Work Text:
It probably doesn’t mean anything.
It’s Chet’s Facebook account anyway. Why wouldn’t he have a profile picture that’s just him? Just because it’s the first time in nearly two years that Greg isn’t in the picture with him doesn’t mean anything. Necessarily.
Right?
Okay, so maybe Tom shouldn’t even be looking. Greg’s texted a grand total of three times since the wedding, despite his promise to keep in touch. Tom kind of figured it wouldn’t happen anyway, and it’s not like he’s mad about it. But come on, if there was trouble in paradise, Greg would tell Tom, right? After everything they’ve been through? After all those conversations, the almost-kiss, the dancing. Maybe Tom and Greg weren’t best friends anymore, but if there was marital trouble, Greg would surely reach out to Tom.
Wouldn’t he?
Tom’s almost dismissed the thought of it. He hadn’t even been checking for this specific thing, anyway. He came on Facebook to see if that new department head had a social media presence. He was just trying to sus her out, see what she was about. But then as soon as he’d opened the app, there he was. Chet. Sans Greg. Chet didn’t know such a version of Chet existed.
Okay, so he didn’t come to the app for this, but now that he’s here, why not look around? See if there’s something he should know? God knows Tom’s got nothing better to do with his time these days.
The first thing he does is check Chet’s relationship status. No use scrolling to eternity if the answer is right there. But it still says married, just as it’s said since the week after the wedding when, no longer distracted by the honeymoon, Chet returned to social media to upload wedding photos, thank congratulatory well-wishers, and change his relationship status to married.
Okay, so he’s still married. Doesn’t mean there isn’t something going on.
He scrolls down through the first few posts. An Instagram share about the food at some new café on Columbus. A link to a GoFundMe for a family that lost their house to a fire. A timelapse video recounting the day-long food drive he organized.
We get it, Chet. You’re a good person.
There’s a suspicious lack of Greg. A week back, two weeks, three weeks back now, and Chet, chronically online, has not posted a single thing about Greg. Not a photo, not a “you’ll never believe what my ditzy husband did today” story, not a single meme about love. It’s not until he scrolled back almost two months that he finds any Greg content at all. And even that one was just to say that marriage isn’t easy, but there’s no one he’d rather do it with.
And Tom’s heard that line before.
Okay, so something’s going on. Probably. A post about marriage being hard work after a grand total of… what? A year and a half of marriage? And then that’s immediately followed by months of Greg-free posts and a profile picture change that doesn’t include Greg. If they’re happily married, Tom thinks, they’re doing a damn good job hiding it.
Okay, so now what? What’s he supposed to do? He’s not going to message Chet and ask if all is well in the Hirsch-Stevenson household. And since Greg hasn’t texted him since his birthday some six months ago, there’s really no easy way to broach the subject subtly over the phone. But he can’t help the gnawing, aching feeling of it all, this pull, this desire to know what’s going on. Because if Greg is in the midst of a bad marriage, the good-friend thing to do would be to reach out, wouldn’t it? To ask if there’s anything he can do to help? If he needs anything?
He closes the app and grips the phone in his hand as he thinks. Could he maybe start a conversation about something else, then work his way into a more honest conversation? Get to the heart of it that way?
He finds his messages to Greg. When he’d told him happy birthday and Greg had answered back simply “thanks man,” and that was the end of it. Not much of a conversation. Maybe Greg doesn’t even want to hear from him.
And then Tom has an idea.
Hey, buddy! I’m going to be in Chicago the weekend of the 25th. Any chance you’d like to grab lunch while I’m there?
This is good. This gives Greg an opportunity to say no, because he really never had any intention of keeping Tom in his life after all. Or Greg could say yes, and can Chet come, and that will be that. Or Greg will say yes, but it’s only him because Chet and he are no longer an item, and then Tom can be the consoling pal, a shoulder to cry on. A good friend. That’s all he’s trying to be. A friend.
25th of June? Yeah I guess so
So enthusiastic, Tom thinks. He’s not eager to be a charity case. If Greg doesn’t want to bother with it, he should just say so.
If you don’t think you’ll have time, don’t worry about it. It’s just a two-day thing anyway. Very last minute.
Yeah, so last minute in fact that he hasn’t even booked a flight or a hotel or found a fake reason for his visit. If it comes up, he’ll just say he’s on his way to see his folks and he wanted to take the extra day in a city along the way to break up the monotony of travel or… something.
I have time. You’re free Saturday the 25th? We could go to Giordano’s
Pizza. Always pizza with Greg. But if that’s what Greg wants, he can give him that. A deep dish pie and a bucket of chicken wings. Whatever. He’s not doing this for himself, anyway. He’s doing this for Greg. Greg should choose.
Sounds great! Send me the location and I’ll meet you there. I’ll get noon reservations.
He shifts to his work computer and sends an email to his assistant to book the flight and hotel that weekend.
Will do
And he’s smiling. Smiling because he’s going to be seeing Greg again. Smiling because he missed him and his eyes will be soothed by the sight of the man. Smiling because Greg wants to have lunch at a pizza joint, and Tom thinks it’s kind of nice that Greg hasn’t been corrupted all that much after all.
He’d always wanted Greg to develop champagne taste. But only if he himself was the one teaching Greg how to refine it.
…
It’s muggy in late June, especially in the middle of the day as he sits in the restaurant waiting for Greg to show. Tom had reserved a table for four, just in case Chet shows up. A table for four so that if Chet does show up, Tom can say he’d planned on bringing his girlfriend along, too, but she’s resting in the hotel room.
He’s not above making up lies to save face with Greg. Greg would do the same thing.
When he spots Greg, he has to do a double take to be sure that’s him. He looks so different now, wearing wire-framed glasses with his hair cut shorter again, a t-shirt and khaki slacks, those stupid fucking penny loafers. But it’s Greg, unmistakably Greg, and when he approaches the table where Tom sits, he does that little wave of one hand and the close-mouthed smile. Just like that first day Tom met him. The image never leaves his mind.
Tom stands and meets him in a hug. “How are ya, buddy!” he almost shouts for how excited he is. Not only to see Greg, but to see that he’s come alone.
“Yeah, good. I’m good.” Greg pats him on the back twice, hard, before releasing him. “You?”
“Oh, you know,” Tom gestures for Greg to sit across from him. “Good. You?”
“Still good,” Greg tells him. But he’s grinning, the idiot. He looks so pleased.
“Right, sorry. Long morning,” Tom tries to excuse his absentmindedness. Tries blaming it on something other than what it is. “Look at you! You look like Harrison Ford with those things.”
Greg shakes his head. “Hardly,” he responds. “But I’m still getting used to them.”
"Just got them?”
