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“It's always bathrooms with us.”
They didn't coordinate it, but if Mencken had to explain things to Roman Roy they wouldn't be in the spot they're in. Roman's good at subtext. He's an inside guy.
Jeryd gives him a half smile as he washes his hands. “Warren G. Harding’s mistress said he preferred the White House coat closets.”
“Hmm. I suppose we'll have to try those, then. Find which one has the most dried jizz on the walls. I bet that whole place lights up like a christmas tree under UV. Presidents are fucking perverts.” He quirks an eyebrow at Jeryd – QED . “I require a very in depth tour of your new address once you move in, Mr. President.”
He's watching him again, that irascible look he only ever has for Roman, like he wants to wring the life out of him with his fingers. He's only a moment away from giving in and pressing down on his trachea. It's so much more than the boredom he seems to have for everyone else. Roman feels like his bruise, maybe the only thing Jeryd can feel. Even if it is just pain. It would be nice to be someone’s sore point.
“You would need a reason to visit. I don't think I have any official business with the ex-CEO of Waystar.”
Roman leans back against the vanity. “Ouch. Would they like me better as your mistress? Should I wear a dress and a wig?”
Jeryd laughs.
“No. There was a time when a president could fuck whoever he liked. Clinton ruined all that, of course. Now – it's a news story. Your lot –” he cuts himself off. There's real disgust there. “No one respects the office anymore.”
He’s already talking like it's his. It's ridiculous that there's even a debate – whichever way they count the fucking votes, Mencken's presidential. He’s it. Roman would call it divine right, if he believed in god. Jeryd's almost too perfect, like an old Hollywood star, before they went all plastic and fucked themselves on gear. America doesn't fucking deserve it. He's wasting himself on public fucking service. He deserves a coronation. There's no art to inaugurations. A bible and a suit. It's too ugly. Too boring. Like Mencken’s the same as the rest of them.
“Fuck whatever woman , you mean. I don't recall any presidents that were faggots.” Something under the skin itches. Maybe if he says it enough, wraps his tongue around the ugly sound of it, he might cut enough to leave a mark. He doesn't – all he gets is playful amusement. “Weren't you going to wear a dress? Act the woman for me?”
“I don't think you want that.”
Jeryd smiles. “No. I don't.”
He locks the door. Game's over.
Roman shifts, waiting.
His skin feels hot under the bathroom lights. He's trying to avoid the mirror – one glance was enough. He looks more washed out than usual. Tired. The scar cuts through his eyebrow in a way that makes him look like a Disney villain.
He's not sure why Jeryd’s still here.
He's watching him from the door. The levity drops like dead skin. “What have you had tonight?”
“Hm. What?” The question breaks through in an unpleasant way. Roman shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. It clings. He’d started falling into it the moment the lock clicked into place.
“You were drinking. How much?”
He tries to remember. It's harder than it should be.
“Uh, the – a glass. With dinner. Shared a Cognac with Con after that. I – I’m – fine. Very healthy drinking habits.” There's an unbridled something under his skin. Nerves. Discomfort. He doesn't want to put too many names to things. Emotions. Desires.
Labels are like fucking cages. He has no idea why the rainbow brigade is so taken with them.
“Calm down. It's only a question. No need to shake like an abused chihuahua.”
Roman chokes a laugh. “Right. I thought you liked that quality about me. I come – uh, pre-abused. Put me up on the altar. I won't complain.” Mencken leans down. Runs a hand against Roman’s forearm.
It feels patronizing. He sinks into it.
“Nervous prey doesn't make for good meat. Too stringy.”
“I’d say you could – could fatten me up, but.” Roman laughs. Tries to cut over the anxiety. Mencken doesn't play along, just watching. “What? Nothing? Are you worried I’m, uh, too wasted – can't consent? I didn't know you cared.”
Jeryd hums. “Something like that.”
Roman leans his head against the glass, watching him from the corner of his eye.
“Fuck. You might be right. Maybe I’m just too fucked up.” He's joking, but there is something lodged in the space between his ribs, making it hard to breathe, and the weight of their shared space isn't helping. It feels dangerous. Maybe it's just him. His space is so much less secure than the last time they did this. He has no idea where he stands anymore. Mencken could pull the rug out at any point. He doesn't have much further to fall.
Jeryd runs a hand up his inner thigh. “Not too fucked up.” He still has that look in his eyes, delight in a good hunt. Even while he’s scolding Roman like he needs re-education.
“Not too fucked up,” Roman agrees. He slides his own hands up to Jeryd’s collar. Slips a finger under the knot. “Too tidy, Mr. President.” He slips into his mummy's little darling impression. “That's no fun. Not at all.” Mencken lets him loosen it a fraction before he pulls Roman’s hands away. “I’m giving a speech, remember?”
