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[ibetonlosingroys]

I wanted my soul to be connected to someone who took that responsibility seriously, someone with the capacity to care. But that would never be her. Even though I was born knowing her. Even though no one can grow me a new sister. I’m stuck with her.

[ibetonlosingroys]

All my life I wanted a sibling, and instead I had you.

[ibetonlosingroys]

Hunger Chapter 2

Roman just wants to self destruct in peace.

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Roman’s head aches. There is a vice like grip wrapping around his forehead. It feels like his eyes may pop out of his face at any moment from the pressure. He’s sprawled out on the couch, where he has taken up a permanent residence and looks at the flickering images on the television, not watching it. The static blaring in between his ears is enough stimulation for him. He thought he would be hungry, but that stopped long ago. His stomach no longer growled, his mouth no longer watered at the thought of food. Roman had come to the realization that he could just remain like this forever, expending no energy and consuming nothing. He merely exists, and he thinks to himself that’s about all he can handle right now. This is fine. He might even like this.

Sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he just closes his eyes and listens to the room around him. He even gets up to use the restroom a couple of times. He laughs at himself, wondering what he has to piss out, not even a sip of water has passed his lips since the tailgate party. Was that just last night? It’s hard to remember. He has missed something important, that he is sure of. This is confirmed when he picks up his phone and scrolls past dozens of missed calls and texts from all three of his siblings. He’s even missed several calls from Mencken, so it must’ve been the election. “Whoops,” he says aloud, voice thin and crackly. He giggles and rolls over, pressing his face into the cushions and allows more time to pass.

The next thing he is aware of is a knock at his door. In his current state, it feels like a thunderous banging permeating his skull. He grumbles, rolling onto his back but before he can even contemplate getting up, there’s the sound of a key turning in the lock. Roman’s only ever given his apartment key to two people, Tabitha and his sister. He would sooner believe that his father rose from the dead than the idea of Tabitha choosing to enter his home again. So that just leaves…

Shiv barreled in the door, shoes clacking on the floor and calling his name. “Rome? You decent? You alive?” Her voice grew louder as she approached the living room. Roman levered himself into a more upright position on shaking arms and cleared his throat to speak. “You know Siobhan, in some cultures it’s considered rude to burst into someone’s home uninvited.”

“Roman.” Her tone was serious now as she dropped her bag on the floor and perched on the coffee table across from him. “You missed the election.” Her gaze burned through him and she gestured firmly as she spoke. “You weren’t returning any of our calls. You cannot go dark like that on the biggest news night of the next four years.” Her volume increased and Roman groaned, shoving the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbing furiously. “Shiv, I can’t fight right now. I don’t feel good, for real, so if you’re going to really chew into me, can we pencil it in for a later date?”

He met her eyes fully for the first time since she arrived and watched as they narrowed at him even more. The silence grew but he refused to break. “Still fighting off that bug?” She asked. “Yeah, well haven’t had a lot of down time recently.” He gestures vaguely. Shiv reaches out, moving to feel his forehead with the back of her hand and Roman recoils with a chuckle. “No way, you’re not about to test out your maternal instincts on me, nice try super mom.”

Shiv straightens and pulls away, crossing her arms over her chest, “And what’s that supposed to mean?” She asks. Roman is far too tired to play any of their usual games. “It means you’re obviously pregnant, I don’t know how stupid you think I am,” he grumbles. “Well it’s like you said. Not a lot of down time recently. Hasn’t felt like a good time to share the news.” Something very real and very human crosses Shiv’s face, almost like hurt, and Roman feels like shit. “Yeah, the timing sucks. I’m really sorry Shiv.” He manages in an approximation of comfort. That stricken look is still drawn across her features and he decides he can’t stand it anymore. “Is it Tom’s?” He asks.

“Yeah. It’s Tom’s. Jesus Roman!” She uncrosses her arms and flails in exasperation. There she is. Roman chuckles, allowing himself to slump back against the couch cushions and rub at the tension pounding behind his forehead. “So you’re really sick huh?” She asks, and he hums in agreement. “Think you’re gonna be able to bounce back for the big show tomorrow?” Roman freezes. The funeral. “Tomorrow?” He asks, and fuck he feels his voice wavering. “Yeah… Rome, it’s tomorrow.” Shiv replies, her voice taking on a softness that he is only used to hearing when things are very very bad. “You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to,” she continues, “one of us can do it, it’s okay.”

