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downtilts · 1 year

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totally self-indulgent 900 words of tom and greg post 4x03. i just wanted to write about tom getting a little support from greg. spoilers ofc

Greg does everything Tom asked him to, then goes back to his apartment, changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and morosely smokes a joint. He calls Ewan, who doesn’t pick up, but must have heard the news already. He calls his mom, who does pick up, and has heard the news already. She asks him to tell her when they have a date picked for the funeral. Greg asks her if she remembers an instance from his childhood when Logan came to visit and bought him a pack of Pokemon cards. His mom says she’s not in the mood to reminisce and hangs up the phone.

He waits for Tom to summon him, and gets the call at a quarter past midnight. He takes a car to Tom’s apartment, and makes a list in his head of all the things he should report on when he gets there. Predictably, there was plenty of drama at Waystar after his cousins spoke to the press.

He hears Mondale barking as soon as his first knock lands on the door.

Tom answers dressed in pajamas.

“Look at us,” he observes, “all matchy-matchy.” He looks exhausted, red-eyed and sad. Greg hasn’t been able to cry about it yet and for a fleeting moment he’s jealous.

Tom drifts aimlessly back into the dim apartment and Greg follows.

“Are you— how are you holding up?” Greg asks.

Tom shrugs. Greg has forgotten all the things on his mental list. Or rather, he’s realized this isn’t a business visit, and they no longer seem relevant. They can wait until daylight.

“I— should I get you something? Pour you a scotch? A beer?”

Tom shakes his head. He sits on the couch and rubs his eyes. Mondale barks again.

“Mondale, please stop,” Tom begs.

Greg takes one step toward the dog, then aborts, then almost steps toward the couch, but stops himself. He wrings his hands as Tom starts weeping. It’s silent aside from his quiet, hitching breaths. Greg recalls other times when Tom has cried in front of him, or nearly cried, but this feels less like a precursor to further chaos. Greg doubts Tom will jump up and start tearing the throw pillows apart. His pose signals total defeat. Greg feels useless and uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He laughs. “Jesus. I thought I’d have it together by the time you got here.”

“Should I just leave?”

“No,” Tom says quickly. “No. No, just— stay.”

Greg nods and sweeps his fingers through his hair, fiddles with the hem of his shirt.

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Tom sniffs. “You can leave if you want to. I’m probably just going to keep being like this.”

“I can stay,” Greg says. He remembers the crumpled packet of Kleenex in his pocket and offers it to Tom.

“What, I’m supposed to dab my eyes with tissues from your portable jerk-off kit?” Tom teases. He takes one anyway and blows his nose so hard Mondale barks again. Greg sits beside Tom, close enough for their shoulders to touch.

They sit together for a moment and Tom cries a bit more.

Eventually, Greg places a hand on Tom’s hunched back and rubs a gentle circle there. Tom makes no comment.

“Is— is this helping?” Greg asks. “I can stop.”

“It’s helping,” Tom says.

From his cage, Mondale heaves an enormous sigh and smacks his lips.

“You know,” Tom says, “back before animal rights activism, circuses would buy baby elephants, take them away from their mothers, and tie them to a wooden stake so they couldn’t run away? When the babies grew up into adult elephants, they were strong enough to pull the stake out of the ground, but they wouldn’t. It didn’t cross their minds to try.”

Greg scratches his head.

“That sounds kind of wrong to me,” he says.

“What do you mean, it’s wrong?” Tom scoffs. “This has been studied, Greg, by zoologists. It’s well-documented.”

“Well, I don’t know. Elephants are really smart, Tom. They have graveyards and visit them and move the bones around with their trunks. They do the— elephant equivalent of crying. Maybe the baby elephant grows up and decides he doesn’t mind being tied up after all.”

“Oh, so it’s a boy elephant, all of a sudden?”

“Look, Tom,” Greg sighs, “I’m sort of tired. We’re really just talking about me, right? Can we just say it?”

Tom sighs right back.

“God, I was trying to be literary.”

“There’s not really anywhere for me to go, anyway. My cousins hate me. Gerri and them all think I’m stupid. So it’s not like I’m going to be, um, swimming in enticing offers? You’ve got like, nothing to worry about.”

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t blame you if you—shopped around. Things are going to get bleak. I’m in a bad position.”

“Tom. We’re solid.”

“Greg, it’s fine.”

“I swear. I won’t go.”

He might go. If someone did offer him a position in exchange for stabbing Tom in the back, well. He’d at least consider it. Tom’s right. Things are going to get bleak, and fast. It’s natural to want to prepare. To weigh all his options.

And yet Tom shows Greg his back so easily, and leaves himself wide open for attack.

Somehow, selfishly, Greg would rather Tom be surprised when he slides the knife in.

He sleeps on the couch that night, out in the living room with Mondale.

#my writing

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