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Hanging off his door frame and peering into Tom’s office, Greg softly interrupted, “So, hey, um Tom?”
Tom was weakly hanging his head in his hands.
“Tom?”
Tom let out a low groan of a truly long-suffering person. The sound some important shareholder would make if they were trying to decide between going up to a starving bear in clothes made out of salmon or attempting to make small talk with Logan at a company event.
“Tom!” He tried again. When there was once more no response, Greg paused before awkwardly continuing, “Um, well, I just, with everything going on and uh– anyways, would you want to go out tonight?”
“Go out ? I can’t go out , Greg. You know what's going out? This company. Out of fucking style Greg, thats whats out,” splaying his hands out, “Big sale: Everything must go! And you know what? We’re fucking everything in this case Greg.”
“No, like I get that, but I just figured you might want to get out of your house, given that it's kind of a war zone at any second. But, uh, forget it– I’ll just get back to my desk.”
Tom gave his smile, the one that used to mean he was kind of doing him a huge favor, and you know, he's only the best mentor ever, don’t sweat it– this one's on me– but make sure you don’t forget it either . “No, no. You’re right, Greg. You are so right! A great team-building moment, and we are a team now! Typical team stuff, I go down, you go down; I go up, you go up.”
“Yeah. Right. Um, well call me an elevator cause we’re going up! I guess elevators go down too, but yeah. This one's going up only! If you need to go down, just take the stairs maybe, or like an escalator? Not that you are going to need to go down. Though “going down” might solve all your issues. You would definitely get promoted that way. Not that I’m encouraging that, uh, lifestyle. Just joking! Just a jokester. You know me, yeah.” Greg stiltedly laughed. The silence that followed went on for a little too long to be comfortable, and as he stumbled out of the office, he threw out a quick, awkward, “Anyways, pick you up at 8?’
Tom gave a tight-lipped smile, “Sure, Greg, Sure.”
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“So you remember how you taught me to be, like, rich? Anyways, I was thinking I could teach you how to be poor?” He quickly interrupted himself, “Not that you’ll need it– its just I kind of became an expert in that month before I got my paycheck. And well, you never know the future. I mean I definitely didnt think I’d end up here. So.”
Tom looked at him dubiously: “And the first step would be…”
“Oh, the first step?” Greg asked with a wide smile. “That would be the subway, of course!”
Tom’s look of pure horror said more than any refusal that failed to be realized in his shock.
Greg rushed to reassure him, “Um, It’s not that bad, really! It’s just like 9 stops on the 6 downtown to St. Marks.”
“St. Mark's, Greg? With the fucking, like, hooligans and homeless people and punk guys high on who knows what with metal all over their faces? Newsflash, asshole! You’re off your fucking rocker if you think I’m going to associate with those people,” Tom snapped.
Greg leveled him a sharp look, and with a shaky confidence, interrupted: “Tom, I ate your singing bird or whatever and stood in the part of the club where you pay more to do less. Now you’re just going to have to brave the MTA and St. Marks to get that delicious, cheap food.”
Zipping up his jacket with a flourish, and–motioning to Tom to follow– he stomped out. Together, they navigated in irregular patterns through the cold streets until they stopped in front of a dark entrance, with a black, green, and white sign stating “Downtown & Brooklyn 6.”
Vaguely nervously, like he was about to do something he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it out of, Tom asked “Fuck, am I about to like, descend into the underworld? Is this some abandon all hope, ye who enter here type bullshit?”
“Very funny, Tom–just, like, hurry it up and avoid the human shit over there by the stairs.”
Tom shuddered and tentatively stepped forward. Before long, they stopped in front of the turnstiles as Tom began to pull out his wallet.
Greg quickly stopped him, “Oh, um, you won’t need that. You want the full experience right? Then don’t pay the fare.”
“What?” Tom scoffed, “Are you going going to hop the turnstile like some juvenile delinquent?”
Greg smiled, “Even better.”
With a confidence that directly contradicted his actions and lack of grace, Greg began to duck under the turnstile, his knees skimming the floor. He tripped out from under the turnstile, before righting himself like a gymnast who just won Olympic gold in their floor routine. For the cherry on top of this whole shit-show, he gave Tom two thumbs up.
Tom scoffed, “I’m not fucking crawling on the dirty subway floor. First of all, the suit is dry-clean only. Second of all, I’m not a goddamn dog or toddler. I’m a grown, successful man. And I’m going to hop the turnstile like a man would.”
