Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They keep hosting the RECNY ball, even if none of the Roy kids want to have anything to do with Waystar anymore.

Actually, that's a half-lie. Roman's still here, for some obscure fucking reason, having reappeared a few months after the GoJo acquisition, waltzing in the offices like nothing had ever happened, his same annoying smile plastered to his face, soon disappearing into Gerri's new office. He's given an executive position at Waystar Studios a few days later, something in L.A even if he chooses to work, most of the time, remote. He'd said something about wanting to stay in the Big Apple, closer to his roots, or whatever bullshit he'd cooked up at the instant. Mostly, it's because he can't stay under the General Counsel's close watch if he flies off to the other side of the country every two other days.

Honestly, it's the same bullshit as every other year, except that this time, Logan's not here to make everyone piss their pants with a new directive or whatnot.

It's almost a relief, Tom thinks as he stares blankly at the building, and he knows he should feel happy. If not that, at least grateful. He's neither of those. He just feels empty.

Being appointed CEO has led him to immediately having to travel abroad for a whole year, leaving his position in the hands of no one as interim—no one he'd trust more than himself, he'd explained to Matsson, and he still oversaw most of the company's activities from his hotels in South East Asia, most of Europe, and even Argentina, for a few days. He doesn't step foot in Russia or other Northern Asian states, because Matsson doesn't exactly care about Kazakhstan or Mongolia. Not that Tom minds. He's a little indifferent about it all, truth be told.

He had been given a surprising amount of liberties regarding the handling of the company, even as Matsson's puppet. It was almost as if he had free will—those moments rarely lasted, at least until the Swede'd sent him some new insane task via his Instagram DMs, of all places.

Still, he sighs, cautiously running a hand over the lapels of his suit, he should feel a little more rested. He was CEO. He had won everything there had been to win. No Kendall, no Siobhan, no Logan. Nothing to hold him back. Connor was a mere afterthought, he was a shadow in his once great family, he was nothing he should be afraid of. Nothing he was afraid of. At least not anymore.

He's the one in charge now. Right? He makes the decisions. He appoints the budget. He fires who he wants. Fucks who he wants. He's basically the king of the New World.

Something like that.

"Well, lighten up, you sad-sorry fuck," a sing-song voice hums to his left, coming from a little under. "You look like you just saw my dad die."

Great.

"Roman," Tom simply replies, sending him a quick side glance, "Gerri's here already?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's not do this now," the older man groans, going to run his hand over his face but thinking better and dropping it back to his side, "it's not even 10 PM. Just tell me if you two came together."

"We rarely do, if you must know," his General Counsel calls out from the limo she's stepping out of, "he's not exactly gifted in that area."

"That's not a very nice thing to say," Roman whines as he trots back to her, immediately going to link their arms. He looks like an overeager puppy. "Can you do it again?"

"Alright, down boy," Gerri mutters, making her way towards her boss, "too scared of going inside alone?" she then asks, lips curled in amusement, "what, did you become shy in the course of last year? Need to hold your mommy's hand, perhaps?"

"Just hoping for some interesting company," Tom offers, not too put off by her tone anymore. She'd gone with him on his trips aboard, and it turned out that they'd both bonded, oddly enough, over overpriced cocktails. Neither of them wanted to call it a friendship or anything of the like, but they couldn't deny it either. They'd grown to enjoy each other's company. To like the banter. It was a little weird, but it fitted them.

"You can have her for two hours over drinks," Roman says, "and then she's mine."

"Can't drink for now and you know it," the other man reminds him with an eye roll, "but sure, I can do with two hours of bitching at the bar."

"Instead of freezing like idiots out there," Gerri says, "let's just go in."

"Yeah, what the bitch said," the youngest of the three grins, taking longer strides to match their pace, entering the building like he owned it. Which, granted, he probably did, still.

The lobby and main room is already packed, despite it being only around 9:30 PM. Investors, a few PhDs and MCs, singers that Tom doesn't know by name but is faintly aware are famous with the younger crowds, some athletes, and other businessmen and women. The usual attendees, overall.

He'd only landed in New York earlier this morning, back from Budapest, and he hadn't properly slept in over 50 hours. Which had been fine during his college days at Cornell when he was 20, and which was far from fine now that he was 42 and not okay at all.

But it didn't matter. And it didn't matter that he hadn't seen anyone from Waystar's HQs apart from Gerri and sometimes Roman and Karolina in over a year, and it didn't matter that he'd left him after the whole acquisition, a sorry sticker on his forehead and a promise of new beginnings. And it didn't matter that then he'd left for fucking...which was it? Monaco? Yes, he'd left for Monaco, and that they'd stopped talking. Completely.

And sure, maybe it was his fault for not keeping up. But he'd had so many sleepless nights, so many never ending meetings, the jet lag didn't even mean anything to him by week four of his trip, and he'd taken so many pills and vitamins for his health that he'd felt like some cocainomaniac.

Still, it hurts. He'd been the one to stop sending the first message, but the younger man hadn't tried to start the conversation again. He'd just accepted it, apparently. And Tom knew better than just check the other's Instagram account.

So he hadn't.

And he hadn't seen him in over fourteen months. He'd seen their birthdays go by, and he'd been alone during both. Alone in a pricey hotel suit, drink in hand, miserable.

Because that's what he was, wasn't it? Miserable. Like the shadow of himself.

Oh, he'd come up on top. But at what price? How many corpses had he had to step on to get there?

The images of dead bodies suddenly impose themselves on his mind, and he physically winces. He has to stop himself, jaw tightening so hard the muscle appeared.

The limping wasn't gone, either. He'd been warned that it would take months for it to go back to normal, and he'd started using a cane aboard. At least, until he would get better. But there was no way he could just show up to the RECNY with that. There was no way he could appear that weak in front of so many people.

Gerri and his hell-puppy were still by his side, lost in their (surely riveting) conversation, and he tries to the best of his abilities to ignore the scathing pain in his right leg. He didn't even have alcohol to help. What a sorry life he lived.

They pose for the cameras, he offers them a tight smile. Thinks about last time, when he'd been his then fiancée's arm candy. There's no one by his side now.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

Before he can say anything back to Roman, though, there's a hand on his shoulder, and a smaller man holding him back, a slight smile brightening his frame.

Sanders Jones, Tom recalls, some low-level exec at ATN that he'd met maybe twice in his life, and who was such a boot-licker that it made him look mild in comparison. He throws him a glare, making the other man step away.

"Sir," Jones says, expression faltering a little, "it's good to have you back. It's probably going to be easier now that you're in office."

"Sure," Tom nods stiffly. "I would tend to agree."

"People here did a great job. All thanks to you monitoring it, of course! By the way, you gotta congratulate that Roy kid," the exec adds, seeming to find his colors back, as soon as the ones on Tom's face drain. "He's been real good at his job. Fantastic, really. It's like he's a natural!"

"The 'Roy kid'?" Roman asks with a raised eyebrow, "what, did Connor lose another election he was the only one running for? Did Ken find the way off Stewy's dick? Did Shiv transition, perhaps? She was always the most democrat-leaning of us all," he grins, sending a look at Gerri, as if looking for her approval.

"What? No, I—what?" Jones recoils, pointing a little to his left, "this one. Hey—HEY! ROY MAN! C'MERE!" he bellows, cupping his mouth with his hands, making someone turn around.

Roman's protestations die in his throat as a pair of two, wide blue eyes meet the four other people. Even Gerri seems put off, frowning ever so slightly. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of look.

Gregory Hirsch stands in the middle of the crowded room, a man quite shorter than him—which wasn't a hard thing to manage, anyway, close to him, a half-drank champagne glass in his hand. The exec doesn't seem to know better than to not press on, because next thing Tom knows he's less than two meters away from the man he hasn't seen nor talked to in over a year, and he can't stop staring.

"Oh...hey, you guys," Greg says, incredibly lamely, "it's been, like, a while. Like years? Okay maybe not—like—y'know, years, but like—a year? Like—like at least one. I think?"

"It's been fourteen months," Gerri says, tone placating. "Enough for you to get a shiny new name I gather?"

"No, hum—ma'am. Gerri? It's just, like, I'm a Roy technically? From my mother? Marianne?"

"We know who your mother is, egg-roll," Roman lies, one arm thrown loosely around his partner's shoulders, "but up until recently, you were still little Greggy Hirsch. Super hard to write, by the way. Is the S before the C? Or is it the other way 'round? Can never tell."

"No it's actually—yeah, it's S before C," Greg mutters, scratching his neck. "It's just...hum. I guess I wanted to reclaim it?"

"What, like slurs? Like fag?"

"Oh, you can reclaim this one?" Tom snickers, finding his voice again to turn towards the Roy sibling, a small smile on his lips.

"Well, Tommy-Wamby, you sure as fuck can reclaim retar—"

"So you're what, Gregory Roy, now?" Gerri cuts Roman off, eyes closed and brows furrowed, "is that even changed in the database?"

"Those guys bothering you, Greg?" the smaller man from earlier asks, clearly joking, making his way towards the small group, finally setting his free hand on the small of Greg's back. That makes Tom tick. "Hey, I'm Taylor Winston. Tay for friends. T.W for business inquiries," he laughs, "unusual initials, I know."

"Thomas Wambsgans," Tom finally says, locking eyes with him, looking down to meet the dark brown pupils.

"Oh fuck—you're our CEO," Taylor gasps, pulling back a little, eyes widening. "Fuck, hum—nice to meet you, sir," he adds, extending his hand. Tom doesn't shake it. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Poor you," Roman snorts, hands in his pockets. "You Greg's date tonight? Couldn't he find any other hooker? You're friends with Willa, aren't you?" he asks his cousin, still as amused.

"Tay's not a hooker," Greg manages, face burning red. "He's—I guess you wouldn't know because you were in Europe but I kind of, like...became Head of, like, Brightstar Parks on Matsson's orders? And Cruises also, but I don't like to think about it," he says, almost like a private joke. "But like, I'm Gregory H. Roy? Now. Like technically it's Gregory Simon Hirsch-Roy, but it's a mouthful, and people just kind of, like, call me Mr. Roy now, so I guess I just, got used to it? One could say? Anyway Tay's—he works at Parks. We became close when I got the job title."

