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There’s a dull throb pulsating from the popped stitches on Roman's brow, accompanied by a barely there scent of copper. The tall glass is cold in his hand and the expensive swirl of gin and vermouth feels too bitter on his tongue ( has this combination ever tasted anything but, he wonders. probably not ). His taste buds must be fucked up though because everything tastes horrendous these days. Been that way for a while.
All the words he’s been keeping locked behind cracked lips have died, leaving behind bloated, rotting corpses. Turning his mouth into a cemetery—a lonely mausoleum guarded by fake too white teeth like gravestones etched with the epitaphs of his past failures ( the last thing that's ever tasted good was that damned lobster he could not afford in gustav. he did pay for it though, of course he did, his father would not have it any other way. if he concentrates, he can still feel the force of logan's blows and the stinging sensation in his eyes, the wetness on his chubby cheeks).
The alcohol slides down his throat and Roman cannot feel how it burns all the way down through the soft lining of his esophagus, settling in his stomach, nearly warm enough to melt the ice dagger that has been lodged in his guts ever since Connor's wedding. Because that is how his broken brain had decided to not refer to it, before shoving it in a dog cage labelled FOR FUTURE ROMAN and making said contraption disappear somewhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of his subconscious. Because this is how he operates, always has. There is no thing big enough he can't fit it in a box or suitcase or goddamn sarcophagus. Do this often enough and even the most life altering extinction level events become nameless junk, cluttering the twisting corridors of his mind.
Living dead spectres roam amidst the mess, pulseless ghosts passing right through. They push and shove, clamouring to take their rightful place behind his eyes. Eager for box seats in this crumbling shit theatre of smoke and mirrors, like ravenous beasts they chomp their slobbering maws at the opportunity to witness the tragic mummer's farce that his life has become. He blinks a couple of times, his vision clouded. He can feel the pressure building as they tear through his sclera, pushing against his cornea, screaming to be let out, out, out, OUT!
Roman squeezes his eyes shut, locking them back in. Now is neither the time nor place for an encore of his funeral performance (grim weeper, tiny tears ). Inadequacy is a chain around his throat, each spectacular failure just another link for someone to grasp and pull, suffocating and comforting. He is still numb, but if he could choose what to feel, right now he'd pick the burning cold of metal wrapping ever tighter, cutting off his airways, burning the inside of his lungs. He decidedly does not think about searing hot fingers doing just that, leaving behind dark bruises and a sense of serenity that stops his overworked synapses, granting him a moment of respite. Turning him for just a little while into the blessedly ignorant, happy go lucky moron that everyone sees when they look at him.
Signalling for another drink, he catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Obscured by expensive bottles, glimpses of him look distorted (he hopes against all hope that this is one of those carnival mirrors, twisting you into impossible shapes, making you feel surreal, unsettled. seeing a version of yourself that usually only comes out during too long drug addled lonely nights). He is haunting and he is haunted. The Pope himself wouldn't be able to exorcise his demons, because the entity Romulus Roy prostrates himself before is in no way bound by such tenets. Unknowingly, with his first breath Roman had already started building his absentee God.
The myth had grown steadily from then on, carefully cultivated with each cutting remark and poisoned reassurance. Years spent in front of his father's office had done nothing to deter him from trying to gain access to the mystical inner sanctum. Long after his siblings had given up, he continued to play the role of the faithful mutt, scratching at a locked door, begging to be let in.
(maybe kendall was right, after all. maybe he had enjoyed the dog pound. maybe some small part of him had recognized it for what it was, had found some semblance of comfort in its familiarity. his entire existence was a near constant string of maybes, amounting to a spiderweb of ambiguity just waiting to be blown away by the slightest breeze. and logan roy had always been a hurricane)
Now the age of idols has passed. God is dead and the sun has set over his mausoleum, bathing the world in thick, syrupy darkness. Shiv was right, it had been warm in the light—and now Roman is just so cold.