Gripping the sides of the turnstile with unsure hands, he began to hoist himself over. For a few seconds, he really felt like one of those cool NYU artsy kids he had always secretly been jealous of. That was, of course, before his foot got stuck on the last bar, and he face planted onto the subway floor (more commonly known as a pile of germs, chewed gum, and every single person in the city’s dirty footprints since probably the 19-fucking-40s).
The MTA employee just shook his head with a disappointed look from his box, and a girl leaning on the tiled walls side-eyed them and loudly popped her gum.
“Oh. Ouch,” Greg hissed, “Are you okay, man ?”
The cool sludge of embarrassment was still settling in his stomach when Tom caught sight of a red sign and barred door out of the corner of his eyes.
“Greg.” There was a heavy pause, “You could have just… opened the emergency door for me.”
“Oh–um. Oops?” Greg said, betraying absolutely no trace of guilt whatsoever.
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Exiting the subway, Tom gulped breaths of air like he’d just been saved from certain suffocation or dug up from being buried alive. Greg was already pulling him excitedly across the street.
“Hey Tom, do you want to spin the cube?”
Still disoriented, Tom simply questioned with an “Excuse me?”
“You know, the massive metal cube that like, rotates and everything in astor place?”
Dismissively, Tom threw out a “Come on, we’re not tourists.”
“Yeah, but, like, isn’t the point of tonight that you are, in a way? Just spin the cube.”
Begrudgingly, Tom went to the opposite end of the cube, and, bracing his feet and bending his knees, placed his hands on the corner. For a few seconds, he was conivnced Greg was playing some sort of practical joke on him–Ha ha, this idiot thought this metal fucking statue rotated– until Greg began pulling his weight and the cube actually began to move. The twist came slowly at first, and strenuously. But soon, Tom had to jog to keep up and then break into a sprint. Greg, in front of him, tripped over his feet, until Tom, unable to stop quickly enough, ran into his back, knocking them both over. At the dizzying movement, Tom barked out a laugh, and they both broke into giggles, even as the groups of kids chittering around at the cafés around them gave judging stares and exchanged whispers.
Lying on the floor, collapsed next to each other, Greg asked, “Did you know some guy claimed to like, live in the cube, for like, a whole year.”
“No fucking way. I don’t believe you, jackass.”
Turning his face to face Tom’s, he managed to get out between giggles, “Its true! It was in the papers and everything. Do you think we just, like, gave him a concussion,” He asked, somewhere between nervously and excitedly.
Slowly, as their laughter subsided and their sense of dignity returned, they shakily got up from their questionable place on the floor.
St. Mark's was, luckily for them, only one short block away. As they got closer, Tom noticed the crowd began to thicken in general, but thin on non-drunk or high people. He pulled at his collar a little, regretting his decision to come straight from work. Greg could zip up his jacket and fit in, at least a little, but Tom’s crisp suit stood out no matter what.
Greg announced theatrically, albeit with a few too many voice cracks, “Welcome to the People's Palace!”
Tom’s faced screwed up in a questioning look, “Do people really call it that?
Greg half-chuckled awkwardly, “No, I just made it up. Does it seem like something people could call it?”
Tom, with a look of pure second-hand embarrassment, began hurrying forward.
“Tom? Hey, Tom!” Greg aimlessly called after him as he got further away.
“I’m not with him,” Tom said out of the corner of his mouth to the person next to him, who just nodded out of politeness, with a distinct please-don't-murder-me-crazy-guy look in their eyes, before they crossed the street abruptly, glancing back like they were making sure they weren’t being followed.
Tom and Greg had just passed one of those guys who stand outside of smoke shops all day, pretty much begging people to buy their weed, or get their belly buttons pierced, or whatever, when Greg abruptly paused and gasped loudly and dramatically. Tom began frantically looking around until Greg gleefully and reverently breathed, “Kitty!”
True to his word, a cute calico cat was sleeping on one of the empty bookshelves outside a store. It sleepily lifted its head as Greg approached.
“Oh wow. Well, hello, you sweet thing.” He excitedly turned to Tom, “What a cute baby!”
“I’ll admit that it is cute. But should you be petting a street cat? You’re going to get like,” he lowered his voice like he was saying an unbearably rude curse word, “flees.”
“First off, ‘it,’ really? ‘Its’ not a street cat, ‘its’ a store cat . Big difference.”
