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The sun beats down on the green; relentlessly bright, enough to make his eyes water. His stupid, scratchy polo is too tight under his arms, and the heat makes it cling to his back in a way that's driving him insane. He can feel the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, trickling down between his shoulder blades.
And the boredom. Jesus Christ, the boredom.
Roman shifts his weight from foot to foot, pretending to watch Kendall line up his putt, but really, he's just trying not to scream, or fall asleep standing up, or throw his club into the water hazard just to see what happens.
His dad hasn't said a single word to him since they teed off. Instead, Logan's been locked in conversation with Ken about quarterly metrics or earnings projections or some other mind-numbing corporate shit that Roman knows he's supposed to care about. That he will have to care about, sooner than later, when he's dragged kicking and screaming into a room full of suits.
"—and if we can push the margin up another two percent by Q3," Kendall's saying, because of course he is, "we're looking at a significant bump in the—"
"Uh huh, right," Logan grunts, nodding, listening, seemingly interested. Roman wants to die, or no—he just wants his dad to look at him. To ask him literally anything. But what the fuck is he supposed to contribute? "Hey Dad, so, margins, huh? Pretty marginal!" He'd rather eat his putter.
They're on the 18th hole now, mercifully. Ken played a decent enough game: par on most holes—one birdie that he's definitely going to bring up at dinner for the next month—while Rome spent most of the round hacking his way out of the rough. Logan hasn't commented on that either, which is somehow worse than if he had.
The spear through the olive in the cocktail of discomfort is Roman's bladder, which has been screaming for relief since the 16th tee. It's bad. Really bad. The kind of urgent, full-body ache that's making it hard to focus on how much he hates everything else. He'd tried to go in the clubhouse bathroom earlier, but of course some guy was in there, tomato-red, gut hanging over his belt like it was trying to escape, grunting over one of two urinals. Roman pulled himself out, tried to go, but he couldn't. He stood there for thirty seconds, staring at the tile, yelling at his body to just fucking go, but nothing happened. The guy glanced over, and Roman panicked, flushed air, zipped up, and left like he'd accomplished something.
Now he's paying for it. Every step makes it worse. Every time he bends to place his tee or shifts his stance, his bladder protests with a sharp throb that makes him want to double over.
"Roman," his dad says suddenly, and Roman's head snaps up so fast he nearly stumbles. "Stop daydreaming. You're up."
Oh. Right. He's up.
He grabs his driver, steps up to the tee, and tries to get this over with. Tries to ignore his belt digging into his abdomen, the sweat dripping into his eyes, the fact that his dad is finally looking at him and it's only because he's about to embarrass himself.
He swings.
The ball slices hard to the right, disappears into a stand of trees with a sad little thwick of branches.
"Lovely," Ken mutters, grinning.
"Alright. You're done," Logan declares, already walking toward the cart, back in conversation with Kendall about something Roman doesn't have the bandwidth to parse.
Roman sits in the back, thighs pressed together, trying to convince himself that he can hold it. Each bump in the path makes him wince, makes his bladder spasm dangerously. He can feel it now, beading right at the tip, that horrible wet warmth seeping into his underwear. Jesus, it's never been this bad. What if he actually doesn't make it? His dad already thinks he's pathetic enough without pissing himself like a child. Another bump, another trickle. His throat tightens but he swallows it down. Crying would only confirm everything his dad already believes about him.
Finally, the cart sputters to a stop, and he follows his dad and brother through the heavy wooden door marked Men's Locker Room.
"Shower. Five minutes," Logan grunts, already undoing his watch. "Car's waiting."
Roman makes a beeline for the urinals.
"Roman. I said the shower. We're on a schedule."
"Yeah, I'll be quick—"
"Hold your piss for twenty fucking minutes," he barks. "Acting like a child," he mutters.
Roman strips fast, every movement jostling his bladder and making him wince. He yanks his stupid, scratchy, sweat-soaked polo over his head and immediately drapes it over his boxers—natural, like he's just tossing clothes around—praying his dad hadn't noticed the damp spot spread across the crotch. He's so full he can barely think straight, but he forces himself to move casually, like nothing's wrong.
The shower room is a cavern of beige and chrome. Ken and Logan are already under two of the three showerheads. Roman takes the last one, dead center. As soon as the water hits him, the sharp urgency becomes a full-blown emergency. He clenches everything, tries to hold it, to ride out the wave, but he knows it's useless. The pain is unbearable.
Maybe if he just lets a little out. A trickle. The water's loud enough, pounding over him, washing everything away. Nobody will notice. He lets go—barely, a tiny spurt—then panics and clamps down. Nobody looks, nobody notices. But it doesn't help, it only makes it worse. That taste of release flips a switch, and his body is starving for more.
