Archive of Our Own ^beta

Somewhere off the Italian coast, Tom discovers that Greg sunburns like he’s got the virgin skin of a baby. His shoulders get lobster-red, his nose bright and angry. Tom can’t really feel bad for him, considering that he told him to wear sunscreen.

Mattson offered up his yacht as a thank-you gift of sorts, so now they’re on some little retreat with Logan, Gerri, Frank, and Karl, which is sort of bizarre and disastrous all at once. Tom’s not even sure if Greg was supposed to come, but he wasn’t going to leave him in Italy with Comfrey and the Contessa and a million other ways to-

Well. He wasn’t going to leave him, and Logan didn’t really care when Greg slipped onto the yacht. It’s not like Greg isn’t still his assistant. Or maybe he isn’t. Tom’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything, really. It’s been four days since he killed his wife, and he’s still reeling from everything.

So, anyway, Greg burns cartoon-devil red, and it’s sort of hilarious. Tom tries not to laugh as Greg flops into the lounger beside him, sighing in relief at the shade.

He glances up from his phone to side-eye Greg, who stares petulantly at the deck above them, his shoulders and chest and stomach an angry red.

Tom stares for a few moments longer than necessary, then turns back to his phone, which obviously irritates Greg, who sighs once, twice, three times. The next time Tom turns to him, Greg’s already staring.

“What.” It doesn’t come out as flat as he intends, but Greg still rolls his eyes, so it’s something.

“It’s just,” Greg sighs again, “I like…I didn’t know I could sunburn this bad? I didn’t know that anyone could.”

“Just because you’re used to freezing your dick off in Canada doesn’t mean the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Welcome to sunshine, Gregory.”

“Tom, that’s not- okay. You do know that Canada has summer, right?”

Tom rolls his eyes, turning off his phone and standing up. He looms over Greg for a moment, to be looming, not to offer him any shade, fuck you very much.

“I told you to wear sunscreen.” Tom says, and lets Greg air out his pathetic defense to his retreating back.

Still, when he goes inside, he asks that a bottle of chilled Aloe Vera be placed in Greg’s room, and resolves not to mention it, even if asked.

----

“Have you ever been water skiing?” They’re on the deck again, lounging in deck chairs, sipping rosé, and Tom turns to Greg with what he hopes is a look of annoyance.

“Obviously, Greg, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Seriously?” Greg brightens up at this, sitting up some more. He’s wearing a shirt today, and moves his arms gingerly, like they hurt. “You’ve actually gone water skiing?”

“I went to Cornell. Right by Cayuga Lake.” Tom glances out over the ocean. “My friends and I rented a speedboat once.”

“Was it fun?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t very good at it.”

“I’ve never been water skiing.” Greg flops back down in his chair. “I’ve been, like, real skiing. I had a friend in middle school who used to go every weekend. He took me a few times.”

Tom nods, looking back out across the ocean, Greg’s voice white noise in his ears. He’s been thinking of Shiv lately. They never had it out and he’s terrified to go home. He’s terrified of what he may have done to her, but somehow also elated at the thought. It makes his stomach ache.

“I’ve always thought snowboarding was cool. Like, Shaun White style. I think I could do it, you know?” Greg continues, eyes shut and face titled heavenward. Sun slats across his chin and mouth; Tom wants to follow the light.

“Do you think my wife is plotting our demise?” Tom asks, the words tumbling before he can stop them. He’s not great at stopping up his mouth when he’s around Greg. It’s why he says ridiculous things, foolish things.

Tom turns his head to Greg, blinking a few times behind his sunglasses. Greg’s face tightens, but his eyes stay shut.

“You know, Kendall plotted mine, and never followed through. You could make it out clean.”

“You didn’t do anything worthy of a demise, Greg. You switched sides. We already know you’re becoming an asshole. That wasn’t a surprise to anyone.”

“That’s, like, not very nice, Tom.”

“I did something that’s pretty destructive, Greg.”

“Well, maybe it needed to happen.” Greg says, the clearest and most confident thing he’s probably ever said. Tom sits up, pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead.

“Oh, do you think that, Gregory? Do you think your cousins are gluttons?” Tom asks, and Greg screws up his nose at the mocking tone. Tom flops back down onto his back. “No shit, ‘it needed to happen’ .”

“Okay, then what are you so worried about?”

Tom doesn’t have an answer for him, so he sits back down in his lounge chair and pulls his sunglasses back down. Beside him, he can hear Greg shifting, settling down.

They fall into silence, thick and comfortable, taking twin sips of their rosé and not saying a word. Anxiety gnaws at Tom’s stomach, twisting his insides and pulling, pulling, pulling.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Tom gets back to New York and goes back to the condo, he expects World War III. He expects an atomic bomb, or a gunshot blast to the face. Chickens can still survive after their heads are cut off. He wonders how long he’ll survive after Shiv chops off his.

But he’s not greeted with a world-ending, earth-shattering disaster. He’s greeted with silence, heavy silence, and a note on the kitchen island.

He goes to it immediately, dropping his bags. They still smell like sunscreen and heat, and he feels grimy from the travel.

The note is written in Shiv’s handwriting, which is more personal than he expects. There’s underlings and assistants to do this sort of thing, to deal with the messy details. Shiv’s script isn’t what he expects to see.

It’s familiar enough that it feels like certain death.

I’ll give you until the end of the day to pack your things and get out of the condo. I’ll be back tomorrow.

That’s it. No introduction, no sign-off, no nothing. Just a cool warning.

Tom swallows roughly, raggedly, and can’t say he doesn’t expect this. He feels the pillars of his life crumbling around his feet, the plaster cracking against him and cutting his legs, but he doesn’t know if he wants to pick them up. It’s a controlled demolition, and he flipped the switch.

Still. You can’t just let the wreckage lie there. You’ve got to call in someone who can tell you what to do about a cleaning crew.

Shiv picks up on the second call. Tom’s simultaneously relieved and crushed to hear her voice. He hasn’t spoken to her since Italy. He knows they need to have it out.

“Move out of the condo.” She says, cold and cutting. Tom knows this voice. She’s trying not to show how she’s hurt. “Weren’t the instructions clear?”

“Shiv, honey, can we-”

“No , Tom, fuck off. We cannot. What’s there to do? You… fuck . Get the fuck out of my condo.”

“Okay, but-” Tom reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. Okay, fine, fuck. If Shiv wants to cover the wound, then fine. But the blood’s going to slip through her fingers. They have to fucking talk about this. “Okay. Can we...Shiv. I have to know where we stand, here.”