“Yeah,” Greg nods as he picks up the menu. “Chet wanted me to switch to frames.”
Chet. Fucking Chet.
“And, uh,” Tom picks up his own menu, clears his throat, pretends this comment isn’t in any way unsettling. “And how is Chet?”
Greg goes silent, his eyes scanning the menu for several seconds before he answers. “He’s good. Working a lot.”
The waitress arrives, and they order drinks and their pizza and an appetizer of boneless chicken wings. And now, with no menus to hide behind, they get their first proper look at one another.
“You’ve gone pretty gray,” Greg tells him, smirking behind his drink.
“You’ve gone blind and I’ve gone gray,” Tom answers. “Couple of old geezers.”
“You’re not that old. Fifty’s coming up next year isn’t it?”
Tom cringes. “Don’t remind me.”
“Hey, I’m gray, too,” he says, and he brushes a little bit of hair from his temple to reveal the strands above his ear, silver as that stupid fucking Bean sculpture just fifteen minutes from them.
Tom smiles, nods in acknowledgement. “Suits you,” he says.
“As do yours.”
Their eyes lock, and Tom knows something is different. Something’s off. He wants to know what it is, wants to ask Greg directly. But he doesn’t want to seem desperate.
“So is, uh…” Tom clears his throat yet again, a nervous, annoying habit. “Is Chet working right now?”
“No,” Greg answers plainly.
“Other plans?”
Greg shrugs. “I suppose so.”
“Well, I hope it was understood that he was invited, too.”
Greg nods. “Yeah, he… he wasn’t really interested.”
Oh. Okay. “Does he not like me?” Tom asks.
“It’s not that. He’s just going through some stuff lately. He’s not really feeling very social.”
But he went to dinner with friends just last night, Tom wants to say. And had cocktails with his sisters last weekend. And hosted a charity fundraiser the weekend before that. But Tom doesn’t mention any of this.
“Well, send him my regards, will you? It would have been nice to see him.”
Greg says nothing. He sort of nods, kind of, maybe. Tom can’t be sure.
The wings arrive at the table, and Tom has given up on pretending he's too good for this kind of food anymore. He helps himself to two, cuts them in half, dips them into a ranch dressing in a little cup before he eats them. Greg, however, mouths them whole, one after the other, until they’re all gone.
And Tom’s being honest with himself, he’s missed this.
“So, how is he?” Tom asks. Because he really does want to know. Needs to know.
Greg is still silent, though only for a beat too long for it to seem like he’s not trying to come up with the right answer. “Other than the social stuff?” he asks. “I don’t know. Fine I guess.” And before Tom can ask anything else, Greg continues. “What about you? Seeing anyone?”
“No. No one.” He wonders if he answered too fast.
“Figured you’d be seeing someone.” Greg’s hands shift off the table to under it, folded in his lap. And there’s something behind the way he’s staring at Tom. It feels impatient, urgent. It feels dangerous.
“I’ve gone on some dates,” Tom tells him. “Hard to have a relationship at my age. With my baggage.”
“Baggage?” Greg scoffs. “What, being, like, uber-rich and hot?”
Hot. Greg called him hot.
“I’ve been in the news. Not exactly in the most flattering ways.”
“So have I,” Greg shrugs one shoulder. “But I found someone.”
“Yes, and I wish I could congratulate you on two years of marital bliss, but it seems that perhaps there’s trouble in paradise.”
Greg’s eyes narrow, his lips press together. Clearly, Tom has hit a nerve.
“I’m sorry,” Tom adds halfheartedly. “I just find it odd that he’s not here. And that you won’t talk about why.”
“Why do you care? You’re not here to see him.”
“I’m here to see both of you,” Tom tells him. “This is a friendly visit.”
“Bullshit.”
Greg’s gotten bolder. Even more than he was two years before. Tom likes it.
“Alright, so why do you think I’m here if not for both of you?”
“Because you know what happened,” Greg answers quickly. “I mean, I don’t know how you know, but you obviously do.”
Tom cocks his head to the side. “Know what?”
And it seems to Tom that Greg feels… well, shamed, maybe. Caught.
“You don’t know?” he asks.
Tom shakes his head.
Greg sighs and leans his weight back against his chair. “We’re in couple’s therapy,” he says. “Have been for a couple months now.”
The pizza, ill-timed as anything else today, arrives just then. The waitress dishes a slice for each of them, making a show of the long line of cheese that only breaks because she cuts it with her utensil. Tom and Greg are both supposed to be wowed by this, but considering the circumstances, they’re barely registering it at all.
“What happened?” Tom asks once she’s left.
“What ever happens?” Greg asks. He lefts his fork and knife and cuts a corner off the piece. “We keep fighting. We don’t really make time for each other. We don’t communicate like we should.”
Tom leans forward, resting both arms crossed in front of him on the table. “Greg, that’s nothing to freak out about. Lots of marriages feel stale even in those first couple of—”
“And I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me.”
“Oh. Well, that’s… that’s not ideal.”
Greg takes a bite of the pizza. He takes his time chewing. Things haven’t tasted right in so long, he’s not sure why he’s bothering.
“You really didn’t know?” he asks Tom. “Like, for real?”
“For real,” Tom nods. “I mean, I noticed that he’d changed his Facebook photo, but…”
And Greg is smirking. Then shaking his head.
“What?”
“You came out here because of a profile pic?”
Tom opens his mouth, feigning shock at such a heinous allegation. “No, I came out here because I’m visiting my parents this week, and I thought it might be nice to have a couple nights here on the way.”
“So if I called your mom right now, she’d tell me that you’re on your way up there?”
“You have my mom’s number?”
“Of course. So would she?”
Tom hesitates, but dons his best poker face. “Of course.”
“Okay.” Greg scrolls on his phone for a moment, then raises it to his ear.
“Greg, what are you doing?”
“Hello, Mrs. Wambsgans! Gregory Hirsch. How are you?”
“No!” Tom shouts, and he doesn’t notice or care if he’s drawing attention, because how fucking dare Greg call his mother just to prove a point? He reaches across the table, but Greg stands, and Tom stands. So Greg starts walking, and Tom follows him down the row of now-bothered patrons as Greg speaks into the phone. It’s the lunch rush, and Greg’s legs seem almost twice as long as Tom’s, so only moments later Greg is outside, and the hostess has stopped Tom from following and has started to ask him whether he’d like to go ahead and pay his bill now, and would he like a takeout box?
Greg is standing outside when Tom finally finds him, pizza box in hand. He’s just standing there the minimum distance away from the restaurant entrance, smoking a cigarette and looking quite pleased with himself.
