ray writes sometimes!

HE’S A DIFFICULT MAN. Prone to bursts of anger, but he’s never raised his hand at Greg. Well … he’s thrown things, backed him into a corner with plastic and burning rage. He’s never touched him. No, that’s not true … he’s constantly touching him. A clap on the shoulder, a hand gripping Greg’s tie, a palm at the small of Greg’s back, strong hands cradling Greg’s cheeks with a soft press of his lips to Greg’s forehead. No … That’s not true. That’s not it, that is. A push, a smack, Greg shoved into the snow and left to lay there. Hard words spat at him, and the worst part was he understood it. But that was different. And not in the way Greg would write shit off before as that was different. THERE WAS A REASON FOR IT. Greg wasn’t owed anything — no kindness, no love, no safety or security. Greg dropped a bomb, and that’s how he reacted. It wasn’t followed with a kiss, and a, it won’t happen again, baby, I promise. It was prompted by a hey, your wife is cheating on you, dude, and not a I think I want to go back to work. He was difficult, but Greg could handle difficult.

HE’S A DIFFICULT MAN. He buys greg things — dinners, clothes, drinks. All the little morsels of culture that Greg’s never been exposed to before, he’s there to treat him to. Greg had asked him, once, if he was trying to seduce him. YES I AM, GREG. Greg wonders how much of it was a joke. He doesn’t expect to be paid back. He buys Greg things because he wants to, and Greg thinks it’s partly because he likes to. Like he gets some sort of satisfaction from introducing Greg to this new world Greg was technically born into, but never quite found his footing in. He doesn’t hold the favors over Greg’s head, doesn’t keep a tally of all the kind things he does for him. Doesn’t tell him that Greg’s not allowed to work, that he’ll watch Greg’s bank account, that he’ll keep an eye on the minutes he uses — every phone call counts, Greg, it’s not cheap. The only time he’s ever asked Greg for a receipt wasn’t because he didn’t trust him, but because he wanted to be able to write it off as a work expense. He was difficult, but Greg could manage difficult.

HE’S A DIFFICULT MAN. Sometimes he says things to Greg that cut straight to his heart. There’s no shortage of cruel names and insults in his arsenal to be levied Greg’s way. Venom spilled from burning vodka - soaked lips, just as easily as the rare soft-spoken sweetness, I would marry you ’s and you’re family ’s spoken barely above a whisper. It took Greg too long to realize what was going on. Sure, some of the cruelty may be real. He figures there has to be some sort of tangible hatred to form that core. But it’s a boy’s game — locker room talk and playground bullying. He was no different than the snot - nosed bratty boys that pulled on his pigtails as if to say, LOOK AT ME, GRACIE! PAY ATTENTION TO ME! in that pathetically annoying way. But the insults stay strictly to things Greg expects: Greg’s own stupidity, Greg’s own naivety, Greg’s lack of culture, of travel, of experience. Greg was an outsider — and so was he, sure — but he’d assimilated to the Roy - wealth so much quicker than Greg did. (He didn’t have that same bite that Greg’s cousins did, though. Insults were mulled over, it was easier for him to stick his foot in his mouth than up someone’s ass.) But what was more important was that he seemed to know what was off - limits. His dad was never the punchline of the joke, his gender, or sexuality, the nightmares that he dared to share, or worse , the dreams. He’s never taken something that fragile of Greg’s and ground it to dust in front of him, tore him down until he started to believe it. He was difficult, but Greg didn’t mind it.

LOVING HIM WAS EASY. And that was the frightening part. The little sprout of affection that Greg had for him started far too quickly. It started with stupid baby blues finding the smiling icy eyes — a smile that was contagious. He was plenty handsome, and plenty his type. This wasn’t so much the beginning, as it was the spat out shell of a sunflower seed. Dinners, laughter, dances, drinks — nothing hurt, of course. From the moment he had asked Greg, would you kiss me? This affection was nothing more than a seed forgotten atop a patch of dirt. It showed itself at breakfast, with a warm hand on his wrist, and a gentle squeeze, a soft gesture to remind him you’re not alone. From that little seed had sprung a weed, and Greg wasn’t an idiot — he knew what would come from it. What was required was Greg reaching in, and ripping it out from its core, before it could tangle its vines and leaves deep inside Greg’s chest, to wrap around his heart and squeeze it tight enough that it works double time. There’s a reason Greg doesn’t let his gaze linger on him too long, because he’s afraid to feed the fire. Like feeding Miracle - Gro to the dandelions. Yet, it’s still there. It stays there, through an uncalled - for sleepover. Through a pep - talking motivational speech, a retreat on a yacht, a proposal. The kiss on the forehead might have been the worst, but even while Greg was wondering if these assaults on his punishment office were going to be ongoing, he couldn’t fight the affection. Greg doesn’t know what possessed him to straighten his spine, puff his chest, demand he PROVE the sexual prowess boasted to him. He doesn’t know if that’s the affection, or the desire. He doesn’t know if there’s a difference anymore. This weed of theirs looks to him both a sprawling, spiraling mess of dead vegetation … and a fragile, lush array of lilacs and lavender, the flowers of first love, devotion, grace. He isn’t sure which one frightens him worse. He thinks maybe the blossoming blooms — he’s never seen them before. Even back when he wore his own engagement ring that sparkled in the sunshine, it always felt more like he was over - watering the plants, flooding them with love that wasn’t wanted. Instead of holding open the curtains for daylight, he was fanning the flames against a wildfire with no chance of salvation. Greg’s never felt that with him. Loving him was easy, and Greg has long since stopped trying to stop.

HE’S A DIFFICULT MAN, BUT LOVING TOM WAS EASY.

They’re how long into lunch when Logan announces it’s time to play a game. It’s not a major stretch for Greg to feel like he’s stumbled into some kind of creepy scary - movie esque horrorshow. This is how they all start, after all, right? Idyllic, maybe a little tense, some uncanny valley shit, then some old guy shows up and says “ I want to play a game” , and the next thing you know, you’re locked up in a bathroom torture chamber with some stranger. (If it came to that, all Greg knows for a fact is that he doesn’t want to end up trapped with a Roy. That doesn’t leave him many options, though, does it? Well, worse people to be locked up with than Shiv’s boyfriend, right?)

Turns out, it’s a baseball game. Okay, that’s doable. The idea doesn’t scare him as much as he was worried it would — after all, he used to be on the softball team when he was a little girl back in middle school. It’s been a few years, of course, but he knows his way around a baseball diamond, and he’s still got himself a handy throwing arm. He’d be absolutely perfect for an outfield position if he wasn’t so air-headed half the time.

Tom — that’s his name, Tom … Remember that, Greg — catches him in the outfield first, as the two teams switch sides. It’s all laughter and smiles, and everyone seems to be having a great time, from the children that are running the bases, even to the staff that’s been relegated to the sidelines. Tom greets him with a grin, calling him the new kid, and telling him that he’s got his eye on him. Greg doesn’t blush.