Roman doesn't remember. “Right.” He's not sure what this party is supposed to be. He’s only here because he heard the President Elect would be. Funny how those things work.
“Are you sure you're okay?” Jeryd holds Roman’s wrists together with a careful hand. The question makes Roman squirm. The more they say out loud the more it becomes something. There's a perfect spot between business and transactional and some unnamed other thing, and there's no good reason to talk it over. To make up silly boundaries around it. Box it in. If it's real, it's real . If it's something with a name, then it's something Mencken can walk away from.
“Fuck off. I’m fine. Just – do… what you do.” He does his best impression of a stuck fish, flopping on Jeryd’s line. The grip squeezes. His fingers feel cold where they're pressing against the underside of Roman's wrists.
“What's that?” Jeryd’s teasing.
“You know what I mean.” Roman hates this part.
“Oh, fucking your throat? Is that what you're talking about?”
“Jesus. No need to be vulgar. We don't need to get out a dictionary and fucking define it.”
“It's just words, Roman. They don't bite.”
“I can fucking bite.” Jeryd shakes his hand where Roman’s are locked inside it, a silent reminder of who the prey is here. “Fine. Yeah – that. Isn't that why we're both here?”
Mencken squints, like he's sizing him up. “What if that's not what I want?”
“What – you don't like me anymore?” He keeps his tone light but there's an unpleasant taste to it. As ridiculous as it is, he’d like to be wanted.
Jeryd’s boxing him in. “Maybe I want to cash in on your side of the transaction.”
Roman tries his best to pretend that idea doesn't make him distinctly uncomfortable. “Tired of always receiving and not being required to do anything in return? It's a pretty sweet deal. Most men wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.” Jeryd doesn't have to say I’m not most men – his face says it for him.
Roman shivers. “Uh – sure. Okay. I – actually, maybe I did, um, I didn't really do the dinner… thing. Alcohol on an empty stomach. You know.”
Jeryd starts unbuttoning Roman’s shirt. “Uh huh.”
He feels nauseous. “Just – don't be disappointed.”
Jeryd cocks his head to the side. “Are you going to disappoint me, Roman?”
“No.” He sounds small. Fear. Lust. Self flagellation. He can't get a grip on any of it. It's all too big.
Jeryd spins him so he's facing away, so Roman's pressed up against his front, wrapped up in his unrelenting grip. It makes him a little claustrophobic.
Mencken turns them both so they're facing the mirror. (See how stupid you look? Stop sniveling, Romulus.)
Roman ducks his head. Hands circle his throat, thick and heavy and permanent. Mencken pushes him forward until his hips meet the jut of the counter.
He can feel the press of Jeryd’s cock against his ass. Jeryd hasn't fucked him yet. Assfucked him. He's never asked. Roman quietly hopes that's where this is going – maybe he'll press Roman's chest into the marble countertop and let him be a perfect victim. He won't struggle.
Instead, a hand pushes its way past his waistband. Groping at his flesh, looking for new places to colonize. It doesn't feel like relief when Mencken’s hand wraps around his cock. There's nothing slick to guide the way, no spit. Just rough skin around his limpness, tugging too hard and too fast. He wants to like it. Or at least like the fact that he doesn't like it – those things are usually connected when it comes to getting Roman off. But instead it's just uncomfortable, and too close, and he’s certain he won't come like this. He scrabbles to catch Mencken's hand with his own, but he intercepts Roman halfway, crushing his wrist against his stomach like a sling around a broken arm.
He's very small in Mencken’s big hands.
“Fussy, aren't you?” He tsks, like Roman's a teen girl nervously waiting to get fucked in the back of her prom date’s car. Roman shakes his head. “Sorry.” Something catches. It comes out timid and shaky. He tries again. “Sorry. I – I just don't think – this works. For me.”
Jeryd doesn't hide his disappointment. “It's not all about you, Roman.”
“Are – aren't handjobs usually about, I dunno, the person receiving the handjob?”
Mencken stops moving. “Testy,” he jokes, but Roman’s not in the right frame of mind to appreciate it. He's trying to stop his heart from beating out of his chest.
“I suppose it's lost on you, isn't it?” Jeryd twists a hand in his hair, forces his head down like an untamed dog. Roman wants to struggle, but it's easier to just go with it. He tucks his chin into his collarbone and tries not to think about all the flesh that's exposed, about lethal injections and knives and lobotomies.
“You don't want to be cared for.” There's some kind of thoughtfulness to Jeryd's tone, an intellectual curiosity. Like he's still trying to work Roman out. He's spacing out a little, maybe, because Jeryd is rocking his shoulder, not unkindly, clearly expecting some kind of response. Roman tries to say something – it's just my stupid dick, it's neuroses – but it comes out too unintelligible to decipher.
