Chapter Text
The night Tom pushed his wife down the stairs, he started to wonder if she would ask for a divorce. The two of them had returned to their room in the villa without speaking, Tom trying his best all the while to provide comforting touches while Shiv refused to even look at him. She climbed into bed almost immediately after getting back, letting out a short, strangled “G’night” before turning away from him and shutting her eyes. Tom turned off the lights and climbed into bed next to her carefully, afraid of causing her any further disturbance as if he had not just intentionally decimated their entire relationship. He was surprised she’d even agreed to sleep in the same room, but then again, she was Siobhan Roy. She wouldn’t admit weakness in the most dire of situations, even if her entire meticulously-planned life was crumbling into dust in front of her as it was now. Even if the one who had blown it to pieces was lying next to her in the darkness, still pretending to be on her side.
Tom laid on his back and stared blankly at the red, satin curtains of the four-poster bed. For most of the day, he had been operating on pure, raging, fiery instinct; if he had allowed himself to think, he wouldn’t have been able to stop, and then he would’ve gotten nowhere. He had long since discovered the hard way that it was better to go classic berserker mode when it came to making any sort of play involving the Roys. Thinking led to worry, and worry led to complacence, and that was the last thing he needed when trying to stab his wife and half of her family in their backs. Thinking would have told him that he was giving up on the stability of marriage to one of the wealthiest, most beautiful women in the world, that he gave it up for her father and her weird, gangly cousin, that he was being reckless and stupid and unforgivable. It would have told him that he was taking a gamble that one of the least trustworthy men on the planet would keep to his word and give him the ounce of power he had coveted for years. It would have brought to his attention that he was making enemies of people who knew his crimes and would not hesitate to bring them to light the minute he stepped out of line. So, he had simply refused to think.
Now, though, the thoughts began to catch up to him, particularly regarding Shiv. Divorce seemed a strange thing to have to wonder about, what with all of the betrayal endemic in their young marriage, but they had weathered so many storms together already that it was still hard for Tom to tell whether this would be the straw that broke her back. Truly, divorce should have felt less like a possibility than the inevitable conclusion to recent events, but if Tom had learned anything from his years around the Roy family, it was that they avoided predictability at all costs. So, as Tom lay wide awake in bed next to a quietly snoring Shiv, he started to mentally pick apart about how she might come after him, and if—no, when—he should lawyer up, and whether he needed to start looking for a new apartment. His heart rate picked up as anxiety pooled in his stomach. Change was on the horizon, and his midwestern roots had left him with a debilitating fear of the thing.
He turned in bed, shuffling and pulling at the scratchy white sheets—this is what they call luxury? Fucking Italians—until his back faced Shiv. It felt treasonous to keep looking in her direction while following this train of thought, and no matter how enticing the treason may be, it still made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a skyscraper during a hurricane. One gust of wind, one quiet sigh, and he’d plummet to his death. He closed the sheets tighter around him and pulled his legs closer towards his chest in a near-fetal position. It all felt simultaneously like a dream and too tangible, too real. What was he doing? Who was he, Tom Wambsgans, to betray Siobhan Roy? How could he even entertain the idea of divorcing her? She had single-handedly catapulted him up the social ladder. She’d grabbed him by the bootstraps and yanked them skyward, flipping him upside-down in the process, and he had embraced it with a genial grin. In return, he’d gobbled up every scrap of love or attention she’d thrown him happily, always taking care to return it tenfold. That was simply how it worked. Their love was transactional, and that had to be acceptable, because it was all that Shiv could understand, and he owed her enough and loved her enough to make it keep working. It didn’t matter how many times they betrayed one another—they’d always get each other back, one way or another, and then they’d ignore it and move on. And their life together would thus be perfectly, incandescently adequate.
But, he didn’t want adequate. He didn’t want to settle for accepting love as currency, or as something only desired in certain, specific instances. He didn’t want to be told off for trying to express his overflowing love to her in the wrong moment, or for trying to ask for an ounce of attention in return. Tom didn’t mind giving, and giving, and giving; that was just who he was. He couldn’t love halfway. But, at some point he needed that giving to at least be respected. He hated banking his passion and then dispensing it whenever Shiv came running back to him after another one of her affairs. The type of love she wanted was worship, unshakeable loyalty; all he wanted was appreciation. A cup of decaf coffee and a kiss when he got home from work, someone who’d let him run his hands through their hair as they watched TV, who’d smile when they saw him walk into the room. Yet, apparently, that was too much to ask of Siobhan Roy.
