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The scene at the diner is like something out of a black and white film Tom’s father would put on on a Saturday morning. Two men dressed in dark suits sipping coffee and discussing crime. Only, they’re not in suits, Greg’s in his stupid tracksuit jacket with his hair standing up in every direction, flashing his fucking doe eyes. Was there ever a Neo noir movie where a detective takes it up the ass for his partner just because he asked him to? Tom guesses they’re not even detectives in this hypothetical movie, they’ve gotta be what, mob bosses? Well, he’s the mob boss, or husband to the mob boss. And Greg, well Greg couldn’t survive a life of crime, just look at those eyes. He probably wouldn’t fare well in prison. Tom should call up turner classic movies and maybe ask if they’re looking to hire someone in 12-18 months with a criminal record.
Leaving the little glass box is less cinematic. Tom stares at the ground and intends on following that trend until he gets to his car. Until, Greg’s pitchy voice cuts through the still night air.
“Tom”.
Tom almost doesn’t turn around. He sucks in his breath, expecting greg to ask him for something else and sighing like he knows he’d do it no matter what it was.
“What is it, Greg?”
“Thank you, really. I can’t- this is really kind of you.”
“Sure, Greg.”
Tom turns on his heel again.
“Wait, Tom.”
His patience is waning. He thought once he let go of hope, he’d pick up an abundance of patience, but losing something doesn’t always mean getting something in return. He’s beginning to learn that.
“What the hell is it Greg? Jesus. What else can I get for you? Want me to bring you back a souvenir too? A little shank with “Greggsy” carved into it?”
“I was just gonna ask for a ride home, I ubered here. but uh I can uber back- you know just rates after midnight-“
Tom clicks the keys, unlocking his ridiculous secret service looking Cadillac. It was less ridiculous when he had a driver, but this was a midnight jaunt he didn’t want even the possibility of being questioned about it.
“Jesus Christ. Get in.”
“Thanks.”
—————-
The ride is mostly silent. Greg won’t stop fidgeting. He’s nervous, but he’s already asked Tom the big question. Maybe he’s nervous just because Tom is there, all explosive, unpredictable, barely hinged 6 foot 4 of him. Tom can’t bring himself to care about Greg’s pretty little nerves.
They pull into the parking complex and no one seems keen on moving.
“Well, this is me.” Greg says, like Tom didn’t plug in the directions to his apartment complex.
“You gonna go then, Greg, buddy?”
Greg sucks in a breath, Tom takes a moment to look at him. His hair has settled into a strange shape and his face red in blotches. He looks strangely post coital. In reality, Tom’s the one who just got fucked.
He finally speaks, “Yeah I am but um, I know you said you can’t really sleep, did you wanna come up for a beer or something?"
Honestly, anything seems better than pretending to sleep next to Shiv right now.
Despite himself, a half smile breaks across his face, and his voice comes out soft, like he’s trying not to sound too eager that the quarterback asked him out to the prom. It’s just fucking Greg’s tacky high rise.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
———-
Once they’re settled on the couch, beer bottles in hand, something strange and bright playing on the television, Greg begins wiping his hands on his pants. It’s another one of his nervous gestures. Tom doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to give him the attention. Shouldn’t someone be taking care of him for Christ’s sakes? He’s going to prison for Greg! Not just for Greg, but that’s not the point. Anyway, his nervous little displays always made Tom uneasy.
“Cut it out Greg, the hard part is over. You’re shaking like a dog that’s about to piss himself. You’re not going to prison, remember? What’s wrong?”
“Um, yeah I know and thank you um, for that. I was wondering if I could do something for you, uh you know in exchange for your, uh kindness to me?”
Tom rolls is eyes, thinking of a shitty little gift Greg might get him. Perhaps a “World’s Best Scapegoat/Boss/PrisonBitch” mug.
“What did you have in mind? What could you possibly do for me? I’ll be stripped of all my material possession upon entrance you know.”
“Um. Yeah I know it’s more of um the gesture nature, more of like, an act of service?”
“Pfft. You’re already my assistant Greg, you gonna offer to pick up my dry cleaning? Because you’re already on payroll for that.”
“Well I figured maybe you and Shiv maybe haven’t been the most… uh intimate during this time-”
“That’s very presumptuous of you Greg! When has that ever been good for you?
Tom makes an effort to sound scandalized. It’s good to fuck with him. He’d also rather take a meat cleaver to his own dick than admit there’s anything wrong with him and Shiv.
Greg’s face is so expressive he wants to throw his beer at it. Wipe the look of defeat off it. “No. No. Jesus. Just forget it man.”
Thick silence falls over them, broken by the sound of the TV.
Tom decides to be forgiving,
“What were you going to ask me Greg?”
Greg’s working himself up again, wheels turning in his brain. He looks like someone who’s very burdened by thinking, like it’s a physical exercise. Maybe that’s just a way of rationalizing the fact that he looks stupid.
“I was going to ask if I can..”
“Uh huh? Spit it out buddy, whatever it is, I’m sure its nothing to get your panties in a twist about.”
Greg gulps and takes a deep breath, nodding. “Ok well, I was going to offer, rather, If you wanted, you know.. I could suck you off?”
Tom’s cheeks immediately flush, he feels his heart drop to his stomach and then out his feet.
His voice is stern, unbreaking in his response,
“Don’t fuck with me Greg. That’s not funny.”
“I’m not fucking with you dude.”
“What the hell? Are you some kind of fucking hooker, Greg? You can’t be serious. You offer to drop to your knees for everyone that does you a favor? Is that how you got the job at Waystar? Gave Logan a fucking bedside handy? What the fuck?”
“No, no dude, Logan is like my great uncle that’s gross.”
