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Greg is not a teller. He’s not in the closet, necessarily, but he certainly doesn’t have blue hair and pronouns. He’s the kind of guy who noticed he towered above everyone in the locker room, and realized this would be advantageous in the future. He’s the person who served upside-down venti grande caramel soy macchiatos iced no foam no whip shots on the bottom whatever-the-fucks to rich St. John’s residents because the company covered everything universal healthcare didn’t. (He’s thankful Waystar’s insurance has a broader policy than they seem to realize, because he doesn’t need to to ask the Uncle who probably knows slurs Greg can’t imagine about testosterone.)
Greg has never told anyone he is trans unless the subject came up. It’s often more of a debate-stopper for him- he can’t physically allow himself to AGREE with the bastards at University but he CAN out himself and make them fuck off or reconsider. It’s a bargaining chip, a take it or leave it, it’s a situational choice and never his desire to out himself.
Tom Wambsgans is in love with him.
Tom Wambsgans wants to Prove It to him and Greg didn’t think that one through and he’s cursing himself out for forgetting his packer at home. Intimacy isn't something he really, uh, does , is the issue. Sure, Greg's fluttered from date to date, partner-to-partner. He's tried the whole inserting himself into someone else's mess while still being 25k and about 4 months of PTO away from feeling comfortable enough about his own. But prove it ?
It's a move reserved for intimate, exclusively platonic friends. Which Tom… is? Greg never knows how far the game of gay chicken is allowed to go, but he feels validated in the chicken labelling it's sexuality at all. Sure, Tom has a wife, a wife that is Greg's cousin and very beautiful and could probably knock Greg to his knees with her right thumbnail. Tom also wants to cut Greg's dick off as a means to replace her.
Good thing God took care of step one, huh?
These are things Greg doesn't say, but laughs about to himself. He's a really obvious chuckler, he's learned.
“Are you smug, Gregory? Having a little laugh about leading me on this long?”
That obvious, it would seem. Greg seems to have forgotten that Tom is currently looking for a place to be a little less present and dragging Greg by a wrist he now feels is dainty in a sickening way. Tom’s brought that up before and Greg has sat at his desk wondering for hours if that’s a good thing. It now feels bad. Very bad. Greg stumbles over what he’s doing to say is a bump in the rug but is actually a moment of actualization. Tom turns.
“What, Greg? Did a ghost enter your belly and give you magic powers for a moment? Didn’t you get through the hardest part?”
“Uh, yeah…” The words are automatic, a product of situation and corporate structure. This is not the hardest part. The hardest part is supposed to happen on the 5th date, the 5th date that Greg hasn’t gotten in a while. Unless you count diners at 4am talking about prison. He sure does. But here, the power structures are different. Tom didn’t meet Greg on Grindr. Their relationship didn’t start with a “Ts?” and Greg doesn’t want this to be the last time. He doesn’t want to get his pants yanked down and Tom leaking this to a newspaper. College was years ago, now. No repeats. Greg thinks his nervous laugh sounds like back then, though.
This time, Tom stops. They’re in a corner of the party where someone has bottles scattered around and no one seems bothered, but no one’s nearby. A supplier, Greg thinks. Too old to be here with good reason for anything else. It’s private enough for Tom. Greg feels that spot on his back where sweat builds up getting damp.
But Tom doesn’t pounce. He crosses his arms. Looks Greg up and down. Greg swears his frown can be defined as a pout. Greg thinks about letter combinations. Is pou- a real prefix?
“Greg, you can’t act like such a cocktease! It’s impolite at this point in the exchange. Do you want me or not?”
“I do, it’s just-”
“Just what, Gregory? My wife hates me, or- I don’t think she hates me, but she certainly didn’t want a victory romp, and I’m so pumped up I could burst! I don’t take you out to dinners and diners because I think you’re ugly, why don’t you just-”
“Jesus Christ, can you shut up for two seconds and not interrupt me? I have a pussy, Tom.”
And that does, in fact, work. Tom is silent, for a few minutes, at least. He looks like a cat that just saw a fake fish for the first time, Greg thinks. It’s kinda sweet. Tom doesn’t look disgusted, just like he’s processing a new game plan for ATN. Then, he looks up.
“Nothing I haven’t partied with before.”
Greg’s ears go a shade of red he didn’t know existed in nature. Some candy-gumdrop artificial coloring. Greg wonders if Tom would bite them.
But most of all, the words are… well, they’re nice. They’re not devastating or weird or out of place, and Tom really wants to have sex with Greg, cisgender or otherwise, so he’s not going to complain.
In fact, he’s got a glow that makes Tom chuckle and take his wrist, gentler this time.
“Thank you for telling me. Let’s have some fun.”
Greg doesn’t know if he’ll ever have that much fun again.
Tom makes sure he does.