His face contorted into an unobserved scowl. He knew for absolute certain that he didn’t want an arrangement. There was nothing he hated more than coming home after another harrowing experience as the Roys’ favorite punching bag just to find that, while he was gone, his wife had slept with another conventionally attractive manwhore 10 years younger than him. And he had to just smile and accept it because they were “adults”? No. Anger pooled within him as he recalled instance after instance of Shiv giving him pitiful excuses for her lack of reciprocation. She just wants a pet, he thought bitterly, a sour taste in his mouth. She wanted something that would wait dutifully for her and then wag its tail when she got home. Something that would attack on her command and ask for nothing more than the occasional scratch behind the ears. It’s too bad, he mused, I’m taking Mondale.
None of the thoughts were particularly new—they were why he’d betrayed her in the first place, after all—but each time they resurfaced in his mind, they stung like new. After another hour of mental agony, though, the racing thoughts began to blur and lose their definition. There was no point in mulling it over any longer, but trying as he might to snuff out his burning mind, Tom still couldn’t find sleep. He was too wired. The sheets were too itchy. It was too hot. His wife was too there, and he was too alone. The soft Italian moonlight shone through the open window over his shoulder as he watched himself reach towards the sill for his phone. 3:14 AM, read the home screen. He let out a quiet huff, and, already inwardly berating himself for doing so, he leaned back against his pillow and dialed a familiar number.
The phone only had to ring twice. “Uh, hello?”
Greg’s voice was breathy, with a hint of rasp to it that indicated he had been awoken by the call. Tom felt a slight chill run down his spine at the sound. A part of him felt guilty at waking Greg after such a tension-filled day, but on the other hand, he needed to talk to someone, and Greg was the most obvious—and, as much as it would kill him to admit it, desirable—option. He swung his legs out of the bed and stood up, turning to look out of the window at the gardens below. “Wake up, fucklehead, we’re going out.”
A groan from the other end of the line. “Tom, wha– it’s like, 3 in the morning, man.”
“Yes, and I have a dire need for my assistant to assist me, Gregory. So you will meet me at the patio in the garden in 10 minutes. Capiche?”
Tom could hear Greg swallow nervously. “Um, might I remind you, Tom, that I am no longer actually, uh, your assistant? I was under the impression that we would be more akin to equal partners—”
“Equal partners? Never. Your ass is mine, remember? Sporus?” Tom cringed as the words left his mouth, as he realized what it sounded like. As he realized the time of night, and the fact that he had not given Greg a reason for the call. Fuck. He pressed his free hand to his forehead, took a deep breath, and continued, “Look, Greg, I– I’d just like to speak with you. As a friend. I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. I need to tell you I’m getting a divorce. I need to tell you right now, at 3 in the goddamn morning after we decided to fuck over my wife, your cousin, together. I need to tell you I gave up my life partner that I love for you, her parasitic, gargantuan cousin with stupid puppy-dog eyes and no moral compass. I need to talk to you about who, or what, that makes me.
Greg didn’t respond immediately, and Tom listened to him breathe on the other end of the line. It had a calming effect, listening to the quiet in-and-out. He had started to match his own breathing to it when Greg answered.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you there.” Neither of them said anything for a moment. The wind gently rustled the curtains on the window, and the two of them continued to breathe in tandem. Then:
“Are you okay, Tom?”
Tom could hear the worry in his voice, but he didn’t answer, instead taking another moment to gaze out of the window. In the distance, he could see the dark hills of Tuscany rolling on towards the dark grey horizon. They were a beautiful backdrop to the Roy’s psychologically grisly activities in the daytime, but under the fading moonlight, they seemed more like a huge, black wall. His overactive mind started to wander. Did the world even still exist beyond those hills? What if he left, and discovered all of the rest of humanity had just disappeared? If he left the safety of this house, if he left these people, would he cease to exist? Did he even care? Maybe the hills were keeping them all in, rather than keeping the rest of the world out.
“Tom? You there?”
“Uh. Yeah. I don’t need to explain myself to you, Greg. Just meet me at the patio, okay?”
“S– yeah, sure. See you soon, I guess?”
“Yeah. See you soon.”
