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Tom was home alone. Not in the fun Macauley Culkin way, though. More in the ‘my wife might be out on business but there’s also a very real possibility she’s having sex in some classless hotel right now and yes that’s part of our vague arrangement but it still doesn’t feel good, thanks’ way. A wacky game of cat and mouse with a couple of wet bandits would be much more appealing.
Normally he’d take this opportunity to drag Greg through a night on the town and bask in his comical bewilderment at the increasingly absurd luxuries, but Tom was feeling decidedly unluxurious tonight. Plus there was the whole backstabbing situation and looking at Greg still made his heart physically ache a bit, which was a feeling he did not want to reflect on at any length. So there he was. Spending the night with his thoughts. A bit awkward, considering how often he avoided them. Hopefully they didn’t have any hard feelings. At least Mondale was there to comfort him in that weirdly all-knowing dog way.
He decided to indulge his mopeyness and grabbed the most expensive wine he and Shiv owned, pouring himself a generous portion. He brought the glass and the bottle with him to the couch and settled in to watch any mindless television show that allowed him to revel in the misfortune of others rather than focus on his own issues. Probably whatever drivel was playing on HGTV. Ha ha, you can only afford a four bedroom three bath. Pathetic.
When a killer quip about the ugly backsplash in this McMansion’s kitchen popped into his mind and his first thought was that he should text it to Greg of all people, Tom downed his whole glass in one sip. Not exactly the classiest way to engage with a $2000 wine but hey, if you’re rich enough you make your own rules, right? He took a swig from the bottle and swished it around in his mouth a bit as a retroactive attempt at appeasing the wine gods. Wine god? Dionysus? Dionysus was probably more lax about these things than the prigs Tom had met during his share of wine tours. He definitely hadn’t participated in their snobbery or anything.
Instead of distracting him from the nagging urge to pester his self-righteous Judas of an assistant, the little wine gremlin that was now beginning to make a home in his brain asked him an infuriating question: why not?
Because. Tom grimaced at his juvenile response and looked at Mondale before finishing his answer out loud, “It’s pathetic.”
Talking to a friend?
I should be with my wife.
Why don’t you want to talk to her, then?
Stupid question. Stupid brain. There were so many obvious answers it was idiotic to even think about. At this very moment she was probably having a threesome with some sandmite-ridden actor and a waitress she picked up from the hotel restaurant. Yelling in ecstasy, “You’re so much better than that manlet I call my husband!”
What does that have to do with Greg?
You’re asking why the thought of my wife getting fucked makes me free associate to that understuffed scarecrow? Tom reached for the bottle. That’s enough. Begone with you. He took a drink.
Then the clock struck 9 and the preview for this episode of ‘White Couples Look At Houses’ featured, you guessed it, a white couple. Two men. Tom clicked his teeth and changed the channel. “Fuck off.” He clapped a hand over his mouth and snorted. He pictured himself as a guest on a talk show and waved his hands placatingly at the non-existent crowd. “Look, I’m not homophobic.” I just don’t want to see two men be disgustingly happy together. Was that it? Wine time weeeeeeeee.
He reached for the bottle once again then jerked his head around a bit so Mondale would do that cute thing where he jumps up and does his excitable doggy dance. “What do you think, boy? How many seconds to down this whole thing?” Mondale trotted up to him and wagged his tail expectantly. Tom gave him a pat on the head. “Five seconds? Let’s see!”
He forgot to count, but it was definitely impressive. He set the empty bottle on the coffee table and snatched his phone to type in a message: “two thousand dollars in my belly!”
He read the last message he’d received from that number, “b there in 5 so sorry for the wait” from Greg (yes it was Greg he was about to text. Who the fuck else? Why delude himself?). Oh yeah. Greg had made Tom wait alone for five whole minutes in some shitty coffee shop before finally gracing him with his presence to say something along the lines of “oh it was um like nothing personal dude I like totally think you’re like um great per se like I was protecting like both of us dude. Kendall is sooooooo great.”
Tom pressed the home button rather than hit send. He turned his attention to the TV, where some chef was being forced to cook a meal in a microwave. He laughed harder than deserved. Greg would eat that. What the fuck?