“Opposite sides of the ravine. You fucked me, Tom. Where do you think we stand?”

“Should I call my mom? Should you call your lawyers?” He asks, because fine. He can be the one to bite the bullet.

Shiv’s silent on her end. He can’t even hear her breathing. She can be quiet if she wants to be. Back when they were happy, when they could joke with each other, Tom would joke about putting a bell on her to keep track of when she entered a room.

“I need to talk to people. But the…no. No, don’t call your lawyers. Everything is the same. Just…move out. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“What?” Tom wants to say something to her, something like, you can’t do this, Siobhan, you can’t dangle me on a string, but he knows he never will. There are clear cut roles. There are lines drawn in the sand. Tom has overstepped too many lines recently.

“Move out.” She bites through gritted teeth. It’s the wrong sound from her mouth. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We need to talk.”

And then the line clicks, and she’s gone.

Tom calls the only other person he has.

----

“You know, I think my shoulders are still, like, very tender.” Greg says from somewhere behind a box, and Tom rolls his eyes.

It was lucky, really, that he and Shiv had spare moving boxes lying around in one of the guest bedrooms. Or maybe it wasn’t luck at all. Shiv probably had them put there for him to use. It was one of the guest rooms he slept in for a while, after all.

“Stop bitching.” Tom sticks his foot in the door to catch it and hold it open. “I told you I’d buy you dinner.”

When he turns to catch Greg’s face, he’s unsurprised to see him beaming at that.

Greg picked up the phone on the third ring, and took little convincing to come over and help Tom move. It’s actually a pretty impressive thing, considering Greg usually doesn’t like to do anything after a day of travel.

So here they are, moving Tom’s shit to an apartment uptown. It’s a property he and Shiv have for one reason or another, and now it’s a property he’s going to live in until he figures his shit out or Shiv kicks him out of it.

He doesn’t have that many things to move. Clothes, home office things, a few pictures and trinkets from home. Their condo was decorated by an interior designer, which meant that he couldn’t leave out the trinkets and photos from home. It’s clean and clinical in the condo, almost off-putting. “Lived in” is not the Roy’s style.

“Has Kendall said anything to you?” Tom asks, as they drop their boxes off in the lobby and start upstairs for Mondale and his crate. They’ve got to separate into two cars, and Greg’s got to ride with Mondale and his things to the apartment.

“Like, at all?” Greg asks their warped elevator door reflections. “No, nothing. I didn’t come back to an eviction, so.”

“Good.” Tom nods. “Don’t say anything to him either, all right? He might’ve forgotten. That’s good. Guarantees your housing for a little while longer.”

“Right. Uh, I’m sorry, you know. About all of this with Shiv.” Greg says, finally turning to look at Tom. Tom looks at him sideways out of the corner of his eye, feeling an involuntary frown tug at his lips. He feels like a made-up sad clown.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know, man.” Greg’s eyes flit across Tom’s face. “It just seems like the thing to be.”

Tom doesn’t have a good answer for that, so he just nods and steps off the elevator, going for Mondale.

----

The new apartment isn’t bad. It’s a little depressing, and the wedding ring on his finger feels like a shackle, but Mondale likes the opportunity to run around. That’s at least a pleasant sight.

It’s decorated in here, too, with a nice master and two nice guest bedrooms. Tom can make it work. He knows he can; he just doesn’t know if he wants to.

The thing with Shiv is, he wanted to do it. He did. It’s going to escalate into a bloodbath, but he really did want to.  There comes a time when the game isn’t fun anymore. Thumb-screwing and emasculating and sleeping in guest rooms and avoiding each other when alone in the condo can only go on for so long. It has to end. Tom just never expected to be the one to cut the cord.

He finishes making the bed in the master, something he hasn’t done on his own in a while, and frowns when his ring glints in the light. He’s still married to the woman he killed. That’s not how the story is supposed to go. Now he’s here, forty-two, and a bachelor again. It’s really not how the story is supposed to go.

A knock at the door startles him out of it, and Tom turns to find Greg, standing uncertainly and watching him with pinched together eyebrows.

“Yes, Greg?” Tom finally asks, because he’s just standing there and staring. Staring at Tom like he’s sad, like he’s pathetic, and Tom wants to stride against the room and grab him by the shoulders and shake him. He wants to scream, don’t you get it? I’m not pathetic anymore. I’ve revolted. I’m happy.

He just stands there, a pillowcase in his hand, and tries to square his shoulders.

“Uh, food’s here.” Greg looks away. “Ready?”

Tom tosses the pillowcase down and follows him to the kitchen without a word. He let Greg order, which he’d forgotten halfway through was a fatal flaw, but Greg’s done okay. Some upscale Thai restaurant. Pad Thai for Tom, because they both know he’s pathetic with spice.

“I, uh, asked them if it was spicy. They said it wasn’t.” Greg says while Tom rinses off the untouched plates from the cabinet to plate their food on. He tries to give Greg a glare, but he’s sort of touched, so it ends up just being a flat stare.

“I can handle spice, Greg.” He’s lying. They both know it.

“Okay, Tom.” Greg sort of snorts. Catching Tom’s glare, he frowns. “What? You’re from the Midwest, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, you towering ingrate. Eat your dinner.”

“I’m just saying.” Greg huffs, sitting down in a barstool at the island, and Tom stares at him for a beat too long. He wonders if Greg could ruin him with all the things he knows about him. It’s more than spice tolerance or coffee order. It’s everything. Tom handed Greg his life on a golden platter with a golden dagger, and he just trusts him not to drive the knife in.

He isn’t sure why. Greg’s never really done anything to earn his trust before, now that he thinks about it, but he can’t stop trusting him. He’s like a whipped dog. He’s a hungry whipped dog, and Greg always has food. Greg’s always there to feed him, if he wants it. He just has to endure the consequences afterward.

“Tom?” Greg’s mouth is full. Rude boy, void of table manners. Pathetic. “You’re looking at me like you’re gonna kill me, man.”

Tom fixes his mouth in a familiar smile, all plastic and sharp, and sits down beside Greg.

He feels the dagger at his back, at his throat, at his chest, but all he can focus on is the warmth of the hand who holds it.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Shiv meets him at a restaurant uptown for lunch. It’s a nice place, one they’ve frequented before, but Tom’s stomach turns at the thought. He’d rather eat another meal of take-out beside Greg, in a foreign place, where he feels safe. He doesn’t feel safe here. He feels like the tide is shifting so much that he’s about to get caught under a wave and never surface again.