“And now I’m going to have to go through with it and visit them,” Tom says, his voice harsh but somehow playful. Greg knows the difference between Tom’s real anger and his petty annoyances. He’s always known it.
“She’s excited for the visit,” Greg tells him, blowing a thick line of smoke into the summer air.
Tom watches him a moment, a look of puzzlement on his face. “What is it with you these days?” he asks after a moment. “You’re wearing glasses, you’re smoking cigarettes, you have my mother’s number…”
“I’ve had her number since we visited her the month before—” and he stops there, doesn’t finish. Because it was the month before Tom fired Greg. Before their big fight. A visit to his parents because Tom was speaking at a conference in Minneapolis, so of course he asked Greg with. He wanted to show him off, though he could never tell them why.
“Okay,” Tom nods. “So now what?”
Greg drops the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. “Admit you came here because you thought something was wrong with my marriage.”
Tom is silent now. Obstinate.
“Admit it. Admit that even all these years later, you’re still jumping through hoops trying to get what you want.”
“Is that what I do?”
“Yes,” Greg tells him, his voice firm. “You always find the long way around a subject. It’s like you enjoy making things difficult.”
Tom leans against the wall beside Greg, holds the pizza box against the front of him with two hands. “I don’t enjoy making things difficult,” he says.
“Then… why do you do it, man?”
Tom shakes his head. “Guess it’s all I know.”
Greg smiles, then moves closer, shoulder to shoulder with Tom. “You could just, like… ask?”
“Ask?”
“You have my number. You could have called me. Or, you know, texted. Whatever. I could’ve saved you a trip out here.”
“Text you out of nowhere to see if your marriage was alright?” Tom laughs mirthlessly. “Greg, no. No. That’s not something people do.”
“Do people spend thousands of dollars on weekend trips to eat cheap pizza with old assistants?”
Tom thinks for a moment. “I suppose it’s not typical.”
“So tell me the truth, Tom. Tell me you came out here because you wanted to know if my marriage was okay.”
“And if I tell you that, what happens?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I help you carry that pizza back to your hotel. Maybe we stay there a while, have a drink.”
Tom looks beside him, then up at him. “Really?”
“But you have to admit it,” Greg tells him. And his voice is the kind of quiet, the kind of sneaky that Tom fell in love with all those years ago when Greg was asking questions about jail time and conspiracies. And how can Tom not tell him the truth?
“Okay. Fine. It may have… crossed my mind amidst the travel planning.”
Greg turns his body toward Tom, and he reaches one arm out over Tom’s arms holding the pizza box. The first contact Tom’s had other than that half-assed hug in two years. Since he danced with Greg at the wedding and Greg assured him that his soul would always belong to Tom.
“You’re obsessed with me,” Greg tells him quietly.
“I’m just looking out for you,” Tom answers.
Greg slides the box out of Tom’s hands and holds it. And Tom’s lips are so close to his own that it’s a shame they’re in such a public place, the eyes of an entire city on them. Not so unlike the old days, Greg supposes. But this is not the place.
“Hotel?” Greg asks. But before he’s even finished the word, Tom is at the curb with his hand raised for a cab.
…
Greg sets the pizza box atop the counter in the kitchenette of Tom’s suite. He slips out of his shoes as Tom finds room in the minifridge for the pizza box, and he paces around the room until Tom, too, is shoeless and settled.
“Nice,” Greg comments idly. “Very nice. All this just to see me?”
Tom barely acknowledges it with a side-eyed glance. “Alright,” he says. “You’ve proven your point.”
Tom stands with his back to the counter, and Greg stands all of ten feet away, his hand running lazily over the plush back of the sofa. “So… drink?”
“Right,” Tom nods. He turn back to the minibar, the bottles lined up neatly. “Preference?”
“You know what I like,” Greg tells him.
This elicits a sharp exhale from Tom, who has only imagined Greg saying something along these lines about a million times before. You know what I like. Give me what I like. No one knows me like you do, Tommy.
There’s a bottle of apple flavored whiskey, something he remembers Greg drinking at a hotel stop in Vancouver a while back. He remembers how Greg liked it, how he’d downed three of those little bottles and gone giddy and fuzzy at the corners, softened so much that he fell asleep with his head on Tom’s shoulder while they watched TV. It’s bittersweet, that memory. Because that was the night Tom knew he’d have to do something about this. Get Greg out of there before he ruined him.
He pours the liquid into a glass, then pours himself a drink as well. And when he turns, Greg sits there on the couch, legs stretched out, feet tucked under the coffee table. Tom is reminded of company flights, of hotel stays, of late nights talking about nothing and about everything. All the while, in every scenario, Greg’s body stretched out in ways that drove Tom to madness.
He hands the glass to Greg, but he doesn’t sit just yet. Because he knows that when he sits, they will be in one of those old situations again. Together on this couch, luxury furniture, liquid courage. Only this time, they can skip over the part where they talk about feelings. They’ve gotten that out of the way. It’s not a good thing, necessarily. The buffer between them has thinned.
“Are you happy?” Greg asks.
It’s unexpected. If anything, Tom imagines he’s the one that should be asking this. Has asked this, in fact. Still wonders if Greg’s happy. Barely pays attention to whether he himself is.
“I’m… alright?” Tom answers.
“Didn’t ask that. Asked if you were happy.”
Tom knocks back the glass, swallows it all.
“Guess that answers things,” Greg smirks. He takes another sip.
“Well, what about you? You don’t exactly look like you’re walking on sunshine.”
“I’m not,” he answers with a shake of his head. “Not happy.”
And Tom watches as Greg, too, drinks it all down swiftly. He wasn't always able to do that.
Tom reaches for the glass. He considers a refill, but he thinks their minds should be clear tonight. He thinks that anything they say, anything they do, should be sure. Said and done with certainty. No excuses.
When Greg hands over the glass, Tom walks them to the sink in the kitchenette and rinses them. So Greg follows, not saying much of anything, murmuring something about a job promotion, though Tom barely hears whether it’s Greg’s job or Chet’s.
Tom’s mind is still fixed on the events of two years ago. The way it had all gone. The words spoken, the way Greg held his hand, danced with him. If Tom had just skipped the wedding, thrown the damn invitation in the trash like he was going to, none of this would be happening. He wouldn’t have been so fixated on Greg all these years. He might have moved on. Maybe even remarried. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened right away, but it would have happened.
"You know, that was quite a night," Tom says, as if Greg needs any reminder of the disaster that was his rehearsal dinner. "I think we touched each other more in those two minutes in the mud than we touched each other in three years working together." He laughs after he says it, like it's a joke. Like it's not something he's been thinking about every day since he felt Greg on top of him in the muddy terrain, the rain falling off Greg's face and blessing Tom's lips.