He sprang to his feet and tiptoed comedically to go uncork another bottle of wine. He also brought the empty glass to the sink. Might as well cut out the middle man. Upon returning to the couch he found Mondale curled up in his former seat. Naughty boy. I won’t tell on you. He plopped down next to him.
Hand running through Mondale’s fur idly, Tom took a short sip from the new bottle of wine. He could feel a dopey grin on his face and he laughed imagining what he must look like. This show was funny. Life was funny. Why didn’t he text Greg, again? He wanted to make Greg laugh. He liked Greg’s laugh. He liked being the cause of it. More wine, more wine.
He had more wine. The microwaved meal looked disgusting. Yeah, Greg would definitely eat that. “Greg, Greg, Greg, Greg, Greg. Gregory.” He enunciated each syllable slowly. What a weird name. How do his conquests feel saying it in bed? What’s it like to go to bed with Mr. Gregory Hirsch? Who goes to bed with Mr. Gregory Hirsch? Tom had half a mind to call him and ask. Who do those people think they are? Who does Greg think he is? Going to bed with people. Horrific.
He went to trade the bottle in his hand for his phone, though not before taking a quick sip. He typed out, with the help of autocorrect, “gregorio who do you sleep with? inquiring minds would like to know. write soon baby.” He cackled at the pet name, ignoring the warmth in his chest. He then dropped his phone on his lap in lieu of pressing send. This was a case he could solve for himself. He was perceptive enough.
Tom had never noticed Greg express interest in a woman. Sneaky bastard. What was his type? Was he having a torrid affair with some milf at ATN? Freaky phone sex with Gerri? Imagine. No, wait. Tom didn’t enjoy imagining it. Okay, he could feel that if he weren’t plastered his crotch might have betrayed him, but he genuinely didn’t enjoy it. The thought of Greg getting down and dirty with an older woman made him sick to his stomach. Cross out the word “older” and that sentence still rang true. Replace “woman” with “anybody” and that truth continued to ring. Weird. Hold on. Was it men?
Tom felt a strange urgency overcome him and he wrote out “men??” in his messages to Greg then deleted it and exited to Safari where he frantically typed in “Gregory Hirsch homosexual” to no avail. The man launched an attack against Logan Roy and still didn’t become famous enough to have strangers on the internet speculate about his sexuality. The world was fucked up. A thought crossed his mind unwelcomely and he backspaced to write “Tom Wambsgans gay?” but decided against hitting the search button. He’d read enough articles about himself to know that seeking out more might finally undo him.
It’d been too long since he’d touched that wine. He reached for it as though it were a rogue water bottle in a hot desert. Sip sip sip. Maybe Greg is having his way with some stud right now. Shiv and Greg. Banding together to cheat on Tom. Not together, gross.
Tom hummed to himself. His mind was mush and he didn’t have the capacity to sift out the thoughts he normally pushed away. He just really wanted to see Greg. Greg is hot. “Ah ha!” he exclaimed, pointing his finger accusingly at nobody. He’s hot I like his face I like his stupid big eyes I want to see him.
He giggled to himself, the wine sloshing around in his stomach pleasantly. I’ve grown accustomed to his face. The thought was too good to keep imprisoned in his nightmare of a brain, so he put on his best Rex Harrison impression and announced to his imaginary audience, “I’ve grown accustomed to his face!” He threw his head back in a laugh. “Damn, damn, damn, damn!” He cupped Mondale’s chin in his hand and sang in a baby voice, “A second nature to me now.”
Why not see him? The bottle went back on the coffee table, his phone back in his clumsy hands. He typed “geogry hirsh” into Safari and rolled his eyes before clicking the link on the condescending “Did you mean: Gregory Hirsch.”
He rolled his eyes again at the articles that came up. When the image results were overwhelmingly full of Greg handing Kendall that stupid envelope Tom’s eyes threatened to finally just roll right out of his sockets. Still. He wanted to see Greg. And see Greg he did. He looked good in that suit. Did Tom buy it for him? What a little weasel. Murdering Tom while flaunting his carcass. Somebody should have thrown red paint on him.
