Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Forty of the most important people in the world clink their chalices together aimlessly, and chatter exasperations, muffled behind the sanctuary of sliding glass doors. 

Tom Wambsgans stands on a fucking balcony.

The cool air of New York is just beginning to kiss his warm cheeks. God. He releases his breath into the sea of streetlights and cars crying out to be saved. He wonders when the universe all started to become so loud. So un-tastefully overwhelming in a way that makes his head spin as he stares out below himself. Their apartment—their home— is not even very far up in the clouds, yet it feels a million miles away as Tom’s eyes follow the lines of the sidewalk below.

Fingers touch upon his shoulders. They’re gentle, firm, and familiar. Achingly so. Those doe-like eyes set him ablaze in a way he never quite understands. Until now.

“You…okay, Tom?” Greg asks.

Tom stops himself from tilting over the railing.

It’d be easy, flying down, down, down, until he hits the ground with a splat. Instead, his eyes slowly find Greg’s. They’re bright, and bold. So full of concern and almost understanding, that Tom’s instantly begin to burn with anticipatory tears.

The man they would name Sporus remains by his side. A heavy gust of air sheepishly fills Tom’s lungs. 

He uses it to breathe.

“I think…I’m finally ready, Gregory—” He starts, unable to hold his gaze for any longer than he’s allowed. It’s overpowering. Leering will only cause his soul to rot. 

“—Let’s talk about it."

───

“Jesus, Tommy. Mary just split it off with you like, a month ago, and you’re already lookin’ into courtin’ ?”

College is unreasonable. It’s an expensive mish-mash of things that Tom would never be able to afford without some aspects of a brain and too many scholarships to count. Even then, it’s unfulfilling. 

Do they think textbooks and hard work matter to boys who fill themselves to the brink with liquor by lunchtime? Not so, he thinks. Though, he attempts to strangle that feeling down. 

“Who is she, anyway?” His roomate and closest friend, Eddie asks (a very liberal assessment. After college, they never see each other again. It’s college . They don’t care). He’s given up attempting to read the thick chapter book settled on his thighs. 

One hand supports his head on the table, though it covers half of his face. He splits his fingers to peek an eye out, a flash of pink dancing across his features, all the way up to the tips of his ears, where it burns.

“I don’t think I should say…”

A plethora of come on, come on echoes around him. The two pat his shoulders and shake him, egging on.

“You call her the Ice Woman ,” Tom says. His voice dances with the words.

The commons is quieter than it’s ever been before. All that’s left is the held breaths of two people that he once trusted more than life itself. Then—they laugh, the silence is ruptured once more.

“You’re dating the Ice Woman?” Eddie quacks out through guffaws.

“No, no,” Tom shakes his head quickly, “Not dating yet.”

“Oh, Tommy,” Gasps Eddie’s girlfriend (who should be well on her way to her Communications class by now, and whose name he’s surely forgotten). “Have you even spoken to her?”

A feeble noise leaves his mouth. One mixed with the sound of a dog-ish whine and a girl-ish groan.

“I’m working on it.”

Eddie hasn’t stopped laughing. His arms flail and he nearly falls from his chair; he catches himself. “Holy shit, Tom. Really? Does she even know you exist?”

Tom opens his mouth to answer, but closes it .

He knows Siobhan Roy. Everyone knows Siobhan Roy, whether their notions of her are good or not.

(And everyone’s dutifully aware of Roman Roy, and Kendall Roy, and the rest of her god forsaken family that practically pay for half the buildings on campus).

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile…”
“You know she has, like, three brothers, right?”
“Her dad could probably buy you and then sell you for twice as much.”

“—Guys.”

Most importantly, he knows what his friends think of Siobhan. One doesn’t get the name Ice Woman by giving out flowers and smiles.

…Yet, he sees her across the library every Sunday at seven. Their schedules have lined up in a way where they quietly interfere with each other’s study times.

She sits in the same spot; this red and patchy velvet chair, cornered by bookshelves of mahogany.

Tom only knows she exists because he sits on the other side.

He catches her eyes from the sliver of shelf, the books borrowed. She smiles. Nothing big. Something more passive to a stranger that is Tom Wambsgans. Still, a smile. One that holds a thousand stories that he’s sure he’ll hear someday.

So, yes, she knows he exists, but he is nothing but an afterthought; a glance of peering eyes behind an open bookshelf.

“Oh, shit,” Rita—he remembers her name—says as her watch beeps. “I gotta go, boys. Sorry to ruin all the fun...”

“Nah,” Eddie chimes in, packing up his stuff as well. “I actually should head back up and work on some homework. Tommy, real good stuff, man. You’ll have to tell me more about your bride-to-be later tonight.” He winks. Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes, ‘lest they fall from his skull.

“Sure. Yep. Tonight.”

It’s Sunday.

Which means Tom sits impatiently at the other side of the bookshelf, waiting to see if she’ll show. Very rarely she doesn’t, and in those times Tom speculates what she’s doing. If she subconsciously knows that Tom is here, waiting in his seat, heels bouncing against the pale, multicolored carpet below.

She arrives, though. A bag draped across her shoulder that probably costs more than Tom’s entire college fund. His eyes follow her as she disappears behind the shelf.

The sliver of borrowed books has been returned. He can’t quite see her like this, but that’s no matter. That’s not the point for today. He takes a deep breath, and then moves to grasp at the folded piece of paper tucked away in his pocket.

