. He means every word. There isn’t a universe where Clyde will end up like him. Deep in his heart, he knows that Clyde wished his father cared — it’s why he’s given him chance after chance to prove himself. And Clyde won’t ever give him that chance again — Doug will make sure of it, if he has to.
Clyde nods against his neck, before pulling away to wipe at his eyes. He gives Clyde a small smile as he uses his sleeve to wipe at his face, faintly aware of the blood he accidentally smears on his cheek.
“Is your hand okay?” he asks, taking his hand to examine it. It’s a little bloody, a little sore — but he was fine. “I’m good. Fuck, I’d do it ten times over.” Clyde just laughs bitterly at that.
“You got him pretty good,” he jokes, looking back up at him. Doug admires his eyes, under the artificial light of the Rite-Aid. Even the light, they’re still as gorgeous as ever, still so undeniably Clyde. Just Clyde. He runs a hand back into Clyde’s hair, before Clyde leans in to kiss him quickly.
“Thank you,” he whispers against him, and Doug knows he doesn’t just mean for the punch. It’s so sincere, so genuine, it pulls at him. He’s content to open his eyes and just look at him here, in the cold. Doug thinks about Harvey stumbling everywhere, tipsy on rum-and-cokes, and no one giving a shit about him. If they’re lucky, he’ll stumble into a ditch or even in front of a car. Maybe he’s fucked up for wishing it so genuinely, but fuck — he doesn’t deserve anything less.