After a scroll through Google Images feat Tom’s hard hitting commentary such as “fuck you” and “oh wow look at me I think I’m better than everybody else,” he decided to continue the streak of indulging his desires without question and he called Greg. After one ring he heard that familiar “Tom?”
Tom couldn’t suppress his grin or the heat in his cheeks. “Hey heyy, buddy!” His hand rested on Mondale’s head. “Am I interrupting a sensual evening?”
He could hear Greg breathe out. A small laugh. Nice. “I’m just, you know, in the ol’ apartment. Nothing particularly sensual is occuring.”
“You sad sack. Someday you won’t keep striking out, buddy. Sensual evenings every evening.” Tom nodded to himself and showed Mondale a thumbs up. He was killing this. “So. Men, am I right?”
“Uh.”
“Just the worst. The absolute worst. Can’t stand them.”
“Tom, uh, what’s... Why are you calling?”
“Look. I had this whole thing, Greg. Realizations and thinking and singing. Have you seen My Fair Lady? Probably not. You’re, what, twelve years old? Good God. Well, in any case, you should’ve been there. You should be here. Come over, long legs! Take one giant step and you’ll be outside my door.”
There was a pause. “Dude, are you high?”
“I’m not fucking high, Greg. Don’t project your sick stoner fantasies onto me.” He thought for a moment. “But if you want to come over with your little druggies far be it from me to stop you. I can be your Kendall. Let me, uh, do whatever it is that he does for you.”
“Tom, like, I will come over but not to, uh, do drugs with you or, um, roleplay you being my cousin? So, like, stay there, okay? And maybe drink some water? Emphasis on the water part.” The sound of Greg shuffling around. “So, yeah. Stay there. Drink some water. I’ll see you soon.” Greg hung up the phone.
Tom placed his in his lap. “Fuck yeah.” He took a sip of wine. He found himself in Greg’s messages. He typed “seeee you soooon hot shot” and hit send.
He spent the next half hour intensely engaged in the drama that is reality cooking shows. He wondered if that gay couple found a nice home. Good for them. Being all open and whatever. Tom apologized for telling them to fuck off then pat himself on the back. At no point did he pour himself any water. By the time he heard a buzz on the intercom he had just finished the second bottle of wine. He jumped up and let Greg upstairs then waited at the door eagerly. He swung the door open with a smile as soon as Greg knocked.
“Gregory!” He went in for a hug, which was reciprocated awkwardly. Greg walked in and set a backpack down on the floor. He held out a water bottle.
“I bought this on the way. It’s not Voss but maybe you could take it?”
God this guy was the worst. Tom wanted to hug him again. Let those inflatable tube guy arms envelop him. Instead he let his sober mind control him for a millisecond and he took the water and chugged it before saying, “Thank you, Greg. How ever could I access water without your assistance.”
Greg hummed softly and reached down to pet an excited Mondale before walking to the kitchen counter. Looming like he didn’t belong. You belong here feel free to just move in ha ha ha. Tom grabbed the wine from the coffee table and sauntered over, thrusting it in Greg’s direction. “Have some wine.”
Greg took the bottle but set it on the counter. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
Tom placed his elbows on the counter and bent over to cup his own cheeks in his hands like a schoolgirl, smiling wide. “You’re so annoying.” His eyelids felt heavy. He felt content. Greg had a dumb confused look on his face. “So sexy. It’s sexy that you care, you know?” Tom stood up straight. “Mister sexy male nurse.”
“So, um. Maybe you should have more water?” Greg began to open every cabinet until he found a glass. He paused for a second in front of the sink and turned to Tom. “Do you have any qualms with tap?”
Tom sighed and walked to the fridge to hand Greg a pitcher. Greg poured him a glass and Tom accepted it with a forced roll of the eyes. “I’m letting you be a killjoy, by the way. My bumbling Eliza Doolittle.”
“Well thanks.”