It’s a stupid idea , Eddie says, because no woman who has more money than she does thoughts gives half a shit about what Tom’s about to do.

He hopes it’s not true; he hopes his own intuition of her is correct.

Quietly, Tom tucks the note between the books, slowly starting to push it forward with the pad of his finger. It’s longer than he usually folds paper, mainly so it’ll pop out the other side and create sort of a sticking-out-tab that he prays she’ll see. He holds his breath.

Exhales, when he hears the shift of paper. 

Then, nothing. There’s nothing. 

She might be reading it, sure, but the more time that passes, the stupider Tom feels. Part of him just wants to get up and leave, but his ass is devoted to his seat. He can hear the unnatural chorus of I was right he’s going to get from Eddie by the time he trudges his way back to his dorm.

Shift. The paper pops out the other side, staring at Tom. He stares back, only for a moment, before his hands are scrambling to get a grasp on it. He unfolds it, just as quick.

He first studies his writing; an up and down scrawl of neatness following the lines of the paper. Siobhan’s is just the same, though hers has a different charm to it.

Hello there.

Apologies for the disturbance. I was hoping you could help me answer a question of sorts. 

I see you every Sunday, coming to and fro—back and forth—to this very seat.

I was wondering, is Heaven aware that it’s lost one of its angels?
-Tom Wambsgans

Then, his eyes follow the lines down to the response:

Do you get all your pick up lines from shitty novellas?
- Shiv Roy

Tom holds back a smile, even if she can’t see him. Not very well—he bites the inside of his cheek and huffs a dry chuckle. All studying is forgotten as he yanks the pen out of the spine of his notebook.

Only the ones I want to try on beautiful women like yourself.
- Tom

He hears her chuckle. Chuckle. Should he count it as the end of a conquest—making the so-called Ice Woman laugh?

He waits, but then she’s closing her notebook. He listens from the otherside as she presumably stands. Her heels click as she walks from the library.

The next Sunday after that, he writes her a poem. 

He doesn’t know why he does it. He’s just feeling inspired the night before—persistent. He presses his ear close to the shelf as she reads it, mumbling out the lines to herself. Does she know she does that? Utters the evocations of Tom’s affections off of a piece of paper?

He’s nearly poked in the eye as the paper’s slid back. 

Just one word: Corny.

Still, he smiles.

They pass the page back and forth until they’re running out of space to write, talking about nonsense. Tom can’t recall what he was studying. Nothing as interesting as the notes happening in front of him. 

Shiv, she says people call her, Because Siobhan is a mouthful that very few are lucky to have.

(Chemistry; he remembers, he was studying chemistry ).

Again, it’s Sunday. As he’s about to mold the paper between the thin wall of books, the barrier that’s become the only thing distancing himself from his imagination and reality. He realizes the section’s missing. Gone. Thrown away. Borrowed.  

He’s looking straight through the shelf, and Shiv is gazing right back at him.

“Hey,” Shiv says, and she does smile. She has a dimple right in the dip of her cheek. 

Tom wants to kiss it.

“...Hey.”

It’s quite possible that they stay there, eyeing each other like spooked deer, for a full minute. He’s about to break—rap off some nonsense like funny seeing you here , but Shiv goes first.

“...Do you want to come with me to my dad’s dinner party tomorrow?”

Tom allows himself to smile, “I wouldn’t want to do anything more.”

───

If he didn’t understand what his role was here, at the Roy’s family event, he sure does now. 

His face burns a hideous red, and his fingers twitch next to his three pronged fork.

Logan Roy stares; head of the table. He studies Tom like he’s an outsider—which he is, but he didn’t think they’d make it so obvious. 

They all stare, actually. Tom’s shirt is hot with a helping of mashed potatoes and dripping gravy. 

Roman Roy snort laughs giddily in the seat across from him.

He’d been getting at Tom all night. Just Roman. Kendall was pleasant enough (when he wasn’t so obviously high). He knows there’s another one—Connor—but he’s not here. Even if the others insist he’ll be here soon , surely, he will not.

“Uh- Rome, that’s…that’s not cool, man.” Kendall’s the first to pipe up after Logan. He looks to the man, searching for some kind of approval, Tom thinks.

“He was--supposed to fucking dodge . Come on! Come on. I’m not to blame here. Fuck you.” Roman has his spoon bent back. The perpetrator. He’s still fucking giggling through his sentence.

Shiv’s quiet. 

She has been all night. He’s only fully noticing it now. 

She’s quiet when he speaks; this stupid and disjointed accent of an unsophisticated who comes from a little place in Saint Paul. She’s quiet when he laughs; airy and odd, and strangely bubbly, for a man.

She’s quiet when they sit. When he picks up his three pronged fork and asks if they’re having little tiny gnomes over for dinner. Nobody laughs. Well, Kendall gives him a pity, tight lipped smile, but he assumes they just didn’t get the joke.

“Because it’s small, Shiv.” He says.

“I know, Tom.” She mutters.

And she’s quiet now, as the stain of potatoes begins to finally set on his shirt. A shirt, mind them both, that Shiv bought him specifically for this dinner. Like, she made him go out and try on fucking outfits like some kind of Barbie doll.

“ Roman.” She finally says, but then, “Dad.”

“—Roman.” Roman’s giggles seize. “Have some couth , boy, for fuck’s sake. Apologize to, ah—Siobhan.” Mr. Roy gestures vaguely with his knife.

