Chapter Text
"Do you want to come with me, Sporus?"
When Greg looks up, he's met with the most gentle blue eyes in the world. Tom leans forward, arms pressing into his knees. He wears a gorgeous tailored white suit that’s worth more than Greg will ever see in his life. It frames him like a new bride's dress, enveloping him like he's in the spotlight, the only person worth paying any attention to at this wedding. To Tom's credit, he is . It's why Greg's gravitated to him, why he's stolen glimpses of him out of the corner of his eye while he passes time chatting up the contessa, why he's gone to cajole Tom with the fruits of his endeavors, and why Tom's now sitting across from him with an expectant gaze. He gives Greg a gentle smile. It lights up the entire world. Greg can't help smiling back.
Nonetheless, the question that Tom poses comes out of nowhere and gives Greg pause. "Can I ask for a little more information?"
Tom looks at him with such teasing fondness, as if he'd asked something so asinine and simple it was hardly worth entertaining, as if Greg was just being cute and Tom's completely amused by it. "No. Don't think so."
Tom holds his gaze completely and proposes that Greg act as his attack dog. A Gregweiler. Greg wonders for a second if "Tom's attack dog" would be a worthwhile position. He glances away, stares at nothing, and says, "I've got Brightstar Buffalo in my hip pocket. I'm kind of a big deal."
Greg looks back at Tom to catch a concerned, harrowingly transparent face of disapproval. "You fucked yourself before Congress, Greg." As if he was completely laughable. As if Greg's "big deal" was as worthwhile as the sand beneath Tom's shoes.
You're a fucking joke, man.
A little humiliating to hear, but Greg takes it. At least some truth exists in his words.
Tom leans in closer. "Who has ever looked after you in this fucking family?"
There's something uncomfortable about being exposed so suddenly. It's like Tom sees through his plays. It’s like Tom sees through him. It’s like Tom sees him for a fool, a fucking fraud, and maybe he is—everyone seems to think it. Everyone seems to treat him in the same frustratingly degrading manner.
It’s like Greg's nothing more than a pathetic fucking joke.
Perhaps some of his family’s hesitancy to help him out comes from Greg's act. Feigned obliviousness and obtuseness go a long way with guile. It's gotten him this far. It must. He must always be ready to change sides on a whim—whatever deal is best might secure a meal tomorrow or a bed to sleep on or just the taste of freedom from a crime he never wanted to participate in to begin with. But even so, to call getting this far any true act of altruism, like any family bonds were behind it, like it was ever done out of love or care—it would simply be a lie.
So there's truth to Tom's words, and he can take it. He can even mull over it. He can swallow down whatever bubbling frustration might exist, watch Tom tilt his head subtly, and realize there's something correct in what he's implied. There's no one in this family looking out for him. He knows it. Tom knows it. Why fool himself any longer?
The only person that will ever truly look out for him is Tom.
Perhaps any other person would find that idea chilling. Maybe even revolting. But even considering this, the words catch in Greg's throat, and he finds the notion Tom has presented to him unspeakably tender. As if to say, yes, I am the only person who will bother to take care of you, and we both know this, and I'll accept you all the more for it.
Perhaps there's something deeply wrong with him, because he doesn't turn Tom down.
He asks where he could go with Tom. Tom tells him: away from the endless middle, to the bottom of the top. There's excitement brewing, alongside a twinge of disappointment at this answer—it's not entirely what he was expecting or wanting. It's easy enough for Greg to bite down, though.
Tom offers him twenty of his own Gregs like it's nothing. Tom smiles and asks, "Do you want a deal with the devil?"
Truthfully, Greg's answer to Tom's proposal, to come along with him and everything else be damned, had been decided at the beginning of this conversation.
"What am I going to do with a soul anyways?"
Of course.
Tom lights up again. He laughs, ever vibrant. He shakes Greg's hand. He hugs Greg. He leaves, something more pressing occupying his attention for the moment.
Greg stands in place a moment longer, trying to hold on to the memory of being held so close, the sensation of melting into Tom's arms. Playing it on loop, over and over: Tom's embrace and his fingertips on his back and his soft hands in Greg's. He lets himself live in it, just a little.
It's a cruel reminder. It's something he can never fully bite down. It's something that threatens to rear its head. It's nevertheless something Greg entertains, and he lets his heart skip a beat, recreating the way Tom smiled at him just a second ago in his mind's eye, the way his eyes crinkled and the way he looked up at Greg as if he was something so completely precious, worth adoration, somehow important enough to even be considered.
A hand lands on his wrist, breaking him out of his daze. "Hey, are you alright?"
Greg blinks, and Tom's gentle face is replaced with the contessa's furrowed brows and pouting lips, and it's hard to tell if she's concerned or frustrated. Her grip is a little tighter than necessary, and Greg shoves her hand off. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He tries to think of a worthwhile conversation piece. None come to mind.
She smiles at him. It's cold and stiff, lips firmly pressed together. "Do you want to get out of here?"
The sun starts to set, painting the wedding venue in deep, heavy oranges and purples. Crickets start to chirp. It's becoming evident that maybe Tom isn't coming back for a while.
"Sure. Let us depart."
Greg forces a smile.
•••
Tom pours a gold-tinted liquid into Greg’s glass. He looks almost giddy. He’s illuminated by the flashing lights below, all different hues of pink and blue and purple. “Well? Try it.”
Greg isn’t particularly feeling yet another glassful of champagne. He thought the first three were well enough, and he’s never been great at holding his liquor. Nevertheless, Tom stares at him intently, so he downs it all in one go. The overwhelming citrusy flavor on top of the sickeningly sweet, overpowering taste of alcohol makes him want to choke. He’s never been one for drinking champagne in binges. Or, really, alcoholic beverages in general.
The effects have set in enough already. He’s feeling bleary and loose, and a little like he might vomit all over Tom’s nice suit. The nice suit Tom picked out for him. Jesus, how much was this, anyway? Any more drinks would be regrettable.
Tom bought this bottle for an obscene price as if it was nothing at all—it had to be at least a fourth of Greg’s salary. Tom’s been nursing drinks back and forth, downing them faster and faster. Greg’s always known Tom to be a little more tolerant than him, whether it be alcohol or cocaine or whatever Tom’s influence of choice may be, but tonight he seems almost dedicated to getting himself fucking plastered. He smiles, holds up the bottle by the neck, and yells over the pounding music, “Good, huh? It’s Louis Roederer Cristal. Aged about thirty years.”
Greg nods, queasier with each movement. “It is definitely reflective of its prestige….” The words slur together into some blend of babbled language that’s nearly unintelligible. He feels something come up his throat. He panics. He hiccups. The taste of bile fills his mouth and makes him feel all the sicker. He grins at Tom. “Maybe we can hold off? On what’s remaining, I mean?”
By some miracle, Tom understands what he’s saying. He laughs in Greg’s face. “Greg, you’ve only had four fucking drinks. Don’t tell me you’re seeing pink elephants already.”
Greg nods. “Right. Only four….” It’s difficult to say no to Tom as a cascade of golden liquid hits his glass yet again.
