Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tom Wambsgans' life comes crumbling down on a beautiful, perfect sunny Tuesday afternoon. 

He'd been busying himself with an impossible amount of paperwork, trying to distract his mind from everything, from Shiv, the divorce finalisation anniversary, the unborn baby anniversary—kind of hysterical both had happened at the same time, he thinks bitterly, and he tries to think about literally anything else. About mergers, about the upcoming Q4 that was biting him in the ass, thanks a lot Lukas, he tries everything, he really does.

And then, all his efforts get reduced to actual fucking ashes when Gregory Hirsch walks right into his office, hands behind his back and a bright smile on his face, hair slightly longer than it had been six months ago. He practically prances up to him, looking fucking delighted, and that makes Tom impossibly worried. 

Did something happen? They hadn't really talked to each other in months—they were busy, and even as his Chief of Staff, the younger man had been meandering on the side, hanging out with friends from other departments. So—

Ah.

So Tom knows that whatever had made his friend so happy, it wasn't him. The realisation makes him a little sick, but it's okay. It's okay. 

It will be. It has to be.

"Sorry to bother," Greg starts, but his smile is so big that it seems like he can't even speak properly, "like, I know you're busy, and all—"

"Get to the point."

"Right, so—"

His friend grins, all teeth and dimples, and then reaches out in front of him, holding out his hand. 

There's a ring in his palm. It looks—cheap. But it's a ring.

Tom wonders if he's hallucinating, if the lack of sleep is catching up to him—it is, which is why he's on Modafinil, a dose that was 'far too high to be prescribed through joy of heart, but you look like you need it,' his doctor had said. That wasn't the point. Greg was standing there, showing him a shitty ring with nothing on it. 

"I'm gonna propose to my boyfriend!" he exclaims, smile too wide and scary, and teeth showing. "In the upcoming months, I think?"

"What the fuck, Greg?" Tom asks, but it's devoid of any heat, it's just incredibly disbelieving, "you're—what? You—since when were you even dating anyone? Last time I remember, you were hooking up with this NYU teacher, the one who taught modern art? He was, huh—a brunet?"

"Dude, that's so a year ago," Greg laughs, shaking his head a little, "no, duh. Anyway, I've been with him for almost eleven months now!"

That's impossible, Tom automatically thinks, trying to record any time his friend could've told him about this mystery guy—he can't. He's literally never heard of the guy. Ever. And like, getting married after not even a full year of dating, really? What were they, lesbians? Greg's insane, that much he knows, but even then he's surprised. 

They were best friends, right? Best friends who rarely saw each other anymore, rarely hung out, but still—still best friends.

...right?

"Why are you telling me this?" he settles on, leaning back into his chair, crossing his arms against his chest to prevent his heart from beating out from it. "Is that, I don't know, relevant? Will you propose to him over our next M&A, or perhaps the proof of Vaulter's attempted spin off?"

"Vaulter's spinning off?"

"Greg!"

"Sorry! Sorry, no. I've got everything planned. I got a really nice restaurant, one you recommended to me."

"What, so you'll propose over overpriced bottled water and dry salad?" Tom jokes rudely, though he guesses he should know better, since his one and only proposal took place at a hospital while the person at the other end of the thing was witnessing her father's potential death. 

Moving on. 

"Doesn't matter. Is it someone from Waystar? You'll have to fill in paperwork."

"No, yeah, I know," Greg chuckles, shifting on his feet a little, twisting his fingers, "it's just, like—I wanted to tell you. Since you're my best friend."

The anger that bubbles in Tom's stomach is immense, and immediate. He knows better than to slam his computer in Greg's face, though, so he just stiffly nods. 

"And tell me you did. Back to work, I'm busy."

"Oh. Sorry. I thought you'd be happy for me," his friend mutters, "I have the notes from the last board meeting ready on my desk."

"Okay. Thanks, and fucking, like, congrats," Tom replies coldly, eyes drifting back to his computer screen, lowering the brightness when he feels the headache building. He sighs. "You want to ask me something."

"What? No!"

"Yes, you do. You're making your sad eyes again."

"I'm not..."

"Just get on with it, or it'll seriously piss me off."

Greg gives in, hovering over his friend's desk, looking down at the mass of paper with a small frown. 

"It's just—you've been married before, yeah?"

"So observant, Greg. Nothing goes past you, really," Tom flatly replies, starting to write again, though he notices that his Mont Blanc was running out of ink. He makes a note to send out an assistant to grab some from the shops later. "So what?"

"Well...I want to get my b—future fiancé, a ring. You know, for the engagement. This one is just a random one I got for $10, I just wanted to check the ring size."

"Right."

"But I'd also, like, wanna carve his initials in it? And I thought, maybe, like, you could help me? Find a good jeweller and stuff, get a nice ring..."

The older man nods distractedly, not particularly listening to him. 

"And I don't wanna, like, spend a paycheck on this, or whatever..."

"Well, and they say chivalry's dead and love knows no bounds," Tom snorts, "what's the initials? They charge less when it's easy ones. Like 'I.' Or 'L.'"

"Oh, it's—really? Man, that's a bother," Greg frowns deeper, biting his lower lip just barely. "I didn't...I did not know that. Is that—well, shoot."

"What, is he called, fucking, Y-Z, or what?"

"No. Huh, it's 'T-W.' Taylor Winston? He's in Digital."

Tom's hand stops in his tracks, and the fountain pen's end scratches loudly against the paper.

"Right. Not the easiest ones," he stills says, feeling impossibly numb. "Can't go wrong with Hermès or Cartier, I think. There's one on Madison Avenue, Hermès, I mean. I'm solid there's a Cartier on 5th Avenue."

"Oh! Really? That's so cool, man. I'll definitely go there then. I mean—I'd like it if you came with me? Like, after work, could be a fun hangout, no? We haven't seen each other in so long, man!"

"Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a CEO," Tom mumbles, setting his pen down in annoyance, rubbing his face as he sighs. "Sure, we can go fucking...engagement ring shopping, if you want. Does tomorrow, 6 PM sound okay to you? Ah, actually, I don't care. Just rearrange my schedule to whatever's best."

He pauses, finally looks back at Greg, who seems unaware of his internal turmoil, unaware that his own happiness had set Tom's back to at least three years ago. He shouldn't be too selfish, he supposes. At least one of them got to get their happy ending. Maybe in this life, Sporus had found someone to care for him after Nero's suicide, after all the emperor had put him through.

"Really, dude?! You'd do that for me?"

I'd do anything for you. 

"Sure. It's not everyday your best friend's getting married, right?" he smiles, but it's fake, and he knows that Greg probably knows. "You could've asked your cousin all the same, though," he adds, because he's never known when to shut the fuck up. 

"What, Ken? No offense, man, but he's not the typa guy I wanna go to when it comes to weddings and relationships," Greg laughs.

"And your logical reasoning was me?"

"Well, you don't leave smears of coke on desks, so I'd say it's a win," he smiles.

"I didn't mean Kendall," Tom offers, making the other's eyebrows shoot up. "Not Connor either, for what it's worth."

"...you can't mean Shiv? Surely?"

"Nope."

Greg stalls.

"Wh—but then wh—no," he finally blurts, visibly recoiling. "No, Tom."

A shrug.

"Tom!" he insists, visibly disgusted, "Roman? Who even—what? Who?!"

"What? Don't look so unhappy." 

"Dude..." 

"I'm just saying, Greg. Really? That's a shame you seem so opposed to it, they had such a beautiful, fairytale-like wedding in Paris," Tom sing-songs, staring into the emptiness next to his bookshelf. "Beautiful vows, too. Had me sobbing."

"Are you serious?!"

"Of course I'm not fucking serious, Greg," he snorts, rolling his eyes and cracking his fingers. "We were incredibly drunk, and Rome thought it'd be hilarious. Las Vegas type of shit. It was just the four of us, man. I'd never seen Karolina that plastered, it was crazy."

"Isn't the whole marriage-thing about the fact that both parties have to be, like...consenting?"

"Ha-ha. So funny, Greg. At her 63 years of age, I'm sure she was all very consenting."

"Sixt—DID ROMAN FUCKING MARRY GERRI?!" Greg yells, turning a whole new shade of reddish-green, "GERRI KELLMAN?! OUR GEN—OUR GENERAL COU—DUDE?"

"Love is love is love," Tom shrugs again.

"STOP QUOTING CONNOR! DUDE, TOM! SHE'S LIKE—" he lowers his voice, "she's so old! She saw him grow up! That's like, really fucked up!" 

"Oh, well." 

"Don't 'oh well' me!"

"You should chill, man. There's a bit less than thirty years in between them, they'll be fine. Though, we know who's dying first."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Whatever. Fix my schedule, get me the board's notes, and then we'll go buy your fucking ring."

"I—"

"And don't tell Roman I told you. Alright, shoo."

Greg doesn't fight back, something for which he's, well—quite grateful, actually. 

"I can't believe this shit..."

"Yeah, yeah."

An uncomfortable lull.

"Hum. Tom?"

"What?" Tom exasperatedly asks, clearly upset about something. 

"Just—thanks, man. Like, I really appreciate this. It's really nice you're doing this with me, I was a bit, like...anxious? It's my first—and last! serious relationship, so...it's a big step." 

"Right, well," Tom cuts him off before he can feel himself grow more and more upset, "that's great, man. Really cool. But I'm serious, you'll give me a thank you-blowie when all's settled, don't worry about it."

"Haha, sure, with pleasure, my good sir!" Greg laughs good naturally, saluting. "Alright, I'll get back to it. See you!"

The other man doesn't answer, just watches the door of his office close, his friend disappearing behind the opaque walls. 

He's pretty sure he's going to vomit.

Bzz. 

Really? A phone call now, when he's a second away from killing himself? Piss off.

"What?"

[Hello to you too, Tom,] Shiv's voice rings out, completely taking him by surprise. 

Frankly, he'd been half and half expecting her to reach out, though he'd landed on the more negative side of it. While the divorce had settled on rocky terms, they had started to talk again, careful but sympathetic, around six months later. 

They could never be who they had been before, the love was not there anymore, and sometimes, Tom wonders if it had been there at all, but they're decent now. They don't go out for drinks, they certainly don't meet at their respective flats, but they nod at each other when she attends board meetings, it's cordial, and it's okay.

And if they'd ended up fucking in a Waystar bathroom a few months ago, never kissing, well, that's nobody's business. It had been a quick affair, hah, and they'd never mentioned it ever again.

"Oh, hey Shiv," he says then, voice softer than it had been a second ago. "How do you do?"

[Oh, you know,] she replies, and he can hear the faint amusement in her tone, [the usual.]

"Right, yeah. Still kickin' it in D.C, then?"

[You know me. Waystar's in good hands, I hope. Lukas' not talking to me these days.]

"I'd hope so," he laughs gently, running a hand through his hair. "I pop three pills a day on good days, it's a wonder how your dad ever did it, huh."

[Spite, I'm pretty sure,] Shiv snorts, and Tom laughs as well. [Careful with the pills though, you never know.]

"I'll be fine, Shiv," he offers, but he moves to take out a small plastic bag from his inside pocket nonetheless. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're worried."

[Well, for all you tried to pit me as a monster, Tom—]

"Okay, got it, I got it," he laughs again. 

[I'm glad you picked up the phone. Especially today.]

He pauses, looks at the bay window. The weather was still postcard perfect, and it annoys him to no end. It should be raining, all of New York should know how miserable he feels.

"Yeah. I didn't...I didn't know whether I should, or not. Didn't want to impede on your, ah, personal life by calling you first. Just in case you didn't want to have it mentioned to you."

[It was your child too, Tom.]

"You know, Siobhan," he begins, eyes softening and fingers tapping on the desk board, "you don't have to do this. It's okay, you don't owe it to me. It happened to you, first and foremost."

[...yeah, no, I know that. But I'm alright, though.]

"Are you?"

[Well, I think my mother was pretty delighted that it happened the way it did,] she says, still avoiding the words, because maybe, if she doesn't say it, maybe it won't be real. [I mean, she did say I'd make a shitty mother. She wasn't particularly wrong.]

"Shiv, respectfully, your mother isn't exactly the perfect example of a loving parent either."

[Probably, yeah. You would've made a great dad, though,] she continues, and there's a sincere tightness to her voice that Tom finds crushing. [I'm serious. I didn't lie, you're a good guy, Wambsgans. At least on that.]

"Well, can't return the compliment, but..."

[Oh, fuck off,] Shiv laughs, but it's a little wet and a little hoarse. [I guess I needed to hear a friendly voice today.]

"Yeah?"

[Yeah. Are you in New York right now?]

"I am," he nods, though he soon realises that she can't see him. "Are you? Do you want me to come by?" 

[No, ah, I'm in D.C right now,] she replies, [but thanks. That's very...thank you, Tom.]

"Yeah."

Anytime, he finds himself almost saying, though he soon realises that he just doesn't mean it anymore. 

"Hey, I meant to ask, were you the one who sent Rome the 'How to find the G spot,' book for his wedding? It didn't come with a name, and he's been dying to find out."

There's a loud laugh at the other end of the line, something genuine that he finds he doesn't miss. He's just glad she's capable of laughing like that again.

[What? No, absolutely not. I'm the one who sent him the shock collar.]

"Oh, right. Maybe that was Stewy, then." 

[Oh, that sounds like something he'd do. I can't believe Rome's married to my fucking godmother.]

"I know, that's sort of w—"

Greg's lanky figure cuts him off, as he watches the other man make his way inside his office, a few papers in his hands.

The board meeting's notes, Tom remembers. 

"Sorry, h—Shiv, I gotta go. But good talk, let's catch up later, yeah?"

It's odd now, that he's the one hanging up on her. It'd be a lie not to say it doesn't feel good. 

[Yeah, alright. Good day, Tom.]

"Bye-bye."

He hangs up, looks back up to meet his assistant's eyes.

"Why, so efficient. Thank you, Greg."

"Was that Shiv? Just now?" he asks, sending him a withering look, "like, on the phone."

"Yes? What, am I not allowed to stay in touch with my ex-wife, who is also your cousin?"

"I thought the divorce didn't end well."

"It didn't. We became cordial after."

"I didn't know that."

"Okay, well I didn't know you had a boyfriend or were planning to get fucking hitched to him!" Tom exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. "Do you want a written explanation of when and how she and I fucked? Want me to bring you to the exact cubicle?"

Greg pales, taking a small step back while his brows furrowed.

"What?"

"I'm just saying. If you can think about proposing to some random guy with my initials, I sure as fuck can bang my hot ex-wife in a Waystar bathroom," the other man sighs. "Anyway, that's not the point here. She and I are still in contact, yes. Not that it's any of your business."

"Dude, she broke your heart!"

"My heart's fine. What am I? Twelve?"

"You pushed her down the stairs for me!" 

"That's not—"

Tom stops, shooting him a glare he knows would put him off. Still got it.

"That's none of your business," he repeats.

"She's literally my cousin, I feel like—? I'd have to know, if you two were to get together, like, again—"

"We're not getting back together," the older man cuts him off, hand drifting to the side of his desk, picking at the small plastic bag. 

Oh, fuck it. 

He takes it out, his pinky finger's nail rearranging the powder so the small two lines would look thin enough for him to snort. He'd gotten quite good at it this past year. 

Sure, his consumption had grown more and more, especially in times of need when Lukas would slave him around, but he'd gotten kind of good at it. Balancing the healthy lifestyle of getting just the right amount of high to keep up with work and not overdosing in his office.

"Tom, wh—we're at work!" Greg whisper-yells, "is that coke?!"

"No, it's flour," Tom jokes, leaning and pressing on the side of his nostril. He doesn't look up, doesn't see how horrified Greg looks, and that's probably for the best. 

Once he's done with the lines, he leans back, brushing a little roughly at his nose. He's not exactly sure if the mix of pills and coke will do him good, but he needs that to survive the day, at least. 

"What?" he asks, "did you want some, or what?"

"Dude what? No. No! Just—that's not safe, man."

Tom shrugs again, noticing the faint smears on the polished wood of his desk. He almost wants to laugh. 

The landline phone rings, and he picks it up smoothly, listening intently to whatever the other person was telling him. He nods and gets up, gesturing at his Chief of Staff to follow him.

Except that like—Greg's pissed off.

He's just—he's fucking pissed off. And it shouldn't even matter that today was a great, fun day for him, because he'd made up his mind to take things to the next step with his boyfriend. Tom had ruined it. He's not sure how and why, but he'd gone and ruined it, he had, and now he's mad at himself, and at him. 

