Chapter Text
Kendall looks out the penthouse window at the Manhattan skyline, glances down to the street. No cars pull up. Roman’s late. As usual.
Beside him, Iverson’s asleep in the bassinet, tiny and pink and breakable. Seven-year anniversary of 9/11 is tomorrow: Iverson’s original due date. Fortunately, kid had the sense to pop out two weeks early.
In 2001, Kendall had been in college with a throbbing hangover, watching horrified from Business and Geopolitics class in Aldrich Hall as the second tower fell. He’s not much for religion, but he’d found himself praying, a rhythmic mantra of not Dad, please not Dad. But of course Dad was fine.
They’ll come for the government fucks, but they won’t touch us, Kendall, Dad had said when the chauffeur drove a shaken Kendall home. Waystar Royco was and is invulnerable: center of the goddamn universe, terrorists or no terrorists.
Still, Kendall’s glad Iverson wasn’t a September 11 baby. Bad press. Superstitious data-analysis fucks on the thirteenth floor would’ve had a field day.
His reverie’s interrupted by the sound of an opening door. When he enters the foyer, the new hire Marie has already opened the door, letting Roman inside. Roman’s hair is longer since last Kendall saw him. He looks good, too-tight shirt notwithstanding.
The other week, Dad had mentioned something about transferring Roman to another division: across the country, maybe. Kendall can only assume Roman’s fucked something up. Again.
Roman steps inside. “Hey, hey, where’s the—”
Kendall immediately shushes him, silently leads him over through the rooms to Iverson’s bassinet. Every time he sees Iverson, he’s pierced in the heart. The kid—his kid—is just so little.
“Huh,” says Roman, face twisting into an odd expression. “Congrats on the, the spawn.” He looks around, seems confused. “Where’s the other one?”
“Sophie’s—uh, spending the weekend with Rava’s mom,” says Kendall. “We think she’s jealous of the new arrival.”
“Yeah, younger siblings fuckin’ suck, huh,” says Roman. “Hey, you heard from Shiv?”
Kendall shrugs. “Busy with—with—I don’t know, DC shit.”
“Too busy for this one?” Roman asks, indicating Iverson.
“Claims she’ll come meet him when she can get away.” In truth, he doesn’t know what the fuck Shiv is up to. It’s a little unnerving. Maybe Mom’s right; maybe Shiv is actually trying to distance herself from the rest of them.
“Mm, yes, can’t let family stand in the way of sister dear’s heroic social causes.” Roman looks down at the baby, gaze softening just a bit. “Looks kinda like you, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Fucked-up and weird, yeah,” clarifies Roman. "But honestly, look at that. Living proof you and Rava actually fucked. Once.”
Kendall, watching to make sure Iverson's still asleep, doesn't reveal the donor situation: bad enough Dad knows. “Makes you his uncle.”
Roman full-body shudders. “Jesus. Uncle. Makes me sound fuckin’ forty. Like one of those—child molesters with a singing fish in his garage.”
“Don’t say that shit around my kid,” warns Kendall. Iverson’s still asleep, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“He doesn’t understand!” says Roman, bending down to more closely inspect his nephew. “God, his ears look like—like fuckin’ cauliflowers. Squished—”
It’s suddenly hard for Kendall to breathe. “You think there’s something wrong with them?”
Roman tilts his head to the side, stares. “What?”
“Do you think—uh, does he look wrong? Like is something—” The nurse had said all babies come out looking squished. But maybe she hadn’t known—or had been placating him, willing to say anything to avoid the wrath of multiple Roy generations, or—
“Oh my god, Ken, relax, you’re tweaking out,” says Roman. “Lay off the coke and just—”
“Actually,” says Kendall, glancing at the floor, “I uh…I quit.”
“No shit?” Roman slaps him on the back. It’s a bizarrely masculine affectation for him, but Kendall appreciates it. Roman had been a physically affectionate kid who’d retreated into himself during the teen years; it’s nice to see him back to some form of warmth.
“Yeah,” says Kendall. “There was a. A, a scare, I was supposed to be watching Sophie, and…uh. Probably you heard—”
“Heard something, yeah.” Roman’s not looking at him. “Was over in jolly old England paying Mumsy a call—”
“But that’s. That’s over. I’m turning—uh, turning over a—new leaf or whatever. DIY sobriety.”
“Can’t fuckin’ OD with the mini-me around, huh.”
“Uh-huh,” says Kendall somberly.
“God, Ken, learn to take a joke.” Roman lightly punches Kendall’s arm, glances at the sleeping Iverson again. “Fuckin’—unconscious, huh.”