Tom smiles, but his eyes betray him and he looks incredibly put off. “You shouldn’t be wasting this, Greg. You’re moving up and sitting at the big kids’ table, but you still have all the class of a fucking intern.” He scoffs. “You should be thanking me, yes? You wouldn’t have even gotten in on your own.”
Greg chokes down another mouthful of Cristal. “Yeah, thanks.” His voice comes out sarcastic, flat, and insincere, and he can’t help glaring. He stares at the champagne and watches the lights reflect off its surface.
There’s something so fucking grating about this place. The music beats into him, pounding and pounding and fucking pounding into his skull, reverberating through him, electric drums and crashing synthetic soundwaves hitting in time with the massive throbbing headache starting to form behind his eyes. It’s humid, intensely so, and the heat rolls off of him in waves as sweat drips down his neck. The strobe lights aren’t helping his overwhelming nausea, and in glimpses of strobe lights meant to be enjoyed by the dance floor, he instead barely catches hints of Tom’s features, skewed into something he can’t fully translate or articulate. Is Tom enjoying himself? Greg can only hope so. Greg watches Tom smile and laugh and joke around, but in flashes, he swears his eyes must be playing tricks on him. In flashes, Tom looks drained. Tom looks empty. Tom looks like he could cry.
They’re standing by the railings on the top exclusive floor of some nightclub Greg’s never heard of, that Tom somehow got them into, overlooking everything going on below. Everyone’s dancing but Greg. Even Tom’s swaying a little haphazardly to the beat, finally starting to lose some coordination after—how many drinks is he on? Six? Seven?
For all the ways this gilded venue seems completely lackluster to Greg, there’s a part of him that’s fine with it, fine with standing on his own unsteady limbs overlooking this sea of bodies, fine with the way his own body plots against him.
Tom stumbles and grabs Greg’s shoulder for support. Greg stumbles, too, and grips the railing with his free hand, and somehow, they remain on their feet.
How many times have they done this? Greg’s starting to lose count. It’s spiraled so quickly. One night he opens the door of his apartment to see Tom, full of fear and giddiness and desperation and so many things neither of them can name bursting out of him in sparks he can’t contain, and suddenly Greg finds himself dragged along to clubs throughout New York, every night, with Tom always footing the bill. For all the expensive drinks he orders and slams Greg with, it’s something of a blessing. If he didn’t know any better, Greg might think this was Tom’s way of getting him in on an alcohol addiction. Join me in drowning my miseries, Greg! It’s such a fun way to pass the time. Liver damage be damned—let us live in the moment!
It’s a reasonable enough assumption. The first night Tom took him on a bender was the night he stared up at him in the low light of Greg’s apartment, wheezed out a laugh, forced his face into something excited and raw, and said, words tinted with deep resignation, “She left, Greg.”
Greg sees it as it is, however. Not as some selfish plea to drown himself in his sorrows and drag Greg down with him, but as something far kinder. Just a way to get them out of the house in the evening. Just a way to spend more time together. Just because it makes Tom so happy to see Greg like this, enjoying himself and dancing and caught underneath the flashing lights and drinking things he’d never even touch otherwise. Something about clubbing with Greg seems to make Tom so fucking elated.
Greg’s enjoying himself. And even if he wasn’t, he ought to be, just because Tom’s gone this far for him, so he just has to enjoy himself. If not for his own sake, for Tom’s.
With this reasoning, he’s able to find the energy to smile and sway to the music, even as his head pounds and his stomach lurches.
Tom’s voice brings him back to reality for a second. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Greg?”
Greg blinks, turning to look at him, frowning. “What?”
Tom laughs. He grabs Greg’s collar. “I mean, look at you! New York’s most eligible bachelor and you won’t even fucking put out.”
The combination of Tom’s knuckles brushing his jaw and the words coming out of his mouth bring Greg somewhere between aroused and completely flabbergasted. Perhaps it’s the same sensation. It’s all the alcohol, anyway. “Put out? Like—are you saying I don’t mingle? I mingle plenty.”
“You’re such a fucking liar.” Tom laughs again. “Is this because your moment with Comfrey fell through? You couldn’t hook one fish, so now you’re giving up? Fucking asshole. Depriving the masses of your lady-killer charms.”
Greg stiffens up. Tom moves his arm around Greg’s shoulders. Greg searches for the right words, and he settles on, “She was just superficial.” He bites his lip. That’s not completely right, is it? He searches for something that fits. “Like, she’s incessant about money and looks? It’s challenging to build a relationship on that, Tom.”
Tom scoffs. “Pot, meet kettle.” He scans the crowd. “Hey, she seems nice. What say you? A little fling to spice up your night? Make you less fucking miserable?”
Greg shrugs. He’s not feeling it. He wonders if Tom would be pushing him this hard sober.
“Come on, live a little.” Tom looks at him softly, like Greg’s able to do anything, and damn it all, he’d do anything for Tom to look at him like that again.
He nods. “Yeah. I’ll go down there.”
Tom tightens his grip on him. “‘Atta boy.”
The face Tom points him to belongs to a girl in her late twenties. Dark hair falls over her shoulders and reaches her lower back. She’s in a black velvet dress. She looks like she comes from money. Considering the venue, she probably does. She dances by herself, at the edge of the crowd, standing pretty close to where their railing overlooked the ground immediately below. She startles when Greg walks up behind her and his shadow blocks out her surrounding lights.
She smiles at him with guarded courtesy. “Hey.”
Greg stammers through an introduction. “Hi. I’m Greg. Gregory. Gregory Hirsch.”
Her name is Carolyn. She’s some kind of Instagram lifestyle influencer. She has a couple hundred thousand followers online. Her voice is rugged, rough around the edges, but easygoing. Her eyes are the same hue as Tom’s. Her mouth curls up when she concludes a sentence. Scents of sweat and cherries hang heavy in the air around her.
She encourages him to dance a little with her, and they make their way through this sea of bodies to somewhere in the middle of the floor. It’s still nothing but pounding music and flashing lights. He doesn’t know where to put his limbs. She laughs at him. “You know, you’re quite the unique dancer,” she says. “Where have you been all night?”
Greg quickly shrugs. He raises his voice over the music. “Just, uh, perusing the guest list, you know?”
“I don’t know.” She laughs again. It’s a little hoarse, but it sounds nice amidst the otherwise inhuman crashing music around them.
Greg can’t help smiling at her. She’s nice. It’s nice.
He finds his eyes wandering upwards, away from Carolyn and to the person watching them on the balcony. He’s stopped trying to sway to the beat. He must have put the drinks down somewhere, if he didn’t just finish them completely in the few minutes Greg’s been gone. He’s gripping the railing with both hands. He seems to be glaring at them.
Is Greg seeing that right? He looks so intense. Tom’s endless gaze burns holes through him. The temperature in the venue suddenly drops ten degrees. Greg can’t tell if what’s written on his face is irritation or disappointment. Something about it almost looks somber.
At the same time, though, Greg can't help feeling a little awestruck. Even like this, Tom exudes an air of elegance, of importance and imposition, and Greg can't take his eyes off him.