He's also ruminating the fact that Tom had admitted to having had sex with Shiv after the divorce, which is stupid, like, actually dumb as fuck, he thinks, but he's too proud to admit it. 

Just—why would he do that? Was he lonely? Sure, they didn't see each other a lot anymore, but that was okay, right? Like—

Like, Greg was really upset about it. He'd sometimes cry about it, actually. But it was okay, because apparently Tom didn't mind. And he'd already saved his spot in the company, Greg didn't want to overstep. A month of them barely talking to each other had turned into two, and then three, and before he could really realise it, a full year had gone by, and they were still on barely agreeable terms.

That's what makes him so fucking angry. That visibly, Tom had a better relationship with his ex-wife whom he supposedly (supposedly!) hated, than him, his best friend, his confidante, his fucking—

He pauses, cracks his fingers.

Maybe Tom really doesn't care. Maybe he's so over it, maybe he has been ever since Greg's last betrayal. He'd hated himself for it, but—shit. He just wishes they'd been more honest with one another.

They make their way to—apparently, from what he can see, Karolina's office. What for? He's not too sure. They never go to Karolina's. She usually comes to them. Maybe it's a big thing? Maybe Matsson or Roman tweeted some crazy shit again? Ugh, he hopes it's not that. 

"What can I do for you?" Tom asks, faux-friendly, opening the door and immediately leaning against it, sending a bored glance to the three other people in the room—Karolina, Roman, and Gerri, both of whom were indeed wearing matching gold bands (it makes Greg want to retch a little bit,) "did Lukas do something again?" 

"No," their Head of PR replies, shaking her head slightly, "it's actually..." a frown, "it doesn't concern Waystar per se." 

"What? Then why am I here?" 

"Well, it concerns you, Tom," she adds hastily, "so, we thought you should know." 

"Okay? I don't think I like where this is going," he frowns, cocking his head to the side just slightly, "what happened?" 

"It's Shiv," Roman says with an eye roll, "c'mon, you guys are just edging him now, and he looks like he's enjoying it, and I don't like that."  

"Siobhan? I was just on the phone with her. What'd she do?" 

"She was kind enough to run this by us," Karolina says, pushing forward a large Kraft envelope on her desk, making Tom move from the door to take a look at it. "She had those sent a few days ago, they arrived earlier today." 

The photographs, because it's what they are, are all taken at the same place, or at least it looks like it. Shiv's short red hair is unmistakable, and on the first few ones she's just standing on the balcony of a flat, large bay windows behind her. She looks casual enough, wearing some sort of large sweater but tailored suit pants, and she's pointedly not looking at the camera. The next pictures—well. He blinks slowly, and he's sure he looks a bit dumb about it. But—on the next ones, she's with someone else. A woman, more specifically. She's beautiful, too. She has long black hair, and the glasses fit her face nicely. At first, the other woman seems to be bringing her a cup of something, coffee, Tom guesses, and then she's holding her by the waist and kissing her deeply. On the mouth. The next three are not much different, except that Shiv's holding the woman's face, eyes closed, looking content.

Huh.

He probably should've seen it coming, he means—she did look pretty enthusiastic at the idea of a threesome with another girl. He did have his suspicions, he just never really paid much attention to them. 

"She's asked us to make sure you knew of them," Karolina explains, looking back up at him. "She said she wanted your, ah...she didn't say approval, but she wanted you in the loop before paps release the pics. Since you're her ex-husband, she wanted you to be warned that you might get questions asked once they're out. Literally and figuratively."

"Did she pay someone to take those?" Greg asks, visibly put off, " I thought only actors or celebs did that." 

"Well, she is a celebrity, you fucktard," Roman replies with a shrug. "I'm kind of surprised she even cared enough about you to ask for this," he adds, looking at Tom. "No offence." 

"Yeah, no," Tom mutters, unable to look past the pictures. "No, I mean," he shakes his head, "sure. I'm glad she told us, I suppose. But that's not really my business. I mean, since she will go public with," a board gesture towards the enveloppe, "this? Is this, you know...a coming out?" 

"I mean, she didn't specify her sexuality," Gerri offers, "but she mentioned she'd agree to an interview if the papers asked. It's good coverage for the campaign she's working on. Probably good for Waystar's image, too? Wins us diversity points, I suppose." 

"Right. Yeah. No, yeah, good for her," her boss smiles, albeit a little tightly. "Yeah. What's the woman's name? Did you manage to find it?" 

"Oh, she just told us. Andrea Ingram, she works in PR for the campaign as well." 

"Ah, I see." 

"Right."

"Well," Tom shrugs, "thanks again for the heads up, you all. But rest assured, who she chooses to date is not my business anymore." 

"Yeah, you've been divorced for well over a year, no?" Roman asks, "that's kosher. I mean, I guess." 

"Separated for well over a year," Greg specifies a little haughtily, missing the look of surprise Tom sends him. "Divorced for one."

"Sure, dude." 

"I actually have some errands to run. Gerri, could you move my call to Lawrence to tomorrow? Or later tonight, if he's so inclined. I'll be there for my afternoon meeting, though. The 5.30 one."  

"What? Why not before then?" 

"Errands to run," Tom says again. "Gregory, chop chop. Let's get moving." 

"Wh—huh? Where are we going?" his assistant panics, sending a goodbye nod to the other execs before trotting behind the other man, "are you okay, dude?" 

A pause.

"What? Yeah, why?" 

"I don't know, like...your ex-wife's dating a woman, it's kinda hard on the psyche? I guess? Like, what if she was a lesbian and was pretending to like what you guys were doing from the beginning?" 

"Oh, yeah," Tom flatly replies, looking down at his phone to call a car for them before sending him a look that Greg can't quite place but who seems a little—amused? For some reason? "That'd be so fucked up, wouldn't it, buddy? Yeah, such a weird thing to do. Mmh. Couldn't imagine it. I'll be fine." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Oh, positive." 

They don't speak on the way down, and Greg catches Tom playing a fucking fps game in the car, and a shitty one at that, judging by the quality of the image on the screen. He seems to actually nail the shots, though, so that's odd. They'd gone hunting when Logan had been alive, but he'd never actually seen him use the rifle. It's sort of hot to know he can do it, and can do it well. 

Oh, he's a sick fuck. 

They stop in front of the massive Cartier shop on 5th Avenue, and the mansion with the red curtains still makes Greg swallow nervously. They get out of the car and don't stop to wait in the queue because the doorman seems to recognize Tom, letting them in instantly. The younger man's pretty sure he hears screams of indignation, but he's far past giving a fuck. 

"Mister Wambsgans!" a man in a nice suit calls out almost immediately, trotting up to him with a large smile, "it's good to see you, sir. We were worried you might've been cheating on us, we haven't seen you in ages." 

"Parting with you? Don't be silly, Christian, I could never do that to you," Tom smiles back, giving him a small pat on the arm. "It's good to see you too. This isn't for me this time, I'm afraid. This overgrown Tube-man is getting hitched," he explains, pointing his thumb at Greg, "he needed my help to pick up a band. Is it for the engagement, buddy? Or the actual ceremony?" 

"Hum...I mean, I know there's usually two," his friend mumbles, "but I kind of don't wanna pay, like, four times, so...I don't really know..." 

"Wow, that's really romantic," the employee deadpans, making the older man giggle and Greg blush furiously. "What does your girlfriend like?" 

"Oh, no," Tom shakes his head, "it's a guy. He wants to carve the initials in the ring, though I did tell him he'd pay the price because he's marrying a guy with fucked up initials." 

"Really? Which are?"

"T.W." 

"Ah, like a good man I know," Christian smiles, sending him a smile that Greg can only catalog as fucking flirty. What the fuck, even? "But, ah, yes. Little more expensive."

"God, fuck, really...?"

There's a pause, and then both other men snort, almost in tandem, making him scrunch up his nose.

"Dude, w—" 

"I was pulling your leg, dude," Tom laughs loudly, visibly very amused by his joke, "'course you're not paying more. My God, you can be such a Harpagon sometimes! Are you too used to me buying you stuff?" 

"What?! Tom, that's like—that's not funny!" 

"Yeah, yeah." 

"Sir, do you want a classic gold one?" the employee asks then, "or a silver one, like mister Wambsgans?"

Greg turns to face his friend. 

"Oh, your ring was a Cartier?" 

"Yeah," the other shrugs, though he looks pretty annoyed about it, "not my favorite, huh, design. Was too thick for my taste, but," a shrug, "Shiv had picked it. Actually, maybe she just blind picked it. I think she sent a PA. I don't want to know. So, Gregory. Silver or gold?" 

Greg grimaces, allowing the employee to lead them in front of beautifully dressed crystal boxes inside of which stood the different rings. 

"This is the Love ring, you might've seen it before," he hears him say, "it's available in pink, white or yellow gold." 

"Huh-huh...oh, yeah, I recognize the, like, ornaments..." 

"Then," Christian moves on, "this is the Cartier d'Amour. A bit thicker." 

"Mmh." 

"Then, our thickest one, the one miss Roy had picked for mister Wamsbgans," he gestures at a silver, quite heavy looking ring, "the 1895 wedding band." 

Oh, Greg really doesn't like this one. 

"Our C de Cartier, very traditional one. The Ballerine, too. They come in Platinum." 

"I—" 

"Oh, your hand would look pretty with the Ballerine," Tom remarks off-handedly, like he wasn't really thinking about his words, leaning to look at the ring in question. "Your fingers are pretty long and lithe, you wouldn't fit a thick ring like mine used to be," he then adds, frowning a little. "I don't know about your boyfriend, though." 

"Oh, hum—" 

"Though, I suppose you don't have to get matching ones, even if you're both men. It's up to you, really." 

"That's true," Christian nods, "it'd look catchy, yet distinguished enough to be worn regularly. I suppose you work together?" 

"Yeah, we do?" 

"Right, Waystar allows rings, then?" 

"Don't see why we wouldn't, especially now that I'm the boss," Tom replies, good humouredly. "So, Greg, what do you say? Want to try some of them on?" 

The younger man nods, visibly anxious about something. 

"Which ones?" 

"Oh, hum—just the Ballerine one, please." 

"Attaboy! Hold out the—yeah, good," Tom says, taking his fingers into his own hands, and oh, Jesus, his skin is warm, like, really warm, "Chris, what do we think? Size what, 3? 4? 4.5?" 

"Looks like a 4.5 to me," the other one nods, "but we can try a size 5 in case it feels too tight when summer comes." 

"Summer?" Greg frowns, "what about summer?" 

"Your fingers swell due to the temperatures," his friend explains, "heat and humidity will do that. Or if you work out. I know I took my ring off when I did. Yeah, get him a size 5 please, Christian. Thanks." 

The younger man watches silently as the third man picks a ring out, his left hand still held in Tom's. He hopes his palm doesn't feel too clammy. That would be incredibly lame. 

"Alright, tell me if it feels comfortable," Tom says then, bringing him out of his daze. "You with me, buddy?" 

"Huh? Oh, yeah, dude. Totally." 

"Okay, then." 

Greg's eyes fall to their linked hands, where Tom gently slides the ring around his well, ring finger, fully focused on the task at hand. He wonders if there had been this same sense of worship in the air when he'd proposed to Shiv in that hospital wing. 

He can't see the blue of his eyes, just the incredibly long, dark lashes. 

His stomach hurts, it feels tight and like it's doing flips at the same time. And he's pretty sure that his entire face is red. Fuck.

He can't breathe. 

"It fits you," Tom smiles then, looking back up. "How's it feel?" 

"Like, honestly?" 

"What? Yeah honestly, asshole. You're the one paying 2k for this." 

"2 thousand—" 

"One thousand three hundred," Christian butts in. "I'll let you guys choose what you prefer," he then adds, "please feel free to ask for me if you need anything." 

"Thank you, Christian," the older man nods, still looking at the band. "Right-o, Gregory. Will you go with 'G-H'? Or full name, perhaps? 'G-S-H'?" 

"Oh? How'd you even know—" 

"You had a bag with those. What's the S stand for? Samuel? Sebastian? You don't look like a Sebastian." 

"No, huh—Simon," Greg says, still impossibly red. "It's my dad's name." 

"Ah, I see. Either way, you didn't answer my question." 

"I mean, I dunno...'G-W' is a bit...like, preposterous, no...?" 

"I don't know? Gregory Wilson? Sounds like a Doctor House gay episode." 

"Winston," the other man mumbles, "his last name. Maybe 'G-H-W'?" 

Gregory Hirsch-Wambsgans sounds good, though.

"Sounds like a rapist's favorite drug." 

"Dude!" 

"Just kidding, my God. You'd think dating some guy would've loosened your asshole," Tom replies with an eye roll, making Greg yelp in shock. "Calm down. Anyway...are you getting matching ones?" 

"Yeah, I guess," he sighs then, shrugging a little. "'G-H,' in one, 'T-W' in the other." 

"What's his size?" 

"Huh, 7.5." 

"Mmh. Bit smaller than me," the other nonchalantly remarks. "I'll call Chris again." 

"What's your size?" Greg asks suddenly, catching the other's hand in his before he can move, not missing how his eyes had widened. "I mean—I'm curious." 

"Well, you're curious about odd things. I'm a size 11. Or 11.5? Depends. I don't wear rings anymore, so." 

"Oh, okay. That's—okay. Yeah." 

Red sequoia, he thinks a little hysterically. Jesus Christ.

"Hey, do you know why we wear our rings on this finger?" he continues, feeling a little maniacal all of the sudden, "like, on this finger specifically?" 

Tom wets his lower lip, clearly considering something, but seems to backtrack. 

He probably already knows, Greg figures, but he needs to be the one to tell him. Like, he's not sure why. He just needs to.

"It's because, so, like—the Romans, they had this thing—belief? I guess, that like, we had a vein that linked this finger to our heart, you know? The vena amoris. I checked and it's like, not true, but I like it? That when you, like, tie the knot, physically, you're—not anatomically accurately, but you're like, holding your loved one's heart. And that's, just...that's really nice. The Romans had nice customs." 

"Well, there's also the dextrarum iunctio inter conjiuges," his friend then supplies, pulling his hand back to his side, "if we're talking Roman traditions." 

"Oh—ah? I've never...this isn't IP I'm familiar with." 

A snort.

"Yeah, so you said. It's just a custom. When they get married, the bride and her husband shake hands. And it makes the thing official." 

"Shoot, really?" 

"Sure, yeah." 

Greg's head spinning a little.

"Pick the ring for your boyfriend, Greg," Tom sighs softly, "I'll pay at the counter." 

"What? Dude, no! That's like—it's my role to pay, it's fine, like—it's just 5k or something," he still grimaces when he says it out loud, "it's literally—" 

"I told you I'd get you a ring, no? Just pick the one you like." 

And with that, the older man turns on his heels, wallet already out of his suit pocket. 

She fell down the stairs, he shook my hand, he gave me a ring. 

She fell down the stairs, he shook my hand, he gave me a ring.  

Fuck, he thinks, closing his eyes so hard they hurt and he could see small black dots. Fuck. Shit.

He goes back to his friend, sheepishly telling him which he'd chosen after a few minutes, before being told he could have them picked up in around a week. They thank the employees and just like that they're back outside, the icy wind of the beginning of winter slashing their skin. 

"I'll head back to the office," Tom tells him, waiting for his car to pull up, "feel free to work from home, if you want." 

"W—really? Why?" 

"Dunno. You don't have to, of course. I know I have that one meeting I can't miss, but you're not needed there. I'll manage." 

"No, it's okay," Greg says, feeling sick at the mere idea of not being needed by Tom, "I'll shadow you. Take notes, or whatever." 

"Take notes or whatever," his friend laughs, but nods nonetheless. "Sure, knock yourself out. Hey, the guy I'm seeing is actually Canadian." 

"Ah, really? I have some concurrence, then. What's it for?" 

"You didn't check? Don't you write my schedule?" 

"Tom..." 

"Fine, fine. He's—I'm pretty sure he's in charge of GWM? At Scotiabank."

"Huh?"

"Global Wealth Management, idiot," Tom groans, opening him the door of the car so he could get in before following him suit. "He manages the investments. God, I forget that you've never set foot in a Finance class before." 

"Haha...well, we all have our flaws, right?" 

"I'm sure." 

"Talking about—like, flaws, are you still high, man?" 

"What, from the coke?" 

"...yeah?" 