“Sure,” Greg nods. “Lots of touching.”
Tom feels something in the pit of his stomach. He’s either going to be sick or he’s going to scream.
“You know, we… we don’t have to relegate all our touching just to memories.” Greg watches as Tom worries far too much about the cleanliness of the glasses. He reaches over and shuts off the faucet. “We’re alone now. We could… touch each other again.”
It’s no secret that this is why Greg invited himself here. But still, when he says it, It causes Tom’s heart to jump into his throat.
He looks beside him at Greg, who is staring quite pointedly at Tom’s lips. “Have you forgotten you’re married?”
Greg shakes his head.
“And you would break your vows just to touch me?”
“I’d break my neck to touch you.”
Tom has to tear his gaze from Greg’s. He looks down into the sink instead. “Wouldn’t be much use to me like that,” he offers before he looks at him again.
Greg isn't smiling like Tom expects him to. But Tom just sets aside their glasses and wipes his hands dry on the tea towel before he speaks again.
He can’t do this. Can’t just let this happen without talking about it. Doesn’t matter how close Greg’s body is to his, how warm it feels, how those glasses look on him. They have to talk about it.
"You know, it's a shame we didn't talk more in those months leading up to it. The wedding."
Greg watches Tom just a moment before his gaze finds the floor instead. "Yeah," he says, his voice soft. “I think so, too."
Tom leaves the sink and heads toward the couch, Greg following close behind. Tom gestures for Greg to sit first, ever the gracious host, before he lands on the spot beside him.
And they're quiet for a moment. Sitting there in the easy manner they used to be able to do. Maybe they're able to do it again. Who knows.
"I… I wish that night hadn't gone like that," Greg tells him at last.
"What night? The rehearsal?" He shakes his head. "Greg, there are no instructions for these things. We were high and emotions were crazy and–"
"No," Greg interrupts. "Not the rehearsal night. The night of the wedding."
Tom sifts through the words for their true meaning. He's not sure he can find it.
"I wish…" Greg starts, and he looks away from Tom again. He's always looking away these days. "I wish I'd followed my instincts. I think my life would be a lot better now if I did."
"What… what do you mean?"
And then Greg does allow himself to catch Tom's eyes again, allows Tom to see him staring back, nothing hidden. "I… almost didn't go through with it," he admits.
Tom's eyes widen, but it's only a skeptical amusement within them. "You're too good a person to leave someone at the altar."
"I'm not a good person. If I was a good person, I wouldn't be here."
Is that his way of saying he shouldn't be? Admitting that his intentions are less than pure?
"I just…" Greg's voice is a whisper now. "I wish I'd been able to see the signs from you all those years. I wish I'd known."
Tom's hand finds the back of the couch and inches closer, closer to Greg's shoulder.
"Don't you ever wish you'd done things differently?" Greg asks him. And he visibly leans his shoulder into Tom's delicate touch.
"I…" he stops for breath before he says it, because he knows he may not have the luxury of breathing after he admits it. "I wish I'd let you kiss me in that hotel room that morning."
Greg leans slightly closer to Tom. His eyes scan Tom's, scale down to his lips, and stay there. "I wish you had, too," he says.
Tom's hand finds Greg's shoulder, his fingers curving over it, his palm lightly pressing along the fabric of Greg's shirt. And he guides it further, higher until it finds Greg's neck. He presses a thumb to Greg's pulse.
"Would you kiss me now?" Tom asks him. "If I asked you to?"
Greg closes his eyes. He leans his head, his chin covering Tom's hand.
Tom moves carefully closer, his hip touching Greg's. His hand finds the back of Greg's neck, his fingertips brushing against the edge of Greg's hair.
"If I told you to?" He asks.
Greg opens his eyes. But they look directly at Tom's lips. Nowhere else. Like this is where they were made to look.
Greg leans closer, and Tom decides to meet him halfway. Their lips meet, and it's soft and far too quick. Almost sexless in its nature. Nothing like Tom had expected.
"I'm not a good person," Greg whispers when it's over.
Tom's holding him close still, their lips very near each other when he answers. "Don't say that."
"Tell me," Greg says, and his mouth finds Tom's jaw, travels up to Tom's ear. "Tell me I'm not a good person."
And Tom doesn't feel reluctant at all. Doesn't feel much of anything other than a desire to do anything Greg wants. And maybe this is how Greg excuses his behavior. If he thinks he's a bad person, then he's allowed to do bad things.
Tom presses his mouth to Greg's temple, his lips dragging down the skin to his jaw, where he kisses him again. And then he opens his mouth to Greg's ear and says as quietly as possible,
"You're not a good person, Greg."
Greg visibly exhales, enchanted by this, enthralled by this, enraptured. Are there words for this feeling? Greg wants to find them if there are. Wants to keep those words bordered along his brain.
They kiss again, a proper kiss, long and soft and perfect. Tom’s tongue slides over Greg’s, apples and memories. And he fully leans into it, leans into Greg, his hands shifting up Greg’s shoulders, fingers tracing the skin along the collar of his shirt, circling over to Greg’s chest, like he’s searching for something, like he’s so desperate for it that he knows it must be here somewhere. He’ll find it as long as his hands never leave Greg’s body.
It's only when Greg's hand finds Tom's heartbeat, or rather when Tom feels Greg find it, that Tom stops. He lifts a single finger to Greg's lips, holding it there. Not to quiet him, but as a placeholder. Don't let your lips forget me.
"Greg, if we…" he searches Greg's eyes before he says the rest. "If we do this, it's done. No going back."
Greg presses a kiss to the finger, his hand leaving Tom's chest and grasping the digit, removing it from his lips. He kisses Tom's palm, Tom's wrist. He closes his eyes and brings Tom's hand up to rest against his cheek.
"And why would I wanna go back?" He asks quietly.
"I… I don't know, Greg. Because you're married. Because maybe this is just revenge."
"Revenge?" he parrots, opening his eyes again. And then he kisses Tom's wrist again, keeps kissing all the way up Tom's forearm, inside his elbow. "I'm not spiteful," he informs Tom. He kisses Tom's bicep, right over the fabric of his shirt. "I just wanna kiss you."
Tom's free hand finds the back of Greg's head, holds onto his hair. He finds Greg's eyes before Greg's quite made it as far as Tom's shoulder, and his grave expression causes Greg to stop, to take him seriously.
"I just… don't wanna waste any more time," Greg explains. "I don't wanna think about anything else outside this room. Can we just… can we not think about anything else right now? Please?"
"I just don't want you to regret–"
"I won't," Greg interrupts, shaking his head. "I know I won't." And then he takes Tom's face in his hands, his thumbs tracing over lines he hopes were caused by smiles alone. "Will you?"