Without thinking, he leans in closer to Carolyn. “Do you want to go somewhere less crowded?”
She grins. “Why not?”
They find themselves away from the dancefloor, somewhere in the venue where the air is chilly and dry and the windows are open and the music is distant. Carolyn leaves Greg for a second and returns with a vape pen. “My friend’s watching my stuff,” she says. She takes a drag and puffs of thick vapor roll out of her mouth, filling the space. She holds it up to Greg.
Greg lets out a weak laugh. “I’ve never, uh, vaped before.”
She smiles at him. “First time for everything, Gregory.” She blinks, pauses, and laughs again. “Wait, don’t tell me you’ve never smoked before, either.”
Greg takes the vape pen. He frowns. “I’ve smoked. I’ve smoked tons.”
“You shouldn’t have any problems, then.” She smirks.
Greg catches on pretty quickly. It tastes like bubblegum. He grips the vape pen tight, leans against a wall, and lets the high wash over him as he exhales. The noise in the background seems to fade slightly. It’s almost euphoric.
“Told you it’d be easy,” Carolyn says, and she leans back with him.
They stare at the skyline for a while, saying nothing, feet apart from each other, in their own worlds.
For all of Tom’s pushing, saying that Greg should put out, that he’s depriving the world of himself, that he should be trying new things like this—nothing is fucking clicking.
It’s a curious phenomenon. He wonders why that is for a moment.
There’s a buzzing near his thigh. He grabs his phone. A message from Tom. He wants to leave.
When Greg shoves the phone back in his pocket, he catches another glimpse of Tom across the room, staring at them. Greg stands up straight for a second, frowns, and looks away from him. Carolyn is leaning against the wall still, but she perks up with Greg’s movement. “You wanna get back out there, big guy?”
“About that,” he begins, feeling awkward and out of place once again, “I’m here with someone—with my friend, Tom, and I think we’re probably making our exit soon.”
She forces a pout. “Aww, that’s too bad.” Her lips quickly form a thin smile again. “Well, hey, it was nice hanging with you. Did you want my number?”
“Oh, sure.” They exchange information. Greg slips the phone back into his pocket.
A thought occurs. He leans down to kiss her, and she lets him, kissing back. He feels nothing. With all the alcohol and nicotine running through his system, this all feels too sloppy and gross.
Nevertheless, he keeps his eyes focused on Tom, trying to gauge Tom’s reaction. Tom grows a little more somber, a little more red in the face. It’s a curious expression. But Tom never looks away.
Tom’s watching. Tom’s watching intently. Tom’s stiffening up with every second, every movement. Tom’s this affected by Greg doing something so menial, something Greg cares so little about, something Greg’s not at all invested in, and it sparks some chain reaction in his head that drives Greg mad. He deepens the kiss. She moans into his mouth. He watches Tom. Tom only seems to grow worse.
And, god, that intense glare, those eyes that lock on to Greg, eyes never tearing away from him, eyes that only become Greg’s the more he keeps going—it’s everything.
She pushes Greg off for a second, laughing, glancing down towards his crotch, glancing back at his face. “Easy, there, bud. We’ve only just met.”
Greg blinks, dumbfounded for a moment before the realization hits. “Oh, fuck, sorry about that.” It kills his mood instantly. He runs a hand across his face. His blood runs cold.
She laughs him off, looking slightly more uncomfortable than before, and takes a step back. “Your friend’s over there, then?”
She follows his gaze. Greg hasn’t taken his eyes off Tom once.
“Hey, I recognize him from somewhere….” She blinks, and then she laughs. “Oh, Jesus Christ, that’s right. Oh, my god. I think it might have been both of you two, actually.” She laughs even harder, and it burns Greg up. “He was in that fucking—-that Congressional hearing, right? God, that was a riot.” She seems to think this is all in good fun, but the words are said so mockingly that they annoy Greg all the more. She coughs. “Sorry. Not your brightest moment, I’m sure.”
She tries to run a hand across his arm, but he shoves it off. “No, it’s fine. It’s whatever.” He turns to leave. “I really should be going.”
She offers a polite smile. “Send me a message sometime. Maybe we can meet up.”
Greg doesn’t entertain her with so much as a glance. He just walks over to where Tom’s standing. Tom forces a smile. “I see you two hit it off.”
“Something like that.” Greg shrugs. He remembers how Tom looked at him a few moments ago. The heat rushes back through him, and the annoyance leaves his voice. “So, are we departing to your place?”
Tom nods. “Yeah, we can do that.”
Something suddenly hits him. Greg blinks, feels around in his pocket, and pulls out Carolyn’s vape pen. He’d forgotten to give it back. He’s not too keen on the idea of seeking her out again.
Tom blinks. The color drains from his face. “Is that—-?”
“Yeah.” He shoves it back into his pocket. “It’s fine, Tom.”
Tom nods, but he doesn’t look terribly convinced. “Yeah, no, it’s fine. It’s great.”
Moving their outing from the club back to Tom’s place doesn’t make the night any better. Greg greets Mondale in his cage, ruffling his ears. Tom moves from expensive club champagne to a bottle of wine he’s been working through for the past week. He pours a glass for Greg and sets it aside. Greg sits on his couch.
Greg considers taking a hit from the vape. Would Tom yell at him for it? Probably. He puts it up to his mouth anyway.
Tom sees this and, in an instant, walks behind the couch and snatches it away from him. “Greg, don’t be an asshole. At least open a fucking window.” But he doesn’t give the vape back, instead finding a chair, putting down his wine glass, and fiddling with it. “Who was she?”
“Carolyn something?” Greg shrugs. “I think she’s an influencer?”
“So, she’s every fucking millennial with a phone?” Tom seems particularly on edge. He scoffs. He rolls his eyes. He runs his fingers across the vape pen as if he’s mesmerized.
Greg sighs. “I don’t know, man.” He sinks into his chair. He doesn’t bother getting up for the wine. He already feels fucking nauseated from Tom slamming him with drinks earlier.
“But you liked her?” He doesn’t look at Greg.
“I dunno, I guess?” He shrugs, pushing stray hairs behind his ear. “She was fine?”
“Fine, Greg? Fine doesn’t exactly sound like shoving your fucking tongue down her throat. I mean, Christ, have some dignity.” His voice is low, deep, like he’s been affronted, but it’s also small and quiet. He holds the vape between his lips.
“Does it matter?” Greg huffs out, frowning. “It didn’t work out, Tom.”
Tom glances up at him for a second, grabs the vape with one hand, quirks an eyebrow, and says, “How so?”
“She’s just kind of—insolent?” No, that’s not the word. “Like, a little flippant? About everything?” He sits up a little, watching Tom for some indication that he’s making sense. When he doesn’t get one, he continues: “Like, I don’t really feel anything around her? The vibe is wrong.”
Tom scoffs. “Greg, who the fuck are you fooling? She’s the Mona Lisa compared to you.” He holds the vape pen to his lips again, inhales, takes it out, and coughs up clouds of vapor. “Jesus, Greg, you’re going to give yourself asthma with this garbage.”
