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It's not unusual for Mr. Nobody to stop by at the Toyshop to brief Eric on personal assignments that sometimes take days and sometimes take weeks if travel abroad is included. It is his job after all, no matter how much he enjoys babysitting their 'ragtag team of racing enthusiasts', as Mr. Nobody likes to call them. What is unusual is that, after one such briefing, he returns the very next day – without Little Nobody in tow, but with a face that speaks volumes.
Hobbs shakes his head, not amused. “Where is he?”
The following conversation is a mess of lengthy explanations of how the Diplomatic Security Service fucked this up, because the intel was bullshit, and eventually the risks of a rescue mission – at which point Roman decides to intervene, because this is going nowhere while they should all be going somewhere. “You are not seriously talking about not saving Little Nobody's ass at all, right? Who's gonna replace me as your favorite trash talk target when he's gone? I've come to like my 11, you know. I don't want to drop any lower just because you decided we should-”
“Rome,” Hobbs suddenly bellows. “Shut up!”
Roman raises his hands in surrender, even though his anger has not dissipated one bit. Whoever has the guts to go after one of their own shouldn't be able to pray a single Hail Mary before their team is onto them. In his book, it's that simple. “Just saying.”
Hobbs pinches the bridge of his nose, betraying his own impatience. Dom takes that as his cue to step in. “We're gonna get him, don't worry. But we need to be smart about this. They targeted him specifically, maybe for information on DSS, maybe on us. They can't see us coming.”
Which, yeah, okay, makes sense. But still. “So when are we leaving?”
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It takes way too long. Roman is ready to go in ten minutes, but with all the equipment and weapons and whatnot the others lug around, it takes ages for the team to actually get going. Then again, he has the easiest job, he can admit that much. While Ramsey guides him through the target building with the aid of a tablet showing the layout, the others draw the fire and go to town on the assholes running this operation. All he has to do is collect Eric from the cell they're holding him in (and it's a rescue he plans on dangling in front of his face for a long time to come). It's gonna be great.
Once the halls are guards-free, the cell isn't that hard to find. The door doesn't have a lock he could pick, so it's up to Ramsey to work her magic from wherever she is plugged into the system. There's a little hatch, though, and he opens it to a very welcome sight. Well, if you don't count the shackles holding Eric in a metal chair that is also bolted down to the floor. But Roman is sure they are no match for Ramsey, either. “Hey, Little N,” he greets cheerfully. “It's your lucky day, the cavalry is here!”
Eric doesn't reply, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Okay, rude. But Roman can understand why he's annoyed. It took them much too long to catch up to him, he can give him that. Or – wait, is he hurt? Roman scans his body for injuries and finds none. But. “Uh, guys...”
“Yes,” Ramsey says absently, probably focused on opening this stupid door. “What is it?”
“Anyone happen to know anything about spiders?”
A pause. “Why?”
“Because they locked some big-ass spider in with him.” That is actually not a joke. There is a black spider sitting on Eric's forearm, perched just above one shackled wrist. And it is big. “Seriously, guys. That thing looks like that monster from 'Lord of the Rings'.”
Ramsey hums thoughtfully. “I can't see it from my camera angle.”
There is a rustling noise on the line, then Hobbs' voice comes through, gunshots pattering in the background. “Send me a picture. Big doesn't always mean dangerous.”
Roman whips his phone out and zooms in on the spider. And if he fumbles a bit before hitting the button, no one has to know. Because, ugh, that thing is ugly. Also, he can actually see the fangs from here. They are terrifying. “Done.”
“Oh, shit.”
Hobbs swearing is never a good sign. Hobbs swearing is so bad Roman starts sweating a little. Getting out of bed this morning, he didn't count on having to do battle with an enemy that was just as wide as his palm, but could drop him dead like a goddamn fly. “What?”
“That's a funnel-web.”
Like that explains everything. “And?!”
“It's among the most venomous spiders in the world.”
Great, Roman thinks, there we go. “How venomous are we talking, exactly?”
