Work Text:
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way
- Famous Blue Raincoat, Leonard Cohen
There is an almost imperceptible change of atmosphere in the days leading up to the announcement. Connor understands the importance of always having staff around somewhere, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the house, especially one as vast and easy to get lost in as Caroline Collingwood’s castle. God only knows how many times he’s got himself lost just searching for the nearest loo in the middle of the night, so he’s come to appreciate them.
They’ve never been completely welcome in his eyes, though. Last year, one of them made the mistake of throwing away a book he was supposed to read over the summer break for school but didn’t, unaware of the photo of her hidden in the pages. And Connor cannot throw a tantrum, not ever again, so in the middle of that night he emptied the whole fridge and half a tub of mint choc chip, even though he doesn’t like the aftertaste, pretended that he didn’t do anything in the morning, and they’ve all been skittish with him ever since. Servants and Dad’s lackeys alike.
He guesses that was how the camel’s back finally broke, then, after almost two years of everybody walking on eggshells around and about him, as he allows his eyes to follow Caroline Collingwood around the front room, staff trailing after her like ducklings. It was always bound to happen sooner or later.
The announcement comes five days later to everybody’s surprise but Connor’s. First to family and close associates, then the press two days after, because they have to know everything now. It’s a boy, Caroline tells them, with all the fervor of announcing tonight’s dinner, but makes no note of a name yet.
Dad hosts a big feast in the big castle that evening. Caroline can’t drink and looks destroyed about it and Connor finds himself surrounded by frowns, congratulations followed by that look on their faces that he hates, pity and a bit of schadenfreude all together, at least all the gossip and the talking behind his back he can ignore, but the mock-empathy staring him in the face burns a hole right through his chest. He barely stomachs the roast the servants cook up, playing with his food like he's five.
His Dad catches him in the hallway after dinner as he tries to hide away in his room, touches him on the arm, looks him squarely in the eyes for the first time in years.
“You’ll always be the first, kiddo.” It sounds far away, as if the whole mansion were underwater.
Connor smiles a pitiful excuse of a smile and something flickers in his Dad’s eyes for a moment. In the morning, he’s quietly shipped back to school for the new semester and nobody asks about his absence.
The one good thing about boarding school is the distance of it all, the chance to immerse fully in the day-to-day routine and forget about everything happening back in that castle. Connor figures he’s got a few months to wind down and come to terms with the new arrival, and thank God he’s spending them here, because his new British friends are the best and they’ve got weed by the bagfuls. He’s pretty sure it’s the good kind, the rich people kind, so he lights up every time.
He tries to forget. He gives the sulk approach a shot, just him, his room and a Journey LP for days, but the Dean is starting to complain and he has to give it up after he threatens to call his Dad. In hindsight, he quickly realizes how stupid that was of him: the last time he shut himself off in his room was right before he was sent here. Connor’s gone mad again, dear, Caroline Collingwood would tease him from outside the door, like a child. He's never liked her, and he's sure the sentiment was the same on the opposite side. He still feels the thundercrack of the Dean’s threat looming above him days later.
He settles for sitting upright on his bed with a blunt during lunch break. The lights are off; he doesn’t bother.
He wonders what they’re going to name the baby boy. Connor wouldn’t mind a Reginald running about the halls. He forces his hazy mind to picture the scene: a perfectly sunny day and a perfect baby running circles around him, until he jumps up into his Daddy’s arms. Daddy is satisfied, so Daddy shoots Connor in the face.
Connor grabs at his collar, feels the tie tightening around his throat, clears it. He’s already figured out pretty quickly that weed makes him a touch paranoid, especially after last year when, while smoking with his friends for a few hours, he abruptly stood up without a word and wandered the halls for a good thirty minutes before he was found, thankfully by them alone. But then again, nothing went well last year, so why would smoking?
He thinks about when he’ll be getting the news, the last moment in time before he’s officially the big brother. But he’s already fourteen, well on his way to fifteen, and none of his friends have siblings that young, unborn, even. Then again, none of his friends are Americans, so maybe it’s done differently on this side of the pond.
Then he thinks about not going back at all, hiding in his room, somewhere nobody will find him until graduation. He almost goes through with the plan; stands up, stills for a moment, sits back down.
And then he thinks about the kid growing up in that too big castle, alone, with way too many people in it to call a home, and it breaks his heart, in a detached sort of way. He's not sure if it’s the weed doing the feeling for him.
Connor abruptly laughs, tips his head back until he’s almost red from wheezing. The kid’s gonna grow up richer than rich could imagine. And if all he has to do is live with Logan Roy and his borderline alcoholic British wife in a huge mansion, he’s super fucking lucky, then. The Tyrones could only dream of such.
We’re so lucky, she used to tell him not so long ago, he’s our guardian angel. And Connor knows she was right, even if it’s hard to admit to himself now. He envies the new arrival for that exact reason: he’ll already know, whereas Connor had to have it drilled into him.
“Where are you going to university?”
Connor scoffs.
“What?”
