Archive of Our Own

Roman loves this house.

The house had belonged to Connor’s mother, or so he’d heard–but there was no trace of that rotten history staining the immaculately white stucco walls. The house was light and airy, a sprawling thing, marked by its big open windows that let the ocean breezes waft through, floored with terracotta tiles that trapped the warmth of the sun. 

They'd been coming here since before Roman could walk. Stepping out of the car, an early memory washed over him: Roman, maybe five, had woken up in his bed upstairs alone. The silence of the house had been deafening.

He worried, and chewed his lip, and stalked uncertainty to the stair landing, peeking around the banister timidly, so sure something had happened to his family. This time, he was rewarded for his bravery–he caught a glimpse of his mother, walking barefoot through the house, humming softly to herself. He could barely hear it over Shiv and Kendall’s giggles floating in from outside, but it was there. He remembers that the breeze was ruffling the white linen curtains hanging in the windows, and the morning light slanted golden over the tiles. An unseen staff member had been sizzling bacon, the air full of promise of comfort. 

Roman can't picture his father in this house, doesn’t think Logan ever visited with them.

Roman shakes his head, setting it aside. The real selling point of the place, if he remembers correctly, is that the local staff is willing to look the other way, no mandated report to Dad, if only someone slid a thick wad of cash or maybe a joint or two in their general direction. 

Roman knew Kendall was planning on making the most of that freedom this week. 

When Kendall had dropped by his townhouse in Boston, Stewy in tow, and told Roman to pack his shit so they could celebrate Spring Break, Roman had been expecting Ibiza or something like it. Even as distant as Kendall was–the fucker was finishing his master’s degree at Harvard, but barely even spared Roman a wave when they passed each other on campus–Roman wasn’t insulated from the rumors about how Kendall liked to spend his free time. 

But Roman hadn’t expected to step out of the Range Rover outside this house in Ibiza. He hadn't been here since before–before he went to St. Andrew’s. They had usually visited Caroline here, on school breaks in the spring and fall. After Roman went away, no one came to get him from school.

Kendall caught Roman staring at the old place and nodded at him, once, before meandering inside, assistant in tow. It was good to know that Kendall was capable of paying attention. Stewy watched Roman look at the house for a while, curious, and then traipsed after Kendall, always his brother’s devoted dog.

Or–whatever. Roman doesn’t know why he’s thinking like this. He always gets stupid in-his-head when he smokes. Say what you want about Kendall, and Roman frequently does–but he was always good for a top-shelf high, and this trip was no exception.

Roman wants to savor it. He finishes off the joint with a deep inhale, smirking as he tosses it aside. It's some good shit-Kendall probably paid someone to roll it, just the perfect size, hitting just right. Roman would have to pilfer another, later; he’d never learned how to roll one, too embarrassed to ask. 

As the world slows down and his body melts, Roman sprawls out in the lounge chair, letting his bare feet dangle over the edge. He takes up more space than a guy twice his height would’ve, the picture of hedonism, and flutters his eyes shut, sinking into the feeling of each individual ray of sun kissing over his bare legs. 

It feels like the world is holding him against its chest, soothing and warm, petting at his hair. Fuck yeah.

With his eyes closed, Roman can't help but pick up incomprehensible snippets of Kendall and Stewy’s conversation floating across the lawn. Roman is laying poolside alone, sweating through his little cotton t-shirt, hoping to get some color on his sickly pale legs and arms. Last time he’d looked, Kendall and Stewy were drinking by the tennis court, heads together, concocting some harebrained scheme. They’d given Roman a wide berth today, like they didn’t quite know what to do with him.

Roman understands the feeling.

Roman hears Stewy laugh, a genuinely happy sound, and hates how his ears perk up for it, tracking. The laugh is quickly followed by the springy, rhythmic thwack of a tennis ball hitting the court and an impressive amount of swearing.

It induces a Pavlovian response, and Roman forces himself to lie still for one long second, swallowing his heartbeat--but finds his treacherous body sitting up, despite himself. Roman slips his sunglasses on and turns to look.

From his lounger, he can see Stewy most clearly, eyes zeroing in on Stewy’s muscles rolling as he runs and swings the racket. Roman had always loved watching Stewy and Kendall play–since watch was all he was ever allowed to do. The rude bastards always said he could play winner and never made good on their promise. 

“You’re weird, watching us all the time,” Kendall had sniped once. “We’re not gonna let you play, you know? Go play with your own friends. Oh wait–that’s right–”

Roman cut him off before he could fully land the barb. “I thought you and Dad wanted me to be more into sports, or whatever the fuck,” Roman sulked back, crossing his arms and staring Kendall down, spoiling for a fight. He was just ten, starting his professional career in annoying his older brother. He was hoping to get promoted soon.

Stewy caught Kendall’s eye and shrugged. He'd always tolerated Roman more than Kendall's other friends. 

Kendall sighed, outnumbered. “Watch your fucking mouth, Rome,” he’d said, and then served the ball, refusing to acknowledge Roman’s presence for the rest of the day. 

That was just fine with Roman–being ignored was preferable to being shooed away or locked inside. The sport was less mesmerizing from his bedroom window.

Obviously, Roman liked to watch them play for love of the game. Nothing to do with the sick thrill that shot through his belly as he watched Stewy’s back muscles flex when he served, or the way Roman’s stomach clenched when Stewy scored and shot him a big toothy grin and a thumbs up, like he was whispering aren’t I the fucking shit? right in Roman’s ear.

Stewy called him Ro, after hearing Caroline say it–the only other person who did-and once, Stewy had reached out to ruffle his hair and didn't say anything when Roman leaned into it, just let his hand linger until Roman pulled back, blushing. 

Roman had wanted Stewy to fuck him since he understood what sex was, probably.

Roman watches them play, even now. Old habits die hard. He has always been one for compulsion, and Roman’s affliction has only gotten worse with time, not better.

It's hard to ignore how much of a male-model looking fuck Stewy had grown into. Roman’s eyes can't help but fixate on the strong and sure way Stewy’s hands grasp the tennis racket, how meticulous and neat his fingernails were kept, the way his hands caught on his stubble whenever he rubbed his face.

Roman sizzles under the Mediterranean sun, and looks, and wants, his self-hatred like a tight noose around his throat, the floor was opening up.

When Stewy glances up and meets Roman’s eyes, even behind his sunglasses, Roman has to swallow back bile, that too-familiar feeling of having been caught and knowing what came next. Roman throws Stewy a pathetic excuse for a thumbs up and stands up, stretching casually, playing off the shake in his legs. 

Roman stares at the ground as he half-runs inside. If he stops looking now, maybe it will  absolve him of having done it at all. Just another thing Stewy wouldn’t call him out on.

—

It’s late–way past last call–when they stumble in from the bars that first night, Kendall draped over their shoulders like a kilo of cocaine wearing a human suit. 

Roman’s head is completely empty, not a dust bunny in sight. He can’t remember what happened, at the bars–or when they decided to go out, or why they were coming home. He was glad, he guessed, to have been included. He wasn’t sure. 

All he had were little disjoined puzzle pieces he couldn’t get to form a coherent picture: a flash of a hot girl’s hand on his ass that he’d backed away from, murmuring an apology; Kendall and Stewy pretending to be discreet about snorting lines off any flat surface they could find; the burn of the tequila as he shot it straight. The way that Stewy hadn’t touched a girl, not once, all night. 

When Kendall had a girl giggling on his lap, Roman watched Stewy watch Kendall. Roman didn’t want to know what he knew.

The room was spinning. Roman’s ears were ringing. He was young and alive and grateful for all of it.

“Help me put him down, Ro,” Stewy grunts, interrupting, and Roman nods, his skin buzzing pleasantly, the whole world a daze of sensation and kinetic energy.

They flop Kendall into one of the pristine white lounge chairs,  Roman watching curiously as Stewy delicately arranges his brother so that Kendall won’t choke on his own vomit and die in the night. Roman idly wonders if anyone had ever actually sat in the chair before, and how much it’ll cost to clean when Kendall pisses himself in his sleep.

Stewy’s thick fingers are dark against Kendall’s pallid skin as he tilts Kendall’s head back against the cushion, far enough back to be comfortable without being dangerous.

It’s practiced. Routine. Roman feels uncomfortable down to his core. He can’t stand still.

The room is too quiet. He hears his own voice spilling out before he even knows that he wants to speak. “Aww, how sweet,” Roman says, his voice high and feminine and mocking. Grating, even to his own ears. “It’s like you love the guy or something.”

“I didn’t pack my grave-digging shoes,” Stewy says, voice soft, turning to Roman with a little grin. A smile, just for Roman. 

They were all alone in the room, just then, all of the staff long since gone to sleep, Kendall busy snoring his demons away. It dawned on Roman that he and Stewy had never had a conversation, just the two of them alone, in Roman’s whole life.

Roman starts pacing. It feels safer that way. "Maybe you should kill him," Roman chimes in, fake-cheerful. "I won't tell. Then I get to be King Kid. Dad's favorite. First in line."