He tries again. Just a little more. But when he tries to cut it off, nothing happens. It dribbles out, a steady trickle he can't stop, and he thinks maybe it's still okay, the water's still hiding it, maybe he can get some relief without anyone seeing, but then—
The dam breaks. It explodes out of him in a full, powerful stream, arcing through the spray and splashing against the wall in front of him.
"Gross, dude," Ken barks, loud enough to get Logan's attention.
Logan's head snaps around. His eyes find Roman, unblinking, like he's identifying the source of a stench.
"Oh, for god's sake, Roman." Logan's voice registers lower than a yell. A disgusted rumble, infinitely worse. "I told you to stop pissing in the shower like an animal."
The memory slams into him: eight years old, he'd let go without thinking. Thought it made him seem cool, maybe, that his dad might look at him like he belonged there. Pissing where he wanted because he could; unbothered, taking up space like the men did. Instead: Jesus Christ, son. It's not a fucking toilet. What's wrong with you?
But this—this is ten billion times worse. He's way too old. Old enough to know better, certainly old enough to be expected to hold it for twenty fucking minutes, but he can't; the stream becomes more violent with each passing second.
"Stop it," Logan's voice cuts through. "Stop it right now."
"I can't—" Roman's voice cracks. "I can't, Dad."
"Holy shit," Kendall jeers. "Dude, are you gonna cry?"
The tears come before he can stop them. His vision blurs and his throat closes and he's crying, the absolute worst thing he could be doing right now, somehow even worse than pissing himself, and—no. He can feel it, his cock starting to stiffen, and suddenly he's in a nightmare he can't wake up from. A sob tears out of his throat, and he wonders what the quickest way to kill himself would be.
Kendall's eyes drop, land on Roman's erection. His mouth opens, closes. The mockery dies on his face, replaced by something like horror mixed with secondhand embarrassment. "Jesus, man," he shakes his head, slams the shower off, and walks past him—quickly, like getting too close might contaminate him—leaving him alone with their dad. He keeps his gaze focused on the grout in front of him, the grimy grooves between the tiles, the little pockets of mildew, trying to anchor himself as reality splinters around him.
Finally, he hears the sprayer next to him shut off. He can feel his father's gaze boring into him, but he doesn't dare look. "This queer shit? They'll beat it out of you at St. Andrew's. Month and a half, then you're their problem."
His chin quivers as his father turns to leave. The water runs until he's cried himself empty, until there's nothing left to come out of him. He towels off, quick and rough, then tucks himself into the waistband of his damp boxers. He dresses fast, hands shaking, and follows his father and brother out to the parking lot—already back in conversation, talking about some deal, some numbers, like nothing happened. Like he's not even there.
—
He showers again when they get home. A long, scalding one, as if he could boil the memory off his skin.
It doesn't work.
But at least the rest of the day is his; a rare refuge from the increasingly frequent business dinners and country club bullshit and watching Kendall kiss their dad's ass. He has the evening, and all he wants—horribly, desperately—is to spend it with Shiv.
They've been growing apart ever since Logan started dragging him and Ken to these things and leaving her behind. She hates him for it, he knows that. He can see it in her eyes, the way she looks at him now, like it's his fault he was born with a dick.
But he seeks her out anyway. Can't help it. Buried under all the resentment and distance, there used to be something easy between them. A warmth he can remember, but can't quite feel. The last time he felt it was… maybe in the womb, when they were the same, when they shared something meant for both of them. He's spent his life trying to find it again, trying to feel whole.
Shiv's door is open. She's on her bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, flipping through the latest edition of Seventeen with Johnny Depp on the cover.
"Caught," Roman teases, and Shiv jumps. "You said you hated those girly magazines."
"I do," Shiv grumbles. "Dad keeps buying them for me."
"And forcing you to read them?" Roman flops on the bed, and Shiv groans, annoyed by his presence. That's fine. He'll take it. Just being here, in her space, feels like stepping into a different universe. He buries his face in the comforter. It smells like her.
"So," she says, her voice dripping with acidic boredom, "how was golf? You and the big boys have a nice time?"
"Uh, you know. Whatever." He rolls onto his side, elbow digging into the mattress, watching her. Aching for her to look back. "It was golf. It sucked."
The air goes quiet for a second, just the sound of her flipping a page. He's about to say something else, anything, just to fill the silence and keep her engaged, when a shadow falls across the door.
"Yo." Roman looks up. Ken's leaning against the doorframe, spinning his keys around his finger. "He tell you?" he asks Shiv, a nasty little grin playing on his lips.
Shiv meets Ken's eyes. She always does. Whatever brand of resentment she harbors for him still manages to leave room for deference. "Tell me what?"
Kendall's smile grows until his eyes crinkle, and Roman feels like he's about to hurl. "Come on, Rome. You—are you really too embarrassed to tell Shiv?"
"Fuck you. Tell me what?" Shiv asks, eyes still locked on her big brother.