He stares up at the ceiling fan, swimming in his vision. Shiv’s voice is too loud and the thought of tomorrow is too much. “I don’t wanna go, I can’t, I’m not going,” the words tumble out of his mouth beyond his control. “Not go at all?” Shiv is stunned. “I, uh, I appreciate that you’re not great right now, but it is important that you’re there Rome. Matsson will be there, and with it being so close to the vote…”

If Roman had the energy, he would scream. “I don’t care! I don’t, I can’t.” He feels tears prickling at his eyes and the absolute last thing he wants is for his sister to see him cry right now, but he doesn’t trust his shaking limbs to carry him into another room quickly enough. The only thing worse than crying in front of her would be fainting in front of her. “It’s too much,” he tries to explain as the tears leak out of his eyes, rolling down the side of his face and soaking into the pillow beneath his head. And oh god, he actually whimpers, sounding like a wounded animal. He brings his hands to cover his eyes and wills the couch to swallow him whole as he cries.

Shiv has fallen silent but he feels her hand come to rest on his shoulder. It’s warm and solid and horrifyingly, makes him cry even harder. “I’m sorry, Shiv I-” he chokes out, grabbing onto her hand and she shushes him. “Hey, come on. You’re okay.” She says, and Roman almost laughs. “You’re exhausted. You need some rest, let’s get you to bed.” She pats his shoulder and he groans, rubbing the tears from his face with the heel of his hand. He moves to sit up, sluggish and uncoordinated as the fog envelopes his mind.

“Do you, uh, need some help?” Shiv asks, feigning nonchalance, but her body language clearly displays her discomfort at this foreign act of care. Roman too would rather crawl out of skin than accept her offer, but between his body’s uncontrollable shivering and the clouds in his vision, he truly does not see another way. He merely grunts, nodding his head slightly and avoiding eye contact at all costs, and then there’s an arm wrapped around his back. One hand on his waist and the other gripping his arm, Shiv is at his side in an instant. “Alright, up on three, yeah?” He grunts again in agreement. “One, two, three,” the hands around him tighten and Shiv levers his body up as he pushes off of the couch and gets his feet underneath him.

A small groan escapes him as the room swims around him. His eyes are unfocused and his head lolls as he tries to find his equilibrium. “Take it easy, no rush,” Shiv speaks to him incredibly softly, her hands never loosening their grip on him as they begin their unsteady shuffle towards his bedroom. “You can lean on me,” she says, and it’s nearly enough to send Roman into a fresh bout of weeping. Figuring his dignity is long gone at this point, he drapes his arm across Shiv’s shoulders, allowing her to take some of his weight as they round the corner. “You’re okay,” she whispers again, and Roman wonders if it’s for his benefit or her own.

Reaching the edge of his bed, Shiv gently lowers him down to sit before telling him she’ll be right back. As quickly as he can muster, Roman pulls back his sheets and clambers under the covers. If Shiv were to actually tuck him into bed he sincerely thinks he might die. He drops his heavy head onto his pillow and sighs deeply, willing all of this to be one terrible dream. Shiv returns with a glass of water that she places on his nightstand and lingers by his bedside, not too close but not too far.

“Think you’ll make it through the night if I head out?” She asks, only half joking, rattled by the physical weakness displayed by her brother. He clears his throat and nods, “I am sorry by the way,” he gestures lazily with his hand, “for all of this, but especially going ghost on election night.” Shiv shifts on her feet slightly. “Yeah, well don’t be too sorry, at least your boyfriend lost.” Roman groans, rubbing at his eyes again, imagining the earful from Mencken he has waiting for him in his messages.