And Tom doesn't even have to ask himself. He already knows.
"I won't," he whispers. So Greg kisses him.
Something in Tom’s mind won’t stop churning out questions. How recently have Greg and Chet slept together? Is Chet really cheating? How could anyone cheat on Greg? What kind of idiot could ever hold this man in his arms and not feel as though he has everything, everything he’ll ever need or want? What the hell is wrong with that man that he could let Greg feel abandoned, forgotten, unloved? To tired of Greg? Even if he’s not cheating, to make Greg feel like it’s even a possibility that he might be.
And Tom caresses Greg's cheek, his fingers reaching to the metal of the frames. He tests the action of removing them from Greg's face.
"There you are," Tom whispers.
Greg wrenches the glasses from Tom's hand and tosses them carelessly across the room. "I hate those things so much," he laughs, and as soon as they're gone, Tom's transported back in time. To all those moments before. All those moments when he almost did this to Greg. In another lifetime he barely allows himself to remember.
Tom is so hard it’s almost suffocating him, and Greg’s body is so close to his that he knows only the slightest contact could do him in for good. But he’s torn, half of himself wanting to let Greg take control, take him, have him, do as he pleases and not worry about the outcome. But the other half of him wants to savor this, take his time. He’s waited so long for this that he feels it would almost be a sin to rush through it.
And then Greg’s leg, long and thin and the object of far too many of Tom’s dreams, hitches across Tom’s lap. And then Greg is straddling him, holding Tom’s face in his hands as they kiss. And Tom knows Greg must be able to feel it, this desire he has, the proof of his want. He must be able to feel it.
“Touch me,” Tom whispers against Greg’s lips.
So Greg’s hand falls away from Tom’s face, between their bodies. He presses it flat against Tom’s chest as he kisses him again, then lower still. Down his sternum, over his stomach, just above the desired area.
Greg’s lips leave Tom’s, pepper kisses over his cheek and close to his ear. And then his hand finds its destination, gripping Tom over his trousers, fingers wrapped around as much of him as possible in this state.
Tom’s head falls back, and he’s breathing so fast that Greg worries he might pass out.
"Look at me," Greg tells him.
Tom can't disobey. The greed in Greg's eyes is an otherworldly entity, a being in and of itself.
"Have me," Tom says. "I'm all yours."
Greg kisses him again. "I know you are."
He finds the belt buckle and works it open with both hands. And Tom can only watch the way Greg gazes down between their bodies. When he has the belt open, he finds the button of his fly, then the zipper. And like a seasoned burglar, his hand finds its way directly to Tom’s cock, skin on skin, and Greg’s lips return to Tom’s ear.
He's so powerful, so in charge. So the opposite of anything he was back then. He's the Greg that Tom always knew he could be.
“I had a dream like this once,” Greg tells him, his hand jerking Tom while his hips sway back and forth.
And Tom can’t control himself, can’t contain it. As soon as Greg says it, the overwhelming sensations all hit him like a freight train, and Tom comes hard in Greg’s hand. He’s loud, so loud that Greg covers his mouth with his hand, and Greg’s laughing, amused at the situation.
It’s embarrassing for sure. But there are worse ways to be embarrassed. Given the choice between being laughed at in here like this and on public television at those hearings, Tom’s still going to choose the scenario where Greg’s hand is on his dick every time.
“I… I’m sorry,” Tom breathes. “I don’t usually—”
“It’s fine,” Greg’s still giggling as he kisses him. “Really. I get it.”
“Five years, Greg. Five years I’ve wanted this.”
“I know,” he nods. And he’s careful as he withdraws his hand, familiar with how sensitive he must feel.
“Okay, but… but…” Tom pulls at Greg’s shirt desperately. “Let’s keep going. You next.”
Greg bows into another kiss. “Oh, yeah?” Another kiss. “And what are you planning to do with me?”
Tom doesn’t even have to think about it. He’s been thinking about it so long, he knows exactly what he’s going to do.
He wraps his arms around Greg’s waist and flips him down against the couch. On top of Greg, he pins him down with the weight of his body and tastes his skin, every bit of it that he can between kisses and bites and the work of his tongue. He reaches for the bottom of Greg’s shirt and pulls it up, but not completely off his body. He only wants that bit of exposed skin on Greg’s stomach, that line of coarse black hairs that lead from north to south. He smooths his hand over the skin before his mouth finds it, kisses pressed hard into Greg like he’s leaving his brand.
Greg reaches down, his fingers running through the short hairs of Tom’s head. Petting him, almost. It’s tender and soft and Tom doesn’t think he deserves such treatment.
He looks up at Greg, watches him. And maybe there’s something he means to say, or maybe there isn’t. But if there is, he doesn’t say it. Only nods just once, a reassurance, a blessing maybe, before his hands work to remove Greg’s pants.
He has to leave the couch to get them fully off. And there Greg lies, gorgeous and bared for him, a feast for the eyes as well as the mouth. And Tom kneels on the floor beside the couch, even as Greg lays across it, and he brings Greg’s leg up over the back of his head as his mouth presses kisses inside Greg’s thigh.
“Tom…” Greg is whispering, not a real call, not a plea. Just a reassurance. Tom. Tom is here.
Tom’s hand finds Greg’s cock, handles it lightly before Tom spits on it, easy with careful, thoughtful up and down motions.
“Do that again,” Greg tells him softly.
So he spits again, works his hand on Greg’s shaft as his teeth bare against the skin of his thigh.
“Tell me I’m…” Greg starts, then seems to hesitate before he finally says it. “Tell me this is wrong, Tom.”
Tom kisses the tender tip of Greg’s cock. He looks up at him. “This is wrong, Greg.”
“Am I a bad person?”
Tom licks a line along to side of Greg’s dick. “You’re the scum of the earth, Greg.”
“Yes,” he sighs, a smile along his lips. “Tell me…”
He spits on Greg again, his hand pumping harder, faster. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I know I am. I know.”
“Fucking ungrateful,” Tom adds, and he presses his chin to the tip while he speaks. This way, Greg can feel the vibration in his voice, the movement of his mouth. “You just have to have it all, don’t you?”
“More…”
“You couldn’t be satisfied without me, huh?” And he takes Greg into his mouth, takes him deep, his head moving just a few times, just enough to make Greg cry out Tom's name again before he releases him. “You like it when you’ve got your dick in someone new, don’t you?”
Greg grabs a throw pillow and presses it to his mouth, his too-loud moans muffled against it.
“You’re a dirty, dirty man, Greg,” Tom tells him. And he doesn’t care if he doesn’t think it’s true, because maybe this is just something Greg needs. To feel alive, to feel dirty, to feel wrong. Maybe this was half the thrill in their relationship all along. The wrongness of it. The wickedness.