He doesn’t know what to make of Tom. He doesn’t feel like the other Roys — and perhaps that’s because he’s not. Not yet, at least, he hasn’t managed to marry his way in yet, far as Greg can tell. There’s no ring on his finger, none on Shiv’s, that he’s seen. And he gives off this strange vibe that Greg can’t quite place … Watching and listening to him speak, it almost reminds him of himself, when he was in high school, shoved into a theatre class, all lanky limbs and stage fright, sticking out like a sore thumb, but doing his goddamned best to make his acting look believable. It never worked. Tom acts like he’s relaxed, like he was made to fit in with the sharks that are the Roys, but there’s a strain behind each word, his laughter feels forced, his jokes are stilted, and even his insults feel like they’ve been stewed over too long before Greg finally gave him a chance to let it all out.

Then Tom hits on him.

Or he doesn’t?

Greg’s never been so goddamn confused in his life.

(For the record, he probably would have kissed Tom. But that’s a little fun fact that’s going to get killed dead in the water, and never be allowed to resurface. There’s no reason to unpack that anytime soon.)

                                                                xx.

When Greg was a little kid, he used to believe in fairytales. He was always a fan of all the romance, the adventures, true love and it’s kiss, the sickly - sweet happy endings of all those love stories. He knew well enough, obviously enough, that his own mother never got that. She never had that happily ever after: her knight in shining armor walked out on her and their child, and no one ever swept in to make it all better again. Still, that didn’t stop little Greg from his deep - rooted dream that one day, when he was older, he’d meet his own Prince Charming, who would sweep him off his feet, who would treat him to his own happily ever after .

Greg grew up.

He doesn’t believe in “true love” anymore, and he knows that royal families are just as corrupt and fucked up as any other — he wonders if, technically, his own family counts as a fucked up royal one. They got the first three letters down easy enough, anyways. They’re definitely fucked up, and nearly every member is power - hungry enough that he might as well consider himself part of a Shakespeare history in the making.

It isn’t that he’s given up on love. God, no, he’s not even thirty yet, he’s still got plenty of time left to find a man to spend the rest of his life with. As it stands, he’s perfectly content with the very odd Tinder or Grindr dates; long - term relationships aren’t exactly something he’s found himself especially concerned with at the moment.

It’s that he’s given up on the idea of someone sweeping in to save him. Someone that will see him, see all of Cousin Greg, and think that he’s someone worth protecting, worth going to bat for, worth being given a Happily Ever After... of his own. He’s alright with that. He doesn’t need the big fairytale, storybook, fantasy ending. He doesn’t even need to find his “Prince Charming”, either. All he wants is someone to look at him, and feel warmth. Someone to treat him with kindness, with respect, someone who’s just as happy to see him, to be with him, and to love him, as he does them. It wouldn’t hurt either if they were someone who would touch him with gentle hands, kiss him with soft lips, look at him with warm blue eyes … well, now he was getting a little too picky, wasn’t he?

Really, it’s a good thing he has no interest in deluding himself that happy endings still exist — even if they did, it wasn’t as if Tom was going to give him any of that. It’s not exactly like he has a whole lot of options here under the Roy roof. Just about damn near the entire family has made their disdain for him already painfully obvious, but Greg does his best to pretend he doesn’t see it. Playing the oblivious idiot is a role that he performs extremely well. Playing the callous, unafraid, unbothered asshole, however, is not one.

He does his best to hide his hurt, averts his eyes, and snaps his mouth shut when it becomes obvious that even the oblivious fool is becoming excruciatingly unbearable for the rest of the family to withstand. Greg had had the audacity to question Tom if anyone had spoken about him, and the personal disgust he felt towards himself for asking such a stupid thing must have shown clearly on his face. It’s the first time since they’d met that Tom softened, lowering his voice, and looking at him with a gentle expression. Surprisingly warm blue eyes meet self-pitying baby blues, and give him an offer: “When you figure all this out. Come in and see me. And I’ll look after you.” Once again, Greg’s comically large doe eyes must’ve given his wariness away, because Tom insists again, that he is, in fact, serious. He’ll take care of him.

Greg’s at a loss. The stupid grin on his face is too real, and he can’t help but feel warm blush blooming across his cheeks, and cozy feeling in his heart. He excuses himself with a genuinely heartfelt thank you , and finds himself unable to look Tom in the eyes any longer. What’s wrong with you, dude?

Prince Charming s may not actually exist beyond the pages of his childhood storybooks, but he’s got a Tom Wambsgans ready to go to bat for him. That’s more than enough for him.

                                                                xx.

Yet another reason why Greg will never make it as a Roy: he doesn’t handle guilt well.

The moment he makes it back home following the RECNY ball, Greg finds himself cradling his toilet, emptying everything he’s eaten and drank — which, admittedly, wasn’t much — down the bowl. This isn’t the first awful thing he’s done since he’s become employed at Waystar, but he’d say this is the worst.

Tom trusted him. Tom was the one who was looking after him. Tom had shared this disease with him, and infected him, and was going down on a sinking ship and was more than ready to drag Greg down with him kicking and screaming and drowning.

He was taught to tell the truth, never to lie. To keep his head up, to wear his heart on his sleeve, and to always tell the truth no matter the consequences. Waystar Royco took those life lessons and flushed them down faster than Greg’s dinner tonight.

Tom had trusted him, and Greg took that trust and spat on it. He threw it on the ground and snuffed it out with his heel. He took advantage of the one person in this god-forsaken family that saw anything in him, however small and inconsequential, and put it towards his own personal gain. Jesus Christ, what is happening to him?

He didn’t even agree with the Roys on this one! Not that he ever really agreed with the Roys on anything , but he was on board with Tom. Tom wanted to do the right thing: end the cycle of lies, of deception, of abuse and cover - ups. Be transparent, be open, and offer the victims a chance to come forward without fear of retribution. Instead, Greg stopped it himself, told Gerri about what Tom was planning, and let her and the rest of the fucking twisted family stop any possible real justice from happening.

If Tom ever found out, he would hate him. He would never forgive him. Does it matter? Does it really matter, at all, when Greg knows he’ll never forgive himself either?

Greg really was a fucking piece of shit.

                                                                xx.

It isn’t always spite, hatred, anger, whatever, between them. There are times, increasingly more, but still far and few between, that Greg will find himself at his desk, with Tom standing beside him. Tom will ask a question, Greg will turn his screen towards him, solitaire in an incognito window tucked away quietly into the taskbar, of course , and Tom will laugh. Sometimes, at least. Sometimes he’ll sigh, and offer corrections. Sometimes Tom’ll grin, clap Greg on the shoulder, only a half-hearted insult being offered: that’s when Greg knows he’s done something right.

Other times, Tom will call him into his office. Greg will, inevitably, follow the instructions, head down, tail tucked between his legs, fully expecting to be chewed out over some marginal oversight he’s made. Maybe he was half a second late to a deadline, the coffee he’d brought Tom that morning was three degrees cooler than boiling, he had a few scuffs and stains too many on his shoes, he didn’t sound cheery enough in his “good morning!” to the board member that he shared an elevator with — with Tom, it could be anything. He wasn’t about to delude himself into believing that he could predict the man. (Everytime he thought he knew what Tom was going to do, a wrench was thrown into his feebly carved - out image of Tom. He’s stopped trying. No he hasn’t. He’s simply stopped allowing himself to be surprised when he was wrong.)