“Lethal, if you're unlucky. Fifteen minutes.”
Roman opens his mouth to ask what's happening in fifteen minutes, but then snaps it shut again as he suddenly gets it. Lethal within fifteen minutes, is what Hobbs means – if you don't have the antidote. Which he obviously doesn't have in his pocket. Oh shit indeed. Unsettled, Roman does what he does best whenever he is freaking out. He starts talking. A lot. “Hey, Little N. We've got this, okay? Ramsey's gonna open this door in no time and then I'll bust your white boy ass out. But, ah, try not to move in the meantime, yeah? Because there's a spider sitting on your forearm. A huge one. Like, tarantula style. So, no moving. Can your Special Agent Majesty do that for me?”
Once again, Eric doesn't reply. Not a good sign, either. Eric is always responding to his ribbing. Unless. “Did it bite you already?” It takes another long second, but finally, Eric shakes his head. It's fast and twitchy and his eyes are still glued to the ceiling, as if he can't bear to take a look at the spider on his arm. It worries Roman more than he wants to admit. Something is definitely up, for Eric – rigid, controlled, always-at-attention Eric – is not acting like himself at all. “Come on, bro, no heroic lying, okay? You gotta tell me if that bitch got you!”
No answer. Not from Eric, anyway. The spider, however, obviously doesn't like monologues this long and this loud. It suddenly unfurls all of its legs, restlessly stalking two inches up Eric's arm. He must be able to feel it, for he startles, mouth opening to let out a choked, agitated noise. Fingers clenching into fists, he starts writhing mindlessly in the chair. The manacles on his legs clang as his shins hit the shackles, but the ties on his wrists are so tight he can do little more than chafe off small patches of skin at a time. He doesn't even seem to notice the blood dripping over his hands.
The spider likes all that moving around even less.
Annoyed, it suddenly raises its front legs into the air, fangs poised to strike. The aggressive posture is clearly meant to intimidate, and it works. Roman, though safe on the other side of the door, jerks back a step, hands coming up in defense. It's infinitely worse for Eric. His whole body tenses as he desperately tries to push away from the spider – which, of course, doesn't work. It stubbornly clings to his arm, refusing to be bucked off.
“Eric,” Roman says sharply, forgetting about the nickname as fear grips him, tight and cold. “Eric, you gotta stop moving!”
He didn't think Eric would actually listen to him, but he does. His whole body is coiled like a spring, head thrown back against the chair, and he's shaking with the effort it takes not to squirm. His panic needs an outlet, though, and his uneven breathing revs up into hushed sobs. Roman watches, horrified, as tears spill from his eyes, mingling with the sweat on his temple and dripping into his hair. And it shouldn't have taken him this long to understand, but it hits him now like a sucker punch to the face. Why there are no torture marks on Eric. Because this is the torture.
“Guys,” he says, so quietly he barely recognizes his own voice. “Guys, I think Eric is afraid of spiders.” Which sounds so ridiculous, so embarrassing he almost can't say it. But he has to. They have to know the stakes. “Seriously, you gotta open this fucking door. Like right now. Or this thing is actually gonna go ahead and bite him. He's not gonna stay calm for long.”
Not that he's anywhere near calm right now. Roman focuses on his sobs again, tiny and breathless, and immediately regrets it. Listening to the terrible noises Eric makes feels like being stabbed in the gut, repeatedly. But he's holding as still as he can manage. Which seems to please the spider. It has pulled its legs back down, cowering motionlessly like the predator it is, waiting for the next move of its prey. Roman shudders as he imagines what it must feel like, to have that terrifying weight on your arm and not be able to throw it off. The thought makes him feel slightly sick.
“Ramsey, open the goddamn-”
The door swishes open then, and Roman doesn't even have to take a moment to psych himself up to face those deadly fangs. He crosses the threshold in two big strides, brandishes the tablet in his hands like a baseball bat and swings it at the spider. It hits the wall with a wet smack and topples to the floor, long legs sprawling gracelessly. Before it can regain its bearings, Roman is on it with an angry yell, smashing the tablet down on it. He doesn't stop until only a mess of crooked black limbs remains. Inhaling a harsh breath, he drops the ruined tablet and immediately turns to Eric, hands rising to his shoulders to soothe him.