He swallows Greg up again, taking him deep over and over and over again. And Greg’s leg curls around Tom’s body, his moaning against the pillow growing louder. Tom’s hands massage Greg’s legs as he works, then one of them reaches up under his shirt, grazing his nipple. And Tom stops for air, a line of spit still connecting his lips to Greg’s body.
They’ll always be connected. Like this or like something else. But always somehow.
“You’re a filthy fuck, you know that?” Tom grins. He mouths further between Greg’s legs, over his balls, and Greg is actually squirming beneath Tom’s touch, at the sound of those words. “Couldn’t be satisfied, huh? Not without me?”
Greg removes the pillow, gasping for air. “I needed you,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. “I need you.”
Tom takes Greg’s cock in his mouth again, holds it there. He pinches Greg’s nipple. Hard. Greg’s entire body twitches, he looks like a fucking electric chair victim, and he’s mouth fucking Tom whether he even realizes it or not.
Tom’s a little out of practice, so he only keeps going as long as he can bear it. But when he needs to let go, his hand takes over, fist moving at lightning speed while Tom licks his skin.
“You’re going to come on yourself, aren’t you?” Tom asks him. “You’re going to make a mess on yourself.”
Greg nods. “Don’t stop,” he whispers. “Just like that.”
Tom watches the way Greg’s fingers dig into the fabric of the couch, one hand at the back of it, the other at the bottom of it. And as he knows Greg’s getting closer, he shifts out from under Greg’s leg and moves his mouth to Greg’s neck, sucking hard at his skin until he knows he’ll leave a mark.
“Tom… you… he’ll see…”
“So let him see,” Tom says when it’s done. “Let him know where you’ve been.”
"I'm… I'm yours," Greg breathes. "All yours."
And then Tom does it again a little lower, sucking the skin as Greg announces that he's coming. He keeps tasting him right on through Greg’s orgasm, even as he feels the heat of it on his hand, as he uses that hand to spread it over Greg’s stomach, as he gives him a third and final hickey just above his collarbone.
It’s a goddamn mess, that’s for sure. Not only in the cum on Greg’s body, but certainly in that way as well.
Greg pulls Tom into a kiss, encourages him on top of his body again. Holds him there, secure under the weight of him, as he catches his breath. And now Tom waits for the speech. The this-was-fun-but-it-can’t-happen-again speech. Maybe Tom just helped Greg’s marriage. Maybe it helped Greg realize how good he has it.
But there is no speech. Greg just stays there, holding Tom on top of him like a body pillow. Like a weighted blanket. And it’s like that so long, even, that Tom nearly falls asleep.
“Shower?” Greg asks finally.
They make their way to the shower, cleaning off under water so hot it might just burn away their sins. They use the soap to cleanse each other, not shy in how they handle each other’s bodies, not worried about whether the other will see them at some unflattering angle. They touch each other, wash each other, as if they’ve always done this.
And when they’re done, they towel off together and dress only in the robes provided by the hotel.
It’s almost like old times. Almost. Old times before Greg left, before Tom made him leave. Old times before Greg was off to another city marrying another man. Old times before Tom ruined it all by confessing how he felt. They don’t talk about what they’ve just done, but Greg does, now and then, rub at the little marks around his throat. Tom figures they must be sore. Good.
They order dinner from room service and lie in the bed together. Tom holds Greg for a while as Greg talks about work. And when the food arrives, they watch reruns of Chopped and only speak when commenting on which judges they hate.
It’s all very domestic. Too domestic. Tom is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The sun finally sets, late in the day, of course, and so late that Tom wonders why Greg’s still here. Not that he’s complaining. And it’s actually Greg who brings it up first. But not in the way Tom expected.
“Do you have lube here?” he asks.
Tom almost laughs at the question, which has been asked after no less than ten straight minutes of silence. “No,” he answers with a shake of his head. “Why would I?”
“I mean, I figured the reason was pretty obvious,” Greg shrugs.
Greg is stone-faced. Serious. Tom’s smile fades.
“We’re you planning to fuck me, Greg?”
“I was planning to at least fuck you,” he answers. “But we need lube for that, don’t we?”
Tom reaches over for Greg. “We need more than just lube for that.”
“Ideally,” Greg agrees. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe tomorrow what?”
“We take a trip to Walgreens? Get some essentials?”
Tom bites at the inside of his lip. Honestly, nothing sounds better. He’d let Greg do anything he wanted at this point. But it’s bittersweet. Because just a little while ago, Greg was telling Tom that Chet would see the hickeys. Which means he’s planning on Chet seeing them. Which means he’ll be going back home to him.
“What is this, Greg?” Tom asks. “How long are we bunking together?”
“You leave tomorrow, right?” he asks. “So… I don’t know. I guess until then.”
“And he won’t wonder where you are.”
Greg turns his body closer to Tom’s. “He might wonder. So what?”
“So…” Tom starts, reaching one hand to the collar of Greg’s bathrobe, folding it down just right. “What will you tell him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not really thinking about it right now.”
“You should be. You really should be.”
“I’ll figure something out,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m good at that.”
“I know.” His hand shifts up into Greg’s hair, dry now, but clean, free of product. Impossibly soft. “But when he sees this,” his eyes fall to the marks on Greg’s neck, “And you’ve been gone for two days and come back without your glasses, don’t you think he’ll put two and two together?”
Greg sits there a moment, silent, before he moves his body on top of Tom’s again, his lips finding Tom’s neck, kissing him there.
“Hey,” Tom stops him gently, pushing him away a little. “Greg… I’m serious. What’s the plan here?”
“I don’t have one,” he admits. “And maybe I’ll hate myself for that later, but I don’t care.”
“You do care,” Tom insists. “You can’t not care. You’re not capable of that.”
Greg’s hand slips inside Tom’s robe, grips Tom’s soft cock. “I’m capable of plenty,” he says.
“Do… Are you sure?” Tom struggles to ask. Because now Greg’s hand is moving, and Tom’s going to get hard again, and he’s not going to blow his load immediately like he did last time. He swears it. “Greg…” he pulls Greg’s hair hard. Greg smirks. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’ve got so much to lose,” Tom answers. “And I… I have nothing to lose.”
Greg pulls at the belt of the robe to open it. “Don’t worry about me,” he tells Tom, dipping into another kiss. “For once in your life, don’t worry about me, okay?”
“Greg…”
And then Greg’s head is between Tom’s legs, and it’s almost unbearable, this feeling. Not in a bad way, but not definitively in a good way, either. It’s just a lot, the way this is all happening.