“Get some sleep,” she says, stepping closer. For the briefest of seconds, her hand runs through his hair and comes to rest on the side of his face. Her thumb rubs away a tear track and suddenly he’s seven years old again. His big sister has come into his room to check on him after one of Dad’s blow ups. He also knows that just like when he was seven, they’ll both pretend like none of this happened come morning.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he stops her before she can fully leave. “About tomorrow, I’ll be there,” he clarifies. Shiv nods, leaning on the doorframe and hand hovering over the light switch. “Good, I’ll see you then.” She switches off the light and grabs the door handle. “And eat something beforehand, yeah?” She almost makes it sound like an afterthought, but they both know. “Bitch,” Roman mutters, rolling onto his side as Shiv shuts the door behind her.

[ibetonlosingroys]

Succession 4.05 “Kill List”

[ibetonlosingroys]

Hunger

"He’s a little concerned however, that if he keeps on puking up his guts like this, his stomach lining will turn inside out and completely expel itself from his body. So, he thinks of the next best solution. If he doesn’t eat anything, there will be nothing to throw up. Simple."

TW for depiction of disordered eating behavior and thoughts, and for Roman being Roman

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It’s not a disorder, he didn’t go weird, he’s not some teenage girl living off of diet cokes to fit into her prom dress, he’s just sick. He’s not doing it on purpose, he just can’t keep anything down. In the days since his father passed, his stomach has rebelled against any morsel of food he’s put into it. After countless bouts of retching into the toilet, his shaking hands reached for his phone only once before he stopped himself. Who would he call? He can’t call Tabitha, she’s made that very clear, he can’t call Gerri given the fact he fired her a few days ago, and he can’t call his siblings on the assumption that they won’t be much better off than him. He’s a little concerned however, that if he keeps on puking up his guts like this, his stomach lining will turn inside out and completely expel itself from his body. So, he thinks of the next best solution. If he doesn’t eat anything, there will be nothing to throw up. Simple.

Sure, his vision swims when he stands up too fast, he shivers with the slightest breeze, and his mind is trapped in a fog, but he also feels entirely empty, which is not an unpleasant feeling. In fact, Roman even prefers it to the overpowering swell of emotions he had been feeling before, all replaced by a dull ache that somebody different might call hunger. He relishes in the feeling of ice cold water hitting his empty stomach, the chill passing through each of his individual ribs before settling. A rumbling growl follows, almost catching Roman by surprise, it’s not like there’s anything in there to digest. He giggles at his own joke, finding his eyes in the mirror. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he returns to the task at hand, adjusting the perfectly starched collar of his shirt so he can play the role of functioning human man for the next several hours. He appraises his reflection, running his fingers through his hair until he’s satisfied. After a brief pause to ensure his stomach is settled, he makes his way to the waiting car, steeling himself for an evening of rubbing elbows with the country’s most pasty-faced political elite.

Roman floats into the entryway, lacking any real concrete memories of the drive over here. Like two magnets, he finds himself gravitating to Shiv’s side within seconds, feeling relieved to see her despite this party taking place in her and Tom’s home. “Hey Ro, I’m glad you could make it” she brightens minutely, patting his back in greeting and turning away from whatever conversation she had been having with her husband. “Yeah, yeah,” he responds, voice too high, “Thanks for doing this whole,” he gestures vaguely around the room, “you know, tradition and all that, it’s good,” he trails off. Since when did he have trouble finding words to say, around Shiv of all people. “Oh yeah, tradition,” she smiles slyly, “and definitely nothing to do with controlling the narrative of American democracy right until the bitter end.” They laugh and Roman’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Shiv notices. She always does, that bitch.

“Get something to drink?” she asks. “Oh, I’m just gonna have water,” Roman responds automatically. That was the wrong answer. Shiv’s gaze narrows impossibly further before she waves Tom off to fetch Roman a beverage. Wouldn’t want to bother any of the fleet of service staff she hired for that exact purpose. “You okay?” She tries in vain to sound nonchalant. “Well Shibhoan, now that you mention it, there is the slight matter of our father dying,” he takes delight in seeing her flinch, “so I don’t know, that may be putting a little damper on my spirits.” She punches his shoulder with a, “Fuck you.” before continuing. “You look like shit is all,” she shrugs, matter of fact, “Have you been sleeping? Or eating?”