Shiv doesn’t greet him. She doesn’t have any food before her, just a glass of water with lemon. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t do anything besides narrow her eyes, and even that is slight.

“Good afternoon.” Tom says, too stiff, too formal. “Did you have a nice morning?”

“You forgot these.” Shiv pushes a pair of cufflinks across the table; they catch in the tablecloth and drag it a few inches, upsetting the whole balance.

“Thanks.” Tom pockets them. “Uh, are you hungry, or anything?”

“Let’s keep this brief.” Shiv’s voice has slipped into a lower register, just a half-step lower than her usual speaking voice. It’s a subconscious thing, he thinks, but she always does it at the office. When she’s trying to make a deal. When she’s trying to sell someone on something.

“Fine. Did you talk to your people?”

“Do you know what it looks like to get a divorce right now? No one knows about what happened. For us to divorce out of nowhere, right as the Gojo news goes public? While you continue to work at the company? It looks sloppy. It looks like something happened.”

Tom listens to each word that Shiv says and processes it individually. He can’t stop looking at the wedding ring on his finger. It suddenly feels like it’s a size and a half too small.

“So, what?” Tom looks up at Shiv. She’s a concrete wall. “We stay together?”

“Publicly. Mum’s the word on this, all right?”

“But we’re not together.”

“Do you expect us to be, Tom?” Shiv shakes her head. “You betrayed me. Don’t you know that?”

“How did you know?” There’s no use playing the fool. There’s never been a use. Shiv’s the smartest person he knows. She knew that night in Italy, from the way she twisted out of his grip and smiled at him. Her teeth looked like knives.

“I saw you with my dad. And then Roman found out, and he solidified it.” She meets his eyes. “I didn’t know you had it in you. I thought you were going to be the same fucking doormat for your whole life.”

It’s almost a compliment. Shiv spits it out like it is.

“Maybe I got tired of it. Can you blame me?” It’s silly, maybe, to get bored of the game he wanted to play. But it became a pay-to-play, and he was never forking over any cash. It was bits of his soul. Pieces of his sanity.

“You’re never going to get anywhere if you don’t learn to swallow it down. Grow up.” Shiv snaps, leaning back in her chair.

Tom’s exhausted, suddenly. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s spent so much time with Greg lately that he forgot what mental tennis felt like. He’s at love-forty. It’s time to forfeit before he gets bageled.

“So, what? Separated but together?”

“As far as the public’s concerned, we’re happier than ever.” Shiv swallows; Tom mirrors her. It feels like he’s got glass in his throat.

“Good.” Tom looks away and over her head. “So, no need to speak to lawyers?”

“For now. But keep someone in your corner.”

“Fine. Are we done here, then?”

“We’re done.” Shiv doesn’t look at him, pretending to busy herself with her lemon. Tom scoops up his cufflinks and drops them into his pocket.

“I didn’t want to fuck you, Shiv. I didn’t have any other choice. It was just an onslaught of horrible shit, all the time. I snapped.”

Shiv looks up at him like she’d like to flay him alive.

“I don’t want to hear your sob story, Tom. I don’t give a shit.” She cocks her head, then fixes him with a saccharine smile. “You might hold the cards now, but you won’t forever. Remember that.”

And then she shoves back her chair and walks away from him. He sits at the table alone, glancing at her empty place, and shakes his head. Shiv’s always liked the last word. He was foolish to think he’d get out of here first.

He pulls out his phone, calls his driver, and then clicks over to his texts with Greg.

Are you home ? He types, then glances around the restaurant and waits for his answer. He gets it less than a minute later:

yeah. why???

I’m coming right now. See you soon.

His phone buzzes, once then twice, but he just pockets it and leaves, running his thumbs over his cufflinks in his pocket.

----

“Okay. So, you’re still together?”

Tom frowns at Greg, hoping his glare conveys what he’s thinking, which is you have the comprehension skills of a sewer rat .

“No, you bumbling fucking moron. We’re together publicly .”

“I don’t get it.” Greg screws up his nose and gracelessly shoves another chip in his mouth. “Why won’t you just get a divorce?”

Tom flinches involuntarily, though he doesn’t know why. He’s known for a while that he and Shiv won’t last. He might have known it from the start. He’s always been hopeful.

Still. Divorce. His parents have been married for forty-six years. That word only exists in his mother’s vocabulary from the hours of nine to five.

“Optics.” Tom says once he recovers. “She’s probably right about that. She’s usually right about that kind of stuff.”

“It doesn’t make it fair.”

“What are you saying, Gregory?” Tom tries to sound annoyed, but he can’t muster it. He just leans back further into the cushions on Greg’s couch.

“Like, she’s kind of dragging you through the mud? It’s like leaving a deer alive on the side of the road.”

“Thanks .”

“You know what I mean, man. Like, okay. My parents are divorced-”

“Your dad left.” Tom says, and he knows it’s the wrong thing to say when he sees Greg’s face. Pure, genuine hurt flashes across it, which he didn’t mean. He doesn’t want to hurt Greg. He’s past the phase in his life where he uselessly hurts Greg. He worked out what the messy tangle was, what the need to have Greg’s attention, no matter how he got it, meant.

He tries not to think about that sort of thing, but then, he’s always thinking about it. It’s what it is.

“I’m-” Tom can’t quite say the word sorry. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Greg nods but does a weird half-wave with his hand, flippant and jerky all at once.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Uh, yeah, my dad left, but my parents still got divorced. They were in the process of a divorce when he left. It wasn’t…it wasn’t like that . The reason he left was the same reason they got divorced, but it’s…yeah.”

Tom’s put his foot in his mouth, and he knows it. He watches flush creep up Greg’s neck, up his throat, and only allows his mind a moment to linger on what his collar bones look like. His shoulders. His chest. Sunburn red again?

“Divorce .” Tom tastes the word on his tongue. “It’s inevitable. Box-set death march.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Something Shiv said on our wedding night. You know, she asked for an-” He cuts himself off at the last moment. Something about him doesn’t like the idea of telling Greg he’s a willing cuck in his own marriage. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“A what?” Greg asks. He takes another bite of his chip. There’s chip gunk caked on his back teeth.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just…it’s been like a slowly leaking bouncy house. I could feel the air going, but I thought I had more time, you know?”

Greg nods, taking a long swallow, then reaches for his water sitting on the coffee table. Tom hopes he swishes, or something.