“To—to me? To me , Dad? No-” Shiv’s eyes are wide, flicking back and forth between everyone at the table, “Apologize to Tom , Rome.”

“Um, fuck you?” Roman snorts, incredulously.

“Romulus …Forgive him, er, Thomas. Clearly, he’s—”

“No, no,” Tom exhales, “Nonono, Mr. Roy. It’s—okay. I’m just fine. I just—ha. I need…” Tom’s knees clunk awkwardly on the table as he stands, trying not to make more of a mess than he needs to.

“Tom…” Shiv sighs.

“It’s fine, Siobhan. It’s fine. I just need to clean up, yes?”—He can’t recognize the sound of his own voice. It’s raised an octave, into something lighter than he’s used to. He stutters a bit; he doesn’t know where—

“The bathroom’s down the hall,” Kendall helps.

Tom can’t get there fast enough.

“...Tom?”

The shirt’s ruined. At least, for tonight, it is. Plus, there’s something about the fabric he’s not quite used to. It just seems to eat up the gravy, soaking into a prominent brown no matter how much he scrubs. They must’ve stuck him in the bathroom with the shitty toilet paper as well. All it does is crumble under his fingertips.

He doesn’t answer Siobhan on the other side of the door, but it clicks open anyway. He can’t bring himself to look up—not when his shirt is wet with sink water. He takes to staring at the ground instead. Notes how there’s not a spot of mildew in sight. Not like his own bathroom back at home, which crawls with it.

“..I brought you another shirt.”

She’s holding the delicate fabric in her hands. The whiteness of it bounces off the cream coloured walls. He can’t bear to look at it for long.

"It's, um, Connor's old one. So, it may or may not fit."

“...Thanks.” It’s not her fault her family—her brother, specifically—lacks any kind of crucial social skills. Still, there’s a nagging in the back of his mind; something off he can’t quite place. She crosses her arms when he takes the shirt from her, leaning back against the sink.

“...It was kind of funny, wasn’t it?” She hums.

“What about that was funny, Shiv?”

“Just—I don’t know. Roman’s fucking weird, Tom. Mashed potatoes on your shirt; he might as well have pissed on your leg to claim you. It's a fucked up joke.”

Tom tries to smile, he does. It misses his lips, and they fall into a thin line, “Right. Suppose I just don’t understand sophisticated jokes.”

Right. There it is. That’s the feeling. This family—this whole family, not just Roman—makes Tom feel like he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t. He’s not an idiot. 

He just—wished Shiv would say that he does. Convince them, and not just hope that Logan Roy does it for her.

He'd been watching them all night. The way they will and bend to him. Everything they do it met with a questioning look his way, and most of the time the question's never answered. He gets it, of course, but it's a little sad to see.

Everything's a game of power. A deal. A duel they don't even know they're starting. It's no wonder Roman throws mashed potatoes, like a chimpanzee. It's the only time his father acknowledges his presence. His name. 

Again, she’s quiet.

“...What is this, Siobhan?”

“..Um, a shirt?"

Tom exhales.

“Why did you invite me to your father’s dinner party? Is this—is this a joke? Am I the flaming jester that serves the pretentious crowned court?”

“What?”

“Am I the joke of the night, Shiv? Or- or am I just being used as some late, teenage rebellion so your dad will want to fuck you." He says, though the words come out wrong, and he quickly shakes his head, "You know what I mean."

“Jesus. No, Tom.” She steps away from the sink. She was never close, yet his skin freezes with goosebumps as she parts, “You’re not— God. Is that what you think of me? Of my family…?”

He wants to answer, but it fizzles out in his throat as she looks at him. She’s—beautiful. Even as her eyebrows crease with amalgamations of distress.

When she looks back at him, her eyes aren’t cold. They’re soft, like he’s an equal to her. The words leave his mouth before he can stop it.

“Would you kiss me?” Tom asks, his uncertain and wavering voice breaking sharply to the air

Siobhan gapes like a fish out of water. Her expression falters—twists—into something odd he’s never seen before.

“Would…?” She hesitates.

“Hold my hand? Be seen with me—together—in front of them? Would you announce me as yours, and keep me, like a little birdie in a cage?”

“Tom, don’t be..—Jesus.”

Tom swallows. An ache roots deep in the pit of his stomach. He’s not bound here, yet it all feels so trivial. He can see the door (and so can she, by the way she eyes it). He can leave anytime.

Thank you for dinner, Siobhan. You have been so kind, but I don’t think this is going to work out. He hears the cogs turning helplessly in his mind. He can leave, but he realizes—terribly so—that he doesn’t want to.

“Um…” Shes—She’s calculating it out in her head—what kissing him would mean. What being with him might do to someone like her.

He’s not quite sure he knows either.

“…Well…?” Tom’s hands are in his pockets now. He’s taller than her, of course, but he can feel his body caving in. Anything in her gravitational pull has the habit of doing that. Turning in on itself in an attempt to let her shine. 

“If you want. Go ahead.”

Tom deflates. A string of silence falls between them. Shiv, because she’s waiting. Tom, because he’s working up the courage to get out.

“No?” Shiv scoffs; yeah. He’s the big bad man here. He’s the one depriving her.

It snaps him from his bewitchment.