"So you're fucking your assistant," Gerri deadpans, and that makes Taylor blush as well, visibly upset. "Well, would you look at that? You really are a Roy, aren't you?"

"It's not like that."

"This is boring as fuck. I'm getting a Martini," Roman whines, already moving away, "you, assistant dude guy. You come here. I'll need more hands to grab the cocktails and the champagne."

"Oh," Taylor mutters, "sure. I'll be right back," he says to Greg, nodding at him.

They disappear at the same time that Gerri pulls Jones by the arm as well, leaving two old friends to face each other, the deafening sound of the party around them not covering the icy silence in between them. They must look a little stupid, just standing in front of each other and not saying a word. Not saying anything, when there's just so much to say.

Where to begin, anyway?

"You, huh, grew out your hair," Greg dumbly says, blinking slowly.

Tom opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

He had, indeed, let his hair grow out over the past months. It wasn't exactly long, but it was long enough to fall in some nice side part that hid most of his forehead, almost getting into his eyes, while the rest was slicked back. He'd had an actual makeup artist do his hairstyle for the night, because of the stakes at hand. She'd covered whatever needed to be covered, and he'd been told not to touch it, or to make too sudden movements.

It's not like he'd planned on dancing the night away, anyway.

"And you've cut yours," he finally replies, voice stern. "I see you said goodbye to the ugly sideburns. Even got an earring! Feeling up to, huh, embracing your sexuality? Huh?"

That seems to take Greg aback, who simply stares back, shaking his head.

"No, I—huh. I guess I wanted something that really...that would make people take me seriously? Like, that looked professional? That kind of, like, looked like yours, you know. Like before you left?"

"Well, Hirsch," Tom growls, walking closer to him, up until his mouth was just right beside the other's ear, "you know what this haircut makes you look like? Huh?"

"...no?"

"You want me to tell you?"

Greg frowns, pulling away slightly, trying to look at him, failing miserably.

"...like, knowing you you're gonna be, huh, super mean?"

You don't know me, Tom wants to say. You don't know shit about me.

"It makes you look cheap," the older man settles on saying, eyes empty, impossibly cold. "Like you're putting on a facade. But I know what you are. You're a cock-sucker who wouldn't be where he's at if he hadn't had me jump to his rescue every fucking time. You're nothing. And you're certainly not a Roy. You're nothing but a corporate whore," Tom finishes, throat tight, voice scathing.

"That's not true," Greg replies, clearly hurt as his eyes widened. "I'm—I worked hard for this, Tom."

"Mr. Wambsgans."

"Mr. Wambsgans," the younger man tries again, breathing out. "I worked hard for this. You—you weren't here. I earned my place. My—my title, my name. I'm really giving it my all."

"Oh, boo-fucking-oo. So very cute of you. What is this? Your process of becoming?"

"You're just mad because I'm finally doing—well for myself."

"You're so fucking full of yourself, Gregory."

"I'm trying to be good at what I do. And—and you weren't here, so you can't know."

"I would've known, if you'd told me so."

"You stopped texting me first!"

"I'm the fucking CEO of the biggest media company in the world, what did you expect me to do? Skype you every other night? Send you cute little letters, perhaps? Did you want me to put on lipstick and kiss them away?"

"Dude," Greg mutters, growing more and more upset, "no. I just—like. Wanted to have news? From you? Maybe pics from your locations?"

"You didn't exactly try to get the conversation going."

"I was busy, Tom!"

"It doesn't matter, Gregory. Just—go find your fucking boyfriend, or whatever."

"Tom!"

The older man sends him one last look, trying to look as threatening as he could, despite the cold sweats of pain dripping down his back, the ache in his leg still not disappearing despite the pills he'd taken earlier. It makes him almost light headed.

"You suckers done beating each other up?" Roman asks loudly as he marches back up to them, hands full with two glasses of martini, Taylor on his heels carrying a bucket of ice where a bottle of champagne rested. The Roy goes to hand a glass to Tom before thinking better, retracting his hand. "Forgot you couldn't have any. Boring bitch."

"I'll survive, I'm sure," his ex-brother-in-law snorts.

"You can't have alcohol?" Greg asks, visibly surprised, "why?"

He knows Tom's not an alcoholic per se, but he knows that he likes a good glass or two when times get hard. Maybe a bottle, if needs be.

"Did they never tell you to mind your fucking business at Circus-school where all the long-legged freaks come from?"

"Don't think that's any way to talk to him," Taylor suddenly steps in, expression hardened, one hand protectively raised in front of his partner. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Tay, it's fine," Greg sighs, not even bothered anymore. If anything, he's just impressed by the new insults Tom seems to come up with at the second. "You can't even have one glass?" he tries again, in honor of the good times, he wants to say.

"I have people to talk to," Tom replies, his mask of neutrality back on his face. "Important people."

"Yeah, and I have a hot dom mommy to fuck in the bathroom," Roman adds with a vigorous nod. "Man, where'd she go...she didn't get her walker, granny's gonna collapse and die anytime now."

"Don't ask for me to come collect her," Tom says, "had enough with one. Call her to tell her you love her now, or something."

The other man seems to be surprised by this, a sly smile finally spreading on his lips as something like recognition sparkled in his eyes.

"Sure, bud. I'll do just that. Alright, bye-bye you frigid fucks!" he calls out, raising his two cocktails triumphantly, spilling some of it on some random people's heads.

Soon enough he's disappeared in the crowd, his height not helping in the slightest.

"We should go, too," Taylor stiffly says, looking back at his—technically—boss, jaw clenched. "By the way, you should look at Parks' numbers, when you can. Greg's worked hard on it."

"I have assistants to do that."

"Sure. Whatever you say, sir."

"You're not a Roy," Tom mutters, one eye closed to try and contain the pain to his leg, not letting it spread more than it already did. "Gregory. I mean it. You're not like them."

"You don't kn—like, you don't know what I am. Who I am."

"But I do."

"Not anymore. I don't...I don't think so," Greg replies softly, sending him a sad look. "Sorry, Thomas," he adds, turning on his heels and making his way back to another group of investors.

Thomas.

He'd been called many things by Greg, since they'd met.

Sir, first of all. Mr. Wambsgans, at some point. Tom, on a regular basis. Dude, more often than not, sometimes even bro, even if Tom detested it.

Tommy, a few times. They were drunk, they were free and would not go to prison, they were happy, and it was a simple feeling.

So Greg had called him Tommy, and his smile had been so bright.

Tom had chased that high ever since.

Now he's alone in a room full of people, and he's in pain. He's really—it hurts. A lot. Not just the leg, or the face, but the fucking—the entire body, really. It sort of burns, and he wants to relieve the itch—the makeup artist had done such a good job at this, though. It'd be a shame to ruin it. It really would be.

He takes a deep breath, swallowing loudly. He didn't lie, he had people to talk to.

So he does. Because what else can he do? He's just the CEO. He's an empty suit, and he has duties to fulfill. He's not any happier now than then. He's just richer. More powerful. Lonelier. It doesn't really matter anymore.

He's not sure how much time has passed, but eventually his throat burns from all the talking, and his hands are clammy from so much shaking. Even his mouth feels tight from the fake smiles.

It's fine, though. Everything is fine. He knows what comes next. Someone is going to make a speech—not him, he'd chosen to come back for the RECNY just hours ago and he didn't have anything planned, fireworks would go off, and he would...walk home. Take the subway, maybe? Fucking...bike? Would his leg allow it? Maybe he could just pop a few Xanax and keep going.

The crowd gathers around the podium, where someone he probably knows but whose name he can't remember says something—there's a mess of laughs and 'ay's that sound off, and then people are applauding.

He just needs to hold it for a bit longer. Just a tiny bit longer. He can do this, right?

Someone's moving to his right, and he almost falls to the ground, his balance in his good leg not enough to keep him up. Hopefully he manages to avoid an incredible display of shame, keeping himself upright.

Fuck. He can't even feel his leg or back anymore. It's just hot, and it throbs.

Capitalizing on the insane amount of people present he makes his way out, limping as little as he could manage.

Now, he's aware that he should know better than to self-medicate. He'd dated someone that went to med-school once. His dad's a doctor. He knows. He's not stupid. However, there's so much pain his body and mind can take. And while the mere idea of having to go to jail and getting tortured there nearly broke him, feeling like his insides were pulled apart at the second, and thus feeling like he was getting tortured, that just didn't feel good. It really, really fucking did not.

He punches the lift's buttons, waiting for the doors to open as he stumbles inside, watching his pale yet blotchy face in the wide mirrors there. His hair was sticky, and it fell on his forehead in a really greasy and gross way, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his knuckles white. If he squinted, he could see the turquoise veins pump on his neck. He's breathing loud, making his way towards the men's bathroom like some sicko, almost crawling his way there against the walls. The more he walked, the less his legs would obey him.

For fuck's sake.

The small blue pills fall messily in his palm, and he lets them rest on the inside of his cheek. He almost chokes, because of how dry his mouth feels, but it gets there in the end.

He runs the sink, splashes his face with ice cold water, already feeling dizzier than minutes ago. His grip on the edge of it numbs, and his fingers almost slip from how water coated they were.

He falls to his knees, forehead resting on the sink, breathing raggedly. He can feel his shoulder blades constrict, and it burns, it pulls at his neck, he can't take it.

Time probably goes by. It's not like he would know. He thinks he hears the party from here, but he can't be too sure. There's something that makes him nauseous, but nothing ever comes. Not even bile. Just an overwhelming feeling like he might just puke.

There's a beating in his ears, in his skull, and only a few minutes later does he realize that it's his own.

His heart feels heavy, too. Like it was hovering in his chest, but like it might just explode inside his ribs. Take his lungs away.

It's really not a nice feeling, he thinks. Worse than thinking I might go to jail.

He runs his hand over his face at last, feels the makeup stain his palms, a nosebleed run down his lips and chin. His hair's slicked back with both sweat, blood and water, and he can see the ugly scars that run along his forehead, still pink, still a little raw. He should probably take better care of them. It's not like he'd had the time.

