Archive of Our Own ^beta

New adulthood hits like a semi-expired can of crushed pears—it's about all you have, it's three months past its due, and it goes down like sandpaper, but by god, it goes down. It's about all Greg has, too. Social security number in the back of his head that proves he's alive. Clothes from the local Goodwill that never wear quite right and seem to grow and shrink spontaneously in the wash. A lighter without its fluid. Canned pears shoved beside the sack he calls a bed. Canned pears that expired last June. With every plastic spoonful he wants to gag, but this is all he can really afford at the moment. Gramps cut him off a while ago. 

Here's some advice, kid: learn how to manage when the chips are down. You'll be a better man for it.

With the implication that "better" was said in comparison to his uncle and his cousins.

Some fucking luck, being on this side of the family, isn't it?

Not that Greg can fully understand his gramps' feud with them all right now (he's never really brought it up), but it's one thing to have principles. It's another thing to have principles while you're subsisting on 90-cent ramen packets and 60-cent cans of condensed soup and whatever you can dig out of the community college food pantry and hide away in your shitty 4-person apartment with black mold in the vents and water damage dripping through the ceiling and the overwhelming smell of body odor (because Ryan Scott's on scholarship to play football, while Greg's never been quite so athletic). And it's a third thing to have all that while your cousins' faces are plastered on magazines and billboards and television shows, with the knowledge that they're untouchables, something you'll never be and somewhere you could never achieve.

It's just—frustrating. Seeing Kendall's big-toothed smarmy grin on the front of TIME, person of the year. Seeing Roman's smug mug on IMDB pages for shitty action films Greg can't afford to see. Seeing Shiv, interviewed by CNN to promote whoever this year's Democrat candidate-to-be is while Greg's just trying to buy some fucking Claritin. Sometimes it feels like the world's mocking him. They're inescapable. They're fucking everywhere.

Greg's nowhere.

Well, most of the time, anyway. 

Because it's different when he clocks in from six to ten every other weekday night. It's different when he slides behind the cracked countertop littered with every brand of cigarette and decorated with gaudy posters for every brand of beer. It's different when the loud fluorescent lights buzz above him while the people outside are draining more money on filling their BMW's or Chevrolet's than Greg would ever see in four paychecks combined. It's different because, in a run-down Shell station in California, where he's paid the minimum wage and scheduled maybe twelve hours weekly, he gets this regular that comes in—just because six to ten is when he works, and he gets off at seven, and he wants to see him before he goes home. And Greg rings him up a Bud Light and a pack of Marlboro, and for about fifteen seconds, Greg gets to be a special, real person for someone. 

"There you are, sir, please come again."

The front bell rings.

•••

It's funny how the year goes by.

It happens spontaneously. Like it was always meant to happen, and the cards were waiting to fall in just the right order. 

On January 14, Greg gets his customer's digits. "Text only," being the stipulation he was given. He learns that his customer is named Richard. Richard who's a contractor. Richard who specializes in mechanical engineering.

Cool. I couldn't do engineering.

You're in college?

Yeah :)

What is your major?

Hm. Idk. Knocking out gen eds

Ah. Community college down the street?

Yeah.

In 2nd sem.

Took a few gap years.

Any interests right now?

Bt history & env resources. Unsure

What are you looking at doing?

I want 2 run a theme park. Out of reach rn tho :(

Whoa.

Ambitious.

Lol

What r u doing rn?

At home talking to you.

Lol. What else.

Not much else. Petting dog.

Cute :)

What abt ur wife?

Wife?

Wedding ring?

She's out.

Oh.

Their conversation goes like this for a while. Back and forth. Greg taps the tiny, rubbed-blank buttons of his flip phone's ancient keyboard as quickly as he can. Richard takes a while to respond.

The clock chimes 2:00 am. It’s going to be hellish waking up tomorrow.

•••

Lecture exams seem to be getting worse and worse. Greg rubs his tired eyes and looks down at a general chemistry exam.

God fucking damn. This is supposed to be a general education credit , right? What the fuck is he ever going to use electron configurations for?

36/100.

Fuck. He's going to have to drop this class. This is not the first failing exam score he's gotten through this fucking institution, and he's worried it's not going to be the last.

Mom never liked his scores in high school, but god, how he longs for the days of 70% on exams again.

But maybe it's okay. Maybe it's fine. He folds up the exam and shoves it in a jacket pocket. He doesn't want to think about his grades right now. Right now he wants to think about Richard, who booked a shitty motel room for the night, and who asked him to come over.

Richard's a little dull, and not a great conversationalist. Greg can admit as much. But Richard makes him smile, at least. Richard brightens his day a little bit.

There's something comforting in Richard, who's almost as tall as he is with salt-and-pepper hair, who's growing out a beard, who's built wide and firm, who's trying to hide the wrinkles around his eyes. Something in his gruff voice and the way it sands down the edges of his name and makes it sound smooth and precious.

Greg wishes he could climb into Richard's head, dig around a little, and find out what he thinks makes Greg so special in the first place. He wants to see himself through those tired brown eyes that are lined with crow's feet.

For now, he'll take what he can get.

The professor is droning on about equilibrium and buffers. It's white noise to his fantasies.

When classes are released, he finds himself waiting a few blocks down from the Shell station, lighting a joint. It's a Thursday. He won't be missed. 

It's fine. 

It'll be fine. 

Everything will be fine.

Inhale, exhale. Maybe if he's high, it won't be so anxiety-inducing.

He drums a few forefingers against his thigh. His heart races and skips. His mouth's gone dry.

Eventually, Richard arrives in a beat-up Dodge. Greg puts out his joint and joins him in the passenger seat.

The duration of their trip passes in heavy and unbearable silence. Greg can't find the words, and Richard is looking ahead. Greg glances at the neon lights and billboards. 

Mile markers blur past them. 

The motel is about an hour from where Greg was picked up. There's a television tucked into a corner of the ceiling and the signage outside promises free HBO to guests. The rugs have seen better days, perhaps. The fabric is tinted brown with alcohol stains and god knows what else. The bed is fine at first glance. The wall paint is chipping. There's a bathroom.

Greg sets his shoes by the door and takes it in for a moment. "Nice place. Very—really nice. Exemplary for a fine gent such as yourself." 

He breathes out a nervous laugh like an impulse, trying to break the tension. Richard's hanging up a coat.

Greg's at the bed in a few steps. He tries to sit on it. Bounce it. It's solid as a rock, and full of springs. He can feel the coiled wire poking at his hands through the white fabric. He clears his throat. "So, uh, what—what's the—the, uh, itinerary, so to speak?"

This had all been very last-minute, all things considered. The wife was in the psychiatry field or something, and she was out of town for a three-day conference, and Greg had called his manager and asked to be rescheduled as soon as he got the text about this. And, truth be told, he didn't exactly miss the thirty-eight dollars at the moment.

Richard wears a distant look on his face and simply says, "Let's get on with it."

"Wait—now? Are you sure?" Greg leans forward.

Richard doesn't say anything, just gives him a look like he's said something insulting.

"It's just—y'know—I know you've got a… and I'm not looking to, um, intrude, so to speak."

"There's no intrusion." His voice is level.

Greg swallows down the nerves as they start to choke him. "Right. Uh—yeah, no, I get it, man. I just—I know how messy these can get." He chokes down more jitters. "So—so, do you want me to, uh…?" He jerks his wrist in the air. "Or we could— I could—I mean, if you want a blowjob, or…." 

He's rambling again. Fuck. Is he embarrassing himself? Is he embarrassing Richard? Fuck, fuck, fuck….

Somewhere in the middle of Greg's endless stammering, slacks hit the floor and Richard's just gone and whipped it out. 

Great! 

Okay!

Wow!

That's where this is going, then!

Greg just stares for a moment, slack-jawed. "Gosh. Uh, okay, no—no talking, then?"

"Just get on your knees for me, pretty boy."

Greg bites his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, but it's not like he's going to refuse that request.

Fuck. Fuck, okay.

He's done this before, but he's never really done this before. It's never been so vivid. Richard's big hands pull back his hair. Richard's breath hitches every so often. Words rattle around in the back of Greg's head and throughout the room. Yeah, just like that, you whore. 

Greg's lost in the reality of it all. It's one thing to imagine sucking this old man dry, but it's quite another thing entirely getting to actually follow through on it.

It's the fact that someone's touching him, saying his name like it matters, finally seeing him—like he's finally become someone worthwhile and valuable.

And there's a determined little thought that pops up then, a thought that completely takes over, that makes his heart beat faster with every second he stays kneeling. I'm going to fuck him better than his wife ever could.

Richard is a very average person, but that's what Greg's counting on. Being so average that Greg is just incomparable. He could never fuck his wife after this. His wife doesn't make him feel this good. Only Greg will ever know how. Only Greg could ever be counted on to know how. His wife is lacking something—otherwise, why would Greg be here, in this motel room, fingers digging into the carpet, deepthroating him? 

It's a thought that spirals further and further—that somehow, Greg's become the most important and most special person in this man's miserable, loveless life, and that it means something. 

It means Greg is loved for twenty minutes in a run-down one-room just outside of San Francisco.

Richard finishes and gasps above him. He swallows. The night is thick with crickets and humidity. Greg stands up.

"Hey, that was good, right?"

•••

Hey Richard <3

R u ok?

You haven't texted.

& you haven't been around recently.

I'm just wondering if you're ok.

Sent: Monday, 7:17 p.m.

Just checking in.

R u ok?

Lmk if ur ok <3

See you soon?

Sent: Tuesday, 3:46 p.m.

Hey I'm getting worried.

Did something happen?

I thought it was going ok.

Motels r expensive. Could go to my place?

Or ur place?

R u free soon?

R u there?

I miss you :(

Text back pls?

Sent: Tuesday, 9:23 p.m.

Is it something I did?

Did I do something wrong?

Pls tell me if I did something wrong.

I can fix it.

Just tell me what I did.

I can fix it for u.

Can u please text me back.

I'm worried.

Lmk if ur ok.

Lmk if it's my fault.

It's probably my fault.

I can fix it.

I promise I'll fix it.

Just tell me what I did please.

I miss you.

Sent: Wednesday, 2:57 a.m.

Ur not answering ur phone.

Is it something I did?

I thought we were going well?

If it's something I did I can fix it.

I'm sorry.

I don't understand why u won't talk to me.

I'm sorry.

Is it me?

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

I'm sorry idk how to change for you.

I just want to see you again.

Please.

I'm sorry.

Please call.

Or text.

I'm sorry.

I'm really sorry ok?

Please talk to me.

Sent: Wednesday, 5:17 p.m.

Are we ok?

Please call me.

I'm sorry.

I don't understand.

Please just tell me if we're ok?

I miss you </3

Sent: Yesterday, 1:23 p.m.

He'd grown a little used to the attention. To getting in an old Dodge and driving off to love hotels and busted-up motel rooms intermittently throughout his weeks. To nights where he'd let Richard do whatever he wanted, to nights where he was convinced the only important things in the world were the two of them and the four walls surrounding, to nights where he could be more than the nameless wife ever dreamed. To nights bleeding into dawns and bleary morning lectures and drowsy labs and 18/100 on exams about whatever the fuck pH was. 

He had some fantastical life planned out. Some life where somehow, Richard gets a divorce and spends his life with Greg instead. And he's an engineer, and he makes six figures, and Greg would be well off. Greg wouldn't have to worry about college grades or even jobs, not if he didn't want to. Greg wouldn't have to work a day in his life. Really, that sounds perfect, and that's most of what he wants. He'd be able to quit at Shell. He might be able to convince his newfound partner to send a little cash his mom's way. 

Richard might hold him. Richard might kiss him.

He's so tired of working.

He's so tired of none of this working.

Greg's a solid C student on a good day, and his first semester wasn't exactly a good day. His GPA slipped a couple more digits since then. He's been dropping shifts at the Shell station or not coming in when he's scheduled. He prioritizes his time with Richard. 

It's May now.

Today, at the corner where Shell station meets road, Greg stands on the sidewalk, a few yards away from the building. Richard's filling up his Dodge. Greg can see his wife in the passenger seat. Her hair's dirty blonde. She's pretty.

In the back window he can vaguely make out a child's car seat.

So that's it.

Richard's pumping gas. He glances up. His eyes meet Greg's by chance. Richard looks away first. Richard shoves the nozzle back into place.

"Richard?" Greg's voice doesn't carry. It's garbled and strained and choked and just barely a word.

The car's gone in an instant.

Inside, his manager gives him the pink slip. In his mailbox, he gets his expulsion letter from school.

