Chapter Text
i. Kendall
It takes a while for Kendall to start feeling scummy about it. At first it just feels good. Really, really good.
In his mind he keeps tracing over that line on that piece of paper, Kendall Logan Roy, the wavering journey of it under his name, winding through the letters, twining intimately between the vowels and consonants the way ivy grows over ruins. He runs it through his memory the way you might card a woman’s silky hair through your fingers, perfect and pure as a line of cocaine cut with a credit card, feather-soft, soothing.
The power feels good. Not only the power, but the understanding that he knows all the next steps to make and he knows he’s going to win. He knows because he’s a killer. He knows because his father put his name on a piece of paper and underlined it, because the pencil ground hard against the sheet; Logan was determined. Logan believed in him. Logan knew he could do it.
He sees the fear and apprehension in Hugo’s eyes and he knows he has the other man under his thumb, he knows he’ll do anything he’ll say, and it feels good. It feels delicious, it hits the spot like nothing else can.
He feels high on it. But like a high, eventually there’s a point where you start to come down. Where the nausea kicks in, the shakes, the bitter hard clarity of reality and you have to ask yourself, are you gonna get sober or are you gonna take another hit?
“Is your brother okay?” Stewy asks.
They’ve had a drink. More than one drink. And Kendall’s buzzing because Stewy’s on his side, because everything’s coming up Kendall, everyone’s clapping him on the back and congratulating him but they don’t know, they have no fucking idea what’s coming. Even now Hugo’s leaking those stories to the press. Even now Kendall’s planning ahead, tracing out the moves on the chessboard in his mind: Matsson, Mencken, Pierce, he knows what he’s going to do with all of them.
“Huh?” He shakes himself. They’re staring out the window over the city. The sun’s setting, evening streaking across the sky in a myriad of anatomical colours: yellow like bile, red like blood, pink like flesh. How many times did Logan stand and stare at this view? Kendall can feel every nerve end alive alive alive, can feel each pump of his heart pushing blood through his veins. Logan is dead, but he is here, he is breathing, he is king.
“I said, is your brother okay?”
“Which one?”
“Ro. I was out there before and saw him popping anxiety meds like candy.”
“What?” That snaps Kendall back to attention. “You sure? Roman hates being on anything. Barely even smokes weed. Alcohol doesn’t count, apparently.” What he doesn’t add is that this started around the time his brother found him passed out on the bathroom floor and had to call an ambulance.
“Pretty sure, dude. I know what Roman looks like. And I know what a bottle of valium looks like.”
“Jesus.” Still, Kendall lingers for a moment. He wants to stay in this room, in this warm feeling like floating, in this calm before the storm. A moment when everything feels possible and nothing is hard, not yet. When he feels quietly confident and like his skin’s made of iron. And the odd thought strikes him, if he was Logan, he wouldn’t care. He would leave Roman to quietly self-destruct, would relish the idea that maybe a path is being laid here for him to become sole CEO.
Except that’s not him.
He’s not Logan. There’s a tug deep inside him, a part of him that remembers how when they were just tiny little things Roman would crawl into his bed after a nightmare, curl up against his back like a fossil, fall asleep sucking his thumb. He remembers cleaning up Roman’s bloody nose the first time Logan backhanded him. Eight years old. And he remembers waking in a daze on a cold, tiled floor, the smell of vomit and blood in the room, his brother’s fingers pressed to the pulse point on his wrist, stay with me, Ken, stay with me, Jesus fuck, you’re okay, you’ll be okay.
He swallows hard.
“Better go check on him.”
“I’m going to bounce, soon, anyway.” Stewy reaches out, squeezes his arm, and for a moment it feels like it’s the good old days again, like they’re cowboys and the world’s nothing but a beautiful and endless horizon. “Let’s connect soon. Lots to talk about.”
“Thanks for today,” Kendall says. “I appreciate the support. I mean it.”
“All good. I have big plans,” Stewy says, and gives him a meaningful sort of look. Kendall just smiles. He has big plans too. And for once it feels like it’s all within reach.
Roman’s up on the roof. No pills in sight, but a glass in his hand and a brooding look on his face. He’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up like a child, idly scrolling through his phone in his free hand.
“Hey,” Kendall says.
“Hey,” Roman replies. He makes no move to get up, until Kendall walks up and holds out a hand. “What? What is it?”
“C’mere a sec.”
“Why?” Roman asks, but grasps his hand. Kendall hauls him up easily, tugs him into a hug. Roman makes a muffled noise of surprise, nearly spilling his drink. He hugs Kendall back with one arm, then starts squirming and protesting when Kendall starts feeling in his trouser pockets. “What the fuck! Why are you groping me! Are you trying to grab my—”
Kendall’s hand closes around a pill bottle. He pulls it free just as Roman shoves him clear, indignant. He goes still when he sees what’s in Kendall’s hand.