———
Greg was waiting for him when Tom finally made it to the garden. Despite the latitude and time of year, it was chilly in the early morning, and in the low light Tom noticed Greg had not seemed prepared for the temperature. He stood there shivering in a pair of khaki shorts and a white polo shirt, rubbing his arms frantically yet weakly raising a hand in greeting when he saw Tom approaching. Something tugged in Tom’s stomach when he saw him. 3:30 AM, and Greg had still dutifully gotten up to meet him. He wondered if Shiv would ever do the same. Probably not. Whatever. He pushed the errant thought back down and raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey, Tom. What’s– what’s up? Where are we going? Inside somewhere, I hope?” Greg eyed Tom’s cable knit sweater with obvious envy as he shifted from one foot to another, pathetically continuing to rub his arms. Tom raised an eyebrow.
“What the fuck are you wearing, Greg? Did your mommy never teach you that it gets chilly in the evenings? Were you too lost in a little dream about fucking the Contessa with your Long John Silver to remember to put on a sweater?”
Greg rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, and Tom grimaced inwardly. Greg had basically agreed to give up the Contessa to follow him, and here he was bringing her up for no reason. Great. Remind him of everything he’s losing to, what, follow me around? He still didn’t quite get why Greg had agreed to come with him, but he wasn’t going to argue. No, I’ll just keep reminding him of his shitty choices until he decides he’s had enough, he thought bitterly.
Luckily, Greg’s response interrupted his spiral. “I don’t know, I just thought, like, we’re in Italy, and it’s summer, and you know, I– I’ve been very sweaty at night, recently? So I didn’t really think I’d need one.” He looked at Tom with a mournful expression in his big, stupid doe eyes. Looking at him, all limbs and no padding, Tom was overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him up in his arms and hold him until he felt warm again from the body heat. He knew Greg wouldn’t know what to do with that, though, so he settled for the next best thing.
Tom sighed loudly. “Really, must I do everything for you, Gregory?” In a one deft motion, he pulled his sweater over his head and handed it over, unrolling the sleeves of his button down as he did so. Greg’s eyes lit up, but then his expression turned to worry as he took the sweater in his hands.
“Are you sure, Tom? Cause, like, I don’t want you to get too cold, so—” Despite his weak protest, Tom noticed Greg made no move to unhand the sweater, instead starting to put it on already. God, he’s such a greedy little fuck. It nearly made him laugh, but he just waved a hand at him dismissively.
“Don’t worry about me, Greg. I’m a big boy. I’m from Minnesota, for fuck’s sake.” He let out a short, forced chuckle. “All this fresh Italian chill in the air will do is get my nips hard.” Greg shot him a look somewhere between puzzlement and gratitude as he pulled the sweater over his head. Tom watched as he did so, noting how well it fit. It was a bit wide around the shoulders, perhaps, but he looked downright cozy—minus the khaki shorts, of course. It was hard to see in the dim moonlight, but Tom had the suspicion that the dark green color would suit him nicely, as well. He wished he could see it better, just to make sure. He made a mental note not to ask for the sweater back until after he had the chance to see Greg wear it in the light of day. Simultaneously, he became horribly aware of where his train of thought had travelled, and quickly derailed it. There was a reason they were here, after all, and it couldn’t be addressed if he was too busy thinking about Greg’s ideal color palette.
But, now that the two of them were there, now that he had the chance to talk about what had happened, Tom could feel the weak grip he had on his composure starting to fail. So, he crossed his arms and walked over towards one of the trees lining the walkway, gazing out into the vast gardens as an excuse not to have to look at Greg. He etched the outlines of the trees and statues into his memory, counting on the task to center him to no avail. Better to rip the Band-Aid off fast, he supposed. Inclining his head back towards Greg, he said, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here, Gregory.”
Greg obediently shuffled his way over to stand next to him, following his gaze with a quizzical expression. “Well, yeah, I am, cause you still haven’t explained it to me yet? Though I would assume that this has something to do with your—our, um, decisions from yesterday evening?”
Tom turned slowly to face him, failing miserably to keep his expression neutral. “Yes, yes it does.” He looked up to meet Greg’s eyes and said, in as stable a voice as he could muster, “Well, you see, Greg, I’m, ah.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Well, I’m probably getting a divorce.”
Greg took a step back and let out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s– um, that sounds like, uh, are you, you know, um—”
Tom couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Your eloquence is a thing of wonder, Gregory. Truly, you’re a modern-day Cicero, if I’ve ever seen one.”
Greg gave him a quick half-smile, but his expression quickly returned to one of worry. “Um, sorry, yeah, I just– how are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it?” Tom looked back out at the garden.
