Work Text:
Tom was in a rut.
Stuck somewhere between a rock and a hard place with the ‘somewhere’ being his bed. He’d spend weekends and most of his time after work there, amassing crumbs from chips, crackers and other snacks he’d been munching on just to munch on. Maybe it was the motion or the crunch he really wanted, not the food itself, but the routine seemed to do him well anyways.
Shiv had been gone for a business trip the last few weeks—a separation Tom never wished to be chasmed into a lack of communication. Short text updates every other day became the norm, with phone calls being a rarity. Shameful but true, he spent many nights up and wondering where she was, who she was out with—and whether they were alighting her in a way he couldn’t.
Those thoughts sent him spiralling, which weren’t particularly helpful.
It didn’t end when he left the penthouse either. The commute to work was the worst part, with his cheek pressed up against the inside of the tinted SUV’s window, peering out. Wondering if anyone felt the same way as him, as if this dreadful, lonely slog was really never ending.
But soon came a bright spot: a visitor from his hometown. You, an old friend from Saint Paul.
Visiting New York City had always been a dream of yours, something you figured must be such a silly thought for the man who’d been a Manhattanite now for the past fifteen years.
You found yourself wondering in the cab ride over what he’d think of your outfit, whether he had adopted a New Yorker accent, whether he was still the fresh-faced, blue-eyed people pleaser you once knew deep inside.
The bistro he chose was tucked away in the heart of Manhattan, yet another throwaway hipster-y joint that one of his much younger and cooler colleagues had mentioned to him—named with a single foreign word, monosyllabic and ending with a period (as was apparently the fashion).
You didn’t know what you were expecting. The interior of the host area was sleek, minimalist with blocky LED letters with the name of the restaurant standing out against a textured black wall. You stuck out like a sore thumb surely, in your jeans, with no over-starched button-up to pair. You gave the hostess a polite smile and a soft 'it should be under Wambsgans' before she led you into the main dining room… and then to a more private one, off to the side.
The years had done him good.
You’d kept in touch, following each other on Instagram and Facebook and the like, but rarely had he posted images of himself or sent anything with his face in it. So the mature edge his appearance had taken on was a surprise. His hair was shorter than you’d last seen it, and a bit thinner, but no grey creeping in. His eyelashes were still ridiculously long, a feature you’d always found yourself a little jealous of. Some lines had settled in his face, his elevens a little more pronounced between his eyebrows, but it only added to his look.
His eyes were still arresting—big, blue and soft. They lit up for you as he stood and smiled in greeting. His arms weaved around you, large hands landing on your waist, nose stowed in your hair. He breathed in your scent, and he felt all bubbly inside. Giddiness, at his age? It had been so long since he felt excited. But you were no anomaly, the butterflies had always came out in your presence.
He flushed a bit at his own inner monologue.
“It’s been too long,” You started, wrapped around his neck.
He smiled in response, nodding. “That’s one way of saying it. I mean, look at you! God, what’s this sweater made of?” He inquired, getting off track. You didn’t pay it much mind though, happy for any excuse to have his hands all over you.
“Who cares, right? That’s not important—what’s it been, ten years?” He continued on, ushering you into the large, round booth beside him.
“Who cares, right? That’s not important—what’s it been, ten years?” He continued on, ushering you into the large, round booth beside him. He signalled a passing server to fill your glass, red wine filling it with haste.
“Yeah, something like that,” you responded, getting comfy. “This place is really cool, thanks for choosing. I don’t think I’d even know where to start looking for something like this.”
“It’s bullshit, isn’t it?” His smile dropped as asked rhetorically. His nose wrinkled. He knew it, you knew it.
You were quick to raise your hands in defense of the place, putting on a show of support. “No, no—it’s cool, really. With the… wallpaper and everything,” You said, trying to find something to compliment in your immediate surroundings.
Fate nor your recall were neither so kind, and you couldn’t summon much more than a small, neutral comment on the eccentric—gaudy—tiles adorning the floor.
He sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “I should’ve known from the name- or the fact that these candles probably cost more than the cutlery. People don’t like anything that’s not artisanal beeswax anymore, have you noticed that?” He questioned, really just speaking from a stream of thought. He stood, leaving a few bills for the wine on the table.
You reached for your own purse, but his hand stopped you, placed over your own. “It’s on me. Let’s get out of here.”