Greg frowns at him for a second. Tom still doesn’t give the vape back, instead electing to keep it in his mouth without using it. Maybe he likes the taste. The windows are still closed.
“Insolent,” Tom mumbles around the vape and chuckles. “Towards you?”
Greg feels the heat rush to his face. “No?”
Yes. But that’s not the issue Greg takes.
Tom blinks. “No.” He ponders this. “Towards someone else, then?”
Greg shrugs. “Can I not say, right now?”
With this, Tom doesn’t press the issue any further, instead focusing on the vape pen.
The truth is, Greg probably could say. But he feels like complete shit, and the words catch in his throat quickly enough when he’s sober, and he’s just lucid enough to know that if he spills everything now, he’s going to say something he’ll regret.
Tom catches something in his face. He sets the vape pen down for a moment. “Hey, it’s okay, Greg. No big deal. There’s other fish.”
Bitterness and frustration clash in his chest, and he just ends up nodding.
“No harm in cutting her out if she was awful to you.” He shrugs. “It’s okay, Greg. Not your fault.”
Tom leans forward a bit, trying to meet Greg’s eyes. Greg won’t let him.
Greg runs a hand across his face. The headache’s only gotten worse.
Everything converges and clashes and it makes him feel sick. It’s a series of interlocking parts, like pieces of shattered glass that only form a more confusing mosaic when put together. A piece that knows he’s enabling Tom’s bad habits and it might only get worse. A piece that can’t help doing it anyway, just because he enjoys the attention and the company and Tom . A piece that’s completely revolted at what he’s done tonight with Carolyn, what he’s considering doing, the flippancy of it all, the complete lack of care and regard. A piece that knows he’ll do it anyway, he’ll even revel in it, and he’ll continue to cast women like Carolyn aside if it means a taste of what he’s had with Tom. A piece that’s horrified that he’s still going this far for Tom, who’s still married to his cousin. A piece that’s obsessed with doing it even more regardless, because something about this arrangement is still too amazing to ever let go of, because it’s a wonder Tom would treat him the way he does, so why should Greg ever let that go? A piece that knows what this is and refuses to verbalize it, refuses to make it real. A piece that knows what this means if it’s real. A piece that knows he’ll just become someone he despises in the process. A piece that knows he’d ruin Tom, ruin his own family, just for a few more selfish moments like this.
A piece that wonders if he’d enjoy it anyway.
God, it all makes him feel sick.
And then there’s Tom, who would take Greg along on these impossible outings, spend so much money on him, sacrifice his career for him, go to prison for him just because he asked. Tom, who’s married to someone else. Tom, who seems to look at Greg with the fear and revulsion Greg holds, but who seems to manage it more easily, doing the impossible. Tom, who looks at Greg like he's something precious and worthwhile on such a constant basis that it drives Greg crazy. Tom, who encourages Greg’s worst traits. Tom, who gets so intense about Greg, only ever about Greg. Tom, who does all this, while still being married to someone else. Tom, who can’t or won’t read between the lines, and Greg, who can’t tell whether he’s thankful for it or not.
Whatever this arrangement is, it must be twisted and fucked beyond repair by this point.
And even for all of Greg’s relief that Tom can’t see through him as clearly as he would expect, sometimes Greg wonders if this would all be easier otherwise. Maybe if Tom knew, read Greg like a book, walked around in his head, and understood these things Greg can’t fully grasp himself, it’d just be easier. Maybe Greg could live with himself if Tom could, too. Maybe they wouldn’t have to be so distant, despite everything they’ve gone through. Maybe if Tom could know it all for him, no one else would matter, and he could stop seeking approval elsewhere.
Greg’s queasy at the very idea. Greg tilts his head back, feebly fighting whatever bile is rising in his throat. All this considered, he feels despicable. All this for Tom, married to his cousin, not divorcing her anytime soon, a person who would be disgusted to know Greg’s true nature, why Greg’s gone so far… and yet, who Greg can’t help fantasizing about and admiring and vying for anyway.
He laughs. “We’re both a little disgusting.”
“Hm?” Tom glances up at him.
“We’re like—we’re total freaks, man.” The alcohol must be talking. His head is pounding. “We’re like the fucking—like the disgusting brothers, or something.”
The nickname makes Tom cringe. “What? No. Don’t call us that.”
But Greg can’t help latching onto it. Maybe if he can own it, navigating whatever this is will be easier.
It’s both a selfish badge of honor and the ultimate act of self-loathing, and yet he knows that tomorrow, he’ll ghost Carolyn, pick up another girl, kiss her, take her out, tell Tom all about it, relish in Tom’s reactions, and he’ll feel fucking ashamed of himself the entire time, because he has to entertain himself like this, and he has to steal Tom’s affections and attentions in this way. The alternative would probably kill him.
His phone buzzes with a text from Carolyn.
Do you still have my friend's vape?
"Is that her?" Tom asks, still toying with the object in question.
Greg watches him for a moment, watches the way his hands run across it, watches beautiful strong hands running across a trophy of Greg's night, watches the way Tom flushes and flusters, watches the way his face changes with every second that passes where Greg deprives him of a response. What he wouldn't give to see Tom like this every day, either drunk or sober—like the turn of his mood and everything that comes with it rest solely in Greg's hands.
Contented for the moment, he smiles at Tom. "I think it's a wrong number, or a spam text, or something."
With this, he clicks the phone off.
•••
“Hold still, Greg. Easy.”
Tom holds a dark striped tie to his collar. He frowns. He holds another gray one up. Also frowns.
They’re in Tom’s bathroom, in front of Tom’s mirror. Greg only watches. Tom’s spent about thirty minutes dressing him up, prepping his hair, and all for a rather routine company meeting that Greg seems to have no real part in.
Tom sighs. “This one brings out your eyes, but it’s tacky….” And he continues mumbling on like this, holding ties up and comparing them.
Greg takes a breath, mulling over something that’s been nagging at him for a few months. It might be the right time to bring it up. “Tom? Is this going anywhere?”
“Of course, it is,” Tom says, slightly more irate. “A good tie makes all the difference, Gregory. You don’t want to be the laughingstock of Logan’s presentation, do you?”
Greg frowns, looking down at Tom’s pristine sink. “No.”
“Then, let me do this.”
“It’s just—” Greg begins again, eyes wandering to the reflection of Tom’s hands in the mirror holding up a burgundy tie, “I kind of thought I was getting somewhere?”
Tom’s switching out ties. This new one is dotted. “How so?”
“Like… bottom of the top, twenty Gregs… I don’t feel as though anything much has happened? Since then?” Greg shrugs.
“So, you’re telling me you want more?” Tom stifles a laugh. “Was the salary bump not enough for you? Executive position’s not prestigious enough for your tastes?”
Greg doesn’t say anything to this, so Tom continues holding ties up to his collar.
Truth be told, it’s starting to look like Tom’s offered a lot of false promises.
