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timetobuttonmashkendall/roman. three instances of pillow not-really-talks. a haunting takes place, and no one asks the ghost to politely leave.
1998 / sugary sweet is the scent of his doom
Belladonna kisses pepper his cheek, as Kendall falls into that strange space between unconsciousness and wake. He holds Roman in his arms as the sun rises and shines through their thousand dollar Schumacher curtains. It warms his heart a little to know that Rome, even subconsciously, does not leave his brother’s embrace. From sunset to sunrise, they have been together, touching skin to skin. Kendall does not stir- an illusion of sleep, letting Roman ghost his lips over his chin.
Roman’s not often the bearer of his own brand of sugar, little brother of shin-kicking that he is, and so this momentary sweetness is a rare treat. Kendall would be a fool to squander it.
Last night, Rome came running to him (always him, in the end) with deep reddish mottled pain written up and down his arms. He gave Kendall the privilege of rocking him to sleep, and Kendall gladly obliged. He would massage his fingers into those ruptured capillaries under all that ugly hurt, and maybe Rome would curl into the pain, closer into his brother where he could feel safe. From his father, from a body that did not act as he wished, and from a hostile world. Perhaps Roman might fall into a decent night of rest, comforted in their nest of blankets, pillows, like a little spring lamb.
And if Kendall’s mouth waters, just in the slightest, at the smell of that blood, seeping in streams just beneath the surface, he does not let it show.
There is a knocking at the doors. They are content, however, and do not answer.
2001 / there have always been ghosts in this house
After dinner, Roman’s crawled into bed with him, clinging to him again like ritual in a way he won’t ever admit in the light of day.
“Still can’t eat in front of mom? Figures.” Roman quips, and Kendall answers with silence.
A few beats pass.
“Spooky, huh? I don’t think we’ve been here since we were six.”
Roman apparently continues this train of thought by incessantly poking at Kendall’s chest.
“Dude, what the fuck is this?”
Kendall looks at him, baffled.
“Oh, now I get a reaction. Stop looking at me like that. You look like a virgin seeing dick for the first time.”
So, Kendall looks. Roman’s finger has landed on a raised bit of flesh near his ribcage, paler than the surrounding skin, and a bit number to Roman’s touch than the rest of his body.
“Uh. I don’t know, man. Maybe I fell off my bike as a kid?”
“You would remember that though?” Roman prods more. “It looks pretty old.”
“Jesus, Rome. Stop picking at it. It’ll reopen or something and then I’ll bleed all over my high thread count sheets.”
“Okay. fine.” Roman squints at him again, definitely continuing to pick at it. This is a puzzle, he might be thinking, and he must solve it. And so Roman’s fingertips push, pressing into him like there’s something he’s trying to find. Kendall’s flank aches in an absence, and a strange nausea washes over him. There is a sense of terrifying emptiness, all consuming, that makes his rabbit heart want to bolt from where he lays and never return.
If he presses more, Kendall thinks, Roman would expose to the air slick-red flesh, undulating with every contraction of his diaphragm in an ugly, awful way. It’s fragile there, maybe, the layers of fat just thinner, parting like the sea. The absence is a yawning chasm going to chew him into pieces alive. In the corner of his eye, he catches that the plaster might be bleeding too.
“Are you sure you have all your ribs? Like have you ever actually went and. counted them or something?”
Roman’s voice is an intruder from another world. Kendall snaps out of his mind, and returns to his lanky limbs, the sheets underneath their backs, and he is here again with his brother.
“That’s fucked up, man. I, uh, don’t usually think about how many ribs I have. You think the rib fairy stole it out of me when I was sleeping?” He laughs at Roman, and it rings hollow.
“Okay! I’m sorry! Sorry for poking. Uh.” Roman titters, scrabbling, then scratches the back of his head. A mutt with fleas, he looks like. “Sorry. Want me to suck your dick?”
After, when Kendall pulls Roman up by the scruff of his neck, he allows himself the indulgence of a kiss. Open-mouthed and kinda gross and bitter, but a sweet little kiss nonetheless. Dimly, he tastes himself on Roman’s tongue, and thinks of snakes and tails and meals composed of one’s own flesh.
There is a knocking at the doors. Kendall cowers, and covers his ears. It is cold and there is something out there, something watching, something that knows of the rotten thing inside him, and he hides with Roman under the covers like they are young again until it leaves, and they can breathe again. Kendall is going to be sick.
2003 / wanna come lick my wounds, baby?
“God. I cant wait to get out of this place,” Roman says between drinks. “I’m going to sunny, sunny California, where the sun shines and the wind is warm and no one’s shoving me in dog cages.”
Kendall does not grace the presence of that memory with a reaction.
As large as he talks, Roman’s drunken more than he probably should have. Kendall’s gotta drag him back home, and he’s panting and wheezing when they finally get back to their rooms. He lays his baby brother, face slack and peaceful, down on their bed. He leans ever closer, and can hear the quiet thrum of Roman’s body, working in his unconsciousness. If he puts his ear to Rome’s chest, he’ll hear the pitter-patter of that fluttering heart. Sleepy Roman breathes with sweet little kitten breaths, and smells of alcohol and something saccharine just underneath. Nights like these are to be treasured.
Kendall reaches into his jacket pocket, his vial of aspirin. Distantly, there’s the push-snap of the pill bottle from his left hand, and he'll open Roman’s lips just so slightly, pushing the pills in, holding Rome as he swallows dry enough to choke-hurt, hand close enough to feel the bone of his Adam’s apple bob. Roman gags in his sleep, and Kendall covers his mouth and shushes him again, little whistles through his teeth, petting his hair. He thinks, when they are done, maybe then a part of Kendall will be with Roman always.