He leaves. He doesn’t remember leaving fully. Doesn’t even know if he got the words out well enough for her to understand. When he arrives back at his dorm, his so-called friend is there, patting his shoulders and bouncing around him like a puppy. 

“How was your date with the Ice Woman, Tommy? Did she turn your soft heart to stone?”

He shrugs. It’s high-end frat boy code for fuck off before I punch you.

He lays in bed that night—alone.

Except, right before he drifts off to his sanctuary of sleep, his eyes reopen to a sound.

Shifff.

His head turns towards the door.

On the ground, a piece of folded paper sat, tauntingly. He heaves a sigh and pushes himself out of bed. It’s Shiv. There’s no one else it can be. No one else who knows about their little notes thing (unless, of course, Eddie somehow found out. In which case, Tom’ll strangle the man with a tie for this sick fucking joke).

Or, maybe Tom’s gotten lucky, and this is some kind of hit note that happens before people get murdered. Then he won’t have to lay here with the humiliation hanging over his head at—lord, 11:00PM. It’s late.

Later than he thought.

His hands are awkward on the piece of paper, turning it around and then tugging it open.

Kiss and make up?
-Shiv

At the bottom of it, there’s an odd little drawing of Tom in clown clothes—the jester at the crowned court. It’s not a great drawing, by any means; Shiv’s no artist. But it’s enough to soften him into something a little more pliable. Enough to get him to open the door.

She’s standing there, the soft lights of the dorm hall illuminating behind her. It dips into her eyes and makes them sparkle. Tom holds his breath.

“...So, if it wasn’t clear…” Shiv starts, before he could get a word in, “...I’m sorry about tonight.”

“..Oh?” It’s a battle of his mind.

On one hand, he wants to forgive her immediately. Take her into his arms and kiss at that dimple like a mad man until it disappears. On the other hand—it hurts. It bubbles up unkindly in the back of his throat and all he wants to do is vomit up the feeling.

He wants to be hurt. He wants to be fucking loud about it.

“I am,” Shiv insists, “...I fucked up. My family fucked up. But, my dad did offer to pay off your tuition, so that’s something. I think he likes you. Or, well, sees potential in you.”

Tom huffs something of a laugh, but looking over her face—oh. She’s serious. Christ. This fucking family. 

(He desperately craves to be apart of it.)

“I can’t…be the joke, Siobhan. I already…”

The words stick in his throat and he clears it. There’s no right way to say he’s already the joke in so many aspects of his life. That everyone here at Cornell stares at him like they don’t see him as a blooming equal. He can’t do that anymore. He’s done being the fruitless punching bag.

But he can't let anyone in, or he'll die. He can't let her see it.

“I—come on, Tom. I know. You were never that. I promise.” She says, before a slyer expression spills on her face. Something that cuts through the night and makes his lungs burn hot inside his chest. “..So, I think I was promised a kiss, Wambsgans. Or, well, not promised , but you did imply…something?” She tries.

Ugh—she’s trying. How can Tom not absolutely melt at the surface?

So, he kisses her. Right there, standing underneath the cool hum of the air conditioning, where anyone can see.

It’s fine. It is. He can pretend, for tonight, that it is.

───

“Oh, Gregory. Greg! Wondrous Gregory Hirsch?  Might I steal a moment of your precious time before you head out? You better not be—oh.”

The office is disappointingly empty for 5:17PM, not a Gregory Hirsch in sight. It’s fine, of course. He doesn’t need Greg to be present for what he came here for, it’s just funny to watch him bumble around as Tom does his thing.

Plus, he should really teach him the proper work etiquette of saying bye to your damn boss before you fuck off elsewhere for the day. He’ll prepare a speech or two, and that’s how they’ll spend the first half an hour of their morning tomorrow!

Paperwork. Right. A few sheets of paper lay carelessly on the desk next to Greg’s strange little bin of mismatched pens. Tom’s adding organization and pen stealing into the lecture as well.

You know, two birds, one Greg, or whatever.

—He should shoot him a text. A little 5:18PM calendar reminder that they had lots and lots to talk about tomorrow.

As well as a reminder that, hello! Tom is very much still here at the office! All alone! Depraved!

He doubts Greg will care. He might um, um, uh his way through a coherent sentence and then text him back a thumbs up. So entirely Gregory, it’s ridiculous. 

Tom sits in his seat. It’s not weird.

He’s just seeing what it’d be like to be Greg for a minute. What? He simply wonders what it looks like, vaguely, when he, himself, enters a room. Greg's view. If there’s an air of importance, or maybe Gregory looks up just the same when Debra from Sales knocks on his door to gossip nonsense in his ears. Like a buzzing fly. 

(It makes the thought that Greg just left without a goodbye start to sting.)

He should really send him that text!

Tom taps his fingers against the desk a couple of times, trying to rid himself of this terrible knot in his stomach. His fingers push out, pinky catching on the notepad Greg keeps on the corner of his desk. Funny.

There’s not much on it. Just a couple of stray numbers that he probably scribbled down while trying to do fast math. 

He’s watched him do it before. He makes silly, little humming sounds and murmurs under his breath, as if it’s the most difficult thing in the world. It’s hilarious. Tom makes sure to clock it every single time; takes joy in watching him stumble.

He should write a note instead.

He’s not sure what preposterous bubble racks his sullen brain to make the thought so prominent. It’s the pens, really, and the fact that he can picture Greg meandering into his office only to find a note left by Tom, imploring him to meet him ASAP.