He's not going to be able to keep this apartment much longer if he can't find a job, and what school would take him?

The streetlights begin to buzz and come alive. Greg thumbs the digits of his flip phone, shaking with each tap, and he holds it up to his ear.

"Mom? Hi, Mom… I think… I really fucked up, Mom."

It's hard to breathe.

•••

There's a day in Greg's childhood he'll never forget.

His father was a good person, he always thought. His father listened to U2 on the car radio and bought Greg little Transformers on his birthday. His father took him to the park on weekends and pushed him on the swings and got him cookies and cream Dippin' Dots after. His father signed his permission slips for field trips to the zoo or the science center. His father drew lines against the door frame and said Look how big you've grown! His father chalked the sidewalk with him and played hopscotch with him. His father taught him how to skateboard. His father took him to McDonald's and they'd get the hot fudge sundaes every Sunday, and his father would eat the crushed up peanuts because Greg never cared for them. His father read Corduroy to him every night. His father took Greg to play dates and talked with the other kids' dads for ages.

Greg never wanted to see his father in a bad light. He loves his dad, and that's how it is. His dad's great. He looks like his dad. He wants to be just like his dad. 

He has to hold on to the good parts. Because every so often, he'd wake up to noise in the middle of the night and go downstairs, and he'd see his mother hunched over, rubbing her temples, and his father at the table with hair ruffled up and collar unbuttoned.

His mom would catch him in the corner of her eye and say, "Go back to sleep, Greg."

On September 23, 2003, Greg hugs his mom and dad and goes to school. He learns about commas. He finger paints. He plays kickball. He hits a home run. He takes the bus home. At six, his dad's not home. At nine, no one reads Corduroy. 

The next day, his dad is still gone.

The day after is the same.

The day after, and the day after.

He sees his mother pouring red wine in her glass more often.

His grandpa comes by for a visit, and that's always a treat. His mouth is set firm and frowning and he sits Greg down at the kitchen table next to him while Greg goes to town on a bag of fruit snacks. His mother is across from him. His mother's mascara blots her eyelids the way it usually does, and streaks of it run down her cheeks. She mostly just looks tired.

Grandpa Ewan doesn't hold Greg's hand or pat his shoulder or touch his head. He looks at Greg like Greg's some unseemly, unsightly thing. His back is straight and he speaks in that particular way that commands respect. 

He answers the question that's been in Greg's mind all week.

"Your father is a licentious coward. He's humiliated your mother, and he's humiliated this family."

It's a lot of big words that Greg can't fully understand. "Is Dad coming back?"

"Greg." His mother lets out a sigh. "Your father doesn't love us anymore."

Greg stops grabbing new fruit snacks and stares at her. "Why?"

"He's run off with… with another man," she concludes. She fights to keep her voice steady.

Greg glances from his mother to his grandfather and bites his lip. "But he does love me."

"Greg—"

"He loves me. He says so."

"Your father has no regard for you, and he won't be returning for you," his grandfather cuts in.

"You're wrong," Greg says, standing up and raising his voice. "He still loves me. He just doesn't love you anymore."

He runs upstairs. His grandfather's booming voice carries his full name. Greg closes the door and doesn't answer.

He waits for Dad to come home.

He waits.

He waits.

In weeks of waiting, he sees his grandfather's angry face. He sees his mother barely holding herself together. He's upset with her. It's hard not to be, just a little bit. 

Why couldn't she have just done things differently? 

Dad loves him.

Dad would have stayed for him.

Dad wouldn't leave him.

Even if he did leave his mother, Dad would take Greg with him.

Dad loves him.

This is all his mother's fault.

It has to be.

Dad didn't have to leave.

It's not Greg's fault.

Greg didn't do anything wrong.

Dad didn't leave because of him.

Dad didn't leave because he doesn't love Greg anymore.

Right?

Grandpa Ewan pulls him aside, lowers his gruff, stern voice, and says, "Your father is a leech."

"Dad loves me. He'll come back for me."

"He won't. He's an abomination and a degenerate, and he's wearing your mother thin." He crosses his arms. "You need to stop being childish. Your mother can't take it."

Greg holds out for a few more days, but between his dad’s radio silence, his grandfather’s admonishments, and his mother’s overwhelmingly heavy misery, it all just looks more and more bleak.

Somewhere along the line, Greg finds out his father had been sleeping with most of the men in their neighborhood.

It hits him all at once, one night at the dinner table—the fact that his father's not coming back for him, the fact that his father didn't love him enough to stay, the fact that his mother's only getting worse by the day—and he cries over mac and cheese.

"Is this about him?" 

His grandfather refuses to talk about Greg's father anymore, and Greg doesn't say anything.

"Save your tears," his grandfather barks. "He's not worthy of them."

Somewhere around there, Greg must have learned how to stop crying. Grandpa Ewan wouldn't let him join the dinner table if his mother saw him crying over his father. Grandpa Ewan doesn't want his mother to go through even more pain because of him.

He starts to resent his father for what his mother's going through, and for what he's going through. It's a deep, leaden resentment, and his father never calls, so they can never say it aloud.

His grandfather does leave, eventually, about two months later, with the promise that he would support them for a bit, just until they’re back on their feet. 

In about a year, his mother maxes out her credit card on impulse buys, medications, and MLMs.

A month after that, his grandfather cuts them off.

This is also around the time Ewan has his falling-out with the rest of the family. He doesn't see his cousins anymore on any personal level that matters.

Learn how to manage when the chips are down. You'll be a better man for it.

They barely have enough to rent a shitty new apartment. Greg learns to skip meals. Greg takes up a part-time job at McDonald's throughout middle and high school, as soon as he's allowed to be employed. The wages are not enough to get his mother out of debt, and his grades steadily decline from A's and B's to solid C's.

Any hopes of getting into some prestigious university his cousins never had to work for, like Berkeley or Yale or Harvard, crash and burn alongside his report cards. 

All of this rather distasteful family history is why he's feeling guilt-ridden and ashamed on his return home.

Look at you, Greg. Fucked a married man for months, lost your job, got kicked out of school. What are we supposed to do with you?

He wonders, if he looks in the mirror, how much he resembles that man now. 

He hasn't told her what happened fully. He said something along the lines of, Hey, Mom, so I was at this party and they had alcohol and there were these minors? And we were busted. Yeah. So I wasn't arrested, since I wasn't supplying anyone with anything, but I got fired and expelled and I need help, between choking down breaths of air.

It's not true, not at all, but it's fine for now. He just can't bring himself to say to his mother, I fucked a married man for four months, just like Dad would have, and that's why I got fired and why my college booted me. But he's worried she's already aware of what's happened. He knows she sees it in him. He knows as soon as he calls her, as soon as she sends him enough money to get out of San Francisco, as soon as he knocks on her front door, as soon as he looks at her and says, "Hi, Mom."

He sits at the kitchen table and rubs his face with his hands. He can't really explain himself, and he's worried about what might happen if he tries. His mother has never been loud, but she's a little prone to breaking down, and she looks so, so tired.

Well, in fairness, she always looks tired, but right now she just looks more exasperated than usual. She runs a hand through her hair. Her dog trots down the stairs and stuffs its nose into Greg's left leg, and then runs over to his mother.

Greg sighs, equal parts frustrated and mortified. "I think I'm a little—a little fucked."

"Mm-hm. I really think you are." His mother only curtly nods. She doesn't look at him.

"Can I… can I stay here?" He looks up at her expectantly, hoping maybe, by some miracle, he can at least take a break from this godforsaken roller coaster.

"Greg, I can't afford another fucking mouth to feed." She leans down and scratches behind the dog's ears. "We're barely getting by as is."

In the air hangs the unpleasant and unspoken You need to get a job because I can't support your adult failure ass. You need to get out of this fucking house.

And… yeah. Greg's not sure how he's supposed to pull that one off.

His mother straightens up again, closes her eyes, and crosses her arms. "You can stay here for a few months, maybe. Maybe even a few years, if you can get yourself a part-time job you'll keep. I'll try to pull some strings. Get you set up at Brightstar."

"Brightstar?" Greg straightens up. "Like—you mean the theme park Uncle Logan owns?"

"We might be able to advance you to a manager position right away," she mumbles. "Just—don't be a fucking idiot, okay?"

Greg nods. "Okay."

It's better than getting kicked to the curb right away, so it's better than nothing.

•••

It's funny. A good half of the human population is men. That's somewhere in the wheelhouse of four billion people. There's four billion men in the world, just existing and going about their business, and that's four billion perfectly normal, perfectly okay men. And it's not like there's just one kind of man to choose from. A lot of men are tall. A lot of men are boxy. A lot of men have blue eyes and wrinkles. A lot of men are brunettes starting to gray. A lot of men are in their mid-40s. There are simply a lot of men out there.

So it seems a little cruel and unfair that Greg's come across this specific one, considering the circumstances.

There have been a few standout events in the few months after Greg landing that Brightstar gig and getting so high off shit weed he puked out of Doderick's eye holes.

The first being, his mother's cut him off now, too. Pretty much told him he needs to look out for himself now, and she won't be supporting him anymore.

Which, in fairness, he expected, but he didn't expect it to happen so quickly.

Maybe it's a little warranted. He wanted to take the edge off, he just didn't anticipate getting sick and fucking up his job within the first hour.

Greg pukes his guts out at work. He gets fired and calls his mom and makes up some lie about a kid on the side of the road to try and appease her a little, and make it sound like maybe he didn't fuck up that badly this time. She sets him up with a ticket to New York, and he finds Uncle Logan at his birthday, and tries to beg for a job. 

The begging doesn't go so well.

But he does catch a face he doesn't recognize.

It's easy to recognize Kendall, and Roman, and Shiv, and even Connor, and even though he hasn't really seen them since childhood, he can easily pick them out from any number of fucking press releases or advertisements over the past ten years.

But he's never seen this man before, and they see through each other almost instantly.

Greg collects pieces of his life in background conversations. This is Tom Wambsgans, from St. Paul, Minnesota. He's in his mid-40s. He's dating Shiv, to be engaged, probably. He works for Logan. He bought a watch for Logan's birthday. He's not quite as tall as Greg.

Fuck. He's got a nice face. Good shape. Good everything, really. Fuck.

It gets worse when they all go off to play Logan's fucking baseball birthday game, and he and Tom end up next to each other on the grass, and Tom starts trying to "razz" him, and he blurts out, "Would you kiss me?"

And Greg's fucking flabbergasted.

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

He just stares at him for a second, mulling over the words—"Would I—kiss you?" Like he had to have misheard them somehow, like the wires in his brain suddenly frayed and his ears stopped processing sound waves correctly.

But Tom just keeps going, like he'd asked the most normal question in the world, like Greg's the weird one for actually trying to make sense of the words that came out of his mouth.

Greg's trying to get in with his family, and trying to get a job, and for the most part, he knows what role would work best. Greg doesn't really care for some beginner-level position right now—it's a little unfair, isn't it, to have to start as an intern when his cousins just got acting CEO and acting COO handed to them? So he plays what angles he can to look dimwitted and well-meaning, even obviously fake or incompetent, if that's what it takes. The key is trying not to look like a threat.

Tom stares at him almost the entire time they're together. Greg knows he sees through it. Tom's probably played the exact same angles.

He gets slippers for Logan. He "forgets" papers for Shiv—he's a little intimidated by her. She took his last twenty. He gets Roman some old clothes.

He runs into Tom, who says that when Greg gets this all sorted, he can rely on him.

I'll look after you.

There's a sort of gentle promise in these words that Greg's never really had before, so he holds onto it like a lifeline.

Greg sleeps in church pews his first few nights, since he can't afford anything else. Greg stays in youth hostels in the city when he starts to earn a wage. Greg lives in rooms like closets with other men and no privacy and he wishes he was in that mold-ridden apartment in California—he'd take mold and water damage over mold, water damage, piss stains, and roaches. Peering eyes in the showers. Water that only runs cold.

But Tom buys him a new set of work clothes as soon as he notices Greg's shoes.

Greg hovers around Tom more. Tom seems to like the company, and Greg's not so averse to him. Tom touches him and breathes into his mouth and asks if his breath smells or not. Greg tries to oblige him, because why not?

Tom calls Greg into his office one day and divulges a company conspiracy that could get them both fired. Tom calls it a virus and spills it about as quickly as he can. Greg's infected. If they go down, he's fucked.

He's potentially more fucked if Tom goes through with this idea about a press conference about parks and cruises and the rapes and murders. So he runs to Gerri and tells her about it. At the RECNY, Tom calls him James Bond and an hour later yells in his face about what he's done.