He should probably do something. He's just not sure of what.

No one came to save Nero.

How hilarious was it, that he'd committed suicide? How peculiar would it be, that they'd find Waystar CEO's body lying in a puddle of his own sweat in the fucking bathroom, just one year after his crowning? Was that it? All CEOs were meant to die in a bathroom?

What a fate.

His eyelids are heavy.

The floor is cold, and it's nice.

There's a soft thud, and then,

The darkness.

Greg had no idea he'd see Tom again at the RECNY. He'd checked, and his boss wasn't due back in New York for at least another week. A month, if he was unlucky. So it's a little underwhelming to call it 'surprising' when he sees him stroll in, right next to Gerri Kellman and Roman Roy, all suited-up, his hair nicely done.

It had taken his breath away, a little. He'd always known him with short hair, his cut almost military-like. And—it's not like he's ungrateful. Far from it. He thinks Tom's very handsome either way, but he did have a bit of a grieving period when he'd seen him with shorter hair than usual.

So to say, it's a more than welcome sight to see the other man, after over a year of no contact, all handsome in some suit whose brand name Greg probably can't even pronounce, hair styled so prettily. Such a welcome sight, that he almost forgets about his friend (assistant, slash fuck buddy,) that had agreed to be his arm candy at this year's RECNY.

He does notice how tired Tom looks, though. His eyes aren't exactly bright, and his posture is hunched, despite his best efforts to look put together. He knows this because he knows Tom. He also notes the slightly hidden dark bags under his eyes, or the way his hands seem to tremble. The oddly uneven right and left eyebrows, which looked like they had scarred right in the middle of them.

Most of all, he notices the limp.

Which is odd.

Because, why on Earth would Tom be limping? Had something happened? Had he and Roman tried to kill each other outside the building, maybe? Gerri was there, so that was unlikely.

Their exchange is polite at best, cold and mean at most. It's typical, in a way, and Greg kind of revels in the way it feels. Like they're back to normal, like they never left. Roman even takes the whole Roy thing a little better than he'd expected, truth be told.

He'd wondered about it four months into the whole acquisition thing. He'd not asked his grandpa, who had been furious, by the way, and two other months later his papers were changed. He'd taken his mother's name again. Simple as that.

To say it didn't feel good would be a lie.

Because it does.

It feels fucking great, actually. Thank you very much.

Gregory Roy. It's nice. Rolls off the tongue. It would also probably piss his cousins to no end. And, well. He'd grown to become petty. To take what was his.

Shiv had taken his last $20, after all. So he took her job. Her husband.

Her name.

When he's named Head of Parks, he's a little annoyed. He liked being Chief of Staff. There was something fun about ordering the others around, not that he'd ever admit it. But Parks is good, too. Isn't it where Tom had been, at some point? Must be. It's like...like walking in his steps? In a way?

He's happy with it. He's happy when his subordinate, Taylor Winston, invites him out for drinks. Another T.W, even if this one has brown eyes and wears cheap looking suits. He can't be too greedy now, though. He'll take what he can. He'll close his eyes and think about Tom. Tom, who'd stopped replying to his messages. Tom, who was probably away in fucking Hong Kong, snorting coke off some pretty dancer's tits, and who was having the time of his life.

Tom, who left him to rot, all alone. Tom, who stopped caring about him.

It makes him sad, and then angry. And then sad again.

He thinks about texting him again, but he never does. He deletes the drafts, goes out for drinks, smokes weed, tries not to think about it.

How not to, though? Tom's all he'd known, for over three years. Tom's been the only one to ever protect him. And now that he'd gotten what he wanted, he'd just tossed him aside.

He knew he was getting used. He'd used people, too. Hell, in a way, he'd been using Taylor. It just didn't feel good when it was happening to him. He really thought there was more to them two than just this.

"What's up with Tom?"

Gerri looks at him with a carefully crafted expression, not even blinking.

"Apart from that usual off-putting nature of his? Nothing."

"No, I'm serious, Gerri? Like, he was limping? I didn't just imagine that. And he looked...super tired. More than during the Cruises' debacle."

"He's been traveling a lot."

"Okay well—" he frowns, "that doesn't explain the limping. Or the...eyebrows?"

"He got fucked in the ass before coming here," Roman offers, munching loudly on his olive. "I heard he's still got the anal vibro plug inside of him. Hey, should we try and find who's got the controller?"

"I'm really not joking Roman," Greg insists, frowning even more. "Dude actually, like, I haven't seen him since earlier? Should I try and find him?"

"What is this, a fucking treasure hunt? He's probably doing coke in the bathroom or something."

"Okay well—actually, why can't he drink alcohol?"

Gerri actually closes her eyes this time, scratching her forehead slightly.

"Don't you have things to do?"

"Like, there are plenty reasons I can think of for not drinking alcohol," he says, not listening to her, holding out his hand and outstretched fingers. "First of, he's not pregnant. Second, he's not—like, Muslim or something. He's also not a designated driver," he pauses, sees the General Counsel flinch, "so my guess is, either some doctor in Europe told him he was, like, an alcoholic, and he had to lay off it, either he's like...on meds? That's really the only reasons I can think of."

"Okay, well maybe stop thinking?" Roman sneers, "or maybe start thinking? Do you even know what that word means?"

"I'm worried for my friend!"

"Waa, waa. Then go fetch or something? Can you maybe give us privacy?"

"Dude."

"Listen, dude," his cousin mocks him, face suddenly stern, "you wanna be a Roy? Huh ? You wanna wear the name? Then fucking act like it. Stop whining and complaining. Go find your owner or whatever you two freaks had got going on. I literally couldn't care less. But if I don't get to put my hands on my beautiful, super sexy, smoking hot partner tonight because of y—"

"That's enough, Rome," Gerri sighs, pulling out her phone from her purse. "His phone's location says he's in the men's bathroom on the third floor. Just go and ask him, if you're so curious."

"Oh. Huh. Okay. Thanks."

"Sure. And tell him to come back down. Some guys from Germany want to meet him."

"Okay," Greg says again, nodding stupidly. "Yeah, I'll, huh, do that. Cool."

Almost robotically he turns around, taking long strides across the dance floor to try and find the lifts.

He gets there in a record time, his glass of rum and coke long forgotten. He waits patiently to reach for the third floor, almost wincing when the doors open with a ding. The bathroom is at the end of an unusually long hallway, which he still manages to cross relatively fast, thank God for his long legs, or something.

"Tom ?" he then calls out warily, almost knocking, "huh, you in there, dude? People—Gerri, are looking for you? She said you were here, I mean, I don't know why she has your location honestly, but like, I haven't seen you in a minute, and—"

The door opens on itself—of course. It's not like you could lock public bathrooms.

"To—FUCK!" he screeches, met with the sight of Tom Wambsgans, lying on the floor next to an overflowing sink, arms curled close to his chest, nose bleeding and face slightly turned down on the cold tiles, the red fluid creating a halo around his head.

Eyes closed.

He runs to him, or, more like, he takes two steps towards him and immediately crouches, turning him back unto his back, grasping his shoulders a little too tight.

"No, no, no, no," he panics, taking his phone out, dialing 911 in a hurry, "hello? Hi? Is this—like—paramedics?"

[Sir, what's your emergency?] a kind voice replies to him on the other end of the line, [and how can I be of assistance?]

"It's—huh—my friend? He's—like, he's unconscious, he's bleeding, nosebleeding—"

[Have you checked his pulse?]

"Hum—no? Like sh—should I? Okay, huh, here goes?" he babbles, pressing two fingers next to Tom's throat, frowning as he couldn't seem to find it.

[Is it there?]

"No!" he yells in horror, "I can't fucking feel shit!"

[Open your friend's eyes. Check the pupils.]

"Oh! Oh, it's huh, super fucking small!"

[He probably overdosed. We need your location now. Start chest compressions, and do not stop until we get there.]

"Cunard Building," Greg replies without thinking. "But—like, you have to come in quietly. I'm serious, I—my friend? He's kind of like, a huge deal? It can't—he can't be seen like that. You need to find a backdoor. I'm—we're in the men's bathroom on the third floor. So. Yeah."

A pause.

[Okay, sir. We'll get to you ASAP. Chest compressions until then,] the woman says. [Y—]

He promptly hangs up, pulls on his hair, eyes widening in horror before slamming the contact info of the General Counsel on his screen, putting it on speaker before setting it on the side and starting the chest compressions like his grandpa had taught him to.

[What?] Gerri's voice says barely a few seconds later, [did you find Tom? The investors are getting restless.]

"He's dying," he chokes out, "you need to get up here, like—he's not responding!"

[...what?]

"Please, Gerri!"

[Don't hang up,] she orders, and he seems to hear a rustling on the other end of the line.

He doesn't focus on it though, pinching the other's nose before performing CPR to the best of his abilities, trying to breathe life back in his lungs, trying to pump the blood back, trying to do something.

Don't do this to me, he wants to scream, you can't die on me when I've only just gotten you back. That's not fucking fair!

He's worried he might crack a rib or two, but when Tom still doesn't seem to move, he feels his blood run cold.

"What the fuck?" Gerri calls out from behind him, staring at the dismal state of the bathroom in horror, "what happened to him?"

"I don't know?! I found him like that, and—and his pupils are super small, and he doesn't have a pulse almost, and she said it might be an OD a—"

"She? Who's she?"

"The 911 girl," he says, before shutting up to perform CPR again, "I told them to find a private entrance so people would see them though, they should be here any minute, I just—"

He pulls back, face coated from Tom's nosebleed, looking like a deer caught in headlights in the middle of the night. Mindlessly he slicks the other's hair back again, noticing the long scars. His mouth goes dry.

"Fuck, Gerri?" he whispers, turning to face her, "what the fuck is that?"

"Let's wait for the paramedics," she simply says, looking outside the door, "they'll know what to do. They'll bring him to Bellevue."

"What the fuck happened?!" he yells in between chest compressions, feeling tears well up in his eyes, "what's wrong with him?!"

"It's complicated," she lies.