Tom set the glass down and made his way to the couch. Greg kind of just stood where he was. He’s wearing stupid dirty sweatpants and I want him next to me. “Come join me. Look at this awful food. It’ll remind you of home.”
Greg walked over with the glass of water in hand and gave it to Tom then sat at the opposite end of the couch. Whatever. Tom took a sip and stretched out his legs. He studied Greg. “Do you like men? Sexually?”
Greg flushed. “Is that... what?”
“Google wouldn’t tell me.”
“You Googled if I was gay?”
“There are too many pictures of you backstabbing me on there.”
Greg sighed. “I told you, it wasn’t to hurt you.”
Whoopsie whoopsie not where we want this to go let’s move on look at him sitting there with his disheveled rich kid haircut. “You’re so hot.”
Greg’s brow furrowed as he shifted in his seat. “Yeah, uh. Keep drinking that water.”
“My God you won’t shut up about the water.” Tom rose and stumbled over, falling into place next to Greg. His body felt like it was on fire. In a good way. In a very good way. He felt good. Hedonism was a much better approach to life than whatever the fuck he’d been doing. Yeah. Keep taking what you want, Wambsgans. You deserve it. It’d feel good to touch Greg. Greg, who was sitting there like a deer in headlights. Trying against nature to make his body small. “Do you hate me?”
Greg let out a small laugh. “I really don’t. Like, at all. Weirdly.”
What a little bitch. Tom put on a high pitched voice, mocking, “Weirdlyyy.” His hands felt heavy in his lap. He wanted them on Greg. “Greg, Greg, Greg.” Still such a weird name. Tom looked into Greg’s cowlike eyes, which were blindingly sparkly at the moment, then let his head fall onto Greg’s shoulder. Greg allowed it to happen. Thank you. Tom shut his eyes and savored the body heat. His head was swimming. He wanted his hands on Greg. Maybe some more wine, too. He murmured, eyes still closed, “This show is pretty funny, huh?”
The feeling of Greg nodding his head was nice. Rock-a-bye baby. “Yeah. I’m kind of surprised you’re not like, throwing a fit about how uncultured it is.” Dick. “Not that you’re yourself right now.”
Tom wanted to tell him that he’d never been more himself in his life. This is meeeeeeee. “Real as I’ll ever be, baby.”
He felt Greg’s head tilt into his for a moment. Soft, soft hair. Come back. Greg spoke quietly, “That’s probably true.”
Fuck off. Tom wanted to remember that later. Later. Mmmmmm let’s not think about later. Now now now. Tom rose a hand and picked at the fabric on Greg’s arm. Casual. Platonic. Greg didn’t shift away. Thank you thank you. Greg sighed deeply and Tom felt like he was at the beach. But this time he wasn’t having a deeply upsetting heart-to-heart with his wife. Ugh. He really wanted to touch Greg. He opened his eyes. “Would you kiss me?”
Greg’s head leaned back and thudded softly against the wall. Tom could picture him staring at the ceiling like it was the night sky. “Tom.”
Tom poked Greg’s arm. “Greeeg.”
“Tom. You’re really, really drunk.”
“And you’re really, really hot, Greg.”
“Shut up.” Tom could hear the smile in his voice. He smiled too. This felt good. He couldn’t get over how good this felt. How good he felt.
Tom tilted his head a bit to look at Greg. “So…”
Greg looked back at him. His face was unreadable. His eyes darted to the TV for a second, then to the ceiling, then back to Tom. Tom pulled his head off his shoulder. Greg swallowed. “Okay, like. I’m kind of afraid to even say this but I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna remember anything tomorrow so, uh, just saying, I would answer affirmatively. If you asked me again. When you’re not shitfaced.”
Shitfaced. Ha ha. Funny guy. So this was a challenge. How fun. Remember this remember this remember this. Sure. That should be easy enough. Remember how good it felt, Tom. Giving in. This feels good. Remember remember remember. Tom wrapped his arms around Greg and leaned in, his head falling softly onto Greg’s lap. He felt a hand comb through his hair and another rub his back. The touch set his nerves ablaze.
Greg continued, “For now can we just stay like this? This is nice.”
“Yes. Please.”