Archive of Our Own

Roman lets it happen like he always does. He always puts up a struggle at the start, half for show and half to see if he can even get away this time. But by the time blood is drawn, some switch is thrown in his brain and he’s reduced to nothing, a bag of bones for Kendall’s hands to roam over. The ceiling drifts out of focus when Kendall’s fingers venture lower. He knows it’s not going to hurt now, the hurting is over and Kendall’s attention has changed. It feels weird; it always feels weird, but it’s become familiar. Familiar - famulus. Latin for servant.

There was this book they were reading in class about boys on a desert island. He didn’t understand how it had taken them so long to fall into primal violence when he and Kendall did it all the time. Their house may as well have been out at sea for all the visitors they got. If they ran out of food Kendall would probably eat him no questions asked. And Roman would let him like the servile animal he was. Servile - servus. Latin for slave.

When they’re a little older and Ken’s a little stronger he breaks Roman’s rib. He hadn’t meant to, not really. But Roman breaks so easily, so willingly. He’s fascinated by the sudden cries, the shortness of breath. Roman wails that he’s going to die, that it hurts to breathe. Ken leans down, parts the fingers that shield the wound like bars over a cage, and kisses the skin. The pressure causes Roman to heave and groan. He calls out for their father, so Ken knows he’s loopy from the pain. The doctor says it just needs time to heal, there’s nothing they can do. No physical exertion; he couldn’t run away if he wanted to. His bedroom becomes a prison for a few weeks. Prison - prehendere. Latin for to take.

Remember this thing? Kendall kicks the old dog cage. The Alsatian that never was. Roman nods in agreement.
She keeps it to lock the maids in when they can’t get stains out, Kendall says.
Roman nods in agreement.
What? Kendall asks when he doesn’t laugh. Roman’s just staring at it. Kendall nudges him. The wet sheets are pressed to his chest, dampening his pyjama shirt. Are you gonna put them in?
Roman finally pulls his gaze from the cage tucked under the counter beside the washer and dryer.
Huh?
Kendall just takes the sheets from him and stuffs them in. How do you work this thing?
I usually just leave them in there, Roman answers, but he’s looking at the cage again. Cage - cavea. Latin for hollow place.

Shiv regards him with a look of pity when a game of tennis ends quickly with him collapsing in a heap on the court. He’s pale and sweating. She waits for him to say something. When he throws up she asks him if he’s bulimic now.
Are you? Because it’s not working, he retorts.
She rolls her eyes. It’s probably heatstroke, she tells him. You’re so delicate. Go inside.
He takes a minute to collect himself and pulls his knees up to his chest hoping she’ll leave first. She does, throwing her racket to the ground where it bounces before settling. She jogs off to the circuit they’ve established as their running track; around the tennis court, circle the grounds, touch the lions at the entrance, repeat. She wants to do better than him. She wants to actually pass out. He waits until she’s out of sight and walks unsteadily back to the house and throws open the french doors. Colours swirl around in his vision. Inside the house seems pitch black.
Want to play a game? Kendall asks from somewhere in the darkness. Roman squints, trying to adjust his eyes to the light. Yes, he replies.
Don’t you want to know what the game is first?
Roman shakes his head. He can sort of see him now. Ken’s sitting in an armchair wearing only shorts; legs spread and sweat glistening. Roman rolls his tongue against the back of his teeth. He wants to taste him. He wants Kendall to touch him where he aches. Touch - toccare. Latin for to strike.

The new school, the school without Kendall, is cruel partly for that very reason. As soon as he arrives there are hands on him, pushing, shoving, taking his bags and throwing them down the stairs. Hazing doesn’t bother him, he can take more pain and punishment than anyone he knows. It’s that the blood he sheds isn’t theirs to release. When he returns home for vacation Kendall slaps him on the back so hard it winds him. Make any friends?
He doesn’t want to answer truthfully in front of his father so he nods. In private Kendall prods at this until it unravels which happens quickly because Roman wants him to know. There is no one else. No one can ever replace you. His chest rises and falls quickly like a cornered prey animal. It’s never been quite right since the cracked rib. Maybe it healed wrong. Or maybe Kendall broke it in exactly the right way, the way he wanted, to ensure a constant reminder of himself. As though that was necessary.
We do rifle training, Roman tells him, trying to calm his racing heart.
Oh, yeah? Head of the class, are you? He’s teasing, really. The last time they’d gone hunting with Connor, Roman had hit a young doe in the leg, wounding it before it bounded off.
You can’t just injure it, you have to finish the job, Connor stressed. It’ll be easy prey for something else now and it’ll be in pain until the end.
They trampled through the long grass to the spot where the deer had been. Connor continued on but Kendall held Roman back. He ran a finger through a spatter of blood on the tree trunk that had blocked Roman’s clear shot.
She’s yours now. She belongs to you.
That night in the tent Roman dreamt of Ken’s practiced hands holding the rifle and pointing it at him, dragging its cold barrel down his sternum. Bang, he said, pressing it into his groin. When Roman woke he found his sleeping bag sticky inside. Ken watched him as he changed clothes.
What? Roman asked, feeling his cheeks heat.
I heard you say my name last night.
Roman looked at him in horror as Ken’s face cracked into a smile. Horror - horror. Latin for religious awe.