"He fucking—he pissed himself. Right in front of Dad," Ken laughs. "Fucking—right on the wall in the shower. Couldn't hold it until we got home."
Shiv chokes out a laugh. "Pfft, what? Is he serious?"
"Shut up," Roman rolls over onto his back. "Oohh, I pissed in the shower! Nobody's ever pissed in the shower before! Whatever."
Ken nods. "Right, yeah."
"Fuck off—it's literally. Oh my god. It's… efficient. It's perfectly fucking normal."
"That's why Dad yelled at you, right? And you—"
"Ken, fuck off—"
"And you popped a fucking—you got a hard-on."
"What?" Shiv practically screeches into a laugh. "Oh my god. Roman."
"Fuck off," Roman takes a pillow and throws it at Ken. Another. Another. "Fuck off, fuck off. Go fucking—go suck off Dad about your—I don't know, your projections, your margins, whatever. Get the fuck out of here."
Ken laughs, a short, sharp bark, then points at Roman with the keys. "Later, Pissy Boy." He spins around and leaves, whistling as he walks down the hall.
Roman sits back against the headboard, tugging his shirt down. "So. What's Johnny Depp up to?"
"Oh my god," Shiv mumbles. "I can't believe you—"
"Shut. Up."
"You got a boner? Because Dad yelled at you for peeing?" She starts laughing again. "What is wrong with you?"
"Okay, goodbye—"
"No, wait!" she scrambles forward on the bed, grabbing his arm, and he winces. Her eyes widen, bright with fascination and something meaner. "That's the weirdest fucking thing I've ever heard. Does that happen a lot?"
"Stop—"
"Does little Romey get hard when he's in trouble?"
"Let go of me, Shiv!" He tries to pull away, but it's too late. Her hand on his arm, her voice in his ear, it all shoots straight through him and down to his cock. He's hard before he realizes it, trapped in the heat. Her eyes flick down, catch on the evidence, then rise back to meet his. The laughter stops. Her expression drops into something clinical, a scientist watching her experiment work a little too well.
"Oh my god," she whispers, her voice catching. "You're a little fucking perv, aren't you?"
Any blood that hadn't already rushed to his cock shoots straight to his ears, and he realizes with a sick shame that he doesn't want to leave anymore. "Am I?" he asks, swallowing. "Am I a perv?"
"Uh." Shiv's words die in her throat, and suddenly she's the one turning red. "That's disgusting, Roman."
His breathing accelerates. He's nearly panting. "How disgusting?"
Shiv sputters a laugh. "What the fuck? Pretty fucking gross to get hard in front of your family."
"Yeah?" His cock twitches. He realizes this is the most attention anyone has given him in months.
He can see it in her eyes, the way her pupils dilate, the flush creeping up her neck. So horribly transparent, trying to keep her face disgusted and dismissive, but she's dying for it too, this abhorrent thing that should be beneath her but meets her right at her depth.
His hands move before he can stop them. He's unbuttoning his jeans, watching her eyes trail down, following the movement. He pops himself out, throbbing and angry, flushed dark, and lets it hang there between them.
A beat passes. Then another.
The silence is thick with it. How awful this is. How disgusting, how wrong. This transgressive, detestable thing, a secret he's trapped her in. He wraps his hand around himself and starts stroking, fast and desperate, breath coming in uneven gasps.
"Roman, what the fuck," she whispers, "we shouldn't—you can't—I'm getting Ken."
That does it.
The threat of his brother seeing this, of more witness to his depravity, of the story spreading—to their dad, knowing that Roman had done this to his precious daughter, his favorite—it tears through him. His whole body seizes, and then he's coming, making a mess all over the comforter, getting his rot all over her, all over Dad's most prized possession.
"Ew, Roman—oh my god."
But he can't stop. Wave after wave, it keeps coming, the most intense orgasm of his life. It feels so fucking good it almost hurts; a total, catastrophic release that he can't understand and can't control. She watches him like a car crash, fanning the flames, pouring gasoline on the engine until there's nothing left but ash.
Finally, it stops, the last shuddering pulse leaving him empty and shaking. Shiv stares at him, her mouth slightly open. Those big blue eyes wide and shocked and… scared? Of him?
The comforter is ruined. Splattered with his release, the evidence of what he'd done impossible to hide. The unthinkable, horrible punishment from their dad looming around the corner. "Um," he manages, his voice cracking. He rubs the back of his neck, that nervous tic. "I—"
He can't finish. What else is there to say? So he runs. Stumbles out of her room, pulling his jeans up as he goes, fleeing down the hall into his own room and slamming the door. He locks it. Sits on the floor with his back against it, heart hammering, waiting for the inevitable. For Logan's footsteps. For the door to shake under his father's fists. For the punishment that would finally, actually kill him.
Minutes pass. Then an hour. Then two.
But it never comes.
The house stays quiet. Shiv doesn't say a word.