He wants to reply, but the stillness of the body under him makes him shudder.

He should've gone on that trip with him.

When the paramedics finally arrive, quiet as can be, and drag Tom's body away from him, he feels his own give out. He stays seated on the wet marbled floors of the bathroom, head in his hands, watching Gerri leave with them.

It should've been him in that ambulance with Tom.

Time passes, and he gets up again. He feels sick. He goes back down, where the party is still booming. Taylor catches him in the corner of a room, and he mentally curses himself for being so tall.

"Hey, babe," the other man smiles, "all good? Where were you?"

"It's fine," Greg nods stiffly, rubbing his cleaned face again, trying to make sure no blood was left, "I'm just like...kind of tired? So I'm gonna call it a night. But huh, you stay here and enjoy yourself, Tay."

"Are you sure? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," he insists, not even managing to smile. "I'll see you at work anyway. Okay?"

Taylor doesn't seem to buy it, but nods nonetheless. He lets him go without another word.

Greg calls a driver—something he'd gotten used to doing those past months, and tells him to get him to the Bellevue Hospital, the irony of the situation not lost on him. His wallet's a little fuller this time around, though.

The skyline is pretty, he thinks, that deep in the night. Sometimes, the blue of the sky would remind him of Tom's ridiculously bright and clear eyes. It was hard not to think about him anyway. Tom would be here when he woke up, taunting him about having bought stupidly expensive bedsheets, and he would be here when he'd bought himself coffee. It was like a little Devil on his shoulder.

And it's not like his friend had been updating his Facebook or—God forbid, his Instagram account. Hell, not even his LinkedIn. So there really was no way of finding a way to check on him indirectly. It felt borderline stalker-y, but, sue him, Greg's worried. And he'd been right, hadn't he ? Because Tom'd shown up with a limp, fucking scars on the forehead, apparently, and had promptly overdosed in a bathroom.

Was he trying to mimic Logan, or something?

He frowns, taking his phone out and opening Chrome.

nero emperor died how

"In 68 AD, after a turbulent 13-year reign, the Roman senate ran out of patience and declared Nero a public enemy. Nero then fled, and, on June 9, 68 AD, at the age of 30, he committed suicide," PBS.org tells him, and he can't help but feel his heart rate rise.

Surely Tom wouldn't have done that, would he ? He wasn't suicidal.

...right?

He was a lot of things, sure, a little neurotic and maybe borderline, and probably vaguely insane, but suicidal? That would be a new one. That was more of Kendall's speed.

"Sir?" his driver says loudly, to try and catch his attention, "we're there."

He blinks.

"Oh. Right. Huh. Thanks, man."

"Of course."

He steps out, staring at the facade of the building, his stomach in knots. He's been here before, he can find his way around. All he needs is to find a secretary who would tell him where they'd sent Tom. Probably to a private wing, he assumes.

Like Logan.

The place is wide, but not as busy as it could've been if it were the middle of the afternoon. He asks around to a few nurses for a front desk, and they hurriedly send him here and there, making him walk around for a good half hour before he could even find it.

The man behind the desk is clearly here for the night shift, and he's not in a catatonic state yet. Hell, he doesn't even have dark bags.

"Hello," Greg politely starts, making the younger man's head snap up from his computer. "I'm here for—huh, Tom Wambsgans? He came in like—a few hours ago? Maybe less?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Greg. Ory. Gregory. Roy?"

A frown.

"What, like Roy Roy?"

"Hum. Yeah ? Like, unless you mean another Roy? There's probably a bunch of Roys in New York, but I'm like—those...Roys?"

The secretary eyes him reluctantly, trying to determine where the fuck he began and stopped to exist, scanning him up and down.

"Sorry, I can't tell you where he is just because of that. It's against the rules."

"No dude, I'm, like, his Emergency Contact?" Greg lies. Sue him, it's the excuse everyone gives in movies. "But I had to take care of administrative stuff before coming here. That's why Gerri—Mrs. Kellman went with him instead?"

"Huh...Tom Wambsgans you said, right? T...W...ah, T.L.W. There he is. Well, there's no Gregory Roy in Mr. Wambsgans' phone," the other man tells him, looking at his screen. "There's a Greg Hirsch, though."

"That's me!" Greg almost yells, pointing at him hysterically, "that's me?! Like, I had a last name change. But I'm Greg Hirsch? I even have a PDF of my old bank things to my old name to prove it, like—"

"Dude, whatever. It's fine. It's in the West Wing, room 68. It's the suite one."

"Okay. Thanks," he says with a nod, looking around before finding the wide W plastered on the walls, almost jogging his way there.

Would Tom be holding up? Would he be awake? Would he be okay? What the hell had happened on that trip, anyway? Why had he come back earlier than expected?

Greg can't help but feel his brain overheat with every possibility, every scenario that could've unfolded. From mild to clearly worrying. To apocalyptic.

Chill, dude, he tells himself with a scorn. Panicking won't help.

He stands outside the room's door, almost thinking back to a few years ago, when he'd been wearing his shitty khaki coat and when his hair had been far too long. His wallet is heavy in his suit pocket.

Walking in, only Gerri is here. She's looking at something on her phone, eyes quickly scanning the screen before going up to meet Greg's. She doesn't even seem surprised to see him.

"He's not awake," she tells him immediately, voice not betraying any sort of emotion. "He's only just back from the Resuscitation Room."

Talk about Jesus Christ and Judas, Greg wants to say, but abstains.

"He overdosed on Fentanyl pills," she continues, putting her phone down. "Simple guess, but I would assume he got those pills illegally after..." she pauses, looks behind her, where a glass door separated the small living room from the actual hospital room. "Anyway, it was an accident. He didn't do it on purpose, he just...tried to self-medicate. And fucked it."

"But Fentanyl's like—" he swallows, letting himself drop on the closest sofa, "it's fucking—like—it's a lot? Right? Like. It's a drug."

"It's an opioid. Like morphine."

"Why the fuck did Tom need opioids?" he asks, looking at the other woman with wide eyes, "and why did he have scars? On his forehead? On his eyebrow? The limp? Gerri, something happened, and I—"

"He doesn't want people to know," she cuts him off, shaking her head. "Only I, Karolina and Roman know. And Lukas, of course."

"Roman knows?"

"I—" Gerri has the decency to look sheepish, "you know how he is. He wouldn't stop bugging me until I told him."

"Oh, so Roman who has no tie to him, like, whatsoever, is allowed to know, but not me?"

"Well, he was his ex-brother-in-law."

"Okay, well I was his ex...wife's cousin. So it counts, too. And I'm his best friend."

"I don't understand why you're so—" she rolls her eyes, "sure, fine. It's late, and I'm not in the mood to fight you on this."

He waits quietly, watching her face fall. Under this light, she almost looks sad.

"It was, shit, well. I mean...it was in Athens. A little more than four months ago. He was in a bad car crash."

Greg feels dizzy.

The color drains from his face.

"...what?"

"We were headed to a conference, we were in separate cars. A drunk truck driver collided at full speed in his car, it totalled, I don't recall exactly. I wasn't—it happened very fast. Tom's driver died on impact. Tom was out, and he had to be dragged out by paramedics, and put in the hospital for three days."

"That's not—that's like—not enough? Like, at all?" he protests, feeling his mouth dry, "I feel, I'm not—per se, an expert? On car crashes, but three days is just...not a lot?"

"I know. And I'm inclined to agree. He said he needed to get back to work as soon as he could. Matsson actually," she grimaces, "gave him a month off. Offered to, I mean. But he didn't take it."

"But like—so the, huh, the scars? It's from the car crash, from what I'm gathering."

Gerri nods. There's a bit more tapping on her screen before she seems to find what she was looking for.

"Head trauma, broken nose, scars sustained to the face, chest and arms, broken leg and road burns on the right side of his body. I think...right, it's here. A bit of the door actually snapped and got in his leg. Left him unable to walk normally ever since. He had physical therapy planned, but we had to move, so he didn't exactly get to. Which is why his leg's in bits right now. Doctors said he'll recover, though. Fully."

"What the fuck..."

"He's on pain meds, of course, that are not Fentanyl."

"That's why he can't drink."

"Why, aren't you a smart one."

Greg lets his head fall into his hands, breathing out slowly. His whole body shudders.

"And now...?" he asks softly, "how is he?"

"Stable. He...clinically died for a minute, if I heard it right," she shakes her head and raises one hand defensively when she sees how green Greg had turned, "but they revived him. He had a heartbeat of 47, the paramedics told me you couldn't feel it well. Which would explain it."

"That's—that's really fucking slow. And now?"

"72."

"Okay."

"He'll be fine, Gregory."

"But will he?" he scoffs bitterly, "he got into a—a fucking car crash and he stayed three fucking days at the hospital. That's like—so dangerous? Like, what the hell, man. I knew he wanted to prove himself or whatever but that's just—" he wipes his face, "that's fucking dumb. God. Fuck."

"Just go see how he's doing," Gerri sighs, nodding at the other room. "I'll go out to make phone calls."

"Is—like, is Karolina going to release a statement?"

"I don't know," she says honestly. "But one thing's for sure, Tom's not going back to work tomorrow."

Yeah, no shit he wants to say. He watches her leave, stares at the clock on his phone.

3:26 AM.

Tom's lying in bed, an oxygen mask on his mouth, hair undone, hospital gown revealing multiple undertreated burns and scars on his arms. It looks fucking dramatic and it makes Greg's stomach churn. The white bracelet on his wrist shows his full name—Thomas Laurenz Wambsgans—Laurenz ? Greg almost says out loud, clearly taken aback, next to 08/18/1981.

August...both their birthdays had passed. Fucking great.

He looks at the monitors, sees numbers he's not exactly capable of understanding anyway—apart from that one 72, sometimes moving to 73. It beeps at random intervals, but mostly, he only focuses on Tom's chest, which rises and falls unevenly. He looks like he's in pain. The catheter is stuck in his arm, and Greg stares at the clear IV drip. It was the first time he'd seen him so vulnerable. Tom would probably hate to know it.