Greg hasn’t gotten his own Gregs. Greg hasn’t even gotten much of a position within the company. He’s pretty sure his title is still somewhere along the lines of “Tom Wambsgans’s Executive Assistant” and it’s looking like he’s never going to get out of that shadow. Maybe he was never going to get any farther than this. Maybe Tom even planned it.
But it's fine . He gets to spend time with Tom, and Tom dotes on him when he does, dressing him up and making sure he’s taking care of himself and taking him out to nice dinners and spending money on him. He gets to observe Tom up close, closer than ever, at work and at home and throughout the city and on company trips, day and night, and all things considered, no one else really gets that privilege. Not even his wife.
Greg likes the security net of his position, and he likes the money, but there’s been a persistent thought in the back of his mind as of late, as all of these promises seem to fall through, one by one, like a cascade of dominoes. It’s the thought that he’s been fooling himself this whole time. He wonders how he was ever foolish enough to believe Tom would let having twenty Gregs happen.
Truthfully, he might just be content sticking by Tom’s side like this, anyway. Position be damned. Money be damned. Greg might not need any of it, so long as Tom’s there, so long as Tom’s taking care of him like this. Maybe they’d get it all sorted.
But, it means Tom’s been leading him on all this time. Tom’s just been lying to him to get him to stick around. Maybe Greg’s never getting anything. Maybe Greg’s never going to get anywhere with Tom.
An idea forms, in the back of his mind, something he rarely entertains lest it’s a truly dire night and Tom’s asleep or elsewhere and he can’t be bothered texting whoever he’s going to keep Tom’s focus with next. It’s the idea that maybe it’d just be nice to steal Tom away for himself. Away from this company, away from this family, away from these employees. Maybe it’d be easier. Maybe they'd get somewhere.
Tom doesn’t know it, and he never will, but Greg ponders it. The world’s already been so rough to Tom. Greg thinks back on his wife suggesting he go to prison, his wife cheating on him, the other executives making a fool of him during boar on the floor, all the little ways he’s been humiliated and wasted. Some protecting Greg, others just because everyone in his life seems to hold some kind of spite towards him. Greg can’t help thinking he could do this all better—he could treat him better, like he was someone worthwhile. If their circumstances were just a little different, maybe Tom could just lean on him, and it’d be fine.
That would require some trust, though, right? And Greg thought he’d given Tom plenty of reason to trust him. He’s not had the best track record, but would anyone in Greg’s position? And they’d gone through so much already, so wouldn’t that speak for itself? And even if keeping Greg down was how Tom's decided it was best to take care of Greg, couldn't he just say as much to Greg outright?
Bottom of the top, twenty of his own Gregs… all of it had fallen through. Maybe it’s out of Tom’s hands. Maybe Tom is trying his best.
He doesn’t want to consider the other option. However, if this was planned, and if Tom does mean to keep Greg reliant on him by denying these opportunities through subtle distractions and lies, wouldn’t that mean Tom also doesn’t trust him enough to stick around?
It eats at Greg more and more as time passes and everything seems to stay the same. Maybe Tom doesn’t trust him. What in the world would Greg be able to do to earn that back?
“This one,” Tom says, breaking him out of these thoughts. He holds a black tie up to Greg’s neck, covered with white lines forming a kind of diamond pattern. He pulls it around Greg’s collar, tightens it, and admires it in the mirror. “There we go. You’re looking like the prima donna of the company.” He turns Greg around to face him, lightly tugging his tie. “All dressed up, ready for the ball.” He grins.
Greg nods, trying to recapture a lighter mood. “Yes, sirree…”
Greg’s phone buzzes. He sees a message. Last night was so interesting. We should meet up again.
Tom frowns. “Who’s this?”
Greg shoves it into his pocket. “No one.”
“Is it fucking—Kaitlyn? With the bleached hair?” Tom stares at him.
“No.” The weight of Tom’s eyes only pins him down more.
“Is it Haley?”
“No.”
“Who the fuck keeps messaging you, Greg? If she’s such a nobody, you ought to block the number. It could be a stalker. She could be waiting outside with your phone on a tracker, waiting to kidnap you and skin you alive.” He yanks on Greg’s tie again, punctuating the sentence.
Greg stiffens up at the mental image. “If you must know, I met someone named Bella last night.”
Tom’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, there’s a Bella, now, too?”
Greg can’t bring himself to meet Tom’s eyes. “We—we had a little fornication, and it’s all finished now, okay?”
Tom sputters for a second, letting go of Greg completely. “You did what?”
Greg shrugs. “It was just a little—”
“Oh, just a little fornication. That makes it fucking peachy, then.” Tom looks somewhere between annoyed and disappointed. “Greg, you can’t be giving the goods to everyone you’ve just met. What did you even do with her?”
Greg did nothing of real note. They chatted, got a few drinks, maybe kissed in the middle there, and when Bella had proposed the idea of a full-blown one-night stand, Greg got cold feet and they settled for a handjob. Not even a successful handjob, for either party. It was an overall somewhat pathetic experience.
But Tom doesn’t know that. Tom doesn’t know anything of the sort.
Tom’s been lying to Greg this whole time, hasn’t he? Maybe Greg can embellish a little, too.
Greg lowers his voice, as if someone in Tom’s empty apartment might hear, as if Mondale might take offense at the conversation topic in the other room. “It was in the back of one of these really cheap bars we went to last week—I think the bathroom, or something? And she, uh, ended up slurping the ol’ gherkin, so to speak.”
Tom stares at him blankly for a second, processing this. “Greg, you mean to tell me she gave you a blowie in the bathroom of a Treadwell Park?”
Greg nods, keeping his gaze steady, trying to look earnest.
Tom only furrows his brows further, looking completely revolted. “Greg, that’s disgusting.”
Greg shrugs. “We’re the disgusting brothers.” He smiles at Tom, who looks not even the slightest bit amused.
“Block her number,” Tom says, heading out, mood completely soured. “Let’s go. We’ll be late.”
Greg follows Tom, taken by him for the moment, but wondering if this play just works better when they're drunk and it’s late and there’s nothing else happening.
•••
When Greg sees Tom from across the room at Logan’s birthday party, he can hardly contain himself, springing onto him at the first possible moment.
It’s a special day. Not because it’s Logan’s birthday, but because Greg’s found a woman named Bridget to come along with him—the latest in this exciting scheme of his.
Tom looks unamused and unaffected, glancing up at him with disapproval. “So, I’ve heard you’ve made an enormous faux pas, and everyone is laughing up their sleeves about your date.”
Tom goes on to berate her. She’s brought a ludicrously capacious bag. She’s used up all the bathroom’s display towels. She’s posting everything online and talking herself up. She’s asking everyone personal questions. She’s wolfing down canapés like a famished warthog. Tom tells him he’s a laughingstock in polite society, gets in his face, and whispers harshly, “You will never go to the opera again!”
Greg meekly defends her to try and make the affair look real—that’s what this whole scheme is usually based on, anyway—but he can’t help laughing at her with Tom, participating in the beratement, partially because it’s true and partially because he can’t believe how well this is working yet again.
Bridget approaches them. “Maybe we should go.”
