Work Text:
Argestes turned out to be a shit show.
Constant corporate babble from business buffoons, Sandy Furness was coming down with something (whisperings told of an archaic STD by the name of ‘syphilis’), and apparently all of these idiots had gotten the memo to wear puffy jackets, which knocked out about a third of Stewy’s wardrobe.
The bar in the downstairs’ lobby was the only positive so far, though Cousin Greg had told Stewy about the wonders of freefalling water awaiting them just outside. Stewy had declined all invitations to venture out on property and had instead distracted himself from the hellscape with expensive liquor. The action came to him despite his best wishes as the unassuming space behind him became an impromptu comedy club, and just when it couldn’t get worse, another piece of action met him in a whisper from one of Sandy’s faceless minions, nothing but a humanoid vessel carrying this nugget of sour information:
“Logan’s lost it. New York Mag’s exposé is gaining traction and the panel discussion went bust. Logan ended up hitting one of the boys right after. It’s all fucked.”
“Kendall?” Stewy asked the mouth hovering at his ear.
“The younger one.”
Roman. Logan hit Roman. Roman, the not-favorite son, the weak dog.
The crowd behind Stewy laughed at some uncreative jab at a tech executive. Stewy threw back the last of his drink and demanded another. Both Kendall and Shiv were in attendance when he squinted out at the silhouetted crowd but Roman was nowhere to be seen. Stewy wondered if they knew what happened, if they had been there to see it.
Stewy wasn’t sure why he was only growing more upset with each passing minute, why he couldn’t rid himself of the million imagined iterations of what might have happened. Stewy couldn’t be sure if it was the alcohol or the new feelings that had emerged ever since Roman had resumed his place at Waystar and had been gifted the role of COO, though it might have been more accurate to call him a ‘COG’ in the Waystar machine.
Roman was but Logan’s plaything and Logan broke his playthings and threw them away.
Roman had always been the easiest to break.
Stewy watched as Logan followed after Nan Pierce as she stormed out of the comedy show. Stewy, in his cool fury, managed a word or two to the toppling behemoth before he hurried out of the door.
The comedy sucked and his mood was shot. Stewy dug up Roman’s room number from the texts they had exchanged the first day here, something about Roman bragging about the view at which Stewy reminded him that he didn’t care about the view, and Roman said, yes of course he didn’t care about the view but he did care about making Stewy dreadfully jealous.
Things were complicated with Roman. Everything was complicated with Roman. The friendship or relationship or whatever the fuck it was that they were cultivating together was strange and the intention of frequent touches and flirtatious words had been accepted as rather obvious. Roman hadn’t been uninterested, perhaps just cautious.
“You can’t get my brother so you’ll settle for me.” There was a hint of tired malice beneath his words as they had laid side by side on the floor of Roman’s apartment. Stewy had yet to decipher Roman’s aversion to proper seating but was intrigued just enough to want to find the answer. “You really love him, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what I love,” Stewy had said, and he meant it. “I might not love anything.”
This wasn’t love between them, or Stewy didn’t think it was. It was curiosity and preference and familiarity. It was easy without all the sharing of bodily fluids; Roman needed it to be that way, but then again, they had never really discussed it because it wasn’t a thing. It was abstract and wordless, simply felt without all the complications of putting it into words.
“Rome. It’s Stewy.”
Stewy waited for an answer on the other side of the door. Nothing. He tried the doorknob and surprisingly found it unlocked. He stepped inside. The bed was untouched. There was no sign of life in any of the armchairs peppered throughout the suite. A rush of water from a sink sounded in the bathroom, calling Stewy forward to knock softly at the cracked open door before peeking in.
Roman stood at the sink. One white-knuckled hand gripped the porcelain edge while the other fisted a hand towel sodden with water and now stained with blood at his mouth. His watery eyes snapped up to Stewy’s reflection in the mirror with a start, and he whipped around to make sure he was really there, that he wasn’t imagining anything.
The proper sight of him pulled at Stewy’s heart, a somewhat unexpected sensation. A possibility of what might have happened was stitching together in his mind and this only emboldened Stewy’s previous feelings toward Logan, toward Roman.