“What I said before…” Tom practically whispers now, relaxing into the mattress. “I didn’t really mean it. I… I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
Greg opens Tom’s legs wider, ignoring Tom’s words.
“I think you’re… you’re incredible, Greg. You’re just…” Greg pushes Tom’s knees up as his mouth keeps moving. “You’re fucking… amazing…”
Greg’s arms shift under Tom’s body, hooked around his legs at the hips. The way his tongue is swirling and curling, Tom’s finding it hard to concentrate on his words.
“You’re the most… incredible man…” Tom continues, the words falling out like pebbles, trembly and in pieces. “You’re the best thing that’s ever… ever happened to me…”
Greg stops, but only long enough to reach up for a pillow. He brings it under Tom’s body, under his lower back, to elevate him higher there before he takes Tom in his mouth again.
“And I don’t think you’re a bad person,” Tom tells him earnestly. “Greg, I… I don’t. I don’t think you could ever be.”
Greg stops. He glances up at Tom for just a moment. “You make me a bad person,” he says. And then his mouth returns to Tom’s body, lower now, right down the center of him.
“I don’t want to make you a bad person, Greg,” Tom tells him. “Please. I’m not—” but this warmth, the gift of Greg’s mouth doing this to him… he can’t keep talking when this is happening.
Greg’s tongue licks a line over Tom’s taint, up and down, the pressure building in intensity, the speed ramping up. He pushes Tom’s knees back even further, and his tongue laps over Tom’s hole, pushing against him like a reminder. That this belongs to Greg now. All of Tom, even this, belongs to Greg now.
Tom feels like butter melting at the heat of it, his entire body liquid and lost in this slightest of movements, just those few square inches where body meets body. His mouth falls open and his head relaxes against the pillow, and he lets out a long, low moan of pure, unadulterated bliss as Greg works his body in a way Tom could never, in countless dreams where he’s imagined this, conjure.
Greg stops to sink his finger into his own mouth, to wet it, and then lets a generous amount of saliva fall out of his mouth and onto Tom’s asshole. He lowers his hand to begin the work, but Tom grabs hold of the finger and shakes his head.
"Y-you don't… want this?" Greg asks.
"Not with that finger," Tom tells him. "The other hand." When Greg gives Tom his left hand, Tom singles out Greg's ring finger, Tom's thumb running smoothly over the gold band. "This one," he says.
Greg wets the ring finger, the one that bears the symbol to all that announces he's a married man. And then the finger plays around Tom's hole in slow, wet circles, not prodding just yet, but certainly teasing.
And this seems to satisfy Tom. He has no more protests, nothing to say. He only lies there, relaxed, blissed out. Completely silent aside from his calming breaths.
Finally, after all these years, Greg's figured out how to shut Tom up.
“Why don’t I tell you something now,” Greg whispers against Tom’s shin. “And you just let me talk, okay?”
Tom licks his lips. He can only nod his agreement.
“Since I met you,” Greg begins, and he stops to wet his finger again. “I’ve wanted you. Did you know?”
“My god, Greg,” Tom manages to mouth. “What are you doing to me?”
“What you’ve been wanting me to do,” he answers. “And what I’ve wanted to do.” He pushes slowly inside Tom, careful and watchful. Tom accepts him, only slightly wincing at the contact.
“You were married to her the whole time,” Greg reminds him, as if Tom needs any kind of reminder. Tom is only too aware of how long that marriage dragged on. “I warned you, and you didn’t listen.”
Tom steadies his breathing, tries to focus on Greg’s words rather than his actions. “I know… I know…”
“Bet she never made you feel like this,” he says, and he plunges his finger deeper, all the way to the knuckle, and Tom can’t help the sound that escapes his smiling lips when Greg does it.
Jackpot, Greg thinks.
His finger curls up inside Tom, searching for more, for something that will show Tom exactly how important it is that they don’t waste a single second of their time together.
“Who ever made you feel this way but me?” Greg asks, and he kisses Tom’s leg, inside his thigh, while his finger searches.
Tom shakes his head. “No one,” he mouths. But he has no power over his voice.
“That’s right. No one but me.” He withdraws his finger and replaces it with his mouth, his tongue pushing inside Tom, tasting him, taking him in with all five senses.
Tom reaches down, so disarmed by this sensation that he can only grab Greg’s wrist tight. And Greg’s mouth should be muzzled, he thinks. He shouldn’t be allowed to use it like this. He shouldn’t be allowed to do this to Tom, certainly not to anyone else.
“It’s wrong,” Tom says without realizing he’s said it, his tone urgent, loud, desperate. So much so that Greg stops, looks up at him.
“Say that again,” he tells Tom.
Tom won’t. Can’t.
Greg pushes his finger back inside Tom. “Say it,” he urges. “Say it’s wrong.”
Tom shakes his head.
Greg crawls up Tom’s body, his finger never leaving its place but still changing its angle slightly, sweetly. Tom’s reaction is quick but delicious, and Greg’s quick to catch the drop of precum leaving Tom’s neglected, swollen prick.
“I’m not a good person,” Greg says close to Tom’s ear. “And I’m not—”
But Tom is kissing him now, can taste himself on Greg’s mouth and doesn’t care, couldn’t care less. Greg withdraws his finger and holds Tom at the waist with both hands, kissing him, limbs tangled with his, the room mostly dark save the light streaming from the TV. Tom pushes Greg’s robe off his body until they’re both naked, both just as bare and exposed and vulnerable as the other. And the weight of Greg on top of him feels like a fire alarm. Run, run, run. This isn’t going to end well.
“Turn over,” Greg whispers. And Tom obeys, turns onto his stomach as Greg positions himself behind Tom. He kisses the back of Tom’s neck while he pulls Tom’s hips up, supported by the pillow again. And he closes Tom’s legs tight, his cock pushed between Tom’s thighs, fucking them slowly as Greg blesses Tom’s body with kisses.
“Greg…” Tom groans, the contact pushing Tom’s body, his own dick relishing the friction against the sheet. “Don’t stop fucking me… never stop fucking me…”
Greg doesn’t plan on it. Because Greg’s done with plans, done with being careful, done with the calculating. Thirty-five goddamn years he’s lived on this earth, and where has being careful gotten him? Well, it’s gotten him right here, he supposes. But if he had given up on being careful earlier, it might have gotten him here long before now.
“Is it good?” Greg asks, genuine concern lacing his voice, his hand steadied against Tom’s back.