Greg turns his attention away from Tom for a moment, slightly put off. “Oh. Are you okay? What happened?” He tries to sound sympathetic but the words come out irritated.
“Nothing,” she says, quick and biting and defensive. “I just asked Logan for a selfie.”
Greg steals a glance at Tom, who can hardly contain himself, nothing but mocking smiles and laughs threatening to break through. The plan is falling apart at the seams. Tom’s less affected and more amused at the idea Greg would ever bring someone so socially inept to this kind of event. It feels less like an achievement and more like a slight. He looks back at Bridget, the frustration coming through even stronger. “You asked Logan for a selfie?”
“Yeah.” She defends herself, defends it all as a joke, and Tom snorts next to him. He gives Greg a look like he’s making a complete fool of himself.
God, it’s all getting worse and worse.
He pulls Bridget aside, away from Tom, hoping that he might somehow salvage the situation. “Hey, it’s fine. We don’t have to go yet. Logan gets a little… bellicose, about technology.” He gives her half a shrug, trying to appear invested in her at all. An idea forms. He glances at Tom, makes sure he’s in earshot, but keeps his voice low. “I could give you a house tour? Or, if you’re interested, maybe we could peruse an empty room? Get a little freaky?”
Bridget looks annoyed and disappointed and a little like she’d rather be anywhere else, but she folds. “Fine. Let’s find a room.”
They explore the interior of Logan’s massive abode, checking rooms upon rooms, seeing the kitchen, the dining room, the armory—and Bridget yanks his wrist, opening a door.
They’ve found themselves in an empty guest room. The bed is massive, with fancy drapery hanging over it and matching the curtains decorating the windows—chartreuse with gold embroidered laurels stitched across it. There’s art and statues everywhere, from every period of history. Everything appears untouched by human hands. It looks almost too glamorous to be a guest room.
Bridget leads him to the bed, sitting down and staring up at him. “What were you thinking?”
Greg stares at her, blinks, tries to understand what she’s getting at. Her voice is steeped in irritation. He mumbles, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, was there anything you wanted to do, here, or are we killing time waiting for your uncle to get over himself?” She eyes him, seems to catch something in the schooled expression Greg’s wearing, and pouts. “Are you even attracted to me, Greg?”
Greg forces a smile, brows furrowed. He laughs. “Of course, I’m attracted to you.”
Bridget puts a hand on her chin. “Tell me what’s attractive about me.”
Greg fumbles for a response. Fucking hell, no date’s ever put him through the wringer like this, pelting him with twenty questions.
She looks pretty. She’s in a nice dress. She’s normal enough. Honestly, it’d be easier to find negatives than positives, and it’s as though Greg’s ruse is coming to a complete halt. If she can tell he’s not interested, it’s going to be impossible to convince Tom.
All that considered… his mind wanders to Tom. Maybe that’s enough to make this real.
He clears his throat. His eyes wander lower. He can’t meet Bridget’s face. He instead focuses on the mahogany headboard. “Well, you’ve got a very pretty face.”
“A pretty face?” Bridget laughs. “Is that it?”
Greg rolls his eyes for a second, exasperated. “Just let me finish.” He steps closer to the bedside, Tom’s face dancing across his mind. “I think your eyes are gorgeous.”
She shifts her weight a little. “My eyes?”
“Yeah. I always get lost staring at them, you know?” Tom’s gorgeous blue eyes, staring into him, filling him up from empty, generous and soft… Greg lowers his voice, as if imparting secrets no one else could ever know about. “Your lips, too. They’re—supple, yet firm…”
Bridget’s fingers clutch the mattress. “Okay…, so, eyes, lips… anything else?”
“The streaks in your hair…,” Greg catches himself for a moment, before eyeing her again. She’s tinged with so many highlights one could mistake it for a bleach job. Thank goodness. This might work. He’d lost himself in Tom’s salt-and-pepper strands of hair. “Your hair is a sight to behold,” he says, finally landing on a phrase somewhat appropriate that will still let him live in the fantasy.
He catches Bridget nodding in the corner of his eye, and her breaths start to come out sharper, more pronounced. “Keep talking.”
“Your figure is perfect—” God, imagining Tom’s body, Tom’s chest, thinking about the glimpses he’s blessed enough to catch when Tom loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt after particularly taxing nights out, drives him mad enough that he feels his heart skip a beat, and he wonders if he can apply it, twisting around the words he wants to say “—in a sense, you know—you’re something of a delectable, hot piece of ass, and I’d be lucky to have you.”
He tries to picture Tom on this bed, gazing up at him with these hooded lids and this ragged breathing and this constant begging for more and more and more that Greg adores giving Tom, imagines leaning over him right here and stripping him bare, imagines letting Tom in to do whatever he will and giving him whatever he wants, and his breath hitches, blood rushing through him,
The Tom in his mind’s eye grabs his face, kisses him hard and rough, and in a moment, he realizes where he is and who he’s with, and the rush fades.
She pulls Greg on top of herself, undoing his belt, reaching down his pants, feeling around and fruitlessly rubbing up and down, up and down, and the motion along with Bridget breathing in his face just takes Greg out of it all the more.
But, fuck it, if this is how it’s going to be, he’s got to at least try to look like he’s into it, right? So he mimics the motion, reaching down, awkwardly fingering her in turn.
Christ. Their form is a mess. Greg can’t get it up, and Bridget cringes with his movements, eventually pulling away from him altogether, barking, “Ouch! Shit, Greg, it’s like you’ve never been with a woman before!”
Greg pulls away, completely speechless. “What—what are you talking about?” His voice pitches a little high. “I’ve been with plenty of women.”
She scoffs. “So I’ve heard.” She sorts herself out, making sure her dress is still neat. “That’s gotta be a fucking miracle of some kind. Disgusting brother—maybe that’s an appropriate nickname.” She laughs. “What a fucking joke. I noticed you didn’t get hard, by the way.”
Greg feels his heart drop to his stomach. “I was—I didn’t—it’s just—” he stammers, but no good response comes to mind.
“It’s funny, actually—it was like, you started to get it up, but the second I touched you, you fucking recoiled! It’s like you went limp immediately.” She grabs a pocket-sized Germ-X from her bag, wiping down her hands. “So it was a lie, then. Were you thinking of someone else?”
Greg stumbles around for a response that isn’t an outright admittance, settling on, “Maybe you’re just not as adept as you appraise yourself to be.” He feels frustration and anger bubble, and he’s sure it’s visible across his face.
Bridget stares at him, slightly slack-jawed. “You’re awfully full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Greg doesn’t answer, instead focusing on fixing his belt.
She continues. “You’re so fucking conceited. I can’t believe it. No wonder no woman holds out for you longer than thirty minutes.”
Greg can’t meet her eyes. He’s not very invested in this conversation, anyway. He sighs, says, “Let’s do this later, Bridget? Okay? Can I just enjoy my uncle’s birthday party, right now?”
She looks completely affronted, but she gives him a calm, level, “Fine,” and leaves the room.
Greg collects himself. God, what a disaster. It’s probably for the absolute best that he never continues these flings past the first night.