The other man doesn't reply, but the withering look he sends him shuts him up. 

Greg's second bad, no good day event happens the second he steps foot in that fucking meeting room. And he thinks—maybe, just maybe, that this could be some karmic retribution. Like, maybe. 

The man that waits for them isn't taller than him. Actually, so far in life, he's never met anyone taller than him. Mostly because he doesn't go to basketball games, because he doesn't care for them, but, still. The guy isn't that tall. Maybe 6'1"? He's shorter than Tom. Anyway, that's not the point. The guy is, like. Really handsome. Even he has to admit it. He's lean, like him, but not really, because on him it looks weird because he's so tall—on the guy, it just looks hot. 

And he has those, like—really nice brown eyes that kind of look golden in the light? It's really annoying. The fucking mole under his lower lip is pissing Greg off, too. 

Yeah, he decides. He hates the fucking guy. 

"Oh, hello!" said guy then says when he sees them walk in, his face breaking into a wide smile when he spots Tom, going over to shake his hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Wambsgans. I hope it's not too much of a bother to meet." 

"Nonsense," Tom smiles back, polite. "My COS will be shadowing me during this meeting, if this is okay with you." 

"No problem, of course. Charles Carson, I work for Scotiabank," he offers, shaking Greg's hand as well. His skin is cold, and it's clammy.

"Gregory Roy," Greg replies mildly. "Nice to meet you." He withdraws his hand almost immediately.

"He's also Canadian," his boss then says, a little put off by his behavior, "where're you from, Charles?" 

"I'm from Otario," Charles tells him, and why the fuck won't he stop smiling, "Ottawa born and raised!" 

Greg visibly sneers at this, hiding his displeasure behind a cough, and a hypocritical grin he knows works like a charm.  

Fuck this guy, like, actually.

"Why? Where are you from, Gregory?" 

"Québec, not born, but raised," he parrots him, a little mockingly. "I'm a Québecois through and through."

Well, technically he'd lived in Paris for longer, but it's not like this guy needed to know.

"Ah..." 

"Should we get to work, then?" Tom then asks, probably sensing the tension in the room, clapping once and leading his future business partner to the nearest chair. "We have much to talk about." 

It's the worst meeting Greg has ever attended.

Like, actually. He finds that he hates it more than Boar on the Floor. Than fucking Boar on the fucking Floor. 

Tom and Charles seem to get along exceptionally well, because they're the same age and apparently share the same sense of humor, which is full of references from the 90s that Greg doesn't fully get, because, like, fucking sorry he was 2 when Hardball fucking came out, or whatever. 

The other horrible thing, though, is probably worse than this. And honestly, sue him, sure, but he's never seen a guy as tactile as Charles, Tom once removed. He's not even sure that's PC? Or like, acceptable in a business meeting? Like, why is he touching Tom's arm so much, and why's he laughing at really, actually really bad finance jokes? He's just heard Tom say 'Deloitted to meet you,' and he felt himself cringe. Like, oh my God.

He swallows back his annoyance and keeps on taking notes, but let it be known that he's deeply unhappy about it. 

The meeting clears around two hours later, which feels like an eternity to him, but he finally gets back up from his chair, stretching as he hears his back crack. Fucking shit. 

"Greg, send me your files ASAP, preferably before tonight. I'll look over them so I can get back to you, Charles." 

They'd switched to first names? When? Greg doesn't remember this happening. If they'd been speaking French, they would be using the informal you, he's sure. Yikes. 

"No pressure," Charles says then, squeezing Tom's bicep and letting his hand linger along its length when he drops it—Jesus Christ, "I'm not going back to Paris before a few weeks. I'm sure you're busy." 

"I'm sure I'll find time for you," Tom jokes, and yep, there it is, Greg's starting to feel a little sick. "Where're you staying at, by the way?" 

"The Aman." 

"Good taste! We held a dinner party there last year. You remember the party, Greg?" 

Greg's going to take his own life in public.

"Yeah, it was great," he says instead, not even smiling. "I love the Aman." 

"Yeah. Great room service! Anyway, Tom, if you need anything, you know where to call," Charles smiles, and then he fucking winks at him. "I'll be happy to help with the transition of our partnership."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for your reactivity."

He actually leads the other man outside the room, leaving Greg to gather his computer and the small notebook he carries everywhere with him. He's grossed out. 

Ten minutes pass by and Tom's not coming back. Fifteen. After twenty he gives up and sends one sad glance at his phone; no message.

The walk back home is not only needed, but necessary. He feels like shit, because his best fucking friend he only just got back straight up dumped him after a meeting for some Ottawan douchebag, and like—that's so fucked up! Okay? It's like—it's fucked up. It's not cool. He feels used, and a little dirty. 

His boyfriend's not hanging out when he steps foot in his flat, and he's grateful for that. At least he gets to unwind and scream into his hands in the peace of his own privacy. 

He's just so pissed that he momentarily forgets about the whole rings thing, and frankly, it's not like he cares a lot right now. He briefly thinks back to Tom's words—size 11. A quick search clears his appetence; it's a circumference of around 64mm. 

He swears that his dick usually doesn't get hard that quick.

And anyway, he's not sure why he's so surprised—he's seen Tom's hands before. Like, he's studied him, sorta. He knows the guy has massive hands and thick fingers. But thinking about it in too many details makes him lightheaded, and it hurts his brain a little bit. 

Hopefully things would settle in the upcoming month. He has a proposal to plan.

Maybe.

Things get incredibly worse a day later. 

It's almost admirable, just how fucked by life Greg gets. There's some sort of art to it. Or so he thinks, trying to cope with whatever was happening to him. 

First, Tom just doesn't talk to him anymore. Like, before, he'd still send an assistant to do something at Greg's office, maybe even text him business related stuff, but now? Nothing. Nada. Nicht.

Then, Charles starts showing up more and more. For no actual reason. He's pretty sure whatever business he and Tom are handling, it could happen with less meetings. He's so omnipresent that even Roman starts to question it. Which has to mean something, right?

The third thing, the one that really drives him up the fucking wall, is that one time Karolina calls Tom to her office in the middle of the day, completely out of the blue, and she doesn't ask Greg to come by. Pretty odd. He does catch Tom coming out of her office though, after a good hour, and he just looks amused. She doesn't, Greg reckons. She looks really exhausted and pissed, but her boss just laughs and shrugs. 

The week goes by, nothing of note happens. He thinks. Before he knows it, he finds himself hosting a party at his place, because it's his boyfriend's birthday, or something, he's sure it's in that line, but he's honestly a little too distracted to, like, clearly remember. And the thing's fun, actually! It's his first time really hosting something, so he's feeling kind of grown up, and tries not to drink too much. Matter of fact, he's barely half a beer in when there's an incessant ringing at his door, loud enough that he can hear it over the background music.

"All good, babe?" Taylor asks him when he sees him move away from the main island, "what's up?"

"Mmh? Someone's at the door. I'll just che—" another ringing, "Jesus, yes, coming!" he complains, trotting up to the entrance. "Yes? Wh—"

Tom Wambsgans just stands there, unbothered, except that, like, he kind of looks off? And Greg doesn't even have the excuse of being plastered to justify the way his eyes roam over the other's body, they just do. 

At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary. And then, everything looked wrong.

Tom was wearing a shirt—normal enough. But not. There's a hoodie slung across his left arm. Tom does not own hoodies.

Worse, the shirt is black, which is a color Greg has never seen him wear on a shirt, like, ever, and it's one with those casual band collars that he personally really likes. And like, okay, sure. Maybe he's aiming for something informal, maybe he wants to relax at home, or something. Then, his eyes drift up to his face.

Why, the fuck, is the guy wearing sunglasses at 10PM? Is he high? Is he on drugs? Multiple?

"Well, good evening to you too, Gregory," Tom snorts, and he leans against the door frame on two incredibly unstable legs, almost missing it and crashing down onto the floor, "wha—at's up? Big night?"

Okay, he's drunk, Greg notes, a little distressed. He's like, hammered. As fuck.

"Huh—it's Taylor's birthday," he replies dumbly. "I threw him a party."

"Okay. Well, you might wanna hide this, then, you little ass," the other man grins, showing him a large red bag he'd been withholding from him. There's a clear Cartier written in gold on it.

Oh God. Oh fuck. He'd forgotten about that.

"Chris called," Tom explains slowly, "said you didn't come by to get them even after they'd called you, twice, need I add."

"My phone blocks unknown numbers..."

"Anyway, I went and got them for you," he continues, forcing the bag forward, "so no need to thank me. I might just be the best boss you could dream of."

"Dude, thank you, that's actually—like, that's really nice," Greg nods stiffly, "but just, I can't get them now, 'cause Taylor's here, so he'd ask questions—"

"Okay? Well I have things to attend to, Greg," Tom pouts, "I can't carry those all night."

"Things to attend? You're not looking like you're going to dinner, though?"

"Huh? What's that mean?"

A shrug.

"I don't know? Your hair's undone and that's...like, this isn't a dress shirt. Unless I'm crazy?" 

"We already got dinner," the other man tells him, "oh, shit. Almost forgot it there."

To Greg's horror, he reaches inside the bag to retrieve a dark red cap—what the fuck?—that reads University of Ottawa—what the fuck?—before screwing it on his head, messing up his hair horribly. 

"Just in case I get recognized," he explains, shrugging slightly. "Can't you...I don't know, hide them in your closet, or something? You're good at hiding in closets, aren't you, Greg?"

"Dude?! Are you—take the glasses off."

"What? No."

"I just wanna check if you're fucking high, man!"

"I'm not," Tom snorts gracelessly, tilting his sunnies down just barely, sclera perfectly white, pupils just the right size. "But I will be!"

"Why are you wearing a cap from O—"

"What's up?" Taylor asks from behind him, taking him completely by surprise. "Who's..."

"Oh—dude, huh—so, like—"

"I'm sure you know who I am," the older man says flatly, sunglasses still resting on the tip of his nose, "Taylor Wilson, right? From Digital," he then adds, sounding a little grossed out.

"Winston," Taylor specifies. "I'm—wait, you're—Greg!" he blurts out, completely panicking.

"No, I'm T—"

"What's our boss doing at my birthday party?!"

"He's—huh—"

"I was telling Gregory here that I'm very pleased with his work for the past week," Tom interrupts, voice low and sweet like honey, though Greg knows better than to be flattered. "Well, I've got to get back, my date's going to get pissed if I go away for too long—Greg, thanks again. Keep my bag for me, will you?"

"Sir, I don't think it's appropriate for him to be keeping your personal—"

"It's just jewelry, Winston," he cuts him off with an eye roll, "not my sextoys. Be a good boy and keep them somewhere safe, I don't want them to get stolen," he concludes, loosely petting Greg's cheek with a sort of gross sniff.

"Sure, Tom, I'll...like, I'll do that."

"Thank you. And you have a great night. And a veeery happy birthday."

Greg mumbles something under his breath, clearly aware of the other's game. 

Wait.

"Your date?" he asks suddenly, turning around to face him, one eyebrow raised, "you're on a date?"

Tom blinks once, and he looks fucking stupid while doing it.

"What's it you don't get about 'dinner'?"

"Okay, but you're not dressed for a business dinner."

"No? It was a dinner date, asshole. At my place. Do you know what those are?"

"Dude, no need to be mean about it!" Greg protests, flushed, "who? Like, who's your date?"

Tom looks back up, sliding up his glasses with his middle finger, sending a sort of fucked up, maniacal smile at the other two men. 

"Goodnight, buddy."

"No, dude, Tom—! Fuckin'—put this in my room," the younger man orders his boyfriend before shoving the bag into his hands, almost running after his boss, "dude! You're on a date?!"

"Am I not allowed?" the other replies dubitatively, cocking his head to the side in a way Greg would find kind of cute if he didn't feel like killing himself on the spot for some fucking reason, "I'm late, coming here put a dent in my schedule."

"I didn't know you were dating."

"O—kay?"

"You could've, like, told me. Disgusting Brothers and shit."

"I mean," Tom offers, "I would hope you're done with the whole shtick if you're going to," he lowers his voice, "propose."

"I never saw you with a hoodie," Greg then says, completely ignoring him, "this isn't yours. You have a Cornell sweater but it's not a hoodie."

"Huh. Kind of a creepy thing to know, buddy. No, if you must know, it's not mine."

"Whose is it?"

"Greg, get off my dick."

"Man, I'm just wondering!" he insists, but even he knows that he's being insane and annoying, but he can't help it, really, "I'm just—"

"Okay, good night."

"To—om. Tom!"

Well. Now he just sounds whiny and entitled. 

Tom waves him off, back facing him. 

He finds himself going back to his flat, frowning all twenty feet it took him.

"I secured the goods," Taylor jokes as he gets back, sending him a smile, "everything alright? You don't look good."

"I'm great, dude," he spits back, snatching his forgotten, now vaguely warm beer from his kitchen island. "Are you enjoying your birthday?"

"Yeah, 'course. I'd have been just as happy to just spend it with you, though," the other man gently says, resting his hand on Greg's lower back. When he feels him freeze, he drops it. "You know? It could've been just you and I and shitty pizza, and I would've been content."

"That's nice. I wanted to do something worthy, though, you know? Dunno, it's my first time doing something like that, so."

"And you're doing great. You did really good, Greg," Taylor smiles, but his boyfriend doesn't reply. He stares at the door, gaze unfocused. "I wonder what Wambsgans bought? It didn't look, like, huge. Maybe something for his next girlfriend? Man, I was shocked to see Shiv Roy's pics. Who would've thought, huh."

"I mean, like, bi people exist, dude."

"No, of course—"

"She wouldn't have stayed with Tom if she didn't like him," Greg continues, but his expression is still steely. "I'm sure she really liked him. He's a likeable guy."

"Are you okay? Greg?"

"What?"

He pauses, finally looking back at his boyfriend. 

"Yeah, it's cool, man. I'm just a little put off he came by, that's all."

"I get it."

"You two are close, aren't you?" someone to their left asks, and it's a woman with a strand of gold in a mop of dark hair, and Greg recalls that her name was Leah, "I mean, Greg, you're his Chief of Staff. No? Didn't you go to his wedding?"

"What? I mean, yeah. I'm like...I'm Shiv's cousin," he reminds her, his tone just up there bitchy, "so like. I'm literally family."

"Oh shit, I forget about that!"

"Yeah."

"But he treats you well, no? I mean, I've heard stories that he's sorta weird, but," she shrugs, "can't take away from him that he's doing a good job with the company. And he's hot."

"Leah!" Taylor exclaims with a laugh, slapping her arm, "just because it's true doesn't mean you should say it. What'd you think, babe?"

"Mmh?"

"D'you think Wambsgans' hot, too? You're around him a lot."

The beer in Greg's mouth tastes bitter. He feels like he's drinking piss. And honestly? Even that, even when Lukas had made him do it, he had minded a lot less than this. At least he could've gone to Tom to complain, back then. 

"Yeah, I guess he's handsome," he settles on saying, putting on the casual, flat and nonchalant tone he'd heard Tom use during business meetings so many times. "He's, huh, tall. Muscular."

"Oh, really? You ever see him shirtless?" his boyfriend jokes, but his smile falls when Greg nods. "Shit, really?"

"We were on a yacht together, Taylor," Greg groans, "don't make this a big deal. He's like, well-built. I guess. I need to go piss, be right back."

He feels claustrophobic suddenly, feels too big in rooms too small, people around him talk too loud and the music is hurting his head, and the alcohol upsets his stomach. He shouldn't be in this state. Especially not after just one beer. 

He closes the door to his massive bathroom and takes long steps towards the sinks and mirror, looking back at himself a little tiredly. His eyes are droopy, though he's not sure why, he sleeps just fine. Five hours, every night. He wakes up, goes to work, comes home, sometimes goes out for drinks with friends, but that's it. It's, like, not as glamor compared to when Tom would bring him out to clubs or fancy restaurants, but it's okay enough. He's okay enough, he thinks. 

The water's a little too cold his taste when he splashes it on his face, but at least it grounds him. 

He's just so pissed. He can't put his finger on why, or how much. But he is.

And the bass from his speakers is pouring through the heavy doors of his bathroom, and he knows he'll have to go back out, and he hates that he had to do all of this, wishes he was alone on his couch, getting high with a luxury blunt or his water bong—anything but this. Maybe Tom could even call, say he'd come over, not giving him a choice, and show up with expensive wine.