Bad idea.
Eric yelps at the unexpected contact and starts straining against the ties again, even harder than before. Unfortunately, Ramsey chooses that moment to open the manacles, and it's then that all hell breaks loose. “Jesus,” Roman chokes out as he suddenly has to defend himself against Eric who blindly swings and kicks at him, out of his mind with panic. “Eric, stop!”
It's only down to his taller and broader frame that he manages to crowd Eric back into the chair and trap his limbs between them so he can't lash out at him anymore. “Eric,” he tries again, catching his face in his hands and forcing his gaze down from the ceiling. “Eric, it's me. It's Roman.”
There's one of those horrible sobs again, but finally Eric's eyes, wide and teary and so so blue, focus on him. “Rome,” he mutters, voice raw and low. Then he flinches, fingers catching Roman's shirt in a fist. “The spider-”
“Dead,” Roman quickly intercepts and points to the side at the mushy black heap. “That creepy motherfucker is dead.”
Eric exhales shakily, then drops his head forward to rest against Roman's collarbone. Roman would like to pretend he does not startle, does not suppress a tremor when he feels Eric's hitching breath whisper across his throat. “Thanks.”
Roman clears his throat, tugs in vain at Eric's shivering shoulders to get him to move back. “No biggie, Little N. We should beat it now, though.”
Eric sighs, but lets go. Roman doesn't want to feel disappointed. Just can't help it. “Okay.”
He's far from steady on his feet. But Roman knows he won't appreciate being treated like the weakest link in their chain – and Roman suspects he's feeling like it much too often, still. So he doesn't reach out to help, but stays close enough on his heels that he can catch him should the need arise.
It doesn't. Slowly but with his spine straight and shoulders out, Eric walks all the way to the rendezvous point without saying a single word, retreating into himself like he always does when he thinks he is a nuisance to the team, slowing them down with his straight-laced agency attitude and inexperience in the field. Roman traipses along behind him, passing on the directions Ramsey gives him, and he can almost see the downward spiral thoughts appear in neon colors above Eric's head. It pisses him off to no end, and he keeps glowering at his back as they trudge through the deserted halls, passing a few dead guards here and there, like landmarks to the path their team took.
When they reach the line of parked cars along the crashed fence, Hobbs takes one look at Roman's face and immediately gets the wrong end of the stick. “Come on, Rules, I'll take you home.”
Eric stops and turns back to Roman, confused. “Ah, I thought-”
He trails off, unsure, and Roman blinks himself out of his angry stupor and answers the question Eric couldn't bring himself to ask. “I was going to take him.”
Hobbs raises an eyebrow. It shouldn't be this intimidating, but it is. “Alright.” He waits just long enough for Eric to climb into the passenger seat of Roman's bright green Dodge Challenger before he rounds on Roman, holding him back with a hand on his arm. That shouldn't hurt the way it does, either. “This is not a good idea. He's in shock!”
Heat explodes across his face, and Roman needs a second to understand it's from fury. He slaps indignantly at Hobbs' hand on him, and the bull of a man actually lets go. Roman doesn't fall for the illusion that he made him. “I know! What the hell is your problem, Goliath?!”
Hobbs leans in close to him, and okay, Roman maybe takes half a step back. He knows he's no David. “You shouldn't make fun of him for this.”
“What the-” Roman bites off the curse. It's a waste of time, he's needed elsewhere. “Oh, fuck off.”
He can feel Eric's eyes on him as he drops into the driver's seat and wrenches the car into gear slightly harder than necessary. He doesn't look over.