Roman’s head snaps up and he tries to cover it with an eye roll. He sets aside the slight thrill he feels at her having possibly noticed his lack of sustenance. It’s only been three days, could he really look any different? Different enough for Shiv to have that stricken look on her face that Roman can’t stand. “Well we can’t all be eating our feelings. I thought I’d leave that to you.” And just like that, the look is gone, replaced by utter contempt, something that Roman is much more comfortable with. “You’re disgusting,” she spits back. Tom is making his way back over to them and Roman sighs in relief, knowing Shiv will be giving up her halfhearted interrogation. She wouldn’t dare talk about anything real in front of an outsider, especially Tom. He snatches the glass from his hand without so much as a thank you and turns to make his escape. “Well, I’d better go and mingle,” he wiggles his fingers on the last word, already several paces away.

“I hope you feel better soon!” Shiv calls after him, just loud enough to be heard by others around them. He can feel the heat of people’s eyes on him, gluing him to the spot. He can’t let this go on. He laughs dismissively, theatrically gesturing with his water glass. “Yeah I’ll feel amazing once I get my hands on something a little stronger,” he announces before making a beeline for the bar. Feeling the nauseating need to prove a point, and also just the need to have a drink, he orders himself a bourbon and all but slams it back. It burns all the way down, churning his empty stomach and singing him from the inside out. A flush rises to his ears and he steadies himself against the bar, swallowing back the familiar taste of bile. Naturally, he orders another one. And a double after that when he finishes just as quickly.

Roman feels amazing. The best he’s felt since Dad died. It’s like he’s a helium balloon, weightless, floating above the party. Everyone looks so small from up here, he can’t believe he ever paid any of them any mind. He could get used to this feeling. His thoughts are like grains of sand falling through a sieve. Nothing sticks, and so nothing can hurt him. And then, she’s there. All it takes is a glimpse of her blonde hair, a whiff of her perfume, and he’s crashing back down to Earth. “Gerri.”

“Roman,” she replies, not making eye contact. She places her empty martini glass on the bar, signaling for another. “Listen,” he begins before he’s cut off by a single tilt of her head. “We’re not talking about that,” she declares, cold as ice. Roman wasn’t even sure what he was preparing to say, words sinking into the muck of his brain before they can make their way out of his mouth. He sips his drink obediently, savoring the sting as it goes down, and Gerri takes her first glance at him. Her eyes linger a moment, traveling down and then up before settling on his face. “Your sister was asking about you.” She turns away to thank the bartender and Roman lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Bitch,” he murmurs. “I told her that was none of my concern,” she continues, before allowing her gaze to soften, “But is there any reason, you know… for my concern?” And it’s the closest thing they’ve had to a real conversation in months. Which is maybe why Roman finds himself being a bit more honest than he planned to be when he says. “I’m just sick is all, a little bug, no big deal. Unless you want to feed me soup and tuck me into bed,” he shrugs. “Oh yeah. Sure,” she agrees and Roman feels himself relax. So much so that he almost doesn’t notice when his stomach erupts with a ferocious growl, drawing Gerri’s gaze sharply back to him. “Wanna get something to eat?” she asks. “Bleh. Shiv put you up to this?” Roman pushes back from the bar, blinking away the floaters in his eyes. “You know, actually, this is what’s wrong with this country!” he shouts, gesturing around at the patriotic themed nibbles being carried around on trays, “This obsession with food and junk, no wonder everyone here weighs five hundred pounds and gets hosed off on the front porch to shower.” His words are getting garbled now. Roman catches the eye of a waiter with a tray full of sliders and signals him over, plucking the horrifically tacky American flag toothpick out of the center before shoving the majority of one into his mouth with a single bite.

It’s hot and greasy, the juices of the patty sliding down his throat and settling into his stomach like acid. It’s disgusting, it’s grotesque, it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. Gooey cheese hits his tongue with the sting of caramelized onion and the sweet tang of a pickle. Roman’s eyes nearly roll back into his head. Mouth stuffed with macerated bread and meat, he turns his attention back to Gerri. “Happy?” he asks. She regards him with a mixture of disgust, contempt, and is that pity? She steps towards him and his face heats up as she pats him on the shoulder. “Hang in there,” she says before walking away.

