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The thing, Greg finds, is that nothing is ever not deliberate with Tom. What that means is that he may not have the effortlessly calculating manner the rest of the Roy family exhibits any chance they get, but there is always a layer of careful consideration still, an air of affectedness in everything Tom does. It’s scary, really, when it peeks through his layers. But Greg has seen it often enough to recognize it.
So there is no way that this is an accident. That Tom doesn’t want him to find out specifically like this, in this otherwise stupidly embarrassing way. That this isn’t Tom’s version of a confession, one that’s just for him. Greg’s eyes only and all that shit.
But Greg feels like Greg always feels, clumsy and unsure of what to do now because there it is, right there on the screen-
Tom Wambsgans has a grindr account.
Greg feels like he’s having a stroke.
It’s hard to ignore because it’s so real, so vivid, so menacingly obvious with the way that Tom’s phone is just lying there, unbothered, not shutting down, not turning black, not doing any of the things that phones do when left untouched for too long, it’s just open and alight in all its vulnerability.
There are some things in the world that simply don’t overlap. Never even enter the same venn diagram in the first place, and Tom + dating apps, let alone something so unequivocally queer, has to be at the top of Greg’s list here.
“Does Shiv know?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth when Tom returns from the bathroom – as opposed to any of the other questions he actually wants answers to. Are you gay? How long have you known? Have you been buttfucking guys all this time? Do you use condoms at least?
He realizes he’s made a mistake immediately because Tom- well, he- he gets this expression, tiny and barely there, probably completely unnoticeable to anyone who isn’t Greg – certified expert in studying Tom Wambsgans’ mood shifts.
He’s given his hand away. Admitted to knowing what this means, to the self-centered belief that Tom left his phone there to show him, laid it all out in the open for Tom to trample over. Greg can feel his hands start to sweat, he’s losing control of the situation. Tom is right in his natural habitat in uncomfortable conversations.
“Oh Greg,” he starts and already it’s like Greg can hear the condescension drip down to his shoes. “You really have no idea how adult relationships work. Hm? Do you, Greg?”
And then there’s a pause. It’s instinct that Greg knows he’s meant to fill that pause. Tom doesn't do well with a silent audience.
“No, I just mean-,” he busies his hands with sorting through the stack of papers he needs to file before his lunch break, stumbly and awkward. “If you’re g- if you like men? Or whatever? Then she should know that, right, because that sounds like something that would impact the relationship you two, uh, have?”
When he looks back, Tom’s face has morphed into a strange mix of predatory and pitying. Something almost like a laugh comes out of his mouth, but it sounds more like trapped air being allowed to leave.
“Of course she knows this, Gregory.” Tom steps a little closer and pockets his phone. Without so much as a glance. “She was the one who suggested it, actually. Branch out a little, she said.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, ever so nonchalantly. “She’s done it too, you know, it’s not a big deal. And I gotta say, I’ve been enjoying myself so far.”
Greg nods along because it feels like he’s supposed to. Like this is normal, like he should just take this in and not feel like his world is spinning out of its axis. “Wait,” he says, “does that mean- have you slept with anyone? Like, a guy? A bo- I mean, a man?”
Tom just smiles, uncrosses his arms and folds his hands in front of his legs in a manner that looks entirely too rehearsed and still conveys a million things at once. Tom is proud of this. He feels like he has accomplished something, something that makes him cool and possibly likeable, something that sets him apart. Has he?
Greg grits his teeth. Has he? “So you’re? You know? Gay?”
He shouldn’t be surprised that Tom responds with one of his mean little laughs, but it still catches him off-guard. “Greg Greg Greg Greg, Gregory. What do you think, hm? That I’ve finally discovered my long-lost sexuality and now I’m leaving my wife? Stepping out of the heteronormative closet to embrace the fag within me? Whatever happened to experimenting these days? Ever heard of bisexuality?”
When Greg doesn’t answer – because why would he, this is too bizarre, even for him – he turns away.
“The world isn’t as black and white as you think, you little homophobe. We can’t all be repressed overgrown boys with daddy issues and a masculinity so fragile it breaks at the slightest touch.”