It feels a lot more personal that way. Like, Greg might look at it and think oh, shit. Something’s really wrong! Tom likes that, he thinks. Likes the thought of Greg thinking about him in such a hurried state. He’s gotta get to his office as fast as possible; He has to make sure Tom’s alright!

Holding a pen is foreign. Of course, he holds them all the time, but merely to sign off on things here and there. Nothing special. Sometimes, it feels like he hasn’t written a note since—

— Do you get all your pick up lines from shitty novellas?

Tom sits back. The pen drums in a steady rhythm against the pad of his hand. A grin, overwhelming, begins to spread across the likes of his features.

A delirious idea occurs to him. 

What if—ha, okay. Hear him out. Listen—what if he wrote a love letter to Gregory? Wouldn’t that be hilarious?

Oh, no, not from himself . No he won’t be writing Greg any heartfelt, passionate notions of feeling deep from the heart anytime soon. Er, not that he has any deep, heartfelt feelings for Greg. Nothing that goes past the intense impulse to razz him every chance he sees him. 

This is the ultimate razz. 

Greg,

When I see you across the office, my heart flutters. It stops. 

Tom snorts. A very lanky and clumsy Gregory Hirsch comes to mind. Piping up in meetings when he shouldn’t. The baseball mitts he calls hands always flailing about as he speaks. 

Uh, uh, uh, sorry, Tom, he says as he knocks him in his shoulder, his nose, his eye once. 

The epitome of disgrace, but he can see a woman falling tragically for him. Just a little.

From the moment I beheld you in my sight, I knew there was something about you I couldn’t get enough of. You bewitched me. Entranced me. You possess an extraordinary beauty that people only see in their dreams. I have never felt so unholy.

Okay, maybe he’s laying it on a little thick, but it has to be believable. Plus, Tom’s a romantic at heart, really (Though, he’d never admit it out loud). It just flows naturally from his hand and out onto the page, joke or not. The amorous soul hardly cares for jokes.

Your eyes are like stars, and when I gaze upon them, it’s like looking into an hourglass of the universe. So delicately balanced, yet so bewildering at the same time. I have never felt this way about anyone before. I have a deep, overwhelming connection with you, Gregory Hirsch. One I cannot explain, nor have I ever experienced before.

I have never wanted anyone else the way that I desire you,

Your Secret Admirer ♥️

Tom sits back. His fingers touch over the ink on the page, careful not to smudge it.

Was this too… much?

Did this cross over some untouchable HR nightmare of a boundary?

Hm.

Maybe.

Just a smidgen.

Yet, he thinks about Greg’s face when Tom yanks the metaphorical rug out from underneath him and—yeah. This will so be worth it, just for that. 

Satisfied (and unwilling to think it over any longer), Tom drops the pen against the notepad and then heads out for the night. He’s already got the beginning of his little speech prepared.

──

Tom nearly forgets about it. It’s pretty easy to, running around doing clean up in various meetings. Trying not to stumble over his words and make himself look like an outright fool. It’s gotten better as time goes on, but sometimes Tom feels like he’s really losing his head here. Like, he’ll look in the mirror and find it popped clean off at some point. 

Enough about that.

It’s lunchtime, which is always an odd occasion.

Only because it went from Tom trying to slip his way into people’s group lunches, looking for a spot where he fit—to this. Him and Gregory, sitting back at his office.

Greg’s noisily munching on a sandwich he calls the Turducken (which is as horrendous as it sounds, yes. But he didn't purchase it from a poor man’s street corner market, so his palette is certainly becoming more defined. Tom’s almost proud). 

They’re the ugly girls eating by the dumpsters in the school cafeteria. Outcast for their terrible looks and quirks; forced to come together in some god awful coming-of-age chick flick where one of them gets with the jock-dickhead of a guy by the end of it, while the other gets left behind. 

He tries to focus on the tantalizing words flowing out of Gregory’s bunglesome mouth.

“So, uh, like—I think I have a secret admirer, dude.”

It’s interesting how Greg puts things. He’s never said one sentence with his full chest in his entire life. He says stuff like I think, I think, uh—I think , when he most certainly knows.  

Tom's pretty sure he drops his fork. Nothing is more important than right fucking now.

“Oh? Do tell, Gregory. Engage me with your whims and woes…” He sits as far forward in his seat as he can. 

“Ha, yeah, uh,” Greg laughs, presumably at whims and woes , “I got this letter thing? A love note of sorts, yeah?”

Tom feels absolutely unhinged as he watches the scrap of paper come tugging out of Greg’s pocket. He’s fighting with every fiber of his being not to just go and spoil the joke, let the dizzying laugh spiral out his throat. He feigns a surprised little gasp just to let himself breathe.

“That’s it?—Is that it? Greg , share with the class?”

The note gets passed over (only further completing the whole school cafeteria notion), and Tom wastes no time unraveling it in his fingers. He doesn’t have to read it, of course, but he’s gotta keep up with the illusion . He skims his eyes over it, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as if he’s thinking. Really, he's just desperately trying to compose himself.

Come the fuck on, Wambsgans.

“Well?...Do you, like—do you think it’s something?” Greg blinks.

He’s got him right where he wants him. 