“Don’t wake him up,” says Kendall, suddenly aware of how loud they’ve been talking. “Don’t fuckin’ do it, Rome, he was screaming for four fucking hours last night, we could hear him through the walls—”
“Okay, okay, keep your hair on,” says Roman, but he moves to the other side of the room. “Hey, you dye it now? Looks awful.”
“No,” lies Kendall.
He opens the door, gestures for Roman to leave. After Roman exits into the hallway, Kendall follows, nodding to Marie. She closes the bedroom door. With luck, Iverson will keep sleeping.
“Hey—um, Dad says he might send me to LA,” says Roman, examining his reflection in the full-length hall mirror. He frowns at his appearance. “Just so you know. Hollywood fuckin’ big shot over here.”
“Big cinephile, huh?”
Roman wrenches his gaze from the mirror. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve—I’ve got some ideas, some…hey, you wanna read my screenplay?”
“You’re not serious.” Under Kendall’s stare, Roman visibly withers.
“No—fuck you, it’s fucking—cool as shit is what it is.”
As a four-year-old, Roman had a brief but intense Transformers phase. To this day he likes vaguely sci-fi shit: robots who learn how to be human, social outcasts who relate more to machines than fellow humans, the like. Kendall’s sure his screenplay’s along those lines. Probably sucks.
“Uh-huh,” says Kendall, turning to walk down the hallway.
“Suit yourself,” replies Roman’s voice from behind him. “But you’ll be sorry when I’m the next—fuckin', auteur of cinema.”
“Auteur of fucking up more likely,” says Kendall, who’s led the two of them to his favorite living room. The sun’s setting, a tapestry of pinks and blues stretched across the full-length windows. Roman immediately falls face-first onto the couch.
Kendall opens the nearest cabinet and grabs a fifth of Glenfidditch along with two glasses, pours himself a couple fingers. “Want any?” He begins pouring Roman a glass before his brother has the chance to answer.
Propping himself up on both arms, Roman frowns. “Thought you were—you’d stopped with the—?”
“From hard stuff, not normal shit,” says Kendall. It’s irritating how people don’t realize this. “I’m—you ever heard of Cali sober?”
Roman scoffs. “You’re in New York, dipshit.”
“Rome. I’m not a—a fuckin’ addict.” Kendall swirls the whiskey, drinks. The world lights up.
“Fuck it. Hit me.” Roman pushes himself up from the couch, swipes the glass with one hand. He gingerly takes a sip, grimaces.
“Good?”
Roman shrugs. “Fine.”
Still holding his glass, Roman prances around the room in that birdlike manner Dad hates, surveying the entire space. When Roman’s not looking, Kendall downs his entire drink, refills. The sun’s completely disappeared from the sky now.
“You wanna fucking—I don’t know, watch something?” asks Kendall, taking another sip.
The penthouse has a built-in entertainment center. Top of the line. Rava had lit upon it when apartment shopping, saying it’ll be fun for family movie nights. Something about that prospect made Kendall feel strange, disconnected. But he hadn’t argued, paying for the entire place (and the two surrounding ones: no noisy neighbors) upfront.
Roman pores through Kendall’s stacks of DVDs.
“You have awful taste,” says Roman, fake-gagging. “What the fuck are these—this arthouse shit—?”
“If you’re going to LA, you have to actually watch the classics,” says Kendall. They settle on The Godfather: Part II, which Roman somehow barely remembers.
Kendall tries to turn on the TV for four minutes, to no avail. “I don’t—new operating system, I can’t—” He calls Marie for help; Roman snickers.
Once the lights are down and film screen’s glowing, Kendall relaxes a bit but finds himself unable to focus. He refills his glass once and then again, hopes Roman isn’t keeping track. The room’s pleasantly fuzzy.
Roman’s curled up, staring at the screen, rapt. As Kendall watches, all he can think is that Fredo reminds him of Roman: twitchy, can’t sit in chairs right, strangely effeminate. He nearly tells Roman this to fuck with him, decides against it.
Close-up on Michael Corleone’s face; the film ends. Credits. Marie flips the lights on, leaves the room.
“Way fuckin’ better than the first,” says Roman.
“You’re not serious,” says Kendall.
“The first is—anyone who isn’t fucking blind or, or demented knows what’s gonna happen from the start. It’s just, fuckin’—guy takes over from his dad.” Roman gives Kendall a meaningful glance. “But that’s probably why you like it.”
Kendall sits motionless, tries to formulate a coherent reply. “Rome, I’m not…it’s not a for sure thing. Dad’s not retiring anytime soon, and uh—”
“It’s been a sure thing since you were fucking thirteen, Ken,” says Roman, flushed pink and finishing his second glass of whiskey. He stands, refills it. “Besides. Got my film career to think of.”
