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Both of them knew, immediately after Tom's invite, that the night wouldn't go as expected. Greg's got an "undereducated palate", and no matter how much Tom wants to “teach him how to be rich”, there’s a good chance that he might never get the hang of it. Tom seems to think so, at the very least. Greg’s catching on to the whole “look-out-for-yourself, do-anything-to-advance-your-position” thing — which of course Tom doesn’t know about — he’s smart, resourceful, but - well. Tom is Tom. Greg is Greg. It doesn't work in the way that it should, but it works.
Neither of them, however, expected the night to end like this. They’re both so drunk that they have to carry each other inside, Tom’s hand reaching up around his shoulder to steady himself, Greg’s arm around his rib cage, fingers digging — intentionally, unintentionally, the lines blur together beautifully — between each rib, feeling the ridges and the blank spaces between them.
Part of him, inexplicably, wants to fit between the bars. Part of Tom — a part that can actually be explained beyond ‘it’s just the alcohol’ — wants him to fit between the bars. Cages in cages. Cycles in cycles. Greg stored in Tom’s chest, belonging to Tom and Tom only. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t it be so nice — so fun, so beautiful — to have something that’s just for you? That moves only for you, only because of you? God, if he could swallow this boy, he would. If he could mark him, make his presence known, he would. Nobody would suspect that he would be the one to claim Greg, leave scratches and bruises flowering from infatuation so visible—-
Oh. It’s wrong, of course.
Shiv.
Shiv—-
Greg lets go of him, prematurely. They haven’t even closed the door yet. Tom stumbles into the frame of the door, catching himself just in time to stop his collapse.
It takes Greg a bit too long to process the action.
“Shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you, like, w—-would want me to keep touching you, so I—-but I should’ve waited. I’m sorry.”
Tom stares at him, his eyelids so heavy. “You—-you think—-fucking hell, Greg.”
“What?”
“You can touch me,” Tom says, and the moment feels like an incision, like it’s going to extract vulnerability from both of their veins. Tom’s being sarcastic, but it — it feels like a bit more than that. Is Greg insane? He’s insane. He’s stupid and insane and very, very drunk. “Go ahead. Do it. Touch me. Do it.”
“Uh, I—-I don’t know what’s going on.”
“My point is—” he coughs, hiccups “that I don’t care if you touch me, especially if you not touching me means I fall and crack my skull open or… I don’t know, something like that.”
“I highly…. um, I highly doubt that you’d have—-have cracked your skull open, so…”
Tom reaches to shut the door. He turns to Greg, looks up to study his expression. It’s — is that fear? It couldn’t possibly be fear.
“Oh, yeah, you doubt it. Of course you do. Nobody ever—-nobody ever—”
“Tom?” Greg sounds — not concerned, but his tone resembles something that could blossom into concern if it was given enough care. “You okay?”
Tom’s head spins, burning and pounding like a gnawing hunger. “I—-you know, they treat me—-they don’t—-you know? You’re the only—-and you don’t even—-” He falls back against the door. It’s utterly exhausting. “Forget — it. I don’t want to talk to you.”
Greg grabs him again, the same position. Tom lets him. He shouldn’t allow it, but he allows it. It’s fucked, but Tom wants to feel his touch again, the pressure of Greg against him. Anything to be touched. “C’mon,” Greg says. “Let’s get you inside. You’re not doing well, I think.”
“You aren’t either.”
“Yeah, well.”
Greg drags his limp body to his sofa and positions him into what he hopes is a comfortable rest. Tom tries to imagine that Greg’s hands linger over his limbs, that there’s something there —- he tries. He really, truly tries to make it into something. To sculpt them into something worthwhile, less pathetic.
“Do you have a guest room?” Greg asks. Sudden, timid. “I can’t drive like this.”
“No,” Tom responds, and it’s a lie. Of course they do. They’ve got everything. “No, we turned our extra room into a sex dungeon.”
“Uh, okay. Can I sleep in your room?”