Finally. “Thank God,” You murmured, standing beside him and walking out together to coat check. Instinctually, your arm took his. He was surprised for a second, before picking it right back up.
An hour later, after trudging through the Friday Night traffic, you were at his place. It was grand, sleek and minimalist. Black marble counters, matching appliances, tastefully picked paintings-
“Casing the place?” He joked, hanging up his coat and leaning against the counter.
You flushed a little in return. “Yeah, sorry. Too busy imagining myself dressed like one of those old-timey robbers with the money bags,” You riffed.
“Like the Hamburglar?”
You seemed to clue into taking your jacket off at that moment, but Tom was quicker, stepping behind you to ease you out of it. “Exactly like the Hamburglar.”
He busied himself, hanging it up, “Well if it’s the contrast you’re worried about, don’t be - you can pull just about anything off,” He said, now searching the cabinet for a bottle of wine. “Red or white?”
You sucked in a small breath at the compliment. “Got anything else?”
“Ooh, looking for something stronger, are we?”
You shrugged, coy. “Maybe…”
And then you were both on the sectional, Tom propped up with a pillow under his arm. Drinking and gossiping like he’d never left Saint Paul and become some big shot.
“So, I’ve gotta ask, how’s Shiv?” You say, sipping at the rim of your glass.
His expression dampens all of a sudden, good times a thing of the past. He plays with the zipper on his quarter zip-up sweater, as if looking to it for the answer. “You know, same old same old…” He says, lying.
“Tom,” You call his name, your tone gentle but commanding his attention: “Hey—what’s going on?”
The air is still for a minute or two, as he tries to think. How can he explain this hole he’s dig himself into, these past few weeks? How can he explain how he feels like an outsider in his own marriage—can he even say that?
“I saw the crumbs in your bed when I passed by on my way to the bathroom. You’ve never been a slob, so seriously, what’s going on? You can tell me,” You nudged him gently with your elbow.
You were right, he knew. You were one of the only old friends he still talked to from back home. Dishonesty felt like severing something, some kind of foundational trust you’d built together over the years. Not an option.
“Things are tough, you know? Work’s… work, and this winter seems to drag on forever,” He said, with a disarming chuckle. “Shiv’s been away the past few weeks on a business trip. I’m just worked into knots over what she’s doing, and where she is, and all that,” He rolled his eyes, dismissive of his own feelings.
You placed a hand on his shoulder, “That sounds like seasonal depression, babe,” You said bluntly. “Sun goes down early, vitamin whatever decreases, probably doesn’t help Shiv’s- where is Shiv?”
He batted his eyelashes, fumbling with his zipper again. “France.”
“France,” You said, his newfound wealth really sinking in. “Forgot you can kind of just… go wherever now. Wow.”
“I mean, you could ‘go wherever’ too—“
“Not really, Tom. I can’t afford that right now. Or probably not in the next three years, the way things are going with, hell, the economy and all that,” You said. “Let’s not talk finances maybe.”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad…” He said, apologetic. “I’d take you. To France, I mean. Or wherever you want.”
“Drunk,” You accused him with a smile.
“Buzzed,” He corrected. “But no—I’m incredibly serious and sound in my decision-making. And I think you deserve France,” He said your name so sweetly, just slightly slurred from his drink. “Nice, Paris… Lyons. Where d’you wanna go?”
“Oh, shut up,” You said. “Don’t tease me.”
His hand grasped your wrist, making your hair stand up. “I’m not… I wouldn’t. I’d take you anywhere,” He says, his voice lower now. More intimate. “You don’t want France? No problem. They’re a bunch of perverts anyways. We could go big. World tour. Wha about… Portugal, Spain, Italy, Germany—The Maldives?”
“What about your wife?”
He sighed, lying back on the couch, flat to the pillows. He seemed to melt into the cushions.
“Shiv… we haven’t been good in a while.”
“And why’s that?”
He sighed, depleted. “She told me she wanted an open relationship on our wedding night,” he admits. “She said she wasn’t built for monogamy.”
The air in the room seemed to constrict for a minute.
“Are you… are you fucking with me right now? You’re fucking kidding me?” You let out an incredulous, shocked laugh. No fucking way.
“No, I’m quite serious,” he said. Fucking way?!
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Would you have said anything? You would’ve despised her, and then by extension, me, for staying with her. What was I even supposed to do?”
“I… don’t know,” You said. “But I’m sorry, Tom.”
“I am too.”