He denies it as much as he can. It's a bold-faced lie, and he knows it, and he's worried Tom knows it, too.

Greg's just dug a heel in at this company, and he's not ready to sink yet. 

And Tom's a cacophony of mixed signals. Honestly, Tom's a distraction. Maybe if he's burned, Greg can finally focus on saving himself.

If anything, it's a little unfair that Tom just gets to take the life Greg was supposed to have been born into like it's a fucking cake-walk. It's more unfair that Tom is so fickle on how he feels about Greg at any particular moment. And it's a bit of a fucking travesty that Greg finds him attractive.

Regardless of whatever happens to Tom, Greg will at least be fine. Being able to run the theme parks is about all he's ever really wanted job-wise. And other men exist.

On Thanksgiving, he drives Grandpa Ewan twelve hours to New York. His grandpa doesn't talk to him in any affectionate sense. He says something about work ethic that goes a little in one ear and out the other and insults Greg's current efforts, and Greg finds the NPR station on his dashboard and it gets him to shut up about Greg's abject failures for about eight hours.

Tom calls him in the car. Tom sets him up on a job. Greg gets high on Roman's insane billionaire weed and Tom sends him out to shred documents.

Greg's name is on the checkout. He knows what this is. This is Tom covering the company's ass, but it's also Tom sending him out to get shot like Old Yeller.

Greg makes copies.

Very soon after, Tom decides to take Greg out after work to show him what being rich is like. Ewan returns to New York for a board vote and forces a bowl of noodles down Greg. He says it's to appease his mother. Greg wonders if he'd even be doing this if Mom hadn't asked him to.

Ewan tells him to paddle his own canoe.

Greg still goes out to dinner with Tom. Tom gets him everything on the menu.  They eat endangered birds. 

They go to a club after and drink gold-flecked wine and dance in the VIP section.

When they're finished, Tom takes Greg to his place, and it's fucking huge.

Tom has a dog. Greg scratches behind Mondale's ears.

Tom grabs some beers of some expensive brand Greg's never heard of from the fridge, and they end up knocking back bottles of the stuff to sloppily-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. 

Tom's completely wasted. "Here's to being so fucking rich, no one can touch us."

Greg feels sick, but he laughs and clinks his bottle against Tom's and chews on a sandwich.

He's allowed to sleep in the guest room upstairs. Shiv is still out.

The entire space looks nice. It looks minimalistic and clean, with decorations very carefully placed to mimic the comforts of a home. It screams interior designer. It's almost depressing how boring it is.

Greg wonders if the choice to leave the walls so barren was Shiv's. Tom seems at least a little like a real person with interests a real person would like. Surely he'd want to put pictures on the walls, or something.

Greg drunkenly explores the guest room, stumbling along with limbs like jelly. Outside of Greg, this room hasn't been touched. Everything is arranged very meticulously. 

There's nothing in the bathroom, but the shower is huge. Greg runs the water and puts his head under it. It's warm. He climbs into the bath with his clothes on and the drain open and lets warm streams of water run down his face.

When he's tired of that, he steps out, clothes dripping. He laughs at himself. It's weird. He hasn't felt this good in a long time.

Tom's a handful, and he doesn't like Tom's volatility, but right now, maybe Tom's not as bad as he's pegged him to be.

Or maybe that's the alcohol talking.

Greg smoothes his wet hair back on his head and walks across the halls, getting water all across the hardwood floor. Is it the kind of wood that stains?

He grins. If it does stain, it's proof he was here.

He passes Tom's bedroom. Tom's fast asleep. He snores. Greg finds it charming.

He's hit with an idea. He cracks the door open and tiptoes around. He looks around Tom's room, trying not to disturb anything.

Tom's a very calculated presence in public. It would be nice to know who he really is.

Their room is set up about the same as the guest room, which is a little disappointing. Tom's sleeping in his clothes with the suspenders strewn across his bed. His lips are parted. His hair's unkempt. The bruise under his eye is still visible in the dark.

Greg had asked him what happened when they were both too drunk to care about whether that was too personal a question. Tom said it was from Shiv, from sex with Shiv. Greg didn't say anything, but he set down his sandwich and started picking at the bread.

If it was him in that bed, then surely….

He doesn't want to think ill of his cousin, but a sort of indignation starts to bloom.

He reaches down, brushes a thumb over it. Tom stirs for a second, but he doesn't wake up. Tom's got wrinkles here and there across his face, but his skin is smooth, soft…. Greg traces his fingertips across laugh lines.

Tonight's about the happiest he's seen Tom, now that he thinks about it. Tom always comes across as slightly terrified. What Greg wouldn't give to let nights like this last forever.

Eventually, he lets go. He wants to explore a little more before the night is out. 

He takes a look inside Tom's bathroom. Like most places in the apartment, it's huge. He grabs one of Tom's nice towels and wipes himself down. Breathes in the fabric. It's soft like a cloud. Tom's fabrics smell like roses. 

He doesn't care enough to find the hamper. He lets it fall to the ground.

He finds their sink and digs through their medicine cabinet. There's about every flavor of skincare product in here—one mystery solved. Greg goes through the bottles and creams, studies them, rubs the contents between his fingers.

He finds Tom's cologne. It smells like spice and trees. Greg forgets himself for the moment and slathers it on in layers. He breathes out a laugh, quiet enough that Tom can't hear. 

He puts the bottle back. Half its contents are gone.

He digs through Shiv's makeup while he's here. Every powder, every palette, every bottle of liquid mascara and every tube of lipstick. They're probably worth more than his tuition was. He runs the mascara across his lashes. His eyes stand out a little more. They're wide and pretty. 

Greg wonders if Tom would pay him more notice if he accentuated some of these little things about his face. Greg's not the prettiest face, sure, but he can put the effort in.

What would Tom even pay attention to, where he could try and spruce things up? Tom looks at his eyes a lot. Lips too, maybe. Shiv's got a few different shades of red. Greg finds a shade between ruby and maroon. Runs the tube across his mouth the way his mother would apply it.

He doesn't feel that guilty about rummaging through his cousin's belongings. The fact that she is able to afford these is a sin. Why shouldn't Greg get a chance to wear them?

He looks the same, but somehow subtly different. Maybe he should invest in these. Maybe he's being completely silly.

He runs a finger across his bottom lip and thinks about Tom. About kissing Tom. About Shiv kissing Tom and leaving marks.

He looks down at his fingers. Nothing comes off.

Maybe Greg should consider something cheaper, then. There's something giddy in him at the idea of kissing Tom and leaving red stains on his cheeks, his neck, his forehead, his jawline, his lips, and Tom wearing them at work. The idea that everyone would know Tom's spoken for, that Tom's loved, that Tom's got someone to take care of. 

That Tom's got someone to look after.

Would Shiv miss these? Probably. He shouldn't keep these. It's better to be safe than sorry.

With this thought in his head, he shoves mascara and lipstick into a slacks pocket.

Eventually, Greg returns to his room, collapses on the guest bed, and wraps himself up in whatever thousands-of-threads-count sheets these are, on the softest bed he's ever experienced. He curls up and presses his face into the downy pillow. It's got to be close to three in the morning. He smiles. 

The bed smells like Tom.

Dreams fade by morning. When dawn breaks, he's woken by hot flashes and cold flashes. He rushes to the bathroom and vomits songbirds and peanut butter. He has a sharp headache. Greg remembers where he is and who he is and who he's with and what that means. 

That means cloud nine has dissipated.

This resonates doubly so when he gets the invitation to Tom's bachelor party.

The venue changes at the last minute. Tom brags to Greg about how much sex he's planning on having. Greg's acutely aware of the way his heart lurches.

He hates this. He wants to leave.

The music's loud. The lights are dim. Kendall threatens to overdose on cocaine, and Greg's not sure what to do about that, so he does several lines in quick succession and Tom makes fun of him. His heart is pounding like mad in his ears and he's on the verge of collapse for what feels like the rest of the night.

He comes across Tom a few different times throughout the night as different nameless people fuck around them. Tom tells him about a woman that snowballed him. He tries to make it sound exciting and sexy. He looks like he's about to cry.

Greg tells it to him like it is: "This is nightmarish."

Tom's face completely falls.

Eventually, Tom's wedding arrives despite Greg's pleas to the universe for the contrary. He looks miserable and scared most of the time Greg sees him.

Greg catches Shiv and some other, younger guy, here and there, in glimpses. But glimpses are about enough for the full picture to come into view.

She's cheating on him.

She's cheating on him.

The world's quite cruel, isn't it? It can never let Greg have anything.

You know, if it worked, if Tom was happy, Greg might have at least enjoyed his company from the sidelines, as a friend.

It's never going to fucking work.

Even with the outbursts, Tom at least deserves someone that'll love him back. Someone like….

Banish that thought. 

Don't even fucking start. 

You're only going to get hurt again.

But it's fun to at least entertain. Because if he was so lucky, and if he married so rich and bombastic and beautiful, he wouldn't be so fucking ungrateful.

He finds out one of the waiters at the venue is around his age. Andrew Dodds. Andrew has weed. Greg procures a few grams from him for a couple extra dollars.

Around midnight, before the actual reception, he's talking with Andrew about this predicament and what he's supposed to do about it. Andrew just nods along, high as balls, probably barely registering what Greg's saying. Probably not caring that much.

Which is fine. Greg can't expect Andrew to care like he does.

Andrew clears his throat, interrupting Greg's worrisome spiel. "Listen. Do you just wanna shag and get this over with?"

Greg sputters, coughing on the smoke in his lungs. "Wh—huh?"

Andrew raises his eyebrows, like it's the most obvious answer in the world.

Greg's not sure what Andrew would be getting out of this trying to help him get over Tom thing, and Greg doesn't entirely think it'll work, but… fuck it. It can't hurt, right?

Or, no, it can hurt, but Greg's not the one employing him, so maybe it wouldn't hurt that bad.

Andrew drives them back to his place. Lights up another blunt, passes it to Greg, Greg takes a drag.

Fuck. He didn't really plan out a one-night stand with a waiter when he thought about going to Tom's wedding.

Greg's standing against the wall. Andrew is on his knees, undoing Greg's belt. "Hey," Greg whispers. "You're—are you, uh, completely sure about this? It's just that I'd maybe not want to, uh, jeopardize your current standing?"

"Greg, just shut up."

Andrew's not really that stellar at giving head. Or, he's fine, but he's really not doing anything for Greg.

To put it simply: Andrew's got the experience and the know-how and the wherewithal to make this entire thing enjoyable for perhaps anyone else on the planet. But he's around Greg's age, and he's unbearably short and scrawny, and Greg really doesn't want to put any work in right now to try and make this work for both of them.

There is a mental image that forms, though, and he pushes Andrew back for a moment.

"What?" Andrew looks up at him, annoyed.

"Just… listen, you're great, man, but this isn't really, uh, engendering anything in me, so to speak?" He gestures around his dick.

Andrew rolls his eyes. "Right. What do you want?"

Greg sighs. "You can, uh, you can totally call this off if you're not comfortable with it, but, maybe I could—could I just call you Tom? Would that be—not reasonable, per se, but doable?"

Andrew glares at him.

"It's just—you know—Andrew's a bit of a mouthful? Nothing personal, man, I'm just thinking out loud."

Greg bites his tongue before he can say anything else that will kill the mood. Andrew shakes his head. "Fine. Whatever. Call me whatever you want. Let's just get on with it."

Greg laughs. He can't believe that actually worked.

Andrew's back to work, and the pictures Greg paints in his head are doing the job for him. He thinks about Tom getting down for him. He thinks about Tom pressing his thumbs into Greg's thighs. He thinks about Tom's tongue running across him. He thinks about Tom doing whatever he wants to him. He thinks about his fingers curled up in Tom's hair, mussing it up, pulling it back, ruining the work of whatever gel he wears every morning.

"Fuck yeah, just like—Tom, fuck, you're doing so good, fuck…."

He sinks into a world where Tom's not getting married, where Tom's between his legs instead, where Tom's left Shiv at the altar to take Greg away somewhere, where Greg doesn't have to think about anything ever again, where Tom's done all the hard work for him.

He's done in about five minutes. Greg's breathing heavily. Greg remembers who's actually giving him head for a second. He lets himself calm down and eventually chokes out a, "Fuck, dude, I'm sorry, that was—it was good, it was really—you've got a certain panache for this, that's for sure."

Andrew doesn't say anything. He wipes the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand, and he refuses to look at Greg for the rest of the night.

The next morning, he is nice enough to drop Greg off to see Tom, and Greg thanks him again for the good time. He tells Tom about Shiv's affair. Tom pushes him into the snow.