“Oh sorry, did I offend you? He probably has rabies or something.”
He scrambled up to follow, faintly calling after him, “Well, actually, like, 99.9% percent of calicos are girls, did you know? Anyways, this is a working lady right here, and you should treat her with respect. Don’t be sexist, Tom.”
Tom didn’t deign to respond to that, so they walked a few more stores down before stopping in front of just about the most overstimulating restaurant Tom had ever seen. Greg spread his hands and sheepishly muttered “Ta-da!”
“What the fuck is this, Greg?”
“Well, its Japanese food, it has like–”
“I know that, fuckface, I’m not an idiot unlike you. I meant something more along the lines of why is there a giant statue of what looks to be the child of a threesome between a bear, platypus, and beaver? And like red flashing lights, about a billion signs, next to an animatronic police man? And the store above is terrifying, Greg. What kind of clothing store decorates its front with the cut off limbs of baby dolls. You know I’m scared of that kind of people,” he shuddered, “ punks .”
“It's called a Tanuki, actually, and–” Tom brushed right by him to peer into the window. “You know what, never mind,” Greg finished.
Tugging on his arm, he dragged them both inside. Once led through the din by a disgruntled waitress, Tom leaned forward and whispered-hissed to Greg, “Are you sure this is safe? I mean,” he paused, glancing at the menu, “Noodles for four bucks, and fucking liver for seven? I’m not eating an organ for less than I pay for my morning coffee. That bird was like 200 bucks, Greg. You know where that 200 bucks go? Not to the fucking flavor, thats for sure. The high price is just like a safety net– you know if everyone’s paying that price for it, it must be delicately prepared, even if maybe a little illegal.”
“Well, um, everyone’s paying seven bucks here, so I’m like 70 percent sure the kitchen staff is not like pissing on everything.”
“70 percent is not a high percent, Greg,”
“And 7 bucks is not a high price.” He leaned in, “So, just, like, eat your cheap, suspiciously sourced ramen and sushi and be happy.”
The food came shockingly quickly after Tom flagged down the waiter with one of his classic, rich-dickey, tight smiles and waves. Soon, their table was laden and cramped with steaming dishes. With a flourish, Greg circled the table with his chopsticks, dramatically popping bits in his mouth. With his free hand, he pushed a dish towards Tom.
Hesitantly, he inspected it, “What the fucks this? Portions a little small.” He slowly brought it to his mouth. Taking a nibble, he let out a pleased hum, “Wow. That’s actually pretty good.”
“Oh that?” Greg smiled widely–some mix of awkward and teasing–, “Thats bull penis. Neat, right? Can’t say I’d be brave enough to try it. Good for you, though.”
Tom immediately began gagging, barely managing to get something garbled out, probably along the lines of “Fuck, Greg, you’ve poisoned me.”
Luckily for him, that's when the beer tower arrived–– the pièce de résistance–– as Greg called it.
Two beers chased the taste away, but not the mental image.
Greg sheepishly encouraged him with a, “Um there we go, that's how we get the party started.”
Tom gave a fierce glare, “Fuck, I’m never forgiving you for that one. Better be prepared to sleep with one eye fucking opening the rest of your god forsaken life, you bagel fucker.”
“Honestly, I was never going to sleep easy again after taking this job. Part of the hazards, I guess.”
Tom, with a haunted look in his eyes that screamed I-know-way-more-than-I want-to-about-the-cruise-issues, replied, “Cheers to that.”
Their glasses clinked, and soon rather than later, the beer tower was emptied. Long past tipsy, their behavior had escalated from raucous to outright annoying. The waiter slapped down the check and two little paper cups, filled with a bright neon, suspiciously textured substance.
Tom eyed it warily, “This isn’t fucking, ground cow vagina right?”
“No, I think it’s, um, like to make cotton candy with.”
Tom scoffed, “What, for the personal cotton candy machine everyone just carries around with them?”
“Oh, um, yeah! That’s like, a big part of St. Mark's culture. Has been since, the um, 70s I think?”
Tom’s faced revealed his pure shock, “Are you shitting me?”
Greg was stony-faced for a hot minute before his poker face finally failed him, “Yes, man. They have machines out front.”
“Oh.” Tom paused, “Well, I obviously knew that,” Tom wagged a finger at him before chuckling uncomfortably, “Gotta learn to pick up on jokes and sarcasm if you want to make it as far as I did, Greg!”
