Chapter Text
Despite the very solid rules of human anatomy, Tom is sure that his heart hits the floor first.
Or, well, the human body is not so solid after all. Maybe it’s not so surprising to think his skeletal structure can crumble at a little poke of a finger, a little shove from a palm when the whole world has been clawing at him inside out. Carve down the flesh and suck the marrows dry. Throw the rest off away in the trash, or behind bars, he should say.
And why did he think he could come out on top, the one who feeds, rather than the one who’s devoured?
He always figured terror was a fleeting response. The height of a brittle branch, the crack of lightning across his childhood bedroom window. A moment that yanks him off balance, pushes him off the face of the earth—but always to pull him back, cushion him with relief that the fall, the real one, will never happen. But he has spent too long terrified. Lying flat on his back on the dusty floor of Greg’s new office, the feeling still refuses to dissipate.
Greg pants above him, hair ruffled and stray strands falling across his face. Tom doesn’t move. His ears are still ringing, from the fall or from Greg’s voice, he’s not so sure.
“I don’t want to,” Greg says.
Tom has half the mind to echo that right back, silly tone at the ready, but he knows it won’t land the way he hopes when they’re fully on the floor, Greg above him, a mess of tangled limbs. Greg’s hand jerks where it landed next to Tom’s face in a wild attempt to regain balance, a halted motion somewhere between curling into a fist and flattening out and reaching. Tom simply stares, and when the silence drags on, he closes his eyes.
The truth is, his world is on fire but it’s not even an empire. The truth is his laurel is nothing more than a bunch of illicit paperwork crumpled together to barely resemble a crown and he is still collapsing under its weight. The truth is he is no Nero when he knows the opposite is closer to reality, knows full well his wife is more likely to push him down the stairs and his Sporus will emerge with his dick intact through this shitstorm and take over his seat, one rung above him in the ladder.
So why did he say it, he wonders. Marry you in a heartbeat. His heart will be left here on the ground collecting dust when he is eventually dragged away to the sacrifice, every beat fading out to nothing, nothing at all.
“Tom,” Greg says, pleading.
Tom opens his eyes then. Of all the things he expects―confusion, frustration, anger, maybe a punch in the face, though he will deny till the end of time that he deserves it―fear is not one of them. He stares into Greg’s face and feels his brows furrowing.
Jesus Christ, you can’t knock someone down then look scared about it, he wants to say. You never had a playground fight before? How will you survive when I’m gone, buddy, he wants to say, you’ll have to do so much more than wrestle, you’ll be stabbing so many people in the back, or better, in the dick. But all the jokes stick in his throat, so he lifts his hand instead, carefully presses above Greg’s collar―just touching the back of his neck, a half-embrace that he can easily pull away from.
Greg gravitates toward the touch, a small tilt of his body, as if it were nothing more than an attempt to stay balanced. Tom watches with terror mingled with awe.
Because he is sure, he is pretty sure, that he can feel Greg trembling beneath his palm. That he can feel the heart hammering away at the same frantic speed of his own.
“Tom,” Greg repeats, voice faltering, “come on, man,”
Because he can’t do much else, Tom starts to laugh.