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“You’re definitely not supposed to be calling me shithead. I heard about Kendall’s attempt to swing his siblings. You give him that idea you fucking Benedict Arnold?”
“Uh. Hey man.”
Tom opened his mouth to reply. He had come up with a string of bad names to call Greg, some of which he was really quite proud of. But Greg’s tone sounded like he’d been crying-- or at least trying not to-- and he bit back every nasty thought. He wasn’t mean enough to kick somebody when they were that down.
“What’s wrong?” he asked instead.
“I uh,” Greg began, “I just had, like, a panic attack in the bathroom of this Starbucks. I’m going to jail and I’m going to lose my job and have to sleep in my car again and I can’t- I don’t want that again. Kendall won’t help me, my grandfather won’t help me. What do I do Tom? Tell me what to do? You’re the only person who seems to care if I throw myself off a roof or now.”
“First take a deep breath Greg. What Starbucks are you at? In Manhattan?”
“Yeah. Midtown. I don’t know. It was the first one I could find. Where are you?”
“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”
“Aren’t you in fucking…wherever?”
“No, I got back to the city a few hours ago. Send me your location. Get a bottle of water and go sit in the Starbucks and try not to fucking pass out. Alright? I’ll come and get you.”
“Yeah,” Greg sniffed, “Yeah alright. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Just calm yourself down.”
*****
At least he listened, Tom thought, as he pushed the door open. Greg was drinking a bottle of water with a shaky hand, and Tom made his way over to the table. He didn’t look well-- but then again, Tom was pretty sure he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, so he probably didn’t look great either.
“Come on,” Tom nodded, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” Greg asked, “I got you a latte.”
“Thanks,” Tom felt his heart swell as he picked it up. Starbucks was by no means his favorite coffee, but it was nice Greg thought about him,“Dunno. Not here though. Too many ears. You alright?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Tom said again, a little more forceful, “Let’s go.”
Greg followed him out wordlessly, and Tom kept walking. Greg was a few steps behind him, and uncharacteristically quiet. Greg should have been asking him a million questions, but Tom didn’t even know where he might begin, and what kind of answers he should give.
He stopped at the first suitable looking hotel that had an empty room. He dragged Greg upstairs-- he should have specified he wanted a double-- and sat him down on the bed. Tom took the office chair.
“Spill,” he said.
And spill Greg did. The story came tumbling out in that classic Greg-speak that Tom had learned to decipher months ago. Greg’s hands shook on the water bottle he was holding like some kind of security blanket, and when he finally looked up, Tom honestly didn’t know what to say. He was kind of impressed, really, at how well Greg had played his hand, but perhaps he’d overplayed it and dug himself a hole he couldn’t get out of.
“Fuck,” he settled on.
“Yeah,” Greg replied, “I shouldn't have told you that probably though.”
“No, you probably shouldn’t have. I’m not going to let you go to jail.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I told you when we met I’d look after you.”
“Right. But like, I fucked you when it came to these documents.”
“Greg, it’s not the first time you’ve fucked me if we’re being technical.”
Greg half laughed, half sobbed, and Tom was surprised at his own ability to joke right now. Especially since he and Greg hadn’t discussed Hungary in a long time.
“Logan’s gonna kill you for meeting with me,” Greg wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and Tom made a face, reached out, and handed him a tissue from the nightstand, “Thanks.”
“What are you going to do with Grandpa Ewan’s lawyer?”
“I don’t know. He’ll cut me out of his will if I don’t take him. I can’t be broke again Tom. That was terrible. I don’t even need to be, like, rich. Just like rent paid, food in the fridge sort of a thing. And also, like, not being in jail. I don’t want to go to jail. I wouldn't be good in jail Tom.”
“Pretty boy like you in jail? No, I don’t think you’d like that.”
“So what do I do Tom?”
Greg stared at him expectantly. The thing was, Tom knew he had to provide some kind of answer, but he had no idea what to do. This was war, and Tom was no soldier. He just wanted to avoid prison, and in the end, be happy.
“I don’t know yet,” Tom replied, figuring he wasn’t going to lie right now, “Have you slept lately?”
“I don’t think so?”
“Go to sleep,” Tom replied. He took out his phone and turned it off. Leave it to the Roys to fucking GPS track him. He needed a few hours of peace, “Go to sleep and I’ll see what I can figure out. Don’t worry alright? I’m here and I’ll figure something out.”
“Are you tired?”
“I’m fine. Go to sleep.”
*****
Tom didn’t remember falling asleep at the desk, like he was a student pulling an all nighter, but Greg shook him awake. It was fully dark out now, and the room was nearly pitch black. Greg was leaning over him.
“You’re gonna hurt your back sleeping like that,” Greg said softly, his voice thick with sleep, “Come to bed. You can make a pillow wall or whatever.”
If Tom wasn’t so tired, he might have argued, but he was so tired, and so the idea of sleeping in a bed was too appealing to ignore. He stood up, rolled his shoulders, and got into bed. Greg threw an arm over him, settled against him, and went back to sleep.
Likely, the Roys thought him a turncoat. His mother had likely been called, and probably thought he was dead by now. Shiv would be furious when she found out about this, but Greg looked so sad, and they were both outsiders. Tom knew he and Greg were on the same playing field.
And he cared about Greg. Even if he hated admitting it.
“Greg?” he whispered.
“Mmm. What?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Uh huh,” Greg replies, without even a sliver of hesitation, which was honestly impressive. Maybe it was the sleep talking, “I don’t think you’ll use me again. You got it out of your system.”
“Fuck you. You seriously trust me?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re an idiot for that. I could use all this you told me and send you to jail. Logan could send a hitman to your house and shoot you in the face. Do you understand that? Are you smart enough to understand that?”
“Yes. I know. I trust you anyway. Tom, I want to go to sleep.”
“Right. Goodnight.”
*****
When he woke up, the shower was on, and he could hear Greg getting ready. There was another latte on the desk, and Tom ran a hand over his face before picking it up. It had to have been twelve hours or so since he picked Greg up at Starbucks. His face was probably on a milk carton by now.
“Greg?” he called.
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to run away together?”
Something in the bathroom slammed, and Tom considered that Greg might have slipped on something in the shower and died.
“What the fuck man,” Greg stuck his head out of the bathroom. His hair was sopping wet and dripping onto the carpet. Tom hoped that his credit card was still working, “What the fuck?”
“I can say from experience that Bosnia doesn’t extradite Americans. Dunno about Canadians.”
“Are you fucking with me?” Greg asked.
“I don’t know actually,” he took another sip of his latte, “We could open a restaurant or a coffee shop or something. Change our names and burn off our fingerprints. I bet we could do it.”
“Are you, like, okay?”
“Are you?” Tom shot back.
“I think I’m going to go have another panic attack in the shower. We’ll talk about this when I get out.”
Tom shrugged, and turned his phone back on. He ignored all of the notifications, stopping only to reply to his mother that he was alright and that he would talk to her later. He shut his phone back off. Maybe he was having some sort of nervous breakdown. He didn’t think he was. Actually his head was quite clear.
When Greg came out of the bathroom, he sat back on the bed, and waited.
“I don’t know what to do,” Tom replied, “But I’d like to do it together huh?”
“Yeah,” Greg nodded slowly, “Together.”