And sure, that’s exactly what happens — most of the time. There are other days, though, when Greg’ll let the glass door close gently behind him, and Tom will hand him a folder, or a stack of papers: a job to do. Very rarely will it be accompanied by a compliment, or praise (at this point, Greg’s still keeping a tally of kind, unsolicited , words that he’s been offered. He can still count them on both hands.), but the gesture always brings a stupid grin to his face nonetheless. It’s nice to feel wanted, needed, trusted. Sure, there’s some level of trust to be expected between a boss and his assistant, this isn’t anything so Greg-specific that he feels the need to write home about. Yet, these are some of the moments that Greg cherishes the most: moments that see Tom trusting Greg enough not to fuck something up. Neutrality is not their default language, but Greg will be damned if he doesn’t soak it up every time he gets the chance.

                                                                xx.

He’s going to die here. Greg is going to die tonight, and Tom is laughing.

Tom had caught him mid - act, with a laugh, daring him to do it. Fear and peer pressure are powerful motivators, and Greg doesn’t know what he’s more scared of: making himself look more pathetic around Tom, angering Logan, or being the reason that Kendall overdoses. Two lines. It’s only two lines, he can handle this — Tom calls him a “total coke whore,” and Kendall looks at him with incredulity staining every feature. When Greg sits up, leans back, Kendall’s already begun to skulk off, but Greg can’t offer a command for him to stop, let alone a shutdown of Tom. Ever the master linguist, all Greg can choke out is a gurgle.

Everything burns. “I hope you don’t die!” Tom jokes, and Greg isn’t fully certain if it’s the coke kicking in already or the alcohol he was trying not to drink too much of that prompts the lurch in his stomach. Seeing the spiteful bemusement in Tom’s face, especially as Greg’s eyes are blown wide, knowing what a fucking mess he’s proven himself to be, certainly doesn’t help.

Everything surrounding the Roys frightens Greg, intimidates him. It’s the way that one family can have so much goddamn power to ruin a life, to ruin lives , that unnerves him. How a family can be so far removed from basic human decency that they can hear about assaults and deaths and accidents, and just write them off as “NO REAL PERSON INVOLVED” … how they have no moral grounding that they’ll just rip apart other companies, other families, and treat the pieces as little playthings. (How very Pretty Woman of that reference, Greg. How very Vivian and Edward he was feeling with Tom in this moment, some twisted version where instead of seducing the wealthy, detached businessman, Vivian got high and went into cardiac arrest while Edward was too busy laughing at her to care. I want the fairytale, my ass. ) For the first real time, Greg thinks he’s actually petrified. He feels nausea start to settle in, as his heart rate picks up. Tom’s laughter feels miles away, mocking, vicious, and yet: it’s his grounding. Reminds him that he’s still here, he hasn’t cut it yet. He’s stuck with two thoughts, simultaneously: one, if he dies here, tonight, like this, is Greg going to be considered an NRPI? Even with the Roy name (kind of) under his belt, is he really any more than a nameless face to the family? Is that what Tom was thinking as he laughed at Greg’s panic? And two, how the fuck did Kendall do SIX LINES of this?

“I hope you don’t die!” Tom had joked, and if nothing else, all it managed to do was make the hyperventilating kick in.

Greg’s had friends tell him that coke made you feel powerful. Made you feel like you had energy, that you were wide awake, you felt like you could do fucking anything. Right now, Greg just feels like he wants to run to the bathroom and empty the entire contents of his stomach. Hell, maybe he’ll listen to Tom, vomit out his entire bloodstream while he’s at it too. He hasn’t had a proper anxiety attack in some weeks now, but he thinks one is coming up real soon , and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to deal with a cocaine - high - induced attack. Especially not in front of Tom.

He can handle this. What’s two lines of coke and a little alcohol, anyways? It’s fine, isn’t this the whole point of, like, Wolf of Wall Street? Sex, and booze, and drugs? Except there’s no men here he’s really interested in fucking, he’s not nearly drunk enough to have been prepared for this, and he didn’t want to take the drugs in the first place. (He also fell asleep ten minutes into that movie, so this entire comparison is completely moot.)

Greg reaches out to Tom to steady himself. At first, it looks like Tom is ready to shrug him off, fully prepared to make a smart remark about Greg not being able to handle it. He wouldn’t be wrong. But Greg thinks that maybe , there’s just a flash of softness in Tom’s eyes, something there that recognizes how truly panicked Greg is at this moment. For whatever reason, Tom lets Greg hold onto his shoulder, lets him breathe deep, heavy sighs, trying to catch his breath. As if that would stave off the rapid pulse.

He’s still fucked up — worse than he thinks he’s ever really been in his life, but with Tom there, helping him keep his head above water, he’s a little less scared. He thinks he might be okay.

That is, until Tom does finally push him off, makes a joke about how Greg already lost Kendall again, and stalks off to go find some girl to chat up, leaving Greg alone in his little personal Hirsch-Hell.

If he dies here tonight, he’s going to kill Tom Wambsgans in the afterlife.

                                                                xx.

Greg’s ties are yet another series of embarrassments for Tom. At least, Greg figures this must be the case, considering the looks that he gets when he tries to change things up. One look through any given floor at Waystar, and you’re sure to see a sea of black, gray, navy. Ties are all solemn, neutral patterns against neutral solids. (If you asked Greg, which no one ever would, it’s a little depressing.) He’d say it felt a little suffocating, a little difficult to stand out, but he’d be reminded that he towers above every single person in the building, let alone his floor.

He uses a coffee - stain on his (most commonly worn) red tie as his excuse.

The first time, it went over with very little of a hitch. A nice solid tie, a little more on the expensive side — who pays twenty - five dollars for a tie ?! — simple and clean, no rips, tears, stains, or blemishes to be found. It’s purple, and if he’s called out for it, Greg will rattle off what he read on google: confidence, luxury, royalty. All things a Roy should display and express, right? It goes unnoticed by everyone except Tom, whose eyes catch on the offending piece of fabric for little more than a moment, lips twisted in disgust. If it really bothers him that much, he doesn’t say anything. Greg takes that as a hesitant green light to keep on his way.

The second time, about a week later, it’s a very gentle tiptoe into patterns. It’s a plaid tie, which in itself is not so damning a look, until the color is taken into account: green, and a rather bright hue at that . He thinks it looks nice, that it compliments his eyes (whatever that means). It isn’t something that people seem to notice. It isn’t as if people are particularly interested in what Greg is wearing. In fact, the only person who drew any attention to it was the pretty receptionist he spoke to every morning, at it made her smile too — “a nice pop of color,” she’d called it, and Greg felt like he was on Cloud Nine all day. This time, again, Tom sees it, disgust written clearly on his face. At one point, Greg catches him with the tie between his fingertips, and he thinks that Tom is inspecting it (the fabric, the touch, the pattern) but Tom swipes a thumb across the tie, mutters something about Greg needing to invest in a fucking lint - roller, and the issue was dropped. Another success.

It’s the third time, Greg’s boldest attempt, that he thinks was the final straw for Tom. It was a cute tie, one given to him by a friend a few years back — back when he was still in college. It was brown, something his old friend Google told him was acceptable for work (something about nature , and friendliness . Greg really couldn’t care less.), and was speckled with the adorable art of tiny rubber ducklings. It was as novelty as a tie could get, but it made him smile nonetheless.

Tom clearly didn’t feel the same.