"You really shouldn't self-medicate, dude," he says instead, voice incredibly soft. "Like, that's fucked up. I guess, like—Ibuprofens are okay, and stuff, but like...not Fentanyl. Even Kendall would find that messed up, man."

No answer.

"Also you can't, like...die? Because, huh, you said you'd look out? For me. And you can't really do that if you're dead. So."

He reaches out, awkwardly letting his fingers graze Tom's hand. They're thicker than his, bigger, too. Rough. He still remembers how they'd felt against his cheeks, how his chapped lips had kissed his forehead, where the sticker would later be placed.

"And honestly...it would kind of suck? If you'd died after we got in a fight. Kind of a fight. Like, at least let's not be childish, about it? You know. Just. Fuck, dude," he sighs, closing his eyes and softly stroking the loose hair. It's oddly soft. Though that shouldn't surprise him, what with all the ridiculously expensive shampoo he kept buying. "I missed you? I really did. Like we spent all our days together you know? And then you weren't here, and it really, really sucked. I don't know, dude. I enjoy being with you. Even if you're like, mean to me or whatever. 'cause I know you don't really mean it? I know you're razzing me up. And like, I sold my soul to you, remember? So I can't really do much without you. It's—we're tied, kinda. Plus, what would Sporus do without his Nero, right?" he laughs, feeling tears shine in his eyes. "Just—like, wake up? If you could ? I would really, huh, appreciate it. Y'know like, I'm a Roy! Do what I tell you to! Ha-ha."

He leaves briefly, going to retrieve a chair before settling back next to Tom, hands folded neatly on his lap.

And he stares. He keeps on staring. Like it would change anything. When Gerri comes back, a little later, he tells her that she should go home, that he'd look out for Tom for her. She doesn't put up a fight. She probably hears how desperate he sounds. She tells him Karolina would release an internal statement about the CEO being back from overseas but was not coming back into office before a while.

He nods, and then he's alone again. Doctors and nurses come and go, they shrug Tom awake every two hours, even if he doesn't exactly wake up—he just blinks, clearly out of it, and then he's asleep again—and at around 8 AM they take the mask off. If anything, he looks a little more rested. Like the new meds had worked, or something. It's not like he would know, but at least color had returned to his face, even if just a little.

The hospital's cafeteria is nice and packed, and his hands are full with a sandwich, a cookie and a can of Coke. He hadn't really eaten at the RECNY, and then, the events had not exactly made him ache for food. At now 1:26 PM, though, he does feel the hunger settle in. He bites into the soft bread and the cheese and ham, making his way back to the hospital room suite idly. The doctors had told him Tom's state was stable, and that he would recover swiftly in a bit more than a month or two. He knows Tom would find it too long of a delay, but he's just glad nothing worse had happened, really.

The voices outside the room are loud enough that he can hear them, but not enough for him to actually make out whatever they were saying. He finishes his meal hurriedly and makes his way inside, all limbs and awkward gestures.

Tom's still laying in the bed, even if he looks extremely unhappy about it. He's clothed, a crisp white shirt covering his chest, rolled sleeves, and his arms are bandaged this time around, and there are gauze patches on his face. The messy hair doesn't help with making him look any sort of professional, even with Gerri and Karolina by his side, exchanging vividly.

"Hey, guys," Greg says gently, raising a hand to signify his presence, "I'm back."

"Oh, good," Karolina sighs, taking her phone out and checking something, "did you manage to get a hold of HR?"

"Huh—yeah," he nods, "I told them I could be interim as Chief of Staff again until we found a replacement. Someone else will take care of Parks, so that's...good? I guess?"

"Okay. I need to contact some brands and magazines who wanted interviews with Tom. He's not in a state to give them. I'll postpone," she adds, walking past him.

"No one saw the ambulance leave the RECNY," Gerri adds, as much for Greg than for Tom, "so we've got that covered. And we made the doctors in charge of you sign NDAs."

"Like in Athens," the CEO mutters, eyes still a little droopy. "Just bring me my computer, it's probably still in a suitcase somewhere. I can catch up on work from here."

"I don't think so," Gerri reprimands him, flicking her well manicured fingers on the side of his shoulder, earning a small grunt from him. "While it's noble of you to want to work right now, you've just overdosed on Fentanyl. And you haven't even properly recovered from the crash. So rest is in order."

"Logan wouldn't h—"

"Yes, well Logan's dead," she deadpans. "Do you want to be next in line? Because technically, you also did die. Take at least a week," she settles on, shrugging. "It will do you good. You're not exactly young anymore."

"Oh, fuck off," he snorts, and she grins back. "Fine. I'll take a break. And I'll...plan my physical therapy. For the leg."

"Good. Ah, Gregory," Gerri blinks, pretending she hadn't seen him, "you're here. Be of company to him while we're off holding up this fucking company through sheer skill and willpower, will you? Alright."

He watches her pass him too, leaving him to stand lamely in front of Tom. He puts his hands in his pockets, tapping the tip of his Oxfords on the floor.

"Did you...eat?" he asks gently, walking up to his boss slash old friend slash weird enemy, "or is the—like, the IV doing that? For you?"

"I'm fine," Tom simply says.

"That's...not what I asked, though," Greg replies, now standing next to the bed, sitting back on the chair. "Like, if I may say, huh, if you'll allow me, you look like you lost weight kinda ? Like, a lot? I noticed when I saw you."

"Sure."

"And—I don't think that's good? Did they even feed you, in Europe and Asia? 'cause you're a big boy, Tom," he jokes, "so you need your proteins and—"

"And you need to fuck off, possibly, kindly," the other man spits out, jaw clenched. "What are you even doing here?"

"I...I'm the one who found you?" Greg says, grimacing. That seems to take Tom by surprise. His eyes widen just slightly. "Yeah, hum. I was thinking about how I hadn't seen you in hours, and Gerri geolocalized you, and she said you were in the bathroom, so, well, I went to look for you."

"...I don't remember much of what happened."

"Well the...doctors said you overdosed on Fentanyl."

"Fentanyl."

A pause.

"Fuck, right," he groans, "I did have that on me. Shoot."

"Because of the car crash," Greg supplies, nodding when he sees Tom stare back. "Yeah, Gerri told me? Fuck, I'm just—I'm sorry. It must've been horrible."

"I don't recall having paid for a fucking professional mourner."

"Dude, I'm just saying. She said your driver died on impact and—"

Tom blanches, and the younger man immediately raises a hand to his mouth.

"Sorry," he hurriedly says, "I didn't think."

"Yeah, you rarely do."

"Sorry."

A tense silence falls back over them. Tom simply stares ahead, hands clutching the soft blankets of the bed.

"So, Laurenz, then ?"

A frown.

"What?"

"Your full name," Greg specifies. "Hum, I read it on your bracelet. And the guy at the main desk looked up T.L.W when I told him about you."

"Can't a guy have some privacy anymore?" Tom groans, raising a hand over his eyes, "am I not entitled to a secret garden? Jesus Christ, Gregory."

"Well I—I think it's—pretty? Unexpected. But pretty. Is it German? You know, I read a manga where—"

"Jeez, thank you so much. How could I have lived without your explicit opinion on my middle name, truly, I wonder? Clearly I am enlightened by the fact you find it unexpected but pretty."

"Okay. Whatever. Just...sure. Not complimenting you anymore. Got it."

"Is my right leg still here?"

Greg frowns, sending him a surprised look.

"What?"

"I can't feel it. I've been in pain for the past months and more, and now I can't feel it. You think they could've sawed it off when I was asleep?"

"I don't think that's, huh, legal? But like, it's still—your leg's still there, dude," he nods, patting the body part awkwardly. "Like I can feel it right now."

"Stop feeling me up, you degenerate."

"Right. Sorry," Greg mumbles, retracting his hand.

Tom sighs softly, barely turning to get a better look at him.

"So you found me then, huh?"

"Yeah. Gave you CPR and chest compressions, like the woman from 911 told me to. I actually—like, my grandpa had taught me how to, when I was younger. Hopefully I didn't break a rib."

"Don't think you have."

"Oh, well that's—that's a relief!"

"...I'm sorry you had to see me like that," the older man finally says after a small pause. "Not my proudest moment."

"No it's...it's okay, dude. Really."

"It's not, though. I'm the one who found Logan in that PJ. I know what it's like, and it's not...it's not a nice feeling. I suppose I owe it to you for saving my life, sort of."

"Tom, you really worried me," Greg whispers, leaning towards him, eyes wide like a cocker puppy, mouth downturned. "I saw the limp as soon as you walked up to us, you know ? You're not usually that stiff when you walk."

"Am I, now?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know you. Y'know? But like, really? Fentanyl? Really? Do you have a death wish, or something...?"

That earns him a snort from his friend, making him shake his head in disbelief.

"It's the only thing strong enough to help with the pain," he explains. "I popped a pill every now and then, and it was fine. I don't know, I must've panicked yesterday. Took too many."

"There was blood, Tom. And you weren't—you were barely breathing."

"So I've been told, yeah."

"And so I called Gerri, and the paramedics arrived and everything happened really fast but—yeah, I found my way back to you," what a stupid way to put it, he thinks, "and I kind of, just, stayed by your side."

"Huh? Like, in the room? This room?"

"Yeah?"

"Since...when?"

"Huh. Around 3? 4, maybe? AM. Yesterday."

"But it's almost 2 PM."

"I know ?"

"And you haven't gone home?"

"Not really? Like, why would I want to go home?"

Tom frowns, clearly lost. His brain is still not as clear as it should be.

"To...sleep? Fuck? Get high? With that guy—Terrence?"

"Oh, Taylor. What about Taylor ?" Greg asks, genuinely confused, "we don't live together."

"You don't live with your boyfriend?"

"It's complicated, I guess. We like being independent after work. Huh...since we see each other 24/7, and all."

"It doesn't look complicated. Since he was so touchy-feely with you yesterday."

"You're—you were always touchy-feely with me, Tom," he remarks, "perhaps even more than him, actually? Like, it really doesn't mean shit. Also like...sometimes I'm a bit embarrassed by him...? Because he's, hum. He's always wearing second hand suits. It looks sort of cheap."