When Stewy doesn’t react aside from a quirk of the eyebrow, Roman ups the showmanship, makes a few jazz hands and plasters on a big, manic smile. He wants Stewy to laugh, to like him. It feels necessary.

"Stew-yyy," he whines, dragging the y out for a frankly slutty amount of time, "I’d have to pay you so much hush money. Don’t you want to be rich and famous, like me?” Roman stops long enough to fiddle with a paperweight that was far too expensive to be used for that purpose, and sets it back down, keeps pacing. “I’m threatening you with a good time, man. Don’t you want to have my back against a wall, able to extort me for the rest of our lives?”

Stewy rolls his eyes, fond. His voice is conspiratorial, telling Roman a big secret. "I’ve got mine already. Trust me, Ro. There’s no amount of money that could get me in bed with a Roy.” Stewy pauses, then, like he was going to say something but thought better of it. His mouth opens anyways. “Even if it would be hot to see you beg.”

Roman swallows his gasp of surprise. Every synapse in his brain sounds off, repeating the way Stewy had just sounded calling him hot at top volume, like an air raid siren. Seek shelter immediately.

Stewy tries to cover up his laugh with his hand but isn’t quick enough. Bastard. There’s no all clear, no extraction team–Roman’s brain churns. The room is too big, too empty to feel this hot and claustrophobic. For no reason–not one that Roman can let himself acknowledge–his stomach lurches. 

He should go to bed. He should. It had been a long night.

Roman paces around the room, like he could outrun what was happening inside of him.

Stewy appraises him warily, eyes tracking Roman like a hunting dog as he kicks off his shoes and wears a path across the tiles. Stewy’s eyes rest a long moment on Roman’s thumb, watching him pick at his cuticles. 

“Dude, you’re like a wind-up dog that eats speed for breakfast,” he says finally, when it became clear that Roman has no intentions of slowing down. “Settle the fuck down, man.”

Roman doesn’t look at him. “Is that an order, Stewart ?” he says, mostly without meaning to, wanting to bite his tongue clean off the second the words come out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant it flirty, but-Logan always said he had to go and mouth off at the worst possible time. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time had gotten Roman in trouble more times than he could count.

Stewy doesn’t deign this with a response, just continues to watch Roman Roy, perpetual motion machine, as he flits around the room. Stewy sighs, shakes his head. "Was tonight your first time?" he asks Roman, genuine curiosity in the undercurrent of his voice.

Roman stops, like a double entendre shaped anvil had been dropped on his head. First time what? He thinks to himself, mockingly. On coke? Being a pathetic little pining faggot? It wouldn't do to ask; either way, the answer was the same.

"No,” Roman responds eventually and not at all petulantly. When Stewy doesn’t say anything, he keeps moving, words falling out of his mouth in a messy jumble, hands gesturing erratically, pointing at nothing. "This is just, more. Than I'm used to. I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm–"

“Roman,” Stewy says, not stern but just a hair shy of it. It's the kind of voice that commands; Roman knows he's being asked to make eye contact, to stand still. But Roman, despite all of his lessons, isn’t perfectly trained yet. He can’t.  

Roman turns to pace along the opposite wall, eyes catching on the mirror hanging in the entryway, forcing him to look at the sorry scene in the sitting room. Fuck.

There isn't so much as a speck of dust or thumbprint on the glass, giving Roman an unwelcomely clear view. He looks at himself, first. It’s easier. 

All of his hair gel has long since been sweated out, bangs flopping wetly against his forehead, falling all in his eyes. His little t-shirt is tight against his skinny frame, eyes bloodshot red. He looks–unhinged, to put it mildly. He looks like a kid in the prime of his life who just got back from a crazy night of clubbing. He looks sixteen if he’s a day. He looks–he doesn’t look gay, not more than anyone else, he was too careful for that–but he feels with a clenching, burning shame that everyone can tell just from looking at him anyway. That Stewy knows.

Roman wishes he could throw up, for that head rush of immediate relief, but he'd already done that at the bar. There was nothing left inside him but guilt and bile.

When Roman’s eyes flick to Stewy, he finds him staring, eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, head tilted as he considers Roman. Stewy’s reflection looms–the five inch height difference between them might as well have been the Empire State Building, and made Roman look like a little kid again. It isn't fair, Roman thinks, just as childish as he looks tonight.

Stewy looks immaculately put together, like he’d just come from a board meeting instead of snorting lines in the hottest club in Ibiza. Feminine, but not faggy. Confident.

Everything Roman wants to be.

That stupid black turtleneck Stewy was oh-so-fond of is skin tight, clinging to his chest like a girlfriend after too many drinks, and Roman can’t help but fixate on how Stewy’s nipples, little and round and hard, are perking up under the chilly breeze from the big open window.

Roman tries to swallow and finds his throat completely dry. 

“Ro-Ro,” Stewy says, softer this time, voice fond and parental, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Roman staunchly ignores how it makes his insides twist. God, he is so sick. “Are you tired?”

Yes, thinks Roman, with an insane desperation. I’m sooo sleepy. I need to go to sleep right now or I’ll die, probably. Yep. I’m going to sleep for the rest of this vacation. See you never!  

“No,” Roman’s mouth says, voice wavering and small. He watches Stewy watch him in the mirror, sees the exact moment Stewy decides to send them both to hell.

“Me, either. Come,” Stewy says, jerking his head towards the hallway, stalking off before Roman can move a muscle. Stewy’s voice is barely audible as it drifts over his shoulder from the long hallway. “We can leave Ken in here, let him sleep it off, yeah? Do you wanna play cards or some shit?”

It isn't really a question, and they both know it. Roman follows obediently.

—

The real living room was even more expansive than the sitting room, all decked out in whites and blues and oranges. 

There is a huge cream-colored sectional dominating the middle of it, facing the pride of the room: a garishly large wood entertainment center, lined up on the opposite wall. There's a darkened fireplace, and too many bookshelves to count, all filled with expensive old tomes that nobody in the Roy family would touch if you paid them to. A place for appearances, signing contracts and taking pictures, not family life. 

Stewy strides to the corner of the room, a man on a mission. Roman fiddles with the remote, feeling out of place. The big old TV buzzes to life before Roman even processes that he's hit a button, and ATN’s jarringly red and white color scheme, highlighting the sickly oversaturation of the news anchors, greets Roman like an old friend. Roman’s lips twitch. Some things never change.

As Stewy rummages, Roman’s eyes drift to the fireplace mantle. It's dark in the room, but Roman can see the faces of his family reflected at him despite the shadow. There are photographs dotting every inch of the thing, photos with Caroline and without. Like they were a real family, or some shit. Roman was no more than four years old in the most recent one. 

Roman wonders who put them there, and who took them. He wonders if Shiv remembered taking any, and when she’d last visited this house.

He should call her. It was probably afternoon in America, if that’s where she was. He doesn’t know.

Stewy flicks on a warm yellow lamp on his way to root around in another cabinet. It strikes Roman, then, how weird it is that Stewy led them right to this room, through the maze of hallways in the dark, and how he knew where they kept their playing cards. 

Roman feels the warm buzz in his brain smoothing out. The unavoidable comedown. Fuck. It smacks him right in the face, his vision tunneling and heartbeat kicking up. One day of this, and he'd already forgotten how bad a guy could feel when he wasn't on drugs.

The evidence of all that Roman had missed out on, the last few years, fills up the room and threatens to swallow him whole. Roman feels surrounded by ghosts, knows he's haunting this place as much as any of them.

Roman jumps, full on feet-off-the-ground affair, when Stewy snaps his fingers right next to his ear.

“You’re slipping,” Stewy observes. He isn’t wrong and Roman knows it, but Stewy seems so far away, like he’s sending smoke signals from the ocean floor. Roman just looks right through him and stays frozen in place, feeling too much.

“Oh, Ro-Ro,” Stewy says with a sigh, only half putting it on. His voice is soft, struck through with an edge of pity. “More coke, c’mon,” Stewy says authoritatively, and fishes his baggie out of his pocket, shaking it in Roman's face.

“Uh,” Roman says, intelligently, scratching the back of his neck. Everything is fuzzy, and the sun is starting to come up. Stewy prepares a line of coke on the fleshy underside of his thumb and places his hand under Roman’s nose so he can snort it.

Roman fixates on it, dubious, eyes crossing in the process. This is the worst idea I’ve ever had in my entire life, he thinks, and when Stewy laughs Roman realizes he’s spoken aloud. He can feel the warmth radiating off Stewy’s body from here.

“C’mon, Rome, it’ll help,” Stewy cajoles, gesturing very minutely with his hand, careful not to spill. Stewy has a little smirk decorating his lips, like he’s just come into some good trouble. “Trust me.”

God forgive him, Roman does. He leans in.

—

Things speed back up to an indistinguishable blur, after that. Stewy leads him over to the couch by an invisible leash, and together they crash into it, melting into the plush leather, knees knocking together as they lean over the ottoman. 

Roman is mesmerized by how quickly Stewy shuffles cards, the gentle grace of him. Just from the sheer joy of watching, Roman’s blood starts humming again. He feels warm, and his eyes start to slip closed as he listens to the cards slide against each other.