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It has to be one of the most uncomfortable car rides Roman ever had to endure. Eric is a hunched heap of silence next to him, eyes fixed on the road and only using hand signals to give directions. Whenever he thinks Roman is too busy with driving to notice, he scrubs a hand down his arm with a pained grimace on his face. And Roman winces in sympathy, because he gets it. As a kid, he took an accidental detour into an anthill, and even though he had spent a long time in the shower afterwards, he could still feel the ants crawling all over his skin hours later. He reckons the phantom weight of that spider is just as hard to shake off.
He almost tells the story the next time he catches Eric rubbing his arm, but then decides against it. With his pride already wounded, Eric might take it completely the wrong way. So they stay silent – a great feat for Roman, mind – until Eric points to a tiny house at the back of a suburb dead end. “This is it.”
It is a nice neighborhood. Nothing fancy, but far from run down. Normal. When Eric gets out of the car, Roman does too, if only to take a closer look around. But then he finds himself following him up the sidewalk to the front door anyway, and Eric doesn't stop to say good-bye after unlocking it, either. So Roman takes the invitation for what it is and steps in, curious as hell about Little Nobody's living situation.
It is indeed tiny.
There is no hall, so he is already standing in the living room. A small kitchen occupies one corner, sparsely equipped and caged in by a comfy, but worn-looking couch facing – here, Roman has to whistle – a seriously awesome TV mounted to the wall. The whistle goes on as he catches sight of the shelves framing the TV from left to right, floor to ceiling. They are filled to the brim with stacks of DVDs and Blu-rays, ranging from Kurosawa classics to up-to-date superhero blockbusters. Alright, Roman thinks gleefully, looks like someone got a hobby here.
“Hey, man,” he says, trailing a finger along the spines as he reads the titles, “how come you never invited any of us to a movie night over here? Least you could do, with all that sweet equipment you got.”
Eric doesn't reply, and when Roman turns, he finds him leaning against the backrest of the couch, arms crossed, watching him. And okay, maybe that question doesn't help right now, with his inferiority complex and insecurity issues in full swing. He knows better than to try and have that conversation, though, so Roman simply raises his hands and tries for a harmless smile. “You're right. None of my business. Chill, okay?”
Eric sighs, then lets his arms fall to his sides. “No,” he says haltingly. “It's alright.”
He doesn't say what exactly is alright and Roman doesn't ask, either, wondering whether it's time to go now. He is not the most emphatic member of their mismatched family, nor the one who always knows what to do or say to comfort someone when they are down – he would confess to that anytime. He is more prone to put his foot in his mouth and make everything much worse in the process. But somehow, somehow he gets the feeling Eric doesn't want to be alone right now, yet has no idea how to ask him to stay. So Roman takes the risk and just says the first thing that comes to mind – he is exceptionally good at that.
“Wanna watch something now?”
The sheer amount of relief crossing Eric's face might have been comical on any other day and certainly worth a well-timed barb. But Roman can still see the look of horror on his face when that blasted spider moved up his arm, can still hear the panicked sobs, and he doesn't comment on it.
“Sure,” Eric says, voice carefully neutral, then points to the fridge. “Knock yourself out. I'll just grab a quick shower.”
“Yes, sir, Little Nobody, sir. Copy that.”
Eric scoffs on his way up the stairs and calls over his shoulder, “Don't touch anything else.”
It should be insulting, but it makes Roman grin. Because Eric is himself again, and so are they.
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Halfway through the movie, Roman thinks he might have jumped to that conclusion too early. They chose to watch 'Gone in 60 Seconds', simply because Roman is a little shit and suggested it as a joke and Eric just shrugged and pulled it off the shelf without protest. And then he fell asleep shortly after Nic Cage's team started collecting the cars – which is not surprising, after the horrible few days he's had. Roman can sympathize. But when Eric starts listing towards him in his sleep, only coming to a stop when his head hits Roman's shoulder, he suddenly knows this is not them anymore. They bicker, they fight, they barely manage to hold a two-sentence conversation without annoying the hell out of each other. But they keep their distance. The two of them have never reached that level of familiarity where it would be okay to give each other a pat on the shoulder or a fist-bump or, worst of all, a hug. Roman has never been this close to Eric before, and he wants it to end just as much as he wants it to last. And the latter, right there, is scary as hell.