“Okay. But, like, honestly, dude. Did you expect her to stay with you?” Greg looks at him like he’s bracing for an insult, for an attack. Bracing for water bottles, bracing for fists.

Tom takes a deep breath, but it’s not enough to subdue the sudden snap of anger in his gut.

“You fucking shitstain. You idiotic mammoth, goddamn fucking-”

“Tom.” Greg’s patient. Greg’s not flushing and blustering the way he should be. He’s just sitting, waiting, watching. Tom’s not sure when he became like this. When he stopped rolling over and taking it.

Tom opens his mouth and then shuts it once, twice, three times.

What does he mean? Does he mean that Tom is so beneath her, so useless, so ridiculous, so unworthy, so unlovable, that Shiv had to up and leave him? Does he mean that Tom shouldn’t expect anything like that to stay?

What the fuck does Greg know about people staying?

“In what way do you-” He shakes his head again. No, no, no . “Jesus fuck, Greg, fuck you, man. Seriously.”

“Tom, you told Logan about the takeover. What did you expect?”

“I got fucking tired of it! I shouldn’t have to explain this to you . You’re lucky I’m even taking you along for the ride. What, are you going to ditch me the moment Kendall’s elevator is shinier? If his golden elevator gets you to the top faster than mine?”

“Tom.” Greg says again, and Tom’s tired of it, the way he keeps saying his name, how he keeps saying his name. He can’t fucking take it anymore.

He reaches up to scrub a hand down his face, and his fingers come away wet. He’s not sure why. He doesn’t feel like crying, and he doesn’t want to cry. What does he have to cry for, anymore? He’s happy. He’s got what he wants. He’s happy.

Greg scooches a little closer on the couch. Tom just sits there, stupid, wet-cheeked and wet-eyed and pathetic. Pathetic . He was done being pathetic.

“Dude, just-” Greg reaches out his arms, grabs at Tom’s sleeve. “Tom, come here.”

They’ve hugged maybe three times.

Tom leans into Greg, his chin landing somewhere near Greg’s shoulder, and relaxes into the fourth. Greg’s hands find themselves between Tom’s shoulder blades, making gentle, small circles. If Tom cries a little harder, neither of them say a word.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They return to work, except it’s different. There’s talk of promotions. Of huge things. Tom and Greg still go back to ATN, of course, but there’s something buzzing. It’s like he’s standing atop a beehive. It’s like the tectonic plates are shifting.

Logan keeps him close. He goes to the C-suite meetings with Gerri and Frank and Karl and Hugo, listens to them strategize with Mattson via tele link. It’s all very surreal. It feels incredibly strange to not have Shiv with him, beside him, sitting at the table.  More than once, he catches himself wishing Greg were with him.

They haven’t talked about that day in Greg’s apartment, where Tom maybe cried in his arms. Who’s to say? It’s not like anyone would believe Greg, anyway.

Still. Tom thinks about it often. The way Greg kept saying his name. The way Greg said, “it doesn’t make it fair.” like Tom has a say in the matter. The way Greg wrapped his stupid, bony, Gumby arms around his shoulders and patted his back.

Tom doesn’t talk about it. He’s not pathetic anymore. He’s done feeling so unbearably sad. Nights in diners and nights in guest rooms. Being berated during sex, being high out of his mind in the back of a car. That’s an old chapter. He’s shut the book. He hated the writing in that one, anyway.

----

One of Greg’s conditions was going back to his old office, which, fine. Tom doesn’t mind moving him out of the mailroom. He doesn’t need reminders of what went down in there.

Greg’s at his desk when Tom comes in, squinting at something at his computer like he’s doing something interesting. He’s probably playing solitaire. Or that snake game on Google.

They’ve been back for a week. He’s not sure how much work Greg really even has to do. Tom’s handed off some day-to-day stuff to him, but that’s it. Nothing serious.

“Gregmister,” Tom raps on the open door. “Sing me a song of ATN.”

“Hey, Tom.”

“How’s everything going, Gregory? Any fires I need to put out?”

“Nope. Uh, everything’s good down here, dude.”

“Good, good.” Tom shuffles for a moment, and feels a little awkward. What’s he supposed to say? They haven’t properly talked since that day. Everything’s been in a frenzy.

“Did you need anything, man?”

“Nope.” Tom rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and wishes someone would garrotte him. “Just checking in.”

“All right, well-”

“Do you want to get dinner tonight? Maybe some drinks?” Tom spits it out before he can stop himself. “My treat, Oliver Twist.”

Greg’s lips twist the way they always do when the reference doesn’t land. It’s all right. It wasn’t one of Tom’s best.

“Yeah, man. Okay.” Greg says, cracking a smile, and something in Tom relaxes. He wonders briefly about the Contessa, who he’s almost positive Greg hasn’t spoken to since the wedding day. And then his mind shifts to Kendall’s PR girl, the one with the dull blonde hair and the dead eyes. He’s pretty sure that’s over, over.

What does it matter? Tom thinks, and then, you know exactly what matters.

“Good. I’ll swing by later.” Tom says, backing out of the room. “See you then.”

“Bye!” Greg calls, but Tom’s already shutting the door.

----

Greg’s never learned to drink wine like an adult. He always throws it back like he’s at a shitty college party and he’s drinking cheap liquor. Sometimes, Tom wonders if he’ll ask for a chaser.

“Stop gripping your glass like that. No one’s going to take it away from you.”

Greg looks down at his hand, at the way he grips the stem like it’s about to be snatched from his fingers. He looks like he’s about to snap the thing in half.

He loosens his grip, but too much, and Tom decides that he’s hopeless.

“Do you, uh, know anything about what’s to come? Climbing up the old corporate ladder, so to speak?” Greg asks, and then tilts back his head to gulp down another sip of wine. It’s kind of endearing. The thought makes Tom want to carve his chest open.

“No.” Tom ignores Greg’s petulant frown. “I’m sure it’s coming. Logan’s been preoccupied. The company’s been bought. Didn’t you know that?”

“Hah, hah.”

“I haven’t heard anything, buddy. I’ll tell you when I know.”

“And what about my Greg? I don’t want to complain, dude, but I’m getting kind of antsy, you know?”

“I know.” He does. He’s getting antsy here himself. “But I don’t know anything.”

“Are you going to get me my own Greg still? Bottom of the top, remember?” Greg asks, tightening his fingers around the stem again.

Tom honestly cannot work out why Greg’s so infatuated with the idea of getting his own assistant. It’s probably a power thing. Everything’s a power thing with the Roy’s. Tom’s not sure why he loves them, considering love is just a basic transaction to them. 