The slight tap on his arm startles him into dropping his now empty glass. The sound of glass shattering reverberates around the room like a gunshot. His eyes bounce from place to place without seeing anything for a couple of seconds, before focusing on the impassive face before him. The tall man standing behind the bar is not the same one that poured Roman his first drink that afternoon. With this comes the startling realisation that he must have been there for a lot longer than he had realised.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid we’re closing for the night. Would you like me to call you a cab?" The night shift bartender's voice is even, unbothered. The man is not at all phased by his rich client's appearance or his jerky, uncoordinated movements as he goes to stand up.
"No, man, thanks," a hoarse voice replies, and it takes Roman a second to recognize it as his own. One last cursory glance around the room tells him that he is the last patron of the night. Fishing his wallet out of his pants' pocket, Roman throws a couple hundred dollar bills on the bar and doesn't wait for the change. He can't take any more human interaction today, not without the risk of some cataclysmic reaction.
The journey to his penthouse is nothing but a seemingly endless blur of blinding light and deafening noise. 200 Amsterdam is not far from the bar Roman took his demons drinking at, but by the time he makes it into the spacious elevator his legs are trembling. With a start, he realises it's not just his legs. He is wracked by full body shakes—his teeth don't clatter cartoonishly only by virtue of the fact that they are clenched so tightly Roman is starting to worry about the structural integrity of his dental implants.
The doors slide open and he steps into the private elevator corridor. Straight ahead looms the entrance to his $38 million dollar apartment. His empty $38 million dollar apartment. Roman hates how the sound of his footsteps ricochets around the cavernous room. He doesn’t want to open the door to his apartment, but he pulls out his keys. The sensation of the cold metal of the doorknob in his heated palm makes dread build in the pit of his stomach. Even as he toes off his shoes and heads for the kitchen, Roman loathes being here. But he has nowhere left to go.
He carelessly pours himself another drink. The amber liquid sloshes around the crystal glass, spilling on the white marble countertop. The lights are off but the floor to ceiling windows gather the incandescence of the Upper West Side and the flickers from the harbour, guiding them inside.
Roman feels the phantom of a breeze and realises the door to the balcony isn’t closed all the way, so he makes his way outside. He leans over the railing, letting the wind blow away the stench of the day from his clothes, from his hair. The bustling beehive that is New York City, all movement and spark and people, seems light years away. He leans a little further, glass dangling dangerously in his loose grasp. He is thankful to be away from the restless crowds and he wishes desperately to be among them, to be part of them (just a slight push, that's all it would take, and he'd be falling, soaring through the scattered darkness, just a splatter away from the connection he craves).
The loud siren of an ambulance tearing down 69th Avenue snaps him from his reverie. Unmoored and still shaking slightly, he rights himself and, like a dog with its tail between its legs, crawls back through the broken door of his cage. His phone vibrates in the inside pocket of his jacket and Roman ignores it in favour of the still open decanter on the table in the corner.
When he finally takes it out he is surprised to find a number of texts and missed calls. Most are from Connor, some are from his mother and he can also see scattered throughout the familiar names of some members of the old guard. Even Tabitha reached out to him and Roman takes it as a sign that news of the deal has gone public. But the five letters that prompt the loss of all feeling in his legs come as a total surprise. Jeryd's name flashing on his screen makes him crumble onto a nearby chair like a puppet with its string cut. He feels drained.
Roman can imagine the look on the man's face as he dialled the number of the fool who had handed him the presidency. Twice. He can already hear his words, nothing but radioactive waste coated in honey to make them go down easier. Roman thinks the president-elect is calling him for one very simple reason. The man is attracted to weakness like a shark to blood and he loves rubbing salt in the wound (jet fuel in the wound, formaldehyde in the wound). Thumb over the call back button, he hesitates. He swears he can feel the weight of his former partner's predatory gaze drilling a hole in the back of his head. But he looks up and there is nothing there.