“Good,” Tom answers. “So fucking good…”
Greg’s hips thrust faster, and his hands still marvel at how smooth Tom’s skin is, how tanned and toned and taut it still is. Those Adonis shoulders of his, the place where his back becomes his neck, the rivers in between, running all along Tom’s body inviting Greg for a swim.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful, Tom,” he groans. “Fuck…”
Tom raises one hand against the headboard, presses against it to steady himself. And Greg watches the length of that arm, the muscles curling around it like the roots of a tree taking hold and disrupting a city sidewalk. He holds Tom at the waist while he fucks his thighs, but his other hand brings a finger to his mouth, sucks on it, wets it as much as possible. And then it slips easily back into Tom’s body, an invitation this time, and moves inside him at the pace his cock pushes against Tom’s body.
The sound Tom makes… Well, Greg wishes he could have recorded it, wishes he could replay it over and over again, never get tired of it. It’s something between a sigh and a curse, and Greg’s even more pleased when he finds that Tom is pushing his own body against it, faster and faster and faster while Greg himself draws closer to the edge.
“Let… Let me look at you,” Tom begs. “Please, Greg…”
So Greg moves back just enough to help Tom turn over, and Tom pulls him down into a kiss, his hand and Greg’s clasps together around both of them, fingers interlocked, a joint effort.
“Tell me…” Tom starts, struggling for concentration. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“What I’m thinking?” Greg grins, out of breath as his hand works faster. “I… I don’t know, Tom. I’m thinking this feels real fucking good.”
“No, no,” Tom shakes his head. “About me. Tell me about me.”
Greg presses his forehead to Tom’s. He closes his eyes. “I adore you,” he whispers.
“More. Tell me more.”
“I… I should have kissed you…” he tells Tom.
“Something else. More.”
Greg’s almost laughing, exasperated. “I wanted you immediately,” he admits. “First time I saw you.”
“Truth?”
“Truth,” Greg promises. “And every time I saw you after that.”
“Even when you were mad at me?”
“Especially then,” he breathes. He opens his eyes, stares directly down at Tom’s. “Are you happy now?”
Tom nods. “Kiss me while—”
He doesn’t have to finish the thought. Greg kisses him, and it’s like a magic charm, like a passcode. They come together in their hands, between their bodies, and the warmth of this feeling radiates through their bodies like electric wire through a single tether that joins them. And they’re still kissing even after they’ve finished. When they’re naked and under the covers and wrapped up in each other, they’re still kissing. Hungry for each other with an appetite that can’t be sated.
They fall asleep, and only know they have when they wake up together in the morning. Tom asks if it’s okay that Greg stayed, and Greg reminds him that everything’s okay when he says it is. And then they touch each other again under the covers, laugh together through sloppy handjobs and morning climaxes, and pity the housekeepers who’ll have to clean these sheets.
They never make it to Walgreens that day. They don’t want to leave the room at all. They shower together and eat together and talk together, talk about anything that isn’t this ugly monster looming in the corner. They don’t talk about Greg going back home. They don’t talk about how he’ll explain the hickeys. They don’t talk about missed opportunities or the old days.
“You should visit again,” Greg tells him. “After you see your parents.”
“If you hadn’t called my mother, I could have spent the entire week here,” Tom reminds him. “But you had to be a brat.”
Greg beams. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“To what part?”
“Being a brat,” he answers. “Being spoiled.”
"Does he…" Tom already regrets that he's asking. "Does he spoil you?"
Greg doesn't answer.
Tom packs the last of his things and closes the suitcase. He makes his way over to where Greg stands at the dresser, and he wraps his arms around his waist, holds him there like that.
Greg can’t help but notice the way Tom’s eyes find the little marks on his neck. But he doesn’t talk about them, so neither does Greg.
“I’m serious,” Greg tells him. “Come back. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”
Tom fiddles with the cotton of Greg’s shirt. “Why? Just to have to say goodbye again?”
“You could come back next weekend,” Greg urges. "And then the weekend after that. And then after that.”
“What’s the point?” Tom asks. “Not to get into it right now, but what’s the point, Greg?”
Greg can’t find the answer. He doesn’t know it.
“You’re not going to leave him,” Tom says. Doesn’t ask.
Greg shrugs.
“I can’t be the mistress. I can’t.”
“Too good for that?” Greg asks.
“It’s… painful. Hurts too much.”
“I’ve given more of myself to you in these twelve hours than I’ve given him in three years,” Greg says. “No one knows me like you do. No one gets me.”
“Then why are you staying?” The question is mostly rhetorical. Tom knows why. It’s the security. It’s saving face. It’s the fact that Greg finally belongs to something, to someone.
“Even if I left,” Greg starts, “What… what would that even mean for us? It’s not like we could just, like, run away together.”
“Why not?”
Greg thinks for a moment. And then for reasons he doesn’t fully understand, he feels like he might cry.
“I want this,” Tom whispers. “I want you. But not like this. It can’t be like this.”
“You would have done it. If I had known back when you were married. You wouldn’t have left her for me. We would’ve just carried on behind her back. You know it and I know it.”
“I loved her.”
“Bullshit. You loved me.”
Tom’s fingers dig into Greg’s shirt, press into his skin.
“You still love me,” Greg says. “You love me so much that you know you’ll come back.”
Tom shakes his head.
“You will. You know you will.”
Tom buries his face against Greg’s throat.
“Please come back,” Greg whispers, desperate and low. Begging, really.
“Of course I’ll come back,” Tom concedes.
Greg’s hands find Tom’s face. He kisses him.
When they finally part, Greg helps Tom carry the luggage down. They could get the hotel staff to do it, but they kind of want to savor these last few minutes alone. Even if they’re wordless. Quiet. Even if there’s nothing left to say, no plans to make.
Tom’s car arrives, and he places the luggage into the trunk. Out here, he can’t hold Greg for a long while, can’t kiss him, can’t bury his lips against Greg’s clothes. But he hugs him, only for a moment, and leaves one hand on Greg’s shoulder when they part.
“Next week?” Greg asks.
Tom smiles. “Apparently.”
Greg opens the door. But before Tom sits inside, Greg grabs his wrist.
“You know that I…” he starts quietly. “That I… do…”
“I know,” Tom nods. “I know you do.”
And that’s all he needs, really. That assurance. Greg lets him go, and he laughs a little once the car is out of sight. Laughs because he’s just forced Tom into a family visit. Laughs because he’s just carried on and agreed to an affair. Laughs because he has no fucking idea how he’ll explain these hickeys to Chet. Or even if Chet will notice. If he’ll even care.
But mostly he laughs because he’s goddamn happy. Tom will come back. Tom will always come back. And no, it’s not ideal. It’s not the way Greg had once imagined it going, back when he was letting himself imagine these things. But maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he’s become more like Tom than he ever dreamt, more than Tom ever dreamt.
On the ride home, his hand brushes over the marks on his neck. They don’t hurt. They don’t hurt at all.