“Oh, yes, Greg. This certainly looks like something…” Okay. Alright. He’s had his fun. Hell, he can barely contain the laughter tickling up his ribcage. Greg just looks—so genuine. His great, big, doe-y eyes sparkling with a curiosity. It’s enticing. It’s asking him to play; like sticking a fork in an electrical socket just for the feeling. Tom chuckles, light and airy. He opens his mouth, but Greg goes first—

“—I was actually, like, wondering if I should write back?”

Tom’s face drops.

He was in the river, searching for gold, and he found a fucking diamond instead. A great, big diamond, wrapped up in the idea of a love letter from Gregory Hirsch. 

No, no.

Don’t look at him like that.

You gotta understand; he’s got to continue along with the joke, otherwise he’s wasting a perfectly good diamond . It’s almost sinful. Are you religious? Yes? Well, it’s against God for Tom to let go of such a good opportunity. So. Take that!

“You absolutely should write back to her, Greg.” He says, deadpan, “You should write back as soon as you can . In fact, why are you even sitting in here right now? You should be at your pitiful desk, scrawling away until your wrists ache.”

Greg stares at him. Stupidly. His cow eyes are fluttering, and Tom wants to fucking strangle him.

“Yeah…?” His eyebrows twitch up. Which, if one didn’t know, is Gregory-code for uncertainty.

“Must I pick up the pen and write it for you?” Tom grins, snakelike and foreboding. He pushes from his chair, coming around to urge him up. Greg stumbles, trying to save his Turducken in the process. “Don’t even worry about lunch, Gregory! There’s so much more  to get to. Now, you better have a note written and on your desk by the end of the day, you hear?”

“Uh—okay, yeah. Uh, why the…why the end of the day..? What should I even, like, say?” He somehow managed to get his sandwich back in his grasp despite Tom battering at him, pushing him closer and closer out the door. I, uh, like, need my energy, man— Tom can practically hear the words roll off of his tongue, even if Greg’s not actively saying it. 

“Write from the heart. Just, do it! Because I said so, Greg!”

Of course, that excuse doesn’t hold a lot of weight. Not to Greg, as bumbly awkward as he is. When he knows what he wants, he goes for it. He stabs the knife into the soft and pliant flesh of man. He makes the kill. 

He does this, now, by making himself a big boulder that Tom can’t push out the door.

“Dude, what?”

“Just—” Excuse, excuse, excuse. Tom’s brain scrambles; he waves a hand in the process to show how disinterested he is in giving one. “—I’m your wingman , Greg. I’m supposed to help you through your terrible , terrible girl troubles. Hook you up to a ball and chain. Trust me! I know what’s best for you. And what’s best for you, is getting a response to this girl as soon as possible. Write something, leave it on your desk. If she went into your office to write on your notepad, she’s surely willing to come back.”

Even if it wasn’t him, this is absolutely great advice for Greg. Treat a woman right, and she’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand. Or, well, an analogy that’s a lot less creepy.

Greg nods slowly, despite it all. Tight and motivated, he finally breaks the statue state.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get on that. Yeah. This’ll be-- yeah.”

“Good man,” Tom winks. He has to be careful, otherwise Greg might go around thinking he enjoys him or something. He pats his back, sharply, sending the man off on his way.

There’s a second after Greg’s gone, where Tom sits with his (now lukewarm) bowl of rice and teriyaki chicken. It’s a little fucked , isn’t it? Oh, no. Not the cold rice, but… not telling Greg right away. He shovels a spoonful into his mouth.

Whatever! It’ll be funny. Tom likes things that are funny; doesn’t everyone?

He’s sure, at the end of the day, Gregory will laugh about it as well.

───

To my Secret Admirer,

Your words spark me with a sense of desire. It runs through my chest and out my fingertips, gripping and tantalizing. I will admit, I struggle with words myself. I’m not the most fantastic of writers, but I’ll still try and catch my thoughts onto a page for you, my dear.

I am just an ordinary man. Yet, when I reread the words of your affections, I feel—extraordinary, as you say. I am powered by the scrawlings of pen which dance along the page, ignited by your wondrous heart. I wonder, really, what beholds in your inner soul. Is it love? Desire? Passion? If I’m not mistaken, it might be all. It seizes me. I wonder.

As passion drives you, it drives me just the same. I sat there, at my desk, for minutes—hours—after receiving your letter. I wonder—how can I be so deserving of words so amazingly kind and sweet? So—connected. 

I want to know you. I want to experience you in a way I’ve never experienced before. I want to understand you, in a way that foolish men wish to understand a Goddess.

Will you let me? See you, and know you?

Gregory Hirsch

The walls are dark, only the pale light of the full moon is enough for him to keep them from closing in on him. Tom lays on his back, eyes wide and open, guided up to the ceiling. The note, from Gregory Hirsch, sits helplessly between his fingertips.

What the fuck?

No, really. What the fuck is this?

To be fair, in Tom’s greatest defense—he didn’t know how Gregory would actually feel about the letter. Like, it was just a fucking joke . It was supposed to be something he could laugh about while he watched Greg hopelessly fumble.

He didn’t expect him to actually have—feelings. To actually recieve a decent love letter back from Gregory John Fucking Hirsch.

He’s not sure what to do with such information. He almost wants to be proud. Clap Greg on the back for being much better with words than anyone ever thought possible—but his insides churn.

It’s just—it’s been so long since…—no. No. The letter’s not even meant for him! Okay, sure, it’s meant for him in the loosest terms possible, but Greg’s writings would be a lot different, say, if Tom tapped a pen against the desk and commanded: write me a love letter.