“No, not really.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie. He didn’t know what he’d say, if he started to get into it all right then and there. He felt untethered. Loose. He was falling into open sky, and he couldn’t see the Earth below. He knew that if he started opening up, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “I suppose I shouldn’t have woken you up for this, then.” He barked out a mirthless laugh. “Jesus, Greg, I– I’m sorry.” He ran his hands over his face and rubbed at his eyes; it felt good to feel the pressure against his face, and it helped that doing so kept Greg from seeing his eyes turn red.
But suddenly, he heard a faint rustling, and then felt warm arms around his shoulders as Greg wrapped him up in a tight hug. Caught off guard, it took a moment for Tom to process what was happening, but he didn’t object. Rather, he slowly reciprocated the embrace, circling his arms around Greg’s back and leaning his head into his shoulder. He could smell the faint remnants of Greg’s sandalwood cologne left over from the day before, and the feel of his own sweater was soft against his cheek. He held Greg tight, and Greg responded by resting his chin on top of Tom’s shoulder and starting to slowly rub his back in a small, circular motion. Tom briefly recalled a similar scene not 8 hours earlier, but he made this one last—mostly because, against his will, he began to cry. Greg’s embrace became tighter as hurried sobs caused his body to start shaking uncontrollably. He balled his fists in the loose fabric of the sweater. There they stood, Greg holding Tom quietly as he broke down, just like my marriage. Serves me right.
Eventually, Tom’s sobs slowed into a maddening case of the hiccups, then settled into ragged breaths. They stood there another minute, no sound but Tom’s own shallow breathing and Greg’s heartbeat low in his ear. Then, slowly, carefully, Greg unfurled himself and, after holding Tom by the shoulders for a brief moment and giving them a reassuring squeeze, sat down on the grass and patted the ground next to him—an invitation which Tom accepted with a weak nod. Normally, he would not be caught dead sitting on the bare ground, especially not in his white linen trousers, but at that moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit. It was where Greg was, and he didn’t care to think anymore, or pretend like he was going to be anything other than incoherent that night. So he sat, shoulder brushing against Greg’s as he settled with his elbows on his knees in front of him. They didn’t speak for a moment, and Tom allowed himself to bask in the quiet night. Crickets chirped lazily as they meandered closer to their own time to rest. The wind rustled the branches of the sculpted trees all around them—a small force of nature trying to reclaim what people had taken and shaped into something tame, something pleasing to their aesthetics. Tom thought he could understand what that felt like, to some degree. He felt like someone had tried to pluck and prune him into some idea of perfection, but whose idea of perfection it was, he had no idea. Shiv’s? Logan’s? Certainly not his own, but did that really matter? At least he was perfect to someone. If he repressed enough critical thought, he could almost convince himself that was true.
Next to him, Greg was rummaging through his pockets. He pulled something out with an, “Aha!”, and proceeded to light it—because of course, it was a joint. Tom watched Greg take a long drag, hold it, exhale. The smoke curled up into the morning darkness as he offered the joint to Tom. Wordlessly, he accepted, and put it to his lips, finding comfort in the warm, thick feeling of the smoke entering his lungs. They passed it between them for a few rounds, and within a few minutes, Tom began to feel a little lighter. His thoughts started to become background noise; his new primary focus was Greg and his deft fingers, which held the joint in such a languid manner that could surely only be from years of experience. His hands were long, bony yet strangely elegant, and Tom couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever tried playing the violin. He certainly has the fingers for it. He almost voiced the question to Greg, but something else came out instead.
“Why did you agree to come with me, Greg?”
It’s an earnest question, marked by the slight crack in his voice as he asked it. Without responding, Greg took another slow hit, the glow of the embers casting soft orange light over his long fingers. The faint light of the early morning turned his dark form a deep blue as he lowered the joint and stared intently ahead, his leg bouncing and hair flopping gently over his eyes.
All of a sudden, Tom realized he had never seen Greg look so comfortable before. Even while drunk at the various clubs and weddings they had attended, he had always had an edginess about him, always kept himself on his own toes in order to avoid stepping into dangerous territory—which was, admittedly, something very easy to do amongst the company they kept. Tom had noticed him become more relaxed around him recently, particularly at Kendall’s birthday party, but it didn’t escape his notice that Greg seemed to put on an overly-formal, overcompensated persona whenever speaking to anyone in their tax bracket. But here, sitting quietly in the dim garden, he just looked like—Greg. Not Cousin Greg, who had scraped his way through the ranks by using pitiful blackmail and latching onto the right person at the right time, but a Greg who spent nearly thirty years getting used to what a real winter felt like, who spent the weekends of his youth in basements listening to bad music and smoking bad weed, who didn’t have much real family to speak of except for an under-protective mother and an overly-harsh grandfather but who craved the feeling of belonging so much he’d do unspeakable things to feel it again. He looked, Tom thought, like a person, rather than a hyper-nervous caricature. Tom wished he could see him like this more often. And maybe I will, he realized; he had, after all, just sealed their intertwined fates. He suddenly felt giddy, like someone had filled his chest with helium and he was mere seconds from floating away.