Stewy pulls him back by clearing his throat. “Strip poker, Ro?” Stewy suggests, waggling his eyebrows. Roman can’t help the blush that rises on his face, watches Stewy trace the pink flush with his eyes.

“Aww, Ro. Afraid you’ll get too turned on, seeing me shirtless?” Stewy says, fake-scandalized, leaning in and whispering like the world consists of them and them alone.

Roman only sputters a little, coke-confident, and most certainly does not blush or squirm. “Are you implying you’d lose, loser?” he shoots back, exhaling through his nose in relief when Stewy takes the bait, drops the hook out of his mouth for half a second so Roman can breathe.

“Fuck you, man,” Stewy says, his grin splitting his face wide open. He starts dealing cards.

A few more lines of coke, big swigs from the $5,000 bottle of wine Stewy pilfered from the kitchen, and all of their clothes thrown haphazardly around the room. They could feature this room in Spring Break Magazine, Roman thinks inanely, swallowing down a yawn. 

Roman has been awake for God knows how long–he forgot the time zone adjustment, or when they got in from Boston–but he couldn’t have slept if he wanted to. 

Stewy is sitting close enough that Roman can count every one of his pores, even under his smudged foundation. Roman breathes deeply, sucking the scent of Stewy’s cologne into his lungs, heart twisting when he clocks it as the same scent Stewy has been sporting since Kendall was in high school. 

Roman can’t think about it too hard, or he'll get pulled into the current of the past, drowned. He pushes his bare knee harder into the warm, solid weight of Stewy's.

They aren't done with the game, just in between rounds. It's Roman’s turn to shuffle, but he makes no move to reach for the cards–he wantsto stay in this moment. It feels good. Roman so rarely feels good.

But Stewy, predictable guy that he is, opens his mouth and fucks the whole thing. "I'm glad that you came back," Stewy says, apropos of nothing. It sounds like he’d been working up to saying it, like it's been heavy on his mind. "It's good to see you again, Ro."

It was too genuine, too. Fuck. The St. Andrew's mental block that takes up approximately 85% of Roman’s available brain space groans and warps. 

"Yeah, yeah,” Roman says, waving his hand dismissively. “I'm still not going to let you win. You’re going to have to wax your balls for another layer to take off."

Stewy smiles, fingers at his poker chips. He chews his lip in thought, the universal sign of someone trying to find the right words and coming up empty. Roman just watches him think, enraptured by the way the low light falls over his long eyelashes, lights up his cheekbones. Then finally: "Was it–hard, for you, Roman? To be there?"

Roman snorts, turns away, bounces his leg. Logan hated when he did that, always shouted at him for shaking the car or the couch. Roman does it harder out of spite.

Roman lets an uncomfortable, tense silence bloom between them as he thinks. He wants to answer, but–no one has ever asked before. He didn't have words for what it was like.

"It was awesome , actually," Roman says, after too long, sarcasm dripping from his voice like poison. He hopes  Stewy can't hear the waver in his voice. "I had my very own cold steel bunk, and a private little VIP spot just for me to sit at lunch, where nobody else ever came near me!” 

Stewy winces but doesn't speak. Roman wants to say more, bites his tongue–but the coke makes the decision for him, and it comes spilling out anyway, ugly and raw. “Forget what you've heard, Stewy," Roman says, trying nonchalance for size with a ragged shrug of the shoulder.. "I only got beaten up, like, maybe once a week for looking at a guy wrong in the showers. It was nothing .”

Stewy’s dark eyes are warm and full of understanding, acknowledgement. Something unspoken brought to light. “I’m sorry, Rome,” Stewy says, meaning it. “I wish that I–”

Roman doesn't want to hear it. Can't. There was nothing worse in the world than knowing someone could’ve helped him but didn’t know how. It was easier to swallow around the gaps in his childhood if he deserved it.

Roman deals their cards, hands shaking only slightly. His voice is cold and empty when he speaks. "Fuck you. Here’s your cards. I’m going to win, you might as well take your shirt off now.”

Stewy did.

—

Strip poker gets out of hand.

They make way too much noise, yelling and jostling–it's a testament to Kendall’s dealer that he stayed passed out in the other room, and that the staff were satisfied enough with their share to stay out of it. Roman can hear some of them milling about in the kitchen, getting ready to start breakfast, but no one pokes their heads in or shushes them. Fuck yeah.

All good things must come down, and like an asteroid crashing into Earth from outer space, Roman suddenly finds himself occupying his own body again. Conscious mind groaning back to life, he takes stock: they were both down to their underwear, bottle of wine empty on the floor between their feet. Stewy’s lips were stained red, like he’d been kissing the lipstick off a girl. Roman's head swims, brain awash in a sea of liquid.

They are sitting so close, impossibly close, as close as two human beings could be without touching. Stewy's reading the wine bottle label, or pretending to, and the sun is creeping over the horizon then, peeking tentatively through the east-facing window. The weak morning light crawls across the floor, but hadn’t reached them yet, allowing them their privacy.

They must be done with their game, Roman figures. He looks around idly, his brain searching for something exciting to fixate on, something that would keep him from falling asleep. 

He can’t help it, reverts back to his oldest, favorite hobby-shooting furtive little glances at Stewy from under his eyelashes. Stewy, eyes narrowed as he reads the label, like maybe he's getting to the point of needing glasses, is barely a brush of Roman's fingers away. Stewy mouths out the words silently as he reads them. Old man. Roman smirks, considering Stewy old and gray sporting bifocals, and letting the rhythmic repetition of Stewy’s breaths wash over him. 

If Stewy notices Roman glancing at him, he makes no show of it. It’s intoxicating, watching Stewy like this; Roman might as well be at the peak of his coke-high, with how sensitive his skin suddenly feels, with how the world seemed no wider than the little millimeter of space separating Stewy’s foot from his.  Roman wonders what it would be like, not for the first time, to reach out and take, to press their legs together in one long, unending line of heat.

He wants.

Roman can’t help but shudder a little, thinking about how good it would feel to be held right now. To be touched. To be felt. Old dreams churn restlessly through Roman’s head–how Stewy’s stubble would feel against his cheeks, how Stewy would make it good for him, sweet and guiding.

But what Roman really wants is more animal than that. More pathetic. He just wants to feel the rise and fall of someone else’s chest pressed up against his, feel a gentle hand stroking down his back. He wants to be wanted back. As Roman ponders this, his toes twitch of their own accord, chasing Stewy’s warmth in the sudden chill of the room. The hollow of his knee starts to sweat just from the suggestion of proximity.

“Stewy,” Roman says, unbidden. His voice barely squeaks out over the rush of blood in his ears, breath catching in his throat, threatening to choke him. He’s asking for something he can’t even conceive of.

“Hmm?” Stewy answers lightly, not looking up. Roman doesn’t know if that is better or worse, not sure what he will do right now if he's fixed with the weight of Stewy’s gaze. Roman swallows, thinking about the mirror, wondering if all of his stupid desire is visible from outer space.

Oblivious to Roman’s eternal suffering, Stewy goes right on ignoring him, reading that wine label like it's the fucking Wall Street Journal. Roman is struck with a flash of stupid kid confidence–he had a lot of practice being annoying, demanding attention by acting out, and there was nothing wrong if he was just playing, just trying to get a rise. Right?

Roman chews his lower lip and watches Stewy out of the corner of his eye. When he still doesn’t move or glance up, Roman inhales shakily through his nose and shoots his shot, sliding his foot over until they brush toes.

Fuck. There’s a spark of pleasure just from their skin touching. Roman hates how calm, how instantly grounded he feels, just from brushing their feet. He swallows around a yawn, cautious not to break the moment, and flexes his foot so his nails dig in. Just a silly little poke.

Roman feels dizzy with anticipation, the sick thrill of taking something that doesn’t belong to him and getting away with it. He doesn’t know what he expects from Stewy–more ambivalence? Getting swatted away? A slap is a form of affection that Roman will gladly accept–but Stewy, casual as anything, just reaches down with free hand to grab Roman’s leg and pull his foot into his lap.

Roman gasps, too loud in the morning quiet, and Stewy doesn’t look at him, but doesn’t drop his grip on Roman’s ankle either, tracing mindless little circles against the sensitive skin there. Roman feels giddy when he dares a glance at Stewy and sees him watching his own finger move with heavy lidded eyes. 

Drunk on courage and high on need, Roman flexes his arch against Stewy’s groin. Stewy makes a pleased noise, low in his throat.

Roman wants to laugh so hard, soundless and gasping, and choke and die on it. This is so fucking fucked, way too close for Roman’s comfort but so far from what he wants that he can’t quite catch his breath. Roman moves his foot slightly, and Stewy goes on petting him.

Roman forces himself to luxuriate in the endless quiet moment, trying to live forever in this long eternal night where a man is pressing his masculine fingers against his body because he wants to and isn't shoving him away.