However… He thinks about divulging this to Tom. He thinks about the way Tom might look at him, nothing but the utmost attention on all of Greg’s details, the way his face might fall, the way Greg can chip through his walls and get to his core once again, the way he’ll be able to see once again how quickly Tom comes apart because of him. The thought is almost intoxicating.
He leaves the room, searching around for Tom, eventually finding him sitting by himself, and complete giddiness starts to set in.
Greg enters, and Tom whispers something that completely misses Greg’s ears, before saying, annoyed, “What are you smiling for?”
Greg laughs, almost unable to contain himself. He wants Tom to wait for the answer, just a little bit. “Nothing.”
Tom looks up at him expectantly, an edge to his voice, some panic in his eyes. “What?”
Greg leans close, and, sing-song tone, says, “The disgusting brothers, on motherfucking tour!”
Tom turns away from him, rolling his eyes.
Greg stands up straight, whispering, “We just did it.”
Tom leans a little closer, brows raising slightly. “What do you mean, you did it?”
Greg sits down, leans close, arm across Tom’s back. “She’s a firecracker, man. She’s crunchy peanut butter.” And he crafts a story in whispers, about Bridget, their fervent and licentious fling in a guest bedroom, all the while bumping shoulders with Tom, trying to let Tom paint the picture himself of whatever deeds they might have committed together.
Tom turns to him, nothing but surprise in his voice. “You actually did it?”
Greg nods, quick, excited, waiting for Tom’s reaction, waiting to see what he’ll say.
But Tom looks at him with such disappointment, and his tone becomes harrowing. “Oh, Greg…” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You are fucked. You’re fucked.”
Tom stands up, like he’s about to leave the room, and then turns, standing over Greg. “Logan,” he explains. “He’s camera’d up the wazoo. CCTV.”
Greg frowns at him, his heart sinking even further. Either this is all true, or Tom’s lying and he’s gotten smart about his game. He chooses to believe the former. “Which room?”
Tom laughs at him. “Every room. You know that.”
“No, I evidently did not know that.” Panic starts to set in.
Logan enters from the elevator.
Greg glances back at Tom. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.” Tom leans in closer. “And he watches it back every night with a Scotch. Sees if anyone stole a butterknife. He’s gonna fucking gut you like a rainbow trout.” Tom motions towards him for emphasis.
“Oh, man. Fuck.” Greg covers his face.
“What did you do? Were the lights on?” Greg stands up, leaning closer to Tom as he continues, “I mean, did you actually do it? Tell me.”
No other avenue available, Greg whispers the truth, that they rummaged in each other’s pants and nothing more happened.
“Did you rummage to fruition?” Tom asks, pressing on.
Greg furrows his brows, the memory and the shame and the embarrassment washing over him. “Can I not say?”
In a hushed tone, Tom says, “Well, you’ve accidentally made him a sex tape, Greg. You need to tell him.”
Everything grows worse and worse, and, mentally, Greg decides he will never go this far for this ruse again.
For the rest of the day, Greg searches for moments he might be able to tell Logan, just on the off chance that Tom’s story is real. He finally finds a moment during a particularly heated conversation about the Pierce deal that Logan’s working on, and Logan pulls him aside. Greg spills everything immediately.
“But—I mean, she’s wild, she’s—quite eager, you know, but she was a little—I mean, she might have been high? Like, on, you know, wacky tobaccy, or something worse? So, she wasn’t all there, and I think—maybe that could have affected it. I never meant to soil your place of residence, she’s just a little—a little bit of a profligate, perhaps.”
Logan stares up at him in shock, tells him that he finds him disgusting and despicable, but offers something of a twisted, perverted smile.
Greg presses on. “Just, I mean, if you perchance see that on your playback tonight—perhaps you’d kindly skip over it?”
Logan looks at him like he’s grown a second head for a second.
“Like, on the tapes, I mean,” Greg continues, clarifying.
Evidently, Logan doesn’t know what Greg is talking about, because he doesn’t even dignify it with a worthwhile response. “What bullshit are you wasting my time with, now, Greg? Fuck off.” And he turns to leave, belting, “Colin!”
With this in mind, Greg immediately goes to find Tom and relays what happened. He doesn’t tell Tom what he knows about the cameras. Tom nods along with his explanation, calls Bridget “A bit of a drug-addled cock monster," and continues: "So you blamed it on her.” He shakes his head, looking equal parts annoyed, disappointed, resentful, and completely resigned. “You’re so gallant.”
Colin walks up to them and tells Greg that Bridget will have to leave. Greg attempts to defend her, realizing Tom probably still thinks that much of the ruse is still true, and when outside of the room, tells Colin he should just take care of breaking the news himself, abandoning him on the stairwell.
With this, Greg washes his hands of Bridget.
Before the night is out, when Greg takes up Logan’s offer to roast him, Logan makes a comment about smelling Greg’s finger and his father sucking cocks at the county fair, all in front of Tom. More waves of embarrassment wash over him, and he doesn’t speak to Tom for the rest of the night.
The comment about his father cuts especially deep, knowing the implication, knowing that it all rings true, fearing what it might mean for Greg , and remembering that the only way he could even work up telling Bridget she was attractive was by envisioning Tom in her place.
Nevertheless, even with this, he’s a little enamored with the thought that he’d gotten to Tom, in the end, so much so that Tom would play along and craft a story about security cameras to freak Greg out, to try and shut him down, to kick out his date.
In the end, one could call it a victory.
The lengths to which they’ll lie to each other, to which they’ll try to uncover the other’s thoughts, just for the chance that they might touch this time…
How jealous Tom could get, all over Greg. No one else could ever drive him to do these things, to craft these stories.
So, even though Tom does not visit that night, even though they do not grab drinks, even though Greg was completely humiliated in front of Logan’s guard—he can go to bed smiling, thinking about Tom, thinking about Tom wanting Greg alone and single, thinking about Tom wanting Greg, thinking about Tom going such lengths for that to happen, working himself into a frenzy and breathing ragged and hard into the empty darkness of his apartment, trousers growing wet.
Yet, it seems they can't fully trust each other, and they're still at an impasse.
When Greg finishes, staring up at his ceiling, harboring these thoughts about Tom and about himself, he considers Logan's comment and considers his family and considers his situation.
Deep down, he knows what this is. He can't stand it. But he also can't let go of it. It's taken over so much of his life already. What would he be without it?
He closes his eyes, tries to shut it all out, but he can't help feeling completely fucking revolting.
It's a wonder Tom keeps him around at all.
Everything feels hot and humid.
He’ll need to wash these sheets, these pants…
He can’t stand himself.
•••
Greg is sitting in a side room, lights out, across from Logan’s assistant and current partner, Kerry.
She’s created an audition tape for ATN, striving to become a news anchor. She’s a pretty enough face to be on television, but her presentation leaves something to be desired. She pauses in weird spots. She doesn’t know how to carry herself. She stumbles and enunciates in all the wrong places. It gets difficult to watch after three minutes.
Tom had shown him a clip of the tape, and Greg said, “She is not gonna be happy,” when it was over. They both knew this wouldn’t fly.