And maybe that’s it. There is pride in his eyes when he looks back at Greg, there is a little quirk to his mouth that suggests Tom Wanbsgans is truly, genuinely, impressed with himself. Taken by his own actions and words. Like this is an achievement, like this suddenly makes him a better man, a better husband, a better human being.
And maybe that’s it. If Shiv was the one to suggest it, he must have felt compelled to go through with it. Can’t be branded a bigot by the entangled mess of liberal politics that is Shiv Roy.
So is this Tom’s way of being woke? Like a lesbian college phase, artsy and surface-level alternative? Only that this is Tom Wambsgans and he’s not a 20-year-old history major.
“And this is-,” God he has no idea how to phrase this. “This feels good to you? You like this? Hooking up with men?”
“Oh, Gregory, you have no idea. No clue whatsoever, my dear boy, there really is much for you to learn about how the world works. There has never been a more freeing feeling in my chest than when I look at an attractive man in an expensive restaurant and think to myself that, well yes,” Tom laughs and leans in close, “I’d like to take him back to my hotel room and put my dick into his holes.”
Greg swallows. He doesn’t want to think about it, has to actively pull his mind back when it starts to wander. It’s fine. This is fine.
-
For some reason, he had thought that that would be it, that Tom would be content with just telling him about it in this overly-performative way of his, that he’d have to think about it once and then never again. But of course that’s not how Tom is, that’s not how anything between the two of them works.
Instead, he’s started to flaunt his late-night experiences, has begun to make the most over the top ridiculous references to having gay sex at night. There’s that one time he makes a joke about his ass being in pain, and Greg can't help but stare at him for a few seconds, his mind wiped out, completely blank. “Wait so you- this is? Yeah? You’re taking it up the ass now?”
“Oh Gregory,” Tom laughs, and it never fails to send shivers down his spine. “There's no need to be so crass. Did you think I’d no homo my way out of this, hm? That it’s not gay as long as you’re doing the fucking?”
Actually, that’s exactly what Greg had thought. Or at least what he’d thought Tom would think.
Tom chooses the stunned silence to lean forward, closer than this nifty thing called personal space would allow, and whispers in Greg’s ear: “I’m bisexual. No need to get your panties all up in a twist, cousin Greg.”
It’s only after Tom has left the break room that Greg can breathe again. He ignores the way his pants feel tight and his entire face feels hot. He avoids Tom for the rest of the day.
It feels a little cowardly, a little like a version of himself he always wishes he’d left in Canada but alas. There’s nothing he can do about it on the fly. It always feels like it’s something specifically about Tom that brings this out in him, this whiny schoolboy who doesn’t know where to put his energy other than overthinking and worrying over things most people don’t even let enter into their minds. It’s a horrifying thing to realize. Tom Wambsgans makes him nervous.
-
At the end of the day, Greg goes home. He opens a bottle of whiskey that Kendall got him a few weeks ago, something expensive and extremely disgusting, something he’d never buy for himself, something that leaves a horrible taste in his mouth, mirroring the way his brain is stumbling over his thoughts. He drinks four glasses before he pours the rest down the drain. This isn’t helping.
-
There’s a second, only a splinter of a moment, where he considers also signing up for grindr. He wants to slap himself, wants to throw his phone out of the window to make sure he won’t do anything stupid like that, or God forbid something even stupider.
There is an ache at the bottom of his stomach that he can’t get rid of, a gaping wound that refuses to close. He lies awake longer than he’d care to admit, thinking about Tom being intimate with strangers. Random men, men who have their own lives entirely separate from the black hole that is the Roy family and the company, men who wear suits because they look good in them, men who seek out distractions from their busy schedules, men who read the NY Times in the morning, men who watch the news out of distant curiosity and a sense of duty to keep up with the state of worldwide affairs, rather than the sinking feeling that any day you could end up trapped in some scandal you were barely ever aware of.
Greg dreads it, both the idea that there are so many people out there living these kinds of lives that he isn’t able to participate in anymore, would never be again, not after the way that he’s become intertwined with WayStar RoyCo, the way that his entire life is dependent on the company now, but also, well, Tom.