With an awkward nod, Greg continued, “Okay, yeah, I’ll work on that, I guess.” He shook his sugar-filled cup, “ In the meantime, want to make some cotton candy?”
So they made cotton candy.
Watching Greg spin their sticks, Tom admitted quietly, “You know I’ve never tried cotton candy?”
“Woah, really?”
He sighed, “Yeah. It’s not like I have some tragic backstory or something, its just that my parents never took me to fairs or anything as a kid, and it seemed weird to ever get it as an adult.”
Greg paused, “You know when the last time I had cotton candy was? I, um, had just started at one of the Waystar parks near me. And I was like, one of those people in the mascot costumes that have to, um, you know–do the whole shebang, talk to the kids and pretend to be the characters. Well, I was a little, um, how would you say it? Self-medicated, at the time. And yeah, I ended up throwing up out of the mascot's eyes in front of a whole party of kids. And long story short, I was fired from Uncle Logan’s company. But I was like, so mad, I grabbed one of those bags of cotton candy on the way. I mean, it wasn’t even the right color– it was one of those weird blue ones, and it decidedly did not mix well with the vomity taste, but yeah, um, that's the story I guess–” He gasped, “Oh, Oh no. Don’t tell Uncle Logan I stole from him or his parks, Jesus.”
Tom gave a wide-eyed look that was about 20% admiration, 10% fear, and 70% disgust, “Wow. That was a lot of information, Greg.”
Voicecracking, Greg said, “You know me. I’m just information guy,” He quickly corrected himself, “Until you need me to like, not be. That I’m ‘my lips are sealed’ guy.” Greg continued, “Hey um, while we’re talking about this, I have a special surprise.”
Tom raised his eyebrows, “A different suprise than the penis kind you gave me earlier?”
A couple walking out of the restaurant gave them a vicious side eye. One of them muttered ‘this is a fucking resturant man, we just ate here’ under their breath.
Tom spluttered, “Not that kind! It was a bull’s penis.”
The couple began to hurry away.
“Jesus fuck,” Tom called to them, “I’m not one of those hobos you have to run away from!”
Greg calmly added, “I think you may be making this worse,”
“Fuck, you think?” Tom snapped.
“Uh yeah, I just said I did?”
‘I was being sarcastic, Greg ,”
“Oh.” Greg simply said.
Finally looking back at Greg, Tom did a double-take seeing the lit joint in his mouth, “Since when have you been smoking?”
“That was supposed to be the surprise. Not my fault you were so distracted by talking to that couple about penis.”
Another group walked by, but this time, they nodded to Tom like he was one of their own for that. One guy with gelled-up green liberty spikes gave him a dimpled smile and two thumbs up.
“You know thats not whats going on–Goddamn it, why does this keep on happening! I’m not like you!” he called after them. “I’m not a part of that group, you know that right, Greg?”
Greg gave him a smile that conveyed a healthy mix of yes I totally believe you , go fuck yourself, and, for good measure, sureeeee . After a scarily long pause, he added, “Want some? Pinky promise not to throw up this time. At least not on you.”
“Fuck it. You know I want some, Greg. Hand it over.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a bit, sharing hits before Greg broke in with an awkward, “Puff and pass, Puff and pass dude,” reaching for the joint.
Tom slapped his hand down, “Dont say puff and fucking pass. We’re not in highschool anymore,”
“Rich way of, um, hoggin’ the J.”
“Don’t say hogging the J either. In fact, don’t say anything. Please just shut up.”
“Hey dude, it's my devil’s lettuce. I can say whatever the fuck I want about grinding that MJ,”
Tom blew out some smoke and turned to him calmly, telling him in a deadpan voice, “You’re fired. More than that. Im gonna, fucking, like call Logan. You’re disowned, shitfuck. And moreover, Gre–”
He was cut off by a person who, after vigorously looking around, slowly approached them.
Dickishly, Tom gave a “Can we help you?”
Greg nudged him, “Um, Tom, I don’t think you should have asked that. In fact, I think we should have left.”
The guy ignored him, “Yeah. Yeah, I think you can help me. You see, I need a little cash, and I think you could help me out.”
Tom scoffed, “No man, I don’t do handouts. Go bother somebody else.”
Greg nervously side-eyed him and whispered in a high-pitched voice, “I don’t think you’re getting whats happening right now, Tom.”