Past the reinforced glass panes there is a view straight down Amsterdam Avenue and right at the end Roman can barely make up a vague silhouette through the darkness. Lady Liberty watches him with unblinking eyes, dead but still so alive. A wave of nausea washes over him and all of a sudden he feels... judged. Here he sits, bemoaning his newfound freedom like a prisoner lamenting the loss of his shackles—the oppressed missing the boot pressing down, rationing precious oxygen.
He has never planned for this, not really. The one outcome he was wishing for finds him woefully unprepared (you're playing toy fucking soldiers! rings in his head with sickening clarity and he hates his father more than ever. for conceiving them, for not giving them the light of day. for moulding them into shapes only fit for the great machinery that is was waystar royco. for teaching little roman that a slap can be bestowed out of love or anger, which are both still better than being ignored. he hates logan for dying before any of them were even born and refusing to go in the ground until his poison has turned them into empty husks) .
The colossal statue keeps watching and Roman feels the taste of long fermenting spoiled freedom invading his mouth, choking him. He rushes to the nearest of the four point five bathrooms. For a while the alternating sounds of retching and flushing can be heard throughout the apartment.
Somewhere in the vast, empty apartment a phone starts ringing.
Roman is not sure when or why the idea takes root in his mind, but before he knows it he is walking across the tarmac to the waiting plane. Exhausted beyond belief, he sleeps throughout the entire flight without the help of the little round pills hidden somewhere on board. When he wakes up the tiredness still feels like a yoke. The unfriendly weather comes as a pleasant surprise. The overcast sky and cold wind sooth something inside of him. He fills his lungs with the smell of the oncoming storm—the sweet, pungent aroma of ozone.
The rain starts falling halfway through the trip to his mother's estate. At first there are only a couple lost fat droplets glistening eerily against the tinted car window, but they quickly turn into a downpour. A clap of thunder rolls over the hills as the first towers of the mansion come into view. Caroline had graciously offered it to him as a place to, as she put it, lick his wounds , and he accepted without thinking too much about it.
The place was far away from his usual life yet still familiar enough to offer a semblance of comfort. Roman keeps telling himself that the reason he was so easily swayed by his mother's idea had nothing to do with the concern colouring her tone and the pity he could read in her eyes. She had initially asked him to go back to Barbados but he quickly shut her down, so this was the least he could do to put her mind at ease.
She loves him, in her own way, Roman knows that. She said as much when he had shown up on her doorstep unannounced, looking like he had taken a trip through the nine circles of hell and feeling like he had gotten stuck in the last one. After a couple glasses of wine, she had managed to get the three words unstuck from beneath her breastbone and forced them out of her mouth. They rolled off her tongue easier than they would have for any of his siblings, yet he had been too numb to care. But her next words had managed to crack him open, expose his damaged insides to the acid rain of her nonchalant coup de grâce- He loved you too, you know? He didn't know how to, but he did. I'm sorry, Romulus. His given name is the scrape of sharp metal against bloody bone and he feels his rib cage collapse.
He didn't know if she was telling him what she knew he needed to hear. He wasn't sure what her apology was for either. Maybe she was sorry to see the stare he was in and not be able to help. Maybe she was sorry to have taught him and his siblings the bitter taste of indifferent betrayal from a very young age. Or maybe she was sorry because she was right and Logan had loved them and she had done nothing to protect them from that love.
(a love so deformed and unrecognisable, yet it still burrowed itself inside his chest, turning him into less of a person with each heartbeat, atrophying his ventricles, twisting his spine, eating away at his bones. coating his aorta with black ooze, taking a ride up through his carotid on its way to fuck up his brain for good. no real person involved.
a weaponized love. a monstrous love that in turns makes monsters of those it is inflicted bestowed upon.)
Roman found himself hiding his face in the curve of her neck and sobbing before he realised he had moved. Like a lost child he clung to her, trying to become smaller, wishing desperately to crawl back in and become a part of her just so he would have a chance to do it all again.