It's not long before Stewy drops an atom bomb on their easy silence. Without so much a glance sidelong at Roman, Stewy slides a heavy, warm palm up Roman’s leg, bringing it to a stop on his upper thigh. Pressing down. 

Roman jumps like Logan just shouted in the other room, heart tangling in his throat. Stewy rubs an apologetic circle into his ankle bone and waits for Roman to pull away or protest.

He doesn’t.

“Rome,” Stewy says, his voice rough and low, and it drags across Roman’s heart better than all of Roman’s nastiest fantasies. “If I’m reading this wrong, just tell me, and we never have to speak of it again.”

Roman swallows, loud enough for Stewy to hear. The warmth of Stewy’s big, masculine hand is seeping through Roman’s leg and traveling straight to his brain, narrowing his whole world down to one sensation. Roman’s brain feels stuck on one central truth–Stewy’s hand unmistakably belongs to a man. A man who wants him enough to make the first move.

Stewy’s hand spans almost the whole length of Roman’s slender thigh, and when his fingers twitch, it sends a vibration up his skin that reverberates straight through his cock.

Roman makes a high noise, dead on arrival in his throat. Something primal, older than words. Roman’s legs are spreading wider before he can even process what he’s doing, eyes fluttering shut of their own accord.

“Fuck yeah,” Stewy murmurs, inordinately pleased, and Roman whines a little, not meaning to. This is real.

“Fuck,” Stewy swears again at the sound, and Roman chokes on the undercurrent of craving in Stewy's voice. Stewy’s hand moves from his thigh, and Roman instantly misses his warmth, his pressure. Stewy wraps his hand almost entirely around Roman’s forearm, shaking lightly. “Ro-Ro. Roman. Come here, man.”

Roman goes. 

He lets Stewy pull him up to straddle his lap, slowly opening his eyes. They lock with Stewy’s, flooded nearly black, pupils big and dilated with desire. Stewy looks at Roman like he's something special, something worth desiring. 

Roman’s pulse races in his ears and he shivers, full body. The motion slots their dicks together and they both exhale in surprise at the friction of it, knocking foreheads. It’s the worst kind of funny, overwhelming and moment-ruining, and they both half-chuckle, sharing the same inhalation of new air.

One of Stewy’s hands slides up to cradle the back of Roman’s head, the other cupping his cheek. It feels so good to be cradled like that. It feels like the moment when your car crumples up, just before you go through the windshield. The point of no return and what comes after. Roman exhales harshly, lets himself be guided toward Stewy’s mouth, their lips grazing, and–but–

He’s suddenly so shy and so nervous, like Stewy’s about to pop his cherry in the back of  daddy’s car on prom night instead of just slipping him some friendly tongue. Stupid. Stewy’s eyes search his face, trying to understand why he’s pulled back, and Roman flushes and rubs his neck. He wants to explain himself–he wants to drop dead right here.

“I’ve never, uh, um–,” Roman stammers, eyes fixed on a point over Stewy’s shoulder, sitting rigid on his lap like a weird faggy gargoyle. 

He can feel the warmth of Stewy radiating underneath him, can feel Stewy’s half-hard cock digging into his inner thigh. He swallows, dry. His palms resting against Stewy’s neck drip with cold clammy sweat. He resists the urge to wipe them off on Stewy’s bare back.

“Oh?” Stewy says, eyebrow raised, a quirk of amusement on his lips that Roman can see even from the corner of his eye. “Never at all, sweet little Ro-Ro?”

“Fuck you,” Roman mutters, little and weak, glancing back at Stewy’s face and thinking better of it when he’s nearly blinded. Stewy looks good, this close. Better than Roman could have imagined in a million years. 

Stewy full on laughs after Roman fails to continue defending himself. It would be upsetting if Stewy wasn’t so beautiful as he did it. God, Roman was fucked.

“Never, Rome?” Stewy presses, searching his face, like it matters.

Roman doesn’t answer, just looks away, blushes as he waits for mercy. Stewy refuses to provide it, just strokes a reassuring hand up and down Roman’s back and while Roman sits, and trembles, and wants. Leans into the brush of Stewy’s fingers, neck going red from the raw heat of his body.

The grandfather clock in the hall ticks helpfully, noting each moment that Roman wastes, charting the distance growing between where Roman is and where he wants to be. 

Roman scans his eyes around the room, desperately searching for anything to say, for anything that might shake his useless tongue loose. His gaze settles, rather unfortunately, on one of the family photos dotting the mantle. Caroline’s sharp little paparazzi smile bores holes through his head.

Roman shudders, not in a good way, and looks back towards the hallway. The door is wide open–Kendall or anyone could walk in at any moment, catching them.

Roman’s heart trips over the sudden urgency. He sucks in his cheeks and lets them pop out, fidgeting with Stewy’s collar, and tries. “You know what I mean,” Roman offers. His voice is tired and resigned, hoping it pleases the court.

Stewy shakes his head, unsatiated. He starts stroking the short hairs at the nape of Roman’s neck, humming, and waits. The man has more patience for this torturous little foreplay than the entire Roy family has for the whole world.

Roman exhales out of his nose shakily and lies like his life depends on it. It seems less embarrassing, less like giving something away, if this wasn’t his first. “Never with–another. Um. Man.” He says the last word in a whisper, like blaspheming in church. 

Stewy processes this, tightens his fingers in Roman’s hair. Every nerve in Roman’s body is like a live wire; despite the third degree, his dick is still half-hard in his underwear.

Stewy makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh as he runs a thumb up Roman’s cheek. Roman shudders, leans in. “But you want to?” Stewy asks, looking at Roman appraisingly.

“What do you think?” Roman says softly, tucking his face into Stewy’s neck, hiding himself like a little scared kid. Roman inhales evenly and waits for Stewy to take the bait. Roman knows what people say about him–what Kendall and Logan say about him, to the people in their lives. It doesn’t bear repeating.

Finally, Stewy gives, tired of the Sisyphean task of trying to have a conversation with Roman. “Wanna know what I think, Rome?” he murmurs playfully, still stroking Roman's back.

Roman nods, once. Relinquishing control.

“I think you’ve had a crush on me since I was sixteen,” Stewy says, voice feather-light and amused, as he whispers right in Roman’s ear. Roman’s toes fucking curl at the gentle brush of Stewy’s soft voice against the shell of his ear. God.

“I saw you watching me,” Stewy continues, Roman tingling and shivering at the warm moisture of his breath. He grinds down mindlessly, seeking sensation, so turned on he can’t think, and they both groan in unison at the feel of Roman’s ass sliding against Stewy’s cock. 

It echoes through the empty house. They both tense, but Stewy just tightens his grip and keeps going, too far gone to turn back now. “Whenever I would come over, you’d look at me, Roman,” Stewy says reverently, breath hot and panting against Roman’s ear. “Today. Fuck. I saw you. I see you, Ro.”

It's too much–Roman goes to pull away, to run, and shudders when he realizes how tight Stewy is holding on to him, how much Stewy doesn't want him to go. It's everything Roman ever wanted and his worst nightmare being offered to him on a silver fucking platter. 

Roman can’t do this. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t want this. He wants this more than anything. 

Roman grinds down against Stewy, gasping and shaking his head, trying to get closer as much as he tries to pull away, a conflicted little needy animal. Roman doesn’t know what he wants–he wants more coke; he wants to spread his legs and let Stewy take him apart; he wants to kill himself. He wants to get on the first plane back to Boston. He wants to fall in love and take Stewy’s last name. 

“I didn’t–it’s not, I didn’t, fuck,” Roman says, voice trailing off into a whine, feeling Stewy get all the way hard beneath him as he squirms, unable to stop his body from wanting what he wants. His cheeks burn like he’s been in the sun all day, sweat pooling in the ditch of his knees.

Stewy cuts him off with a finger against his lips. Roman closes his eyes again, savoring the warm press of it. Settles. “Shh. It’s okay, Rome. It’s okay,” Stewy says, gentle and guiding. Kind. “I want to, Roman. I’ve got you. Let me. Please.”

The world tilting on its axis, everything falling apart, Roman leans down and presses his lips to Stewy’s. He lets out a shuddery gasp at the warm softness of him and relaxes into it, eyes flying open at the overbearing sensation.

He was still high, for sure, but this–

Roman had kissed girls before, of course he had, and it always felt slimy, like being forced to lick a fish. It always makes his stomach swoop like he was having a falling dream, and his mind always fucked off for the hills, like it could run away from what was happening and Roman wouldn't have to feel it. Roman never kisses his short-lived girlfriends unless he sees paparazzi nearby–and the kisses he'd grinned and beared had certainly never been like this, hot and warm and slick in the best way, lighting a fire in his stomach, making his skin go shivery and sensitive all over.

Every time Stewy’s stubble drags across Roman’s cheek, Roman feels so light headed he thinks he might faint. Stewy slips him some tongue, gentlemanly about it, and Roman moans, the sound echoing between their mouths, and–

Roman knows he is never coming back from this, not ever. He’ll always want this–he needs it so bad he can’t think, brain full of the drag of Stewy’s skin and the smell of his shampoo and how perfectly their mouths slot together. Stewy holds him so tightly against his body that it leaves no room for shame.