"Woah, listen to you, man! You've graduated Cum Laude from Upper Class Asshole University! Who are you and what have you done to my good ole' Gregory and his dog poop bags?" Tom grins, face a little flushed. "Your friend would probably be hurt to hear you talk about him in such ways."

"I think he'll live? Seriously though, want me to sneak you some stuff in?"

"It's fine, Gregory. I'm still a little nauseous anyway."

"Alright. I think Roman knows you're here, though. 'cause it's like, I don't think Gerri's capable of hiding anything from him."

"Yeah, they're enamored or something," Tom says with an eye roll. "Talk about a mommy kink, or whatever the kids call it these days. Didn't think Roman would survive being away from Gerri when she'd joined me on the trip."

"He was a bit pissy at the main office," Greg offers with a half-smile. "Does the arm...still hurt?"

"It's fine. I had cream, but I stopped thinking about putting it on a week after the accident."

"Dude."

"Oh, fuck off. Being CEO is a busy job."

"But like—put an alarm ? In your calendar ? Dude, this is pretty important, I feel like? It's your health."

"My health's fine."

"You're literally in a hospital bed after having died for a minute ?"

"Semantics, Gregory."

"I dunno. I just wish you'd take care of yourself."

Tom doesn't answer. There's something like genuine hurt behind his clouded eyes.

I'll take care of you, he'd said to him in this same hospital, years ago. Come to me. I'll look after you.

"But like—if you can't, I can," Greg finally breathes out, trying to sound self-assured and not like he was a second away from shitting himself.

"Can what?"

"Like, take care of you. I can. I'll be your alarm, your live-in nurse. If that's what they call it. Like I'll be happy to!"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Gregory?" Tom asks, feeling himself sink in his bed in horror, "you're not a nurse. Hell, I wouldn't let you pet sit Mondale."

"But I feel like I can? I can be there for you. Like, we're friends, I know your habits, you know mine, your flat has plenty of bedrooms, you won't even see me if you don't want to."

"That's the stupidest idea you've ever had. And you stole Cruises' documents."

"Dude, I'm serious."

"You've just got your role back as Chief of Staff."

"Yeah? I can work remote or go to the office two days a week. Like, it's more than fine?"

"No. This is stupid. I can deal with it myself. I'm not twelve."

"Okay. Well I spoke to the doctors, you know," Greg starts, talking to him like he would to a particularly bothersome child, "and you can either spend a month stuck in this hospital bed under constant watch, until you recover, or you can go home, but with someone to look after you. It's your choice, really."

"Are you really doing this?"

The younger man just shrugs.

"I'm not doing anything."

Tom lets himself fall deeper into the mattress, covering his face with his hands before letting out a frustrated groan. Greg had played him like a cheap fucking fiddle. This wasn't good.

"I'm not—incompetent," he says, visibly embarrassed. "I don't need you to hold my hand when I get out of bed in the morning."

"Okay, I won't. But if you need help with the meds, or if you need to...I don't know, not be alone, I can do that. For you."

"Why?"

Greg shrugs again.

"I want to take care of you."

"Why?" Tom insists, "do you want something in return? Another raise?"

"Why did you offer to take care of me? Back then?"

There's silence. Tom's jaw clenches and unclenches.

"Because—because I wanted to."

"Well, there you go. So do I."

The younger man gets back up, sending him a curt smile.

"I'll arrange stuff for us to go home ASAP. Hey, Mondale must miss you!"

"I Skyped him every other day when he was with my parents," Tom admits, his cheeks reddening just a bit. "Anyway, that's not the point. Get the paperwork in check. I don't want to rot in this room forever."

The deep blue eyes seem to brighten up at this.

"You got it, boss."

By the time the clock ticked 9 PM that night, both Tom and Greg were out of the hospital room, the former holding his crutches like a desperate man. ("I'm not using a wheelchair. Do I look like a cripple to you ? I can use my other leg. My good leg.")

He's less confused and dazed about everything, but he's still taken by surprise when they take the lifts up to the rooftop, and not to the ground floor. He sends a quick look to Greg, who's still staring right ahead, hands clammy at his sides, cracking his knuckles with his fingers.

Surely enough, there's a helicopter waiting for them.

"What the fuck, man," Tom can only sigh, trying to speak a little louder over the sound of the helixes, "what is this?"

"I was just, thinking," the other man says, looking at the ground and then back at the helicopter, "like, you might not want to go home by car?"

"...what?"

"'cause you got in a car crash ? Maybe you have...like, PTSD? From the crash?"

Tom frowns even deeper, blaming his future new wrinkles on him.

"PTSD from a car crash? Do you even hear yourself? Do I look like I'm wearing war paint and I'm hiding in the bushes awaiting a quick demise in a remote forest in South Vietnam? Did I miss the Napalm spread, perhaps?"

"Dude, it's a real thing," Greg protests, holding up his phone, shielding his hair away from falling on his face from the wind, "I even looked it up. I, like, asked a psychiatrist at Bellevue."

"You what?! You disturbed a professional during the exercise of their duty for a stupid question like that?!" the older man yells, mouth going slack, "are you stupid?!"

"Yes, yes I did, and she said—she said that people who experience MVA—"

"MV—what?"

"Motor Vehicular Accident—"

"No, I know what an MVA is, asshole!"

"But anyway, she said you might experience, like, psychologically reliving the trauma? Like intrusive thoughts, you know, and nightmares, of course. She said you might act a bit more jumpy, feel more irritated, sleep less, and then she said—she said you might not want to drive or be driven around. Because you felt traumatized by it. Your driver died, dude."

"I'm fine, Gregory."

"That's great. We're still not using a car if we don't have to."

"Oh great, and the obvious second choice was a helicopter."

"Well, I checked, and your building has a heliport."

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

"Let's just get in," Greg sighs, waiting for him to climb in, helped by a security guard.

"I ended my stay abroad in cars," Tom still insists, "and I was perfectly fine," he lies. Not that Greg needs to know how he'd had to take at least three Xanax before climbing in any sort of car after his crash. "This is ridiculous."

"Yeah, almost as ridiculous as eating a whole bird with a towel on your head."

Tom doesn't have anything to say to that, and soon they take off. Their trip is longer than he'd expected it to be, and he can't seem to find anything to do but stare out the window, his chin resting on his right hand. Greg is on his phone, visibly very focused—Tom knows he's playing Candy Crush, though. He recognises the distinct movements, and can't help but focus on it for a few minutes. The other man's hands were soft, fingers long and nails trimmed. They looked almost...delicate? Feminine? He's not sure which adjective to use. A positive one, mostly.

He thinks briefly about checking his own mail, but stops himself as soon as he feels the panic attack bubble up in his chest.

That could probably wait. Until at least tomorrow.

They land and the pilot hands him his crutches, and he leaves after thanking him with a quick nod. Greg seems to have his penthouse's keys, though, and he assumes Gerri must've given them to him at some point. He both hates and appreciates how efficient she always is.

He'd lost Shiv and his' shared flat in the divorce, because of course he had. He didn't even mind at this point, anyway. With the pay, he knew he'd find better. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to put his dog in a pen, and where he'd have room to roam free. And he had! It was a nice penthouse—he didn't need it, but he wanted it, and it had multiple rooms, and he could decorate it the way he'd want to. Not that he was particularly artsy, but there were a few paintings he'd seen at some sale that he'd really liked and had gone back to buy.

The price at which he'd bought the whole thing was ridiculous, but it didn't even make that big of a hole in his wallet. Sometimes, he wonders how Logan hadn't turned completely nuts with all that money.

Maybe he had, anyway.

He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't even notice they're in front of his door before he feels someone halt abruptly, and it snaps him out of it. Greg inserts the keys and turns once—almost as if he knew how to do it, and soon enough they step inside.

Tom doesn't have the time to say anything before a brown, heavy, really fast figure throws itself on him, making him slam his back on the closed entrance door, only realizing it was Mondale a few seconds later. His dog whines and barks all at once, tail wagging impossibly erratically, trying to get up on his back legs so he could raise his other paws to his owner's chest, licking his face enthusiastically.

"Hey, hey, Mon," he laughs, feeling something bloom in his chest that wasn't pure dread for the first time in forever, "hey there, buddy. Hey. I missed you," he coos goofily, putting on his silly voice and kneeling on his good leg, kissing his dog's face and squishing it affectionately, "yes, yes I missed you, Daddy missed you. You were a good boy to grandma and grandpa, I hope, right?"

Mondale barks back, almost as if he'd understood him.

"That's a good boy. Who's a good boy? Yeees, yes you are," Tom says again, getting back up on his own. Only then does Mondale seem to notice Greg, standing awkwardly a bit further into the penthouse, an unsure expression on his face. The dog walks up to him, sniffing him for a few seconds, wondering who he could be, before understanding finally dawns on him. He barks at him too, rubbing his face on the side of his leg, clearly overjoyed to see his two favorite people in the same room.

He'd always been particularly affectionate towards Greg.

"Hey, dude," the gentle giant smiles as well, crouching to scratch him behind the ears, "it's been a while, huh? Your daddy's been away long enough, don't'cha think?"

"He was in St. Paul with my mom and dad," Tom explains, smoothing his clothes again, walking up to him. "I didn't want to leave him alone here too long, so they flew him a day or two after I left for Monaco. We have a pet-sitter at home too, when they're too busy, but mostly he hung around my parents. I guess he liked the company."

"How come he's back?"

"Called my mom a little ago, telling her I might be back soon, that she could fly him back," he shrugs, kicking his shoes off. "The fridges are probably full, so you can make yourself something, if you'd like."

"W—really?" Greg asks, trotting behind him like a lost puppy would, "you don't mind?"

"Unless you want to starve. Your pick."

"Well, I could've, like, ordered, or—"

"For God's sake, Gregory. Can't you eat normal stuff for once?"

"I feel like Five Guys is pretty normal, on a—on a normalcy scale? Like, it's not Baja Blast ice cream, or something."