Roman spends his days wandering aimlessly through the hallways, drink in hand, entering rooms at random. Exploring one of his childhood haunts, the house seems to welcome him with creaking hinges. The emptiness feels less oppressive than the scorched earth of his New York penthouses.
He lifts the sheets covering the massive wood furniture, looks inside drawers, picks up delicate expensive looking trinkets scattered around tastefully. There is a thin layer of dust on the spines of the leather bound books in the library and Roman's finger leaves a trail through it as he looks for something to occupy his time. He picks a volume at random and lets himself fall into one of the armchairs beside the fireplace. Despite the cold weather, the hearth is barren.
The room holds a chill to it typical for the old money stone houses of the English countryside. It seeps through his skin and into his bones, but Roman doesn't feel it. This deep inside the bowels of the monstrous house, the monster inside him feels at home. There is nothing but the clinking of the ice in his glass, the pitter patter of the rain against the stained windows, and the copy of Plato's Republic in his lap, bound in dark red leather.
(i am the wisest man alive, for i know one thing, and that is that i know nothing—smart people know what they are—we are bullshit. you are bullshit. i am bullshit. we're nothing)
The knock on the door comes two weeks in.
Two weeks of solitude. Two weeks of opening newspapers to royal gossip instead of Roy gossip. Two weeks of dense fog over rolling hills or cold rain rolling in on storm winds. Two neverending weeks of his footsteps barely making a dent in the heavy silence while lights flickered overhead, making his mind wonder about old ghost stories and older electrical wiring.
He’s sitting in the kitchen nursing a glass of whiskey in favour of the cup of tea one of the staff prepared for him before leaving for the night. He can't be sure, but it might have been Mariela's futile attempt at comforting him. She's always had a soft spot for him, ever since she first wiped helpless tears off his chubby cheeks, bright red proof of his father's quick temper still imprinted on them. She made him tea and fed him lemon cakes and carded her fingers through his hair with a soft look in her eyes Roman had never had pointed at him until then.
The cook has known him basically all his life. Mariela saw him turn from the bubbly, shy toddler she had used to sneak homemade sweets to with a conspiratorial wink to the quiet child who politely declined her creations despite his growling stomach. She witnessed his transition from the quietly rebellious witty teenager to the artificial jokester St. Andrew's had turned him into.
If pressed, Roman knows she could accurately chronicle the swirling downward spiral of his existence. But she is too kind to do something like that. Even now, after all this time and all this failure, she still tries to look out for him. Despite his simulated detachment and lukewarm demeanour, she still saw something in him worth something. Enough to remember to make him tea, at least. And Roman had let it go cold.
Another slow knock at the door pulls him out of his reverie. He stumbles up, the combination of alcohol and whatever was left in the old stash hidden under a loose panel in the back of Ken's closet proving fatal for his equilibrium. He makes his way towards the source of the sound, not bothering to turn on any lights. The ones from the kitchen are dimmed but still provide enough warm glow for him to not knock anything over on his weaving path to the heavy carved wood front door.
A bolt of lightning erupts just as Roman's hand makes contact with the brass door handle. It inundates the room, startling and intrusive like the flash from some hidden paparazzi's camera. The roar of thunder that follows makes the windows rattle and Roman instinctively hunches in on himself.
The storm raging on outside is biblical, the seven trumpets sounding as the skies are ripped apart, heaven's inhabitants crashing into the cold, hard ground. Roman opens the door fully prepared to come face to face with something resembling a human, sans shattered halo and broken wings. He is only partially right. Unhinged laughter bubbles in his chest and shock is the only thing keeping it from spilling past his chapped lips.
"Well, are you going to let me in or am I supposed to guess the secret password first?" Gerri's voice is calm, even, and Roman takes a step back to fully open the door. She steps inside, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She is wearing one of her usual outfits, sultry yet classy, and somewhere in the still sober part of his mind, he recognizes it as the dark ensemble from the wake. This time, though, she’s sporting a simple updo, not a hair out of place. Her glasses aren't even fogged over.