Roman’s brain is offline, so Stewy does the thinking for both of them. Effortlessly, he slides his hands under Roman’s arms and lifts, flipping him gently, back pressing into the soft give of the couch. Stewy follows with his body instantly, pressing Roman down so heavy and hot, dragging their lips back together. Roman groans and thrusts up into it, pure sensation chasing.

When his brain catches up to what’s going on, it goes haywire–Stewy's holding him down, touching Roman with every inch of his body, without even having to try, without meaning to, without knowing how bad Roman wanted that exact thing. He just gives it to him, no questions asked. Roman moans, high and pathetic.

Stewy grinds down against Roman at the sound, panting, and kisses along his jaw, his neck. Roman goes crazy for it, skin singing, biting his lip to try and keep the whines in when Stewy starts to suck right where his neck meets his shoulder. Roman can hear his own gasps, little half-sobs squealing out–they ring in his ears like they belong to someone else, another guy living some other life. It can’t be him; he’s still wearing his briefs.

“Fuck, Rome,” Stewy mutters, half-crazed. “You’re so hard,” and Roman is, dick slick and pressing insistently against his briefs, dark blue fabric hiding the wet spot. Stewy kisses down his neck again and rolls their hips together, grinning like a shark when Roman gurgles at the feeling. He envelopes Roman’s cheek with one hand, brushing his lips with his thumb, eyes glazed and starry, cataloging Roman’s whole face. Roman flushes, dropping his gaze. 

Stewy pulls back, more to let air into his lungs than anything else, a fucking trail of spit connecting their bruised lips. At the sight of it, Roman goes crazy –seizing up to chase it, to close the gap, writhing and pushing futilely against Stewy's weight as his nails scrabble over Stewy’s back.

Stewy laughs like it’s been wrung out of him and reaches for the nearly-empty baggie on the table. Practiced and efficient, he takes a bump off his own hand, and offers some to Roman with an eyebrow raised in challenge.

Roman inhales, deep, holds eye contact as he takes it in. Stewy laughs disbelievingly, shoving him back down, gentle.

He speaks like his throat is on fire. "Ro, you’re so fucking hot,” he says reverently, brushing at Roman’s puffy mouth with his thumb. “Fuck. I don’t–you’re so. Roman.” Roman had never known Stewy to be inarticulate. 

“Yeah?” Roman croaks. He needs more. He wants to drown in it.

“Yes, baby,” Stewy replies, voice husky and low, rolling off the tongue like it costs nothing, and Roman’s eyes roll back in his head as he humps up like an animal, seeking friction, dick spurting precome. Oh fuck. 

The aftershocks of that baby roll through his system until he’s delirious, gasping for air. He can feel how hard Stewy is for him, the exhilarating warmth of him, his body a tense line from the effort of holding himself back from humping Roman’s body until they both come in their underwear. Stewy’s shushing him, gentle, kissing down his neck and across the tip of his ear, big hands roving over Roman’s body, touching everywhere but the place that it matters.

Roman wants, and wants, and wants. He wants things that he has no name for.

Stewy sits back and reaches out first, knowing Roman can't, won't. Roman’s whole body jolts in pure relief at the sensation of Stewy’s hand covering his little dick fully, rubbing him slowly through his briefs. It feels good, and he tries to moan into it, to surge up–

But it isn’t–it’s like–

His mind goes blank before he can finish that sentence. He freezes, fucking obvious; he doesn’t dare breathe, not unless he wants Stewy to notice how it hitches and catches. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not this. Roman wants to want–he wants to be good, but his brain is backfiring like an old car, spluttering oil and smoke everywhere. Roman can feel himself slipping away from the warmth and heat and sweat and into somewhere cold, sterile. Safe.

Stewy allows Roman to go through it for all of five seconds before moving his hand from Roman’s dick back to cradle his face. "Oh, Rome," Stewy says, gentle and a little pitying, like Roman had just crawled into his bed, crying about a nightmare.

Stewy rubs little soft circles against his cheek, saving him. Roman isn’t sure if Stewy knows from what, doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Roman still can’t move. "It's okay, sweetheart,” Stewy says, and it’s gentle, too, not a trace of temper in his voice. Sweetheart. Roman’s dick gets impossibly harder; there's no blood left in the rest of his body, his heart faltering for a second. "We don't have to. Whatever you want."

Roman doesn’t look at him, but he doesn't move, either. He just lays there and pants harshly, like an overworked dog in desperate need of water. 

“Do you want to stop?” Stewy asks softly. When Roman doesn’t answer, Stewy kisses his cheek once and sits up all the way, pulling their bodies apart. Roman makes a low noise of protest, and Stewy smiles, a little sad.

"We can stop, Ro. Yeah? It’s okay. No worries, man. You’re fine.”

Stewy says it so casually. It’s the best and worst thing he could’ve ever said to Roman, and stupid tears spring to Roman’s eyes. He surges up, wrapping his arms around Stewy’s shoulders, burying his face in Stewy’s neck like it's a grave. He’s trembling so hard he can feel the vibration under Stewy’s skin. His fingers scrabble for purchase, for a hold, chewed up fingernails leaving ragged half-moons in Stewy’s back.

Roman breathes, and clings, and doesn’t move, and takes something he doesn’t deserve. God, he’s such a fucking loser. He should pull back, wipe his eyes, go lay face down in the pool, get busy regretting this for the rest of his life. He should.

But Roman is who he is, and he can't help but love the warm expanse of muscles rippling under Stewy's back, the way his chest hair scratches against Roman every time Roman inhales, the way Stewy strokes his hair gently and patiently. The way his little nipples dig into Roman’s flesh and Stewy plants a kiss against his temples. 

Roman doesn't know how to tell Stewy how much he wants.

Roman rolls his hips experimentally. God, they're both so hard. Roman focuses on taking deep breaths in, not caring how broken they come out. Stewy’s neck smells like sweat, but not bad sweat, the kind you want to lick up from the ground. 

Stewy, clearly not in any hurry to force Roman to speak, isn’t any help in turning Roman's perverted little thoughts into words. Roman can’t –it was like, if he said things like this out loud, there’s no way he wouldn’t get struck by lightning or beaten to death with hammers or dragged to hell instantly. 

Roman’s thinking so loud, so fast and racing, Stewy can probably hear the gears of his brain straining. But Stewy just strokes his hair and holds him, lets him get through it, not demanding anything.

The world is nothing but electric heat and euphoria as Roman comes up. Roman wishes Stewy would be rougher, make him move–Roman is grateful beyond words for his gentleness. Fuck, Roman is so overheated and overstimulated and scared and horny and hard. 

He has to try. He owes it to himself. “I want. Um. Can I–?” Roman gets out, and he humps against Stewy again, reminding him how wet he'd gotten from just kissing, like that alone could finish the sentence.

Stewy hums, considering, and shows mercy. He wraps a warm, slick palm around Roman’s hand and moves it to cover his own cock.

Roman moans, broken and loud. Stewy shudders at the sound.

“You want to feel me, Rome?” Stewy whispers, bucking up into Roman’s palm, still holding Roman’s hand there. He’s still being sweet, giving Roman space, but his voice is strangled when it comes out. He wants, too, unable to hide his desire under all of his casual mid-twenties nonchalance.

Stewy is big, pressing needily against his palm. Roman has dreamed about this since he was ten, fuck. Roman moans again and moves his fingers, feeling him out, learning the soft curve of the tip, the warmth and wetness there.

“Fuck. You want to try?” Stewy whispers against the side of his face, flexing his hips up again. Roman doesn’t pull his hand away, even when Stewy drops his grip. “I want you to, Ro, if you do,” and that’s all Roman needs, the starting gun fired into the air.

“Yes, fuck, oh god,” Roman gasps, too far gone too be embarrassed about it, and he scrabbles at the elastic of Stewy’s boxers like he’s going to die if he doesn’t touch his cock right then. Roman wants to hold it in his hand, feel it get wet against his palm. Feel the proof of how much Stewy wants him.

Suddenly, the weight of what they're about to do feels ike a plane crashing into a tower. Total destruction. World changing. God, they're going to fuck right there on the couch in his mother’s favorite vacation house–Roman supposes it would be worse, if he could remember Caroline or Shiv in here. Logan.

But he doesn’t, can’t, and Roman doesn’t even know when he’ll be here again after this Spring Break. He’s dimly aware that for the rest of his life, whenever someone mentions this house, he’ll remember nothing else but how needy and whimpering and sweaty he was on his back on this couch. A sacred site, honoring his transformation into the thing Logan feared most.

“Fuck yeah, touch it, take me out,” Stewy babbles against Roman’s ear, snapping him back. Roman swallows thickly, pushing weakly at Stewy’s boxers, and Stewy doesn’t need words from him this time, just holds Roman tight as he shimmies his boxers down to his knees, granting Roman full access. 

Like Roman’s nothing but a little doll, he repositions them, getting comfortable, motioning for Roman to sprawl in his lap and rub his dick against Stewy’s thigh. Oh hell yeah.

