Chapter Text
Kendall likes to play this one game. If he were being honest, Roman fucking hates to play, because playing that one game always hurt.
But you know how it is. You’re young and your brother is the sun, he’s the moon, he’s bright enough to eclipse the massive universe of a presence that is your father for just a little fucking bit. And Dad is impossible, it’s fucking impossible to please him for long, but with your brother, it’s easy. It’s simple. You play one game with him and he’s smiling like you’re the one forming planets into the air and bringing life to each and every one. Like you’re the fucking winner this time, even though you’re pretty sure that every round of the game ends with you losing, painfully and humiliatingly.
And maybe it isn’t your favorite game in the world. Maybe that game is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Maybe that game is the beginning of the end, or a symptom of another, bigger, rotting thing.
But you keep playing.
Kendall creeps to your room in the early summer morning and he fixes his hollow black eyes on you and he asks in his breathy, needy voice if you’d like to play a game, and you say yes. He says yes every single time.
Even if it hurts.
Maybe even especially so.
…
…
…
Pain.
It’s an interesting thing.
The way the memory of it sears you.
The ways the memory warps it away, time grinding at the imprints the past have set in your mind until you’re left with nothing but a blurry image, dashed with dust and spilling watercolors.
Roman remembers it hurting.
He remembers it hurting like nothing he’s ever experienced before. A pain so deep it cuts past the bone, through the nerves, serrated blade dipping into his very soul.
Pain like that has a strange talent for making an addict out of you.
So, sure. Maybe he never liked playing the doggy game with Kendall. Maybe there was nothing he hated more than getting on his hands and knees for him in that cold kitchen corner and waiting for him to settle behind him, his fingers cold and sticky as they gripped at him and pulled him open.
Maybe there was something familiar in the ritual of it. Hands braced, knees bruised, memory blurring as the world swirled and he was painfully, brutally, absentmindedly fucked. Maybe it just eclipsed everything else, made everything bad go away for a couple of minutes or a couple of hours or a couple of centuries.
Maybe there wasn’t even a reason.
That’d be funny, wouldn’t it? All this back and forth, all this repeated anguish and introspection, all these toiling thoughts gnashing against each other, breaking him and breaking him until there was nothing left but rubble and ruin and a question he couldn’t stop repeating, even as he ruined himself worse. Imagine if none of it ever, truly had a meaning. Imagine if it just happened, and that pain was never worth it, that torture never properly carved him into something successful, it never amounted to fucking anything but a long life of grief.
That’d kind of be fucking hilarious.
Wouldn’t it?
…
…
…
It is not an erotic sight in front of him. It is a pile of gore, a split open carcass that he can’t bring himself to look at. The ecstasy he feels is the ecstasy of murderers, the hysteria that accompanies those who perform the worst of sins, possessing him with rare and uncontrollable glee and the rapturous promise of burning in Hell for eternity for this. It is an ugly and freeing feeling. He feels disgusting. He feels so good and it’s disgusting.
Finally, Kendall Roy isn’t thinking anymore. He has separated himself into a series of sensations, each one returning to him, polished to perfection and glowing brightly. The world shines with disturbing clarity and he drinks it in, guzzling down the ichor of it, the knowledge he never should have gained.
It was like this as a kid, too. When he thinks back, if he dares to think back, he doesn’t think about how it happened, or why. He doesn’t recall a young boy prattling out the long, complicated rules of the game and all its contradictions, heart racing as he hopes he isn’t caught. He doesn’t hark back to the disastrous aftermath, the tears and the vomit and the guilt and the nightmares and the shivers of self-loathing and disgust so deep it had him damn near tearing his own skin off just at the sight of it. He doesn’t think about the reasons why.
What he remembers is the summer sun, blaring hot against the kitchen window. The bars of the cage casting long shadows across the floor that wavered mysteriously with the heat, shaking with tiny jolts and trembles that matched their every movement. The air conditioning chilling the inside of the house so violently that every bit of his brother’s skin seemed cold to the touch at first, soaked into an even colder chill by the spray of the sprinkler outside. The smell of apples and cake frosting, sweet yellow jam and creamy paste, abandoned on the counter as far more exciting delights begged for their attention. The strange tang of sex he’s only just beginning to recognize, musky and thick and growing stronger with every thrust. The flex and fascinating clench of his muscles as he moved, the endless rhythm, in and out, the wet little slosh of fluids, the tiny slap between their bodies as their sweaty skin connected and separated. Roman whimpering like a broken puppy, his favorite part, those little sounds that punctuated every frantic breath, that told him he was winning the game, that he’d earned this, that this was all deserved.
Roman is silent now. He’s assumed the same position as always, face still smashed into the pillows, fingers clawing at the fabric close by, his lower half perched up clumsily on his knees. And he almost feels the same.
Almost.
He’s loose, now. He’d been fucked open and filled and he can feel it like Roman’s insides are slopping out of him with every thrust. He’s far too relaxed, his body welcoming him in, sucking him down, far too wet and warm. And he has this… awful look on his face. Like he’s not really awake, like he’s not really there. Everything about his expression radiates wrongness, his eyes only barely cracked open and glazed and empty and his slack mouth making a sticky mess everywhere, drool falling in a limp stream from his purpling lips. Fuck.