He watches them wed. Tom looks more than miserable.

He wishes he was in that white gown instead.

•••

Greg's alone on Tom's honeymoon, though he did consider ringing up a work friend for a quickie. Consideration fell through.

His phone buzzes with notifications for 67 emails.

You can't make a Tomlette without breaking some Greggs!

You can't make a Tomlette without breaking some Greggs!

You can't make a Tomlette without breaking some Greggs!

His phone is unusable for a while.

Every email is about the same. It's a combination of work instructions and a hint of desperation. An "I really wish you were here" message . Greg can read between the lines.

A little while after that, Kendall gets him a new apartment. It's huge, and he's allowed to stay there. No more shitty youth hostels.

It's nice. It's a little empty, but Greg might be able to scrape by a few dollars for furniture.

Greg quickly finds out that the apartment wasn't such a magnanimous gift when Kendall decides to throw a party in it and half the guests are high on cocaine.

Greg does cocaine more himself, too. It's easier to access now that he's with his cousins more. It gives him a buzz and a confidence, he's found. It's different from caffeine. It's also more addictive. 

He tries to ration it out. He's worried it's not working.

He also got a new job. At ATN. Potentially the worst place to get a job. It's a little hard to sell Tom on the I don't feel welcome here front. Tom's weird hazing isn't exactly helping.

There's this truth that Greg hasn't really wanted to acknowledge for a while, but which is slowly starting to present itself to him: Tom is married. Tom is married, and Tom is straight, and even if he wasn't, Tom is married. And none of Greg's stupid mindless daydreaming is going to change that.

He wants to stop thinking about Tom. Tom makes it a little impossible. Tom keeps doing impossible things that make it impossible to fully stop thinking about Tom.

The first thing happens after Greg tells a biographer a little about Logan, and it threatens to spill out and implicate him, and he badgers Tom for help.

Can I trust you?

To a point, yes.

Logan forces Tom and Greg to their knees on the floor. Tom looks terrified. Neither of them really know what's going on, but Greg keeps whispering, pleading with him, "Please."

Please, don't sell me out.

Tom has no reason to do anything Greg's requesting of him.

Tom follows through anyway.

The punishment set up for him, that would have been meant for Greg, is a swimming pool full of piss. Greg doesn't join, and he can't bring himself to look. Tom stands in it, soaked through.

The next morning at breakfast, Tom finds him, squeezes his hand, and looks down quietly.

It's the most humiliating thing anyone could have gone through, and the insane part is that he was so scared for Greg, he cared so much about Greg, that he would go through all of that for Greg and then still continue to be on speaking terms with him.

He doesn't deserve that kind of reverence, does he?

The second thing happens when Greg requests to change departments. Greg tries to tell Tom, in the nicest way possible, that he wants to work somewhere else. He's pelted with water bottles for it and Tom screams at him.

Are you breaking up with me, Greg?

I will not let you do this to me.

I will not let go of what is mine.

In fairness, the situation they're in is pretty high-stress, but that doesn't exactly make the bruises hurt less.

When the crisis of a shooter is averted, Tom says, "I don't always like who I am, Greg," and it's the closest to an apology Greg's ever heard.

He brings up the documents he made copies of, fully anticipating some kind of backlash, something angry, something along the lines of you fucking traitor, you incompetent idiot, you couldn't do the one fucking thing I asked?

None of that happens. What happens is, Tom laughs, grins, looks the happiest he's looked in weeks. "You fucking slime ball!" He holds Greg in his hands like he's some great exciting thing, like Greg's just won a trophy, or like Greg is the trophy. Like he's special and important, and this is everything Tom ever wanted.

Which baffles Greg to no end, but he can't help but smile along with him.

Greg had sort of thought he was being unfair and horrible, bringing up the blackmail, even as a friend that just wants to work somewhere that isn't ATN. He wondered if it was too selfish, too fucked up, too backstabby.

Maybe that's exactly what Tom likes about him. The ugly parts he doesn't want to expose to anyone else.

Again, it baffles Greg to no end. But he'll take it.

In return for the blackmail, Greg's advanced to Tom's personal executive assistant. It does wonders for his salary—he's bumped up to $250k yearly—but it's an absolute detriment to the idea that maybe if he got away from Tom and stopped thinking about him so much and focused on himself for a minute, then he'd get somewhere with running Brightstar.

But it does mean Tom's at least enjoying being with him, in some capacity, and that's something he's fond of.

Greg's fascinated with Tom, so the personal assistant gig is something of a bonus and a window. He learns a lot about Tom. He has his coffee order memorized—caramel latte in the morning, hot, oat milk, pump of espresso, pump of chocolate syrup, and if he needs a kick in the afternoon, a macchiato works fine. He learns that Tom prefers bagels and pastries from the place on Lexington, so he reroutes his commute. He learns that Tom likes little assorted nut boxes and dried fruits to snack on during the day, so before he comes in, sometimes he'll leave something on his desk with a little note saying, Good luck today! :)

He does the usual work stuff, where it matters, like working through basic Excel sheets or typing up emails, but most of his day is spent planning Tom's days. And, truthfully, Tom's got most of that already planned out. Greg has it easier than most.

The third thing happens a little after Greg decides to look out for himself, since it's looking abundantly clear that Tom's going to prison, and he might take Greg with him.

Maybe Tom doesn't completely hate him, since they're still speaking, but he does give him an awful office. An office that used to be a mail room, with no windows, and it's not even cleaned out. Greg's almost insulted.

But in the middle of that, Tom also offers him a watch and free legal counsel.

Greg doesn't take it.

Instead, he goes to Kendall's little get-together where he's promised to hook Greg up with a snazzy new watch.

The solicitor lets him put it on. It's broken.

He tries to tell the solicitor that this is Kendall's purchase. Kendall laughs at him. "I'm not your fucking sugar daddy."

He frowns. He looks at it. This is a watch he's considering buying for hundreds of thousands of his own dollars.

Kendall's blonde assistant Comfrey is next to him. He can't read her very well, but she seems to think it's an okay investment.

But, still, that's a lot of money down the drain for someone that can't even guarantee he won't throw Greg in prison.

Greg sees Tom around with a new watch on, and hindsight makes him kick himself.

Grandpa Ewan decides to give his $250 million inheritance to Greenpeace, since he hasn't quit working at ATN.

All of these options Greg had before are starting to become scarily unsteady.

On top of all this, Greg's at the front row of Tom's complete mental breakdown.

One day, Tom enters Greg's office to talk strategy and what they're planning on doing next. He sounds completely terrified about jail. It's a strange mix of terror and misery and anticipation. And then he loses it completely.

"Hey, Greg, what do you know about Nero and Sporus?"

He tells Greg about this Roman emperor that pushes his wife down the stairs, castrates his favorite slave boy, marries him, and dresses him in his wife's clothes. "I'd castrate you and marry you in a heartbeat," he concludes, with the most bizarre fondness in his eyes.

Yeah, that's about it, then. 

Tom's certifiably off the deep end and Greg officially doesn't know how to help him.

He asks if Tom's okay. Tom asks Greg to wrestle him to the ground.

A few weeks later, Greg sits across from Tom at a diner, dropping everything after getting a text around midnight. Tom talks about prison and the food. Tom eats eggs.

Greg's not sure how to word his request. He doesn't want Tom to be locked away forever, so to speak, but he never wanted to be involved in this whole coverup in the first place, and he feels a little justified requesting it.

He's fully expecting Tom to say no. Tom has no reason to go along with this.

Tom says he'll take on Greg's crimes anyway.

It's all of this together that makes him question everything. He'd wanted to try and focus on himself, but every time he takes a step away, Tom takes two steps forward and does something Greg never would have considered himself worthy of.

Because, really, Greg's not a good enough person for this, is he?

A licentious coward, an ingrate, an abomination, a degenerate, humiliating, callous, childish, flaky, lazy, a leech, a parasite, and two-faced. That's Greg. If you were to ask his family, they'd tell you as much.

Surely Tom sees it, too.

Acknowledging that Tom knows and sees all of this and still takes care of Greg time and time again has started to become a terrifying reality.

But at the same time, the attention is fucking intoxicating.

Something has shifted, and Tom seeks out Greg more. He touches Greg and says his name like it's a prayer and promises he'll do anything for Greg and follows through. He looks at Greg like Greg's the only thing in the world that matters.

When he finds out they're not going to prison, the first thing Tom does is trash Greg's room. The second thing he does is gently kiss him on the forehead, and hold his face in his hands like he's special and fragile and important.

Tom's still pretty miserable, but Greg wants to at least let him know he's appreciated.

Greg can't understand Tom. He can't understand how Tom sees him. He can't understand why he's become so important. He can't understand how Tom can go from excited to see him to berating him on the verge of tears in a heartbeat. He can't understand this thing they've started. 

But he does want to try.

But Tom's still married.

So Greg climbs a dating ladder instead.

Everything comes to a head in Italy. Tom's in white. He sits Greg down. "Do you want to come with me, Sporus?"

Tom doesn't give him any details, but he promises a spot at the bottom of the top, and he promises twenty Gregs for Greg. Bringing Greg along with him matters that much.

Greg is a pretty important person now that he's starting to actually move up and be someone, and he really doesn't need Tom that badly, all things considered.

Tom needs him more than he lets on.

Why does Tom need him?

What does Tom see in Greg?

Tom speaks again.

Who has ever looked out for you in this fucking family?

Greg thinks about Kendall calling him a tapeworm. He thinks about Roman throwing him under the bus like he's worth nothing. He thinks about Shiv taking his last twenty dollar bill when he first arrived and using it on the vending machine and leaving him without any change for a cab, for a meal, for anything. He thinks about Ewan giving his money to Greenpeace. He thinks about Logan using him to get to Kendall. He thinks about his mother cutting him off. He thinks about his father leaving.

Tom's about the only person left that thinks Greg matters.

More than that, even.

Tom's weird metaphor was about a man pushing his wife down the stairs, castrating his favorite alternative, and marrying him.

He's not sure if Tom actually means to carry that through to the end or not—but in reading between whatever weird repressed lines Tom's set out, this is beginning to look eerily like a wedding.

Is there a chance?

Maybe.

It would be completely insane to give himself that hope, but it's there.

What am I going to do with a soul, anyway?

He agrees to go along with Tom.

There's just one thing he needs to confirm.

Comfrey is firmly out. That dating ladder rung has crumbled. She's dull, uninteresting, and not very pretty, and he can say the same for this contessa, but she at least has money.

He texts her and asks if she wants to meet up later that night. Best case, this becomes something of a backup if he's been misreading Tom this whole time.

Worst case… it's a story he can tell over drinks.

He meets up with her around eight. Tom is busy elsewhere. They might as well get this over with.

He's not even sure what her name is. He doesn't ask.

She unbuttons her dress. Dark hair falls across her chest. The dress hits the floor. She grins at him.

The first thing he notices is that she just… wasn't wearing a bra underneath all that. "Whoa. Girls are out already, then." He forces a laugh and hopes it's charming.

Her face is caught somewhere between cringe and endearment, and he hopes he can keep this going.

He doesn't have any great conversation pieces. She's the one with all the money and status that he's sucking up for. And, honestly, if Tom's keeping his weird thing for Greg going, that ship might sail, too.

"Are you planning on getting undressed?" She smiles.

Greg clears his throat. "Right. Yes, uh, I will definitely oblige…."

He barely undoes a button on his shirt before the contessa is pushing him against the mattress, doing that part for him.

His clothes hit the floor in a matter of seconds. She's probably done all this before.

"Okay, so, uh, what exactly—what do you want me to do?" At this point, he's pretty up for anything. He doesn't exactly go out of his way to fuck women. Maybe she'll be easy to please.

It's a bit of a nasty thought, but she has been very easy to please otherwise. He just needs to keep playing her up, and this should all work out.

He wonders if this is how Tom got Shiv. He'd mentioned that he had a huge dick and he fucked hard—like a red sequoia and a bullet train— but he did have to wonder what else was in the picture.

"Shut up and let me do the talking, big boy." She shoves her tongue down his throat, and he almost chokes.

As it turns out, everything about sex with women was a lie, because this ends up being a rather excruciating experience. She straddles him and bites his collarbone and kisses him and runs her nails across his back and it all ends up just hurting.

Greg's body betrays him, because he just can't get it up. She's young and pretty and a really nice woman, and that's exactly the problem. He can't even go into his regular escape—this is slightly too physical and her whining is too high-pitched for it to be believable.

