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Roman is slowly pushing frames as askew as possible without knocking them down when he hears quiet footsteps in the carpet at the other end of the hall. He keeps pushing, index print flat and obvious against the glass. Sophie and Iverson stare back at him in tasteful black and white, rolling English countryside behind them. Shiv's fucking wedding. He might faint from the irony.
"Hey, Romie."
Duh. Of course.
"Well hey, Connie Francis," Roman draws out. He can see Connor's reflection in the next frame on the corner. He's got his hands in his pockets, dumb fucking sweater vest. "I didn't know you got re-elected dogcatcher."
"Like I wanna be left in there with those two." Roman turns to lean against the wall as Connor strolls to a stop. "Shiv and Ken? I don't even wanna know."
"Probably planning Dad's beheading."
Connor gives him that look, the quiet, hound eyed C'mon, Rome glance, but even he seems too tired to mean it. Roman envies that a bit: he could do with having a little less energy right now. As is, he feels like either vomiting or kicking a hole in the wall (sorry, Rava). Maybe both simultaneously—who knows, the night is still something.
"You wanna talk about it?"
Now that is funny, shocking through Roman's system as a hysterical giggle. It doesn't help that Connor looks so fucking earnest.
"Are you serious? Like, have you met me."
Connor shakes his head at the opposite wall. There, the photos—a tasteful print of a skyscraper reflected in a puddle, of a pair of hands, someone sitting on a bench—line up evenly, not yet victim to Roman's shiny fingerprints. "You three..."
"Yeah?"
It's pointedly prodding, but when Connor gives him an unimpressed look, dead in the eye, Roman knows he's replying in spite of the dig, not in answer to it.
"Assholes, the lot of you."
Roman tries not to flinch or punch, but his retort is sharp nevertheless. "Hey. Don't lump me in with—"
"Alright, alright."
Connor's raised hands are anything but placating, but then he sinks to the floor, head lolling back against the wall, and stares up at Roman. Which is... Well, it's at the very least startling enough that Roman balks from his readied retort.
"What."
"Gimme a break, I took the stairs."
The bait is too obvious (and too obviously offered) for either of them to bother taking it, so Roman just slumps down next to him, one leg folded under himself while the other stretches out far enough to kick the random end table in the middle of the hall. There's a vase that's either worth at least six grand or was bought at Pottery Barn last year on it that wobbles with every tap, tap of Roman's shoe. With only a little experimentation, it's easy to find just how hard Rome can kick it without the thing falling off completely, but before he can wonder whether he wants to actually break it or not, Connor elbows his shoulder lightly.
"Hey."
"Hey," Roman throws back as ironically as he can manage. He might want to smash the vase. Connor's not looking anymore, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, so he could, if he wanted to. He just doesn't know if he wants to.
"You wanna hear about the vineyard?" Connor tries.
"Again, you have met me, right?"
"Alright."
There's another long moment of silence—or at least, as much silence as anyone ever gets with Roman in the room, always tapping at things, fiddling with this or that—before Connor tries again.
"Remember when you'd tie together all the kitchen chairs with Shiv's jump ropes and pretend they were a train?"
Roman lets his head bang back against the wall. "Sure."
"You'd always make somebody else be the conductor cuz you wanted to be a passenger like all your stuffed animals. Sometimes, if you got more than one of us in on it, you'd walk up and down the line, passing out snacks and saying you were the lunch trolley lady."
"Mm." Roman doesn't totally remember, but that sounds right enough.
"Your stationmaster voice was always British. Most of your characters were."
"And we're playing Happy Memories now because...?"
"Sometimes it's nice to remember we know more than just each other's weak spots."
Fuck you, Roman's glare his direction says, but Connor doesn't react. He's still staring at the ceiling, same as he has been, just now Rome can see it was on purpose.
There's this stupid childhood memory Roman tries not to think about too often but that bobs to the surface now. Roman was what, three? Four? Shiv was a baby and the nanny took her inside for a moment, and he and Ken were chasing each other around the lawn or something when he tripped face first into wet English mud.
Whatever age he was, by that point, he knew how this went: either Caroline would be there to tap under his chin and tell him to "Buck up, Ro Ro" before shooing him away or the nanny (as per Logan's strident instruction) would check that no bones were broken and leave him to pick himself up. Those were the options. No room for sniveling.
But no one was there—or, not no one, but someone else. Connor was hanging around reading something for school when the nanny passed off guardianship to him, hurrying in to take care of something for the baby, and Connor took this with great gravity, painfully sincere as always.
And Roman tripped, and Kendall kept laughing his way across the grass, and then Connor came over. And he crouched next to Roman. And he picked him and wiped the mud off his face, and Roman doesn't totally remember what he said (look, he was four) but it was all sorts of woobifying shit, poor baby, are you okay? whatever, and it felt...
Well. Roman doesn't remember how it felt, but he remembers that Connor pulled him in until Roman was curled up under his chin.
He doesn't know why he's thinking of that now. The idea of doing that, here? Just. No. But something like that—he's very aware of the few inches left between their arms from where Connor nudged him earlier. It wouldn't take much to slouch a little further, list against the wall, slip over and onto Connor's shoulder. He wouldn't, but he could. The opportunity is there.
After enough of a silence, Connor asks, "You wanna get some water?"
"Whiskey, maybe."
"Hey."
"Yeah, I know."
Roman doesn't have to turn to know Connor's hitting him with that look again, because yeah, that's how you know things are really bad, when Roman's actually thinking about recreational whatever, and Connor knows that because for all that the memories are nice, they still all know those fucking weak spots. They've all got them etched behind their eyelids, no getting rid of them.
But, well... In Connor's defense, he's not the one who started it, and he's rarely the one to go that far. Sure, he's a Waco freak and a dumbass who thinks he's likable enough to charm the country into its first Retired First Lady of the Night, but he's still Roman's big brother. Fuck, they're all— That's the goddamn problem here, right? These assholes may be assholes, but they're still his siblings and he still, gag, loves them, no matter how much that hurts.
Connor taps his knee. "Ready to head back in?"
"Fuck off," Roman says, but when he stands, he reaches out a hand and doesn't even jerk Connor back off his feet once he's standing.