"What are you doing here?" he dumbly asks, her presence in this godforsaken damp, scarred corner of his world too surreal for his intoxicated mind to process.
"At the moment? Waiting for you to offer me a drink. Preferably something of the alcoholic persuasion." She walks toward the kitchen without looking back. She already knows he will follow. It's in his nature at this point, Pavlov's dog and all that scientific fucking babble.
Roman walks through the archway and into the light at the right moment to see her lift his glass from the table and take a sniff before taking a sip. He doesn't pour himself another, choosing instead to pick up the discarded mug of tea. Mariela must have remembered his fondness of sweets because the liquid is saccharine and cloying as it makes its way down his throat. His queasy stomach gives a lurch before finally settling.
They look at each other, both unwilling to lose this unspoken game. Taut bands of silence stretch between them, humming with tension. Roman has never done well with silence, always willing to fill the ether with the things he could say to drown out the things he couldn't. His self imposed exile seems to have only exacerbated this condition.
"Why are you here?" he rephrases. Severed chords lash through the air unseen and hit Roman hard enough to make him recoil. He stumbles into one of the chairs and now he's looking up at her. There's something infernally reassuring in this position.
Gerri takes another sip before answering, "Nobody has heard from you in weeks. Full blown radio silence is not your style, Roman. Believe it or not, I got worried. Especially after the stunt with the protestors."
He doesn't ask her how she knows about that. She’s Gerri, of course she knows. He turns his gaze to the tiled floors, concentrating on the dark blue and white pattern. He can't bear to look up and see the pity in her eyes. Or worse, the disappointment. "Well, as you can see, I'm fine. All's good. I'm not about to dramatically throw myself into the sea and get smashed to a bloody pulp on some fucking jagged cliffs at the bottom, so... You know. Thanks for the concern, but it's not needed. I'm a-okay, hunky-dory even, as these dipshits say."
"So that's why you're here then, sulking like a spoiled brat in your mother's estate? To show off your impeccable state of mind? Really, Roman." Her words are like poisoned darts. She knows all his weak points, the places in his cracked armour where she can aim to hit bullseye. "Is an ocean enough distance between you and the things you've left behind?"
He can't take it anymore, The dam bursts.
"And what things are those, Gerri? Please, do enlighten me! What exactly have I left behind besides a shitload of certifiably insane bullshit bound to land me in a padded cell or a concrete one? It's all fire and brimstone, fucking- smouldering ashes." Now that he started, Roman can't bring himself to stop. There's too much pent up poison in his brain, eroding his already flimsy brain to mouth filter.
"Fucking baby trapping gold digging discount Gatsby sits on the throne with that fjord fucker's hand so far up his ass he could give Shiv a tonsil exam. Speaking of my darling sister, do you know how many times she's called me? No? Wanna guess? Not fucking once. Didn't even bother picking up her phone, probably too busy chugging yarrow tea by the gallon. As for the overthrown princeling, I bet he'd love to push me off a cliff himself, given half a chance. That's if Stewy somehow managed to get his face out of that huge pile of coke me and Shiv shoved him into before he finally did himself in."
He can feel himself losing steam. His next words come out imbued with a pleading desperation he can't bring himself to feel ashamed about right now. "So please, Gerri, let me know exactly why I should bother anymore when the only thing awaiting me back there is an empty fucking slot in that over the top marble monstrosity right next to dear ol' dad?!"
Not saying anything, she places down the now empty glass. Gerri approaches him carefully, like she can see there's something loose inside of him now—like the wounded, skittish beast inside of him is a physical presence in the room that she needs to tiptoe around lest it makes a choice between fighting and flying. She gently places her hand in his cheek and Roman is frozen. For once in his life, he wouldn't be able to move a muscle if the storm tore away the roof of the house shingle by shingle. Brick by brick the walls could collapse around them and he still wouldn't budge, breath stuck in his lungs and Gerri's cold hand on his feverish skin.