What kind of monster aims for this? What kind of monster enjoys this? In his memory, he remembers Roman tight and responsive and pretty as a doll, every inch of him begging for it. Like this, he might as well be fucking a dead body. He might as well just get himself a fucking fleshlight. He’s so limp, a lump of yielding flesh, and it feels so strange to not have him squeezing around him, to not have his back arching, his legs scrabbling to lock around him, his hips pumping back and meeting him every time. Inviting him in. Wanting it just as badly as he did, maybe even more so.
Right…?!
Why doesn’t that sound right?
What kind of monster is he?
Something scritches into the back of his mind, demanding his attention, blooming through his thoughts like a shitty acid trip. It’s that same fucking scene, but the rosy tint is gone, acrylic details all washed away.
Roman is crying.
And he hates it. He’s ruining this. Usually they have so much fun, but Roman’s been acting up lately, and now everyone’s bothering him about it and he hates it. He’s not supposed to be the one who gets in trouble. He’s supposed to be the good one.
He makes sure it hurts. He dares Roman to say anything about it, dares to stand up to him, but he submits, he lets him win, every fucking time.
His rightful fucking place. How dare he try and act like he wants to escape it.
“Con says you dont wanna play anymore,” Kendall jeers, and grinds his tiny fist into his brother’s hair. “But you wanna, don’tcha?”
“I wanna,” Roman chants, moving sluggishly with every word, like his mind isn’t his own. “I wanna, I wanna–”
“You love it, don’tcha?”
“Yeah,” he says and a tear rolls down his face as his fists squeeze together tight. “I wanna keep playing,” he swears like his life depends on it and Kendall grins, he fucking grins, and he didn’t remember the game like that. He hadn’t remembered it like that at all.
He really is the monster.
He doesn’t realize he’s started to slow down until he feels Roman’s small hand scrabbling back, finding a clumsy grip on his hip.
“What’re you stoppin’ for?” he half-mumbles, half-grits into the pillow. “I fucking want it, c’mon.”
He forces himself back, impaling himself as hard as he can, forcing a grunt out of Kendall as he’s suddenly smashed back into the present. His body feels awkward now, like his skin isn’t fastened quite right, tendons loose, slipping wetly over the muscles. He’s going soft, too. He can feel it. He doesn’t want this as much as he did a few minutes ago. Suddenly, he’s unsure if he ever did.
A few rough slams of his body against him is enough to get him reeling, though. He grunts and comes undone, his every cell unraveling with the feeling, all the tension and stress and fucking grief blasted away and neatly replaced with a raging flash of fiery pleasure. And then it’s gone, just like that, ravished into ash. There’s hardly a second that passes before the guilt starts to grow in his gut like mold, but it’s an old, familiar feeling. The hollowness of his insides are too vast for it to truly reach his heart.
Kendall pulls out and slumps beside him, catching his breath. Roman curls in on himself, cradling his stomach like he’d just been struck. He makes a few choking, gagging sounds, retching them out one after the other, and it takes far too long, long after his heart rate has gone down and his guilt has subsided, to realize that he’s sobbing.
“Rome…?” he quietly says, almost terrified.
“You fucking asshole,” he mumbles back to him. “You dick.”
“What?” He grunts, bewildered and pained as Roman starts to frantically move, punching at him first, then, suddenly climbing up until he’s nearly standing on the mattress, only to stumble and trip and nearly pitch off the bed. “Rome--”
“You said we wouldn’t anymore,” Roman spits, struggling as Kendall tries to tugs him back into place. His legs kick, fists whipping out, the sheets haphazardly getting tangled around them as he senselessly struggles, an insane whirl of desperate movements, “you said you’d fuckin’ stop– ”
“What’re you talking about?!” Kendall shouts over him and shoves him onto his back, climbing on top of him to get his pinwheeling arms down. “Dude.” He grabs his thin wrists and slams them besides his head. “Quit it.”
His eyes widen. He’s pinned down and something in his face empties out and suddenly he’s shaking his head, clawing at his chest as he tries to wrench in a breath. “Oh Jesus, f-fuck,” Roman chokes and then he’s bursting apart, sobbing and wheezing and scratching at everything in reach.
“Goddamnit, man,” Kendall swears as he fights to keep Roman down. He’s the stronger of the two, fights between them are never a question of strength, but Roman is fast, and scrappy, and he fights dirty, squirming around too fast to get a proper grip on. “What is wrong with you, what are you doing– ”
“Oh my god, stop,” Roman rasps out over him. “Why is this- fuck, why the fuck is this happening?!”
“Dude, nothing is happening,” Kendall snaps, near-shouting now, loud enough to make a jab of terror freeze his brother in his place. He talks firmly, then, forcing him to meet his eyes as he snarls out every word. “You’re high. This isn’t real. You’re imagining some worst case scenario because you’re hopped up on some rando’s rainbow roofie cocktail. Now calm down,” he orders again. “I got you.”
He whimpers and makes one last half hearted struggle, weakly trying to wriggle his wrists free as he whines out in protest.