“Relax, dude, I have this handled. I’m the boss here, remember? Don’t get too big an ego.”
The stranger moved even closer, “Your friend is right, buddy.” He pulled a pocket knife out of his pocket, “Now hurry up and give me all the money on you unless you want me to escalate this.”
Greg immediately put his hands up and began placting him with something along the lines of of course, and we don’t want any trouble but Tom frowned and continued, “ Friend ? He’s not my friend– were so far from each other’s level, hes more like the sad and underfed dog that follows you around and is just pathetic enough for you to tolerate– respectfully, of course.”
Greg muttered under his breath, “You say the sweetest things, Tom,” before he lit up like he had the biggest epiphany ever, “I’ve never been mugged before. Am I… a real New Yorker now?”
Tom scoffed, “No fucking way dude. I’ve never been mugged–I’m a real New Yorker,”
“Well,” Greg put carefully, “Maybe you aren’t. I mean, you’re kind of one of those corporate uptown assholes if you know what I mean, not really, like what I picture when I think of classic old school New York, I guess. I just– I just understand why you’ve never been mugged before, I mean you’re always driving, and staying like, I dont know, around the fancy parts of uptown. Though, who even really mugs people anymore? Its kinda rare to be mugged anywhere in New York now probably, at least, compared to like when Conner was growing up–no offense, I’m sure you’re not, like behind the times or anything. ” He added as an afterthought, with a nervous look at the mugger.
Before the mugger could even respond, Tom cut in, “ If I know what you mean, What the mother fuck, are you fucking kidding me? I’m way more of a real New Yorker than you. Have you even ever heard my bagel order? I bet you get yours fucked scooped with like avacado. Also nice going, dick-hole, now he fucking knows were rich.”
“Uh, can we chill it with the insults? You have a weird amount, man. Was I, like, supposed to google a list of weird combinations of curses before working? I don’t have like anything prepared or memorized. And he definitely knows you’re rich now . He had to infer before, it was, like, only implied. Maybe he's stupid and wouldn't put 2 and 2 together! You never know. People can be anything, Tom you shouldn’t be so presumptuous. Besides, the whole point of today is for you to learn how to be poor. I kind of used up like almost all my cash already, and if you were actually committed to the experience you wouldn’t have any on you.”
The mugger looked like he was deciding between soundly giving up and admitting he was bested by some annoying bickering and just stabbing them right then and there and being done with it. He cleared his throat loudly. Both boys abruptly startled and turned to him; Greg with a look of confusion, and Tom with a masterfully condescending look that seemed to say I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a bit busy here if you could fuck off, thanks . It took the mugger waving his pocket knife at them like a mother wagging her finger at naughty children for Tom and Greg to even seem to remember the kind of situation they were in.
With a nervous scoff and glance at the mugger, Tom replied, “Of course I don’t have any money on me. You know I’m committed. At work, with Shiv– I’m just the most committed guy ever.”
Greg gave him a look of approval at that, like he appreciated that Tom was sincerely going along with his plans.
The mugger narrowed his eyes at Tom. Tom nervously stood his ground. The subsequent long-held eye contact was a strange mixture of nerve-wracking, tense, and awkward. Tom swore that at some point, Greg muttered, “Just kiss already,” under his breath. A few minutes into the weirdest staring contest of his life, the mugger changed his tune, and in an exasperated tone went “Bro, just give me the fucking money already. You’re a shit liar and you’re not fooling anyone,”
Tom gave one last half-hearted attempt at a laughing and drawn-out “What?” before muttering “fuck it” with a sigh and reaching into his jacket.
With a frown of defeat on his face, he forked over his wallet. The mugger’s eyes lit up when he saw what it contained, immediately pocketing the money. “Sweet man! This is like 700 bucks! Aw, thanks so much, this is the best day ever. Sorry about the whole tough guy act earlier, or whatever.”
Greg, meanwhile, was aghast, “Really, Tom, 700! What the fuck happened to being, like, commited to the plan?”
“I think you were the only person to believe that. The fucking mugger called me on it.” The mugger quietly protested, “Hey, I have a name you know!” Without missing a beat, Tom continued on, “Well I imagine you’re not going to give it to use given the scenario, so. And, Greggory, it never hurts to be prepared! Besides I guess in this case, where it did hurt…” He trailed off for a moment, “But normally it never hurts to be prepared, and I wanted to play it safe. You know, in case they had song birds at St. Marks.”