Tom doesn't dignify this with an answer, taking his suit jacket off and undoing the first two buttons of his shirt before folding the former neatly on a nearby chair. The skyline is pretty dark, and the lights reflect on his face almost blindingly. He hadn't spent that much time in the flat after becoming CEO, he hadn't had the time. He'd sleep at the office, on the sofa in his office, or would book a hotel room nearest to wherever he'd held a conference. Boring, boring stuff.

His crutches are carefully leaning on the side of his massive couch, and he stretches his bad leg with a soft exhale. At least it didn't hurt that much anymore. The throbbing was manageable.

"I'm thinking I could make pasta? Like, with cheese and huh—pepper?" Greg calls out from the kitchen, clearly hunting down ingredients and utensils in the cupboards, "what's it called—"

"You wanna make cacio e pepe?" Tom asks loudly, "sure, why not. Not sure I'm really hungry, though."

"It's—fine. We can keep it for later and you can reheat it. But like, I'm fucking starving, man."

"Yeah, when aren't you?"

"I'm super tall? I need the—the nutrients."

"Did your nutritionist tell you that, Gregory?"

His ex-assistant pauses, and then walks out the other room, standing in the massive living room with his arms to his sides, in some vaguely threatening not voluntary imitation of Slenderman. Or something like that.

He stares at Tom, the blank expression on his face more than obvious despite the dim lighting.

"What?" Tom asks then, not even bothering to turn to face him fully, "do you actually have a nutritionist?"

"You keep calling me that."

"What? A fucking buffoon? Canada's most sentient and longest moose? An idiot? A waste of oxygen? A—"

"Gregory. You keep calling me Gregory."

A frown.

"Probably because it's your fucking name, dickhead."

"You never call me Gregory, though?"

"Sure I do?"

"You call me Greg. Greg the egg. Cousin Greg. Stuff that rhymes with -eg. Dipshit, cocksock, cute names like that. But like—my full name? Not really? Not often?"

"Okay? I don't understand how this is fucking relevant to you making cacio e pepe? Are you having a stroke? You wanna change your first name too, now?"

"No, dude, I'm just saying—"

"Because you called me Thomas earlier today," Tom points out, finally looking at him completely, "yesterday. At the RECNY. Whatever. So as far as it goes, we're just being cordial. I'm being cordial."

"Okay well just—" Greg clearly struggles with forming a coherent sentence, and Tom would revel in it if he wasn't so fucking exhausted, "could you ? If you could be so kind ? Just call me Greg again?"

A pause.

"Sure, Craig."

"I'll answer to that," he smiles, feeling a bit more calm after the joke. "Is spaghetti okay for you?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I'll also, hum, need to go home tomorrow. To get clothes."

"You're not that much taller than me," Tom scoffs, "my clothes would fit you."

Greg doesn't exactly want to start thinking about that. Not right now, not ever. He doesn't want to think about Tom's ridiculously expensive Hermès cologne, or how he'd bought the same one just so he could make it feel like it smelled like him after he'd left. $200 felt cheap in exchange for not feeling so fucking alone for a year.

"I still need—I'll just go collect them when you're asleep."

"I don't sleep."

The younger man cocks his head to the side.

"You don't?"

Shit, Tom realizes. He hadn't meant to say that. He was trying to provoke him. Not...admit a weakness to him.

"If two hours every night is sleeping to you," he manages to save face, going back to sit on his couch, Mondale curled at his feet. "It's fine. I got used to it."

"That's not healthy," Greg replies, tone stern. "You know the average hours of sleep needed for an adult is 7 to 9?"

"Bet you'd know about that," Tom snickers, but there's none of his usual bite to it. "Are you even physically able to function without waking up after 12?"

"I literally start my job at 9. So—yes?"

"Go make the fucking pasta."

"No but like, Taylor made me discover a really cool, like, meditation playlist, and it has white noises and it's really g—"

"Yeah, isn't that fucking beautiful? Go back to fucking your boyfriend while listening to softcore ASMR of people telling you you're enough or whatever," he seethes, eyes steely. "I'm not putting on meditation playlists to fall asleep."

"...how do you, then?"

"Do I what? Fall asleep?"

"Yeah."

For a second, Tom considers lying. Frankly, he could. He could say he just did, like any normal person does, every night. But Greg knows him, despite it all. He knows his hand shakes slightly when he doesn't tell the truth. Knows which dimple appears. It's fucking annoying.

"Sleeping pills," he chooses to admit, tone trying to aim for 'casual,' only managing to convey 'pathetic.' "Or—exhaustion, I guess. I just pass out. Both work."

If he didn't know any better, he'd say Greg looks horrified.

"At some point melatonin didn't work anymore, I didn't even know it could do that, so I switched to Belsomra. It's nice, works really well. I don't even feel rested when I wake up, but at least, I guess, my body shuts down for a couple hours."

"That's...fucking...horrible?"

"Are you going to say anything positive at all tonight, or is that too much for you ?"

"Do you even hear yourself, Tom?!" Greg panics, sitting next to him on the couch, leaving a good amount of space in between them still. "Or, like—have you seen your face? Because—the dark bags? They're here, and they're pretty fucking, like, bad. They're pretty fucking bad, dude."

"Thanks."

"I don't mean this in a bad way."

"Sure you don't."

"C'mon," he tries to joke, gently bumping his fist on the other's shoulder, earning an unimpressed stare from him, "like, say something? Razz me up? Not even a little insult?"

"Are you a masochist, Gregory ?" Tom flatly asks, blinking twice, "I mean, fork found in kitchen, but still."

"You just sound so..." down, depressed, "different?" that works too, "you sound tired. I don't necessarily like—seeing you? Like that?"

"Thanks, Mother Theresa."

"I'm serious, Tom."

"Go make the pasta, Gregory."

Greg gives up, getting back up with a soft sigh. He shakes his head, giving Mondale a little pat before looking around.

"Bathroom number one's down the hall third door on the right," Tom supplies, eyes still cast on the skyline.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Bathroom number one is a sentence Greg still has a hard time coming to terms with, but he listens to him nonetheless. How he understood he was looking for it, he's not too sure. There was probably something to be said about how they understood each other's body language to the T, something like a metaphysical link they shared, but if he starts to dwell on it now he'd never get anything done.

He counts, opens the right door, faced with an Italian style shower and marble sinks—he guesses that the bathtub might be in another room, and he splashes his face with ice cold water. It grounds him, and when he looks at his reflection, tired blue eyes look back, red rimmed. He could use a meal or two, and at least a few hours of sleep. If that's how he feels after the events, he can't even begin to imagine Tom's state.

His tongue grazes his upper teeth, and he rests his forehead on the mirror.

There was something fucked up about all of this. He'd betrayed everyone countless times, had saved himself, and now...what? Did that make him any better than his cousins? Than Tom? He's not sure.

And he wears the name now, doesn't he? So he has to act like it. Not that a Roy would ever care about anyone as much as he cares for Tom. Even if he doesn't particularly want to admit it.

The collar of his shirt is wet. It makes him shudder.

He leaves the bathroom, noting that the marble on the floor made his feet slip on the surface, and it almost makes him laugh. Reminds him of his ice skating days.

Two voices catch his attention on his way back, and he stops behind a wall, perfectly still.

Who the fuck would be here at—he checks his watch—10:55 PM? Delivery guy? Had Tom caved ? That was unlikely.

"—doing here?" he hears him say from where he's standing, and as he peaks out he sees he'd gotten up from the sofa, leaning on the kitchen wall as someone else—Shiv? was standing close to him. "It's late. Shouldn't you be in D.C?"

Greg doesn't know the specifics of their divorce. Well, he does, but from a legal standpoint. Shiv had gotten most things, left him Mondale, and after everything had imploded, they'd settled almost amicably. In public, at least. He's not sure where they're at, privately speaking.

"I was in town, no. And, well, Rome told me," Shiv says, voice oddly soft. "Earlier this morning. I had someone call Bellevue, they said you'd left this evening."

"And you thought showing up here would be a good idea?" Tom snorts, but it's not unkind. "Of course Romulus would tell you. Hell, who else knows? Connor? Kendall? The entirety of the family? Fucking Marcia?"

"Roman," she replies. "His name is Roman."

"Right."

"And no, it's just—him, Gerri, and me. Karolina, too. Small committee, huh?" she jokes, but it falls flat. "Listen," she bravely starts again, "for what it's worth. I'm sorry that happened to you. The crash. And the—the OD. I remember it happening to Ken. It's never...a fun, huh, time."

"Unlike your brother, I'm not a junkie," Tom sighs, "it was accidental. Bad circumstances."

"Okay. Well, still. We've had our differences, we both know that. But I've already lost someone I loved, and I don't...want it to happen again."

"You loved me as much as you loved all your boyfriends," he bitterly says, "which is, not a lot, at least not until it was practical."

"Don't be like that, Tom. I did. I really did love you. Remember the conversation we had? We tried."

"And we failed. Forgot about that part, didn't you?"

"Tom..."

He sighs, running a hand through his already undone hair. He sees her eyes follow his movement.

"For what it's worth," he begins, "I also did love you. I guess I used to think that a part of me always would, you know."

A pause.

"Fuck, Siobhan," Tom chokes out, laugh bitter and hollow, "you have no idea how much I loved you. I did, I really fucking did. I was ready to do anything for you."

"Like betray me and my family," comes her reply, almost amused. "But, I guess, it does sound like something dad would've done. So maybe you're really cut out to be like him."

"I agreed to an open relationship the night we got married. Call me a fucking traditionalist, but that's not what people do. It really fucking isn't. And I still said yes. Because it was the only way I could still have you. Because I loved you."

"Tom."

"A part of me hates you, really does. Another loves you. Cares for you. Wonders how you're doing in your new job. But you're not—" he pauses, licks his chapped lips, almost draws blood. "I don't think of you. God know you're not the one I thought about when that truck ran into the car. You weren't even close to being the one I thought about. You're an afterthought to me, now. Perhaps less."

She'd stepped back, almost struck by his words.

Man down.

"That's...a cruel thing to say, don't you think?" Shiv asks, almost disbelieving. "We were together for five years and got fucking married. It's real fucking mean, Thomas."