“C’mon, Rome. I got you, now - stop.” He covers his mouth with his hand hard, half his weight shoved into his grip on him. “Stop,” he repeats firmly. “You’re going to be okay.”
Roman squeezes his eyes shut. He starts to violently shudder, nodding and nodding and nodding his head until Kendall finally takes his mouth away.
“... You promise?” he squeaks out, small and weak.
“Sure.”
Kendall doesn’t let him go. He lowers himself down and settles at his side and tugs Roman against his body, holding him in a harsh embrace. His little brother trembles like a leaf against him, but he doesn’t fight him anymore, and it’s an immensely satisfying feeling, sensing the way everything sluggishly clicks back into their rightful place (under him, his rightful place is under him, stop, fucking stop–). He buries his face into the soft tufts of his hair, nuzzling into him and squeezing him painfully tight.
“You’re gonna be fine, bro,” he declares over his roiling thoughts, manifesting every plan he’s made since this had started.”I’m gonna drag you out of bed at the crack of dawn and kick your ass down to your school before they even notice you’re gone, and you’ll be fine.”
A cruel laugh wheezes out of him. “Couldn’t pay ‘em to stop paying attention to Rapebait Roy,“ he scoffs, making Kendall wince at the strange nickname, and then he’s crying again. “They’re gonna beat the shit out of me for this, Ken, fuck,” he sobs. “Fuck…”
Kendall just lets him cry. Honestly, at this point, he’s tired of dealing with it. He can’t check what time it is in this position. He doesn’t think it’s been all that long.
“You really let them fuck you?” Kendall demands, though his voice is soft. Gentle, mostly. He mostly just wants to distract from his tears somehow, give them both something to chew over that wasn’t the past few minutes. “What, like, twenty fucking dudes goin’ to town on you or somethin’? What was it, Roman?” he asks. “Why? Can you please just fucking tell me why?”
He gets what he wants, then, at least. Roman stops his sniveling to sulk instead, making himself that much smaller. “You wouldn’t get it, okay,” he mumbles.
“Try me.”
“You just-” he fights for the words. “You… you…I mean, you fuckin’ woke me up to, to… Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I feel so sick.”
Kendall sighs. “Don’t throw up on my bed or I swear to God.”
“Fuck your bed,” he immediately replies, like everything’s already normal again, and Kendall dares a smile at that. Huffing in agitation at the sight, Roman squeezes his eyes shut. “I just wanna go to sleep, okay, you motherfucker. Asshole.”
“Go ahead,” he replies easily. “I told you, I got you. You’re fine.”
Roman grumbles but he settles once more, crossing his arms protectively as he awkwardly huddles close. He can’t keep the silence going for more than a few moments, though, before he’s suddenly talking again, his voice lowered into a quiet, haunted rasp.
“It’s weird, right,” he mumbles quietly. “But, like, you started it. Like... I wasn’t weird until what you did. I know it.”
Kendall frowns.
His response is as automatic as ever, pouring out of him so easily, slick and black and familiar. His own ghost possessing the corpse of his vacated body, lying with his tongue.
“You were, though. You just don’t remember it.”
Roman’s breath shudders. His hands grip tighter, clawing into his clothes as he clings and listens to the slow, damning words that spill from his mouth.
“There’s always been something wrong with you, Ro. I dont know why but you need it. And you’ll run to whoever’s available enough to give it to you. Doesn’t fucking matter who.” Kendall sighs and he closes his eyes, too, like the words alone were enough to lull them both to sleep. “Difference is, between me and every other motherfucker out there, I’m actually going to take care of you. I’m not just gonna leave you to the fucking wolves like everyone else. Maybe this time you’ll get that through your thick fuckin’ head, bro, and you’ll actually learn to chill and let me.”
It isn’t something he’ll ever be able to explain properly, but he knows it helps him. He knows moments like these are the only thing that can begin to mend what’s left of him. He hates to do it (loves to do it) but it’s necessary, as necessary an evil as all the other lies and laws and cruelties of the world holding society together.
Because what’s the point in fighting it? What’s the point in trying to deny it all? It’s a privilege to be able to accept it. He wishes he could explain that to him. If he could just accept the past, take everything that’s been pushed into him and digest it and let it go… he might not ever be free, but… but…
He lets out another shaky exhale.
“There’s something sick in me, too,” he offers quietly. “I don’t know why. I don't know why it had to be us, man, but we don't have to let it kill us. We can thrive. We don’t have to let the poison in.”
Silence is his only response. Kendall looks down to see his brother’s eyes closed, his breath evened out again, tears still clinging to the tip of his nose. Sighing softly, he wipes them away, considering his own words, and how they’d felt so good to say, good in that sinful, insane way he can’t help but loathe. His hand swipes at Roman’s cheek again, and then his thumb caresses the skin, and then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to it, then to his nose, his forehead, the top of his head, then, a little lower, a little lower.
Kendall kisses him once on the lips, then again, then a third time, before he sighs and tucks his brother that much closer to him. He closes his eyes and concentrates and swears, quietly, whispering the words into his hair, that by the next day, they’ll be back to doing this right.