No, this was yet another mortifying moment amongst the many in his little library of misery. Tom calls him into his office — at least there’s no questioning what awful offense he’s committed this time — and wastes no time in insulting the latest addition to his work wardrobe. All sorts of slights are thrown around: from the lighter impacting ‘ugly’, ‘cheesy’, ‘disaster’, to more biting ones, like ‘fucking horrendous’, or that it made greg look like an ‘unpaid whore’.

The last one was totally out of line, too. Not that Tom cared.

Not that Greg really cared too much either.

Greg thinks, if you asked Tom what Greg’s natural disposition was, you might get one of a number of answers: empty, airheaded, stupid, useless, confused. Confused was right, and when Greg leaves Tom’s office, face hot and flushed, a slick new black tie fastened tightly around his neck, he can’t really think of too many other times where he’s felt just so confused as now. Through the whole ordeal, Tom’s mouth had never eased up once, attacking his suit, his tie, his ability to pick and wear both. Either. His hands, however, were uncharacteristically gentle, replacing the novel monstrosity with one that easily cost four times the price his did. Tom’s eyes had focused on every measured move, even though it must have been second nature to him by now. Greg’s eyes were trained on Tom: his face, his hands, the deft movements of someone with years of experience over him.

Mostly, though, Greg found himself caught on Tom’s almost delicate features. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to really just … look at his boss, to take in tired eyes that must have once held some brightness at some point, soft lips that were pressed firmly together in concentration, smooth hands that held Greg’s tie and touched his neck with such feather - soft touches as if anything harsher might bruise and shatter the assistant where he stood. These observations reminded him why he never let himself get caught up seeing Tom.

This might prove to be a problem.

                                                                xx.

Despite the act he puts on, Greg isn’t stupid. He can see the way that guy looks at Shiv. He can see the way she looks at him. (He recognizes it — it’s the way he’s caught himself looking at Tom once, when he couldn’t tear those baby blues from Tom’s face, in his office, just inches away from him … not the time, Gregory. ) Worse, he knows Tom has had to see it too. This guy’s not exactly subtle, his hand constantly at the small of Shiv’s back, always stealing her away — Gil , he says, work , she claims.

He doesn’t remember his father all that well, but he knows well enough this wasn’t far off from what happened then. Change the year, change the gender, change the party, but the gesture and the concept is still exactly the same.

He only hears part of it. They speak in hushed tones so no one else can hear, because it would be fucking stupid to speak so freely here of all places. Greg had stepped out to smoke — a cigarette, not weed this time. Last thing he needs is to come back in, smelling like a dispensary. He’s still on his first drink, so he knows he’s completely sober when he sees this guy’s hand reach out towards Shiv’s ass, and the playful , not offended way she smacks it away.

Greg feels sick, feels like he’s just been hit by a truck, and even if he couldn’t let Tom tell the world their secret, he can’t hold this one in himself. He knows the bitter way his mother still talks about his dad, how it’s not who he left her for but how he left them that colors the barbs she’ll throw at a man who probably hasn’t thought about them as a unit since they were all under the same roof. Greg thinks about those fairy tales and Prince Charmings he used to dream about as a child, and he knows he needs to say something to Tom before he makes a mistake he can’t take back.

But when … Caroline, right? When Caroline asks him how long he gives it, Greg nearly drops his drink. He wonders, desperately, if someone else — if Shiv’s fucking mother saw what he saw. But he finally catches Tom, baby blues to warm ones, and Tom gives him a smile, a thumbs up, and Greg’s goddamn heart breaks. This family’s made him do a lot of things he’s never wanted to, but nothing under the Roys has made him feel as shitty as this has. Greg plays the idiot again, offering a grin and a wave back. He can’t tell him here — in a crowd of people like this. It’s cruel.

Greg downs his drink in one go, and searches for a refill. Someone has to look after Tom, right? He wishes there was someone to look after his mother … someone to look after him.

Greg makes friends easily enough, at least, the kind that you hang out with for the night, maybe a day or two, and then never see again. He doesn’t use names, he doesn’t say who he’s talking about, but over a joint, he pours out his heart to his new friend. This guy’s advice is fucking useless, and Greg doesn’t feel any better having shared his secret with someone else. The only thing he takes away from this conversation is that he owes it to Tom to tell him the truth.

Tomorrow is going to be a shitshow.

Tom goes for a run every morning. So does Shiv, but that encounter is the last one he’s looking forward to now. By a sheer stroke of luck he manages to actually intercept Tom on his run, meeting him in the snow-capped hills of the middle of nowhere. Tom greets him with a grin, the proud face of a man completely in love, just counting down the hours to his wedding. Greg can’t quite tell if it’s the hangover or the lack of sleep or Tom’s unbridled joy that makes him feel like he’s about to hurl. He thinks maybe it’s all of the above.

The moment Greg starts to speak, the smile is gone from Tom’s face. He has to know what’s coming. The way Tom stops, how his body language shifts from that faux power stance, open and aggressive, to almost imperceptibly scared, very obviously angry, like a caged cat ready to pounce … he has to know. Sure enough, Greg can feel the hitch in his breath, in his speech as he stumbles out a confession: I think Shiv is — “No.” — I think Shiv is having an affair.

You’re wrong, it was just a misunderstanding, you’re wrong, no, I don’t want to know what you saw, because it was just a misunderstanding, shut up, shut the fuck up, Greg, shut up. The shove in the mouth is unexpected, but the way that Tom lashes out at him with a slap stings worse. Tom’s hands are on Greg almost immediately after, despite a pleading, “What the fuck, man? I’m trying to help you!” Tom doesn’t hit, doesn’t punch, but he shoves. He shoves, and he shoves, and he pushes until Greg’s on the ground.

There’s a final, sharp, SHUT UP spat at him, before Tom runs away.

Greg is left laying on the ground, in the snow, and he can’t bring himself to stand up. He lets the icy wet snow seep into his pants, into his coat, past his shoes into his socks. He lays there in his own guilt and misery until every part of him is enveloped in what feels like wet, icy, hell. He hates himself with a passion he’s never felt so intensely before. He doesn’t know how long he lays here before he finally wills himself to sit up. Greg rises, slowly, trying to ease himself into a standing position. Fine, it’s fine. He told Tom, and if Tom doesn’t want to believe him, then it’s not his problem.

Greg takes two steps forward before he finds himself throwing up his guilt, his anger, his hatred, all onto the side of the road.

                                                                xx.

Greg’s known he was gay since he was a kid. Well, that’s not entirely true. He didn’t know he was gay , exactly, just that he liked boys. Boys were pretty, boys were stupid, and mean, and they pulled on his pigtails to get his attention and snapped his bra straps to rile him up. Boys were rough, and rowdy, and they were everything little Greg was not, on the outside, and even on the inside, while he related to them more than any of the girls, he was a sweet soul, a bit of a momma’s boy, his head in the clouds and stuck in daydreams and fairytales. Anything that would provide an escape from the shitscape of his day - to - day life.

When he pictures his own wedding, he doesn’t imagine anything even remotely similar to this. No English castle, no extravagant service, no big reception. He sees only one way his own wedding will play out: in a courthouse, with two or three witnesses — his mother, maybe his groom’s parents. He’d like Tom to be there, but judging by that morning’s events, he doubts Tom’ll want anything to do with him ever again.

It’s fine, after all, things rarely ever go to plan after all, do they?