“Right,” Tom had said, “but I think I see a way through.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell her.”
Greg looked at him, crossed his arms, said, “Yeah, interesting,” and looked away. “I mean, I… I don’t… I don’t like it.”
“Well, you’re a little frustrated. You want next-level tasks, right?”
Greg’s gripe from months ago was coming back to bite him. He frowned. “Well, yeah, but not, like, telling our boss’s girlfriend she can’t be on TV.”
Tom slammed down the laptop monitor and began feeding Greg a script he could use. “This is what you do, alright? You go to her, and you say—like, you say, it’s really hard, even being the cousin in this family, and you’ve seen what’s happened to the kids. You know, things get muddled—and then, you tell her, she’s good, but not too good, and then you—make sure Logan’s out of it and I’m out of it, and you tell her that the focus group had thoughts, and then you ask her—you know, does she even really want it handed to her on a silver platter? You know, with all the resentments and accusations? And then, you can make it seem like it’s her idea to cool things. Right?”
In the moment, Tom had given him such unwavering attention, with such vigor and enunciation and excitement, that Greg hadn’t questioned a thing, even feeling a little thankful for the pointers, nodding intently along to Tom’s script.
When this had finished, Tom stood up to leave, and a thought occurred to Greg. “But, if she’s, like, ‘Fuck you, Greg, and I wanna be on TV tomorrow. ATN is my home—’”
“Well, then,” Tom interrupted, “if that happens, just back away to a position of safety, and I will march in and mop up the rage, okay?”
He winked at Greg before leaving the room, and Greg felt like putty, melting into his chair, before the weight of his task fully crashed into him once more like a tidal wave.
Kerry sits in front of him, and Greg tries to follow Tom’s instruction the best he can, but he fumbles and stammers through it and through his excuses to Kerry. More thoughts occur to him the more he runs through these scripted lines.
It’s hard being here. You’ve seen what’s happened to his own kids.
You’re good, but not great.
Do you really want it handed to you?
We have a bond. I was an outsider once. Young guy from St. Paul, alone in the big city, and it was hard.
You’re smart. You’re ambitious. You’re loyal. Why would I ever let you go?
Don’t make it a big deal, Greg. It’s not a big deal, Greg. A chimp could do it. A little chimpanzee.
The more he thinks about all these things Tom’s said to him, the more the advice starts to become something more sinister.
Greg’s trying to make it, and he’s just gotten here, and he knows he pales in comparison to Tom, to Tom’s status, to everything Tom has done, but it’d always been a source of admiration, of jealous resentments, of something he refuses to name.
Tom’s treatment of him had always been kind, though, right? Or, even if not kind, Tom at least took pity on Greg. He saw something in Greg that he experienced himself, right? Even if Tom was also resentful, holding some petty jealousy of Greg for being in this family and not just existing here by marriage, he rarely let it show, instead opting to take Greg under his wing and show him what it’s like to live wealthily.
We have a bond.
Greg had thought it all just stemmed from Tom being kind , caring so much about Greg that he’d spend any amount of time and money on him to make him feel the slightest bit adored, to give him a taste of the acceptance he so craved.
And, truth be told, Tom had given him that taste, time and again.
Why would I ever let you go?
But Greg mulls over these instructions, tries to pull out moments he’s had with Tom, just to see if they stick, because now it’s bothering him to the point he can’t let it go, and he thinks there’s a good chance they all fit far too well.
Don’t make it a big deal, Greg.
Shredding the documents, burning the blackmail, spilling Kendall’s secrets to Tom, coming along with Tom this far, even breaking this news to Kerry—sure, some of it Greg had done all because Tom asked, but now he wonders, how many of their interactions have been set up this explicitly?
How many times has Greg fallen for it?
Was Tom just making a fool of him, this entire time? Was anything genuine?
Some of it had to be, right? What explanation is there, otherwise? Because at the end of the day, Tom took Greg out to show him the ropes, ordering him everything on the menu, taking him clubbing afterward and drinking gold-flecked wine, taking him home and making sandwiches with him, inviting him to a diner in the middle of the night and taking the fall for him when prison reared its ugly head, running into Greg’s room to tenderly kiss his forehead when the threat ended, calling him Sporus and saying he’d marry him in a heartbeat, winking on the way out the door, giving him looks like he’s something special and worth keeping around… surely, that can’t all be manufactured.
Greg knows Tom lies to him. They lie to each other. Maybe Tom’s just a better actor, from doing this for so many years.
He’s terrified to entertain that thought further, so he shoves it down and buries it.
Kerry eventually leaves, saying, “If this focus group isn’t real, I’m gonna take you apart like a human string cheese,” and it’s just Greg, alone with his thoughts, thoughts that only grow stronger and more prevalent the longer he’s by himself.
He stands up, heads out of the room, and starts looking around for Tom.
Eventually, he catches him on the floor of ATN, overlooking an employee or two. Greg approaches, beckons him over. Tom gets obligingly close and looks at him expectantly. “Did you do it?”
“Yeah.”
“Did anything happen?”
Greg lets out a shaky breath. “She said if the focus group wasn’t real, she’d dissect me like a human string cheese,” he reports, “but otherwise, I think it went okay?”
“And you didn’t mention me, or Logan?”
Greg quickly shakes his head. “No, of course not.”
With that, Tom smiles and pats his cheek. “See? Told you it’d be easy.” He pulls his hand away all too soon. “I’ll be meeting up with Logan tonight to discuss our pre-election planning, so no need to wait on me. Don’t stay out all night with what’s-her-face from Tinder.”
Greg blinks. What, just like that? No animosity, or sorrow, or anything? Just don’t stay out all night. Did Tom get over it all and wise up that quickly?
Tom turns to leave. Greg coughs, catching himself saying, “Hey, wait, Tom.”
“What is it?” Beautiful blue eyes burn through him.
In an instant, Greg’s mouth dries up, and all the words catch in his throat. He wants to ask. How much of this is real? How much of this all has just been manipulation from the start? How often has Tom pulled the wool over Greg’s eyes? Has he been doing that at all? Was this all really only to break the news to Kerry? Why is he so unbothered by Greg, now, as if a switch has flipped? Is it all something to do with the air, and the venue, and the alcohol, and having a woman there, present? Is he wise to Greg’s game? Is he playing along? Is this all a power move?
He wants so badly to be able to just ask, Tom, what is all of this, and where do I fit in?
But it would require admitting what this is to himself, and telling Tom as much, and he’s still terrified of speaking it into existence, for as much as he knows it’s becoming real.
He bites it all down. He can’t just let that all out. Tom would be completely put off. Tom might never speak to him again. Tom’s married. Tom’s not getting a divorce anytime soon. Tom’s never going to so much as entertain the possibility, and it’s completely foolish to think otherwise.
Instead, Greg just smiles, taken once again by the way Tom holds his gaze like he’s worth looking at. “Good luck.”
Tom smiles at him fondly, says nothing, and leaves him on the ATN floor, surrounded by desks and nameless workers.
Greg stands alone, stuck in ever-spiraling fears.