Shame settles in his stomach like a rock, and he shoves the remainder of the slider down his throat to chase the feeling. He regrets it in an instant as an all too familiar churning sensation starts in his gut. Fiddling with a cocktail napkin, Roman throws back the last of his drink, trying to claw his way back to that weightless floaty feeling from before. All he feels now though is that burger in his stomach and the way that two measly bites of food have rooted him to the spot. He swears it’s growing in there. Spouting tendrils and twisting around his organs, expanding until there’s no room left. He’s clammy, sweat breaking out on his forehead and his fingers and toes start to tingle, feeling like TV static. Roman has endured enough public humiliation tonight and decides that whatever kind of freak out he’s about to have needs to happen in the privacy of his home.

He slams his now empty glass unceremoniously back on the bar and hustles towards the door, hoping to make his escape undetected. This hope is quickly dashed however as he collides into the chest of his older brother. “Hey bro!” Kendall says, far too cheery, holding Roman at arm’s length. “I was looking for you during my toast.” Roman feels his fingers dig vice-like into his upper arms. “Hey,” his voice changes, softens, “You’re looking like, really pale, are you okay?” And oh my god if one more person asks him that tonight, Roman thinks he might actually explode into a million pieces. “I’m fucking fine,” he snaps. “Just not feeling well, I’m heading out actually.” He pats him on the back, meaning it to be reassuring, but his trembling hand only launches Kendall further into his savior complex of the moment. “Are you on something right now man?”

“Fuck off,” Roman replies, swatting his hand away, “If you’re trying to score, you’re gonna have to ask someone else. I’m out of here.” His vision tunnels, all that matters right now is getting to the elevator door in front of him. Once inside with the doors closed, he grips onto the handrail, breathing shakily and attempting to compose himself, laughing and shaking his head at what a sorry sight he must be right now. The elevator dings and he staggers down the hallway, out the door, and into the backseat of a car he doesn’t remember calling. He recognizes the back of his usual driver’s head though, and so he knows he will understand what to do when he says, “Bag,” and thrusts his hand out urgently. He grips onto the plastic like it’s a lifeline, and with his next breath he is forcefully retching into the open bag below him. “Home Mr. Roy?” his driver asks quietly, and instead of retorting with where the fuck else do you think he’d want to go while he’s puking his guts out, all he manages is a shaky thumbs up. He feels the car roar to life and groans weakly as his body folds over, coughing and spitting, all the substance within his stomach already evacuated, nothing but hot, stringy bile spilling into the bag clutched in his hand. He slumps back against the leather seats, exhausted, and decides that as of right now, Roman Roy and solid foods are not on speaking terms.

[ibetonlosingroys]

Invisible String

Part 2/2

Spoilers for S04E03 Connor’s Wedding

Read on ao3:

After the boat docks, after the press conference and the flurry of reporters with their cameras and their microphones and their questions devoid of any human sympathy, all that remains is Kendall, Roman, and a private jet, containing within it the body of Logan Roy. You had watched from your place on the sidelines as Tom gathered Shiv in his arms before the two of them rode off in a company car, and while that may have been an appropriate time for you to go to Roman, you felt frozen. It’s true that throughout your relationship, you had seen him through a variety of familial angst, trauma, and misery; but you had never weathered a storm of this magnitude with him. What if you couldn’t do it? What if he broke so fully and completely that you would be unable to piece him back together? You had been so consumed by the fear of Roman being unable to handle this that you hadn’t stopped to consider whether or not you could.

It was time for that answer to reveal itself as while you were lost in your panicked musings, Roman had appeared at your side, sliding his clammy hand into yours. You offer a soft squeeze as he clears his throat, “I’m uh, I’m going to go see him,” he says avoiding your gaze, “Will you come with me?” Your mind races a mile a minute. Are you really about to see a dead body, do you even want to? Immediately though, a response tumbles out of your mouth on its own, “Of course.” He looks at you then, a tight lipped grimace and you decide in that instant that you can do this. You will do this, in fact you can’t imagine being anywhere other than by his side, offering any modicum of stability as his very universe shifts on its axis.