There is a knocking at the doors. Kendall Roy stares straight ahead, and does not answer.
1998 / sugary sweet is the scent of his doom
Belladonna kisses pepper his cheek, as Kendall falls into that strange space between unconsciousness and wake. He holds Roman in his arms as the sun rises and shines through their thousand dollar Schumacher curtains. It warms his heart a little to know that Rome, even subconsciously, does not leave his brother’s embrace. From sunset to sunrise, they have been together, touching skin to skin. Kendall does not stir- an illusion of sleep, letting Roman ghost his lips over his chin.
Roman’s not often the bearer of his own brand of sugar, little brother of shin-kicking that he is, and so this momentary sweetness is a rare treat. Kendall would be a fool to squander it.
Last night, Rome came running to him (always him, in the end) with deep reddish mottled pain written up and down his arms. He gave Kendall the privilege of rocking him to sleep, and Kendall gladly obliged. He would massage his fingers into those ruptured capillaries under all that ugly hurt, and maybe Rome would curl into the pain, closer into his brother where he could feel safe. From his father, from a body that did not act as he wished, and from a hostile world. Perhaps Roman might fall into a decent night of rest, comforted in their nest of blankets, pillows, like a little spring lamb.
And if Kendall’s mouth waters, just in the slightest, at the smell of that blood, seeping in streams just beneath the surface, he does not let it show.
There is a knocking at the doors. They are content, however, and do not answer.
2001 / there have always been ghosts in this house
After dinner, Roman’s crawled into bed with him, clinging to him again like ritual in a way he won’t ever admit in the light of day.
“Still can’t eat in front of mom? Figures.” Roman quips, and Kendall answers with silence.
A few beats pass.
“Spooky, huh? I don’t think we’ve been here since we were six.”
Roman apparently continues this train of thought by incessantly poking at Kendall’s chest.
“Dude, what the fuck is this?”
Kendall looks at him, baffled.
“Oh, now I get a reaction. Stop looking at me like that. You look like a virgin seeing dick for the first time.”
So, Kendall looks. Roman’s finger has landed on a raised bit of flesh near his ribcage, paler than the surrounding skin, and a bit number to Roman’s touch than the rest of his body.
“Uh. I don’t know, man. Maybe I fell off my bike as a kid?”
“You would remember that though?” Roman prods more. “It looks pretty old.”
“Jesus, Rome. Stop picking at it. It’ll reopen or something and then I’ll bleed all over my high thread count sheets.”
“Okay. fine.” Roman squints at him again, definitely continuing to pick at it. This is a puzzle, he might be thinking, and he must solve it. And so Roman’s fingertips push, pressing into him like there’s something he’s trying to find. Kendall’s flank aches in an absence, and a strange nausea washes over him. There is a sense of terrifying emptiness, all consuming, that makes his rabbit heart want to bolt from where he lays and never return.
If he presses more, Kendall thinks, Roman would expose to the air slick-red flesh, undulating with every contraction of his diaphragm in an ugly, awful way. It’s fragile there, maybe, the layers of fat just thinner, parting like the sea. The absence is a yawning chasm going to chew him into pieces alive. In the corner of his eye, he catches that the plaster might be bleeding too.
“Are you sure you have all your ribs? Like have you ever actually went and. counted them or something?”
Roman’s voice is an intruder from another world. Kendall snaps out of his mind, and returns to his lanky limbs, the sheets underneath their backs, and he is here again with his brother.
“That’s fucked up, man. I, uh, don’t usually think about how many ribs I have. You think the rib fairy stole it out of me when I was sleeping?” He laughs at Roman, and it rings hollow.
“Okay! I’m sorry! Sorry for poking. Uh.” Roman titters, scrabbling, then scratches the back of his head. A mutt with fleas, he looks like. “Sorry. Want me to suck your dick?”
After, when Kendall pulls Roman up by the scruff of his neck, he allows himself the indulgence of a kiss. Open-mouthed and kinda gross and bitter, but a sweet little kiss nonetheless. Dimly, he tastes himself on Roman’s tongue, and thinks of snakes and tails and meals composed of one’s own flesh.
There is a knocking at the doors. Kendall cowers, and covers his ears. It is cold and there is something out there, something watching, something that knows of the rotten thing inside him, and he hides with Roman under the covers like they are young again until it leaves, and they can breathe again. Kendall is going to be sick.
2003 / wanna come lick my wounds, baby?
“God. I cant wait to get out of this place,” Roman says between drinks. “I’m going to sunny, sunny California, where the sun shines and the wind is warm and no one’s shoving me in dog cages.”
Kendall does not grace the presence of that memory with a reaction.
As large as he talks, Roman’s drunken more than he probably should have. Kendall’s gotta drag him back home, and he’s panting and wheezing when they finally get back to their rooms. He lays his baby brother, face slack and peaceful, down on their bed. He leans ever closer, and can hear the quiet thrum of Roman’s body, working in his unconsciousness. If he puts his ear to Rome’s chest, he’ll hear the pitter-patter of that fluttering heart. Sleepy Roman breathes with sweet little kitten breaths, and smells of alcohol and something saccharine just underneath. Nights like these are to be treasured.
Kendall reaches into his jacket pocket, his vial of aspirin. Distantly, there’s the push-snap of the pill bottle from his left hand, and he'll open Roman’s lips just so slightly, pushing the pills in, holding Rome as he swallows dry enough to choke-hurt, hand close enough to feel the bone of his Adam’s apple bob. Roman gags in his sleep, and Kendall covers his mouth and shushes him again, little whistles through his teeth, petting his hair. He thinks, when they are done, maybe then a part of Kendall will be with Roman always.
There is a knocking at the doors. Kendall Roy stares straight ahead, and does not answer.