The wedding is nice, it’s massive, opulent, excessive, every trademark of a Roy. It makes Greg a little sick, but that’s nothing new … he stands alongside the groomsmen, and doesn’t know where to look. He’s afraid to look at Shiv, because he knows he’ll glare, angry and bitter. He’s afraid to look at Tom, else he be caught staring , be caught with sad doe eyes, instead of the warm cheery gazes everyone else gives the lovely couple. So he looks towards them, focuses on the wall behind them. Tries to think of his own future wedding, maybe, of a life where Greg saw wrong, where Tom’s getting his happily ever after today, where at least one person in this goddamn family has something good happen to him.

But Greg’s not an idiot, and he doesn’t miss the look that Shiv and her boyfriend share when she and Tom walk down the aisle. He does his best not to dwell on the look that he and Tom share, distant, warm enough to pretend there was no hatred there on Tom’s side, cheerful enough on Greg’s to pretend that his heart didn’t shatter with every step the happy, married , couple took as they exited the church.

Greg swallows the bile growing in his throat, and blinks back the anger (now solely directed at himself. Just at Greg, and no one else) just as easily.

Happy endings were total bullshit anyway.

Fingers ghost over the phone, set comfortably on his desk. He considers lifting it, imagines himself dialing the number for Bly. In his head — or is it? Henry seems to understand what he’s thinking at all times, after all, and he has no problems voicing his thoughts. (Whose thoughts?) — he can hear the conversation. Flora will pick up the phone, she’ll say in her chipper voice, Flora Residence! And he’ll cry. He’ll cry and tell her it’s him, it’s her father, and he’s so, so sorry for abandoning her.

The phone is slammed down onto its receiver, snapping Henry out of his thoughts. His face is wet with tears… is his own face the same? Soaked, as if it was the rain who embraced him, rather than the child who’s meant to be asleep at the manor.

Another drink.

Henry speaks, perhaps aloud, perhaps in his head — the line between reality and imagination blurring ever more by the day — and he asks, why this time? why tonight? Sure enough, Henry answers him, why not?

He’s pathetic. He knows this. Henry knows this. The children must feel the same. His daughter, his niece, no, he couldn’t burden her with his guilt, she must think that he’s utterly pathetic, a miserable excuse for a human being.

He glances at his desk — a photo of the children, happy, bright. It stands, clean, bright, besides a turned over photo of their parents, a downturned frame covered in a soft layer of dust. The warmth of the photo, of Flora’s brilliant smile, and Miles’ bright grin, a wonderful moment of levity and joy in the children’s lives, arms wrapped around each other in a frozen embrace. “I don’t know what you’re smiling about.”

Henry is brought out of his thoughts with a jab that goes right to his heart. The audacity that he’d had, thinking that he had any right to fondness over his family. He deserves nothing — he’s gotten what he deserved.

He’s gotten another drink. Henry’s filled it himself. What a charmer. What a waste of space.

Henry can feel when he’s being stared at. Henry feels as if he’s staring a hole into his head. The pit in the bottom of his stomach — the bottom of Henry’s stomach — grows deeper. The memory of a boy with no face. How he wishes that were him, some days. A man with an unfinished face, without eyes to see, without a mouth to speak. Without a mouth to shove his foot into .

Then he wouldn’t be able to drown himself, and drown these miseries of his. Eyes flicker to the window — whose eyes? Both? — and he wishes that he were out in the rain. That he could wash away with the rain as it goes. Sometimes, he thinks it may just be so much easier for him to follow through, to end it. But where would that leave the children?

Better off , he thinks. Probably in a much better state than he would be, left in the hands of the au pair and the housekeeper. With the cook, and the gardener. People with better heads on their shoulders, with a better sense of reality, of life, of responsibility. Something that Henry had thrown away almost nine years ago.

He’s a smart man. Or, he was. A very smart man, a barrister, a good brother, a good uncle. He could wax poetic all he wanted about the heart wanting what the heart wants. But he couldn’t hold himself back. Friendly smiles became longing glances, became lustful in nature. He’s sure that’s how it would look — hell, that’s what Henry would say it looked, but there was love, Henry was in love , and he couldn’t stop himself.

Charlotte had loved him. Loved Dominic, that is, the man she married, the Wingrave brother that had swept her off her feet, had charmed her to the moon and back, who had fathered her child… children . Children, he’d swear, he’d refuse to admit otherwise. Henry couldn’t leave well enough alone, and couldn’t keep his hands to himself, couldn’t keep his words in his mouth, his heart in his chest, his prick in his pants. She’d loved him, no, she’d loved Henry, in a way that he wanted to believe was more, was similar to the way he loved her. With his entire heart.

“She’s dead.” Well, that was certainly blunt. But perhaps it was what he needed to hear. Perhaps it was his own bluntness that Henry desperately needed to snap him out of his own head. “Thinking about her won’t bring her back,” he agrees. Nothing will.

“She needs me.” It’s not spoken to him, hell, he’s not even sure it was spoken to himself. “They both need me.” Some guardian he was.

No, no, not tonight. He’s not doing this tonight. He does far too often, and though he knows he won’t get Dominic on the phone, it’s as if Henry is taunting him, forcing him to imagine his brother picking up the phone, scolding him for terrifying the children and staff alike with his dead phone calls. Scolding him for having the gall to call again, when he’s been explicitly banned from contacting Charlotte, his children, from setting foot on the manor’s property, or trying to insert himself back in their lives again.

What else is he to do? Dominic left them — against his own will, granted — but he’s not here anymore. That’s the crux of the matter. It’s on Henry now.

And Henry is laughing.

“He’s dead too.” Met with a hard stare, Henry shrugs, almost as if to answer his own jab. He glances at the drink in his hand ; well, whatever was left of the drink in his hand, at this point, mostly melting ice. “Keep this up, you’ll be too.”

“As if you could afford to keep this up.” Insult is thrown back, flung vapidly as if it ever stood a chance at cutting him. “No, no, I could. I could.” It wasn’t Henry’s money that was stolen. It was Miles’.

“Should you?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

And Henry frowns.

And Henry sighs.

And Henry drinks.

And Henry is alone.

      “What’re you talking about?” Dewey throws back, gesturing to the atrocity covering his upper legs. “I’m not out here in m boxers or anything.” Through his defense, he only glances up to his son, before returning to his guitar, paying him little to no mind.

      “You know we’re starting soon.”

      “It’s a rehearsal dinner. It’s not like they’ve never had dinner before — no one  needs   any practice doing it. I mean I clearly did enough of that myself.” He stops, looks up at his son, who was now holding out a hand for his father to take. “I’ll be wearing my finest suit and tie for the wedding tomorrow, don’t worry.”

      “Y’know,” the young man says, as Dewey sets the guitar down on the dock next to him. “I’m still surprised you actually agreed to it.”

     “And I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, Jack,” Dewey says, taking his son’s hand in his, and pulling himself up to stand. Jack takes in his appearance — worn, torn clothing, one leg sopping wet, hair disheveled, and stubble entirely unkempt. The usual. “I think the only other time anyone managed to force me into one’a those monkey suits was for my wedding.”

     “And Mom had just as tough a time as I am, I’m sure,” he says, the slightest trace of sarcasm tinging his words. “Look, just put the stupid suit on for two hours, we’ll have dinner, then you can go back home and sleep, or whatever.”