“Hey,” Stewy said, quiet, careful, his hand placed casually on the doorframe. Roman stared wordlessly at him. “It’s a fucking disaster out there, dude. Thought I’d hunker down with you, till I’ve gotten drunk enough to forget where I am.”
Roman did not find him all that amusing. He turned away and brought the towel back under the faucet. Blood ran from the fibers and swirled down the drain as he wrung it out, pausing before he could bring it back to his face when Stewy came closer.
Stewy could see Roman’s lip wasn’t busted but his mouth was dark, as was the deepening bruise on his cheekbone.
“What happened?”
Roman scoffed as, for once, words escaped him. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. He might never be. Stewy would never understand what it was to be abused by one’s own father but he knew the taste of blood and the confusion in the wake of life’s darker days.
The tips of Stewy’s fingers brushed his jaw as he tried to get a better look but even that faint touch was painful.
Roman flinched with a furious sound. It must have felt good for him to get out some of the anger he’d been bottling up because his volume only gained momentum and then his arms were lifting as he went to push at Stewy but Stewy grabbed hold of his hands, squeezing them in his own as he murmured, “Okay, hold on, hold on.”
Roman was a ball of sorrowful, aggravated energy exploding in sloppy swings of his arms and strangled noises forced out from between his achingly gritted teeth. Stewy did not retreat but offered stability in the storm that was his unimaginable hurt. He stood sturdy, eventually leaning in and over Roman as to crowd him so the world was barred from view and the only thing here in front of him was Stewy.
“It’s over.” Stewy’s voice resonated calmly but still maintained that comforting, unimpressed tinge in his cadence. “Roman, it’s over. You're with me; you’re safe.”
Breathing heavy, nostrils flared and eye contact scarce, Roman lessened his fighting as exhaustion settled in his muscles and the fiery wrath cooled to fear. He left his hands in Stewy’s as he came back to himself, fingers twitching when Stewy’s thumbs rubbed circles at the center of his palms.
It was Roman who pulled Stewy’s hands forward as he pressed in against his chest, guiding Stewy’s arms around his waist. The way Roman was burrowing against him felt like he needed to not so much be held as to be blanketed completely, to be safely hidden away from everything. His shoulders were curled forward, his fingernails digging into Stewy’s hips, face tucked against his chest.
Stewy wrapped his arms around him, more of a grounding effort than an outright comforting one. He was steady and constant with the pressure across his back. Stewy wasn’t sure what to say, didn’t know what would be helpful. He wanted to say what he really thought: Your dad is a fucking monster.
“Let me see,” he said after awhile as he peered down at Roman, fingernails combing through the hair at the back of his neck. Roman leaned back slightly, though he kept a hand fisted in the fabric over Stewy’s chest as prevention from letting him get too far.
Roman opened his mouth; a cracked tooth, the right corner chipped. Stewy’s thumb stroked the curve of Roman’s jaw absently.
“I’ve got a guy,” Roman muttered, taking a quick glance at Stewy’s lips. “He said he can fix it as soon as I get back.”
“Gonna be sensitive as fuck though for the rest of the weekend. I’ll leave you with some Oxy.”
Roman smirked but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Delving into your own private stash for me?”
“Sure, why not?” Stewy’s thumb slowed in its ministrations, slipping under his jaw, down the pale side of his throat. The touch, while intimate, lacked burning passion. It was not lust Stewy felt as he picked up the wet towel from where it hung on the edge of the sink but rather unrushed solicitude as he dabbed a smear of blood from the corner of Roman’s mouth, balled the cold towel up to hold it to the afflicted side of his face.
“I think your dad lost out on the Pierce deal,” Stewy said.
“Great,” Roman grumbled, eyes shutting momentarily when Stewy brushed his hair off his forehead.
“It is great. Kinda poetic how the universe just tosses us a little justice every now and then.”
“If it makes you feel better.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Stewy repeated. Then, “You’ll be okay.”
Stewy wasn’t sure if that was cruel or not, if that was the right thing to say. He was sure Roman had heard it all of his life, but he meant it in the way that he was a lot harder to break. ‘Cockroach,’ Stewy would call him and Roman would purr at the name like it was an achievement. That pride, that was what Stewy meant-- You’re not going anywhere. Logan can try his best, but you’ll still be standing.
Stewy kissed his temple and didn’t miss the way Roman leaned into it.