He hates the thought of him hooking up with these men, of him being touched by strange, sweaty hands, by men who get boners when they think about asses, men who know what cock tastes like and how it feels to wrap their lips around one, men who run their fingers through Tom’s hair, that soft-looking, carefully arranged part of his body that smells faintly of apricot shampoo and coffee because that’s what Tom smells like, men who-
Men who lie in bed, thinking about their cousin’s husband, and can’t stop themselves from pushing one hand into their boxers, no matter how hard they try. The shamefulness, the taboo nature of it all, the sheer fuckedupness of the situation makes it so much easier, so deliciously fast and dirty to jerk off right now. Greg bites into his pillow, even though there are no neighbors close enough to hear a sound from his apartment. He just needs to feel something between his teeth.
He hadn’t fully realized it before now. But he’s hungry.
-
There’s an art to being around Tom as much as Greg is without going crazy. Maybe that’s a horrible thing to think about a person, but maybe other people think the same way about Greg, maybe the world fully operates because people find their own ways of coping with the perceived insanity of those around them.
With Tom, the biggest thing you can do is take frequent breaks. Get your mind onto something else, something that isn’t either the most degrading shit you’ve ever heard or half-formed come-ons, almost pathetic if they weren’t so transparent. Knowing Tom likes dick has actually made things easier because it’s cleared up a lot. Less second-guessing Tom’s intentions when he makes a joke about how good Greg looks in his pair of $600 slacks – that Tom bought him like it was nothing. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was the beginning of something.
-
Greg isn’t unfamiliar with the feeling of jealousy. You don’t go through life being him, too tall, too awkward, too inept at reading cues or sometimes just too eager, too desperate to care about the ones he does pick up on. There’s always been people, mostly boys, around him that he felt jealous of. There was a feeling of inadequacy, like anything he could do was easily outdone by others, and there always seemed to be at least one guy who knew how to do things, who just knew how the world worked.
How to talk to girls, how to look cool, how not to make a fool of yourself the first time you smoke a cigarette or a blunt, the first time you take a sip of some vodka-energy drink concoction, the first time you have sex with a girl in some party bathroom while her best friend is knocking at the door and you’re not fully certain you know what part of town you’re in.
There are always people who are hot, who look good effortlessly, like their clothes were made to fit them, rather than like they’re trying desperately to stuff a too-tall body into something made for average sized humans. There were boys who had soft-looking hair that curled around their ears, that girls would run their fingers through, boys that had freckles on their cheeks, sometimes rosy from the cold, boys who would lift up the hem of their shirts in gym class to wipe off the sweat on their faces and boys who had tan stomachs that seemed to mesmerize when they peeked out like that.
Maybe, Greg realizes, in retrospect (of course) there were things long before Tom that could have tipped him off.
-
There’s a version of himself, Greg thinks, that lives an entirely different life. One who followed his short-lived passion for acting in fifth grade or for poetry in seventh or for crafting in third. Someone who has dreams and aspirations, real, definable goals, none of that vague “I want to be well-off, I want to be able to take care of myself” shit he’s been telling himself in front of the mirror for the past ten years. Greg wishes he had a passion for – well, for anything really. A hobby, something to distract him from the mundane yet inconceivably crazy reality that is his life now. In fucking New York City of all places.
As it is, all he does after work, after thinking about the Roys, about the fucked up situation he’s found himself in and what role he actually plays in that, about Tom, really, is go to his sad big empty apartment and watch TV, order some takeout, go to bed. Maybe he should start reading again, he thinks, fleetingly, walking by a bookstore on the rare occasion that he’s just out. Taking a stroll around the city. Making use of his fucking time in fucking New York. Breathing in the air of opportunity, of crushed dreams, of empty hope, of life and death.
-
All in all, it only takes a month before the inevitable happens.
They’re both in the break room, alone, for the first time this week. Greg feels like he’s been restless for days. Something in him is trying to break out of its cage.
“Is it because of prison?”
It comes out louder than he’d intended. Tom turns around. “What did you say?”
Greg runs a hand through his hair.
