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posing in bondage / no distance left to run

Summary:

Just a small OOC vent because I'm bored. Inspired by No Distance Left to Run - Blur.

Work Text:

"You fucking - you fucking little prick. You fucking little piece of shit."

 

Both men grunt, not really trying to hurt the other but to send a message: a petty scrap for dominance as they push each other and leave no marks, no trace. They don't speak of it after. The walls may keep it as theirs to bear witness to only. 

 

-

 

"You fսckеd it, man. Quad man. Matsson hates you. Wants a clean-out." 

 

There's a glimmer of something in Tom's eyes. At least when Greg replays it in his head there is. Clutching his pocket, thinking, waiting. Greg can't see his hands. 

 

"Fսck," Greg mutters. Trying to show he's sorry without saying it, without acting out of his Tom-shaped mold.

 

He doesn't know what else to say. Greg hears the next words and almost wants to smile. 

 

"You are a fսcking piece of shit."

 

Greg waits. He waits for the inevitable but, waits for the praise for being so slimy, for being good, for being like Tom. 

 

He waits and he waits as he can hear a scrunch in Tom's pocket, a tightening hand. He pleads with him through a glassy-eyed expression intended to show that he's always been his. Tom and Greg, Greg and Tom. There's nothing else. There can't be anything else. 

 

Nothing comes. 

 

Greg opens his mouth and elicits a weak, "But-"  

 

Only to be met with nothing. A blank face and no more words given. So he just stands there, nothing left for him in this building without Tom. Nothing and nobody to follow. So Greg gambles on that nothing; he reaches a hand out in public, in front of this gloating corporate fuckery, for some genuine plea, a stroke of genuine friendship. 

 

An awkward pause. 

 

He can't read Tom's expression. It's either regret or disgust. He's unsure which is worse right now, as once again, nothing happens but a cold fold of humanity and Tom walking away to Gerri. 

 

Please turn your back and walk away. 

 

"Fuck."

 

He still doesn't know what else to say. 

 

It's over. 

-

 

It's difficult now. Greg's selling most of his scrounged up items on Vinted at this point, upselling them to people desperate enough to create an image of something he also tried to be. Kendall doesn't want to kick him out of the apartment, but he's starting new ventures and Greg definitely can't pay rent. 

 

There's some pride in him now, despite everything. He thinks maybe if he takes a job from Kendall, one offered that's increasingly more grunt-ish than what he could have had, makes a raft for himself and works , he can impress. Impress. Impress… Tom? 

 

Greg still thinks of it. He still thinks of Tom. Would that impress him? Or would it be better to be the thing Tom wanted of him, to be used

 

Betraying himself, he taps on his phone and hovers over the contact, just staring at it, their old texts too. He rifes through old emails for meaning. In these moments, in this horrid chest ache, he realises it's a yearn of something that's bubbled and pushed further down for years - a small bit of love, of weakness, of tender brokenness. 

 

Reaching his hand out - he must be an idiot. Peak weakness, replaying it over and over - the turned back and shoulders of the man - the worst part being Greg running from it after, unable to face that closed back. 

 

I won't kill myself trying to stay in your life. 

 

Clawing at that doubt he thinks he saw in Tom's eyes, he sends only a simple full stop into their messages. Greg doesn't have words, but he has reminders, reminders that he's still there, still thinking of him. He heard from Kendall that Shiv was pregnant - he's heard nothing of divorce proceedings, and what Greg doesn't want to feel in his gut or his heart to be true probably is. 

 

I hope you're with someone who makes you feel safe in your sleeping tonight. 

 

Greg bites his lip. It's all probably for the best. He still keeps the little container of coke they did on election night - a memento of sorts to his own subservience, how he's good , how he can be good, how things were. 

 

Tom probably still does coke, right? A little bit of a fiend for it as the years passed. The child-proof lock on the shot clicks with a pop and Greg stares into the powder a little before getting some out on his hand, pretending it's Tom's. Just a little to remind him. All he hopes is that in moments like these, if Tom ever has them, Greg might cross his mind. 

 

When you're coming down, think of me here.