You fall in step together, walking what feels like an impossibly long distance to the plane, an ambulance ready to take Logan away. The sight of it makes the events of the past few hours feel all too real, and Roman’s grip becomes crushing in your hand. “We can leave if you want,” you whisper to him, “You call the shots. It’s not like he’ll be mad at you.” He laughs at that, thin and breathless “Shiv said the same thing,” he shakes his head. “Well then it must be true.” You tug gently on his arm, giving him the opportunity to walk away right now, before that airplane door opens and he sees something that can never be unseen, but he stands firm. “No, I want to see. I think I… I think I need to,” his free hands flails around as if searching for something to grab hold of. You understand. You had heard how confused and lost he sounded back on the boat, insisting that they couldn’t be sure he was dead.

Well now he could be sure. Two paramedics exit the private jet, carrying between them a lifeless body on a stretcher covered by a white cloth. It struck you just then, the sheer magnitude of events that all stemmed from the body in front of you. It’s almost shocking that a man whose presence was so large, whose actions triggered such massive domino effects of consequences could just be gone. Responsible for global tragedies, and tragedies on a much more insular level, as you were reminded by the trembling hand within yours. You snake your other hand around his bicep, hoping to steady him as the stretcher passes by the two of you to be loaded in the ambulance,

A few choked sounds escape Roman and you sneak a glance at his face. His eyes remain dry, as they have been the entire day, but grief has contorted his face into a nearly unrecognizable expression. Brow furrowed, lips pinched downward as his throat continued forcing as much emotion down as possible. It was as if he was fighting a war within himself, one that would certainly end in carnage.

The ambulance pulled away and Logan was really and truly gone. The echoes of him however, you were nearly positive those wouldn’t be going anywhere. Allowing Roman to take the lead, you turn on your heel as he does, offering a wave to Kendall as you cross his path. There’s a full moon overhead and you don’t remember it becoming nighttime. You point to the sky and catch the ghost of a smile passing over Roman’s lips. “Good moon,” he says softly before sliding into the backseat of the car. Sitting by his side, you allow yourself a longer look at him, taking in all of his features and seeing a different man than the one you left home with this morning. “I don’t believe it,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I know,” you say, “We’ll be home soon,” you brush a stray piece of hair off his forehead and he closes his eyes, the harsh lines on his face never smoothing out. You don’t look away from him the entire journey home, monitoring each breath, sniffle, and fidget.

The two of you all but tumble through the doorway to your home, even the familiar furnishings and decor feeling somehow wrong on a day like this. You lock the door behind you, and you and Roman are finally alone. Away from prying eyes, away from conversations of business, and questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, he was finally in his home, with you. Only then did he allow that wall to come down, and with it came a floodgate.

Before your brain could even catch up to what you saw, Roman made a beeline for the bathroom, collapsing harshly to his knees as he was overcome by a bout of retching, choking, and spitting. In what could have only been a few seconds, you were there to steady him and rub comforting circles on his back. He moaned brokenly into the toilet bowl as you watched him vomit up what seemed like more food than you had ever seen him eat. “Let it all out babe, don’t fight it,” you encourage, feeling his stomach muscles spasm and contract until all that’s left to come out is stringy bile. “God that’s gross,” he rubs the palms of his hands deep into his eye sockets, as if he can force the fallen tears back in. “Think you’re done?’ you ask only to be met with another groan, “For now,” he answers. “Okay, let’s just sit here a minute,” you lean back against the wall and want nothing more than to snatch him into your arms, but instead allow him to set his own pace, slowly deflating against your chest as you squeeze him tight.

The silence is brief, broken by Roman clearing his throat. “He wasn’t a good guy,” he practically whispers and you hold him impossibly tighter. “No, he wasn’t,” you agree. “I did love him though,” he says even quieter and you respond just as fiercely, “You did, I know that you did.” He shakes in your arms and stammers out the beginning of several abandoned sentences before giving in. And he cries, because what else is there to do. He cries like someone who has been holding it in their entire life. His hands grip at the collar of your dress as he takes a shuddering breath to propel him into a fresh round of sobs, each one stabbing right into your chest. You offer no words of comfort, because there are none.

[ibetonlosingroys]

Invisible String

Part 1/2

Roman Roy/Reader

You attend your boyfriend's brother's wedding.