He stays a few minutes more before joining his friends again, hoping for a peaceful rest of the night. He just sort of hopes Taylor wasn't going to ask for birthday sex. 

The fourth incident happens at exactly 4:24AM. He knows that because he'd been watching the pizzas cook in his oven when someone in the living room had yelled about Twitter or whatnot, and they'd all gathered to look at his phone, and when it had become too crowded, they'd just checked their own screens.

It takes Greg around 30 seconds to understand what the fuck was going on. His timeline wasn't showing anything out of the norm, not until a Pop Crave article had been retweeted by Kendall, of all people, which, to his fucking horror, showed a few blurry pictures of what could only be Tom's figure next to someone else. Who looked like a man.

Thomas Wambsgans, Waystar Gojo's New CEO, looking cozy with Canadian banker Charles Carson, in front of the Standard, the tweet read. Could it be that his previous marriage smelled of lavender?🪻

What?

"Holy shit," some guy from Marketing says, "the hashtag #Gaystar is like, trending." 

"What?" someone else asks, "oh shit, it is."

The pictures aren't as bad as Shiv's, Greg notes, feeling nausea build inside his entire body. The first one, he's just apparently talking to Charles, even if his left hand—ringless, of course, is cupping the man's lower back the way he'd done so with Greg countless times.

The second one is hard to say because of the angle, but Charles' in front of him, hiding the other's face, but the cap Tom had been wearing was still visible. The third one shows Tom leaning to have his cigarette lit by the other man, and there's no denying that they're staring into each other's eyes. 

"Well, damn," Taylor mutters, "that's crazy. Was this Carson guy the date he mentioned?"

No answer. Greg can't swallow. He's not sure he can breathe, actually.

A few notifications catch his eye. Random accounts, some with checkmarks, some without, start flooding his timeline, and pictures and videos from ten different angles of Tom and Charles start appearing. If the ones posted by Pop Crave looked like they'd been taken before the two men had gotten into the bar, these new ones showed them leaving a club, because Tom had taken his glasses off and they were resting on his head, and Charles was wearing the cap now, and Tom's coat, for that matter, and they looked fucking gone. Just, like—hammered. 

And sue him, maybe Greg's hallucinating, because he's, like, drunk, too. But there's just the one picture, where Tom's walking next to Charles, and you can't, like, see their hands because of the angle, but he's pretty damn sure that Tom's looking at the cameras. Like, actually staring at them from the corner of his left eye. And he's grinning.

This piece of shit.

Fucking shit, he thinks. Does Tom like men?

He'd never—a frown. He'd never mentioned it. Or had he? No, he's pretty sure that he hasn't. 

"That shirt looks hot on him," someone remarks out loud, and a crowd of 'yeah's' answer them. "Nice tits."

"So glad I stayed long enough that our CEO became a hot dilf and not a piss maniac sociopath," Leah notes as well. "I wonder if this is retaliation for the Shiv thing."

"I wonder too! He's an odd guy, huh? You think this is a PR stunt?"

Greg's phone rings almost on the dot, and when he sees Karolina's ID, he knows he's fucked. Thoroughly.

"Yeah?" he answers after a second, isolating himself in a bedroom. "What's up?"

[Did you see?]

A sigh. 

"Yeah, I did. Hard to miss. He's—they're fucking trending on Twitter, man. Does Shiv know?"

[Sure does. The entire family does.]

"God. Jesus..."

[And Mother Mary, yes, yes,] Karolina groans, and he can hear the tiredness in her voice, [do you remember when he came in my office, earlier this week?]

He frowns, rubbing his forehead with his index.

"Oh, yeah. I do. When I wasn't there."

[Huh-uh. A friend of mine, a contact, had found out that an unknown source had been taking pictures of Tom leaving the guy's hotel room, Carson, at really worrying hours.]

"What?!"

[I know. And I know how this makes it sound.]

"Were they—did you ask? Tom? When he went to your office. What'd he say?" Greg starts panicking, walking in circles, "oh my God, is he actually hooking up with this Canadian cumrag?!" 

There's something like a loud, choked wheeze at the end of the line, but he's too proud to take his words back. 

[I don't know, he said it wasn't my business. I told him about the pictures, and he said to let people think what they want if they leak. I mean, really? That's not the Tom I know. He's basically obsessed with his public image.]

"But they didn't leak, right?"

[Of course not, Greg,] Karolina sighs, [we paid the paps. But we weren't expecting Tom and Carson to go out so publicly tonight...and we can't even pretend it's a business dinner. I mean, have you seen how they're dressed? Tom's wearing a cap, for fuck's sake.]

"No, I know..."

[And now Matsson knows, and he's really happy about it, because he thought that Tom had a stick up his ass, and now he said he hopes he'll have a dick instead.]

"...what, like, up his ass?"

[Yes? He was making an anal sex joke. Can you focus?]

"Jesus, sorry! Did you see that pic of him smoking? Tom doesn't smoke. At least not cigarettes," he specifies, feeling a little frustrated. "Like, I've smoked a cigarette in front of him before! And I was like, 'hey Tommy, do you want one?' and he was like, 'no, Greg, I don't want to die of cancer.' Like! What the hell, dude!"

[Okay, sure. Yes. Look,] there's a rustling sound, [you need to get him home ASAP. Pictures are flooding in, some from our own sources, but I've got one on my phone right now, and he's opened his shirt buttons and we cannot be having that. I do not want to see our CEO whoring himself out for all of New York City to see. Are you listening? This is serious. Even Logan pissing himself on stage would've been less damaging.]

"That sounds a little dramatic," Greg mumbles, but goes to get an jacket and his flat keys nonetheless, "I'm getting him, don't worry. I have his location on Find My Friends. Want me to bring Carson as well?"

[Just send the guy home, Greg. And get Tom home and in one piece. I've heard that they'd been doing drugs at one club with some other company execs.]

"Will that leak? He and I do that, it's not that bad..."

[No, it won't leak. Just—] he hears her sigh, and he sighs, too, [pick him up. And tell him to button his shirt up.]

"Yes ma'am...I'll do that. Okay, yeah. Yep. Bye."

He barges out of his room, and suddenly he feels a little dumb, because wasn't this just like when—he pauses, reaches for one of the remotes and turns the music off at once. The guests turn to him, visibly put off, and he closes his jacket. 

"Okay, everyone out, sorry!"

An ocean of confused 'what the fuck?' and other expressions of surprise emerge, and all he can do is shrug before starting to shoo them all away. 

"Sorry! I'm really sorry!" he continues, pretending to give a single fuck, "work calls! I need the flat! Don't worry about cleaning up the mess, just leave, thanks."

"Babe, is everything alright?" Taylor immediately asks while the rest of the party grumbled at once but still seemed to go pick up their jackets to evacuate, "did something happen? Is it because of Wambsgans?"

"Everything's perfect," Greg lies swiftly, and suddenly he's glad that he hasn't drank that much. "Just, emergency. You know how it gets."

The look he receives tells him that no, he doesn't know how it gets. 

"Sorry, really. At least it's not, like, 10PM," he offers a little hypocritically, "where's your jacket? I can get it for you."

"It's on the couch," Taylor replies a little dryly, "I'll get it myself."

"Sure."

He's distantly aware that he's being a fucking asshole right now, and unsurprisingly, he finds that he doesn't give a shit. Quickly enough, though not quickly enough for him, the flat empties itself, until only he and his boyfriend remain. 

"I'll catch you at work in two days," Greg says, tapping on his phone screen to get himself a car, "I work remote tomorrow."

"Ah, is that so..."

"Yeah, I don't know if I'd mentioned it to y—can you step out? Cool, thanks," he mumbles, focused on closing the door. "Okay, sweet. Yeah, so, I'll catch you, dude. Sorry again! My car's here in a sec, I gotta go."

Taylor doesn't say much, staring at him a little pathetically. Greg doesn't even look back, trotting out of his corridor to the elevator, eyes glued to his screen. He was thirty minutes away from Tom, praying that he'd stay where he was. Hopefully? Shoot, he should've brought him a scarf, or something. 

He greets his chauffeur with a smile and settles inside, updating Karolina regarding his ETA every now and then. Twitter was a shitshow, with various reactions to Tom's fucked up stunt. Most people seemed to revel in it, with mixed feelings going from Jesus, this is unprofessional, to, wow, I'd suck his dick anytime. There were more, far more un-PC tweets, but he'd tried to ignore those. 

Some die hard conservatives got pretty pissed, obviously, and he finds that he'd have loved to send this to his grandpa. Like, actually. 

Wait, fuck. Holy shit. He swipes up and panickedly types in Tom's username in the search bar, praying to every god above that he doesn't believe in that his friend had stayed the fuck away from his Twitter on this fine night.

He breathes in and clicks on his profile. 

Nothing.

Oh, thank God for small mercies. 

The car stops a few dozen minutes later, and he feels the icy wind slam into his face at once the second he steps out. He tells him to wait.

He makes out two figures standing next to a fucking taco truck, which is sending him into wrathful hysterics, because Tom had never wanted to get California Pizza Kitchen, like ever, even when piss drunk, and now he's doing this shit? What the fuck.

"Erm," Greg coughs out, getting the other two men's attention, and Tom's eyes widen when they set on him. His entire face is shiny with what Greg guesses is sweat, his hair looks sticky and goes up in all the wrong places, and his shirt is, in fact, opened down the third button. He's going to catch bronchitis, 100%. "Hello. I was looking for you, Tom." 

"Oh, mister Roy!" Charles exclaims, and it's clear he's completely drunk too, "how'd you find us?"

"Tom, we gotta get you home," the younger man immediately cuts him off, turning to face his friend, "like, ASAP."

"What? No, I don't want to," Tom protests, sniffing really loudly, his jaw locking—okay, Greg thinks, and he's been snorting, cool, "I'm having fun here. It's Charlie's last night in town!" 

"Yeah, I'm going back today at 9, so—"

"Mondale's dying," Greg panickedly blurts out, eyes wide and feeling completely crazy, "you have to go home. He's not doing good."

"What?!" the other man yells, making them all wince, "Mondale's DYING?!"

"Who's Mondale?"

"Who's Mond—Mondale's his dog, connard," Greg sneers at the other Canadian, "you haven't told him about Mon?"

"We were busy," comes the annoyed reply from Tom. "Okay, what's his—like, what happened? Who told you?"

"He—huh, apparently, choked on clothes at your place? Let's talk about it in the car, okay? It's really urgent."

"Yeah, Jesus, yeah, okay. Well, lead the way. Sorry, Charlie."

"What, but Tom—"

"Dude, his dog's dying, like, that's man's best friend," Greg rebukes him as Tom poutily made his way towards him, hands in his coat pockets, visibly displeased, "don't be a bitch about this. We'll get back to you regarding our deal ASAP. Have a good night, mister Carson. Tom, the car's over there."

They disappear in the car once again, and he's a little shocked at how easy it had been. That being said, the state of Tom was probably really practical, because the man was so out of it he could ask him to empty his bank account and he'd probably do it. They sit and silence falls.

It's awkward, and Greg feels incredibly dumb, but—hey. At least he'd done his part. 

"Did you know," Tom starts slowly, head tipped back, and the other can see small beads of sweat roll down his neck and Adam's apple, and honestly, it makes him want to do something super violent, "that Mondale's with my parents in St. Paul?"

A lull.

"No way," Greg nervously chuckles, "that's—are you sure? 'cause I'm sure that I've been told that—"

"Look, honestly I'm—" a loud gulp, "so high right now, dude. I don't care that you lied. Badly."

"...yeah? Are you...okay?"

"Dude, yeah. You have no idea. It's great. Oh my God. I took so many drugs. Actually. Ough. My head hurts." 

"Just—will you be okay? Do you—hum, we can get you to the hospital? Pump your stomach? Just try not to puke in the car?"

"No, I'm fine. Just need to sleep it off." A frown. "It's hot in there. Who the fuck turned the heating on so much?"

"You're just overheating, dude. Don't worry, it's not that warm at my place."

"Yeah, it has shitty isolation."

"Thanks, dude."

"Pause, why are we going to your place?" Tom suddenly realises, frowning even harder, "I don't wanna go to your place. There was a party, I don't wanna see people."

"I kicked them out."

"Huh?"

"It's whatever, man, like seriously," Greg groans, and the car's speed picks up, God bless, "don't move too much. Do you feel like puking?"

"No."

"Strategic vomit?"

"What? Am I an anorexic 12 year old, Greg? No, I just don't feel nauseous," he replies, crossing his arms over his chest, and Greg feels a little grossed out by the fact that he immediately misses seeing his chest hair. This is really bad for him to think about.

"We're not going to your place," Greg then says, as the car pulls up to his apartment building, "because Karolina informed me paps were camping there."

"Shit, really?" 

"Yeah."

"That's fucked up."

"Well you're, like," a shrug, he helps him out and watches him wobble before straightening himself and running a clammy hand in his shittily styled hair, "a very public figure now. And so is Shiv...I guess it was, like, bound to happen?"

"Yeah, I guess. Ouch, it spins."

"You're pretty fucked up, man," his friend offers as the elevator makes its way up, and he unlocks his front door before making sure the other man didn't stumble inside and fall to his death. He takes his shoes off and vaguely registers Tom doing the same, watching two stained Crockets fly across the room. Right. "You should lie on the couch for a bit. I'm getting you water. How's your head?"

"People always compliment me on it," comes a loud reply from somewhere inside the living room, making his fingers tighten against the large glass he'd been filling. He makes his way back towards Tom, finding him slung across the couch, head resting against the outside arm and one leg hooked over the back cushions. How he's not vomiting his entire stomach over it, he's not too sure. "That's not the couch you had before."

"No, I, like...so, Kendall pissed on the old one, like, once—"

"Ew, what?!"

"Just drink the water, man," Greg sighs, handing him the glass and watching him straighten up more and down it in a record time. And if he zooms in on his Adam's apple again, the way it bobbles, well. That's his problem. "Feeling better?"

"Is that tap water?"

"What? No, it's from my fridge."

"Ah, atta boy. Dude, it's still warm as hell in there," Tom whines, and his left hand comes up to undo some more of his shirt buttons, much to Greg's panic. He's halfway there before he even thinks about stopping him. "Much b—"

"Can you not—" his voice breaks, "can you not undress in my living room?!" 

"What? I'm not undressing, I'm getting comfortable."

"I can see your chest!"

"Okay? Nothing you haven't seen before."

"What?!"

"What? We were on the yacht together. I've seen your chest. And your fucking...feet fungus. Do you still have those?"

"No! No, but—Tom, dude! You can't just barge in there and get naked—"

"I'm not na—"

"On my couch! I'm like—I'm almost a married man!"

A snort. 

"Don't laugh! It's true!"

"Say, do you think," Tom pauses, eyes unfocusing a little before shooting up to bore into Greg's. His eyelids are droopy and he looks a little—ugh. Greg thinks he looks stupidly attractive, like a bored emperor. Also kind of like a pornstar. Because of the bedroom eyes. Move on, move right the fuck now. "Do you think they actually love each other?"

"Huh? Who?"

"You know," a vague gesture, englobing the space around them, "Connor and Willa. You know—you're friends with Willa. You'd know."

The younger man blinks at that, actually considering the question. Because, yeah, he is friends with Willa. She's really sweet. Oddly enough. 

"I mean...do Connor and Willa love each other? Man, I don't know I mean—yeah? I'd hope so? Like, they got married, dude. Over a year ago and all, and they're pretty steady. That's a...that's a pretty big step. It's pretty telling."

"Oh, so you think that people who get married are imperatively in love? That's really cute, Gregory. That's adorable, you're just—you're adorable," Tom coos, genuinely mellowing. "You're so naive."

"Like...not really? I mean. Roman and Gerri got married. They look pretty in love."

"They're freaks."

"No, sure. But they're in love."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"You don't sound convinced," Greg offers, but Tom just shrugs. "Dude, you look really...are you high? Because your jaw is kind of..."

Tom rolls his eyes but leans back down against the couch's cushions, eyes closed. He breathes in, his left palm resting over his stomach. 

"I wonder what I did wrong," he says, voice soft. "I mean, I must've done something wrong, right?"

"What? What makes you think that?"

"Connor and Willa, Roman and Gerri, even—" he coughs, "I've seen rumors about Kendall and Stewy, I mean, even them! Everyone is happy. And now Siobhan and then you? Even you found someone to marry. I wonder what went wrong with me. I mean I'm not the Devil, Greg! I'm not! And yet, I keep fucking up. You know? Fucking shit."