“It feels fake, it feels for show,” he sighs. The little stone brick wall they’re sitting on hurts his ass and he’s pretty sure his uniform is ruined. Not that he liked it much, anyway.
“What do you mean?”
Connor blinks, feeling for an answer.
“I don’t need to go to college.” A while ago he wouldn’t dare say that, but it’s the truth; he can’t change what he feels to be the truth.
“Yes you do, we all do. Just because we’re rich doesn’t mean we can’t be educated," she explains. In the distance, he sees someone playing soccer- or football, now- fall flat on his ass. "You need to get a degree.”
He almost pictures it. He could get in anywhere, if he wanted to; all Dad would need to do is make one fat donation and he could coast his way through Yale, if he wanted to.
“You’re scared. Of failure?” She asks.
“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” Connor laughs, shoves her side. “You’re not that good at it.”
“I’m never going anywhere near psychology, don’t worry,” she jokes, her accent tickling his ears. His cheeks rise in color. He’s sure she’s from somewhere north, definitely more northern than here, but he doesn’t know the UK well enough to make an educated guess. Maybe she has that posh accent they make fun of.
“You know I’m gonna have a brother? Like, soon.”
He swings his dangling legs, slapping his heels on the wall as he awaits her response. He’s suddenly not even sure he’s told her anything about his family; maybe she thought he had ten brothers he never talked about.
“A brother? Congratulations. What’s his name?”
He barks a laugh. “I have no idea. They won’t tell me.”
They laugh for a while about that. The stagnant afternoon air sits heavy on his back.
“What d’you think they’re gonna name him?”
Connor scratches his chin, hums for good measure. Who cares?
“I wouldn’t mind Tobias,” he admits. It’s the truth.
She giggles. “Could you imagine a little Tobias? Or a Toby.”
“That sounds a bit like a euphemism.”
“I’m sure you’re gonna be a great big brother,” she says earnestly.
Connor can remember when he was less than eight but older than five, asking his parents for a sibling. He doesn’t remember either of their responses, but they can’t have been positive.
“Maybe we should run away," he suddenly tells her. He’s being entirely serious, if she could tell, but she seems to stare at him only for a moment before bursting back into laughter.
The call comes just before February break. He thinks it’s a bit redundant to call the school directly, he’s bound to be back in a week. He doesn’t complain, of course, happy to be thought of so soon. On the other end is neither Dad nor Caroline Collingwood, though Connor doesn’t find that odd in the slightest. It’s one of Dad’s new flunkeys, one among many in a growing list Connor makes an effort to remember, but is sure it won’t serve him anywhere anymore.
“Hi, is this Connor?” The man asks the void. Connor doesn't respond; he waits for the world to turn upside down.
“Well, uh, it’s a boy, as you know already,” he continues anyway. “The birth went remarkably well.”
He sounds as if he’s talking to a reporter rather than a brother, Connor notes sourly. Spiteful remarks arrive from brain to tongue in an instant, the urge to hang up making his hand twitch.
“Great!” he says instead under the watchful eye of the Dean, swallowing the tail-end of his wounded pride down, focusing on the general miracle of birth instead. He needs to get over himself, instead of acting hysterical. “What’s his name?”
“Kendall,” the voice says after a pause, and it sounds like he’s smiling. Kendall. Connor likes it, it sounds full on the tongue, but keeps his opinions to himself.
There’s a beat of just-too-long silence before the guy on the other line clears his throat. “Alright, then, bye-bye,” he says finally, and the line goes dead, and that’s it: he’s officially a big brother. He thinks about the complications of that all the way back to his room. Though he’s had months to himself to contemplate, it’s the first time it feels remotely real.
The days melt into hours until he’s finally back in that castle, and he knows he’ll never get used to the vast expanse of it compared to his cramped room back at school. Barely at the door, he’s immediately ushered in, stuff taken away, staff pushing him around to the right direction. He wonders if his own birth went like this, though he knows there were no servants back then.
Everyone is keeping busy and he falls into step along with them. The maids are walking fast, not bothering to check if he’s following, so he hurries mindlessly up the stairs and feels as though he’s entering death row. Or he’s just overreacting. But the sound of a baby’s cry from somewhere down the hall snaps him right back to attention and he counts his every step right up to the door.
The room is way too bright and orderly for a nursery. The walls and the crib are a shade of blue that almost feel royal. Connor cautiously approaches closer; Caroline Collingwood is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there’s a lady holding the baby, looking nothing like Caroline. Already hired a nanny, Connor thinks, says nothing other than raising an eyebrow.
The wriggling bundle of blue fabric nestled in the nanny’s arms is making noises.
“Would you like to hold him?”
Connor is lost for words, nods emphatically anyway. He can see its little face writhed, probably in the discomfort of being out of that cozy womb, he thinks with a little smile. If he could speak, he’d probably be asking to be let back in by now.
The baby cries once and is gingerly deposited in his arms. Dizzyingly, for a second, he’s terrified he’ll drop him. He holds Kendall in his arms and feels all the animus, imagined or not, melting away into the carpeted floor below him.
“Hi, Kendall,” Connor coos. He’s so light.