“Yeah, yes, Greg, whatever. I’ll get you your Greg.” He leans forward. “Now. Have you talked to any of your cousins? Kendall, Roman?”

“No. No, they don’t talk to me. It kind of sucks, actually? Like, I know I actively fucked him over, and he was kind of a dick to me at the end, but I actually miss Kendall.”

Tom nods, noncommittal, and Greg takes it as an invitation to keep going.

“Like,” he sets his wine glass down. Tom feels pity for the glass. “I always thought he was so cool growing up. He never really hung out with me at family stuff, but he was still cool. It kind of sucks that he, like, actively hates me.”

“Well. You kind of did it to yourself. Multiple times.”

“I know.” Greg scowls. “It’s just…I don’t know. Sometimes, it’d be nice if something worked out, you know? Like, a real friend. A solid person, I guess.”

Something tightens in Tom’s chest at the admission, even though he already knows that Greg was a lonely kid. Still, to hear him say it, it’s different.

He doesn’t know what to do with that, the admission and the feelings, so he just takes a sip of his wine and nods his agreement.

“Well.” He raises his glass after a few moments of comfortable silence. “To promotions.”

Greg smiles, the edges tinged with an uncharacteristic sadness, and nods.

“To promotions.”

And you. Tom thinks. You’re going to be better than Kendall someday. To you.

----

They end up at a club. It’s where they usually end up.

They usually don’t end up this drunk. Greg begged him to get some gold vodka again, and Tom did, because he usually ends up doing what Greg wants.

Except now they’re plastered, sitting too close on an overstuffed couch, and Tom can feel something in his stomach, twisting and pulling, and he knows what it is. What it’s been for nearly a year now.

Greg’s telling a story, a meandering one, about a time he went out with Kendall and got high, or got drunk, or got something. Tom stopped listening. He can’t stop looking at Greg’s mouth.

“Greg,” Tom shouts, cutting him off, “Greg, I don’t care!”

And then he laughs, and Greg laughs too. He’s not even sure why Greg’s laughing, but he knows that Greg’s leaning closer and closer, and his mouth is near Tom’s, and it’d be easy, it’d be really easy-

Behind Tom, someone drops a glass. The sound startles him out of it, and he jerks backward, away from Greg’s face and Greg’s eyes and Greg’s open mouth.

“Tom-”

“I’m going to get a drink.” Tom says loudly, too loudly, over the pounding baseline. He feels like a live wire. He feels like someone’s carved back the layers of his skin and they’re touching an electrical current to his bones. He wants to lean back in; he wants to run away.

He goes to the bar and orders a glass of water, chugging it without thinking. When he comes back, Greg goes to the bathroom, probably to do a line and get himself together. Tom just sits on the couch, staring at the discarded bottle, and wonders why everything suddenly feels so awful.

On his finger, his wedding ring glints in the lights of the club. He buries his head in his arms.

----

The driver drops Greg off first. Usually, they would just stay at one of their places if they were drunk. Now, everything’s cloaked in some strange, awkward weight. They’re both sweating and drunk, and Greg’s high, and shame and want oozes out of Tom’s pores. He can’t stop it.

“Goodnight, Tom,” Greg says, lingering near the open car door. “Uh, thanks, dude. It was fun.”

“Yeah.” Tom forces a smile. It feels like a grimace. “I’ll see you at work, buddy.”

Greg makes a face at that, something desperate and twisting, and starts to reach inside the car. Tom shirks backward.

“Okay.” He recovers quickly. “Yeah, man. See you later.”

The door shuts. Tom leans his head against the cool window, his pulse thudding in his ears. He can’t stop thinking of Greg. Greg’s mouth, Greg’s eyes, Greg’s hands, Greg’s mouth .

He wants, he wants, he wants. He’s always wanted. His whole life has been wanting. Higher status, better friends, more money, a beautiful wife, more power, more respect. Want, want, want. It rules his life. It always has.

When they arrive at his apartment, he thanks his driver and drags himself upstairs.

It’s dark. Empty. Depressing.

Tom takes off his shoes one at a time, letting one hit the floor, then another. He thinks of Greg while he unknots his tie, while he unbuttons his shirt, while he strips of his clothes and changes into pajamas. It’s depressing shit. Putting his life into Greg’s hands; debating if Greg would let him. Diving in front of a knife for Greg; debating if Greg would do the same.

He settles heavily on the edge of his bed just as Mondale comes in, toenails clacking on the hardwood. He sets his head in Tom’s lap and Tom bends to bury his face into his fur, petting him almost desperately.

All he’s got left now is Mondale. A dog. And he loves him, but it’s depressing, isn’t it? No wife. No children. Maybe not even Greg anymore, considering he may have just fucked that. Just himself, sad Tom Wambsgans, because you can never take the sad away. Everything catches up eventually.

Empty apartment, empty life, empty chest.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Logan slaps a stack of paper down on Tom’s desk. It’s a shitty tabloid, one of the ones sold at the checkout of a grocery store that you can’t help but stare at for a second.

Tom glances down at it. Shiv’s on the cover, getting out of a car. She’s wearing sunglasses and her hand is midair, probably going to shield her face, but Tom can make out the clear blotchiness from her cheek, down her neck, slipping beneath her collar. She’s been drinking in this photo. Maybe she’s drunk.

Above her is the splashy, flashy title:

SIOBHAN ROY ON THE OUTS WITH WAYSTAR, FATHER LOGAN ROY, HUSBAND TOM WAMBSGANS!

Beneath it is a smaller picture of Shiv with a martini glass tilted to her lips, her head thrown back while she drinks. There’s people all around her. A bar or a club, maybe. A smaller caption beneath this:

SIOBHAN ROY: OFF THE WAGON?

Tom looks between the two photos, and something shifts in his stomach. He doesn’t like looking at this. He doesn’t like it at all. He hopes it isn’t Logan’s doing, but he knows better.

He wishes he liked it. He wishes it were easy to separate his emotions from Shiv, to recognize that she doesn’t love him, to recognize that she treated him poorly, but she can’t. It’s not how it works. It’s never been how it works.

“What’s this, son?” Logan asks, and Tom tries not to let his ears perk up at the word. Once, early in their relationship, Tom had openly marveled to Shiv about Logan: “I wish my father were like that.”   Shiv had looked horrified, and said, “No, Tom, you don’t.”

It was back when she told him things like that. Feelings.

“A ridiculous tabloid.”

“Do you know why these rumors are being spread?”