Tom’s eyes scan the page. Once. Twice. A third time.

Godlike and horny. That’s how he feels. 

Godlike and horny.

A swell of pride blooms in his chest knowing he made Greg— someone —feel like this. What he feels for Greg is similar to what one might feel to a dachshund rolling around in one of those doggy wheelchairs, yet…

Anytime he tries to do something like this for Shiv? It ends in disaster. She’s not the feelings type. She hasn’t been since college (and even then, they called her Ice Woman and laughed). But to have someone react? Feel good by things Tom says, without years of prompting?

—He’s getting fucking hard over it.

It starts low in his gut. Pulls out like taffy through every sentence. He wonders what’s in his inner soul...? Oh, god. Too fucking much.

Tom shoves the covers off himself, tossing the letter to the side. Cold shower! Yep. That’s what he needs. A nice cold shower to take the edge off. He yanks off his clothes, his shirt too hot on his skin. Then, pajama bottoms. Then—

His phone is buzzing horrendously, where he placed it on the sink.

“Shit.” He murmurs to himself. The waistband of his boxers snaps back in place, ( obscenely reminding him of the reason he was in here to begin with).

GREGORY.

Who else would it be, but Greg? Tom’s skin prickles with anxiety. It’s like the man has some kind of little radar of bad timing. Tom nearly wants to pick up the phone just to shout at him, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. He could ignore it, sure, but that means something is off. He hardly ignores Greg’s calls. Not even when he’s sick, or dying, or both.

“ Gregory. ” He hums as he picks up. He turns off the shower.

“Oh, uh, hey. Hey, Tom.” Greg answers as if he wasn’t the one who fucking called, but Tom can look past that for the moment.

“To what do I owe the divine pleasure?”

“Uh, yeah. So…” Greg’s nervous. He knows he is, because he’s got that weird twinge in his voice. Tom nearly pulls up his defenses. 

IT WAS ONLY A JOKE, GREG. I’M NOT IN LOVE WITH YOU. GOD, YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO WRITE OUT THE MOST CAPTIVATING LOVE LETTER SINCE SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS, GREG. YOU’RE SO HARD TO MESS WITH. 

But that’s what they call catastrophizing, and Tom only does that internally.

“So, like, I was actually—I wrote the letter to that girl? The secret admirer one?”—As if there’s another girl who could come into question here.

“..And..?”

“Well, like, I was wondering if we could look it over together?”

Tom pauses. He turns, looking out to the darkness of his bedroom from his en suite. The letter sits on his bed.

“You didn’t leave it on your desk?” He asks, because he can’t just outright say he knows Gregory in fact did. There's still some blood left in his brain.

“No, uh, yeah. I totally did. I’m just wondering if, like, I said the right things? I don’t know…”

Oh. Tom sees what this is. It’s like the equivalent of checking if your breath smells before you go on a date with a girl. You’re still going on the date, but there’s a security in knowing if it does or doesn’t. Prepare for the worst . It’s advice that Tom gave him a long, long while ago.

“Okay…” Tom blinks, “But how do you expect us to look it over if you’ve already handed in the homework, so to speak, Gregory?”

He hears him shift on the other line. It’s very subtle, but he’s pretty sure there’s the clue of crinkling paper. His eyebrows cock up slightly.

“I made a copy.”

“You--” Tom starts, but he reels himself back in from a laugh. One o’clock in the afternoon, doing his daily peruse around the office. There—by the copy machine—Gregory Hirsch. Tom blinks. “Did you photocopy your love letter, Greg?”

Greg adjusts, again. Tom recognizes the sound of fabric moving at the other end. Almost in response, his dick gives a jump, hidden beneath a thin layer of fabric. He almost punches himself in it. This isn’t some sort of sexy thing.

Greg’s not giving him a strip tease over the phone or anything, and even if he was, it would be highly inappropriate to respond in such a way. He squeezes his phone a little tighter.

It’s Greg, he reminds himself. Gregory Hirsch. Stupid Greg, who wrote this stupidly beautiful love letter for a girl he hadn’t even seen. Not directly.

“Yeah, I wanted to, like, be sure, you know? That it was good and everything, but I still wanted to leave it on the desk and all that in case she worried about a response or something. ‘Cause, like, you said that was kinda important.”

Ah, how heartwarming, Gregory. Remembering something Tom told him and then putting it to actual use. Makes him feel all hot inside (which he is blatantly going to ignore).

“Right, okay,” Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. He finds his way back into the bedroom, “Go on, then. Engage me with your terrible, terrible words.”

He places himself on the bed, unfolding the love letter so he can follow along. Okay. Maybe a part of it is self indulgent. It’s almost hard to believe that Greg wrote the words himself. He’s interested, okay, in hearing it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. He ignores the way his heart humiliatingly flutters. The way it feels it might go bursting right through his chest.

“Okay, uh, okay,” Greg mumbles to himself. “So, like, obviously I started with To my secret admirer.”

“Obviously…” Tom agrees.

“Okay, so—To-to my secret admirer, um—your words, uh, spark me with a, um, sense of…desire?”

“Did you really write it like that?”

“...Like…? How do you mean?”

“Um, um, uh, um, your, your words, uh—come on, Greg. You didn’t write it like that, did you?”

“Well…no?”