For everyone who just wanted Roman to get one single hug at Connor's wedding.

Spoilers for S04E03 Connor’s Wedding

Read on ao3:

You stand by a floor to ceiling window, sipping on a champagne flute, wary not to drink so much you get drunk, not yet at least. By the time you hit the dance floor at the reception though, you plan on being nice and tipsy. You and Roman have a tendency to draw some attention at these events but you treasure the moments with the two of you, in front of the whole world, displaying how much you love the man you are with for everyone to see. Neither of you can really dance, but the champagne helps.

You scan the modest crowd for him as you nod politely at the discussion of table settings that Willa’s mother has wrapped you into for the past several minutes, but Roman is still nowhere to be found, having slipped off to a private room with his siblings to handle business matters. At their brother’s wedding. Because of course. Roman has kept you in the loop as best as he is able, and while he assures you repeatedly that their plan is a good one and will put them in the best position, you can’t help the tug in your heart you feel watching him slip once again into this deranged cat and mouse game with his father. You realized quickly it was naive to think he would take the sale as an opportunity to get out for good, and while it has been heartening, if not a bit foreign, to see him fall into step with his siblings in such a unified way, you’re troubled by the stress lines you can see forming on his face before he even opens his eyes in the morning. Maybe it’s time for a vacation. Not a Roy family mind fuck on a yacht, a real, honest to god vacation where you lay in the sun and don’t speak of the stock market or ATTN or Lukas Mattson.

Your daydreaming is cut off sharply when you spot Kendall and Shiv out of the corner of your eye. Exhaling deeply and subtly craning your neck, you search for a trace of your boyfriend, more than ready for him to rescue you from this conversation. However, he isn’t trailing behind like you expected him to be, he isn’t anywhere you can see. Your eyes flick back and forth as you try not to draw any unnecessary attention to whatever scheme may be in motion, but all you can see is Kendall and Shiv, hands clasped as they make a beeline for Connor. Without Roman.

Heat rushes to your ears and finally, you find enough of a break in conversation to excuse yourself, refreshing your drink in an effort to keep this flood of panic at bay. In an instant, you are back in that castle in Italy, watching helplessly as Roman falls apart in a way you didn’t think he was capable of. Your world shattered right alongside him and from that moment on you swore to yourself you’d do everything in your power to prevent anything from hurting him like that again. Judging by the stricken looks on Kendall and Shiv’s faces as they discreetly usher Connor towards the back room, you may have already failed to make good on that promise. You find yourself wondering what more Logan could have possibly done. Hasn’t he betrayed them enough, wounded them enough for several lifetimes without heaping on whatever emotionally violent corporate move he’s made now to put that look back on his kids’ faces.

Your instinct is to follow them, every muscle in your body taught, screaming at you to run to Roman. You want to scoop him up and take him away from whatever horrors he’s enduring in that room. But you also know Roman, better than most, and you know that what he likely needs most of all right now is his siblings in that room with him. You have the sense that this is not a moment for you to bust up, that when Roman needs you, you will know. So you do what you think will help him the most, you play the part. You sip on your drink, you politely mill through the floor of people, exchanging pleasantries, all the while keeping one eye on that door that’s transformed into a looming monster in your mind. It’s become a pandora’s box really, as long as it stays shut, you can tell yourself that everything is fine and you’ve read too much into what will turn out to be a very insignificant moment in time. Comforted slightly by this new narrative, you make your way back to the drink table, depositing your empty glass and contemplating your next course of action when you’re interrupted by a hand on the small of your back. Breathing a shallow sigh of relief, you turn, prepared to laugh with your boyfriend about how skilled your mind is at playing tricks on you, but instead you are met with his brother.