“Lick your hand, Roman, get it wet for me,” Stewy whispers, his hands falling to Roman’s hips, holding him down again. Roman makes eye contact, heated and sparking, as he drags his tongue across his own palm, delighting in the way Stewy’s eyes dilate again, how his breathing picks up. Roman wants to tuck his face into Stewy’s neck, the warm safety of it, but can’t tear his eyes away as he drops his palm to Stewy’s cock. 

It’s like being reborn: Stewy is so big and hot and hard against his little hand, thrusting up without meaning to. His skin is velvety, so hot it burns; he’s hard enough to cut diamonds, drooling from the tip. All for Roman. 

Roman watches himself move with sick fascination as he brushes his thumb across the slit, gathering the wetness there, bringing it to his lips to taste, and Stewy moans. Roman shudders against him, feels his mouth start to water. 

His blood is singing so loud he can almost hear it. Every inch of Roman’s body is going off like a firecracker, sensitive and burning and feeling. Roman occupied his body, the present moment, he’d never been able to do before, just a being of pure sensation and motion and energy. 

Stewy was better than coke and weed and acid and five million dollars. Touching him was better than jumping into the pool on a hot summer’s day, or doing something wrong and not getting caught. It was–

Stewy whines a little bit, clearly impatient, and Roman snaps out of it, a little ashamed at himself for waxing poetic about dick. Just one more thing to regret about tonight, but he doesn't let his mind get stuck there, can't. Stewy's dick is dripping into his palm, and Roman moves. The earth splits open.

Roman marvels at the first slow drag of their skin together, his own spit smoothing the way. He jerks Stewy slowly, experimentally; he wants to take his time, catalog every inch of it, come back to it in his dreams. Stewy thrusts up into his hand and bumps his nose into Roman’s, kissing him breathlessly. 

The sound of Stewy’s cock moving against his fingers, the smooth slickness of it, rings in Roman’s ears. Stewy’s breathing masks how Roman’s inhales were catching on little breathy, needy groans.

Stewy breaks their kiss, moaning loud. He drops his head back against the couch with a full body shudder. “So good, Ro. Fuck. Do you even know–” he cuts off, strangled, like he’d said too much and knows it.

Roman’s hand starts moving faster, faster, lavishing attention on the head, tracing the vein with his thumb. “What? What,” Roman begs, slutty about it and Stewy just moans again, thrusts up again. Roman moves torturously slow, eyes roaming every inch of Stewy’s face. Committing him to memory. Waiting.

Finally, Roman gets what he was hoping for. “Little faster,” Stewy instructs, voice guiding, like Stewy's draped over his back, teaching him how to use a pool stick. At the thought of it–Stewy teaching him–Roman thrusts hard against Stewy’s thigh, whining at the rough friction of it, at how close he already was. He’s barely been touched–but he’s good, follows orders, speeds up.

“Yeah. Good, baby, you’re doing good,” Stewy mumbles, instant gratification, eyes squeezing shut, tossing his head back. Roman watches the bob of his Adam’s apple like it’s a bomb going off, marvels at how much spit he keeps swallowing. An old fantasy crawls out of its grave, smacks Roman hard enough to make his ears ring– he wants Stewy to spit in his mouth so badly he thinks the weight of his desire will kill him.

The thought of it is enough–he starts riding Stewy’s thigh in earnest, tucking his face back into Stewy’s neck, breathing him in. Pathetic little whines, like a puppy scratching at the door, keep dribbling from his lips as he drags his cock back and forth across Stewy’s thigh in time with the motion of his hand on Stewy’s cock. 

God, it’s so fucking good. The rough bunching of the fabric of his briefs is nearly punishing; it pins him there like a butterfly, keeping him from going off too quick. Roman’s a fast learner, already knows that some pain with his pleasure is making him last, making it good for both of them.

Stewy’s hands come down to grip Roman’s hips, hard and bruising, as he moves Roman against his own thigh, speeding up his little humps. “Rome, fuck,” he cries out, loud enough to carry through the hall. Roman whimpers and licks Stewy’s neck, bites down lightly. 

Stewy’s voice spills out in a rush, deranged, no logic, just pure fucking confession. “I wanted this, I wanted you,” he says, like the words aren’t a bullet that rips clean through Roman’s heart forever, changing him permanently. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Roman cries, speeding up, humping and pumping in double time. Stewy doesn’t have a chance to keep talking before Roman’s begging for the rest of it, so damn needy–

“Tell me,” he pleads, his voice as high as it could possibly go, watering and wavering. He’s so fucking embarassed, mouth running of its own accord, stomach twisting shamefully like he’d been caught playing outside Logan’s office again. “Tell me, tell me, tell me,” he demands, more half-sobs than words, and Stewy goes crazy for it, flexing his thigh, giving Roman something harder to thrust against.

Stewy leans his head up, breathing right in Roman’s fucking ear, delighting in his little shiver. Roman isn’t the only faster learner in the room. “I knew, I knew you were–that you liked men,” Stewy confesses, like Roman’s body is a priest, and Roman strokes him harder with every word, “and the way you looked at me–and I wanted you, and you’re good, I knew it, fuck, fuck. I’m close, Rome, I’m gonna–”

Tears well up in Roman’s eyes. He’s so overstimulated, every touch like a cattle prod against his sensitive skin. His balls are so tight–he wants–but the only thing that matters to him, right now, is not coming, keeping Stewy like this. “Can I, can I,” Roman begs, not able to stop thrusting his hips, not even knowing what he’s asking for. 

Stewy, with the willpower of a fucking saint, grabs Roman’s hand, stilling him. Stewy’s panting loudly with the effort of it; Roman whimpers at the way Stewy’s fingers wrap fully around his wrist, gripping tight.

“Can you what, baby?” Stewy asks, gentle but demanding, and Roman’s cock spurts again. He writhes against Stewy, moaning so loud in the still morning air. Fuck, fuck.

He reaches blindly for Stewy’s cock again, beyond rational thought, but Stewy holds his wrist in place, waits for him to speak. Ugh, not this again. Roman thrusts against his thigh, shuddering at the good hurt of it.

Roman knows better, now, than to wait Stewy out. “Can I–I’ve always wanted–I want to–suck it, but I don’t–” he blurts out, cheeks flushing with shame, full on crying now, so far gone, the hard plane of Stewy’s leg the only real thing in the world.

Stewy sucks in a long breath and holds it, closes his eyes as he breathes.

Roman reads it wrong, wriggles some more, buries his face in Stewy’s neck in embarrassment. “Please,” Roman says weakly. His words come out in a jumbled ragged mess against Stewy’s skin. “Please, Stewy, please let me–”

“Oh, fuck,” Stewy says, breathless. “Roman. God. Of course, of course you can–”

Roman feels braver now that he doesn’t have to look. He rocks his hips faster, reveling in the sharp spicy heat of shame sparking in his belly, and dares mouth to work. “You have to tell me, you have–I don’t, I haven’t. Show me,” he whines, and Stewy slides his hand up to the back of Roman’s head, sparing Roman from finishing, pulls at his hair, sends a little sting of pain shivering down Roman’s spine.

“Ro, you’re so fuckin’–,” Stewy says, laughing like someone’s knocked the wind out of him. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay–” and before Roman knows it, Stewy pushes him off his lap gently, sending him sprawling against the floor, good-wincing at the way his cock drags on the edge of the couch as he goes down. Roman settles on his knees and blinks up at Stewy, letting his mouth fall open, and waits for guidance. 

Pliable. Obedient. Good.

The tile is cold against his bare knees, a stinging point of relief from the smothering heat and sweat of their bodies. Roman pushes futilely at his bangs, gazing up at Stewy from his knees, his eyes catching on Stewy’s hazy eyes and flushed cheeks, the way his leaking, red cock is snapped up against his belly. All for him, all because of him. He nuzzles his face into Stewy’s thigh, gasping. He feels better than he ever had in his entire life, like he belongs down here. His head swims, blissful emptiness. Fuck.

Stewy pets at his face with shaking hands, uncoordinated and wild, and smiles down at him, admiration dripping off all of his features.

“Okay,” he says decisively, like he’s worked up to it, sliding his hand back into Roman’s hair, gripping steady. “Open your mouth, baby,” and Roman salivates, mouth dropping open instantly like he’s remote-controlled. Stewy groans at the sight of it, guiding him down with a gentle hand on the back of his head until Roman’s dick-to-eye. 

Roman closes his eyes, tries to breathe–Stewy smells good down here, like sweat and heat and salt and man. Roman pants through his mouth, buries his face in the crook of Stewy’s thigh and huffs like he can get high off it, save some in his brain for later. Everything about Stewy is so perfectly masculine that it threatens to overwhelm him. Roman wants to taste his come so bad he feels insane, like he’d key a car or steal a million dollars or stab his brother in the back just for a chance at it.

Stewy shushes Roman like he can read his mind, his fingers twitching in Roman’s hair. He leaves Roman to his own devices, scratching his scalp mindlessly as he waits, and Roman wishes–not for the first time– he’d pull, hard, force his face over to his cock, shove him down. Roman had a dream, once, just like that. The memory alone sparks life back into his body, and Roman can’t help but snake a hand down to rub at his over-sensitive dick through his briefs, shuddering and whining. 