“Just read it as it is, Greg. No ums and uhs about it.”

“Okay…okay. Yeah…”

Tom takes a deep breath in preparation.

“Your words spark me with a sense of desire.” Greg starts. Tom’s brain gives an unexpected jolt, like he wasn’t ready for Greg to speak so—easily. So quickly. He fucking hates when Greg surprises him, but he shuts his mouth; listening.

“—It runs through my chest and out my fingertips, gripping and tantalizing. I will admit, I struggle with words myself. I’m not the most fantastic of writers, but I’ll still try and catch my thoughts onto a page for you, my dear.”

Tom has to hold his breath. If he doesn’t, he’s scared his breathing might come out all funny. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he thinks he might be bleeding. God, just—it sounds so stupid coming out of his mouth, yet it prickles Tom’s skin with goosebumps all the same. Causes a shiver to travel all the way up the base of his spine, rendering him completely useless. My dear—christ. He should wash Greg’s mouth out with soap just so he never says it again.

“...I wonder, really, what beholds in your inner soul. Is it love? Desire? Passion?”

Arousal. This is—this is just a weird fluke, that’s it. Tom’s not used to someone speaking to him so—you know? That’s the issue. Maybe he should spice it up a bit in bed with Shiv, instead of sitting here, hard enough to cut diamonds , while his subordinate reads him a damn love letter. Maybe.

He reached a hand down to adjust himself, so his dick wasn’t so there and he could…focus better on Greg. A soft thrum of pleasure washes over him at the slide of fabric. Perhaps he could hang himself with it later, or something. 

Tom closes his eyes. His hand doesn't move away, letting himself circle the head of his cock softly. He thumps his head back against the pillow, letting the letter fall somewhere on the sheets. The low hum of Greg’s voice, continuing to read, dully takes over his ears. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. It honestly leaks into some kind of HR violation, just even thinking about it.

But he wants to. His mouth falls open slightly. Nothing makes sense—he's drunk with it. Dizzy, as his hips cant forward ever so slightly. He presses harder, his legs jerking—

“Hey, Tom?”

Tom rips his hand away like his boxers are on fire. His fingers are already covered in fluid . God—pathetic, really. The whole hanging idea isn’t looking too bad right now. He tries not to sound too breathless as the air rushes back to his lungs. “Yeah, Greg?”

“You…okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay—why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“...You’re like…kinda breathing a little…I don't know. You just kind of sound funny, and like, you're getting up there in age, you know? So - uh..?”

“...I actually, wow , would you look at the time? I got some stuff I need to get to.”

“...It’s…9PM?”

“Jesus, Greg. I don’t have to lay out my entire life plan to you, do I? I’m a busy old man, 9PM or not.”

“Okay…” Greg mumbles, like he doesn’t fucking believe him or something, “So, was the letter…?”

“The letter was fine, Greg. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Right…okay.”

“Goodnight, Gregory!”

Tom hangs up with a click. He practically slams his phone against the nightstand, before clasping his hands over his face. Jesus fuck. Jesus fucking Christ. Tom’s not a Christian. He’s not anything, really, but he’s ninety percent sure that God’s fucking him in the ass right now.

Cold shower! He reminds himself. It’s all he can do to stop the blooming of self hatred deep in his gut. He can’t think about this right now, otherwise he’ll lose himself. And how would he look Greg in the eye tomorrow, if he thought deeper about this shit?

So, instead, he pulls himself off the bed. He yanks the letter up with him.

Fuck Greg.

Fuck Greg and his stupid fucking kind writing. He tosses it against the toilet seat. He lets the water run, before shoving down his boxers in one motion. He can barely stand to look down at his cock; flushed and fucking leaking as if he were merely a middleschooler who caught a glimpse of a boob for the first time.

He hunches over. One hand braces the back ceramic of the toilet. The other wraps around his dick. A small hiss leaves his lips, sensitive. Yeah, okay. He’s doing this.

He strokes himself in slow, languid motions, his eyes searching all over the page.

I want to know you. I want to experience you in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Tom exhales. He spits into his hand before starting to slowly fuck into his fist. Tom could—experience Greg. He could. Gregory was a long alignment of lanky white skin and bones, but he was pliable. Tom would bet so, so much money that it’d be easy to push him around. Open him up. He’d probably be all whiny about it, too. How much could he take?

I want to understand you, in a way that foolish men wish to understand a Goddess.

Tom’s breath came out in pants. If he closed his eyes, he could see the foolish ones gazing up at him. Dark and doe-like, and curious .

“Do you like it? Do you like this, Greg?” Tom would ask, unable to take his eyes away.

“Tom—”

He could rub around until he found a spot that had Greg mewling . Thrashing his long limbs about, the sweat on his forehead causing his hair to stick. Tom could lick it off his neck, his chest. Fuck—even his—

Will you let me? See you, and know you?

“Fuck, fuck—fuck--” Tom grunts. His orgasm rushes through him at lightning speed with a gasp. Thick spurts burst from the tip of his cock. He taints the sheet of paper. Gregory’s name is blurred into a smearing of waterlogged black ink. Tom stays there, just for a moment, trembling through the aftershocks.

“...Shit…” He mumbles. The sweat on his skin is starting to feel vile.

He tosses the letter into the wastebin. Barely gives himself a chance to adjust before the cold water is burning on his skin.

He’s so fucking fucked.