Chapter Text
The incident with the waiter at the RECNY ball and the following misuse of her phone isn’t the first time Grace has been surprised by Roman in bed. Or, she supposes, on the couch would be more appropriate phrasing.
The second time they had slept together (the first being a quick, drunken, rather clinical affair), he had edged her until she cried and she’d passed out for an hour afterwards. When she had come to, however, Roman was nowhere to be found but he was certainly somewhere to be heard.
She wakes and gets up on shaky legs, still in the afterglow, and finds him sat on the floor in their walk-in closet. In the dark. Sobbing.
“Roman? Sweetie?” She asks into the dark, hesitant and flinches when he gasps and goes silent, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, fuck off,” A shaky breath, then another, then when he notices she isn’t fucking off any time soon, “Are you alright?”
“You’re the one who’s crying,” She says it like it’s a joke but neither of them are laughing. She had thought his question had been sarcastic, but the silence stretches out until it snaps and she finds herself filling it, “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Yeah. Come sit? Please?” The change in demeanour has her hesitant but she moves to sit next to him anyway. She’s not scared of him, just scared she might spook him. He’s not good with talking but he’s worse with sex and now they’re trying to do one about the other. When she’s settled on the floor, he rocks and knocks their shoulders together and huffs out a hollow laugh, “Are you sure you’re alright? You were crying earlier.”
“I’m fine. Better than fine,” She feels like she’s floating a little, head clearer than it’s been in weeks. Better than being high, or drunk; her body feels looser than it does after a spa trip and a deep muscle massage.
“Yeah? And you had a good time?” She nods and then hums affirmative when she realises he can’t see her. He keeps checking, like he thinks she’s lying to him. It nearly makes her start to doubt herself too.
But she had enjoyed it and she tells him as much, “That was like the best sex I’ve ever had,” When he scoffs, she turns defensive, suddenly embarrassed, “Did you have a good time?”
She hasn’t asked until now because she doesn’t think it necessary. She can still feel dried cum on her leg where he had rutted against her thigh to completion - twice - before he’d let her orgasm. She doesn’t want to wash it off, prefers having the evidence that he does find her attractive, that he wants her, even if it’s only sometimes. Being with Roman was difficult, especially when he only ever showed interest in her once every six months.
“Yeah,” He sounds sure of himself and that’s when she realises what the problem is. That he did enjoy himself. That he’s now stuck in the shame that follows.
“I promise I had a good time. I wanted it. I asked you for it,” She’s trying to reassure him even though it feels like the wrong way around. She was always the one pushing for sex, why would she have suddenly changed her mind the one time he agreed? She supposes that’s part of his fear when it comes to sex. That once he shows desire for her, she would become disinterested. That’s her theory, or at least it’s the one that makes all of his sex issues easier to rationalise. That it’s a self esteem issue on his part - it makes it easier to stop it from turning into a self esteem issue on hers.
“Sure, right, but…” He can’t finish his sentence but she knows what he’s going to say even in his silence. But it was wrong. But you cried. But I used you and I got off on it and I was mean and that’s not how normal people have sex. He’s always been obsessed with the idea of ‘normal’ sex, as if that’s even a thing.
She knows why they don’t fuck, deep down, even though he won’t talk about it. He wants it to be wrong, whatever that entails. Drunk, dirty, public, messy. He needs it to hurt, needs to hurt someone else, needs power over someone, needs to surrender. Or, when all else fails, needs them to be disinterested enough that he can pretend it’s masturbation. He’s an open book and she hates that he won’t talk about it.
“But nothing. That was the best hours sleep I’ve had in months.”
“Jesus, it’s been an hour?” So he moved here as soon as she had passed out. She wonders how stiff his legs are. Some deep, maternal instinct comes out and she shifts to stand up.
“Let’s get you up. C’mon, water, snack, bed.”
“Grace, I’m not an infant-“
“Then stop sulking like one.”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares. She can barely see in the darkness but she catches his eyes, can’t stare too long before she starts getting lost in them. She sighs and turns away, knowing this is a battle she won’t win.
“Fine. I’m going to bed.”
She climbs into bed shakily, not realising how fragile she’s feeling until she’s alone again. She wants him here, in bed, just so they can be near each other, just so she can know she hasn’t done anything to upset him. She knows deep down it’s not her fault, but he does a pretty good job of convincing her it is sometimes.
She pretends she can’t hear when he starts crying again, just shuffles herself deeper into the mess of blankets and pillows and drops off to sleep.