Kendall tries to think of a Lampoon-worthy comeback, but the only thing reverberating through his head is Francis Ford Fuck-Up, which is lame by anyone’s standards. Roman sits down at the table, drums his fingers on it.
“…Hey, you think Dad will miss me?” says Roman, tone a bit too cavalier.
Kendall scoffs. As if. “Miss you?”
“Yeah.” Roman crosses his arms, a prey animal’s defense mechanism. “If I’m in LA, he might…he—”
“Rome, he’s the one sending you. If Dad wants you, he’ll let you know.”
“Sure,” says Roman, and Kendall pretends he doesn’t see the flash of disappointment cross Roman’s face, pretends he doesn’t get a thrill from knowing Dad wants him close, not Roman.
Kendall joins Roman at the table, sits and stares down at the wood grain. Something’s been eating at him since the movie’s final scene: the flashback where it’s Christmas, where the Corleones are so happy to hear their father coming home. More Hollywood bullshit.
“Fucked up,” says Kendall, only belatedly realizing he’s spoken out loud.
“Hm?” Roman yawns, stretches like a cat.
“Oh. Uh,” says Kendall. “Just, uh. Iverson. Rava and I—we didn’t uh think we could, could have a kid the normal way, so—”
“Jesus, yes, of course I want to hear all about you fucking your wife,” says Roman.
“No,” says Kendall. “It’s—it—I have a son. I’m a fucking dad, Rome. Been one for over a year, but I still—I—” He doesn’t know when kids develop memories, doesn’t know if Sophie will remember what happened the day he overdosed. If she does, he’s already a failure.
Roman looks at him strangely. “You, what are you—you fishing for fatherly advice? From your childless brother?”
Kendall can’t verbalize the gulf of emotions writhing in his stomach. “Fuck it. Hit me.”
“Mmm. My advice? Don’t send him to fuckin’ military school,” says Roman. For a second he glances downward. Something flashes in his eye, but when he looks back up it’s gone; Kendall probably just imagined it. “Name like Iverson? Kid’s gonna get eaten alive.”
“Rome, I…”
They’d played a lot of games as kids. Something with a dog cage. Kendall’s trained himself not to think about childhood. Lock the box, throw away the key. It works except when it doesn’t.
“Just saying,” shrugs Roman. “One less thing to tell his future shrink about.”
Roman rubs the back of his head, stares at the ground. Kendall’s spent years reading between the lines on his brother, recognizes the way Roman’s eyes widen for just a second.
Even this fucked-up, he’s cautious about it. “…Rome, are you….?”
“What?”
“You’re…” begins Kendall. Recalibrates. “Have you, uh, you’ve started seeing a—?” The dropped end of the sentence hangs in space for a second, unfinished.
“…Yeah. I, just,” Roman fidgets with a button on his shirt, not looking up at Kendall, “yeah.”
“Well,” begins Kendall, unsure what to say, “uh, good for you, Rome.” Probably he needs it, given—well, given everything.
As it happens, Rava’s been not-so-subtly pressuring Kendall to see someone. He hasn’t yet. He doesn’t know what he would say.
“Eh. He’s probably a hack,” says Roman, still not meeting Kendall’s gaze. He looks ready to jump out of his skin. “I expected some—some waif-y brunette in glasses. Like—chick gets me on a couch, fucks away my problems?”
Kendall knows Roman had sex issues when they were younger; six drinks in, he’d start asking slurred questions about a hypothetical friend who couldn’t get it up, et cetera. But maybe Roman’s grown out of his dysfunction. Maybe the shrink fixed him. That or he’s just posturing.
“Uh-huh,” says Kendall, watching Roman smooth back his hair, feign normalcy. Roman never had a chance, not since age three when he’d made the mistake of asking Mom to paint his nails while Dad was in earshot.
“My kind of therapy,” says Roman, and Kendall thinks of Iverson, wonders if someday Iverson will be sitting at this same table, telling a grown-up Sophie how he’s seeing a shrink now.
“Yeah, haven’t met one of those,” says Kendall, feeling sick. “But, uh, you never know.”
Silence. Roman’s staring very intently at the table, tracing the wood patterns with his finger. Kendall looks down as well; he’s never been good at eye contact, especially not when he’s feeling this fragile.
“Do you think,” begins Kendall, “when I—when Iverson, when,” He barely knows what he’s saying anymore. There’s a pit growing inside him, a giant black hole of nothingness. He pours another drink.
“Hey hey hey,” says Roman. “Jesus. Save some for the rest of us.” Roman takes the glass out of Kendall’s hand, slides it over to his side of the table but doesn’t drink.