He's motionless and soundless, and she's breathing hard trying to start up a rhythm with no help from Greg. "Hey, you want to do this, yes?"

"Hm?" He looks up at her. "Yes, yeah, I do. Of course."

She stifles a laugh. "It's just that most men are a little… enthusiastic?"

Greg frowns. "I have enthusiasm. I've got—there's boundless enthusiasm here."

He must have raised his voice. The contessa presses her palms against his chest and straightens up a little. "Don't shout." She frowns. "Maybe you're older than you look? Do you need Viagra? I have some…."

Greg sighs and tries to sit up. "That's not necessary. How old do I look to you?"

She shrugs. "Mid-30s?"

"Really? Do I look—" he stops himself yelling and lets out an exasperated breath he's been holding. "Maybe if you were decent at this—"

"What are you saying?" She scoffs, grins at him mockingly. She looks rather entertained by all this. "You think you're the first man I've ever been with?"

Greg shakes his head. "I didn't say that."

"You think I'm a rotten lay?" She laughs. "You aren't exactly putting much work in."

Greg doesn't answer her. He's already simmering.

"That's fine," she says. "Your taste is… older." She smirks, like she knows some great secret.

"Older?"

"I see who you associate with. You don't hide it very well."

She collects her gown from the floor and starts to redress. Greg's too frustrated and irritated to speak.

"It should go without saying that this was never going anywhere," she says curtly. "Do not text me again."

She shuts the door behind her. Greg's alone and naked in a room in Tuscany.

•••

About a week after he returns from Italy, he enters his apartment to Kendall and a shit ton of packed boxes. Kendall doesn't look at him when he comes in. He's on a phone call. The apartment is empty, and Greg's things are nowhere to be seen.

"Kendall?" Greg tries to raise his voice over whatever Kendall's doing. Kendall doesn't look at him. "What are you doing?"

Kendall laughs, still on the line. "Sorry, Judas's bitch just got back. Yeah. Later."

He taps the screen, shoves the phone in a jacket pocket, and finally looks up at him, giving him a toothy grin. "Yo."

"Kendall, what the hell, man?"

Kendall's grin falls. "What the hell? What the hell's with you? What, you thought this was your fucking forever home?" He raises his brows. "Well, newsflash, asshole: it's time to pay the fucking piper."

"I was under the impression that—you said this was all mine?"

"Tough shit." Kendall shoves hands in his pockets. He grins. "I don't know what to fucking tell you. Find another host, maybe? Maybe you can suck on your sugar daddy Tommy's golden fucking tiddies."

Greg frowns. "What the fuck?" He walks around the apartment, reopening boxes. "Really?"

Kendall stares through him. "Someone else is buying the property for more than you're fucking worth. You're lucky I packed your shit for you."

"You can't just—are you kicking me out?" He crouches down, trying to pull stuff out of boxes. He glares up at Kendall.

"Listen, Greg, shit's hit the fan. I'm just collecting what I'm fucking owed."

"Why the fuck—?" He stands up, tries to reach full height. "You couldn't even fucking tell me? I think there's, like, a two-weeks' notice in order? At least?"

"Greg." He isn't smiling. He looks stern and the slightest bit annoyed. "I really don't give a shit. I just want you out." He shrugs. "Get off your fucking ass, maybe, and work for once in your goddamn life instead of living off our table scraps?"

Oh, that's fucking rich. That's fucking rich coming from him. He was handed an easy street on a silver platter the second he was born. He's never had to do anything for himself. 

Work for once in your goddamn life?

Kendall would never know manning the counter in a Shell station for minimum wage during ten-hour weeks, going to a community college he can barely afford, trying to scrape by enough to live in a musty four-person apartment, sending his mother money that never added up to more than a drop in their ocean of credit card debt.

That difference between them is exactly why Kendall's reselling the apartment he gave to Greg, and not the other way around.

"Get out of my fucking space," Kendall says, staring up at him. "Crawl back to your fucking owner—he seems to like ringworm." 

He gives Greg a tight-lipped grin and shows him to the door.

"Oh, also, if you don't have a new address, I'll just sell this stuff, yeah? You can't do much with a fucking coffee table on the streets."

He slams the door in Greg's face. Greg lets out a hard sigh. "Fucking asshole," he mutters under his breath.

Greg's really not looking to crash on the streets, though. Some mixture of self-preservation and intense spite.

He's not entirely sure what's been going on with his cousins. Tom did something, and now Tom's brought Greg along on this huge promotion—his next paycheck should be at least triple what it's been so far. That much is exciting.

He's been a little busier, though, and he's unaware of what's going on outside work with his family.

He wonders if whatever Tom has done somehow connects to why he's getting booted from his apartment.

Greg weighs his options.

There's a place on 42 Broadway that serves coffee and muffins that Tom likes. There's a start. Food and begging tend to be cheaper than a hotel room.

"Hey, can I, uh, get an order to go?"

•••

When he finally finds Tom's place, it's about eight, and the sun's gone down.

Greg's a little surprised that Tom would open the door for him at this hour.

He looks Greg up and down for a second, barely contained elation on his face. "Gregory? What's a woman of the night doing on my doorstep?"

Greg smiles weakly, holding up the bag and the coffee. "I, uh, got these. For you. Can I…?"

Tom grabs the bag first. Opens it and looks inside. "Hm." He also grabs the coffee. "Yeah, come in, Greg."

Greg steps in and hangs his coat up. "Is Shiv…?"

Tom coughs. "She should be out for the next week."

Tom's already got wine glasses out and some expensive bottle Greg's never seen before. He pours Greg a drink. "So, what's the occasion?"

Greg joins him at the countertop. "Does one necessarily require an occasion?"

He isn't exactly that keen on telling Tom he's homeless again just yet, even if that's where this is inevitably going.

Tom gives him a hard look. Sets the bottle down, hands him the glass. "Greg, unless you've suddenly run off to join the girl scouts while I wasn't looking, I don't exactly know you as someone that drops by completely unexpected with goodies." He doesn't pour himself a drink, but he keeps the extra glass out. He glances at the coffee. "This is decaf?"

Greg nods. "And—I got there right when they were closing, so the line wasn't very long, and they were a little open to meticulosity—uh, I tried to make it special."

Tom takes a sip and his face lights up a little. "Fuck, Greg, you're dragging me to an early grave—how much sugar did you put in this?"

Greg bites his lip. "It's good, though, yes?"

"Yes, Greg, you sleazy fuck. Keep these coming."

Greg nods. He's still kind of incredibly on edge. The wine isn't any help on that front.

Tom's grin falters a little as he watches Greg. "Hey, everything okay?"

Greg grips the glass a little tight. "Yeah, yes, everything is positively fine." He doesn't look Tom in the eye. 

He kind of hopes Tom will offer this freely, but he's not sure they're at that junction.

Tom gives him a sidelong glance between sips of overpriced froufrou decaffeinated latte.

Greg takes in a sharp breath. He might as well bite this bullet. "Can I—would it perhaps be alright with you if I stayed here?" His eyes wander from Tom's concerned face to the wine glass and the pale liquid, and then back to Tom again. "Not—not forever, since I feel like that'd maybe be a little—burdensome? But just tonight? Just tonight should work. I'll be out of here tomorrow."

Tom looks at him with a frown, and those wide, blue, sad eyes, and he nods. He almost sounds disappointed when he says, "Yeah, sure. You can stay here for a night."

Greg can't tell if that's disappointment directed at him for daring to barge in like this, or just Tom being Tom. It's almost impossible to read Tom. It's still a rather uncomfortable pang in the chest, though.

Greg looks away from Tom, and his eyes wander across the room. "Hey, where's Mondale?"

Tom scoffs, immediately shifting into a tone more frustrated than morose. "Shiv left a sock out." He glances towards the empty playpen with thinly-veiled annoyance.

Greg clears his throat. "Is he okay?"

"He'll be fine." Tom chuckles. "It's not his first sock."

"Is Shiv okay?"

"After Italy?" He pauses. "She isn't on speaking terms with me, if that's what you're asking."

Greg mulls over that sentence for a second. "Did something happen in Italy? Between you two?"

"A staircase."

Greg blinks. Swallows down the rest of Tom's wine. Circles fingers around the base of the glass.

How does the rest of that story go?

Nero pushes his wife down the stairs.

He castrates Sporus and marries him instead.

He gives Sporus a ring and dresses him like his wife.

Shit. The bizarre and fucked-up puzzle pieces in Tom's head are starting to fit together, forming a real picture. Greg's not sure if this is Tom completely insane or completely in denial. Maybe it's both.

Truthfully, it's a little insane to think Tom would want him, or even need him, especially after everything. After seeing the real him, seeing the parts Greg's let slip through. 

It's even more insane to think that Tom would want Greg so badly he'd kill his own wife without second thought.

It feels good. It feels fucking great . It sends chills down his spine.

Shit. Is there anything Greg can do to speed this process up a little?

Maybe it's better to let this happen on its own, though. Greg's a little drunk on Tom. He can let this happen with a little more patience.

"Right, yeah," is all that Greg says.

Tom nods. "So," he begins, changing subject, "we have a guest room, if you want—"

"Oh, uh, I'm not—I'm not really that tired yet? I'm actually—I'm feeling rather invigorated, Tom."

Tom looks him over for a minute. "Sure. I have some work to do tonight with the merger, so I'm not going to be bringing the house down, but if you want to put something on, that's fine."

"Could we put on, like, a slasher movie?"

He rolls his eyes. "If those atrocious wastes of camera film entertain you, sure. Not like I'll be watching it."

"You'll be in the room though? With me?"

He laughs. "What, you need me to hold your hand? Are you gonna crawl into my bed when you get nightmares tonight, too?"

Greg puts on a pout, pushes out his lower lip, tries not to lay it on too thick, and Tom succumbs with a heavy sigh. "Sure, Greg. I'll get the iPad."

Satisfied, Greg sets up the movie.

Tom's scrolling through websites and typing out emails on the couch. Tom's eating the muffin Greg bought him. Greg's on the other end, sprawled out a little. Tom's got little bifocals on. Or—wait, maybe they aren't bifocals. No lines. They look like reading glasses.

Fuck, he looks hot. Cute, even. As cute as you could justifiably call a man pushing 50.

Greg sinks down across the couch lengthwise as the movie goes on and he grows slightly drowsier. He's seen this movie a hundred times. He just wants any excuse to make these moments last a little while longer.

His head finds a cushion in Tom's thigh. He rubs Tom's bicep. Tom's got a nice gray cardigan on. It's soft. Greg tries to hug his arm, somehow. 

It doesn't work all that well, but he hears the iPad click shut above him. 

Tom shifts to give Greg a better spot to rest. Tom's fingers run through his hair, and he's hugging Greg back. 

Greg's still on his side. This position should probably be more uncomfortable than it is.

It's not.

Greg melts into Tom's gentle touches. The characters on the screen watch a slasher film. Greg's eyelids are heavy.

It's good to know Tom's here.

In the morning, Greg finds that Tom hasn't moved, and he's snoring above him.

He closes his eyes and feigns sleep a few hours longer.

•••

There's a lot being juggled with this company merger. Tom's busier. Greg's busier. Greg's got a multi-million dollar lawsuit he's dealing with on the Greenpeace front and Tom's running the news cycle ragged with the new election coming up.

Within about a week post-Kendall kicking Greg out of the apartment, three big things happen.

The first thing is just that Greg's doing incredibly well for himself. Better than well, actually. It's the closest he's ever been to the status his cousins always had, and it's only partially being facilitated by Tom's slightly manufactured enthusiastic news cycle.

It starts as the work week does, after Greg's found a halfway-decent hotel he can afford with the new salary (and perhaps he's not being frugal enough with his spending, but $15k a night for now doesn't really sound that bad when he's looking at close to a million a year). Greg's phone starts pinging and lighting up with calls and texts and emails. It's like a fucking vibrator.

He scrolls through what push notifications he can actually see and reaches towards the television remote. He clicks it on, and tentatively flips through the channel guide until he can find ATN.

Pioneering a Brave New World: Greg Hirsch Fighting the Woke Leftist Mob at Greenpeace.

He blinks. He purses his lips. He runs through a list of people he's told this to in his head.

Contessa… didn't seem to care that much.

Comfrey… would not be using this information in this way.

Tom….

Maybe?

Which means it's probably, definitely Tom, somehow.

He's nothing but nerves. He buttons on a suit. He throws on a coat. He fastens a black tie around his neck. He slicks his hair back.

In the lobby downstairs, he's recognized almost immediately. Some people watch him with wonder or shock or awe. Some with careful regard. Some with disgust.