"Because I'm telling you to."
The non sequitur throws him off before he remembers his previous question. "Because I'm here right now, telling you that the world is still out there. And quite a lot of it. The earth hasn't stopped spinning, Roman. And frankly, neither should you."
He whimpers and Gerri retreats her hand. He wants to tell her not to. He wants to beg her to stay. He wants to let her know how much he needs this tether to reality, this anchor keeping the shoddy shitshow that is the SS Roman Roy from getting dragged to murky depths along with the carcass of the Kraken. He wants to tell her things he doesn't even know the words for because nobody had bothered teaching him. After all, a child cannot bother anyone by asking for things he doesn't know he lacks. Affectionate words taste putrid in his mouth without sarcasm to accompany them—antifreeze with a bleach chaser.
Love has been rotting inside of him for decades, turning poisonous. It's been steadily leaking into his bloodstream, clogging his arteries, corroding his veins. With nowhere to go, with no one to willingly receive it ( at least kendall has stewy rava and shiv has tom has greg and his dad has whatever and whoever he wants and roman has a mouthful of blood) , it pushes at the very fabric of his being. It seeps through the spaces between his cells, tearing him apart from within. Maybe that's why he is so broken, an overabundance of love (what a tragedy, to be born full of light among creatures made of darkness. what agony, to survive being devoured by one's father).
"Come on," Gerri says, taking his hand. Roman looks up at her, vision hazy from booze and tears and drugs, and is instantly glad he's kept his mouth shut. The warmth of the dim lights makes the hair falling down her shoulders look like a halo, lending this fleeting moment between them a certain sacrosanct aura.
As he follows her through the empty house and up the spiral staircase, Roman feels his world shift on its axis.
Upon waking up Roman reaches toward the left side of the bed and is greeted by cold, empty sheets. He only manages to crack one eye open for a second before the sun sends spears of light through his retina, along his optic nerves, and straight into his occipital lobe. Head pounding and cotton dry mouth, he wallows in the hangover for a while before finally deciding to brave the new day. As he manages to sit himself upright on the edge of the unfamiliar bed his stomach feels like it's trying to crawl out through his mouth. The acid bile he swallows down is sandpaper to his irritated throat. He rhythmically breathes in and out, belatedly realising he is using an old anti-anxiety technique one of his many shrinks showed him years ago. As long as it keeps his overwhelming nausea under control, he doesn't give a fuck.
The huge guest bedroom is empty too, but Roman can hear sounds from somewhere else inside the house. The door creaks as he ventures in search of the source. As he approaches the kitchen the noises get louder and his insides constrict and shrivel and move around in an all to familiar manner. He is ready with a quip as he rounds the corner, but the sight of Mariela's back surprises him. He accidentally bites his tongue as his mouth snaps shut. The smartass comment he had locked and loaded ricochets around, pulverising enamel and leaving behind a shredded mess, before ultimately blowing through the back of his head in a spray of blood and bone and unsure flashbacks.
At the strangled sound he makes, the cook turns around. As she takes in his dishevelled state, Roman can't read any judgement in her eyes, only a slight concern. "Good morning, Mr. Roman," she greets him before turning back to the stove. He's been Mr. Roman for years now, ever since his father had overheard the too familiar Roman that passed between them one summer when his youngest was in his twenties. Roman wasn't sure what exactly transpired then and he didn't ask, too grateful to still see Mariela walking in through the door the next day.
“Morning. What's on the menu today?" he asks, despite the fact that the mere thought of the likely incoming English breakfast makes him want to empty his already queasy stomach.
"Why don't you start with this?" She places before him a large glass of orange juice. The cold liquid is a balm to his parched throat. Condensation leaves a wet ring on the table top which Roman mindlessly spreads around as he watches her cook. The clinking of dishes and classical music playing quietly from the radio perched on the windowsill weave together into a symphony that lull him into a sense of tranquillity.