While Tom was successfully, albeit unintentionally, distracting the mugger, Greg quickly pulled out a small neon pink canister, before raising it to their mugger's face and spraying it. Ignoring their attackers yelps and string of curse words which went something along the line of shit my cock you shitting shit fuck , Greg quickly grabbed the dropped wallet.
Dragging Tom by his sleeve–which he objected to with a “This is Armani, asshole, be careful”-- Greg took off. Several blocks and probably gallons of sweat later, they finally slowed down.
Pressing the wallet into Tom’s hands, Greg gave an expectant “you're welcome.”
Panting and resting his hands on his knees, Tom managed to sputter out a, “Greg.”
Greg pushed his hair out of his face. “Yeah? It’s really no problem man, don’t even worry about it,”
“You didn't take my fucking money, idiot. Just my wallet. Literally, my empty wallet, you useless asshole.”
Greg spluttered, “I–uh–well, I saved your ids and stuff? Come on, you don’t have to cancel any cards now. Isn't that even better? You may be 700 down, but theres no trip to the DMV, which is probably the 10th circle of hell, so.”
Tom gave a dickey laugh, “Fuck off with that shit. What even was that anyways?”
Greg nonchalantly shrugged, “Oh, that? I always carry pepper spray on me.”
Tom paused at that, “Like. Even to work? You know, in the office building we share and all.”
“Uh, yeah, everywhere. Every flight, government building, you name it. Nobody ever catches it, you know!” Greg continued excitedly, “TSA only catches like 4 percent of dangerous objects that go through their machines. It comes in such a tiny bottle, it could be anything really. Besides, its not like I really ever use it,” he paused, “except for right now, I guess.”
“Jesus Christ, Greg, I can’t believe you. That is such a liability. One day were all gonna get fucked for that–like, some asshole is gonna sue the company for a trillion fucking dollars and get away with it ‘cause everyone hates us and its pretty much impossible to find a impartial jury. You’re the one explaining this shit to Logan then. And why the fuck is it bright pink? Planning on scaring off attackers with your terrifying neon pink tiny ass mace?”
“My mom got it for me! Its, uh, safe and stylish, shes says. Also, its harder to lose such a bright color. And It’s a good practice, you know! Like just now! I totally saved us.”
Tom gave him a look of pure disbelief, “Please, Greg, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. You barely saved us if you got us into that situation anyways.”
“Excuse me? You were the one who antagonized him instead of just walking away!”
“And you were the one who brought us to this godforsaken part of town in the first place. If you trace it back I wonder, hmmm, who does it start with?”
“And if we trace back why 50 Shades of Grey was created, we end up with 9/11. So what? The butterfly effect isn’t shit, like, 90% of the time.”
“Okay, fuck the butterfly effect, sure, but once a-fucking-gain, you could have done that the whole time.”
Greg sheepishly reapplied, with his characteristic miniature voice cracks and all, “Oh, sorry, the doobie makes me forgetful sometimes.”
Tom tensed up, like it was taking everything in him to hold back and not shake Greg by his jacket until he got a concussion. In the end, all he let out was a sharp and loud “Christ on a fucking cracker!” in place of punching Greg in the face and finishing the job the mugger started.
After Tom calmed down and sat on a mysteriously sticky bench he was trying very hard not to think about, he dejectedly asked, “Where even are we anymore?”
Scanning the still and dark blocks, Greg’s eyes brightened, “I think we’re right by my apartment! Hey, want to walk me back to my place?”
“I’m the perfect fucking gentleman, Greg, I’m obviously walking you back,”
“I don’t think that line works on someone who just saw you get mugged for looking like a clueless rich asshole. Nice of you to try, though.”
Tom shot back a snappy “Shut the fuck up and start walking, I want this night to be over all ready.”
After a few blocks in shockingly companionable silence for them, Greg stopped on the corner in front of a small 3-story building wedged between what looked like a bar and a restaurant that was probably a front for some money laundering scheme.
Standing under the flickering streetlight and the neon lightning of the bar sign, the sidewalks twinkled. Greg stepped into Tom’s space, adjusting the lapels of his jacket that had gotten twisted as they ran.
Looking up through his eyelashes, Greg muttered a vaguely awkward, “Hey, want to come up?”
Tom smirked in response, “What? You trying to seduce me, Greg?”
Greg simply gave a shining smile back. “Something like that, Tom. Something like that.”