It's like his very presence in this room is enough to command attention and respect.

Shit. That's an obscene amount of new power to just have. He strolls across the lobby to the exit. He basks in the feeling that he's someone important, just a little.

He hasn't seen his cousins in a while, but he can only imagine that's related to Tom, too.

It's like the universe has flipped on its head and all the shit Greg's dealt with is finally starting to fucking pay off.

He calls up one of the company vehicles.

His new office is huge. That's also Tom. When he says he'll take Greg with him to whatever the bottom of the top has to offer, he fucking delivers . 

At the door to his office, a mousy woman with oversized glasses and dark hair is waiting for him. "Mr. Hirsch?"

Greg ignores her for a moment, settling into the new chair and spinning about. She steps into the room and clears her throat.

"Uh, hello, Mr. Hirsch." She wrings her hands together and stares through him. "My name is Angela. I'm your P.A. starting today. Excited to be working with you."

Greg eyes her for a second, and then it hits. Oh. This is his Greg.

He nods, sitting up and crossing his arms. He lets out a shaky breath. "Okay. Geez, I didn't think… okay." He laughs. "Hey, get me a coffee from downstairs?"

She blinks. "Just black?"

"Yeah, whatever, just do it, okay?"

She leaves, and he stands up. He rushes across the halls to Tom's office.

Tom's on a phone call when Greg enters. "Oh, hey, something important has come up," Tom mutters on the line. "Let's continue this in about fifteen?" He sets it down. "Hey, Gregory." He's beaming.

Greg catches his breath, mouth slightly agape. "Did you do all this, Tom?"

He grins. "What do you think?"

Greg runs a hand through his hair. Messing it up, no doubt. He can't tear his eyes away from Tom's expectant gaze. He nods. "It's—it's different. Wow." He laughs in breathy exhales. "I didn't—when you said that, in Italy, I wasn't exactly thinking—" he laughs again, louder. "Why?"

Tom looks at him tenderly, like he's been something important this entire time, like he's been waiting for Greg to catch on. "Our lanky little prince charming should get what he deserves." He reaches across the desk, takes a sip of coffee, sputters for a second. "Shit. I thought I told Ethan caramel latte."

Greg can't help but smile bitterly. Only he would ever get Tom's scrupulous orders right the first time. "You got one, too?"

Tom nods, setting the cup back down. "Interns from NYU. You were easier to train. Worked harder, too."

Greg takes some sick satisfaction in that. "Maybe you ask me next time? For coffees? This Ethan—I'm sure he's fine, but he's not…."

"Not quite Waystar Two." Tom chuckles. "I can't rely on you for everything, Gregory—didn't you get the email?"

"What email?" He frantically pulls his phone out.

"Everything I set you up for? Buddy, you're swimming with the big fish now."

He's right. It's a lot. It's more than Greg's ever been scheduled for. Tom's trying to make him an even bigger deal. A bigger shot.

"What about—I thought maybe this meant Brightstar—"

"Greg, you're on fucking Good Morning America this week." Tom laughs. He quiets down a little bit seeing the indignant look on Greg's face. "Listen, I just want you to go through that itinerary, do those things for us, and I'll get parks on your shortlist. Does that sound reasonable, hotshot?"

Greg goes through the email, which is itself a pretty extensive list, and gives Tom a tight nod. "Yeah. Yes, I can do that."

"Good. You should probably make it to the newsroom, though."

Greg thumbs to the top of the list. Exclusive interview with ATN.

About fifteen minutes from now.

He nods. He shoves the phone into a jacket pocket. "Yeah, I'll do that."

Greg's next few weeks are packed, and he's almost thankful for the intern personal assistant, since he can shove most of the grunt work her way. Back-to-back interviews in the daytime, Late Night talk shows, and Tom's even got him a few photo shoots set up. He's on billboards and his name's in lights in Times Square and he's on the cover of TIME and People and The Economist .

Everything happens fast. His face is everywhere. Everyone knows who he is, and the ones that don't aren't relevant enough to matter.

It's a little funny, when he gets that month's issue of TIME delivered to him, because he's the cover story, and a short interview Shiv, Kendall, and Roman have done for the magazine is all the way on page 20, barely even a blurb on the front.

In the restroom between events, he lights a blunt and hopes it'll calm him down a little.

It doesn't.

The entire next week, Tom takes him out to get better clothes. More tailored clothes. Fitted fancy suits and shirts and turtlenecks and slacks. Grays and whites and blacks and blues. He pays for everything. He shoves outfits at Greg and asks him to try them out.

In one of their little tests, Greg's got on a white turtleneck, a gray blazer, and dark slacks, and a thought comes to him.

The way Tom's dressing him up for the world….

He sure looks a lot like Shiv used to, doesn't he?

In the mirror, he messes with his hair a little. Wonders if he should grow it out. Pulls mascara and lipstick from his bag and stares at his reflection. Applies a layer or two.

Greg's not at all the same build as his cousin, and they barely share any traits in common, save for maybe the blue eyes.

But there's something of an uncanny resemblance going on.

His breath hitches. He wonders what would happen if he leaned into this a little. If he tailored a dress and surprised Tom with it. If he stole her wedding gown.

He stores those ideas away for later. He puckers and pops his lips a little. He admires his look for a few more seconds and joins Tom outside.

"Yeah, I really— really like this one, Tom."

His wardrobe's much bigger with these tailor-made outfits.

He might need to find a place to live soon, with how much Tom's pampering him and preening him.

It's like a mutually beneficial relationship. Greg gets to stand in the spotlight with Tom's help, and Greg gathers whatever useful bits of information he can to bring back to Tom about what people are thinking, what they're saying, how the company is perceived, how his cousins might be doing, and so on.

He gets to be Tom's attack dog.

The second big thing to happen hits as Greg gets a slightly unexpected phone call in the middle of the night.

Greg's usually asleep around three in the morning, but this isn't exactly the first time he's had a sudden wake-up to Tom making a request of him. He's surprised to find his personal phone ringing out—Tom had bought him a new one after he complained about the rate of notifications he was getting, and so his old one is on mute. 

When he reads the name that lights up on the screen, he sits up and clicks the phone open. "Tom?" His voice croaks.

"Gregory, are you decent?" Tom's deep voice is the only sound in the room.

"Decent—yeah, uh, about as decent as one might expect?" Greg rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Wait, did something happen? It's not—" he lowers his voice "—it's not prison-affiliated, right?"

He laughs on the other end of the line. "No, Greg, Jesus. No. Hey, would you be able to come see me in around twenty minutes?"

Greg sighs. "Is this a work thing? Can it—could we do this tomorrow, perchance? If it's a work thing?" He'd rather just go back to sleep if it's a work thing.

"Gregory, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience," Tom continues, tone of voice as if Greg had never spoken at all. "Even a spruced-up slick fucker like yourself can appreciate that. Come by in twenty, okay, Sporus?"

Greg brushes his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah. Sure thing, uh… Nero."

The call cuts off. 

Okay. This could go one of two ways. Option one—Tom is being Tom and he just wants some company while he bitches and moans about some problem or another over a plate of eggs. Option two is that Greg's two-year silent wish that some wire would cross in Tom's head and he'd finally wed and bed is coming true.

The latter probably requires more effort to be the option at this particular moment in time. But it never hurts to hope.

He puts on a button-up and a blazer. He fixes his hair. He runs makeup across his face. Not enough to be noticeable, but it gives him an extra confidence boost he can't readily ignore.

He heads out the door.

The address Tom sends him is for some luxury hotel on the verge of the financial district that he doesn’t recognize.

It's fucking huge.

The lobby is spacious. There are giant golden chandeliers overhead. The elevator is glass. The floor is marble. There are carefully carved stone fountains in the center. Plants and shrubbery dot the alcoves in an attempt to make the place feel more alive. 

The entire setup leans towards grossly ostentatious, but Greg's never been one to reject ostentatiousness. There's something comforting in all this luxury being his new normal.

He rides the elevator to the level Tom's staying at. He knocks on Tom's door. The rush of being in a place like this so late is enough of an adrenaline boost to keep him on his feet, despite the late hour.

Tom opens the door, a wild grin spreading across his face. "Gregory, what the fuck took you so long?"

Greg grins back. "You’re just quite the challenge to locate is all. Hotel and everything." 

Greg takes a few shaky breaths. He's not sure where this is going.

Tom laughs. "Come in. See Casa Wambsgans for yourself."

He shuts the door behind Greg, and the first thing he registers is a face full of tongue as Mondale jumps on top of him. Greg stumbles backwards, catching himself against the wall. "I guess he missed me." He rubs Mondale's fur, and Mondale slumps onto the floor, rolling over for him. Greg kneels down to rub his stomach.

Tom watches them as he pours a few glasses of champagne. "Greg, you cheeky little fucker. He's never this excited. At this point he's gonna be begging you to take him home."

Greg entertains the idea of telling Tom that they could cut out the middle man and just live together, if he wants. He doesn't say anything.

Tom hands him one of the glasses. "Don't spill. The up charge on stains here is obscene."

Greg nods, taking the drink, taking a few sips. Tom downs his quickly, and quickly pours another glass for himself.

His face is flushed. Greg wonders how many drinks he's had before he showed up.

Greg stands up. "Hey, is everything good?"

Tom laughs. "Good? It's fucking great! Everything is finally looking up, Greg." 

Greg has a hunch, but when he looks down, he sees that Tom's silver wedding ring is still snugly in place.

His heart sinks, but he forces a smile regardless. "So, pray tell, what's the good news?"

"I left her."

Greg blinks. Stares at his ring. Stares back at Tom. "Come again?"

"We're through. I'm done. I'm calling up my lawyers tomorrow." He laughs. His grin dissipates for a second. "It's over." He looks into Greg's eyes. He gives another mirthless laugh. "Isn't that a riot?"

"What is?" Greg asks.

"We haven't even reached our anniversary. Less than a fucking year. It's like we're playing fucking LIFE on a time crunch." He downs the rest of the liquid, reaches towards the bottle to pour himself more. 

Greg grabs it first. It's scarily light.

"What the fuck, Greg? You aren't even finished with yours."

"How much have you had?"

Tom scoffs. "For fuck's sake, Greg, do I look like a fucking abacus? Counting everything that your feeble fucking brain can't comprehend? Just give me—" he grasps at it again and Greg holds it above his head.

Greg frowns. "Are you okay? Like, actually okay?"

"Of course I'm okay. I've never been fucking better."

Greg nods. He finds a shelf and puts the bottle down.

Tom simmers for a second, but he freezes up as soon as Greg puts hands on his shoulders. His wide eyes stare into Greg's for a second. He breathes hard.

Greg squeezes him. "Hey, this is good. I'm proud of you, man. She was making you miserable."

Tom looks up at him and nods, lips pressed together in a firm line. "Yeah. Yeah, she was, Greg."

Greg's hands move lower, and his arms wrap around Tom. He feels Tom stiffen up under him. He feels arms sliding around him. Tom melts into Greg, and Greg into Tom.

They stand in the hotel room quietly like this for a few minutes.

Greg elects to look after Tom for the evening, nursing him with glasses of water. They talk about Tom's marriage a little. They talk about Greg.

Tom mentions staying with Shiv publicly, so they don't get any negative press while the election is still going. It burns Greg up inside, but he doesn't say anything.

Tom crawls into bed around five in the morning. Greg calls work for them. They won't be coming in today.

Dawn is breaking. Greg stands in Tom's bedroom, wrapping Tom up in blankets. He gets on his knees next to the bed.

Before Tom falls asleep, Greg reaches down, brings Tom's hand to his lips, and presses a kiss on the back of his hand. It's innocent enough that neither of them thinks much of it.

Greg brings Tom's fingers to his mouth. Tom watches him with shallow breaths. Greg catches Tom's ring in his teeth. Greg lets his teeth drag slowly across Tom's knuckles. The ring falls into his mouth. It's smooth against his tongue. Greg pulls it out with his other hand, looking at Tom intently. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Hey, is it okay if I keep this?"

He figures, if they're getting separated, maybe Tom won't miss it when he's sober.

Tom nods, about as frantically as he can in his tired state. His breaths are still coming short. He hasn’t looked away even once.

Admiration, attention, lust… maybe even concern in his eyes.

Perhaps there's something to exploit, there.

He lets go of Tom's hand, and puts the ring around his finger. He brushes Tom's hair back with that hand. He cups Tom's face. Tom's eyelids fall lower. He presses a kiss on Tom's forehead.

"Dream about me, okay, Tommy?"

When Tom's safely, soundly asleep, Greg leaves the hotel room.