     “Funny.”

     “I’m not kidding.”

     “Are you — are you scared about tomorrow?” Dewey asks, looking up ever so slightly, staring straight into his son’s eyes. Almost as if studying his expression.

     “No!” comes the response, almost a little too defensively quick. (He catches that as well.) “No. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited for anything before.” He’s smiling, his eyes catching the glow of the sun, shining just as brightly. It warms Dewey’s heart, and tugs at his own lips, forcing him into a smile as well. They stand in silence for just a moment, as the younger Finn looks out across the water. “Wait a sec, isn’t this the river where you taught me how to fish?”

     Dewey’s grin grows wider. “Yeah! You caught a trout about uh…” Dewey holds his hands out in front of him, first together, then spread apart real wide, at least three feet apart. “About that big!”

     Jack rolls his eyes, and the smile shifts from one of genuine pride and amusement to one of cynicism. “More like half that, but whatever.” Dewey barely holds back his impulse to argue when Jack presses on. “Anyways, Dad, uh. Theresa and I wanted to ask that you don’t, y’know. Tell any of your stories tomorrow.”

     “My stories?” Dewey repeats, almost as if Jack was speaking a wholly different language.

     “Yeah, the stories that you always tell — the ones that you would share every night before bed when I was a little kid, or at the dinner table. You know. The ones about the witch, and the giant, and the circus.”

     “Okay, okay, it wasn’t an actual circus —”

     “The point is,” Jack says, trying to pull his father back on course. (A daunting task for any man, certainly.) “We just wanted to ask that you don’t, like, start spouting off these tall tales to anyone at the wedding. We just want to keep it, I dunno what to call it, I guess relaxed?”

     “You want a chill wedding, sure. I get that. You’re just- Hey, you did lie!”

     “Lie about what?” Jack asks, ready to go back on the defense, especially once his father gets that stupid smirk on his face. If he knew the man at all, he knew damn well that that meant he was going to start some shit soon enough.

     “You are scared!” Dewey teases, a hint of laughter bubbling up as he speaks. Jack starts to protest, even while his father continues to speak over him, dismissing him. “You’re scared about the wedding, and you’re looking fo someone to blame, so  of course  , it’s coming back to me.”

     “Dad, you know-”

     “I get it! I get it!” Dewey waves away the concern. “You know, you’ve always been bad at lying, though.”

     “Have not.”

     “Have too,” Dewey argues, looking back out to the water. “Just like your mom. When you were a kid I wanted to teach you how to swim. Right here, actually. You wouldn’t jump into the lake, and when I asked you if you were scared you got this look on your face — same one as right now — and you said ‘no!’, also, y’know, like now. So I had to push you in.”

     “Yeah!” Jack said, nodding, and obviously faking an agreeable tone. “And I cursed you every day for it!”

     “Well, you learned how to swim, didn’t you?”

     “Not the point.”

     “Yeah? What      is     the point?” It was apparent that Dewey was beginning to get annoyed, and he’s never been all that good at hiding his emotions.

     “Can you just promise me, for one night you won’t tell any of your stories? You’ll reign it in? One night?”

     “Fine, fine. I promise.”

     “Thank you.”

     “But first…”

     “Dad, c’mon, we’re already running late, and you still need to get changed.” Despite his son’s protests, Dewey continues walking past him, leaving Jack on the dock as he found his way to the sand and dirt covered bank of the river. He stares at the ground, eyes scanning the earth below him, as if looking for something intently.

     Dewey coughs, hand on his stomach, and almost groans. He bounces back soon enough, brushing the entire ordeal off. Jack doesn’t respond as nonchalantly, however. “Are you okay?” he asks, quickly dismissed with a “Yup! Just allergies.”

     That’s a bullshit answer, Jack knows, immediately, but for his father’s sake, and to avoid yet another argument, especially when his mother isn’t around to diffuse it, he swallows the knee-jerk response before it gets voiced. He can hear Dewey mumbling and murmuring to himself, especially as he kneels down to inspect something on the floor.

     “Quit playing games!” Jack calls out, ready to set out to follow him, though he halts his movements when he sees Dewey pick up something from the sand, and make his way back over to the dock.

     “Here,” he says, holding out a flat rock. “I’d use a guitar pick, but I think Rosie’d kill me for littering in the ocean.”

     “As would I,” Jack says, hesitantly accepting the offer. A look at his father’s left hand and Jack can tell that he’s holding one almost exactly akin to his own. “What’s this for?” he asks, turning the stone over in his hand, confusion shaping his features.

     “For good luck. To you and Theresa. You remember how to do this, right? I taught you when you were ten.”

     “Do wh-” The question starts to roll off Jack’s tongue, before he realizes what his father’s about to do. The rock that Dewey was holding, held carefully in his left hand, was sent flying, skipping across the water in leaps, before it traveled out farther than Jack could make it out.

     “Your turn.”

     “Okay… Here goes.” Jack winds up his right arm, just as Dewey had done moments before, and lets it go, with less energy than Dewey, but with far more grace than the rockstar had ever possessed. It hopped once, twice, and then sunk to the water’s floor with a disappointing ripple left behind in its wake. “Never was that good at it.”

     “It’s cool. We all have our off-days.” He pauses, looking back out at the water for a moment, before turning around sharply. He pats his son on the back as he starts walking back, leaving the river far behind him. “To what’s next!” Dewey says, and Jack watches him walk away.

     Peering back out at the river, Jack kicks a pebble left behind on the dock into the river, watching it drop into the water with a satisfying plop.  

     “See you in the new year, Mr. Finn! Have a good holiday!”  

     “Merry Christmas, Mister Finn!”  

     “Still Jewish, Stephen.”

     “Seeya, Mr. Finn!”  

     “You left the instrument closet open, Finn!”  

     “Thanks, Richie, gettin’ that right now!”

     As the last child files out of the band room, it’s just Dewey left in the large, empty room, left to pick up the mess the kids left behind. At the least, he figures, it’s been a half-day of school, and he’s able to take his time, plug his phone into the aux cord, and let Van Halen do the talking for a while. Dewey sets out to clean the dry-erase board, pick up trash strewn about the floor, and double-check that all instruments not belonging to any of the kids are put back into place in the instrument closet before he locks up for the break.

      It’s been around 21 years since Dewey first found himself in the music room at Horace Green Prep, and just under 12 since he left it. By the time he left, eight years after he’d began, most of the staff that he’d started with had since left — they either got better offers at another school, retired, or got fired. Dewey, being the sociable extrovert he is, never had much of an issue making friends with the new students that he’d gotten every year, but it was pretty hard to connect with the new cycles of staff that kept coming in.

     Ultimately, it was the School of Rock’s graduation that was the breaking straw for the music coach. Sure, he stuck it out for a year, but it was just far too much for him to walk the halls of Horace Green every day without seeing his kids in the hallway, or having band practice with his younger siblings every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Put up a tough ‘rock guy’ exterior as he tried, you didn’t need to know Dewey extremely well to know that those kids were the light of his life, and the one soft spot that he truly had.

      He had wanted to stay at Horace Green longer, at least stay for Rosalie, but Dewey just felt that it was too hard. With his Bachelor's Degree in hand, Dewey moved to another private school, where he stayed for another five years, then to a music & performing arts school, which he didn’t stay at for more than a year —  you want to talk about uptight parents and know-it-all brats?  He’s now just getting settled in, what, five years later at his latest preparatory school.