Mencken finally pulls his hand out of Roman’s underwear.
“I think you might have had too much to drink.” They both exist within the lie. No one’s going to go against the official story. (Just play along.)
“Would you rather suck my cock?” Jeryd says it gently, but there's a meanness underneath. He wants to make Roman choose.
Roman nods. He doesn't trust his voice.
“Alright.” He steps away. Roman doesn't reach for him, just stands there, marooned, fly down and pants bunched at his thighs, trembling like a baby faun. Jeryd unzips.
“Oh, c'mon.” His tone is dismissive. “Don't act like that. I barely touched you.”
Roman gets awkwardly to his knees. The vague sting of it barely matters. This is something familiar. He knows how to be good like this.
Mencken pulls him forward. “Get me wet,” he jokes, and Roman presses his mouth against the outline of his hard-on, spit pooling behind his teeth. Mencken hisses at the flat press of his tongue against fabric.
Roman works his jaw like everything is on the line, more care than he’s ever paid to his job, to any of his girlfriends.
“I enjoyed your eulogy, you know.” Roman halts, off kilter. He tries to look up, but the hand running through his hair is insistent. “Well – the lack of it. Your brother can string along whatever droll ode to capitalism he can dream up – it doesn't tell the story of a man like your tears did. People laughed. They didn't get it. Men like Logan Roy aren't easily digestible.”
Roman’s face feels hot. “I don’ – I don't like this dirty talk,” he mumbles into the crease of Mencken’s thigh. He feels ridiculous, his knees burning where they're touching the tile. Jeryd brushes his hair back. It feels paternal – not that he can remember Logan ever doing the same thing.
“Don't get me wrong, Roman. I was disappointed. You didn't step up. But – I understand. This world isn't for you.”
He feels trapped between Jeryd’s gaze and the LED lights behind him. It's the most fucked up religious imagery he can imagine, the father of fucking America looking down at him, telling him he fucked it. He rubs his thumb against Roman’s lower lip. He opens his mouth and lets it inside. An excuse not to talk.
“This feels better, doesn't it?” Roman whines against the pad of Jeryd’s thumb where it’s pressing against this tongue, not invasive – just solid.
“I think I might have a spot for you in the Oval Office. Not at my side, of course. But – I’m sure there's something you would be good for.” Roman lavers over the digit like it's something to cherish. “You're a little run down, but I’m committed to fixing you.” When he says it, it doesn't sound like a good thing. Everyone is a hammer in Jeryd’s hands.
“You're a decent fuck. Might let some of my guys have a spin with you.” He pets his cheek roughly. “Kidding – kidding. They would probably leave disappointed.” This is why he's here. Mencken never lies to him, when they do this. He doesn't spin up trashy lines from an eighties porno. He doesn't tell Roman he's good at this, because he's not. He doesn't call him a slut or a whore or his baby . He's none of those things. He's someone’s son, he's a dog, he's a failure.
He's not worth Jeryd’s hand on his dick.
“I did like the tears. None of your siblings cried, did they? Have you ever wondered why they could move on, but – you couldn't? What is it about you? Or – what isn't it? What are you missing? That hole inside of you now that Daddy's gone –” Roman sobs, and Mencken slips his thumb free. His mouth hangs, bereft. He's making a mess, a string of spit connecting them. His cock is hard where it's trapped in his boxers. Drooling. He feels like an exposed wire.
Jeryd finally pulls his cock free. It's hard and shining at the tip and Roman stares at it for a moment, role forgotten. Mencken guides him in. Roman licks at the head, some memory nervously pushing in at the edge of his consciousness. He knows what he's supposed to do, but he’d rather Mencken just make him do it.
He must know what Roman’s thinking, or he's just impatient, because he uses his thumb and forefinger to lever his jaw open. “Don't get prudish now, Roman.”
It's a lot bigger than his thumb had been. Roman's still focused enough to remember to pull his teeth away, but not much more than that. He feels like a broken doll, slack as Jeryd makes use of him.
His eyes sting as Mencken forces his way in, retaking stolen territory, opening Roman’s throat up until the pain is impossible to ignore, and he retches around his cock. He might be oversensitive from repeated use. Mencken's forgotten the teasing he'd been so caught up in a moment ago, and Roman tries not to let the silence pull him out of it.