Eric didn't bother putting any gel in his hair after his shower, so it's soft and smooth, tickling Roman beneath the chin whenever he turns his head to check if he is still asleep. Which he is. And he looks stupidly amazing doing it. His trademark frown is gone, replaced by a peaceful expression Roman didn't think his face was even capable of making. Same goes for his shoulders that lack their usual tension, loose instead of drawn tight in anticipation of the next hit on his rookie status. Add the simple black shirt and gray sweats and the fact he is warming Roman's whole side up with his body heat, and the familiarity has reached a level that he is far from comfortable with.
Ask anybody about Roman's type and you always get the same answer: female, thin waist, big boobs, always smiling, always adoring, always quiet. And they wouldn't be wrong. Women like that, they are easy. Easy to attract – if you had the money to shine brightly enough – and just as easy to let go. With them, he knows what he wants, and it usually coincides with what they want from him, so it never gets complicated, or messy.
This, however – this has the potential to get messy pretty fast. Roman has had crushes like this before. On Brian, for a time. On Dom. Hell, even on a few targets he was supposed to distract. But they were unattainable, unmistakably so, and he'd been okay with that. But with Eric, he just doesn't know, and that is starting to complicate things.
Eric fits the bill well: he looks after himself, doesn't take Roman's shit at face value, stands up to him instead, gets back at him with increasingly witty digs, can properly drive a car by now. But he is also becoming more approachable, closer to finding his place in the family they created for themselves. Inviting Roman to stay after the spider incident, risking jokes and ridicule – Roman's preferred means of communication – but trusting him to let the ammunition go to waste is proof of that.
And it's his cue to finally hightail it out of here.
He inches his shoulder out from beneath Eric's temple as slowly as possible, lets him come to rest against the couch cushion instead. And Eric doesn't even twitch, dead to the world as he is. Roman sends some quick thanks heavenwards when he's managed to wriggle free without waking him, then hesitates as he looks down at his admittedly pretty face. But no, no, this is not going to happen. He ponders writing a note, but decides on a text instead. That's much less intimate.
It's only when he's safe in his car that he realizes he doesn't even have Eric's number.
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Not that Eric mentions it when he returns from his forced leave – three days earlier than Mr. Nobody would have liked him to take off. Roman kind of holds his breath when he strides in, but he needn't have worried. Eric is back to standing up straight, chest out and shoulders squared, barking orders, telling Tej no about the tank, rolling his eyes at Hobbs' well-meaning banter where he can't see it. When he looks at Roman, it's with the usual exasperated annoyance, and there's nothing else behind his eyes, no resentment, no expectations. No familiarity.
Which is what Roman had wanted. So he forces down the disappointment and acts like nothing happened.
It helps that the others do, too. No one mentions the spider, not even Tej – who, Roman suspects, got told by Dom or Hobbs to drop it before Eric returned. It's interesting to see him obey for once. That means he either genuinely cares about Eric, which is unlikely since Eric and Tej bicker almost as much as Eric and Roman. Or he understands Eric's deep-rooted fear of spiders well enough to know he hadn't been able to suppress his panicked reaction, which opens up a terrific can of possibilities for future prank wars. Roman just needs to find out what it is Tej is afraid of.
The effortless rhythm the team falls back into is disrupted only by the appearance of Deckard Shaw. He is supposed to join them for the next mission, and Roman is fine with that so long as the Brit stays as far away from him as possible. There's something about him that rubs him the wrong way, even now that he's on good terms with the team. And Roman knows that if he were to tell him that, Shaw would kick his ass. So he sits next to Eric at the other end of the table for the briefing and leans back in his chair, ready to tune out the noise that is Shaw's pesky voice while Mr. Nobody explains the mission.
Which he doesn't get to do. Before Mr. Nobody can even get to saying hello, Shaw says, grinning, “I heard you had a bit of trouble on your last gig.”
And then he reaches into his jacket and drops a spider on the table.