Stewy groans at every noise, hips pumping up fruitlessly into the still air, eyes watching Roman. Always watching Roman.

Roman snaps his gaze up, big wet eyes locking with Stewy’s, and shivers. Waits for his command.

Stewy’s eyelashes flutter as he wets his lips, breathing hard. “Lick the tip,” he directs finally, fingers rubbing against the bumps of Roman’s skull. Roman hesitates, swallows, and obliges. He slips his tongue out, licking tentatively, and oh fuck, it’s good. Roman tastes pre-come, sweat and salt, a little bit of yesterday’s soap. Stewy.

It's like an absolution, the way Roman’s brain is scrambled by the heavy weight of it, like he’s a single celled organism with no higher purpose than to let Stewy thrust up into his mouth. Fuck.

Roman wants another command but isn’t patient enough to wait, closing his mouth over the head, desperate to see what it’s like with him inside. His jaw stretches against the intrusion, and he flexes his tongue mindlessly, chasing more pre-come and heat, making it wetter and hotter. Roman can’t breathe around him, and doesn’t want to. 

“Good job, Rome,” Stewy says, barely audible. “You can–move,” and Roman obeys in real time, earning a satisfied moan from Stewy, his fingers twitching more and more in his hair like he wants to pull, press down. You can, Roman thinks deliriously. You can choke me with it, you can force it down my throat, fuck, Stewy–

But he can’t speak, gagged with cock, and the realization leaves him shuddering breaths through his nose, so close to blowing it in his fucking briefs.

 Roman knows he isn’t going to last, that he can’t stave it off–so Roman takes as much of Stewy as he can, overconfident and needy. It’s too much too fast, straddling that line of goodbad that Roman is learning to draw. He gags and pulls back to his heels, wiping his mouth, winded and lost. 

Stewy pets him through it like Roman’s a good dog, runs his fingers through the mess of sweat and tears on Roman’s face and teases his wet fingers at Roman’s puffy lips. Stewy’s breathing so fucking loud that it roars in Roman’s ears. “You’re good, baby, so good,” Stewy comforts, and when Roman can clear his throat without it catching Stewy guides him back down, not asking this time. Stewy's learning what he liked, what he needed. 

Roman can’t think about that, just closes his eyes and stretches his lips out, shaking at how full he feels. “Watch your teeth, that’s it, oh yeah, oh," Stewy says, hips jerking up unconsciously, eyes scrunched up, helping Roman train his throat. Fuck, Roman thinks, drunk and dazed, it’s like getting faggot lessons from your hottest professor, and Roman’s cheeks flame as he gurgles around Stewy, so needy and wet.

“Roman, Rome, fuck yeah, oh,” Stewy chokes out, and Roman’s floating high on the praise, like they’re back in the club snorting lines. Every moan and press of fingers and gentle encouragement feels like a knife twisting in Roman’s gut, the spark of his desire spinning out into wildfire. Roman’s frantic, now, beyond need, jerking his dick as fast as he can, moaning around the fullness in his mouth, choking but not pulling back, and he’s so close, he’s–

As if they were one organism of sensation, Stewy gasps, “I’m close, I’m gonna, can I–,” and Roman shudders, full-body, and sits back on his heels. Wipes at his face. Wills his lungs to work again. 

“Um,” Roman says, starting at how rough his voice comes out, how used he already sounds. He breathes through his nose and fists his fingers around Stewy’s knees, fighting off the urge to chase more of it, deeper, see how bruised he can get his throat.

Roman can’t look at Stewy as he says it, but it comes out anyways. He wants.“Uh. I want you to–pleasefuckme,” he says, and it comes out like a beg, small and needy. He makes his eyes as wide as imploring as he can muster, blinking back tears as he waits for Stewy to oblige.

Stewy reaches down and grips his own dick, hard, groaning with the effort of not busting right there. “Oh, Ro-Ro,” he says, truly breathless, looking at Roman like he’s the eighth wonder of the gay world. Stewy reaches for Roman, touching everywhere that his fingers can reach, uncoordinated, pure affection. “We can’t, baby. We don’t even have lube.”

Roman–God forgive him–pouts, cheeks hot, stomach clenching. It hurts, to be told no. He bites his lip to keep it from wavering, eyes trailing down to the floor. He curls over himself, protective, feeling faintly sick.

Stewy groans and pets at Roman's face frantically, thumb catching on his lips. “Look at me–it's not like that, Rome–I. I want you like that, fuck, I do.” Roman isn’t convinced, won’t meet Stewy’s imploring gaze, just rubs at his own arms. It's cold and lonely on the floor, all of a sudden.

“Fuck. I just–there’s prep, and, I’ll show you, okay? Yeah? Next time, next time,” Stewy half-begs, voice cut through with that you gotta believe me, man lilt, and it's too much–the thought of next time, Stewy showing him how–and Roman almost chokes himself out, straining the muscles in his neck as he scrambles to get Stewy back in his mouth.

The hot heavy weight of Stewy’s dick in his mouth is finally enough, enough. With one soft touch to his own cock, Roman goes off like a geyser against his own palm, coming so hard in his little briefs that they’d be ruined forever, not fit for the help to wash.

Roman wails as he comes, brain going completely white with pleasure, and he accidentally takes Stewy deeper, gagging on him, black spots blooming in his vision as the tension of the evening explodes out of him. It's like a star becoming a sun, or snorting 17 lines of coke and trying to kill the President, or winning the lottery. It's Roman fucked into full occupation of his body, every nerve in his body on fire as he shakes and rides it out.

It's like Roman letting himself be who he is, without remorse.

“Fuck, Roman, Ro,” Stewy swears, and then he’s going off, too, spilling into Roman’s mouth. It’s hot, and warm, and thick. Intoxicating. Roman, brainless and needy, swallows it down, what he can’t take spilling from his lips and running down his chin. He pulls back, gasping, and drops his head to Stewy’s thigh, nuzzling in. He’s nearly hyperventilating. 

He feels filthy. He feels like a whore. He feels like a fag. He feels like God. He feels good.

“Thank you," Roman says, voice hollow, eyes wide, head empty. It seemed like the only thing left to say. He’s so dizzy, so satisfied, nothing left to him but happy chemicals and a body put to good use.

Stewy shudders on an inhale like he’s been shot and pulls Roman up into his lap, clutching desperately at his back, holding him, pressing Roman into his chest. His hands roam over Roman’s body, like he's trying to commit every inch of him to memory. 

“Roman, ” Stewy says, “Rome,” and Roman buries his face into him, his way of saying yeah, so far beyond words. Their breaths sync up, ragged and loud in the empty room, as they try and fail to come down. 

Stewy just holds him there, safe and small against his chest, for the longest time. Roman’s legs go buzzy from being folded in half, he doesn’t dare complain–can’t think of the word, doesn't want to be the first one to pull away, to end things. A little noise of discontent slips out anyway, and without saying anything, Stewy wraps a warm arm across Roman’s back and shifts them so that Roman can sprawl his legs out on the couch, rest his head in Stewy’s lap. God.  A guy could get used to this.

Stewy plays idly with his hair, scratching his blunt little nails lightly over Roman’s soft baby hairs. He yawns. It echoes, so loud in the quiet. It was like a bomb had gone off and they were standing in the rubble, trying to hear through ringing ears.

“That was great, Rome,” Stewy says, voice slurring with sleep. "Did you–"

“Yeah,” Roman mumbles, turning his face so he could bury it in Stewy’s happy trail. Nuzzling, maybe. There are no words for this kind of becoming, could barely think through every inch of his spine tingling with pure euphoria. 

Roman isn’t the most experienced kid on the block, but he’s pretty sure Stewy would be legally obligated to mercy kill him if he told the truth, which is that right now, Roman is feeling happier than he's ever been in his entire life. He leaves it at yeah, hopes Stewy can fill in the gaps.

Stewy hums and doesn’t press, just goes on petting him. Roman can barely see his face but from what he can tell, Stewy’s eyes have slid shut, and his breathing is evening out. The situation in Roman’s briefs is starting to be an international crisis, but Roman would sooner cut his own dick off than move, just now. Roman nestles, greedy with it, wanting to savor every single gentle touch before he's shooed away.

“M’gonna sleep here. So tired,” Stewy says, voice drawn out and low with exhaustion. “You staying, Ro-Ro?”

 Roman’s heart soars.

“Mmm,” Roman responds, and kisses Stewy’s belly button as he shifts, gets more comfortable. Stewy makes a pleased little noise, so Roman does it again, always quick to find the pleasure button and smash it until his head explodes.

Stewy rewards him for his sweetness with one last pet to his hair, sliding down to rest his head against the back of the couch.

“Hey, Stewy,” Roman says, voice soft and exhausted, words half unintelligible as he mumbles into Stewy’s body. His mind is halfway to sleep but it feels important, like a chance he’d be stupid to waste. “Does Kendall know–about you?”