He swallows around him, makes himself hollow as Jeryd pushes in deeper still. Roman's never been able to take him to the base; he's unpracticed and sloppy and just trying his best not to choke or throw up or get snot everywhere. He thinks Mencken must like him that way – it's probably easy to imagine Roman’s some barely legal virgin when he's whining and sniveling and gargling spit. Sometimes Roman pretends the same thing. Closes his eyes and imagines this is his first time, but it always falls apart around him when he tastes precum and sweat, mind slinging him back to other times, fuzzy fractions of memories with no words or pictures attached. All he can remember is the smell and the taste and the soft cotton in his hands.
Jeryd snaps him out of it. “Focus. I might think you're imagining someone else.” Roman’s pretty sure he knows that's exactly what he was doing, that Jeryd knows quite a lot about him.
He moves his hips a fraction, controlled thrusts that feel almost lovingly careful. Roman bobs toward it, chasing roughness. He's not sure if he's ready for something gentle. He wishes he knew how to ask for a slap. Mencken hasn't hit him yet. It feels like a yet – what all of their games are barreling towards. Roman wonders if he knows about his little confrontation with the Antifa shitheads. He hasn't said anything about the scar. If he knew, he’d give Roman what he was so obviously, wordlessly begging for. Or maybe he's withholding on purpose, another thing Roman has to admit something to get.
Mencken's close now, and he's coming undone, too; he holds Roman down until he's floating in a breathless, reality adjacent haze. His fingers twitch along his jaw, tracing the bulge down Roman’s throat.
“You're doing well,” he murmurs, low enough that Roman’s not aure if he's even meant to hear it, but it's impossible not to. Black bubbles pop in the corners of his vision.
Jeryd holds his head still when he comes. Roman holds what he can on his tongue until his mouth is free again, swills and spits it onto the floor as it dribbles past his lip.
He doesn't need a mirror to know he looks like he's been fucked. He wipes his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve. He can't be bothered caring about presentability. His suit jacket will hide the stains.
“Clean that up.” Roman looks between Jeryd and the puddle on the floor. Maybe he takes pity on him, because he tosses Roman a tissue. His hands are shaking as he tries to wipe the floor clean. He's still hard, achingly so, and the feeling of eyes on his back as he's curled over himself aren't helping that.
He judges his job done and shunts the ball of tissue at the trash.
There's only one little inconvenience left. Jeryd cocks an eyebrow. Roman's still kneeling. The edge if a shoe digs into his thigh. It's a sharp, clarifying tenderness. He grunts and opens himself up further. The feeling of being on display is humiliating. His dick is leaking like a faucet. If he had anything left of his cerebral cortex he’d be concerned about the wet patch, but all of that fades into noise. Mencken's shoe is an inch away from his pathetic little dick. It's disgusting. His blood is rushing thick and fast away from his brain and towards the epicenter of all of his grimy little perversions.
When he makes contact, it's barely there, just the lightest brush of pressure against him, but it's enough. Roman jizzes in his underwear, sticky and wet and thoroughly wrung out. His breath catches and sticks. He coughs and his spit tastes like cum.
His stomach flips. Nausea envelops everything.
Roman crawls until he finds the toilet.
He presses his forehead against the bowl.
“Sorry. Must be the – the drinks.” His voice sounds destroyed, like someone went for his throat with a rusty razor. His mouth tastes like it too. He wants to retch, but he's too tired. Maybe he could sleep here. He thinks he would like it if Jeryd stayed. He's too worn down to ask. He wants someone to rub circles against his back as he throws up. Dig their fingers down his throat until their fingernails cut, until they rip open a new hole to fuck.
Those things aren't for them. They aren't for anyone. There's no one on the fucking planet that would understand all of Roman’s neuroses and how to deal with them. He feels like he's only just barely scratching the surface.
Besides, Mencken has a toast to make. Or a speech. Something presidential. Something important. Roman would like to watch – he loves seeing him in action, he feels dangerous and alive and like a perfect predator when he's in front of a crowd, but the idea of getting off the floor and walking out of this bathroom back into the mess of people and eyes and suits – he'd rather not.
Jeryd rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don't be too long, Rome. People will worry.” He wonders if that means I’ll worry .
The hand falls away. He hears the tap running. Jeryd making himself presentable. He pauses at the door. “Roman?”
He rolls his head to the side so Jeryd slides back into his field of vision. “Hmm?” He blinks until there's only one of him.
“Clean up before you leave. Wouldn't want anyone to think unsavory things.” Roman smiles. He's never too beaten down to play.
“I thought you… specialized in unsavory?” He lolls against the plastic. “I’ll tell them the truth: we were discussing plans for our beautiful fourth reich – then we made passionate love.” Mencken laughs at it, even though it's not Roman’s best.
There will be more events. Even if Roman’s at most an orbiter, a trust fund with no real title, a doped up wash out with no company and nothing worth offering, it doesn't matter. He has a maybe-President in his pocket. He's doing okay.