He stands against the door in the hallway. He didn't think he had that in him.

Stealing his cousin's makeup is one thing. Stealing her husband is another. 

His heart races when he looks at his hand. He runs his fingers over the silver band. 

If they actually got married, someday, would Tom buy him a nicer one? One with diamonds or gold?

For now, he's content with this.

He brings the ring back to his mouth, kisses it, relishes the taste of Tom against his tongue.

His legs give, and he falls against the door in the hallway. No one is awake. No one is coming out. He undoes his belt.

For a good thirty minutes, it's him, Tom's ring, and a carpet, and nothing else matters.

The cleaning staff won't care.

In the days that follow with the interviews set up, people ask him about the ring. There's a rush that runs through him at the fact that people notice it. It's not a unique ring by any means, so it's not easily tied back to Tom. He just says it's something of an engagement he's looking to collect on.

The third notable event happens around a week later. The lawsuit being heard in court is around the corner. Ewan is in New York again, and he calls Greg up. He tells him to meet him in some shitty run-down restaurant Greg's never been to. Tom's never taken him.

At their table, Ewan eyes him with disapproval and vitriol.

Greg glances down for a minute. He's in one of the cashmere cable knit sweaters Tom bought him. He's got a golden new watch around his wrist that Tom also bought him. He's wearing Tom's ring. He's got Tom written all over him—in how he looks, in how he smells, in how he conducts himself—it's an almost gaudy display of wealth, and it's someone else's wealth decorating him like a mosaic.

He wonders if that's what Ewan is taking issue with. The grandiosity. The way Greg refuses to hide in faux destitution like he does and pretend it's building character.

Ewan doesn't speak to him when bread is brought to their table. Greg clears his throat. "So, Gramps, back in the Big Apple?" He tries to smile for him. 

Ewan glares at him coldly over a menu.

Greg purses his lips, tapping the edge of the table. "Not much of a talker today?"

Ewan lowers his menu, setting it on the table. "Do you know how many homeless there are in this city?"

Greg frowns. He runs his fingers over the ring. "Uh, not really, no."

"Over sixty-eight thousand."

Greg gives him a sheepish laugh. "Wow. Okay. Big number, there." He glances down at the menu. The prices are absurdly low compared to some of the things he's had recently. 

He could go for foie gras. It's not listed.

"You've taken to presenting yourself like a complete fool." His grandfather glares at him, at his clothes, at his hair. "You're prancing around in this soulless display, and you seem to forget your callousness is going to be your undoing."

Greg grins, tight, a little baffled. "Okay. Not entirely crystal on what you're getting at, here?"

"You need to stop being a petulant brat." Ewan folds his hands together on the table. "Your idiotic exhibitionism is going to cost millions of lives. Including your own."

Greg's grin falls. "Is this—is this about Greenpeace?" His fingers tighten around his menu.

"You need to drop it."

Greg laughs. "I need to drop it?" He puts the menu down. "I'm doing pretty well for myself, I would think, actually?" He runs fingers over the ring. His heart races. He feels a little emboldened to backtalk. "Why should I drop it, exactly? You could—perhaps, you reconsider your own generous philanthropy, and maybe we'd be square?"

There's nothing but disappointment across his grandfather's face, but Greg's never been enough for him. It's just a slightly more intense look of what's always across his face when he sees Greg. He sees how Ewan treats other people, and he sees how Ewan is capable of affection. He just withholds it all from Greg, out of some twisted desire to teach him a lesson.

Greg is acutely aware of the way Ewan has always looked at him. Of what he sees in him. The way he looks at Greg—it's how he looked at his father.

Ewan doesn't respond to Greg's request. Instead, he stands up, pushing his chair back into place, and sliding his coat on. "You are a blight on this family, and you make me ashamed."

He puts his hat on, and he leaves the restaurant.

He won't text Greg again.

Greg finds a restroom, and clutches the sink hard with both hands, staring himself down. Strands of his hair have fallen across his face. He breathes heavily. The world goes fuzzy around him. He runs cold water from the faucet and splashes his face and he can't care that it's running down his arms and soaking into his sweater.

It's official now, in a sense. Greg stuck his head out of his shell and let his grandfather see who he really is, and he's only been cut off and discarded like the rot that he is.

His grandfather is severely disappointed in him, more than he usually is, and it's like salt in a wound. His family would never look out for him, not really, and certainly not now .

He can't even be surprised—he knew this would happen, eventually, somehow—and yet, that doesn't stop the way despair starts to set in, the way his heart drops to his stomach, the way his blood runs cold, the way he can't catch his breath no matter how much he gasps, the way his limbs grow numb, the way his vision blurs and his ears ring….

He's dressed in the emperor's clothes. He wonders if the Greg that puked out of Doderick's eye holes would ever be able to recognize him now.

He looks like his father.

Sweat drips down his face. He stumbles into a stall and dry heaves.

With everything that's happened as of late, he's become somewhat inseparable from Tom again. He's not so much a person as he is Tom's project. A spiffy new model Tom can pimp out as he pleases. A pedigree on a diamond-encrusted leash, shown off to the world, with a choke hold of a collar he wrapped around his own neck.

At this point, it's the only good option, and at least Tom seems to be doing some of this for Greg.

Some fucked up voice in his head finds it enthralling, being so deep in Tom's sights and Tom's grasp that Tom would do anything for him, even if it's all at the cost of Greg's soul in Tom's hands.

A memory of a deal with the devil rings in his ears.

He wonders if Tom could love him like he is, now that he's become so different, now that he's effectively destroyed his own family.

Maybe Tom loves him more for it.

He's a mess. He's whatever Tom's designed.

Maybe that means Tom has to love him. Existing as whatever Tom wants.

It's sickening. 

It's maddening. 

It's everything.

It makes him want to hurl.

Nothing comes out.

•••

Greg stands outside a courtroom. The day has finally come, and his case is going to be heard. He's run through this with some of the company's legal team, and they've pretty much told him he can sit back and leave it to his lawyers.

Still, that doesn't help him with the nervous jitters.

He catches Shiv outside the courtroom. She's wearing a jacket that's too big for her, with the shoulder pads jutting out unnaturally. She's got her hair in messy waves. She looks a little like a child's desperate attempt to put something extravagant together from the clearance rack.

Greg tries not to grimace. Uncle Logan must have cut them off, and it's hitting them hard. Probably not to the point that they're anywhere near where Greg was at his lowest, but… at the very least, close.

They're outside. Shiv holds a cigarette between her fingers. "Long time no see," she greets, looking him up and down. Her brows furrow. "What happened to you? Drag show I'm not aware of?"

He's wearing a pantsuit, and the usual amount of makeup on his face, but he can guess what Shiv is getting at—he must look a little like a fun house mirror to her. He gives her a tight grin. "Nice to see you too, Shiv."

She lets out an exhale of smoke. "So, how's Tom treating you?"

Greg forces a laugh. "Tom?"

She grins. "I mean, come on, this is all him, right?"

Greg doesn't say anything. He looks at her hands. She's still wearing her ring. It's much prettier than Tom's. More unique. He'd love to have it.

Shiv tilts her head a little, considering him further. "Freud wept." She brings the cigarette back to her mouth. Inhale, exhale. "But you're okay?"

Greg nods. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just that—you know, you're probably not that used to the limelight, and I get it."

He frowns. "Get what?"

"What you're doing."

Greg is quiet for a moment, and Shiv laughs. "What?" she continues. "I went through it, too, and look where it got me."

Greg wrings his hands together. He can't meet her eyes. "Went through—through what, exactly?"

She shrugs. "It's nice to have the attention. But it's fine. Just, you know, try not to make the same fucking mistake."

"What mistake?" Greg looks at the cigarette, at the ash spilling out the end.

"Does he make you feel important?" She pauses, examining him, letting the words sink in. "He makes you feel like you're special. You think you have to go through with all of this, yeah? You think it'll make him love you? Think it'll fix something?" She smiles. It doesn't meet her eyes. "It's okay. You don't have to do this."

Greg stiffens up. "What are you trying to say, exactly?"

Shiv shrugs. "Just giving you some advice. Tom can be a lot to handle, and we both know why you're putting up with him." She steps closer for a second. "We're family, Greg. I'm just looking out for you." She brushes a hand across Greg's suit. "By the way, you have some lint on here." She drops the cigarette and stomps it out.

Greg mulls over her words.

She steps back and looks him in the eyes. "Well, good luck today. It'll be fun to watch them tear you apart like a pack of wolves."

She leaves him outside.

Greg turns the ring over on his hand. He knows what this is. It's been going on for years.

He thinks about a summer day on the coasts of Ibiza, when he was about six, before their family was completely split from Logan's. He remembers finding seashells on the beach. They're pretty and they're smooth to the touch and they swirl about in such interesting patterns. He collects them in a bucket and tries to get Kendall to build a sand castle with him. He wants to decorate it with his shells. He plays in the water.

He returns to his bucket, and the shells are gone. Kendall, Roman, and Shiv are standing around a castle Greg didn't help with, and it's covered in shells.

As a child, Greg looked up to Shiv, because Shiv was older and cooler and she always won whatever games they were playing. She was admirable, and that's always been the case.

It means that Greg has to try twice as hard to keep up.

It means that Shiv took some of his things, every once in a while, to keep Greg in his place.

Greg would take things from her, too. It was a never-ending game of tug-and-war.

Tom's just their newest seashell.

At the same time, though, there's truth to her words that he can't ignore.

Vying for Tom's attention takes up most of his time. The rest is taken up by coming up with new ways he can vie for Tom's attention. He wants Tom to look at him. He wants Tom to touch him. He wants Tom to tell him everything is okay and Greg isn't doing anything wrong anymore and everything is fine, everything can be fixed, everything is already fixed, nothing was ever broken to begin with.

Tom sees him and it's the only thing in the world that matters. Tom holds him and time stops. Tom sees everything Greg hates and considers him precious for it. Tom's too good to be true. 

But Greg can't help wishing.

He should probably be smarter than this by now. He remembers a Shell station and a Dodge, and thinks, somehow, he's being used again.

•••

Even with some of the best lawyers money can buy, his case is thrown out immediately.

The well of opportunity dries up, and Greg's on his own. No more talk shows, interviews, magazines.… If anything, it seems like public opinion has completely turned on him.

The headlines are everywhere. Greg Hirsch loses $250M lawsuit against Greenpeace. Case thrown out day one.

Greg still has everything from before, but people regard him with contempt and pity and annoyance, and it feels a little bit like he's been set up.

Was Tom planning this?

Maybe Tom's in his office right now, having the last laugh. I really got this fucking idiot to trust me, and now he's ruined forever. He can't even go crawling back to his grandpa.

He's bitter, and it's so goddamn frustrating to think the only person he could conceivably feel was in his corner is also the person that was behind all of this promotion and press that got him here to begin with.

What a fucking joke.

Tom is swamped with work as is, and he doesn't talk to Greg immediately after the lawsuit falls through. He barely talks to Greg in the weeks that follow. It's infuriating. It's like Greg's nothing.

Maybe Tom really was only using Greg here.

Fuck. He almost wishes it was a year ago again. He wishes this wasn't so fucking draining. He wishes he could let go of this stupid fucking fixation he has.

He's sulking in his office, just a little bit, trying to process everything. He's a little high on cocaine. The fucking personal assistant walks in with a coffee that should have been here at least ten minutes ago. At least when Greg was doing this for Tom, he was timely . He had things he wanted to do outside of Tom, after all. But this woman's taking all the time in the goddamn world.

She sets the coffee on his desk, and he glances up at her, blatant irritable annoyance across his face.

She clears her throat. "Here you go, Mr. Hirsch," she says.

He glares up at her. She frowns. He grabs the coffee.

He can't drink this.

"What the fuck?" He puts it back on the desk.

"What is it?"

"You tell me." Greg's voice is raised. He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair.

She clears her throat again. "It's a mocha with an extra shot."

Greg shoves it across the desk. "Hold it."

"What?"

"Fucking hold it."

She picks the coffee back up. "I don't understand."

"Your fucking hands don't work, now, either?" He stands up. "It's fucking frigid, Angela. "  

She blinks. "I don't think it's that cold, Mr. Hirsch."

"You don't think so?" He lets out a mirthless laugh. "That's great. Let's send you to the fucking tundra. I'm sure you'd be a great fit."

"Please, calm down, Mr. Hirsch."

"I'm perfectly calm!" He's lying. He feels like the world is exploding around him. "Everything is fucking peachy. You're the only one that can't get their shit together. You can't even make a fucking coffee without fucking it all up somehow!"