Stewy doesn’t answer, just makes a soft noise and brushes a thumb over Roman’s neck. “Sleep good, Ro,” Stewy says quietly, and Roman wants so badly to know, but his body wins out in the end. The gentle rise and fall of Stewy’s breaths pull him down into a pure, deep, all-consuming sleep.

–

It’s pure bliss, those first two seconds when he first wakes up. Stewy is a warm, sticky, grounding presence under him, and Roman can’t help but nuzzle into it. He forgot how nice it is, sharing a bed with someone else–he hasn’t felt safe in the morning like this since he was little, Shiv snuggling against his chest in their bed.

Like a tornado siren screeching over a busted radio, Roman slowly registers Stewy’s voice, panicked and crackling and loud. “Roman,” Stewy says right his ear, bent double to whisper it directly to him. His voice is shot through with fear, urgency, as he shakes Roman. Roman's insides jostle sickly. Their skin is painfully fused together with dried sweat, proof of life. When Roman doesn’t respond, Stewy hisses rudely against his eardrum, sparking a shot of pain through Roman’s brain. “Ro-Ro, man, get the fuck up.”

“Whh?” Roman asks intelligently, lifting his head up a little, blinking into the late afternoon light, flopping his tongue around in his disgustingly dry mouth. Stewy’s so warm, a soothing line of comfort that’s almost suffocating, and Roman hopes it kills him, nuzzling back into it and waiting to pass out again. His head’s pounding, and Roman has no interest in knowing why or trying to fix it or remembering the bulk of last night. He just wants to lay here, forever, in this half-dream, where he’s sprawled across the lap of someone who wants him to be there.

"Shh," Roman says, squeezing his eyes shut, reaching blindly to wrap his arms around Stewy’s back and pull him closer.

Stewy shakes him again. more forcefully this time. His eyes rattle around in his aching skull.

“Ro,” Stewy says, his voice severe, not in a sexy way. As Roman blinks the gunk out of his eyes, trying to come back to it, he can hear Stewy’s heart thumping. Roman’s stomach sinks, like they’ve just been caught on a security camera with the bag of money in their hands, sirens screaming from up the street.

Roman cracks open an eye, starts to sit up, but it’s not fast enough–Stewy pulls him up all the way, yanking too hard against Roman’s wrist, bringing them face to face. Roman blinks against his cheek, eyelashes spilling over Stewy’s face. Thinks about going in for a kiss, and then:

“I can hear Kendall in the other room, bro, we can talk later,” Stewy says, his eyes wide and terrified. Spooked horse. Stewy doesn’t wait for a reply, pushing him softly away. Still being gentle, even now. “You have to go, man, fuck–”

Roman’s brain overheats, sizzles, and catches fire. “Oh shit,” he says, scrambling up so fast that he falls ass-backwards off the couch, smashing against the floor like a broken toy. “Oh shit.”  His stomach clenches nauseatingly; he casts his gaze around wildly for his clothes, pulling anxiously at his hair. He feels vaguely seasick, like his legs might collapse underneath him. It’s too much too fast, and he’s so naked, covered in come–

"Where's our–?" Roman whispers frantically, shredding his cuticles as he whirls, around trying to find even a single shirt to pull over himself. Stewy’s standing up and pacing around, too, looking frantic, struggling to get his boxers up, buck ass naked otherwise. He’s flushed from ear to toe, hair fucked, a mark blossoming on his neck in the shape of Roman’s mouth. Roman wishes he had time to enjoy the view.

“No time, Ro, go,” Stewy commands, voice of steel, and Roman obeys one last time. He takes off running, kicking the wine bottle against the leg of the coffee table and hearing it crash, skittering into the hallway, half-colliding with the housekeepers, wearing nothing but his crusty, sticky, ruined briefs. Roman doesn’t even have time to apologize, just barely slides past the base, umpire calling out safe as he slams the door behind him, Kendall waltzing into the room just seconds later.

Roman's pulse is racing so loud. He leans his head against the door, pants, and listens to the end of the world.

"Long night, Stew?" he hears Kendall joke, a happy, friendly sound. "You bring somebody back?"

"Yeah," Stewy says, smooth with it. Roman can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “You feeling better, man?” 

The warm yellow light in here is burning Roman’s eyes like the surface of the sun, and the door is cold and unforgiving against Roman's shoulder as he shoves into it. Roman feels like he’s the last line of defense against the zombie horde, trying desperately to keep the door closed, keep them at bay.

"My man," Kendall says, and the loud sound of a clap on the shoulder echoes. The shoulder Roman had pushed his face into, just few hours ago, as he got himself off against Stewy’s leg like a dog. Fuck.

Roman can hear them talking like they always do and deflates a little, sniffling and shaking his head, trying to breathe quietly. His stomach hurts so fucking bad, his hands are shaking like crazy. His head pounds with one his top five personal worst hangovers. He’s a goddamn mess. 

Trying to distract himself, he peeks around the bathroom, taking stock of his environment. His eyes catch on a makeup bag, sat primly on the edge of the sink, next to one of Caroline's perfume bottles. Still full, like it was left here not too long ago.

"Rome asleep?" he hears Kendall ask. Roman tries to swallow around the sick roll of panic in this throat from hearing his name.

"Think so," Stewy replies, voice even and cool. Roman could stand to learn a thing or two from him, about lying to Kendall. The conversation drifts–Roman starts to breathe–and then:

"This is Roman's shirt," Kendall says, voice far away, hard to make out. Roman must've flung his shirt pretty good last night. "The kid is always leaving his shit everywhere," and Roman fucking bites down on his fist, leaving a mark, fighting his better instinct to scream, to burst down the door, to get on his knees and plead to be spared.

Roman waits, and waits, and waits, trapped in the cage of the bathroom, feeling like a tornado is bearing down and he's praying to be passed over. Roman hears something unintelligible, an awkward laugh. And then, at last, like someone shattering a glass at a restaurant, it cuts clean through. His big brother’s voice, curious and instantly suspicious.

“And his pants?”

Silence. Horrible silence. Roman covers his mouth, panting like a deer waiting for the mercy kill, squeezes his hand in his own hair and pulls back, using pain to blunt the scream building in his throat. 

Like listening to a train wreck, Roman hears his brother add two and two and get four.

“You sick fuck,” Kendall says, furious. A snarl more than anything. Roman knows, from the spectacular way it shatters, that Kendall's thrown something against a wall. Only his brother could get that angry that fast.

Roman can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe–he catches a glimpse of himself in the corner of the mirror–and there it is, a huge purple mark, like a fucking scarlet letter, blooming over his collarbone. He’s covered in his own dried mess, eyes sunken in and hollow, sweat building in the hollow of his throat. He grips the edge of the sink, shaking, covering his face to block out the image, nose streaming. He tries and narrowly avoids throwing up Stewy's fucking come into the pristine white sink.

“It’s not what you think,” Stewy hedges, and his voice wavers, fucks the whole thing. Roman’s heart shatters with a terrifying crack.

Something else breaks. Roman wonders if it’s one of the family photos, the TV.

“It better fucking not be, after what he went through,” Kendall barks, in that deep, dark, commandeering tone he learned to copy from Logan, and that’s it, Roman is full on crying, big heaving ugly sobs that gurgle out of him like he’s dying, loud and damning, echoing off the tiles of the bathroom.

He’s so fucking fucked. The jig is up; anyone on the first floor of the house can hear the pathetic, useless way Roman is bawling into his fist, all his fear spilling out of him like a pressure washer, sounding for all the world like a baby at a funeral. He can’t stop sobbing–Kendall doesn’t know one thing about it, how dare he, oh God–he’s gonna know–Dad –

Roman lets out a genuine whimper at the thought and crumples over, panting. This can’t be happening, he can’t breathe, fuck, fuck —

“Roman!” Kendall shouts, too close. From the other side of the door. “Fuck, Rome,” he’s saying, jiggling the doorknob, and from where he's collapsed on the floor Roman watches it move, feels a sick, sick lurch in his throat. “Roman, open this door right the fuck now,” Kendall demands, and Roman can’t stop crying–he can’t move, he can’t fucking see, but it’s not locked, he forgot–

The door opens a crack, reveals Kendall’s red, blotchy, infuriated face. Roman gasps, skitters back against the wall, tries to cover himself up before Kendall sees the worst of it, hides behind his hands like a scared little boy.

It doesn’t save him. Never does.

Kendall inhales in shock when he lays eyes on him. “Oh, Roman,” he says, like Roman broke something again and Kendall caught him sweeping it up, and that’s it, Roman scrambles to his feet and barely makes it to the sink, gagging horribly, throat burning with shame and bile.

Staff members have run up from the hall, peering in the door in concern, wondering what mess Roman’s made for them to clean up. Watching the fall of Rome.

Roman drops his head to the unforgiving porcelain with a sick thunk. Kendall reaches out and touches his shoulder, gripping hard, nothing like Stewy's tender careeses from earlier.

Roman knows, panting around the snot in his throat, that the torture has just begun.

It is going to be a very long week.