“Ken?” you try experimentally, the blood in your veins having run cold. There is a sheen of sweat on his brow, snot pooled under his nose as he looks at you carefully with a tight lipped expression. Wordlessly, he begins leading you by the arm towards the private room, and you are crushed with the understanding that, in no uncertain terms, this is really bad. Once out of earshot of most of the partygoers, you try again, “Is he okay?” No response, but you feel the hand on your forearm tremble a bit. “What happened?” Kendall stops with one hand on the door, looking quickly to ensure no one else had made their way up the stairs before clearing his throat, “Uh, yeah, so,” he casts his eyes skyward before continuing, “Dad is dead.” It’s like the floor has dropped out from under you. You were prepared for any combination of business jargon word salad as he explained the new way Logan had fucked them, but not this. “My God, Kendall,” your hands fly to his shoulders in a vain attempt at comfort, “I-I’m so sorry.” Your mind is swirling with questions and exclamations and pure shock, but it is all you can think to say. He nods, patting the back of your hand with his and sniffles in acknowledgement. “I just think that he needs you, or will need you,” he nods in the direction of the room and you ferociously bite back the tremble in your voice, “Of course, I’m here.” You hope you sound steadier than you feel.

Kendall’s hand turns on the door handle, and your mind is overwhelmed with one repeated thought, like a sick mantra, “He can’t handle this.” Entering the room, your eyes lock on Roman immediately, slumped, sitting cross legged on the floor. A thick veil of grief and disbelief cloaks the room, suffocating, making you almost choke on your words as you offer condolences to Connor with a quick squeeze of the shoulder, and to Shiv with an embrace. You feel slightly out of place, enveloped in this moment that does not belong to you so you quickly make your way to Roman’s side, a place where you are always meant to be. He doesn’t look at you, you can’t see if he’s been crying or any way his features may be contorted, but you instantly feel his fingers tug on the hem of your dress, rubbing the fabric back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Your throat is dry and your mind runs a mile a minute, not just with the question of what to say to the man you love when his father dies, but with the question of what to say when that father is Logan Roy. You settle on, “Hi, you,” and there he is. His eyes travel up to yours, cold and guarded, but wide, and so so scared. “Can I sit?” you ask, and he nods stiffly before you slide down to join him, grasping his clammy, shaky hand in your own.

Roman’s eyes are dry as he surveys the room, finding his siblings wrapped up in their own conversation and his voice trembles, “I-I can’t,” he stammers, unable to find the words. “I know,” you assure him. “I don’t think I told him I loved him,” he gulps, chest rising and falling rapidly as he runs a hand through his hair. “Rome.” you bring your palm to his face, waiting for his eyes to settle on yours before continuing, “You loved him.” There may be a lot about Roman’s relationship with his father that didn’t make sense to you, but this you are sure of with absolute certainty. “What do you need?” you ask, rubbing a slow circle on his cheek with your thumb. He recoils then, clambering to his feet as his focus darts around the room. “I don’t need anything. This isn’t anything, this is - fuck! Nothing’s happened and we don’t know anything so this is all…” he trails off, waving his hands wildly and capturing the attention of his siblings who turned their focus on him.

“Roman,” Kendall approaches him as you would a spooked animal, “We know,” he starts, seemingly expecting the response he gets. “Fuck you! Come on, this is insane!” Roman raises his voice, “This doesn’t happen!” He throws his hands up in exasperation, looking for someone to back him up. Instead, Shiv approaches him too. “I think it happened though, Rome,” her voice is gentle, and holds a lost quality you are not accustomed to hearing from her. “Shiobhan,” his attempt to mock her falls flat and he spins wildly towards Connor. “And don’t look at me with your fucking sad eyes, fuck!” he exclaims before marching to the far window and pressing his forehead to the glass. “My eyes are sad,” Connor offers, matter of factly from across the room. You take in the three of them standing there in that moment, looking unmoored and far younger than when they first entered this room. These are the Roy children without Logan to orbit, and they are looking to you expectantly to keep the fourth one from spinning out.

“He can’t handle this. He can’t handle this. He can’t handle this,” the mantra continues, louder and louder in your head with each step you take towards Roman, silenced only when you place a firm hand on his back. He’s sucking in his upper lip and avoiding your gaze, telltale Roman signs that he is fighting back tears. “You know,” you begin, soft enough that no one else in the room will hear, “you are allowed to cry if you want to.” He blinks but doesn’t immediately shut the conversation down, emboldening you to keep going. “This is actually like The time to cry if you really think about it. Someone would have to be a special kind of fucked up to say shit to you right now.” There it is, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips and he whispers, “Hot.”