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Sometimes Roman wished he could feel nothing. Nothing at all.
‘No, yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine! Not like I didn’t see that one coming.’
None of the resentment, and even worse, downright disregard that his father hits him with. Nor the confusing spiels and overambitious derision that his brother likes to anchor him down with. Even worse, the blatant self-righteousness that his sister likes to curl her fingers down his throat with and choke him. He splutters, and he wisecracks, yet the blood still pours out from the corners of his lips regardless.
It would make losing the game again just that much easier. It would make his failure feel like a sliver of acceptance. If he could feel nothing, maybe it would make the punishment for all his sins finally taste like love.
‘What, am I paying you to wait around? Can you just - I don’t know - fucking go instead of staring at me? Fuck!’
He sinks down into the frigid leather of the car seat, leg not even half way through the door before he’s nonchalantly waving his fingers at the driver to go on. Go. Just go. Before he looks slightly to his right and sees the dejected frown Kendall has become too accustomed to giving over the long years. The usual crossed arm stance of his sister, with an extra jagged edge of ice frosting over her shoulders as Tom comes to lead her back in to the show.
He’s too preoccupied with covering his face with his hands and wiggling his pinkie finger in-between the latest gap in his bleeding gums to realise you were running over to fling open the other passenger side door.
‘Jesus Remy - what the fuck was that? Did- did your dad really just-? What the fuck is wrong with your family?’ The words tumble out in a jumbled slew as you slide into the sickly polished smelling seat next to him. He can’t even bear to look at you. All of his effort is currently going into sliding his knuckles down past his tired eyes and staring bleakly out into the slow-moving horizon. He nearly chokes on his swallow, trying desperately to stop his lips from trembling and crack back on his signature ‘I’m fucking better than you’ smile. You give him a moment, not knowing what to say, but desperate to reach out and give him some form of comfort.
As you spot his bottom lip quiver in the fractured reflection of his window, you reach your hand out towards his suit jacket. As he uses his thumb to wipe the bottom of his nose, pretending to shrug and struggle out a half-laugh as he begins to sob, you let your hand linger just inches away from him. Too terrified to make contact. Too scared he’ll either bite your hand off, or even worse, retreat back inside his kennel with a new scar to lick and a muffled whimper.
‘Oh, that?’ he shakes his head and lets out a barked laugh, ‘that was - that was fucking nothing. All that Dinosaur shit? Just, fucking - jokes you know. Just playing around - it’s not polite to talk shit about your dick of a father just because he has his fist up corporate America’s taint.’ He says it all with a slight click to his words, subconsciously running his tongue over the phantom tooth. It was the only thing that got him to stop talking, otherwise he would have rambled on until the cock crowed to fill in the silence.
‘Maybe it’s not polite, but I’ve got a few choice words in my head for him. The first starts with ‘f’ and ends with ‘uck you, you old sod’.’
He tries to chuckle, but he’s just so tired he can’t even manage that. His eyes glaze over, remembering the first time his father had touched him; he couldn’t remember ever getting a pat on the back, a hug, hell even a handshake from the man, but he could picture clear as day the first time he had backhanded him. He had been seven years old, and had come shambling into the kitchens after losing the first round of tennis to Shiv. His instructor had despaired, sending him back inside after he had ran to volley the ball back from the baseline, and ended up with his chin slammed against the ground and his shin skinned to the bone after a long slide.
Even though he had tried to bite back his tears, he wandered around the counters and past countless chefs and waitresses who glanced down at him with a capriciously contained distain for the young rich boy. Haunting around the corners for any kind of comfort, he had run face first into his father, too busy shouting down the phone to notice the bloody lip and bloodstained eyes of the tiny child before him. Shiv, in the meantime, had come running in yelling after her brother, and all the noise had just disgruntled his father. Or perhaps it had been the fact that his failsafe son had lost, once again, and was crying himself silly instead of shaping up.
He had spent that night curled up under his covers crying himself to sleep, vowing he’d never allow his father to see him as weak, undeserving of his love again. But now, he didn’t really care. He didn’t want his father. Fuck that. He wanted you, and god knows he’s never been so despairing, so anguished to know that it’s right there, being offered to him, and he can’t even manage to ask for it.
He could beg? He could grovel? He could crawl along the car floor and whine and shiver and tremble and maybe you could cave in and throw him a little of the love he’s so desperately crying out for.
But then he finally feels your fingertips connect with his back, and the man just breaks.
If he crawled any further into your lap, the man might as well just sink into your skin. Like a paper heart, he curls up into your legs like a little child, resting his chin on your shoulder and sobbing heavily into your neck. With his eyes screwed shut, he finally gathers the courage to just let go and wind his arms around the sides of your waist. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but found that all that he could do was gasp a sharp intake of breath. He felt so helpless, so useless as he thumped his head down against the curve of your shoulder blade and willed himself to stop blubbering for five seconds. You just tug him closer against your chest and hold him as tight as you possibly can; you manage to slip your hands under his blazer and widen your fingers flat against his back, feeling him shiver against you like a chick missing its mother’s wing.
‘Oh Romey’, you sigh out, ‘I’m here. It’s alright. I’m here.’ He sniffles, and you can feel your heart break just that little bit further. ‘I will always be here for you. I swear to god, I’m not letting you within fifty feet of any family member without me present as your bodyguard ever again.’ He giggles through the ratchet sobs, and you try not to wince as you watch a splash of scarlet blood patter against the headrest.
He pulls his head back to look at you with a crooked smile, but that soon falls into a look of absolute concentration? Perhaps a kind of nirvanic understanding? You couldn’t put your finger on it at the time, but the intense way he opened his lips and just stared at you soon became abundantly clear.
Before he even has time to realise what he’s doing, Roman Roy is kissing you.
His eyes widen in surprise when he realises his lips are pressed up against yours, cheeks almost puffing out like a blowfish. When he freezes for a second, though, and realises that you’re not pulling away from him in disgust, the world seems to come rushing back in. His heart seems to be pounding in his ears: his lips, although copper tasting, are burning with each gentle chapped stroke against your own. He tries to bite back the need to cower away and strike a joke at the whole situation. Instead, his suit rumples against your arms as he nearly falls over to press himself further against you, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks and keep you as close to his face as humanly possible. You smile against his lips, tugging the back of his hair and enjoying the happy whimper of delight that cowers out of his mouth as you guide his head to the side and kiss him again.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry’, he can’t help but babble every time your lips fall apart for a split second, ‘I’m so fucking sorry.’ His breath is a hot brush of dragon fire against you, rushed and heavy and pained; the burdensome weight of a man so desperately in love.
‘Romulus’, you manage to groan out between his licking kisses, as he pushes you down to lie on the seat, ‘you should never feel sorry for wanting love.’