“Oh so you only proposition people you’re not related to for transactional sex. How classy of you Greg!”
“You can just say no. And I don’t. I’ve never done it before. Well I have like sucked- but I whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just figured, after that whole thing in your office. I thought you’d want me to.”
Tom goes for the defense, reflexively, “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply Greg, but I’m not sure I like it.”
Greg rolls his eyes. Fucking bastard. “Sure, Tom.”
Tom shifts uncomfortably in his pants. The images Greg’s proposition brought to mind, on his knees, pretty lips wrapped around his cock. Hands lost in his messy bed head.
Jesus Christ.
“We can wrestle like chickens then, like you wanted. C’mon let me have it.”
Greg stands, like he’s ready for Tom to crash into him, “Hit me.”
Tom swallows, frozen like a statue, “No.”
“No? You don’t want to wrestle with me?”
Tom shakes his head.
“Alright man.”
Greg sits back down.
Another moment of silence that seems to stretch for an eternity.
“I didn’t know you were gay,” Tom says shaky and quiet.
“Well, it’s not like you asked.”
“What made you think that I- I um..”
“Well I didn’t know. I had a guess, especially after the whole Nero and Sporus thing. But what, uh really gives it away Tom,”
Greg is confident all of the sudden, it makes Tom feel on edge, wrapped around his overgrown, feminine finger. He can’t bring himself to stop listening, wide eyed and vulnerable. He feels like a car that Greg jacked up. Cut the breaks and put a brick on the accelerator.
“Uh huh?”
He places a cupped hand on Tom’s crotch. Tom is on fire.
He whispers softly, but matter of factly, “Is that you’re really hard right now.”
Tom gulps again. The contact is unlike anything else. He feels possessed.
“Ok, yeah. Do it.”
Greg smiles slyly. Sly is never a word that should even come up when describing cousin fucking Greg, but here it is. “Yeah?”
Tom coughs, almost chokes, “Yes. Please.”
“Do you want to unbuckle your belt for me, Tom?”
“Yeah, Yeah I’ll do that.”
Tom works on his belt and Greg moves to unbutton the top of his shirt, kissing his neck. Stopping for a brief minute and Tom thinks that’ll kill him.
“Is this ok? I want you to feel good.”
Tom just nods. He’ll really die if he speaks, and of course, Greg can do nothing but order his execution.
“Tom, I’m gonna need you to talk to me.”
His dick isn’t even in his mouth yet and this already isn’t what Tom wants it to be. It’s already too soft. This is not the vision he’d had of this when Greg pitched (and maybe a couple other compromised times.) Tom just wants to fuck his mouth and get it over with. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Tom really wants to be someone that sex doesn’t matter to. It seems that Greg is hell bent on not letting him indulge in that illusion. Not even for a messy, one time blowjob.
“It’s ok, it feels good. Please keep going.”
Tom’s got is belt undone and his fly unzipped before Greg gets to the fourth button of his shirt. He hasn’t stopped kissing his neck and chest while he does it.
“You want me to take off your sweater?”
“Yes.”
Greg’s hands slip underneath the heavy thing and he lets them rest there, on Tom’s torso before gently pulling it over his head and making his way back to the buttons. This is going to be over very fast.
He makes it all the way down his shirt, kissing the exposed skin and as he goes lower, Tom places his hands on Greg’s head, non-committally threading his fingers through strands of hair and starring up at the celling, he can’t look at him.
Greg gets to his pants,
“Tom? You ready for me?” He says like Tom is a thousand feet in the air and Greg is doing traffic control for his landing.
He musters up a yes. Greg reaches a hand in and pulls out his dick, embarrassingly hard. At some point he’d dropped to his knees, probably when Tom was up there in the stratosphere. Now he looks up at him with patience, affection. He must have done this a lot, Shiv doesn’t even bother to look at him like that.
Just being touched is making him gasp, head swimming.
“Wait um, before.”
Greg listens eagerly,
“Shiv and I haven’t been. You were right about me and Shiv. So I might um,” he clears his throat, but his voice still cracks, “It might be fast.”
Greg smiles, “That’s okay, Thanks for telling me. You can come on my face if you want.”
He says, like its nothing. A little bomb in nice, consent themed packaging.
“Oh my god,” is all Tom can says as Greg takes him into his mouth.
He starts slow, licking a stripe along his length, Tom wants to fucking die. He’s going to fucking blow his load in 2.5 seconds if Greg does it again. He’s relieved when he takes him into his mouth. Deep throating him, head bobbing.
Tom mutters and gasps, “Fuck fuck fuck, Greg oh my god.”
He can’t bring himself to look away, Greg is so eager, he’s doing so good. He’s making Tom feel so fucking good. Making little muffled sounds that are going to push Tom to the brink of insanity.
Tom tugs on his hair twice, hoping Greg will get the message, he does.
It is over fast. Tom does come on his face, Greg staring up at him with wonder as he does. Big baby blues.
It’s an image he wants burned into the inside of his brain.
Maybe this was worth going to prison.
Then Greg gets up, “I’m going to shower. Do you wanna sleep here?”
Greg has an extremely noticeable hard on. Tom is a coward.
He nods, not looking away from it.
“Do you wanna shower with me? You don’t have to. and we don’t have to do anything else.”
Tom just nods again and follows him into the bathroom.
Greg flips on the light and moves slowly like he isn’t obscenely hard. Tom thinks it’s an incredible act of restraint.
“I’m going to take off my clothes now.”
“No.”
“No? You don’t want me to?”
“No, um can I?”
Greg chuckles, “Of course.”
Tom jerks him off before they even turn the water on.
They do shower, afterwards and Greg washes his hair, touches him in every spot. He thinks Greg’s hands have burned off every sin that once burdened him. If only.