     As always, he still sticks out. Not only in the way that he dresses, as he did in Horace Green. Granted, he may have now upgraded his wardrobe to some nicer button downs and jeans, over his ol’ faithful band shirts and sweats, or those hideously clashy vests that he once sported, but it’s still far and away from the clean cut, clean shaven doctors and other overqualified teachers he now calls colleagues. No, now, it’s mostly his lively personality and vulgar speech patterns that the children appreciate and relate to which set him apart from his peers. A risky way of life for a preschool teacher, after all. While teaching music, that’s more than acceptable, but for the first half of the day, he’s with the three, four year olds.  That can be an issue.

     The most uncomfortable difference that Dewey’s noted, however, between him and his teaching peers, is that he has zero drive to further or advance his career. While most of the other teachers view their current jobs as a stepping stone to another school, a higher position something better, Dewey’s been perfectly content where he is. He’s teaching kids, he’s teaching music, he’s got a good office, and a good classroom, and good pay. What more can he ask for?

     Here, at Maple Hills Academy, he thinks he’s found a new home. He thinks this is where he wants to stay.

                                                                  xx.

     “Who fires someone over winter break?”    

     “This douchebag does, I guess!”

     Dewey’s phone is laying flat on his desk as he works on packing up his office. Pictures on the bulletin board, hung up by music note thumbtacks one of his kids bought him for his birthday a few years ago, are taken down gently, tenderly. The photos depict various bands he’s had the honor to work with as a teacher — of course, there’s a large number of pictures featuring the School of Rock, including a framed photo of them at that first Battle of the Bands, sitting right on his desk.

     “What’re you gonna do?” the voice on the other side of the phone asks, with genuine concern for the music teacher coloring every word. Dewey sighs, dropping the last of the photographs into the box on the desk, before he moves to the file cabinet, collecting the file folders of lessons he never got to teach.

     “I dunno, Ned. I’ve gotta find somewhere else to go, I guess. No way I can afford the place I’m at now like this. And jobs — who’s hiring in the middle of the year?    ”

     “You can always go back to subbing for a while?”     Ned offers, and while Dewey can tell the optimism in his voice is feigned, he appreciates the effort anyways.

      “Again who the fuck is hiring now?” As Dewey drops the folders in a neat stack next to the box on his desk, he sighs again, a hot puff of breath that almost sounds like a bull’s. “Sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to snap like that. I’m just — I don’t know what I’m gonna do. It’s not your fault.”

     “Actually, Dewey, hold on a sec, okay?”  

     “Yeah, sure, no problem.” Dewey takes this as an opportunity to drop the box and his folders in the trunk of his Kia, clearing out the empty coffee cups that he’d left discarded in the back, forgotten memories of band competitions past.

     When Dewey re-enters the band room he can only faintly hear a voice from the speaker in his office “D… ee??” Dewey jogs back to the small office, clamoring for the phone, switching it off speaker, and bringing it to his ear.

     “Yeah? Sorry, I was just throwing my shit in the car.”

     “It’s cool! I was just talking to Patty — do you think you’d want to stay with us for a bit? At least while you look for a new job?”  

     Something about the offer sends a shock straight through him. He hadn’t lived with someone else in twenty one years. He hasn’t needed to. And sure, he’s got a few more weeks in his apartment, but those weeks are going to go by fast when he needs to pack his entire life up and move again.

     He almost wants to say no, wants to be prideful and act like he doesn’t need to accept the help from his best friend. He almost feels lousy accepting the offer, like he’s got something to prove, and he’s proving the exact opposite by saying yes.

     “Are - are you sure you’re okay with that?” he asks, trying to swallow his pride, and find his voice all at once.

     “Yeah, of course! That’s what friends are for, right?”  

      Yeah, that’s what friends are for, alright.

                                                                  xx.

     The ride back to Poughkeepsie is a long one. From Boston, it should’ve only taken him about three hours, give or take, but the inclement weather, and the holiday traffic, had not been kind to him. What should have been a mere three and a half hours max turned into six and a half hours, and to say he was exhausted would be to make the understatement of the year.

     Dewey hasn’t seen Ned outside of facetime or skype in over a decade, at least, not since he and Patty got hitched. As he pulls up to the address that his GPS instructs him to, Dewey finds himself drowning in his thoughts. He’s never been a worrywart, and anxiety has rarely ever struck him, but there’s so many conflicting thoughts running through his head that he feels like he’s swimming and can’t stay afloat.

     The snow falls outside around  him, as he turns off the lights on his car, absently watching the window fill up with the fluffy, wet, white powder.

     In the time since he’d left Poughkeepsie, Dewey and Patty have reconciled. He’s cleaned up his act, he got a degree, he cleaned up himself. He mellowed out. While there’s never going to be any universe where Dewey isn’t a loudmouth, vulgar, cocky bastard, he’s finally calmed down somewhat, become a bit more grounded. He’s grateful to know she no longer hates him, though there’ll always be that nagging voice in the back of his head that screams at him that she does, and that he’s just begging for a repeat of the last time they lived together.

     No matter how many times he tells himself he’ll be okay, there’s that small inkling of everything is going to go wrong that still eats at him.

     He takes a deep breath, finally turning the key, and pushing his door open. As the freezing precipitation makes contact with his face, he reaches back into the car, to the passenger’s seat, pulling his scarf back out. He slams the car door closed, pocketing his keys, and wrapping his scarf around his neck. He shuffles through the snow, already piling up high, as he makes his way to the trunk of his car, pulling out a single suitcase. Everything else can stay in there, he decides, tearing his eyes away from the remains of the last five years that have been ripped away from him.

     He closes the trunk,  before letting himself look up at the house that stands tall and proud before him. It’s a cute house. A nice home, he thinks. A light blue house, looks like two floors, and decent size. In fact, his cute little Kia Soul looks like it fits right in with it When did he become the kind of guy who drove an SUV? Disgusting.

     But the house. The house. It’s fitting for them, Dewey thinks, walking up the stairs of the front porch, stomping the snow off of his shoes and pant legs. A nice place for his best friend and his wife to settle down. Suitcase in hand, Dewey swallows his pride, raising his empty fist up towards the door, and knocks.

                                                                  xx.

short chapter to set up dewey's circumstances + give you guys an idea how our protagonist is faring atm !! majority of the story should have considerably longer chapters!!

     As they sway and step to the music — some cheesy slow dance, one that Daniel should be cradling his own wife to, one that he should have felt applied to Charity, somewhere, sometime ago, when their ‘love’ was new. When Daniel was supposed to feel love for his wife, not disgust and disdain, and self - pity. Grace isn’t like her. In fact, Grace is everything Charity is not: loving, genuine, witty, too good for this family. As much as he’d warned her, Grace didn’t take his advice. Now she was a Le Domas, for better or for worse, and he just had to accept that, as would she.     What a shame.

      “I thought you hated weddings,” she said, looking sideways at him with a playfully suspicious smile.