Not before long a bowl is placed before him and Roman easily recognises the hangover cure Mariela swore by each time she'd had to coax him to eat something after a night of debauched hedonism. He digs in, more for her sake than his, but he has to hand it to her—the oatmeal and fruit mixture slides easier down his throat than any of the greasy, sugary junk food equivalents Ken used to force down his throat after a night out.
He eats and lets his eyes roam around the kitchen, searching for something, anything to make sense of the previous night. He doesn't want to come out and ask Mariela, mostly because he is unsure of how he would even phrase the question. Maybe something like Hey, when you came in this morning, did you happen to run into Gerri? You remember Gerri- blonde, glasses, Shiv's godmother? Freud's wet dream in high heels, with a piercing haughty look to make you drop to your knees?
Or something along the lines of Not to be too forward, Mariela, but what are the chances you saw someone else wandering around the house today? An absolute smokeshow of a MILF with a 'holier than thou but I'd maybe call you filthy names while letting you clean my expensive heels with your tongue' attitude? Preferably still half naked after having fucked me into the astral plane multiple times last night? No? Ok, sorry then, but still, keep an eye out .
His eyes land on the glass sitting by the sink waiting to be washed. Still half full. Pristine, no sign of smudged lipstick on the rim. Roman feels like he's been shot. At first he doesn't understand what he's seeing, more confusion than outright denial. Then the shock washes over him, colder than liquid nitrogen and even more damaging. And at last the pain centers in his brain light up like the world's grandest most fucked up Christmas tree.
The food turns to ash in his mouth and makes him choke. The bright red chopped apple mixed among the food turns into the A p p l e and Roman is damned. Falling from grace and excommunicated from heaven, he feels betrayed- by what, he does not know. It might have started with the knock on the door or the first inevitable taste of Gerri's lips, it makes no difference. His mind conjured the snake and his mind is the snake, forever choking on its own tail ( a failed attack attempt leading to autocannibalism, Erysichthon cursed by Demeter, a goddess punishing the insatiable hubris of a wretched mortal with an equally insatiable hunger ).
The clatter of the chair is dissonant in the cosy symphony of the kitchen, but Roman pays it no mind in his rush to get to the nearest bathroom. He doesn't want to offend Mariela by emptying the contents of his stomach all over the spotless floors. With his back turned, he misses the worried gaze that follows him out of the room.
With a sigh, Mariela picks up the half eaten bowl and empties its contents into the trash. She ignores the muffled sounds of retching punctuated at intervals by convulsive sobs. She washes the dishes, puts the orange juice back in the fridge. She ignores the sound of flushing followed by sudden silence. She cleans the countertops and takes notice of the creaking of the stairs. She finishes her work and fills up a glass with cold water.
She finds Roman in his room, curled up in bed, clutching at the comforter wrapped tightly around him. Even in his sleep, his face is a grimace of unutterable anguish and Mariela wonders when was the last time he's known peace. She approaches silently and smooths his hair. Were Roman awake, the maternal gesture would burn like lye on his sweat covered forehead ( he would lean into it regardless- he would relish in the touch because of it ).
Mariela places the glass of water on the nearest nightstand and quietly leaves the room. The unwitnessed absence makes Roman whimper before settling back into an uneasy slumber.
The knock on the door comes two weeks in.
Two weeks of oppressive silences and sleepless nights. Two weeks of unanswered calls and lost time. Two never-ending weeks of bouncing manically between wishing he were dead and frantically checking his pulse for signs of life.
The weather is calm for a change. The sky is still a dull, muted shade of prison grey after so many weeks of miserable storms, but there are no ominous clouds on the horizon. A soft breeze rustles through the trees, coaxing birds and small critters out of hiding. Roman can hear the timid thrill of a bluejay through the open kitchen window.