"I mean," Greg says, "it's not you? Your fault? It's, like, to whoever...I don't know. Carson liked you."

"Oh, who gives a shit about this guy?" Tom asks with a bitter laugh, "he doesn't matter. Nothing matters, it's all bullshit."

"That's not true. Karolina said you'd gone to his hotel room a bunch of times. That paparazzis had pics."

"Okay? We hung out outside working hours. Big deal!" the older man sneers, "so did we, you and I."

"Yeah, but us two it's different," Greg protests, hands on his hips as he rests his weight on one leg. "It's not the same."

"Really? How's it different?"

"I'm your best friend."

There's a pause, and then Tom averts his eyes, looking almost lucid.

"The hotel room pics, Tom, it's just—it's bad taste? People talk. You know people talk! You worry about your image constantly!"

"What would it have changed anyway, if it really was us hooking up? Carson and I," Tom specifies, apparently giving up entirely. To accentuate his point he breathes out, wiping sweat away from his face. "I mean, why should I care, right? I mean, think about it. If my ex-wife goes to get some pussy she's internationally acclaimed, but if I want to gobble some dick suddenly I'm the bad guy? This is all because of woke, Greg."

"That's not how the meme goes," Greg groans, clicking his tongue, clearly displeased with entertaining the possibility of this ever happening, "I mean you—you just said he didn't matter."

"So what? I can appreciate a woman's beauty, but not a man's? He's hot, he's smart," a shrug, "Shiv's with a woman, why can't I be with a guy?"

"You're drunk."

"I mean, my Chief of Staff's gay and going to marry a guy, my Head of PR's married to a woman, I can't be homophobic at this point, right? I'm practically gay by association."

"That's not—that's not a nice thing to say, Tom," his friend protests, grabbing the glass off the table again. "We're people. Not practical statistics."

"Actually, you know what I think, Greg?" Tom suddenly chimes, eyes boring into the high ceiling, but there's a sly smile on his face, the one that shows his upper teeth more prominently, and Greg doesn't like where this was going. "I think your boyfriend has a very distinct face."

"...what does that mean?"

"The man has a face only a mother could love. And even then, I'm not really sure she might."

And to this Tom laughs, like—actually laughs. Head tipped back, chest puffed, the hand that laid on his stomach now on his heart, and he looks delighted with his joke.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm sure he's great. But I mean, Jesus Christ. He makes it really awkward for the rest of us T.Ws, am I right?"

"You're not allowed to make fun of the guy I'm in love with," Greg softly says, but he doesn't look angry. He doesn't, and that makes Tom's hilarity die down almost instantly. Greg looks really disappointed in him. "He hasn't done anything to you, man. Like—if you're angry at me for something, anything, just go ahead and insult me. By all means. But Taylor's not done anything wrong. You've never even met him properly."

"I don't want to."

"You will have to," he shrugs. "At the wedding."

"I can just mingle and not talk to him."

"That's going to be difficult. I wanted to ask you to be my best man."

The silence that follows is almost sobering. Tom's left hand twitches, and his thumb mindlessly swipes at his naked ring finger.

"Why'd you ever want that, even?" he asks then, still looking up, but not at him. "That's so stupid. That's so fucking stupid."

"Because you're my best friend, dude. Like, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. I wanna thank you, I wanna, you know, have you there during big life events. 'cause I care. And I know you do too."

The older man nods, albeit he looks incredibly distracted, and then he promptly takes his phone out, lowering the brightness and staring intently at the screen. He manages to type down five numbers before Greg grabs it from his hand, almost throwing it over to a loveseat and ignoring his cry of protest.

"The fuck?!"

"I'm pouring my heart out to you and you're texting?! Dude! Who are you e—"

+1 343 5

"Were you about to call Carson?!"

"No offense, Gregory, but if you brought me here to give me your sob story, I'd rather get out and do something fun. Who knows? I might even fuck Charles. See where the night takes me."

"You're not going to fuck Carson."

A snort.

"Okay, dude. Because why? I'd fuck my reputation up? Yeah, I don't think I care anymore."

"You do care, you sure as fuck will care tomorrow when you'll be sober and the pictures will circulate on Twitter."

"Huh, shut the fuck up?"

"I'm still saying, Tom. You're, like—not fucking this Carson-guy."

"You're not my fucking mom. What's it to you? What's happened to the Disgusting Brothers? Mmh?"

"Leave that behind! You told me to leave that behind like, six hours ago!" Greg yells, taking him by surprise, watching him flinch. "God, fuck. Why do you do this? Are you trying to get back at Shiv? She doesn't care what you do!"

"I know she doesn't!" Tom fights back, getting up at once, clearly misjudging his actions because he almost collapses the second he's on his feet, and Greg's running over to support him, grabbing his arm to stabilize him.

Their gazes meet, but Tom's flickers down instantly.

"You're not okay, Tom," Greg whispers, almost as if not to spook him. "You're—you're really not okay. I've noticed, but I don't know what to do about it, and you won't let me help. You have to let me help."

"Me? Not okay? Looks like someone's projecting," Tom laughs, cold and mean. "I'm grand, you know? I'm a free man."

"Tom, man..."

"Do you know why Shiv called me? When you came into my office that time to give the board meeting's notes. It wasn't a social call."

Greg cocks his head to the side, clearly taken by surprise by the question.

"It had been the one year date. You know? You know of what. I don't have to tell you of what. And I don't fucking mean the divorce. It's been one year already," Tom spits out, and he breaks free from the other's grasp, stumbling back a few feet. His face is red with—what? Anger? Alcohol? Both? There are wrinkles Greg had never noticed, because he'd never seen him so outraged. Even in the panic room, the bathroom, his office, never. Tom looks like he's angry at the world. Like an ant yelling at some god up high in the sky.

"Fuck," the younger man chokes out, feeling a little sick. "I had no idea. I know it happened—like, around this time, but I didn't know—I..."

"I've lost everything, do you understand?" Tom continues, and there are obvious ill-contained sobs that scar his voice. "All I have left is Waystar. It's all I have, all I'm good at. I'd rather kill myself from the amount of work Matsson's putting me through than have to think about the fucking rest."

"That's not true, Tom!" Greg protests, taking a step forward, "you have me! You haven't lost me! I'm here! I never left! Why won't you rely on me?!"

"Because you moved on, Greg!"

"What? Moved on from what?!"

"From me!"

He feels nauseous.

"No, I haven't."

"You have! You fucking—you have! It's fucking unfair. It's unfair, I was supposed to be happy, Greg! I had the girl, the job, the best friend and now I—" Tom closes his eyes, raising closed fists to them, covering his face in shame, "now I don't! Now I have to fucking babysit you while you pick up rings for you and the love of your fucking life. And it makes me sick, Greg! It really fucking does!"

"Why?! Why can't you be happy for me, man?!"

"Because I'm not the one who's making you happy!" comes the desperate reply, and Greg's stunned into silence. "I don't know what I'm doing," Tom whimpers, his entire body shaking as he clenches his jaw, trying to keep the tears from coming out, failing monumentally. "It fucking hurts. Everything fucking hurts. What did I do to deserve this? I can't have anything, Greg. I couldn't have Shiv, she didn't even—"

He lets himself fall back on the couch, rubbing his face, shoulders tense.

"Am I that—am I so disgusting? Just, like—"

"No, Tom, c'mon you're not—"

"She said I was the one after—after the One. The One. Capital O. What was I, then? A replacement? A bandaid? She didn't fucking want me, Greg."

"She did," Greg insists, coming up to stand in front of him, peering down anxiously, "she did, dude, c'mon, of course s—"

"No. No, well, maybe at first. But it's not enough. I'm just not—fuck, God. Fuck. Maybe it's good we never became parents. We saved some poor kid from getting traumatized."

"Don't fucking say that," Greg coldly says, "that's not—no. You don't say that. I don't like Shiv man, I really don't. But you don't say that."

Tom looks up, more like, his eyes slowly shoot up, and there's something utterly pathetic and miserable about it. They're heavy lidded, red, but their blue stands out, almost intoxicating. He looks scared, more than anything else. His lower lip is trembling, and Greg has half the mind to graze his thumb over it. He doesn't, but his arm twitches just thinking about it.

Only then does he notice it, but the skin around most of his fingers is torn, leaving red blotches of dried blood around also bitten nails. That's odd, because he's always known Tom with soft, well manicured hands. Now, they just look dry and scarred.

"Sorry," he hears him whisper, but it's more like a broken sob than a word. "You're right. I shouldn't say this."

"It's okay, it's not your fault. You're really sick, Tom."

"I'm not sick," the other man chuckles, "I don't have any excuse for any of this. I'm just—I'm just a sad old guy whose beautiful wife left and who can't keep a best friend."

"I told you that I wasn't leaving," Greg repeats, now getting on both knees to reach a common eye level, "I'm, like, very much staying."

"That's not what I meant. It's whatever, Greg. You're, what, 32? Yeah? Of course it's time for you to move on. The, huh, fawn leaving the pack."

"I don't think deers live in p—"

"You get my point, asshole," Tom snorts, but tears start pouring out even harder, and his voice breaks on the last word. "You get what I mean. You're moving on. And that's fine."

"Why do you think I'm moving on?" the younger man protests, hurt, "like, why would you think that I've moved on, Tom? Don't think that. Don't think that, please don't think that. It's not true."

"But it's true, it's just true. You can't keep metaphorically holding my hand just because I'm, you know, a wounded and sick animal. It's alright. Hell, I wouldn't want you to catch my leprosy."

"You don't have leprosy," Greg tuts, rolling his eyes but reaching out nonetheless. With a mind of its own, his hand grabs Tom's, ice cold against moist warm. "I can hold your hand. You just have to ask, man."

"Don't do that," Tom difficulty says, trying to pull his hand away, to no avail. "Don't say that."

"Tom..."

"Don't say that I'd just have to ask, because I will want to ask," he continues, and his entire face falls, he looks in pain and Greg feels like crying, too. "It's not that simple. It's never that simple, especially with you Roys."

"Not a Roy."

"Stop that!"

"Don't push me away, please don't push me away, Tommy," Greg begs, edging closer, and Tom reeks of sweat, of five different alcohols and cocktails, and weed. His eyes hadn't been red when he'd picked him in the car, though, so he guesses that he must've either not smoked, or smoked much earlier in the night. "I'm here. I'm literally here, I'm here for you. Don't push me away."

"I didn't ask for that, I could've been getting fucked six ways into Sunday in a bedroom at the Aman," Tom bites back, but it's devoid of any heat, "but instead of that, I've got a ten feet tall Canadian ass on my lap. Talk about a night." 

"Yeah, see, you already have a Canadian in your life, you don't need another one."

"What? Do you mean Charles?"

"Who else would I mean?"

"You're insane. You guys aren't even from the same region."

"Doesn't matter. Ottawa sucks, Tom. It really does, okay? You don't—you don't wanna bang an Ottawan."

"What the f—"

"It's like if you hooked up with someone from, like, Utah, or, I don't know like, Mississippi? Just, don't do that."

Tom's head is still pounding, and none of those words make sense, but for both their sakes he still nods. Greg's hand in his grounds him, but his mouth feels heavy and his lips hurt from tearing skin off of them. His tears have stopped flowing.

"Okay, then," he softly says, "which Canadian province-guy am I allowed to hook up with, then? Alberta? Nova Scotia? Would Charlottetown be good enough for your t—"

"Québec," Greg cuts him off, and he feels hysteria fill his veins. "All the others suck. Québec's worth it, though. Great...food."

"You're just saying this because you grew up there. You're the only Québecois I know, actually. I think. There's a bad joke to make here, I think?" Tom chuckles, closing his eyes for a millisecond. All he can focus on is Greg's hand. 

"I'm the only one who's worth it," the younger man says, with an odd impulse of self assurance. He's ever closer now, so much that he can smell Tom's breath—strawberry and vodka, he's pretty sure—and his eyes are locked with his. "You know? I'm irreplaceable, man."

"I'm sure," Tom cackles, pulling back slightly, visibly worried. "I'm sure y—dude, you're really close. You're suffocating me."

"But you agree. Right? You don't wanna replace me. And I won't let you, yeah? 'cause I'm—I'm never leaving you."

"Greg."

"I worry about you, I think about you, like, constantly, dude. Like, earlier I was at Walmart, yeah, and they had this little baseball key ring, and it made me think of you, because I remembered you told me you played. And then, at a coffee shop some woman complained her latte didn't have enough sugar, like when you complained once, and I—"

"Greg," Tom repeats, but there's a wistfulness to his tone that makes the other man quiet down. "You don't have to do this."

"...I'm confused. Do what?"

"This," he continues, shrugging, "pretend—I don't know, pretend. Sure, I'll be your best man. I'll go to the wedding, and I'll pretend like it doesn't make me feel like shit. Hell, I'll even write you a word. To my dear friend, Gregory Hirsch..." he trails on, eyes cast down, "to my Sporus. To the man...the man I..."

He shakes his head, lets his words die down.

"Oh, fuck you, man."

Greg gives up, going boneless against the other's body, his face falling into his neck, nose bumping into the skin. He's vaguely aware that both his legs are cradling the other man's thighs, and it's a little uncomfortable because he's too tall, but ultimately, he doesn't care. 

He presses his body against Tom's, eyes closed, trying to feel as much of him as he could. 

"What are you doing?" his friend whispers, his cheek grazing his hair, "I'm the drunk one." 

"I read about him, you know? About Sporus. It's not very romantic, what happened to them. It's actually pretty sad."

"I guess I took artistic liberties."

"Can you hold me? Tom."

A sigh.

"I don't know, Greg, I..." his palm still brushes his shoulder blade, hesitant to settle, "I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"If—" Greg swallows, and his left hand rises to cup Tom's neck, thumb brushing at the hair on the back, "would you hold me? If I asked you to?"

Tom goes limp against him.

"Only if you told me to," he breathes out, and he feels Greg's chest shake with soft laughter.

"Okay, then. Hold me, Tommy."

It's almost like muscle memory, though it shouldn't be, because they'd never been in this position before. Sure they'd hugged, but not like this. Never like this. He thinks back to their handshake in Italy—maybe this was what it was all about. Gentle touches that ran deep, settled into their bones and, much like stardust, made a home inside their souls.

Tom's broad, and there's something about him that makes Greg feel safe. Maybe it's the way his arms hold him but never too tight that it'd hurt, he holds him just the right amount. Maybe it's the way his body feels soft but solid at the same time, like an anchor, something that would protect him no matter what. Maybe it's the fact that even now, fucked up beyond possible, he still indulges him. 

"Maybe I really should have left," Tom says, face pressed against Greg's neck as well, "when you warned me before the wedding. After the election party. After the yacht. Italy. I've had so many occasions to leave. But I didn't."

"You'd have left and not told me?" Greg asks, lost and a little hurt, "just like that? Vanished? You used to tell me a lot of stuff, you know? Even stuff I didn't want to know."

"I don't tell you everything."

"Why not?"

"It wouldn't be worth it."

"Of course it would be worth it," the younger man laughs again, worming closer again, impossibly close, "no matter what it would be worth it. You know why?"

A sigh.

"No, pray tell?"

"Because it's you."

"Shut up, Greg. I'm serious. Don't say things like that," Tom insists, but his left hand had already come up to run through the soft mop of hair Greg had started to grow again, soothing him involuntarily. "Don't say shit like that."

"Do you want this?" Greg asks then, pulling back to stare at him, eyes clear and focused. "I mean I'm—I'm not forcing you to do this. Right?" 

"You're not, you dumb fuck. I'm not a damsel in distress."

"I know you're not. I'm just making sure."

"Whatever, Greg." 

"I think I'm a little more drunk than I thought," he giggles, but his palms suddenly cup Tom's face, making him stop moving. "You're never seeing Carson ever again, right?"

A shrug. 

"Maybe for some meetings, not sure. Zoom calls. What's it to you?"

"I guess, like, and I hate to admit it, but I might be more of a Roy than I expected," comes the cryptic reply. "Or maybe it's not even about being a Roy. I don't know, I don't..."

He narrows his eyes, staring at the spot of dried blood on Tom's lower lip. 

"I'm not letting go of what's mine, Tom," he settles on saying, and the other's eyes widen imperceptibly. "I don't want to."

"Oh, using my words against me? That's low, mister Hirsch. That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Feels like an eternity away."

"I actually had purple bruises on my leg after that day. From running into the desk so much."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Tommy."