He takes the coffee from her and trashes it. He lowers his voice and forces it to be steady. "What the fuck are we paying you for, Angela?"

She can't bring herself to speak to him. She looks like she's about to cry.

Good fucking riddance.

"Are you the best NYU has to offer?" He pauses. "The future looks bleak. I can't even get a good fucking intern."

She remains quiet. It's frustrating.

"Aren't you going to fucking say something?"

She opens the door to his office, steps out, and leaves.

Greg's alone and silent in an office. His pulse echoes throughout his skull. The anger doesn't dissipate, for all the beratement. He only feels worse.

He sinks back into his chair, puts his head in his hands, and waits for the high to pass.

Near the end of the day, Angela quits and moves departments.

•••

Tom meets him in his office at the end of the week. "Hey, Greg," he says. He's calm, a little quiet. He forces a laugh. "I hear it's been rough waters over here?"

Greg can't say anything. He doesn't even want to look at Tom. He's rubbing his face with his hands.

Tom walks around his desk and taps his shoulder. "Look at me, Greg."

Greg lowers his hands and glances up at him dejectedly. Tom looms over him. Tom rubs his shoulder a little bit. Tom smiles at him fondly. "You'll be okay."

Greg turns back to the desk. He lays his head against the surface. "No, I won't."

He feels numb to everything.

Tom puts his hands on Greg's arms, and beckons him to stand up. Greg sighs and follows through. Tom sits him on his desk and stands over him.

Tom smiles. "Hey, fuck Angela."

Greg blinks. He looks at Tom. "What?"

"Fuck her." He ruffles Greg's hair. He pauses. "Right, so, I was told to come down here and tell you to stop making your pathetic little interns cry. But, fuck them." His hand falls to Greg's cheek. He holds Greg's face gently. "It's been a hard week."

Greg crosses his arms, but he leans into Tom. Fuck, it still feels incredibly good when Tom touches him. He closes his eyes.

"You've been holed up in here," Tom continues. He laughs. "You're like a little grizzly. Just hibernating in your little cave."

Greg looks at him again. He doesn't say anything.

"It's all going to work out," Tom says. "Okay, Greg?"

"I fucked it all up," Greg mumbles. He can't meet Tom's eyes.

"No, you didn't." Tom holds his face with both hands, looking at him straight on.

"But I kind of did?" Greg feels his shoulders stiffen. "I fucked myself with this Greenpeace thing. So I'm not getting anything, and my gramps cut me off forever, and now he wants nothing to do with me—"

"Greg, fuck your grandpa," Tom says, stern. "Have you seen the way he treats you? He'd have you starve to death for a fucking laugh."

Greg doesn't respond to him. There's an uncomfortable reality he doesn't want to acknowledge in Tom's words—it's that, yeah, he was starving. And now there's someone that cares whether he's getting three meals a day.

Tom's hands fall to his shoulders and he squeezes them tight.

Greg lets out an exhale. "Kendall kicked me out. So I'm living without a home."

Tom frowns. "Fuck Kendall, too. Kendall can't even buy you a fucking watch. You can move in with me."

Greg laughs despite the pit of despair in his stomach. He looks into Tom's eyes. "Shiv was mean outside the hearing."

Tom laughs. "Fuck, Greg, are you gonna list everyone that's ever slighted you for me to scold?"

Greg smiles at him, saying nothing.

Tom grins, fingers dancing across Greg's shoulders down to his arms. "Okay, then. Fuck Shiv, too."

"She's your wife," Greg mumbles.

"Yeah?" Tom chuckles. "What do you want me to say, Greg? Fuck me, too?"

Greg shrugs. Nods.

Tom laughs. "Fuck me."

Greg laughs with him. "Yeah, fuck you, Tom."

"Easy, there." Tom's beaming at him.

Greg's eyes wander to the floor. "I was kind of thinking you were potentially just using me," he mumbles. "Like, whoring me out? Just to laugh at me a little harder when this all fell apart. And then you wouldn't talk to me again."

Tom's face falls. "Gregory," he mutters, "what did I do to make you think that of me?"

Greg shrugs. "Maybe it's not you? Maybe it's just a pattern I've noticed."

Tom's hands wander to Greg's. "Fuck patterns. Fuck whoever made you think like that."

Greg looks at Tom's hands. His hands are so soft. They're big and soft and warm and they envelope Greg's hands like mittens. Greg lets out another shaky breath. "So, why, then?"

"Why, what?"

"Why do you do all of this for me?" Greg dares to try and meet Tom's eyes. "Why do you stick around?"

Greg doesn't deserve all of this. It's a thought that he's carried this entire time, and it's suffocating. 

In some ways, he hates knowing Tom. He hates knowing that Tom thinks he deserves anything. It means that Greg has the capacity to be loved, in spite of—or maybe even because of—his flaws, and it means that Greg has to realize that day after day.

Tom smiles. He entwines his fingers in Greg's for a moment. "You're my dear little Sporus," he says. He leans in a little closer, meeting Greg's gaze. "You're smart. You're cunning. You're ambitious. You're sharp."

"I'm a fucking parasite," Greg mumbles.

Tom frowns. "You really think that?"

Greg doesn't say anything.

Tom lets go of Greg's hands for a moment. He hugs Greg to his chest. He runs a hand through Greg's hair.

"If you're a parasite," Tom mutters, "I'll let you feed on me. In fact, I'll encourage it."

"You will?"

"Yeah, I will. Fuck me up, you greedy piece of shit."

Greg laughs. He presses his face against Tom's chest. "Tell me what else you like about me, please?"

Tom's hands run across Greg's back, holding him tighter. Greg relishes in Tom's warmth on his skin. Tom's heart pounding through his ears.

"Let's see," Tom begins. "You're fucking gorgeous, for one."

"Am I?"

"Of course." He melts a little deeper into Tom's arms. "You're tall. You finally have some meat on your bones. You've got a very pretty face. Your hair is gorgeous. Your lips are gorgeous. Your eyes, too. Some days I want your face on every corner, just so everyone else can see it, too. Or I just want to keep you to myself, since none of these other fucks deserve you."

"Would you?"

"Hm?"

"Keep me to yourself?"

Tom stiffens up. "Why? Do you want that?"

Greg's quiet. Tom lets go of him and straightens him up. He searches Greg's face.

Tom swallows, hard. His hands fall on Greg's thighs. "Yes, Greg, I would absolutely keep you to myself."

Greg looks at Tom. He feels his heart skip a beat. No one's ever said something like that to Greg before, and never so plainly. It's like all the pretense between them has fallen.

Greg's hands grip Tom's.

Tom's eyes flicker between Greg's eyes and his lips. "Tell me what else you want."

Greg considers this for a moment. Every thought that's ever come across his head spills out at once. "I want you to divorce your wife."

"Done."

"I want you to look at me. I want you to only have eyes for me. I don't want you to look at anyone else the way you look at me."

Tom nods. His breathing starts to grow ragged.

"I want you to take care of me. I want you to do everything for me. I want you to give me a home and buy me nice things and go out with me and feed me nice meals."

Tom's hands squeeze his thighs.

"I want you to do whatever you want to me." Greg feels his own breathing growing irregular and heavy. "I want you to always be there for me."

Tom's nodding.

"I want you to love me more than anyone—or anything else. I want to be yours."

Tom nods and lets go of him for a second. He puts his hands on Greg's face. "Jesus fucking Christ, Greg, you really know how to turn a girl on."

Greg laughs. Tom presses his lips to Greg's. Greg blinks for a moment, surprised, and he pulls Tom in deeper.

It's everything and it's perfect and he wishes it could last forever. 

Tom breaks away first. He laughs.

Greg frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. I didn't think you felt that way."

"Really?" Greg smiles and brushes hair behind his ear. "I thought I was making it obvious?"

"You weren't, you dick ." Tom glances around the office and looks at his watch. "Janitors will be down soon. Do we want to continue this at my place, Sporus?"

Greg nods. "Yes. Yeah, that sounds good."

•••

Tom's in the bedroom. Greg's in the bathroom. He's trying to get everything perfect. He doesn't want anything less.

He's got some dollar store lipstick he wants to try out. He applies it, and brushes a finger against his lips. This stuff will come off. Excellent news.

He puts on more. He's sure this will be obvious, compared to his usual look. He wonders what Tom will think.

He's wearing something nice that Tom bought for him. He slicks his hair back a little bit. He grins.

"Gregory, are you going to spend all week in there?"

"No—no, I'm coming out, now," he calls. He tucks a few stray hairs back in place and lets out a shaky breath. He turns out the light and finds Tom waiting for him at the door.

Tom laughs. "I was getting worried." He looks Greg over, eyes widened. "You got—" he mimes applying lipstick.

Greg nods. "Do you—uh, you like it, right?"

Tom grins. "Yeah. It suits you."

He's taken off his blazer. Just his tie, a button-up, slacks, and suspenders are left. Greg basks in him for a moment.

Part of him can't believe this is happening. The other part is elated .

He walks towards the bed, makes sure everything is in order. Tom joins him and presses a kiss to Greg's cheek.

When Tom breaks away, he reaches to undo his tie. Greg pushes him backwards onto the mattress instead.

Tom laughs. "Someone's eager."

Greg joins him on the bed. Straddles him. Leans down and undoes his tie for him. Opens his shirt, button by button. He kisses Tom, trying to make it deeper, trying to make it last longer. He brushes fingers against Tom's graying hair. He breaks away and peppers kisses down Tom's neck, across his collarbone, down his chest, across his tits.

It's a little satisfying to see the lipstick leave stains.

Tom shoves Greg's clothes off. Greg lets them fall to the floor.

He moves down. He bites at Tom's neckline. He wants to leave marks. He doesn't want them washed off. He wants everyone to see them.

Tom's breath hitches. "Holy fuck, Greg." He laughs. "You fucking love bug."

Greg meets his eyes again, grinning, and kisses him again. He basks in the sounds Tom makes, the way Tom moans into his mouth.

It's bliss. Everything is bliss.

Greg fucks Tom better than his wife ever could. It's exactly why he's here. He gets to be special and important. The only things in the world are Tom, him, and the bed. Tom looks at him like he's precious and beautiful and everything he's ever wanted. Greg gets to ride him.

In a New York City apartment, for hours and hours and hours, Greg is loved.

Greg falls asleep on Tom's chest. Tom's arms wrap snugly around him. Greg presses his face against Tom's tits and focuses on the sound of Tom snoring underneath him.

Tom wakes up around ten. Greg hasn't moved. Tom shuffles upward on the bed a little, sitting up. Greg blinks up at him.

"Morning," Greg greets. He smiles.

Tom laughs. "Gregory," he says, drawing Greg's name out in a sing-song tone, "you never told me you were a bona fide whore. Jesus Christ."

Greg doesn't move. "It was good, then?"

"Good? Greg, if that was good, I don't want to know what you think great is." He laughs. "Fuck. You're stuck with me now. I never want to see you fucking another man like that ."

Greg turns over, looking down at Tom. Tom's hair is still a mess. Tom's eyes are focused on him. He leans down and kisses Tom. "Good thing I'm happy being stuck, then."

"Are you, now?"

Greg laughs. He sits up on Tom. He admires his handiwork. Red lipstick stains are dotted across Tom's skin. He's got a new hickey or two. Or ten. 

There's something nice in knowing that Tom is his, too.

Greg slides out of the sheets. "Hey, I'm hungry."

Tom smiles up at him. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking, you make me something, perhaps?" Greg throws on one of Tom's shirts. "I haven't had, like, anything you've cooked before. Something with eggs, maybe?"

Tom chuckles, stands up, and brushes hair out of Greg's eyes. "Slick little fucker, aren't you? Making me do all this work as soon as I wake up. I'm spoiling you rotten."

Greg grins. "You like it, though."

Tom kisses his cheek. "Very much so. I love seeing you spoiled. Help me get the eggs out."

Tom walks to the bathroom for something, and Greg heads to the kitchen. He scratches Mondale behind the ears next to the kitchen table and takes four eggs out of the carton. Tom rushes back out in giddy excitement.

"Greg, what the fuck?" He laughs. "I look like a fucking Looney Tunes character."

"I like it. You look cute." Greg shrugs, smiling. He cracks an egg into a bowl.

Tom looks at him like he's hung the moon and the stars and the sun. 

Maybe, just maybe, he can have this.

For this morning, and the next one too.

He knows this won't last. It never does. He knows Tom will get bored of him. He knows they'll lock eyes at a Shell station of their own, and the moment will pass forever, barely a memory of it remaining.

Still, though, it might be nice to pretend. Just for a little while.