This time, the way he stumbles on his way to the front entrance has nothing to do with the shit running through his veins. He's been clean for two weeks ( well, mostly clean. the occasional glass of wine doesn't even come close to wreaking as much havoc through his system as ken's old blow or logan's fine cognac. ever since that night he's been trying to cut back. he can deal with bone shattering tremors and debilitating nausea, the acid burn of bile in the back of his throat. what he can not deal with is the cold seeping out of empty sheets and the crushing sight of an untouched tumbler of whiskey taunting him from the kitchen counter ).
The sight before him as he opens the door is incomprehensible. He stops breathing on a sharp inhale that sounds more like a hiss. If later asked about this exact moment, Roman's only recollection would be his heart stuttering in his chest and then promptly refusing to beat again as soon as his eyes met the shrewd, hungry ice blue gaze of his guest.
The wolf at his door stares back for a beat, unashamedly taking in the tragicomedy of fallen royalty.
"Well, are you going to let me in or am I supposed to guess the secret password first?" A cold breeze accompanies familiar words and Roman shivers, takes a step back.
Mencken waltzes in as if he has every right in the world to be there, his impeccable woollen coat brushing against Roman's bare arm, the sound of his polished leather shoes clicking against the marble echoing through the foyer. The sudden flurry of sounds and feelings, combined with the smell of the taller man's aftershave, shocks Roman back into the moment. For the first time in a long time, he is present and aware ( he feels in control of his body. each burnt out neuro gradually reawakening. every overexerted myocyte unwinding. the haze lifting off of his mind as long unused neural pathways start firing up once more. he is not just a disembodied spirit watching the world turn from a bubble outside time and space anymore ).
He closes the door and follows after the president-elect, who has already disappeared somewhere in the bowels of the great, slumbering beast. Roman finds him in the kitchen, pouring whiskey into two crystal tumblers. Sans coat and with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, Jeryd looks more at home than Roman ever did. Leaning against the doorframe, Roman forces himself to get reacquainted with the spoken word.
"This is a bit of a long way from the White House, isn't it? Did the praetorian guard allow you to get this lost? Or are you already bored of getting your ass kissed by sycophants and getting handed nuclear codes instead of the morning paper?"
Mencken laughs as he hands him a glass, their fingers briefly brushing. A jolt of electricity courses through Roman's body from the point of contact. There's a buzzing under his skin, a pleasant tingling sensation. His senses slowly returning, he feels alive.
"What can I say? Maybe New York isn't the same without your depraved sense of humour. Perhaps illicit, bordering on the criminal alleged interferences in politics are something one can miss once they are no longer par for the course. Some might say that the socio-economic climate has gotten stagnant and it needs a firmer hand to shock it back to life."
"You’re not in New York anymore”, Roman answers robotically as his brain plays catch up with the rest of Jeryd’s rehearsed speech.
“So you need me to... what? Be America's official defibrillator? You declare 'Clear' and I apply a thousand volts straight to the US of A's fat, failing heart. Now that's the dream team Washington needs." Mencken smirk softens into something slightly more human and Roman can't help the way the corner of his mouth twitches in response.
"Washington will do as I say", comes the response, confident to the point of near delusion. Ink still drying on the oath of office and he's already talking like Nero before the great fire , Roman thinks. Something in Mencken's tone stops him from verbalizing the thought ( something insidious and dark and seductive. an undercurrent that speaks of malignant potential and less than patriotic destruction. the youngest roy sibling drinks it in, lets the syrupy poison drip in and clog his every pore. he's already doomed, might as well let something he loves administer the fatal blow ).
A stray ray of sun slices through the thick mantle of clouds and finds its way through the huge windows, adorning Jeryd’s graying hair with a fine golden dusting, making his eyes glint dangerously. It is a terrible sight and Roman cannot look away. The leader of the free world lifts his glass, the pantomime of a toast.
"Over the road-"
"-and into the bar", his indefinable yet inextricable other half answers.
Their glasses clink- the spark that lights the match.
( rome burned at the whim of her mad emperor and roman does not think he is any better. )