"Either way, when have I been yours?" Tom suddenly asks, aiming for casual but his heartbeat deafens the sounds around them, "huh? When, Greg?"

"Oh, for as long as I've been yours, probably."

"Jeez, very poetic buddy. Very nice. You probably shouldn't be saying that, though. Aren't you practically married? I mean, your words, not mine."

Greg pauses, his lower lip bitten by his teeth, digging so hard he can taste a faint trace of blood. 

"Yeah," he finally lands on, getting back up a little awkwardly, feeling the loss of warmth immediately. "You're right. You're—"

Everything. You're all I want. All I've ever wanted.

"You can take the second bedroom, I'm sure the bed's made," he tells him, fiddling with the empty glass of water. 

"I just...."

"There's—Tom, it's fine," Greg sighs, shaking his head a little, "that's on me. I shouldn't have—like, done that. Said that. All of that," he specifies, shrugging a little. "You're right, it's not nice to Taylor. I'm not yours, you're not mine...it's whatever."

"Don't marry him."

A pause. Greg stares back at him, jaw hanging a little low before he seems to remember to react, casting his eyes down.

"Tom, don't say that."

"Why not?"

"Just—don't ask that of me. He's my boyfriend, he's—he's the guy I'm in l—love with. Of course I'll marry him."

"Be in love with me instead, then."

"What?"

"Choose me. Choose me instead," Tom says, and his own eyes are wide, but there's no mania to them. He just looks desperate. "Be with me. Be in love with me. I'm selfish too, Greg. You say you're mine—be mine then. Please—please be mine. I want it to be you so bad. I'm sorry that I'm late, I'm so sorry."

"Tom, no."

"I don't have anything to offer, not even my soul. There's nothing, Greg. It's bare, it's like a wasteland. I'm nothing. But I want it to be you. I told you—I'm selfish."

"You're drunk. You're—you're high. You don't know what you're saying."

"I've loved you for so long, it's always been you," Tom insists, voice pleading as it wavered, taking a step forward, hand on his heart, "it was you the second I saw you! I didn't want that. I didn't want it, but I want you. God, Greg. I want you so much."

"No, you don't. You don't, Tom."

"Don't let go of what's yours. Don't let go of me. Greg," he begs, and he breaks on the last word, saying his name like a prayer. "Please."

"Take the guest bedroom, man."

Tom steps back, staring, visibly stunted. He doesn't move for a few seconds, trying to breathe normally again. His heart beats too loud, and he feels like he might pass out. Everything is painful.

"Alright. Okay. Are you going to bed too?"

"Yeah, soon, I guess? I just wanna clean up a little, you know. Some of the confetti."

"Yeah. Okay. Greg," Tom whispers, almost shy, dry lips bloodying again, "I'm sorry. I hope you don't hate me now. After all I've said."

The other man chuckles, but there's no joy to it.

"Could never hate you."

"Well, that's just a lie."

"Go to bed, Tom," Greg breathes out, because if Tom doesn't leave his field of vision, he might do something stupid. And he doesn't want to become someone his father had been. He already wears his name. He doesn't want to wear the sins as well. "Don't worry about tomorrow. I'll take care of it."

"You always take care of me," Tom says mildly, smiling just barely. "Goodnight, Greg."

"Yeah. Night, Tommy. Sleep tight."

Tom just nods, squinting his eyes a little. He turns around, and Greg covers his face with his hands.

He probably doesn't hear him let out a muffled sob.

Chapter Text

Waking up after this entire debacle is a genuinely, both literally and figuratively, sobering experience. It's sobering because Tom wakes up with the world's most awkward boner and a headache, and while he can blame the alcohol for the latter, he's not sure what he's done—or hasn't, in this case, to deserve the former. 

The sheets smell—like, distinctively, they smell of Greg. He would know, because he's been close to him enough times to know what he smells like, and he knows it's sort of an odd thing to say, but it's true. They smell like citrus, maybe lemon, and then a distinct note of vanilla and honey. It's intoxicating, and he wants to drown in it. His eyelashes flutter against the soft blanket, taking it in. It's really nice.

Last night's events trickle back inside his mind in dribs and drabs, but the more he thinks about it and the more he honestly wishes he wouldn't remember at all. 

There's a moment with Charles in some shitty club that he'd never had gone to if he'd been with Greg, where his new business partner had pressed his face to his neck and had said something, he doesn't recall what exactly, but he'd smelled like firewood and sweat, and it had actually been kind of nice. Then the whole bathroom thing, but this is all just speculation. Closed stall and undone shirt buttons, a hand on his chest and a pill on Charles' tongue, shared to him with shiny spit across dry lips. Buying an insane amount of drinks to people around him, just on and on and on, and he'd been so high that he'd laughed the entire time.

His head still hurts, but the second he turns it towards the bedside table he spots a glass of water and a pill of what he assumes must be Ibuprofen (unless Greg's trying to kill him for real and it's cyanide, though, he probably wouldn't mind him doing so,) and he downs it all at once. 

There's a soreness to his body, which is probably due to the fact he slept fully clothed and his suit pants and shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin, dirty and damp, moist, even, and he feels incredibly gross about it. He's not going to shower here though, no thanks. His phone tells him it's barely over 9AM, which would explain the lack of noise in the house. 

He misses Mondale. 

Quietly he gets up, doesn't close the room's door after himself, making a beeline for his discarded shoes at the same time he calls for a car, draping his coat over himself and heading down. 

Maybe the whole partying schtick really was dumb, because now he's fucking worried about getting recognized. He doesn't have the time to ponder on that too long though, because his driver pulls up around five minutes later, and he's so happy he could kiss him. 

Though, that was probably not the best thing to be doing right now. 

He hops inside in silence, running a hand through his short hair and nursing his growing hangover, looking outside the entire time. He makes it home at exactly 9:56AM, stumbling in his apartment to a lack of Mondale—he really was a second Greg, this one, and he lets himself collapse on his couch, legs spread and head tipped back. 

Ough.

What the fuck was his problem? What was he thinking, even? Why the fuck had he told all of this to Greg, what even had been the point? 

Keep him to himself? Greg doesn't want that. Greg's getting hitched, and he's super excited about it, and if it hadn't broken his heart, he'd have gotten endeared about it. But it shouldn't be happening. He can't be imagining his friend coming home to someone, kissing him softly, even dismissively, because it's a habit now, an afterthought. He can't start thinking about him getting taken apart by that flimsy guy with Tom's initials, the way they'd make love instead of fucking, he just can't, he can't, really.

He closes his eyes and pictures it—a nice venue, though perhaps not a castle, Greg's too modest, despite it all, for that. Maybe Ewan's ranch. Something cozy, intimate. He imagines watching Greg walk down the aisle with his grandpa, or maybe the other guy would? He's not sure, but he doesn't have the will to really bifurcate stories right now. Either way, he imagines it. He imagines them reading each other their vows, and then he imagines them kissing, kind, tender, promise of a new life. He imagines himself at the diner, having to read his fucking speech, looking at Greg the way Greg had looked at him once upon a time: openly, eyes wide and sincere and a little scared. 

A second later he's folded in half over his kitchen's sink, not remembering how he'd made the trip from the living room to there, giving back last night's food at last, feeling himself choke with the little time he had to breathe in in between retchings, shoulders sagging and nose dripping with snot. When he looks back up at himself in the reflection of the range hood, his eyes are bloodshot. 

Fuck. Shit. His throat hurts. 

He fills his mouth with tap water, spits it out, rinse and repeat a few times, and then he's stripping. He stands naked save for his underwear in his kitchen, arm dangling at his sides, looking a little lost and smelling incredibly rank. He wipes his nose and mouth, goes to pick his phone up and moves to find his bedroom, and the second he spots his bed, his vision fades to black. 

He's only woken up by the loud ringing of his phone, though he's not sure how much time later. 

He blinks blearily, grabbing it almost blindly, not checking the caller ID, which is probably not super smart, but he's cutting himself some slack right now, and puts the speaker on.

"Huh?" 

[Hey, huh, hey Tom? Hey, it's Greg.]

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Not this. Anyone, anything but him. Not right now.

"I know, I saw your name on the screen," Tom lies, but his voice is a little muffled by the pillows he's sinking into, "what's up?" 

A small silence, like an hesitation.

[Oh, like, not much? You left without saying goodbye. I wanted to check in.]

He hates himself, he hates himself, he hates himself, he hates himself. 

"What? I'm fine, yeah. Little tired." 

[Yeah no, totally, man!] Greg replies, trying to sound enthusiastic, but Tom knows better, [you were pretty fucked up last night.] 

"Yeah. I guess so." 

[Anyway I also wanted to say—I told, like, I told Karolina to leave you alone for a bit, 'cause I knew you'd be tired, and stuff, but basically she got back to me and said that the whole paparazzi thing had been handled, so you're good. Like, I hope that's a relief? Haha.]

Tom blinks again, catching up with the other's words. A relief? Yeah, sure it was. He hadn't expected anything else from his Head of PR anyway. He should probably slip her a bonus for her hard work. 

"That's great, yeah," he croaks out, trying to cough it away. Not that it works. "Thanks." 

[Oh yeah, anytime. Anytime, dude. Hum,] another hesitation, [did you sleep well?]

"Huh?" 

[No, 'cause like, okay so, funny story—you kind of took my bed?]

He frowns.

"I did not? I went to the guest's bedroom, Greg." 

[No, hum...you took a sharp left in the first room you saw,] his friend tells him, and there's a hint of mirth to his voice, [like, you were passed out in my bed. I knew because I was looking for you when I got you the medicine. And the glass of water.]

Oh he's...humiliated. He's humiliated.

"Shit, I mean—" he rolls over, letting out a sigh that breaks right in the middle, throat still burning from the retching, "well, I'm sorry." 

[Are you okay, Tom?]

"What?" 

[I don't know, your voice sounds—a little roughened up?]

"I just woke up, Greg. That's just my voice when I wake up." A pause. "And I puked my brains out." 

[Ah, I mean, it was bound to happen...are you feeling better now though?] 

"Yeah, I'm peachy. Are you feeling okay? I did take your bed, after all." 

[Yeah, of course. No yeah, don't worry about me, man, like, I'm really fine.]

I think I'll always worry about you. 

"Okay. I'm going back to sleep, but thanks for the updates." 

[Yep. Yeah, yep. Anytime. As I—as I previously said.]

"And, just—Greg?" 

[Yeah?]

The reply's too quick. Too eager. It won't do. Tom takes a deep steadying breath, eyes shut so tight he sees little dots.

"About yesterday night, what I said...I'm sorry. I didn't, you know—" 

[Tom, it's o—]

"It's not okay, let me finish," he cuts him off, "just, you know. I shouldn't have said it. All of it. And, yeah, 'course you can count on me to be your best man. That's what best friends are here for, right?" he says, but his face betrays an exact amount of nil emotion. "So, yeah. Fuckin'...congrats. Yeah. No, yeah, congrats, Greg. I'm happy for you." 

A lull.

[Yeah?] the other just asks, voice a little distorted by the phone line, and he can't really pinpoint his tone.

"Yeah, 'course," he repeats. "I'm glad someone's looking after you," he adds, but he doesn't mean it. 

It should've been him.

It should've been him. 

He's not sure if he's hung up by the time he passes out again.

There's a small, barely there mercy about the fact that nothing changes at work when he comes back the next day. He should really consider himself lucky. 

He knows people talk, they always do, but at least it's behind closed doors or in private groupchats, shitty Teams calls on company time, and he's tried to learn to not let it bother him. Big step for someone as neurotic as him, but he's getting by.

His luck lasts a total grand amount of 5 hours and 3 minutes. 

It's around 12:41AM when he gets a call to his direct office line, and maybe this wouldn't have happened if he'd gone to eat his lunch, but he'd found out that he didn't feel really hungry anymore. 

"Wambsgans, what's it this time?" he asks immediately, squinting at his computer's screen and lowering the brightness. "What? How'd he even get this number?" A frown. "Since 9AM this morning? And you couldn't redirect him again? Oh, don't be dumb, I would've just called security. No, whatever, it's fine. Just send him up, yeah. Yeah. Thanks." 

He hangs up, slamming the phone back on its holder, leaning back into his ergonomic leather chair and raising his hands to cover his face. The sigh of distress he lets out could've probably been heard all the way to Staten Island. 

Why the fuck, why the actual, genuine fuck would Taylor Winston request to a quick meeting in his office? Had Greg snitched? That little bitch. That'd probably be unlikely, though. Whatever. 

He waits patiently, anxiety bumbling in his chest each passing second, and it's almost a relief when he hears knocking at his door.

"Come in," he says, neutral yet just the tiniest bit authoritative. 

The other man's face peeks inside, visibly flustered and a little shy, and it would be a lie to say that Tom didn't revel in this. But that wasn't the topic here. 

"Mister Winston, what a surprise. I heard you've been harassing my assistant all day to get here? What's that about? Surely an email would've sufficed." 

"No, sir, I know and I'm genuinely sorry for forcing their hands like that," Winston admits, bashful, "but this is really important." 

"I'm sure it is. But, unless you hadn't noticed, I'm a little busy here," the other man remarks, englobing their space with a vague arm gesture. "So spit it out and get back to work." 

"Yes! Yes, of course. I'm just going to come clean—I'm going to propose to Gregory tonight." 

Tom blinks.

He must be looking real fucking puzzled, because then Winston doubles down, and it's hard to tell which of them two is more panicked.

"And just, since he's your Chief of Staff, I know he's important to your work, but I was wondering if we—just, if he could get his Friday—tomorrow, off? At least the morning? Before 3PM. I'm bringing him to a really good restaurant tonight, it's the nerves and shit, and he's been telling me that he's a little overworked these days, and I know it's ballsy of me to come here to ask you directly, just, I know, b—" 

"Sure," Tom breathes out, not even realizing he'd stopped doing so for a whole twenty seconds. "Yeah, okay, I'll give him the morning off. Not after 3PM, we really do need to close up on that Scotiabank deal, but yes, okay. I...appreciate you asking me beforehand, though I know that skipping a few hours at work wouldn't have surprised me, coming from Gregory." 

"Shit—I mean, really? That's alright?" 

A shrug.

"Yeah, it's whatever. As long as he's not too distracted, afternoon comes. Was that all?" 

"Hum, yeah, I m—" 

"Okay, get out of my office then." 

He shoos him away, eyes glued to his screen again, though he's incapable of reading any of the words or numbers there, and yep, there it is, he's having a panic attack.Though in his defense, he's really discreet about it. It probably doesn't even look noticeable to the outside eye. 

Greg would probably notice.

Ouch. 

He swallows deeply, grinding his teeth so hard he wonders if he might break the enamel. Is that possible? 

He rubs his face again, cracking his left shoulder. He doesn't remember anything about his day, but somehow by 7PM he's still in front of his computer, eyes burning, fingers numb, and he's waiting for a reply to his email. 

Maybe he should get blue screen glasses for working at home? Gerri had told him they worked like a charm, and that since he had really clear eyes, he was more vulnerable to the brightness. Was that even a real thing? Like, probably, but he doesn't really have the time to get an appointment with the optometrist. Or the optician? Wait, which was which?

He starts typing it down his search bar when his door flings open, making him startle so hard he almost throws his fucking pen in the direction of the disruption.

"Still here?" Greg—because of course it was Greg, God fucking, just, shit, says, "dude, it's getting late." 

"Is it? Yeah, maybe. I'm kind of on standby, honestly." 

"Really? Why?" 

"Charlie's—" a frown, "Charles needs to get back to me on some document signing, there were a few mishaps in the whole thing. I want to make sure nothing gets past me." 

Greg moves towards him, leaning next to the computer while staring holes at the Outlook messenger, one hand flat on the desk and the other grasping the top of Tom's chair. 

"Why's he so late replying, then?" he asks, voice a little too cold for Tom's liking, "that's highly unprofessional." 

"Like you're one to talk," the other laughs good naturally, "no, he's in Paris right now. It's—I think, around 1AM? Midnight? But I really need this done, so." 

"But can't—like, don't you have Outlook on your phone?" 

"Huh? Well yeah, sure. Why?" 

"Maybe you don't need to be here waiting? Actually, like, I was—I was thinking," Greg starts, turning his face a little to look at Tom, "if you...'cause it's Thursday, so maybe you'd want to hang? I have a friend of mine, he opened his restaurant, it's nothing like, super fancy, but it'd be cool if, you know, like, we went to do the opening, or—I mean, you don't have to say yes," he mutters, shaking his head a little, "it's just a dumb thought I had. 'cause I wanna hang out with you." 