Greg blew out the smoke in a steady exhale, and responded, “You know, I’ve been asking myself the same thing, actually? Like, you barely told me anything about what this is gonna be? And I don’t know how this is going to go, and I could’ve become, like, Count of Luxembourg or something—” Tom scoffed at this, which Greg promptly ignored. “—but I think it’s like you said, right? You take care of me.” He looked at Tom, then, and as dawn began to break, Tom could see Greg give him a small smile. “You’re my guy, right? You’re like, Emperor Nero, or whatever. We’re in this together.” He offered the joint back to Tom and then stood up, brushed off his pants, and extended a hand. Tom took it, and briefly noted how warm his hand was despite the early morning chill. With a strength that surprised Tom, Greg helped him up. Tom felt a smile begin to creep across his face as the nervous energy he had felt earlier returned, but this time there was a different tinge to it. It wasn’t dread, anymore. There was an excitement, a feeling of potential, and something else that he couldn’t quite identify. Greg grinned back, and put his arm around Tom’s shoulder. “Come on, Tommy boy. You should probably get some of the ol’ shut-eye.”
They began to walk back to the villa, birds starting to chirp nearby as they strolled back through the garden. Greg had not removed his arm from around his shoulders, and Tom felt electric, a bolt of lightning building up in a storm cloud about to be set loose on the world. He could tear down that stupid villa with his bare hands, if he wanted to. Strange, he thought. The last time he could remember feeling like this was—
He stopped in his tracks. Shiv. Fuck. He turned towards Greg, who removed his arm and took a step back. Greg’s eyebrows knit together in worry as he asked, “Is something wrong?”
Tom couldn’t meet his eyes. “Shiv. She’s in our—my—fuck—the bed. She doesn’t need me to be the first person she sees this morning, that may seem rather, ah. Cruel.”
“Oh. Right.” They stood there near the doorway to the villa, unsure of what to say or do next. Tom crossed his arms and frowned. Greg immediately mirrored him, punctuating the action with a “Hmm” for good measure. Tom was about to suggest he simply drive to the airport and fly away before the rest of the family could catch him when Greg beat him to it. “You could just, um. You could stay in my room? W– with me? If that would be, um, amenable to you?”
Tom couldn’t help it. His jaw dropped ever so slightly, and he stepped back. “Greeeeg, you little slut.”
Greg’s eyes went wide. “Uh– no, no, that’s– that’s not what I—”
Despite the sudden shift in tone of the interaction, Tom couldn’t resist the opportunity to fuck with him. “Are you really trying to get into the pants of a near-divorcé?” He plastered on a wide grin that bordered on the maniacal. “I am an UNHAPPILY MARRIED MAN, Gregory. The sheer audacity of this proposition—well, one may say you have officially gotten my goat.”
With a huff, Greg responded, “Look, Tom, I’m not, like, trying to– to have relations with you or anything, I just, you know, thought it would be an alternative? Just, an option? Cause you don’t seem to have many, at the moment? So…”
Tom sighed. “Yes, Greg, I know. After all this time, it truly befuddles me how you refuse to comprehend when I am simply fucking with you.” Greg’s shoulders relaxed, causing him to shrink down to a measly 6’ 5”. Tom continued, “I appreciate the offer, and I’ll be out of there before you wake up. I don’t plan on staying here much longer since half of your family wants to put our heads on spears and wave them around for all the little Trojans to see.”
His reference was met with a blank stare. Tom squinted at Greg. “Come on. Nisus and Euryalus? The Aeneid? ” Greg shook his head as they began to walk towards his room. Tom let out an exaggerated groan. “You come to Italy and you haven’t even read the Aeneid? Gregory, you must get better about improving your skills of cultural immersion. Literally, when in Rome.”
“You ah, you really do seem to know a lot about the Romans, Tom.”
“Yes, well. Call it a hobby. Now, shut up and just show me where I can go the fuck to sleep, Greg.”