He seriously, legitimately considers letting Greg sleep in his bed — the next morning his sheets would have Greg’s scent and he would have the ability to touch what Greg’s body had touched. It’s tempting.
It’s forbidden.
“No, you cannot fucking sleep in my room.”
“Come on, man, you gotta—”
“Guess you’ll just have to stay here,” Tom says, his consciousness frothing in and out. “That sucks. How dare you, Greg? Really.”
Greg gets the message; this is Tom’s fucked up Tom way of asking him to stay. It’s almost frightening, to see Tom so impaired that he’s actually being somewhat open. It’s just uncomfortable.
He sits down anyway.
“I—-are you sure you’re, erm, well? Like, emotionally, I mean.”
Tom hits him in the shoulder — Greg can tell that he thinks he’s being playful, but Jesus, he’s strong. He’s strong, and he’s touching Greg, and Greg has always been secretly depraved. Seriously. Don’t laugh. He has to be depraved, because Tom is definitely either mentally unstable or just the world’s oldest fucking playground bully or both and yet here Greg is, drunk and thinking only about Tom Wambsgans and how fucking weird this is. Good weird, he thinks. Maybe. But still absolutely weird.
“You don’t care,” Tom says. He tries to make it a hiss — instead it comes out like a canine whimper. “Don’t pretend to care.”
“I think I do care, actually. Not — not really sure why, but I don’t, like, want you to end up offing yourself or something, so, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m here for you.”
“You think I’m suicidal? You really think that I’m that kind of person?”
“It was just an example. My head’s killing me.”
“Right,” Tom says. There’s a long, unbearable silence. Greg often does wonder what goes on in Tom’s mind, but right now his curiosity — and pity, perhaps — is endless. “Well, I appreciate your attempt at trying to be comforting.”
Oh. So he needs comforting. “Yeah, sure.”
“Hey, Greg?” Tom asks, and they lock eyes. “Greg.”
“What’s up?”
“Would you kiss me—”
“This again?”
“Listen,” Tom says, placing his hand over Greg’s hand — unwillingly. A physical betrayal. He gives in without meaning to. “Listen, it’s different this time. I really want to know. I have to know. Would you do it? Say I wanted you to kiss me. Say that, um. Say that I know—-how fucking—- wrong it is, but the thought of it haunts me, and I can’t get it out of my mind, and I want to fucking destroy you in the best way possible. Would you do it, Greg? Would you kiss me if I said I wanted you?”
“Yeah, I really don’t think you’re okay.”
“Answer the question, Gregory.”
Greg sighs, looks down at Tom’s hand still touching his so purely. “I don’t know,” he breathes. “Honestly? I don’t know. You’re engaged.”
“Is that the only thing stopping you?”
“Yeah, because it’s a pretty big deal to me.”
“Somehow,” Tom says, averting his gaze, “I don’t think Shiv would care.”
His tone implies something dark, and Greg decides not to press any further. “Okay, but—”
Tom interrupts him by moving his hand up to Greg’s face, stroking his cheek like they’re anything beyond fucked up. And then Tom kisses him, and his skin has a soft roughness that, when it brushes against Greg’s, makes him evaporate into nothingness, a void of want and desperation. He kisses back. Hesitantly, but he kisses back, his existence passionate, his existence suffering.
Tom reaches down to unbuckle his belt, but Greg halts him. “We’re drunk,” he says. “We can’t. That’s, like, I don’t know. Bad? You can’t consent.”
“If we’re both drunk, see, it cancels out, though, and then it’s fine.”
Greg smiles. It’s, for once, genuine. “Sleep for a while, okay? And if you still want to, later, when we’re not—-y’know—-then we can. Just not now.”
Tom pulls away. “You’re right,” he says. It’s the last thing Greg ever expected him to say. “I’m tired. Uh, and I was kidding about the sex dungeon thing. Guest room is upstairs.”
“You’re only telling me that because you want to get in my pants later.”
“How perceptive you are.”