“Wait.” Tom frowns. “You didn’t publish these?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Logan looks, for a moment, like he’s going to beat Tom upside the head with the papers.

“No.” Logan’s tone turns mocking. “No, I didn’t send in photos of my only daughter looking like a sloppy fucking drunk. Do you think I’m an idiot, Tom? Is that it? Am I an idiot to you?”

“No, no, sir.” Tom chuckles nervously. “I, uh, I just can’t think of why anyone would want this story. Shiv’s fine. Obviously.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I’ll check in on her.”

“She needs to pull it together.”

“Who’s spreading them around?” Tom asks. Logan doesn’t answer. “Uh, I’ll call her.”

“Now.”

“While you’re here?”

“Are you an idiot?”

Tom looks away and reaches for his phone. He calls Shiv and gets an immediate decline. Logan gestures for him to try again, so he tries again. Declined. Again. Declined. Again.

Shiv picks up the fourth call.

“Tom, fuck off. This is borderline harassment.” She sounds sharp, harsh. He misses her voice, and then chastises himself for the thought.

“Hi, Shiv.” Tom cringes. Logan looms over him. “I just, uh, wanted to check in.”

“You wanted to check in.”

“Yeah. Are you doing okay?”

“Do you need something, Tom?”

“Haven’t you seen the fucking tabloids, Siobhan?” Logan suddenly snatches up the phone. Tom doesn’t even bother to fight for it. “You’re making us look like a bunch of fucking morons!”

Shiv doesn’t answer for a second, and Tom stares at his phone, silent. Something shifts in his stomach again, becomes unhinged like a trapdoor pulled up. It’s a sharp jerk, and it aches, but he can’t move. He feels paralyzed in his chair. Staring at the phone. Waiting for a reply.

“Dad-”

“This is bullshit, Siobhan! Get yourself fucking together, before you embarrass us anymore.”

With that, Logan ends the call, tosses Tom his phone, and leaves the room.

Tom just watches him go, and sits with the unhinged door feeling until he feels like he can’t any longer.

----

Tom finds himself in the bathroom, clutching to the sink and trying to make sense of everything. It’s all so overwhelming, suddenly. He feels like he’s been running downhill for so long that he can’t stop, or else he’ll trip over his own feet and go down flat.

Italy. The day he was kicked out of his apartment. The night he and Greg nearly kissed. Mattson. His upcoming promotion.

Tom swallows roughly. Something, the same something that he felt in his office, grabs his stomach and pulls fast. It grabs him by the waist and wrestles him down, flat onto his back, and only then does he identify it as guilt.

Guilt, guilt, guilt. It’s a funny word. You say it enough times, it sounds like nothing.

Guilt. It’s crawling up his throat. He feels like every Shakespeare play come to life. He dipped his hands in Caesar’s blood, washed them in it. He’s got Shiv’s blood caked beneath his fingernails and in the crevice of his elbows. Out, out, damned spot.

He wants to be Pontius Pilate. He wants Biblical stuff, I wash my hands of this stuff. He can’t take this, this guilt. He hasn’t let himself feel it, but the floodgates are open, and he’s drowning. Women and children out first, please. The lower decks are filling up.

He killed his wife. He did. He killed his wife, and now everyone’s piling in, adding their stabs to her cuts. And she’ll keep going, keep fighting, even as she bleeds out. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s slashed.

He takes another heaving breath, gripping harder to the plaster. His pulse thuds fast and hard against his ears. His ring is a brand around his finger. It’s too tight. His throat is grating. His swallows are too sharp.

He doesn’t know where he is, what he’s doing, until he ends up in Greg’s office. He doesn’t even remember walking there. He just knows that he’s here now, standing over Greg’s desk, swaying on his feet.

“Tom?” Greg’s voice sounds a million miles away. It sounds underwater. Tom once thought he was drowning as a kid. They went to the lake and the waves were too hard to weather. It’d be horrifying to drown. Swallowing all that water, choking on it. No chance of coming back.

That waiter at his wedding drowned. It was probably an omen. Doomed from the start.

“Okay, Tom, let’s, uh, sit you down, man,” Greg’s hands are on his arms suddenly, directing Tom towards his chair. Tom nods stupidly, stupid, stupid .

Would Shiv care? If it were his face on the tabloids, not hers, would she care?

He met her when she was in a tough spot. The tabloids were having a field day with her. Everyone was. Waystar’s Wayward Princess was one headline. Siobhan Snorts was another.

He was fine with killing her. He is fine with killing her. He doesn’t know why it’s so horrible to see her do it to herself.

“Tom.” Greg’s hands are on his shoulders, on his arms. “Tom, are you okay dude?”

Tom shakes his head, over and over, and doesn’t know when he stops. Eventually, his vision clears, and Greg’s voice becomes louder and sharper. He’s been talking the entire time. Tom’s not sure how long that’s been.

“They’ve been dragging Shiv through the mud.” Tom says finally, and Greg pinches his eyebrows together the way he always does when he doesn’t understand. Tom wants to keep talking. He wants to say: they’ve been dragging Shiv through the mud, and you and I almost kissed, and I love Shiv and I hate her and I love you, you, and it’s horrible and awful and everything is supposed to be better, but it’s all worse. It’s come apart.

It’s been a week since they went to the club. They’ve barely talked, save for work stuff and a few back and forth texts about silly things. Colleagues, Mondale.

Tom’s not sure if Greg feels awkward. He’s not sure if Greg feels anything, or if he was just drunk, caught up in it. He’s not sure if Greg knows. He’s not sure if he can even say it.

I love you. The words tangle in Tom’s throat. The thought of saying them out loud makes his stomach ache, twisting with guilt until he feels like he’s going to come apart. It’s about to rip from his guts, Sigourney Weaver style.

Tom shakes his head, roughly, and Greg reaches forward and squeezes his biceps. The weight feels good. Greg’s fingers digging into his skin feel better.

“What?” Greg frowns. His face is still hazy in Tom’s vision. “What do you mean?”

“She had a hard time before.” His pulse slows steadily. Greg’s grip helps. “And she’s having a hard time again.”

“That’s not your fault, Tom.”

“Yes, it is, you ignoramus. I’m the reason she feels so awful.”

“It was inevitable. This stuff was bound to happen.”

“What stuff, Gregory?” Tom snaps his eyes to his, hoping his face is as sharp as he’d like it to be.

“Dude, someone was going to knock them down. They weren’t going to, you know, kill Logan. It doesn’t work. You said it yourself.”

