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Tom and Greg stand on the balcony, New York City at their feet, them on top of the world.
Tom hands Greg a glass of champagne. Greg won't drink it, they both know it, but it's a courtesy.
"What is your plan for the new year, Gregory?" Tom's hand raises to rest on Greg's lower Back.
A sigh, "I'm not sure, play it by ear."
Tom nods, approval, "that's the spirit."
There's chanting in the streets, the clock is ticking down, and somewhere in the distance, out of view, the ball is dropping.
Tom should be home, celebrating with his wife, or at least trying to celebrate in the heat of anger radiating from Shiv. It’s another year he’s still walking this earth, another year he feels nothing for the woman he once loved.
The fireworks are the indication of the new year, somehow legal in the crowded city full of cheers and tired civilians just wanting to go home.
The air smells of smoke and gun powder, but somehow comforting to Tom in his childhood memories of cherry bombs in the mailbox of the old man down the road, the memory of Timmy Peters a few houses down finding his father's gun and taking their friend group to the small patch of woods next to the K-8 school to shoot beer bottles and the poor squirrel just harvesting acorns.
But that was then.
"To the new year," Tom raises his glass and Greg meets his eyes. A smile growing on his face.
"To the new year," their glasses clink.
Greg stands next to him, no longer the boy Tom had met just over a year ago. When they go inside Tom will make Greg take his cock on the kitchen counter. But for now, they enjoy the smoke-filled air.