“Really? You stole Kerry’s pills?” Kendall demands. He rattles the bottle. There’s quite a lot left in there, and the vice in his chest eases a little.
“I accidentally didn’t put it back in her bag!” Roman protests. He’s a God awful liar. He looks guilty as hell.
“How many did you take?” Kendall demands.
“None.”
“Bullshit.”
“What, you got a sixth sense for drug use? Take enough pills and you develop some sort of superpower?”
“Stewy saw you.”
“And went to dob me in?” Roman spins away, grips the edge of the balcony, bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Hey.” Kendall goes to his side, rests a hand on his shoulder. Roman doesn’t shrug him off. “I just wanna check you’re okay. This isn’t like you.”
“I’m fucking fine, don’t — Jesus, it was one or two because after the board meeting and with all that — that shit Karolina and Hugo were pitching — I’m not about to swallow the whole bottle, so no need to have a fucking conniption.”
“I’m not having a conniption. Thought you’d pre-grieved,” Kendall says, bumping their arms together.
“It’s not about Dad. Just — this is a lot,” Roman says. He runs a hand over his face. “It’s been a lot.”
Kendall wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugs him close. Roman leans against his side. And for a moment Kendall feels that warm protective spirit that seems like it could fill him to the brim. He felt it in Tuscany, in that moment when his siblings both looked so lost and defeated. He felt it every time he stepped between Roman and Logan, he felt it back in that Karaoke bar, that feeling of being an older brother, of being the knight swooping in with a lance to slay the dragon. In moments like that he understands who and what he is and what it means to be a real human being.
“I’m glad it’s you and me,” Roman murmurs, and for a second—
For a shaky, treacherous second the feeling is back. That sick come-down wavering between the high and the fall. I’m glad it’s you and me too, he’s thinking, but there’s an unspoken addendum: because Shiv would’ve been too hard to manipulate. Because if there’s one thing Logan Roy gave him in all their time working together, it was an education in how to get Roman to do anything he wants. Make him doubt himself. A blow, a kiss. Make him want your approval, but keep him guessing whether he’s going to get it.
Did Gerri know this too? Is that how things played out between them?
And it makes Kendall feel vaguely sick, because — that’s not him. Because even now he’s telling Hugo to run stories about how growing up Logan was loose with his fists, about the myriad of names he used to call them, even now he can feel the weight off his shoulders, the iron collar lifted: him and Shiv and Rome, right now they’re free. The malignant presence is gone. The canker has been exorcised from their bodies. They can breathe.
Except it’s still there. Somewhere within him, a little cancerous seed. Inheritance. Or succession. His father’s ruthlessness slipped over his shoulders like a worn old coat.
Kendall doesn’t want to be him. Kendall hates him. Hated him. But at the same time, it’s there: that intoxicating little glimmer of pride. Hey Dad, I’m a killer after all.
He’s never been particularly good at resisting temptation.
But at the same time, wouldn’t it be throwing it in Logan’s face: to be able to do it without him, to do it with kindness and trust and innovation instead of the stale old ways, the backstabbing, the lies? But how do they survive? With Karl and Gerri and Frank lurking in the wings, with Matsson…How do they survive?
“It’s fine,” he hears himself saying, almost unconsciously. “It’s gonna be fine, it is. We got this.” I got this.
He pulls back a little, looks into Roman’s eyes. There’s mostly trust there. A hint of suspicion, maybe. But not fear. Not the way there was with Logan. And Kendall feels it again for a second, the earth quaking under him: who are you, who are you going to be?
As he’s passing through the house he sees Shiv. She’s striding purposefully along, looking at her phone, but she looks up and their eyes meet. He’s surprised to find hers red-rimmed and bloodshot, like she’s been crying. The thought is frightening if only because very little can make Shiv cry. Being pepper-sprayed. Their father dying. That sort of thing.
“Hey,” he begins, reaching out to her, because that ache is swelling up in his chest again. He’s pissed at her and he can see something ugly brewing on the horizon, but she’s his little sister. She’s still his little sister.
She twists away from him, his hand meeting empty air.
“I need to take this,” she says, curtly, and she’s off. Kendall stares after her for a moment, biting his lip. He should go after her. He should smooth this over. Reassure. But already, already he’s writing her out of their plans, thinking about the best way to keep her busy so she doesn’t butt in, thinking of the kindest way to go about the kill.
He heads into the bathroom. Pulls open his phone, looks again at the photo. His name on a piece of paper, underlined. Looks in the mirror. Dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. Determined clench to his jaw. He’s always looked more like his mother than his father. It’s Shiv who got their father’s colouring, Roman who got his build. But Kendall fancies he can see, now, the old man’s face written under his — like something scrawled in pencil, half-erased, an early draft. Something in his eyes and the set of his mouth, some fire that knows how to consume, knows how to burn everything to the ground, knows how to keep itself alive, alive.