Ah, right. Tom told him that, at one point on the yacht in Italy. Logan’s never been fucked once.

Tom doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to tell Greg that he’s done this, that he’s ruined her, that he cares but he doesn’t but he does , he does, he does.

He must sit in silence for too long, because Greg squeezes his shoulder again and Tom takes it as a cue. No use milking this. It’ll just hurt more later.

He stands up, but Greg’s face pinches together again, like it’s not what he meant.

“No, Tom, dude.” Greg shakes his head. “No, you can, like, chill here. It’s fine.”

“I’m fine. Why would I need to sit around?” He asks, and immediately cringes. His words are too stilted, voice too wrong. It’s obvious.

“Dude, stuff like this happens to me sometimes. And it’s better to just take some time to, you know, ride it out? I’m serious. I won’t even talk to you. But you can stay.”

Tom’s stomach twists again for a different reason. Greg’s asking for him to stay with a pinched face, and he can’t do it. He needs to keep moving. He needs to call Shiv.

“It’s fine, Gregory. Thank you, but it’s fine.”

They both cringe at that, the thank you. That’s not really what Tom does. It never has been.

“Well, how about we get dinner later? Wherever you want, dude. I won’t even complain.” Greg smiles at him, this earnest, steadfast smile, and Tom can’t say no. There’s no way he could.

“Fine, yes. I’m assuming I’m paying anyway?”

“Well-”

“Don’t bother, Gregory. We both know the answer.”

“Later, though? Whenever you want.”

Tom nods, slipping out of the door before Greg can say anything else or reach for him again. Or before he can do anything idiotic, like reach for Greg first.

----

He paces back and forth, phone to his ear, ringing loudly. He doesn’t expect Shiv to pick up, but he can’t not call her.

After the sixth ring, there’s a click, and the definite sound of breathing on the other line.

“Shiv?”

“Tom, you’ve got to fuck off. Can’t you find anything else to occupy your time?”

“Shiv, I’m sorry about your dad. I didn’t want to-”

“What do you want? I don’t want to talk to you. Either of you.”

“I know.” Tom rubs a hand across his forehead and tries to make sense of the emotions in the pit of his stomach. “I know. I just want to check on you, Shiv. Are you- do you-”

“No, I don’t need you to play my knight. Thanks. I’ll figure it out.”

“Are you all right?” Tom asks, spitting it out before she can hang up. “I’ve seen the tabloids; I know you have, too. Are you all right?”

“Peachy.” Shiv says after a testy pause. “Is that it?”

“If you’re not, I’m still here, you know. We might be privately separated, but I can still… I don’t know. Help? If you need it?”

Jesus. He’s starting to babble like Greg. It’s getting ridiculous.

“Well, I don’t, Tom.” Shiv says. “So, is that all?”

“I just wanted to tell you that.”

“Great. Fuck off now, bye-bye.”

“Shiv-”

The line goes dead before he can get another word out.

----

Tom wants to order something really insane, just to fuck with Greg, but he’s not feeling up to committing to that kind of bit.

They’re quiet at first, because Tom’s still feeling kind of guilty, but it’s also mixed with this awful shame and elation. It hit him sometime after he called Shiv: look what I can do. You thought I was nothing, but look at what I’ve done. And, of course, he feels awful for that, but it’s still there, lodged between everything else, slimy and raw.

“You know,” Tom says, swallowing his wine, “I met Shiv when she was in a really horrible spot.”

Greg looks up from where he was smoothing his napkin over his lap, eyes wide.

“Uh, sor- kind of. You, you know, mentioned it once. Not any details.”

“Right. She was in a tough spot with drinking. Some drugs, not a lot.” Tom scrubs a hand down his face. “I like…I liked helping her, Greg. I liked feeling useful to her.”

It feels strange to say it out loud. To confess that he likes the feeling of being needed.

He met Shiv at a bar. He was with colleagues, celebrating something. He can’t remember now. He remembers seeing Shiv, he remembers thinking she was beautiful, that she was what he needed, that she could fix what he needed fixed.

The thing is, he does love Shiv. It’s messy, it’s awful love, but he loves her. It’s buried beneath resentment and anger and blood, but it’s there. They’ve been doomed since the start, he knows that, but she’s his sort-of-kind-of wife, even still.

He looks up at Greg now, meeting his sad-orphan-kicked-puppy eyes, and he loves him, too, but it’s different. The hatred is lessened, buried beneath all of the actual, genuine care. It’s barely there.

Shiv on a shoulder, Greg on a shoulder. He’s not sure why he loves either of them. They’re both kind of awful to him, he’s not sure that either of them would stick their necks out for him, and yet. He can’t help it.

“I don’t know if she’d help me.” He confesses. “If I was in a bad spot, I don’t know if she’d help me. If I was getting dragged in the dirt behind the wagon, I’m not sure she’d care.”

“Honestly, Tom?” Greg leans forward across the table, serious. “I don’t think she would. You…okay. You’ve always cared more about her than she does you. Dude, she was, like, cheating on you at your wedding.”

“Gregory .” Tom can’t shout at him in here, but he keeps his voice sharp, angry.

“Seriously. Dude, why would you stay with something that, like, doesn’t treat you well?” Greg asks, a little harshly, but Tom takes it. He nods, looking away, and wonders at the absolute absurdity of this situation. Cousin fucking Greg, therapizing him.

“It’s a complicated thing, Gregory. I don’t expect it to make sense to you.”

“Okay. My mom had some, uh, issues? For a little while? And that was, like, really hard. My grandpa was gonna cut her off, all this shit. So, I actually do get it. It’s, like, very fucking hard and I understand it, but come on.”

Tom doesn’t have anything to say. He kind of wants to probe, wants to ask about Greg and his mother, wants to ask about Greg’s gay dad or whatever, but he’s not sure if it’s a good idea. Two emotional wrecks probably isn’t a good thing.

“All right. I understand.” Tom says, just to be done. He doesn’t like the way Greg looks at him, like he’s under a microscope. “It’d just be easier if she divorced me and we moved on. This isn’t even a clean break.”

“Yeah, well, I already told you that it’s unfair. So.”

“Easy.” Tom glances around the restaurant, then his eyes fall back to Greg. “Do you want to get fucked up tonight?”

He sounds stupid, like a college freshmen, but he means it. He needs to get so drunk that he forgets what he’s done, or so high that he manages to do something different.

Greg smiles and nods, affable and eager. He’s like Mondale. Tom wants to throw him organic dog treats, see if he’ll catch them in his mouth.