“I’m fucking terrified, Rome.” Kendall hadn’t meant to say it out loud, to be so blatantly weak, so pathetic. He tenses.
“Wow,” says Roman, grimacing. “That’s—we doing feelings now? Is Cali Sober Ken gonna—fucking, what, cry on me?”
And Kendall can’t explain to Roman that he wants the world for this fucking kid, wants him to learn so much. Stupid things. How it feels to run a mile. Monopoly money. Fitted suits. Music. The crunch of fall air. Everything he never cared about before having kids has been reinvented anew; he sees the world as it could be.
But there’s a frisson of pure unadulterated terror when he thinks about it. He’s so small. So breakable.
“No, I just…” Kendall breathes in, tries to stop his hands from shaking. “It uh, it occurred to me that, that. Iverson. Wh—what if he’s scared of me?”
Roman laughs, the high-pitched giggle Dad mocks him about. “Scared? Of you? Ken, no one’s fuckin’—I think you’re overestimating your own—”
A memory: Connor saying look, Kenny, this is your baby brother and baby Roman staring up at him, not crying or smiling, just looking. He’d been so small.
“When’s he gonna walk?” Kendall had asked, and Connor explained it doesn’t work like that, he’s a new baby. Connor’s notoriously short-tempered, but he’d always been gentle with baby Roman—and later, baby Shiv. Nothing like Dad.
“Forget it,” says Kendall, tearing his gaze away from the table and up towards his brother. He looks at Roman, sees Iverson. “I’m being—fucking stupid, I don’t know.”
“Yeah you are,” says Roman.
As if summoned by Kendall’s thoughts, Iverson begins to scream from several rooms away. Roman stands up, flattens down his shirt. “Sounds like my fuckin’ cue.”
“You sure?” asks Kendall. Suddenly—drunk, listening to his child’s sobs—he’s terrified of being alone, wants his brother with him. “You could uh—there’s six other bedrooms not counting Sophie’s—”
“I’ll pass on the fucking noisemaker, thanks,” says Roman. “My guy’s been waiting outside for like three hours.”
“Right,” says Kendall. “Well, uh. Bye, Rome.”
“See ya,” says Roman. He unexpectedly pulls Kendall in for a hug; for a second Kendall flinches from the sudden touch, remembers his father’s hands at his shirt collar, shaking him back and forth. Dad had never hit Kendall. He didn’t have to.
Roman’s closing the door behind him before Kendall fully realizes he’s gone. Kendall pours himself another drink, drains the whole thing.
Iverson’s still screaming. Kendall stands unsteadily, lurches towards Iverson’s bedroom. He bumps into Marie.
“Hey,” says Kendall. “What the fuck. Why is no one in there—”
“Sorry,” says Marie, shrinking away from him, “sorry, Kendall, he needs to be fed, I know, I—”
“Fucking do it then,” snaps Kendall. The room spins.
“Roman still here?” A lower female voice. Kendall turns heavily, comes face-to-face with a bleary-looking Rava.
“Wha—? No, Rome’s—he left, he’s—he’s out, he, uh—”
“Are you drunk?” says Rava. The disappointment on her face magnifies tenfold; it reminds Kendall of Dad.
“We just had a couple,” says Kendall. “Chill.”
“Wow,” says Rava. “Okay.”
“Rava, it’s, he—” Kendall gestures towards Iverson’s room. “I didn’t mean—he’s been, fucking yelling, and—”
“Yes, well, babies tend to do that,” says Rava. He hates when she gets like this. Kendall walks into one of the side rooms, paces.
“I just—he sounded—what if he’s—?”
“Hey,” says Rava, something like concern behind her eyes. “Ken. Sit down, okay? Marie’s got it.”
Kendall sits down heavily on the nearest chair. Rava rubs his shoulders.
“God, you’re tense.”
“Uh-huh,” says Kendall, barely together.
“You were so put-together when we adopted Sophie,” says Rava. “This one’s made you quite the mother hen.”
“Uh-huh,” repeats Kendall, a broken record. Of course he’d been put-together; he’d been on a metric fuckton of drugs. Tight schedule: coke for work, benzos for home, an Adderall or two for pressing deadlines. An efficient work-and-parenting machine. Until he’d imploded.
He’s tired. He gets tired so easily now. He hasn’t been off coke this long since fucking high school. Everything’s flat, dull. If not for the kids he’d relapse in a heartbeat.
“Well, I’m going back to bed,” says Rava. “Join me?”
“I’ll be a minute,” says Kendall.
She leaves, vanishing into the doorway. Kendall’s left alone in the vast darkness of the penthouse.
He returns to the cabinet, the whiskey glasses. He’s got it under control. One more won't hurt.