"Well, maybe I am cruel, Siobhan. Maybe almost dying twice rid me of my humanity. Who knows, really? Not me. Not fucking me."

"Tom—"

"I don't understand why you're here, Siobhan. I really, really don't."

"Why? We're adults, Tom. We—I was worried, is all."

"You don't get worried. Not with ulterior motives."

"You make me sound like a monster."

He doesn't reply.

"Fine," she says, clearly frustrated. "Have it your way. But sue me for wanting to check on you. You're cordial with Rome, from what I've heard. You two even joke around now, apparently. We could've—mended some things in between us."

"We're not having make-up sex marathons again," Tom immediately snorts, raising a hand to his mouth. "C'mon. Be serious. You're not a serious person."

"I didn't—that's not what I implied," Shiv protests. There's uncertainty painted her face, though, and she knows Tom knows. Of course he does. "I'm not like that."

"Okay. Whatever you say. Sure."

"Who's that?" she then asks, pointing at the other pair of shoes to her left, "didn't know you had...company."

"That's no one. The guy brought Mondale home a little before you arrived. He's taking a piss, or a shit, I don't know. He's going to leave anyway."

"...right. Okay."

"Goodnight, Siobhan," Tom gently says, almost caring. "Thank you for checking in. Really. Good luck in your future endeavors."

"Don't be like that, Tom."

He shakes his head. It tears his heart to be doing that, truly it does. But it couldn't go on. They'd dance this fucked up waltz on and on, and they wouldn't stop until they'd completely destroyed each other.

He doesn't need that.

He needs—

Shiv's eyes find his, and she licks her lower lip, head bowed in surrender.

"Goodnight," she finally says, and he simply nods. "Bye, Mondale," she adds, but he doesn't seem receptive.

Asshole.

Only when he hears the door close for good does Greg peek out of his hiding spot, trying to look as casual as possible, most likely failing miserably. Tom turns around, sending him a quick glance.

"Ah. You were here all that time?"

"Huh? No," he lies, "I just got back. Nice—bathroom. Big fan of the shower, personally? It's, huh, wide. I can probably fit without crouching."

"Probably, yeah."

"I'll get on making pasta, then."

"You do you."

He doesn't like this Tom. He hates this Tom. Possibly even more than the Tom that had slapped him in that other bathroom, or the one who made him commit white collar crimes. He hates how weary this Tom is. How slow, quiet, shut away he seemed. Had the pills done damage to his brain? Had something ever worse happened? Brain hemorrhage? Aneurysm? Worse? Fuck. He isn't even that old. He's—what, 42? Right? That wasn't old. That was...beekeeping age. Or something.

The motions to make the pasta are slow and deliberate, at least he knows how to make that. It's not so bad. He'd grown up poor, he knows the basics, of course he does.

To him, the dish looks acceptable. It's probably not Michelin worthy, but it's...probably decent. He splits the contents in two plates, hunts down forks (no knives, though, he's weirdly anxious about Tom being around sharp objects at the moment,) and brings them to the glass table near the couch, sending Tom an apprehensive smile. At least it smells nice.

"You don't have to eat it all," he starts, putting his own plate on his bony knees, "but like—maybe eat a bit."

"Hopefully this isn't poisoned," Tom mutters without any bite, "and a ploy for you to get my job as CEO."

"No offense, but seeing your state, I'd rather not be, like, CEO. At all."

"You really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you Gregory?"

The younger man only chuckles, shoving a mouthful of pasta in his mouth, munching like a starving man on the buttery noodles. Yeah, okay. This tasted more than fine. It was actually pretty delicious, if he could say so himself. It's also definitely better than the stale sandwich from earlier, too. Before he knows it he's almost done, and he has to swallow back an ungraceful burp.

Nothing truly beats pasta, genuinely. His Majesty of the noodles. The best use of eggs and flour one could make. Maybe the Italians weren't so bad. If you forget the whole invention of fascism, and all.

Tom's eating, too. More like, moving the pasta around his plate with his fork, frankly, but sometimes he actually does swallow them, and Greg feels oddly proud about it.

"This is decent," the older man finally offers. "Digestible."

"Thanks, man," Greg smiles, feeling pleased nonetheless. In Tom-jargon, this was probably the highest of praise he'd get given the circumstances. "Are y—"

The ringing of Tom's phone cuts him off, and he watches his frown as he checks the caller-ID. Then, he rolls his eyes. He grabs his phone, puts the speaker on, and sets it back on the couch so he could keep on eating.

[Hej hej hej!] Matsson's irritating and jovial voice comes out of the speaker, [hej Tom!]

Tom swallows his food, wipes his mouth, and sighs.

"Hej. Lukas."

Greg pauses, noting the slightly different accent. Was he...?

[Jag hörde att du är tillbaka från sjukhuset.]
(So, I heard you're back from the hospital.)

"Ja, ja."
(Yeah, yeah.)

Oh, so he was. What the fuck? Since when?

[Hur som helst, tar en paus. Presidentens order, ja? LOL. Dö inte, då blir jag jävligt förbannad. Ja?]
(Anyway, you take a break. President's orders, yeah ? LOL. Don't die, or I'll be very upset. Yeah ?)

"Visst. Det ska jag göra," Tom snorts, rolling his eyes again, inspecting his pasta with great interest. "Jag har det täckt. Jag ska se till att komma tillbaka frisk." A pause, a sigh. Matsson laughs loudly. "Ja, det gör jag. Tack. Ja, ja. Hej då."
(Sure, I'll do that. I've got it covered. I'll make sure to come back healthy. Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, sir. Bye.)

[Hej då, grabb !]
(Bye bye, dude !)

They hang up, and it looks like he has to forcefully tell himself not to throw the phone at the wall. He inhales the rest of his food before setting his plate back down on the table, groaning and covering his face with his hands.

"What the fuck, dude?" Greg can't help but yelp, "you speak Swedish?! Since when?!"

"Six months ago. Give or take. I'm not fluent, but I manage," Tom mumbles, clearly embarrassed.

"Wh—how? Like—that's insane? That's crazy? What's the story there?"

"There's no story."

"I'm pretty sure there is? You don't just—like, pick up a language because you want to? Not when you're CEO and have other stuff to do?"

"Look," Tom offers, shaking his head, "it's nothing. We just...we were in Berlin. Some—guy, at a meeting, noted that my last name was odd. That it sounded German, but that he'd never met someone with it. So I had the stupid idea to admit to him and Matsson I had—that my father's family were German immigrants. That I was technically half-German. And then I added that my dad's grandmother was, huh, half-Swedish. He's really into the whole ancestry thing."

"Your family's European?"

A shrug.

"Sort of. On my dad's side, yes. Northern European, if I remember correctly? Does it really matter? Anyway, then I added that in Minnesota we say 'skol' to cheer, like the Swedes and the Norwegians and all. Even if they spell it S-K-Å-L. Our football team is called the Vikings, not that I care a lot about football...all this to say, he got really excited, you know how weird he gets. Said something about me needing to reconnect with my fucking roots, and I said, my roots are doing fine, thanks a lot Lukas, I'm good with my German—"

"You speak German?!"

"Can you shut the fuck up?!" Tom barks annoyedly, throwing his hands in the air, "yes, yes I can! So can 90 million other people! And then Matsson said he'd get someone to fucking teach me Swedish. That he'd check on me to see if I did my fucking lessons. Can you believe this shit?"

Oddly enough, Greg can.

"So now I'm fucking...stuck with learning Swedish. At least they can't talk behind my back anymore, I guess."

That's hot, Greg wants to say.

"What other languages can you speak?" he says instead, like a normal person. "Like, obviously, English," there's a disgraceful snort from Tom, "German. Swedish."

"Italian, and I can read and understand French, but I don't really get to practice my speaking a lot. Technically I also know the Greek alphabet, but I can't speak it for shit. Ah, and I learned a bit of Cantonese from my time in Hong Kong, too."

"That's impressive."

"It's fine. What languages do you speak?" Tom asks, looking like he actually genuinely cared.

"Hum. English, and French.”

“Because of the Canada thing?”

“What, Québec? Nah, no. My mom’s French. From her mom. I went to a school in France for a while, I’m—like, I have the two nationalities, and shit. French’s my mother tongue, actually?”

"Oh. I didn’t know that."

"Yeah, huh, and a little bit of Spanish, because I had classes in high school. Hey, did you know Hirsch was also a German last name?"

"It's not your last name anymore though, is it?" the other man notes, but it's not mean.

"I mean. It's my middle...last name. I guess? It's funny we both have German last names!"

"Don't know if funny is the word I'd use. Thanks for the food, though."

"Oh, of course, dude! That's what I'm here for, remember?"

Have you always been that close? Tom wants to ask. Have you always looked at me like that? Like you mean it? Like you care?

Do you really care? You shouldn't. I don't deserve it. I never deserved it. Especially not now.

"I'm going to bed," he settles on saying, getting back up, skipping on his good leg before reaching his crutches. "Take whatever room you prefer, I don't care. Don't wake me up tomorrow when you'll go out for your clothes."

"Sure, boss man," Greg grins, looking up at him with eyes so wide it reminded Tom of Mondale when he begs him for treats. "I'll be quiet! Nothing to disturb your good sleep, I promise."

"Okay."

Tom makes his way towards the corridor, stopping for a few seconds, almost unsure of what to do next.

"Goodnight, Gregory," he says, gentle. Gentle like when he'd soothed the siblings when their dad had died. When he'd told his mother he'd found their first dog dead in their kitchen, after he'd come home from school. He was 11.

It was always him. Always the first one to see whatever horrors people would throw at him. And he took it.

He took the punches, and the kicks, and the remarks, and the visions of gore.

He took it all. Developed thick skin. Nothing should hurt anymore.

"Goodnight, Tom," Greg replies, looking at his back with soft eyes. Silence falls in the penthouse soon after. Mondale's soft snores are not enough to keep him awake, so he puts his earphones on, and puts on the first jazz song his playlist suggests. Before he knows it, he's falling asleep spread on the massive couch, belt still tight around his waist, shirt barely open. There's soft rain that hits the bay windows. It's as good as any other white noise