“I’ll give you a moment,” the nanny bows and exits the room, though Connor can feel her lingering in the hallway. Understandable.
He gazes back at the squirming baby. An ugly tangle is now tightening in his chest, but Kendall’s cries are like soothing music to his ears. He’s barely a week old and Connor already anticipates him growing up; the mere sight of him is way too fragile. He can’t see his real eye color, he knows newborns have grey eyes still, yet he’s somehow sure they’re gonna be brown. Caroline Collingwood’s eyes are brown as dirt. She had such wonderful eyes, the intrusive thought worms its way into his head. Green.
Kendall fusses in his arms, almost unswaddles himself. Connor shushes him and fixes the blanket poorly, swipes a thumb over his tiny cheek. It’s just a small, helpless baby in his arms. The way Connor thought of him, as though he were the death of the world, it feels so stupid and pointless now.
“Mr. Roy,” the nanny calls, and he feels a pang of longing at the title call, like an accolade momentarily acknowledged. “They’re waiting for you downstairs for a photo.”
Connor’s mind goes blank. He hasn’t bothered with photo-ops for a while now. “Me?”
The nanny narrows her eyes. “And the baby,” she adds, like it went without saying and she now has to explain it to the slower of the two. “I’ll take him. They’re expecting you.”
Connor reluctantly relinquishes control of the writhing babe and returns downstairs. The ruckus seems to have intensified since he went up to see Kendall. He can now see two photographers, and way more of Dad’s lackeys conversing around the main hall. He puts his hands in his pockets and wanders around, waiting for somebody to tell him where to stand and how to look.
“Connor,” Dad announces behind him. He’s wearing one of his best suits. Connor hasn’t seen him clean shaven in a long time, but he remembers the smell of the aftershave he’s wearing.
“Hi, Pop.” Connor nods once, Dad mirrors him, and he’s suddenly being hugged. Although a pitiful one, lasting less than a second or two, it’s a hug and Connor’s heart could flatline any minute.
“Where’s your brother?” Dad asks, inexplicably used to the new vocabulary additions already. It almost feels like it was meant to be, that Connor would never have been alone after all.
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Connor japes flippantly, though Dad isn’t amused by the uninspired reference, judging by the blank look and arched eyebrow. “He’s with the nanny,” he relents.
Dad nods, looks him in the eyes again, that’s weird, then goes off to presumably find Kendall, disappearing into the crowd. Connor exhales, unseen, his very bones trembling. He wishes he could read his Dad’s mind, find out his intentions; months of feeling like he’s floating in the middle of the angry Atlantic, lashed to the mast, constantly on the edge, and suddenly the ocean levels off and there’s a liferaft thrown his way.
Someone calls him out of the crowd and he follows without question. A mellow haze descends over him as they’re fixing his hair, the collared shirt he didn’t iron sticking out like a sore thumb in the midst of all the fancy wear.
He can hear Kendall crying, now, as he’s ushered through the crowd in the arms of his nanny, and he finally spots Caroline Collingwood sitting on the big couch, just in time for the baby to be deposited into her loving embrace, and a camera shutters as she pretends to fawn over him while he’s screaming.
Suits all over him are congratulating Dad, shaking his hand like he won a race instead of fathering a son, but maybe that’s what actually happened, Connor thinks. And as his Dad takes a seat beside Caroline and gazes lovingly at his son, as the camera goes off again and the flash and the noise makes Kendall scream harder, all at once he realizes how lucky he is and how unlucky this baby is, even though he’s going to grow up in a million dollar castle, with a billion dollar parents; a little prince.
He takes his place on the floor, back against the couch as instructed, under his Dad and not his mom, and Caroline hands him Kendall, red from crying, and he can’t help but coo and hum to calm him down. A fruitless attempt, but the camera goes off anyway. He keeps it up for them and he feels Dad’s hand on his shoulder, hears Caroline mutter something for his ears only. Dad’s hand squeezes him as the camera goes off again and he’s finally out of the water, he’s gasping for air after months of drowning in the ocean. He’s finally unshackled from the mast, and this baby is his liferaft.
He dares to look up, to find his Dad’s eyes the way he seems to catch him off guard with his, but Dad is looking somewhere else, at the screaming bundle of blankets in his arms that’s unable to return the look like Connor can, but Connor doesn’t mind, he looks away, back to the crying baby, he plays his part.
The whole ordeal lasts only a few minutes until they’re all dismissed. Connor can feel his growing knees aching and he hands Kendall to his mother, who lingers for a moment, passes him off to the nanny and disappears again, like an apparition.
“You alright, son?”
Connor turns around. Dad’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised. A test, Connor realizes.
“Yeah,” Connor replies, and it’s the truth; Dad regards him for a moment and nods. He’s passed. He’s passed and he can feel the weight lifting off his back, like Atlas successfully tricking Heracles into holding the sky for him, only it’s Connor and a week old baby, and he feels like shit for it. The lack of a burden looming above him as Logan’s Roy only son is liberating, however, and he dares to bask in the sun.
All he has to do is behave, the way his mom didn’t, and he’ll be good.