“Hell yeah, man.” He raises his wine glass. “Let’s do it.”

Tom forces a smile then a laugh, and taps his glass to Greg’s just as it hinges on hysterics.

----

This is their second club of the night, maybe. Tom can’t remember. He’s positive that he’s having fun, that nothing from today even matters anymore, that he’s dancing with Greg in a swarm of people, and maybe this is what it means not to be lonely. Everyone else jumping around to some shitty synth pop, everyone else drunk, everyone else beautiful. This is it. This is what it is.

Greg’s laughing, his head thrown back, his hair flopping across his face, and Tom tries to remember why he didn’t just kiss him the last time. Why didn't he kiss him the times before that? Why did he leave him in compliment tunnels or alone in great towering halls and rooms?

It doesn’t matter, does it? That’s the funny part of all of it. Nothing matters. Nothing ever has, nothing ever will.

But this is important. Dancing in this group. Something good blossoming up in his chest. Expensive liquor sloshing around his stomach.

“Hey!” Tom shouts over the music. “Want to grab some air?”

It takes a moment for the words to hit Greg, but he nods, and Tom leads them out the side door and into an alley. It’s quiet, and the air is cold. It feels good.

“This is, like, so fun, dude.” Greg grins, shoving his hair out of his face. “This is what you needed!”

Tom nods, feeling an easy grin slide across his face, but he’s focusing on Greg’s mouth. He can’t stop watching it, watching the way Greg’s lips move when he speaks, when he breathes. He knows it’s obvious but he can’t help himself.

He leans forward, almost involuntarily, to find Greg already leaning. Right before he presses his mouth to Greg’s, he has a terrifying moment of clarity and thinks oh God, oh fuck, here we go, and then he’s kissing Greg and everything becomes good, good, good.

Tom’s hands are on Greg’s collar, then they’re grabbing at his tie. Greg’s hands stay steady on Tom’s face, holding his cheeks, and Tom feels like crying. Or screaming. He honestly can’t remember the last time he was held this gently.

He pulls back just a bit, ignoring Greg’s pathetic whimper and trying to take a deep breath.

“I need to know that you actually want this. That you’re not just drunk or trying to make me feel better.”

“Dude.” Greg says.

“I’m serious.” He snaps, and Greg starts laughing, honest to God laughing. Tom feels his whole face go red, his joy snapping like a rubber band.

Did you really expect him to say yes? He asks himself, swallowing roughly.

Yes, the wretched part of him answers. Yes, yes, yes.

“All right, Greg, fine, fuck off and fuck you-”

“Tom, wait. Stop, stop, stop.” Greg grabs him and holds him in place. “Dude. You think I don’t want this?”

“What about the Contessa?”

“I haven’t talked to her since Italy, man. I haven’t talked to anyone. Don’t you know that?”

“No.” Tom bites, just so he can ignore the part of him that soars at the admission.

“Tom, are you serious? You- dude, you called me Sporus. Of course I want this.”

Another moment of clarity hits him, but this time it’s the good kind of hysterical. He bursts into laughter, so hard that he feels like he’s about to cough up a lung, but he just made out with fucking Gregory. And Greg wants it just as much as he does.

He laughs and laughs, and keeps laughing even when Greg leans in again and swallows it up.

----

They’re on their way back to Greg’s apartment when Tom just so happens to glance at a newsstand, and it sobers him in an instant. Shiv’s face plastered all over dollar magazines, bared for the world to see. And what has Tom been doing? Making out with her cousin and drinking in clubs. He’s never worried about his own morality much anymore, but he loves Shiv. Loved Shiv. Does it matter?

Before he knows it, he ends up on Greg’s couch, in another embarrassing spiral. It’s not how the night was supposed to end, and yet.

“All I see is blood, you know?” Tom asks, muffled by his own palms. It’s better this way. He doesn’t have to look at Greg. “It’s under my nails. It’s in my skin.”

Greg’s silent, and Tom feels his heartbeat thud in his ears. He imagines his own blood spilling. He wonders who would cut his skin. He wonders if it even matters.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his head, a gentle weight. Greg’s fingers pat the top of his head, kind of gently, then twist in his hair and pull until Tom looks up.

It’s probably a strange scene. Greg, fingers in his hair, holding Tom’s head up, standing over him. Tom, sitting down, on the couch, forlorn, accepting it.

“You’re not a bad person.” Greg tells him. Tom feels his face twist. “You did the right thing.”

When did you become this way? Tom wants to ask. Remember when you couldn’t even handle working at ATN?

Tears slip down his cheeks. Greg wipes them away without a word.

“I don’t know if I can take it anymore. New York. Waystar.” The Roy’s. You. Myself. Maybe we should run away together.

Greg wipes another tear and shakes his head calmly.

“You can.” He says. “You have to.”

“Why?” Petulant. Tom can’t help it.

“Don’t you want to be something, man? You did this. Come on. You can take it.”

“I ruined Shiv. I ruined her.”

“She’s not ruined.” Greg’s grip grows tighter. Tom blinks at him a few times, and he’s not even sure if he recognizes him. “She can’t be ruined. Besides, she ruined you first, right?”

Tom shrugs, chokes out a sob. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

Greg’s got all the knives. Greg knows all his weak spots. His Achilles heel. The chinks in his armor. He can kill him whenever he wants. Tom’s practically baring his throat.

Greg strokes his hand gently down Tom’s cheek.

“It wasn’t fair, what they did. How you were treated. Don’t you know that?”

It used to be that you couldn’t get through a single sentence without a stutter. What changed, you bumbling Canuck?

“You did the right thing, Tom.”

Tom leans forward and presses his face to Greg’s stomach, skin against the expensive fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t know why he’s acting like this. He’s always thought he was capable of being a killer.

Greg brings his hand down to stroke it along Tom’s skull, down the back of his neck. Tom imagines him twisting his neck and killing him in one move.

He’s drunk. He’s deranged.

He closes his eyes. When Greg’s hand makes another pass down his neck, and he makes another gentle shush-ing sound, he can barely feel the blade.

Greg’s lips press to the top of his head, and it doesn’t feel like being stabbed at all. It feels like being patched back together.

Nero and Sporus died at the end of the story; that’s that. Someday, Greg might kill him. Someday, Tom might kill them both. Maybe it’ll be Shiv, rising up and taking Tom out. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned , and all that shit.

But now, right now, everything is warm. Greg’s hand on his neck, Greg’s lips on his head, Greg’s body all around him. It’s warm and it’s good, and that’s all he wants. It’s enough.