Tom stares back, eyes searching the other's face, looking for a hint, for something, anything really, that would resemble pity, but all he finds is genuine excitement. He almost opens his mouth to say yes but he remembers, and he can't do that, he can't do that to Greg, he can't ruin his life anymore. 

"Sorry, no can do. I've had quite the long day," he says instead, offering him his most sincere smile, pretending that his heart doesn't break when Greg's face falls as he moves away, nodding curtly. "It's nothing against you, Greg," he adds softly, almost reaching out. "I mean, I'm an old man, I can't go out every night," he jokes.

"You didn't mind going out with that Carson guy." 

Okay, now he's mad at him. Fair enough.

"No, I know, yeah. But I'm sure you'll find something to do," Tom offers, knowing this was probably the last time he'd ever see his friend with a bare left hand. It makes him nauseous. 

"And you're not old." 

"Okay, Greg." 

"Have a great night then, Tom," Greg replies haughtily, but there's deep hurt seeping into his features, "waiting for that dumbfuck Canadian dogshit pile of fuck. I'll see you tomorrow." 

Oh, wow.

"Greg, c'mon," he sighs, "don't be like that. I'd never turn an invite down with you, but tonight..." he shakes his head, "tonight's just not a good time. I'm sorry." 

"It's fine dude, really is." 

"It's not, you look like you're a second away from gutting me." 

"'m not." 

"Greg," Tom insists, rolling his eyes in genuine amusement, reaching out to grab his hand, the left one, tugging him close again. "We'll go out whenever. Yeah? Pick any date and I'm your man." 

That seems to make the other man's metaphorical puppy ears perk.

"Really?" 

"Yeah, just pick and I'm all yours. Okay?"

"Mhm." 

"Great. So, you done pouting now, honey?" he teases him, and even he doesn't know why he's said that. Greg doesn't seem to mind, though, because the corners of his mouth quirk slightly to reveal his deep dimples. "Yeah, you look like you're done." 

"Nooo..." 

"Yeeees." 

"Shut up, I'm not pouting," Greg whines quietly, rolling his eyes as well. "'kay, but then I'm bringing you to my friend's place this weekend." 

"Yeah, if you want, buddy. Whatever you want. Actually," Tom realizes, pushing himself up without letting go of the other's hand, "c'mere." 

"Huh? Tom?" 

"Just—c'mere, man," he sighs, opening his arms a little, jaw clenched. 

Greg blinks but nods nonetheless, leaning forward to immediately fall against his chest, eyes closing instinctively, burying his face in the crook of the other's neck. He smells oddly sweet.

Tobacco Vanille? That wasn't Tom's usual Tom Ford.

He melts into the hug, and before he knows it his arms are grasping Tom's back, desperate to cling to him, to get whatever he could, and when a hand comes up to scratch the nape of his neck he basically keens, pressing himself impossibly closer to him. It's odd, it feels like a goodbye. It's hopeless, it feels like Tom is giving him one last show of love before parting with him forever.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it.

"Tommy..." he whimpers, feeling his face flush, "Tommy, I—" 

"Yeah? What is it? Tell me." 

Greg whines at the other's sweet tone, voice an octave lower and a little distraught. He is begging? Is Tom begging him for something?

He feels Tom's hand drop to his hip, rubbing circles there, touch feather-like.

"Fuck—" he gasps out, bucking into his palm, "I want—ngh—"

"Shit—"

The older man pulls away at once, looking a little afraid, eyes wide.

"Greg."

"No, no, Tom, Tom please—"

"We should—I need to go. I'll work from home," he mumbles as he steps back, face and neck red. "Yeah. You heading down?" 

"...yeah," Greg whispers back, sounding like he was catching his breath. There's a tightness in his pants. "We can—we can head down together." 

"Cool, okay. Let me just get my stuff." 

He collects his bag and phone, shrugging his coat on before nodding at his friend to step out. He closes the office's door gently, not looking back. At least those four walls would forever hold a piece of their affection, if nothing else will. 

Taylor Winston is smoking in front of the office building, stepping on it the second he spots Greg and his boss coming by. Tom seems to spot him, too, because he swiftly halts, staying back. 

"Hey, what's up," Winston smiles at his boyfriend, going for a kiss before noting how uncomfortable Greg looked. Which was odd, because he wasn't one to shy away from PDA. Maybe it was different because their CEO was there? "I was waiting for you." 

"...really?" Greg asks, cocking his head to the side just barely, "this late?" 

"Yeah, I'm taking you out tonight," he continues, positively beaming. "It was kind of harsh to find a good reservation spot, but I made it." 

Tom purposely avoids Greg's eyes, puckering his lips and raising his eyebrows as he stares at his phone, whose screen was displaying the fucking weather app. For Abidjan. 

"Oh, that's—that's so nice, Taylor," the younger man croaks out, feeling sweat dribble down his back, "that's so thoughtful." 

"Nah, I just wanna treat you. You've been working so hard. Right mister Wambsgans?" 

"Oh yeah, real hard...work," Tom nods distractedly, and Greg sees that he'd moved on from Abidjan to fucking Lichinga. "I need to take this call," he adds, and apparently it was supposed to rain in fucking Longyearbyen, and he didn't seem to mind lying to Greg's fucking face, abandoning him on the spot before pretending to talk to fuck knows who. 

"Are you coming?" Taylor asks, holding his hand out, face warm but never as sun-like as Tom's, never that bright, and without dimples. "I think we're a little late."

"I—" Greg turns to his boss, but the other doesn't look at him, muttering something unintelligible in—German? "Hopefully Mr. Wambsgans will be alright? We had this whole operation that we needed to check t—"

"I'm sure he'll be fine. C'mon, baby."

A sigh, he closes his eyes and gives up. He regrets—he doesn't know what he regrets. He thinks he's a massive piece of shit. 

"Tom—Tom!" he calls out still, maybe uselessly, "I'm going. We still on for this weekend?"

The other man turns around, and this time it truly does look like there's someone on the phone with him. He shoots him a thumbs up, but his smile looks a little forced. Maybe he's imagining things. 

The second the other two men are out of his field of vision Tom thanks the caller, some partner from Europe and promptly walks back inside the building. It wasn't that late into the evening, and anyway, he doesn't know what he hates and fears more. Being alone at home, or being alone at work. The latter at least gives him the illusion of having had a choice about it. 

"Still here, mister Wambsgans?" the janitor of the first three floors calls out when he makes his way inside the immense lobby, "getting late."

"Ah, but the building doesn't close soon, no?" Tom asks a little worriedly, "it's, what—"

"Oh, no. It's just 7:32 sir," the man laughs, "other people are still inside."

"Right, yeah. No, busy day, I guess."

"Don't forget, closing times 11PM on the clock. Or you'll get locked inside."

A nod.

"Yeah, thank you, Cory. Good evening."

"Yep. You too."

He disappears behind the heavy elevator doors, eyes closed all the way to the top. He does sometimes wonder, in a sort of removed way, if work or love should come first. Frankly, he had thought he'd found the correct balance, you know, with the whole 'Shiv being his wife' thing. Maybe not, though. 

His floor is the busiest one on the worst days, but he'd found it also sort of quiet and calming. Having been on the lower floors he's aware that nothing is ever too calm in this company, so now he thinks it's pretty neat that he gets to have the silence all to himself. 

The second he makes his way back in the office he throws the keys on the desk, throwing himself on the massive sofa and groaning into the fabric, rearranging his limbs lazily so he would be on his back, one arm dangling off the edge. 

This is glamour, he decides. He's the CEO of a Fortune 50, he's likely sleeping in his office, his suit is too tight because of the position, and his tie is choking him.

And honestly? It's delightful. All that's missing is a thousand hookers and twenty pounds of coke and fountains of hard liquor. He's doing really well at the whole thing, he thinks. Genuinely. 

Should he call Shiv? Maybe she's free, maybe she isn't with her new girlfriend. Maybe she'll be nice enough to indulge him in a pity phonesex roleplay. 

Shut up, Tom. You're pathetic. 

She doesn't even want you. 

I don't want her either. 

He rubs a palm on his face, feeling the moistness of his hand uncomfortable on his otherwise frozen skin, and all his senses make him feel too hyper aware now. His entire body buzzes, though he's not sure with what. It feels restless, like he just has to do something, but nothing crosses his mind.

Part of him wants to call a car and find Greg, burst into the restaurant and tell him he loves him, that he wants him, to please choose him. He wants to lay his heart down to him, in front of God and everyone, he wants to let him tear him open and eat him whole, he wants to hope, and his stomach twists uncomfortably. This part of him wishes Greg would call, maybe past midnight, and would tell him that he rejected his boyfriend's proposal and that he was coming to find him, and that he loves him, that it's always been him. 

That's not a real thing, though, and maybe he should blame this sensitivity on watching too many movies. He should rewatch The Holiday soon. Maybe How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, because God knows he's losing Greg in a few hours. Maybe it's already happened? How would Winston proceed? In public? After the restaurant? Would they be tucked home by the fire, and he would get down on one knee and ask? 

And would Greg's heart swell as well? Would he cry, would he smile and nod, too overwhelmed to say yes, but meaning it all the same? 

His heart hurts, and he's half-mad and half-relieved that there's no more coke in his office. Maybe tonight should be about falling asleep organically instead of getting fucked up beyond measure.

His suit still clings too tightly to his body when he takes his phone out, and he's fully lucid of what he's doing when he clicks on the caller ID.

Honestly—and this does come as a surprise, she answers after a few ringings. Maybe she's bored, too. It's not that late for a Thursday night. It's just not that late. 

[Wow, color me shocked. Wambsgans!] Shiv's voice says through the speaker, and he sighs a little too quietly. [To what do I owe the pleasure?]

"Hey. I just wanted to check up on you," Tom replies, and it's not exactly a lie. "So. How do you do?"

[Me? I'm fine. Why?]

"Nothing, I told you, it's just a checkup."

[Are you drunk?] she asks jokingly, but it does remind him he has a stash of bottles in here. [Tom?]

"Huh? No, no. No I'm—" a pause, he shrugs. There's no one here to see it. "I guess I also needed a friendly voice."

A small lull. 

[And you picked me?] Shiv laughs, but it's not that sarcastic. [Well, I'm touched.] 

"Are you in D.C?"

[No, New York, actually. Why? Wanna meet up?]

"That wouldn't be very smart now, would it?" he chuckles as well, and it doesn't feel all that complicated anymore. 

[Guess not.]

A pause.

"I'm not in love with you anymore, Shiv."

A hum. She heard him.

"I haven't been in a while, I think. I wanted to be. I care. But not like that."

[I'm not in love with you anymore either, Tom, if that makes you feel better.]  

It does.

"I don't think you ever were," he offers, and to this she barks a genuine laugh. He smiles, like it's an old joke in between old friends. "I don't know why we fucked that one time."

[Don't overthink it,] Shiv just sighs, [it was the nerves. Were you thinking about that? Having a sad jerky sesh?] 

"I think I needed you to know I don't love you anymore to move on fully," Tom says, earnest. "I wanted to be honest about this. Come clean."

[Oh yeah? Before going to hook up with a male business partner?] she quips amusedly, [what was that about, by the way?]

"Nothing, we were just—it was just a fun night out, c'mon." 

He pauses, though, feeling his chest hurt. 

He should tell her. He should probably tell her.  

Maybe she'll understand. Maybe she won't. He's past all of that now. 

"I'm in love with someone."

It does take her a few seconds to recover.

[Really?] she asks still, with the decency of someone who is still polite despite everything. [Well, good for you.]

"I—it's a man. It's been—"

[Tom,] Shiv cuts him off, but there's something odd in her voice, like a strain he can recognize from all the times he's heard it before. [Don't finish that sentence.]

"What? W—"

[I know, Tom. I know that, I've known—] another laugh, bitter this time, [I know. Even then, I knew. So please, for both our sakes. Don't finish that sentence.]

Maybe he'd never been good with subtlety. Maybe he needs to love loudly. To be loved loudly. 

"I'm sorry," he says instead, because he is. For all their crimes, both of them, he truly is sorry.

[I've got to go. Don't invite me to the wedding,] Shiv just replies, trying to aim for humorous. [Goodnight, Thomas.]

"Yeah. Goodnight, Siobhan."

She hangs up before he can, and he feels a million times lighter. Maybe it's selfish of him, maybe she'd never wanted to hear about that. 

Time passes, but there's no text. There's no sudden shift in the narrative, no fulcrum, romance doesn't prevail. 

Maybe that's okay. 

He's still lying on the sofa when his eyelids grow heavy, but this is not the time for tears. Those aren't tears that made his eyes redden, he doesn't wipe at his cheeks because he hasn't been crying. He's just tired. He just needs a nap. Some sun, maybe. He doesn't need anyone. It's alright. It's all alright.

When the light pours through the bay window he hadn't taken care of the night before, all he can do is groan and try to get up. His back is killing him, sure, and there's a shitty taste in his mouth. Fuck. He's going to have to call a PA to buy him some fucking toothbrush and paste so he can go clean himself up in his bathroom like some kind of asshole. 

7:47AM. 

Most early comers would be in office by now, and there's a few hours left before Greg himself would clock in. 

He drags himself to his computer, slamming the password in, feeling the remnants of exhaustion make his body shiver. 

A few hundred new emails. Super. Just what he fucking needed. 

He scrolls down a little absentmindedly, knowing he'll just have Greg do it more carefully anyway. For some reason, one of them catches his attention more than others. 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Bcc: [email protected]

Subject: Two weeks notice

Hello, 

Please find attached my two weeks notice. I appreciate the opportunities Waystar has offered me, and will always speak highly of this company. 

Thank you for everything.

Best,

Taylor Winston.  

Huh. 

Tom's heart is trying to regulate itself but he feels insanely close to throwing up. 

Would that mean Greg was going to leave too? Were they moving to new territories together? Did they discuss this yesterday night? Was this why Greg was so upset about Carson?

Panickedly he presses control+F and types in greg, but nothing from the man seems to appear. At least nothing recent. 

Maybe he wants to talk about it to him in person. 

Oh, he feels sick. His head is spinning and his stomach hurts real fucking bad, and he's pretty sure he's having another panic attack. 

Close your eyes, think of something else, think of something gross, like Logan pissing himself, Connor pushing a big number two out, come on, think about anything else, come o—

Knock knock.  

No, no, not now, not anytime. Maybe he can fucking—hide under his desk. Maybe then they wouldn't notice it. Him. 

Knock knock.

"What?!" he yells, but there's a shaky tone to his voice that he doesn't like, "it's not even 8, leave me the fuck alone."

"Wow, someone's grumpy!"

A blink.

"What the fuck are you doing here this early on?" Tom frowns and he walks up to unlock the door, met with a bright eyed Greg, cozily wrapped inside a scarf Tom knows is his, as in, it's Tom's, his hands shoved inside his pockets and a pastry bag held between his arm and hip. 

The tip of his nose is distinctly red, much like his cheeks, and the gel his hair must not have held on, because it's all messy and stupid and there are white spots all over him.

"It's snowing," the younger man tells him, walking past him cheerfully, "I ran inside, dude, it's so freezing outside. Thank God our offices are heated and shit." 

"...yeah," Tom nods, following him with his eyes but not moving. "Why are you here?"

Greg looks back, visibly a little rattled.

"Because I...work here? For you specifically? Dude, are you wearing yesterday's clothes?" he then asks, looking him up and down, "did you sleep here?"

"What?"

"Well, I'm glad I got us breakfast," he laughs, taking his hand out of his pockets, and Tom visibly flinches. "Are you okay? Seriously, dude."

Gloves. He's wearing—he's wearing leather gloves. 

"I'm fine," Tom replies carefully. "Slept like shit on the sofa. Huh. Hope you had a better night than I did."

A shrug.

"Yeah, the restaurant was okay. Huh, which reminds me, we're still on for my buddy's place this weekend, yeah?"

Tom feels like he's shifted to an entirely different astral plane. What the fuck was Greg on about? Did he not have huge fucking news? Wasn't he supposed to only come in at 3? His fiancé just fucking resigned.

"Aren't you hungry? Tom?"

"Huh?"

"I brought fresh pastries dude," his friend says, amused. "Don't you want some? Got some with fillings like you like."

"Wilson resigned from his job here."