It's big and black – and made of rubber. But they couldn't know that during the first split-second when it landed on the table, before they all realized it wasn't moving. Everyone startles, moving back from the table, and Eric immediately jumps out of his chair like someone's shooting at him, stumbling back a few steps.
For a long moment, the screeching of the chair legs scratching across the floor is the only noise in the stunned silence, and then the yelling starts. It doesn't come from Eric, who just stands there, silent, wide eyes trained on the spider. He has gone so pale Roman worries he might faint any second, but then their eyes lock and Eric immediately jerks into motion. He turns on the spot and stalks to the door leading out to the parking lot, shoving it open so hard it hits the wall with a bang.
Not that anyone can hear it over the racket of everyone shouting at Shaw at once. Before Roman can get in on that, Shaw opens his big mouth and just laughs, and that's the moment when Hobbs decides enough is enough and punches the smirk off his face. Which leads to the two of them grappling with each other and the rest of the team trying to break it up. It's the perfect opportunity for Roman to slip away unnoticed and go looking for Eric.
He finds him out on the tarmac next to his black Mustang, pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips. He's obviously trying to decide between running off and going back in to stand his ground. He's back in his spiral, and Roman doesn't like it. “Hey, Little N,” he calls, the cheer in his voice not entirely false. “You're missing the best part. Shaw is getting his ass handed to him in there. Don't you wanna watch?” Eric turns to him, hands slipping off his hips, and he is not defensive or annoyed or even pissed off as Roman expected. He looks tired instead, weary, and Roman likes that even less. “Come on. Let's go back in and laugh at his big fat shiner.”
Eric stares at him for a long moment, then drops his gaze to the ground. “Yeah,” he says, and he sounds so defeated that Roman can't help but wonder if there's more at play here that he doesn't see yet. “That would be professional.”
He doesn't look like he wants to be professional right now. More like he would love nothing more than to curl up on his couch and pull a blanket over his head. Which is a kind of wussy-retreat Roman would never support – usually. But damn, Eric definitely could use the break. Decision made, he shrugs. “Or,” he starts, and the way Eric's eyes instantly flick up to his shows him he's on to something here. “We could ditch the briefing and go for a ride.”
Eric pulls a face. “But the others-”
“Can handle it for today. Look, it's not only for your benefit. If I have to watch Shaw's dumb face for another minute, I'm gonna try and stuff his mouth with my fist. And we all know how that would turn out. So it's you and me, baby. You and me and the Fury Road.” He grins, trying to ignore the way Eric startles at the word 'baby'. “And we're gonna listen to rap music while we're at it.”
Now the frown is back on Eric's face. It's a good sign. “No fucking way.”
But he's getting in the car, so Roman is going to count that as a win. “Try and stop me.”
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Compared to the last time they shared a car, this is easily one of the best car rides Roman has ever been on. They drive around aimlessly and squabble about everything – music, cars, the stupidity of other drivers, pedestrians' fashion choices – but most of all, Roman mock-complains about Eric's driving style until Eric pulls over, frustrated, and dares him to do better. Which prompts Roman to resort to extra-obnoxious maneuvers like mixing up the turn signals or stopping at green lights and jumping the reds while Eric is yelling about how he's gonna bury him if he puts a single scratch on his beautiful lady. All in all, it's a perfect day, and Roman is reminded of how it used to be with Brian, before everything went to shit.
Eric must have caught the grimace he made at the memory, because he turns down the music. “You okay?”
Roman shrugs, forcing a grin onto his face. “Nah, just hungry, is all.”
“Well, I make a mean Carbonara, if you were interested.”
And Roman must be insane, because what comes out of his mouth is not a decline. “And a movie after?”
Eric smiles at him then, a goddamn nice and bright smile, and Roman realizes he has never seen him do that before. “If you want.”
No, Roman wants to say, I don't want that. But apparently he's just that weak, because he turns the car around in the direction of Eric's house and tunes out the unease rising in his chest.