Pussy’s good, you should try it.
Roman doesn’t know what to say to this.
Really. I don’t want you going to college a virgin.
I’m not a virgin.
You know what I mean.
Ken’s trying to save him. To pretend he can still be saved, as though he hasn’t ruined him. So he tries it. He takes hold of a girl’s hand and leads her away from the circle of cross legged drunken teenagers and closes the bedroom door. His hand is wet with sweat. She can feel it, he’s sure. She sits on the bed and he wants to be sick. He knows what’s supposed to happen. Kendall showed him a video. Kendall showed him lots of videos, and how to delete search history. His hands shake as he unzips his jeans. The girl looks a little nervous.
This is my first time. Her voice is barely a whisper.
He wants to say mine too, but the words stick sharp in his throat. He approaches her hesitantly.
You have to get me hard.
She blushes. How?
He guides her onto her knees. But it doesn’t work. She pulls off, her cheeks red from embarrassment. I don’t understand.
You suck at giving head.
I said it was my first time. She sulks, turning away from him towards the wall with her arms covering her chest. He could tell her about his first time. Then she wouldn’t feel so bad.
Come on. Try again. I’ll tell you how to do it right.
She shakes her head. Roman gingerly touches her shoulder and she jerks away. He gives up and goes downstairs and tells everyone she was a lousy lay. When he tells Ken the truth, he’s met with a look of disgust: You shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. Disgust - gustare. Latin for to taste.

Roman only has to experience the humidity of Shanghai air briefly before he’s in the air-conditioned lobby. After a sickeningly quick ascent he stands in the doorway face to face with a maid. He only has to say one word, his name, and she lets him in. He locates the bedroom Ken uses with ease, by scent alone like a bloodhound, only he’s not in there. All that’s left are some crumpled sheets the maid hasn’t gotten to yet. He closes the door and wraps the sheets around his head hoping they’ll suffocate him. The problem is they don’t just smell like Ken. There’s a slight scent of flowery perfume. He stays there breathing it in for hours and only when the sound of the door shutting wakes him up does he realise he’s fallen asleep. There’s a pause as Kendall assesses the situation and then he’s throwing back the sheets and straddling Roman.
Is this my birthday present? You’re a little late.
Engagement present, Roman corrects. Kendall reeks of alcohol and tastes even worse. When Roman slides his hand up his arm to pull him closer, he feels each little nick.
I thought you were supposed to be getting away from your vices.
I was, until I realised they were capable of buying a plane ticket and ending up in my bed. Turn over.
Roman turns. Are you glad I came? It was muffled by the pillows.
I’ll be glad when I do.
Roman whines in pleasure when he feels him inside, the emptiness finally filled in like a grave. Pleasure - placere. Latin for to be approved.

Kendall tells him to stay longer than the weekend and he does. Roman lets him take whatever he wants. Plays dead for him. His favourite. The hang of his head when Ken tries to pull him up to meet him. The limp arms and legs that fall back to the bed, the floor; heavy. It’s different now, with Ken high all the time. Roman sometimes too. It feels eerie, like a premonition. Neither of them leave the apartment. Drugs are delivered to the door. A bachelor party that never ends. On occasion when Ken becomes lucid, which is rare, he presses a worried ear to Roman’s chest until he can hear his heart softly beating. Roman knows this can’t last. Kendall fired the maid weeks ago. The place is filthy. They’re barely eating. The illusion comes cascading down when Nate arrives at the door.
Shit, your nose is bleeding.
Oh? Roman feels it as soon as he says it, the hot gush of it. Oh, yeah.
Nate pulls him to the sink, hands him a dishcloth to stop the blood, and tries cleaning up his white shirt.
Don’t worry, it’s not the coke. Ken punched me.
Nate clearly doesn’t believe him, and Roman smiles because no one ever does. While Nate goes to find Kendall and call Rava, Roman catches sight of himself in the mirror. His shirt clings soaking wet to his protruding ribs. He runs his hand over them and presses his fingertips against one of them; the weak one. The one that still makes his breath catch after all these years. The blood staining his shirt is vivid and bold. He feels heady with desire for more. Desire - de sidre. Latin for from the stars.

In Dad Kendall’s office he asks for the pain, begs for it. Holds himself tighter to Kendall’s arm when he feels the hand behind his head slacken.
It could have been you, he tells him. Lies sound so sweet coming from Kendall’s lips. It feels so good to have him reopen a wound, something he hasn’t done in a long time.
It could have been you.
Soft, sweet nothings, as comforting as a kiss on the shell of his ear. The smell of him is the same as always, and Roman roots for it, taking it in, inhaling it. A noise escapes his throat before he can stifle it. He hates when that happens, revelations he’s forced to let go of completely against his will. He’s rewarded for it with a kiss on the crown of his head- empty of its namesake, of course. Because it could never have been him. He doesn’t want it. The sting of flesh parting and its accompanying red sea, sticky and warm, is its own reward.
Love you, man.
Roman can’t say it back. He never could. Ken knows what he means when he tells him he hates him. Ken knows everything except how to destroy his creation. Destroy - destruere. Latin for un-build.