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greg had always been pretty confident this isn't happening to me was an emotion that subsided. sure, a year ago he'd laugh at the concept of two dinners with two men at three venues on payday ( all of which were miles ahead of california pizza kitchen and 3am gas station hot dogs ), but a year becomes two, and three, and then this all gets normal, eventually, right?
and then he's eating songbirds.
and now he's in exclusive clubs, in the part of the exclusive club for the upper tier of richness.
and there's tom.
already more gone than greg on the same ABV.
at least he's having fun. his soon-to-be-wife stood him up.
tom seems frustrated by greg's discomfort- he's the one hellbent on inventing greg's reality far past what he was hoping from this situation. sure, he has enough weed to mellow a nest of aggravated hornets and then some, but his eyes are more confused than ecstatic at the arrival of the bottle service. $2000? jesus christ, tom, donate to charity.
"we're being totally ripped off!"
greg can already recognize this tone in tom. he wonders if tom is really, truly, critical of this world, he's just overwhelmed by finally having anything.
luckily the body language makes greg less worried for his general sanity, because he has the waver of a four-shared-bottles man who doesnt hold wine well.
"and then later, you and i can have a 24 karat piss."
tom is an honest drunk. greg knows this now. the issue lies in how loud clubs are.
greg flushes at a word he didn't hear. they toast and toast again to nothing in particular.
-
and then they drink until greg forgets the metallic taste of gold leaf and no longer thinks about checking in on whether or not he heard that suggestion quite right. they drink until greg can hear a shift from anxiety to pure joy in tom's laughter. they don't talk about work anymore. they tell stupid stories growing up in podunk towns, drink until every canuck joke makes greg snort. they drink until they both have to pee.
"c'mon, greg! this is- this is the moment of the night!"
both of their nerves are turned off, so greg agrees. both of their nerves are turned off, so tom pulls greg by the arm and greg doesn't feel out of place for the first time since landing in new york.
the bathroom does not match the vodka prices. the bathroom looks like all the bathrooms greg saw at punk venues, like the ones tom described in weird niches of indie rock concerts back home. it feels safer. this is a safer space for them. even tom's ever-present 'i'm a big deal' posture seems to soften. before they were both equally fucked up, greg practiced this.
they pee. this is uneventful, even tom seems to realize this. it's a good idea, though. they feel lighter and greg notices twinkles from the weird vodka.
huh. cool.
hands are washed, tom's as meticulously as if he was sober. he has rituals. greg remembers these. tom's a hand dryer man, greg uses exactly four paper towels. tom leans against the sink and greg stands uncomfortably close to him. ( this is a comfort to tom. he will not mention it. )
"hi greg," he drawls the E, "how was that for you?" neither of them cares about the answer.
"i do feel better, 24 karats, you said?"
"bona-fide! all accounted for!" tom is so cute.
"so with two of us, are we making 48?"
"huh, i guess, never thought about it that w-"
greg kisses tom and suddenly he's nervous again, barely pressing his lips to tom's and he can feel tom's eyelashes blinking rapidly and he almost pulls away. greg does not get that chance, because tom grabs the locks at the back of greg's head and pulls him closer. it isn't cute but tom's cute, and neither of them would ever want cute out of this. neither of them are here for cute and nothing about them is cute.
but tom's cute. tom's an abandoned bargain bin teddy bear that someone bites greg while being checked out. but it's adorable.
greg kisses tom messy, nipping his lips and their teeth clacking together, tom's hand still gripping greg's hair and greg holding tom by the back of his neck. they kiss like if either of them let go greg will be puking out of dog eyes in canada and tom will be crying under his desk when he doesn't realize greg has his latte. greg kisses tom so they can communicate something neither of them will learn from or develop.
they kiss now because it's better that way.
when they pull away they're both catching their breath, not from intensity of connection but because they just told 100 stories they could never verbalize. tom adjusts his jacket, greg smooths down his hair.
"did you just kiss me, greg?" tom is so stupid. greg feels something.
"24 karats."
tom pauses for a moment, puts the pieces together, and gives a belly laugh greg will never hear again. he presses play on his mental tape recorder. greg isn't even registering that he's being laughed at. he's looking at tom's mouth
"24 karat piss, you idiot."
oh.
"oh."
oh.
greg feels stupid and bad because he kissed tom and tom didn't ask and the apologies are on the tip of his tongue. the anxiety is setting in and he's not drunk enough to feel happy anyways.
tom sees this and does something greg can't fit into tom's personality- he places a hand on greg's cheek and laughs one more time and greg is so thrown off by the gentleness of the action his vocal chords short out.
"maybe if i'd really said that i wouldn't have my ass bruised by a counter. you're a feisty thinker."
tom smiles and greg smiles and it feels sweet and genuine and maybe the world outside this door doesn't exist. maybe they met at a shitty show with 4 shitty bands and 1 they both came for, bonded over sharing joints in the bathroom and complaining about their parent's basements.
tom glows. greg glows. it's an infinity of silence in 5 seconds.
"hey tom-"
"yeah?"
"96?"
"the club closes at 6am."
"bet."
-
greg wakes up and his head hurts and his heart feels warm and he rolls his face into a pillow far too soft to be his own. he lays here and hides from the sun until he realizes he's on the floor. a blanket sewn by underpaid foreign children to look like a grandma quilt covers him and it feels very fancy but he's on the floor.
so he's at tom's. makes sense, they were out late. he remembers dialogues at the club but it's hazy, he figures tom had a moment of wanting to subjugate him so he invited him over and wanted greg on the floor. you're my assistant, greg, not a guest. you can handle it. greg can hear it perfectly. he rolls his eyes and sits up.
it's a guest bedroom, he figures. tom has talked about the bar in the master. this is the first time greg has been at tom's house but it looks exactly how he pictured. it has personality, but a purchased personality of a person so bland they can't feasibly exist. he hears mondale bark for breakfast. tom must have woken up.
greg's still a guest so he could take advantage of the bedroom anyways, but he's greg so he stumbles downstairs, speaking to tom before he's awake enough to know if tom's in his auditory range.
shiv is here. and angry. tom looks at greg and remembers for half a second but tom is back in roy-wambsgans mode and doesn't feel the need to refresh greg's memory. even scoffs when greg drinks from a random non-greg-designated glass of water.
greg watches the scene play out like a nightmare. tom's fear and submission scares greg.
"are we the rebels..."
tom looks at greg with such broken sadness and when he shakes his head greg remembers last night. he lost count in the 300s.
but they're not the rebels. they can't be. that's not how tom's plan works.
greg finishes his water and goes upstairs. he hears tom's sock-feet pad up behind him, but tom doesn't touch him to stop greg from sitting on the edge of a bed he wasn't allowed to sleep on. tom stands over him. greg half expects an apology or insult. tom gives something even more emotionally world-changing after that.
"does california pizza kitchen deliver? i need a day off."