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Eric wasn't lying when he said he knows what he's doing in the kitchen. His Carbonara is a gift from heaven. But it's that good solely because Roman botched the simple tasks Eric gave him to help, which lead to Eric taking over and doing it on his own while Roman finally took the time to read every title of his impressive movie collection and gathered a stack of options to choose from later.
Roman eats as much as he can and replies to Eric insulting his table manners with digs at a few questionable movie choices he found in the right bottom shelf. It's comfortable in a way he hasn't known for a long time, and strangely domestic, too. As if they were doing this every day. It puts him on edge, and he's more than ready to bolt after dinner and chicken out of a repeat of the whole mess of Eric-sleeping-on-him. And when Eric puts down his fork and clears his throat, face frighteningly serious, his flight instinct goes crazy and he almost gets up right away.
But Eric beats him to it. “Thank you,” he says, quietly, “for what you've done back there with-” He pauses, a shadow passing over his face at the memory. “With the spider. And for not rubbing it in my face.”
Stunned, Roman doesn't really think about his answer that tumbles out without his explicit consent. “I would've done the same for everyone else in this family.” Eric's eyes widen and his jaw goes slack in surprise. It pisses Roman off, so he keeps talking. “You gotta be kidding me! Still? You still don't think you belong?”
And just like that, the shutters come down. Eric's eyes go cold as he abruptly stands, swiping his plate and cutlery off the table and putting them in the sink. “Fuck you,” he bites out, hands grasping onto the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turn white. “It's not like I can-”
“What? Not like you can contribute anything?” Roman gets up on his feet as well, if only to balance out the disadvantage of having to look up at Eric. Even if it's just his back right now. “Jesus, that's not how this works! You fit in because you are not like us. We can use some rules now and then, someone to call us out on all the bullshit, someone to open doors for us. And that's exactly what you do.”
There's no response from Eric, so Roman walks over, pries his hands away from the edge and turns him around. Eric won't look at him as he crowds him against the counter, hip to hip, hands framing his waist. He doesn't fight back, either, and it makes something ugly twist in Roman's gut. Whoever is responsible for Eric's abandonment issues should get in line for a good ass whupping. “You belong in this family just like everybody else. You need us and we need you. We've all done stupid shit, we've all fucked up, but family is family. We don't turn our backs. You are not expendable. Do you understand?”
It takes a long moment, but then Eric shakes his head, and Roman blows out an exasperated sigh. Yeah, he thought so. “Listen, us bottom feeders at the picked-on-end of the food chain gotta stick together, right?”
That, at least, earns him a low chuckle. Then Eric raises his head, and Roman's breath catches in his throat at the look on his face. It's everything he was trying to avoid, but he finds he can't move when Eric slides his hands up his sides to rest them on his shoulders, keeping him right where he is. Which is pressed up so close to Eric's body he can recognize the scent of whatever hair product he uses. It's incredibly distracting.
“You want us to stick together,” Eric asks, and there's a mischievous gleam in his eyes that should serve as a freaking danger sign for Roman, but might just as well be a siren call.
It doesn't matter anymore when Eric leans up and kisses him. All the noise in Roman's head peters out and at that point, it is way easier to give in than to resist. But he won't let Eric get the drop on him like that. He licks across his bottom lip, using Eric's gasp to his advantage and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Much sooner than later, there are teeth involved, as well as lots of swearing and curse words. Both of them are fighting for control, trying to one-up one another, and it's exactly like Roman imagined it. Exactly like he wants it, with Eric. And only with Eric.
“Hey, Little N,” he says, panting. He raises his arms when Eric starts tugging at the hem of his shirt. “You're not little where it counts, right?”
Eric gives him a flat look and stops lifting his shirt, twisting it into a knot instead. It leaves Roman standing awkwardly with his arms fixed above his head, goosebumps rising on his skin against the cool air of the kitchen - and incredibly turned on. Eric gets right up in his face, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and pulling. Roman makes an undignified and completely involuntary noise and Eric laughs. “Why don't you find out?”
Hell yeah, Roman thinks. What a perfect day.
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Thank you very much for reading!