“This gay- this bisexuality thing? Like, did you think about what would happen if you do have to go? Are you preparing or whatever?”
There’s a silence that feels deliberate. Greg keeps his face as still as he can. Breathes in and out. Waits.
It’s a few seconds before he can see Tom move. He tilts his head just a little bit and takes a step towards Greg where he’s leaning against the fridge.
The thing is that it’s gotten pretty late. It tends to on Tuesdays, but today there’s a weird atmosphere in the air. Something charged and ready to unload.
There’s no natural light coming through the windows anymore, so the only thing illuminating Tom is the yellowish ceiling lamp. He’s tired, too, Greg can tell. Wearied down. Slumped and hunched over, like he’s about to implode, holding himself together just so.
“Obsessed much, Gregory?” he says, low and almost toneless. Almost as though he’s holding back on purpose. Greg shrugs.
“I’m just trying to make sense of it. You know?” His eyes are locked on Tom’s face, there’s no way to look anywhere else. Something is keeping him in a trance.
Tom steps closer. “Do I?”
Greg nods, almost a little frantic. “I just mean-“
“You know what I think?” Tom interrupts him.
“N-no.” He frowns, still staring at Tom. He doesn’t want to let his eyes move, but he can’t stop them from roaming his face. “What do you think?”
“I think you can’t stop thinking about it,” Tom says. There is something downright mean displayed across his face. “Me and some guy. Me and a faceless horde of men who all want to fuck me. I think that that’s too much for your small little homophobic brain to handle. That’s what I think.” Tom has his eyebrows up and a smile on his lips that looks nothing but cruel.
Greg shakes his head. He can’t think, can’t come up with a response that makes any sense, can’t breathe, can’t stop his thoughts from racing, can’t take his eyes off Tom’s mouth now that he’s set them on it-
“Maybe I’m bisexual, too.”
There’s a buzzing in his ears, all he can hear is static noise. His mouth is dry. Tom stares at him. Greg knows what’s going to happen.
“Alright,” Tom says, calm.
And then, after a beat, “Prove it.”
It’s like puzzle pieces slotting together in Greg’s head. Like the anticipation is coming to a skittering halt.
He can’t help himself. Someone is pulling at his strings, raising his hand for him, making it reach out to touch Tom’s shoulder. It feels solid underneath his fingers. He can hear the sound of his own breathing, can feel his heartbeat slow down. This is the moment everything has been leading up to, he realizes, possibly months too late.
“Okay,” he says softly and leans in.
Tom’s lips don’t move at first, he’s stiff and unresponsive. But Greg doesn’t care, he just moves and moves and moves until there’s a reaction, until Tom has gotten soft and warm, until they’re actually kissing.
And Greg hasn’t kissed anyone just for the sake of it in what must have been years. Making out. He feels like a teenager, dumb, and just as fucking awkward.
His hand travels from Tom’s shoulder to his waist and before he can think about it, he grips onto him. Tom moans into his mouth, then he presses him into the fridge.
He pulls his head back to look up at Greg, but they’re still so close, only inches apart. Tom narrows his eyes. “Who knew all it took was to get you alone in the office?”
When Greg doesn’t respond, he takes a step back. Lets him breathe.
Greg swallows. He can taste Tom in his mouth and just the thought alone makes his head spin.
“W-what now?” he says, once he’s regained his ability to form words.
Tom looks around. “Well,” he says, and Greg can hear that his voice is wobbly. He has no idea what they’re doing, either, he realizes.
“We can go to my place,” he says, and smiles, slowly. “Get some takeout. A beer.” He watches Tom carefully, sees every twitch underneath his eyes. He looks so nervous. “Talk.”
The way that Tom is frowning up at him, suddenly nothing left of his cockiness, is making something pulsate through his body. He looks almost pathetic. Greg tries a tentative grin.
Tom hums. Nods. “That sounds like a plan I could,” he clears his throat, “potentially work with.”
Greg pushes him out of the way and turns around. Finally opens the fridge to get out a bottle of water. “I’ll just finish up and then-,” he says as he goes to leave the room.
“Meet you in the lobby?”