"I think there's one with cream, another with str—"

"Greg? Your fiancé just BCC'd me in his resignation email."

A frown.

"What the hell are you talking about, man?"

"You're not fucking listening!" Tom protests, walking up to him and throwing his hands in the air, "I just said—"

"No, I heard you. I know he resigned? I'm the one who told him to BCC you. 'cause I knew you'd see it soon and would get it cleared."

"What the f—"

"Also, I don't have a fiancé. What are you talking about? Are you sure you're not sick?"

"What the fuck do you mean you don't have a fiancé, you were with him just last n—"

"Wait, did you know?!" Greg suddenly exclaims, taking his second glove off and throwing it on the desk, and lo and behold—his hand was bare. "You fucking knew and you decided to let me go there on my own?! You turned down a really cool restaurant opening to let me get proposed to in PUBLIC?!"

"He proposed in public?" Tom panics, voice as meek as Greg as ever heard, "well, I didn't know he'd do it in public, I mean, oh, God—"

"Dude, holy shit! You fucking—that's why you said no?! You'd have come had he—how did you even know?!"

Tom, for all two hours of sleep in his blood and a panic attack still very much present, just shakes his head, but he must look incredibly distressed because Greg actually walks up to him, closing the door and leading him to sit on the sofa, staring at him a little panickedly. 

He's not sure how much time passes before his heart calms down, and when the room stops feeling so dizzy, but he breathes out and everything stills. 

Greg's still here, crouched in front of him.

"Sorry," Tom chokes out, feeling dumb. "Hum. I don't know what happened there! Haha. Jesus."

"Well, you've had quite the run regarding shitty nights of sleep," the other man jokes, but he still looks worried. "Sorry for snapping at you, dude. I'm just, like, confused."

"I don't—I'm the one who's confused. You—Greg? We went engagement ring shopping. I paid—I brought you to Cartier?! Are you insane? You said—you came into my office to say you were going to propose, and then we went shopping, and th—oh, fuck—" he starts panicking again, covering his face with his hands, and Greg shuffles on his knees to grab his shoulders, eyes wide with panic. 

"Dude no, I know, like this is—like, this is hella shitty of me, but. Dude, I don't know. No, I do know. But I also don't? You know?"

"I think I'm having a panic attack."

"Tom!" Greg exclaims, making the other flinch, but his fingers dig in the other's tense muscles, "Tom. I can't marry Taylor. You realize that, right? Like, you do realize that?"

"I—what? Why not? You said you loved him. It's textbook, Greg. I don't understand. Oh, fuck. Fuck, Greg, oh God, oh—"

He's overwhelmed, he's breathing too fast again and he might actually burst into fucking tears because he doesn't understand anything and this is scary, and Greg's not making sense, and now his stomach hurts, and he—

"I'm sorry," the younger man chokes out, eyes so impossibly wide with horror, tracking the other's micro-movements. "I'm...dude, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped, it's just, like..."

He shakes his head, letting his forehead hit Tom's knee with a soft thud.

"I really wanted to do that restaurant opening..."

"That's what you're focusing on, asshole?" Tom laughs, and it's high pitched and full of disbelief, "your fucking friend's restaurant?! Greg!"

"'m sorry," Greg mumbles, but it's muffled by the fabric. "And I'm sorry you had to pay 5K for my rings."

"Yeah, they're fucking engraved, you piece of wet shit."

"I'm sorry."

"You still didn't say why."

He raises his head up again, head cocked to the side. Tom thinks he looks like a particularly dumb dog when he does, like some sort of Borzoi or something. They're both long, and stupid, and really endearing. To him. Can Borzoi have blue eyes? He'd have to check.

"Didn't...what didn't I say?"

"Why can't you marry that guy?" Tom repeats, feeling like he might actually pass out again. "I don't—I don't understand. I actually can't understand." 

"B—" Greg frowns, on his knees, searching Tom's eyes a little wearily. "Because, it's, like, a huge...commitment? A lifetime one, one—one might say. Not that—like, you know, divorces don't exist," he gestures at his friend who groans, "but I—fuck, Tom," he finally concedes, voice breaking. 

The other man doesn't move, staring down, none of the past anger present in his gaze. He seems confused, lost, and particularly scared. It's an interesting look on him, Greg thinks. 

"I wanna be selfish, I wanna—I wanna be a piece of shit, man," he replies, throat tight, hands definitely too warm, too clammy, "I want—I want to—to get to choose. I wanna make that decision for myself, because—because I lo—I, just, like, l...I love you, man, fuck. I love you, so bad. I really, really fucking like you. It's crazy how much I do."

He looks up, heart stuck in his throat, afraid it would spill out if he said a word more. He's scared he might actually make a bigger fool of himself if he speaks again, maybe worse, he can't do it, he's terrified. 

Tom's mouth opens, but closes again almost immediately. Greg watches the muscle of his jaw clench, watches how his fingers seem to grip just barely at the fabric of his suit pants. There's a small movement, and before he can understand anything, anything at all, Tom's laughter is bouncing against the walls of his office, loud and clear, pretty like porcelain on crystal flûtes, warm like crackling fire in dense forests.

He blinks, once, clearly lost with whatever was happening. Had he gone completely fucking crazy? Was that it? Had he, like, broken the guy? Oh, God. 

"Du—dude? Dude, Tom? Are you okay, man?"

"Greg, fuck," Tom just laughs more, one hand smashed against his cheek, hair a battlefield, "you fucking—you idiotic moron. You piece of shit!"

"Id—y—or—or so you said, yes, I—"

"Shut up, I don't care, c'mere," he giggles, clearly feeling hysterical about whatever the fuck was happening, and Greg doesn't do much except struggle to get back up, reminiscing the drunken, terrible night, where he should've said it, should've told him, but he's a coward, so he just falls back down over Tom, feeling the other's burning body press against his. "My God, Greg!"

"Sorry," he can only reply, barely talking, not even whispering, actually, he's not even sure that he ever said anything out loud. Maybe the way he's smiling is enough to convey all that he's feeling. "I'm not actually sorry," he adds, he can't really help it, hands reaching up to smooth Tom's shirt collar. "I like that you like me, too."

"Oh, sorry, is there someone else in the room you're talking to?"

"Dude, shut up!"

"Dude, shut up!" Tom mocks him, voice going up an octave, but he's cupping the other man's face and his thumb is brushing over his cheek, and his eyes are overflowing with love, so Greg finds that he doesn't really care for the razzing. "Look at me, I'm Greg and I made my boss pay for 5k rings a—mmph—"

"Shut the fuck up," Greg snorts, diving down and kissing him right on the lips, eyes desperately closed, tasting the metallic taste of their too dry lips on his tongue. 

When he pulls back, Tom looks like he's just seen something formidable—perhaps the Northern Lights, or a Super Moon. His crows feet are pretty. 

"I can't believe you let me get proposed to in public."

"I can't believe you let me buy you engraved rings," Tom shoots back.

"Dude—"

"With, mind you, my initials on them."

"You fucked an Ottawan!"

"No, I specifically did not. We just fucking, I don't know, hung out."

"We just fucking, I don't know, hung out," Greg mimics this time, in an awful attempt at a Minnesotan accent, but Tom cackles like a madman and pulls him back down, his left ankle digging around the back of Greg's knee, keeping him there, and he kisses him so loudly that they both slightly worry the entire building might hear them. "Wow..."

"That's what they usually say, yeah."

"Tom!"

"Shut up," Tom repeats, kissing him again, peppering his face with them, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw, leaving a particularly open mouthed one on his forehead. "You let me embarrass myself that night, only to find out you like me too. You're a terrible man, Gregory."

"I am," Greg nods, too focused on the other man's lips to listen or care, "I'm awful..." 

"Yes, yes you are." 

"Mhm..." 

He grins, pressing himself as close to Tom as possible, leaving feather-like pecks on his jaw, lingering on the side of his eyes, his eyelids, the small scar on his upper lip, the one on his cheek and eye—he wonders how that happened, he should ask him someday, before looking back up. 

"Can I...may I, huh, be inquisitive? Regarding...a recent event," he asks, playing with a nail that would break soon, "a very—very recent one." 

"...sure, but stop talking like that," Tom snorts, leaning back against the sofa and raising an eyebrow. "Is it about the ni—" 

"It's when you hugged me? When you hugged me last night," Greg cuts him off, feeling nervous again. "Why did you?" 

"What?"

"Did—was it a goodbye hug? Because it felt like a goodbye hug, Tom. I hated that it did." 

"Well, Wilson—" 

"Winston—" 

"—came to tell me," he clicks his tongue, "to ask me to give you this morning off, because he was going to propose to you, yesterday night, so I thought..." he lets his words die, gesturing at the room in a vague motion. "You know." 

"Did you think you'd never get to, like...I don't know, touch me, again...?" 

"Not the way I want to, no? You said you were going to propose, so I did what I thought was best." 

"You didn't even talk to me about it, Tom." 

"So what? I tried to—I don't fucking know, I tried to be nice, and respectful, fucking sue me!" 

"I'm not gonna sue you..." 

"Oh yeah?" 

"Nuh-uh...I mean, you're no Greenpeace." 

"Wow...not even gonna send me to testify in front of Congress?" 

"No..." Greg smiles, dimples deep and gorgeous, "I'll take your word for it. That was very magnanimous of you, by the way." 

"Not really, since I then begged you to choose me," Tom offers, lips puckered. "Which you declined, need I remind you." 

"Okay, but did I choose you, ultimately..." 

"I guess you did, yeah," he smiles, but there's a wistfulness to his eyes that Greg can't explain. 

"Tom?" 

"Mhm?"

"It's not, like..." Greg frowns as well, moving to sit next to him, entire body facing him, "this isn't a pity choice, Tom." 

"No, I'm sure. I mean, I'd hope so!" 

"No, look at me, listen to me," he insists, gently raising his hand to move his chin towards him. "I wanted—this is going to sound so silly, hum, bear with me, but I wanted to come find you, yesterday night." 

To this Tom's eyes shoot up, the slightest hint of insecurity in his gaze, like a kid who'd never been told by his parents that they were proud of him. 

"I wanted to," Greg continues, reaching out to take Tom's hands in his, "I did. But when you said you couldn't come, I thought..." he shakes his head, soft, "I don't know what I thought. I guess I assumed you let me down gently, that you had a date, or something. That it was why you didn't wanna go to that opening with me." 

"I didn't say yes because I knew that Winston was going to propose..." 

"No, I know, I know that, Tommy," he smiles, kissing the other's knuckles. "I wanted to do this cliché shit, you know, like, get up from my seat and run back to you, or something, but I didn't want to assume—I didn't think...I was really scared, Tom." 

"I told you I was yours, that I wanted to be yours," Tom whispers, eyes closed, hands barely shaking. "You could've assumed that I wanted you, too." 

"And I should've. Quite—quite frankly, even with all you said, I didn't think anyone would want me this much. I know—this may sound like I'm, huh, fishing for compliments, but, just, I don't know. It feels a little...unreal? That you, out of all people, would love me. And choose me." 

Tom stays silent for a few seconds before huffing, nodding just slightly.

"You know? And I—I want you, too. I like you, I'm—dude, Tom, shit, I'm literally in love with you. I've literally been, like, in some levels of infatuation with you since I, huh, pretty much met you, which is sort of insane, I know, but sometimes I think I love you so much that, hum, that one lifetime isn't ever going to be enough? Enough, to, huh, love you, because I love you, so, like, much, and—" 

"For what it's worth," the other man smiles, "if that whole proposal shit had gone further, I would've..." a shrug, "you know during weddings? When they say, like, 'speak now or forever hold your peace'?" 

"You—hah," Greg laughs, disbelieving and flushed, "really?" 

"Yeah, really."

"That would've been so dramatic, man. My grandpa would've killed you." 

"Okay? Well, either that or I would've stolen you away before the ceremony. And I've outlived one Roy patriarch already, remember? They don't scare me anymore, Greg-o."  

"Right..."

Greg rolls his eyes but leans in again, kissing Tom far more softly than before, lingering, coming to terms with the fact that they finally had all the time in the world. It's nice to feel his cardiac rhythm pick up for something other than stress and burn out. 

"We should make out all day," he tells him, nodding very seriously, "and then, maybe, do something OSHA-reprehensible, HR-reprehensible, too, for that matters, I mean, we're top of the pyramid, right? Not like stuff could happen to u—ough?!" 

His voice dies down as he's pushed against the armrest of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise, but the pink on Tom's cheeks tells him all he needs to know. 

"Greg?" Tom purrs, voice low, breath tickling his ear, "you know what I really, really want?" 

"N—no?" 

He can feel blood rushing straight to his dick, and for the little amount of sleep he'd gotten the previous night, what with getting proposed to and all, it's enough to make his vision get dizzy with lust. He feels Tom's large hands travel up his thighs, and it honestly feels so nice that he just considers creaming his pants here and there. 

"I want you to get up and find the records for the past Vaulter meetings they held when Kendall was still acting COO, they want to spin-off and I'm not having it," the older man declares, voice back at a normal volume, getting back up with a satisfied smirk. "Can you be a good boy and do that for me?" 

"Wh—"

Greg springs up as well, face red and looking absolutely revolted, running after Tom who'd already gone back to sitting behind his desk.

"What the fuck, man?!" 

"What? I don't wanna fuck in my office at like, 8AM, Greg," Tom shrugs, but he still looks delighted as ever. "That's really not glamorous." 

"But w—I'm—w—" 

He looks down at himself, where there's an obvious tightness to his pants, looking back at Tom with furrowed brows and pouty lips. 

"But what?" 

"Dude, I'm turned on as fuck, right now..." 

"Good! And if we make big enough of a dent in work today," Tom smiles, crooking his finger to urge him to come closer, which he does, "we might christen this office...once everyone's left. Keep up the good spirit." A pause. "Amongst others." 

"I tell you I love you and suddenly you're all cocky and self-absorbed," Greg mumbles, "man, that's so unfair..." 

"Greg." 

"What?" 

"You know I'm in love with you too, right?" Tom asks, visibly worried about this, because he tilts his head up to make sure to look him right in the eyes. "I mean, hopefully you got that when I shoved my tongue inside your mouth." 

"Kinda also when you cried and said we should run away together, yes," Greg offers, looking a little less despondent. "I love you too, Tommy." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Even when you send me away to find meeting records and throw bottles at me." 

"That was one time—" 

"Do I really got to go?" 

"Sorry, do you really got to go, where? Work?" 

"But Toooom—" 

"Get to work, Hirschie," Tom snorts, giving him a firm slap on his ass, earning a fake-outraged gasp from Greg. "C'mon, I'll pay you lunch. And then we can make fun of Wilson together. Man, I kind of wish someone had filmed the whole stuff." 

"No, you don't," Greg grimaces, "it was tedious and painful and really cringe. Like, Boar on the Floor levels of cringe." 

"Oh, Jesus." 

"Yeah no, it sucked really bad. Maybe less kindness of heart next time Tom, please." 

"Hopefully there won't be a next time." 

"...fair."

"Or the next time will be me, and it'll be successful, and not tasteless." 

"...Thomas?" 

"Gregory?" 

"Didn't you propose to Shiv in the hospital when Logan was kind of dying?" 

A silence.

"Find me the meeting notes, Greg." 

"Yep, yessir!" Greg nods vigorously, "I'll, huh, see you at lunch then?" 

"Yeah," Tom smiles, watching as the younger man ran his long fingers over his dishevelled hair, closing his eyes and savoring the touch, "and thanks for the bakeries." 

"'course, Tommy. Bye-bye, work hard? But also, take breaks. You had a few couple days." 

"I'm good, Greg. See you at lunch." 

Greg bites his lower lip, a terrible attempt at keeping himself from beaming, but Tom's eyes are blue and shiny like the most beautiful Italian skies, and his mouth is pink and perfect, and now he can, so he leans down and kisses him again, feeling his cheeks hurt from all the smiling. 

"Okay, love you, bye. Much to talk about, but—at lunch," he finally concedes, picking 'his' scarf up but leaving his gloves and coat in the room. "Okay, bye for real now," he adds at last, stopping himself as half of his body was already outside the door. "Love you." 

"See you soon," Tom giggles, rolling his eyes but so impossibly endeared by his antics. "Love you too." 

Greg finally disappears around the corner, still he chases his silhouette with his eyes until he's fully left his field of vision, and then leans back into his chair. 

Tom Wambsgans' life starts again on a beautiful, perfect sunny Friday morning.