     He’s sure she’s convinced that she’s got him all figured out. “I do,” he says, for the first time telling her something true about him. He doesn’t blame her, he puts up such a damn good façade, he finds himself fooled at times. A man who willingly threw his life away, who willingly resigned to being the fuckup in his family’s eyes. A drunkard, a selfish, rich kid prick. Granted, the alcoholic part was damn near true, but Daniel learned many years ago that his life was laid out for him by his parents before he would ever get a say in it. Grace didn’t need to know that any of that mask he wears was a lie. If thinking her brother and sister - in - law were both absolute, complete meltdowns in the making would keep her away from the rest of the Le Domases, it was a price he’d be more than willing to pay. “I just came for the cake and the open bar,” he continues, a glint in his eye.

     She laughs, and for a moment, Daniel thinks that that sound is something worth keeping in his life, that that’s something he can’t bear to lose. “You wouldn’t do that to Alex.” Daniel brings her arm up, letting go of her waist, so he can twirl her, her laughter lighting up the world brighter than any light ever could.

     “I wouldn’t?” Through all the teasing, and joking tones, Daniel has to bite his tongue to keep himself from telling her that she’s playing with fire. Step, step, sway, sway, he’s never been so in sync with someone else before, he’s nearly blown away. Daniel shakes his head, both in response, and in a futile effort to clear his head. “I would’ve skipped my own wedding if Charity hadn’t expected I actually showed up.” Swallowed, I wouldn’t have had a wedding at all if my parents hadn’t forced me to.    

     “You would not have,” Grace argues, but even Daniel can tell that she knows that’s a lie.

     “No, I wouldn’t have,” he agrees flatly, “Charity insisted on the great white wedding. Didn’t help that my mom and Emilie were all over that wedding-fever bullshit, too. This one’s nicer, though. I’m glad you guys are happy.” She’ good for Alex. She’ll take him far away from this place, this family, even while Daniel, heir to the Le Domas dominion, is nailed down here.

     “Think of it this way,”  she says, as she rests her head on his shoulder. The warmth from her face is radiating, and Daniel welcomes it. “At least you won’t have to deal with any more of these ‘til your nephews grow up.” Daniel breathes out a laugh, one that tickles her neck, and encourages that laugh all over again. “Or until Alex and I have kids,” she adds, before straightening herself back up. He rolls his eyes, mumbling something inaudible, but that he’s pretty sure was meant to amount to sure.    

     Daniel’s smile softens, a look Grace has never actually been privy to seeing before, something between concern and uncharacteristic gentleness. Maybe even a hint of sincerity.  “You’re too good for this family, Gray,” Daniel tells her, a phrase he’s said so many times it might as well not have any meaning anymore. “I mean it.”

     “Well,” she says, almost matter-of-factly, still beaming, perhaps in an effort to offset  Daniel’s sudden apparent shift in mood. “I’m part of it now. You better get used to it.”

     I hope I get a chance to. “Yeah, whatever,” he banters, letting Grace spin out, outstretched arms, barely connected by their fingertips. He wants to pull her back, tell her to leave now, maybe she’ll be safe. Maybe she can still get an annulment. He’s sure there’s gotta be somewhere that’ll do a same day do-over. After all, this wedding was just a formality, right? Not legal, yet?

     But his younger brother is standing there, waiting to have his bride back, and Daniel lets her hand go, arm dropping back to his side like dead weight. The smile from his face is practically gone, but he nods towards Alex, still looking at Grace. “Go. Have fun.”

ii. their first date is fake. dewey lies to rosalie’s face, pretends to be interested in her, not just in her looks and her status, but in all that makes up rosalie mullins herself. their first date is a manipulative ploy by  dewey to get what he wants, regardless of whether it hurts her in the end. in the end, he sees her in a new light. 

iii. their first kiss is not romantic. it’s impulse, it’s dewey, unable to contain his emotions, surging forward, unwelcome. it’s shock, it’s rosalie left speechless by the whirlwind substitute teacher. it’s wide eyes, and stammered words, and awkward goodnights, and it’s what did i just do? 

iv. their second first kiss is a reversal of the first. it’s excitement, it’s rosalie getting swept up in the thrill of the moment, and grabbing the lapels of dewey’s uniforms, pulling him close. it’s dewey going weak in the knees, and his hands flying to rosalie’s shoulders to steady himself. it’s the school of rock covering their eyes, and gagging at their older brother and principal. it’s not romantic, but there’s a spark there, and she leaves her lipstick as a stain on his lips. 

v. their first hug is the first day dewey shows up to horace green. rosalie checks in on dewey and the music room before the kids get there, and dewey is wrought with excitement and gratitude. it’s dewey scooping rosalie up in a rare bear hug, lifting her, twirling her. it’s impulsive, but it’s real, and it’s raw emotions. 

vi. their first sleepover is the first in a long series. dewey has no heat, and a broken window, and it’s the middle of december in new york, snowy and frozen. rosalie has an empty couch, and an almost afraid to impose dewey is unspeakably grateful for the offer. they watch movies, and certainly do not cuddle on the couch. they’re just friends, nothing more, and they’re just enjoying each other’s company. it’s the first time both of them get a truly good night’s sleep.

vii. their first thanksgiving together leaves dewey feeling nauseous. he’s meeting her parents, so they’ll leave her alone about having a boyfriend. or,  y’know, not having a boyfriend. it’s not the first time he’s played this role, but it’s the first time he’s actually wanted to play it well. why does he care so much about what her parents think of him? 

viii. their first birthday together is dewey’s. he doesn’t know how she found out. he’s never told anyone but — ned must have told her. he sees a present on his desk in the music room, and he runs to rip off the bow on it before anyone else can see, or get the wrong idea. it’s a small, flat package, and inside it’s a hard disc. it’s dewey trying to hold back tears, grinning like an absolute idiot as he holds the school of rock’s very first vinyl record. it’s the first birthday he didn’t mind celebrating. 

ix. their first holiday season is unintentionally one of dewey’s most treasured memories. always a grouch, dewey’s never liked the holidays. he hasn’t celebrated hanukkah since he was a child, and ned usually spent christmas with patty. yet somehow, dewey’s found himself covered in tinsel, standing in the center of the music room with rosalie, setting up a surprise tree in the corner, behind the piano, for the kids. sure, the string of lights rosalie wraps around the tree are twinkling with a warm glow, but nothing shines brighter than the smile on his face or warmer than the heart in his chest. 

x. their first kiss is in the rain. it hits him, when they’re walking out of the school one day, both having stayed late, dewey for lessons, rosalie for work. he lets his hand slowly find its place alongside hers, fingers interlocked, a calloused mitt against hers. it’s the first time he’s ever allowed himself to play into a cliche. it just feels right with her.

xi. their first time is unexpected. it’s early in the morning, with sunlight streaming in through the window of his apartment, and the coffee machine brewing a pot elsewhere. it’s gentle and leisurely, full of giggles and gasps and smiles. it’s the first time in his life that dewey is glad to be awake before 8  am.

xii. their first dance is at the senior prom neither of them got to have. while rosalie, as the principal, was expected to appear as a chaperone, one other teacher dropped out last second, and she couldn’t think to call anyone else at the last minute. standing in a corner, giving all the excited students the floor to themselves, dewey holds out his hand to rosalie with a goofy grin on his face. it’s the first slow dance dewey’s ever done — and it’s very obviously so, clumsy and not as confident as rosalie’s moves, but it’s still sweet and measured and he has fun.