but here comes sebastian vettel!

Shiv had been, and is your friend—in many ways, your best friend—but you’d always had a sweet spot for Roman. It wasn’t until you moved to New York more permanently, right after you graduated, that you actually befriended him, your work at his father’s company at first forcing you into the odd work dinner or late night at the office, but routines were formed, at some point. Thursday lunches together, Monday morning coffees. At some point, he’d stopped seeming like Shiv’s whiney older brother, and become funny—most of the time. Roman, you had, at some point understood, took time. But most of your relationship with him came after Greece.

The first time you went on holiday with them—beyond the Hamptons or British countryside—you were twenty-three, and had found yourself on a ten-day trip through the Greek islands on Logan’s oversized yacht. It was that ten days that you realised that you were in, not particularly intentionally, but in nonetheless. You remembered everything about that trip; the private jet that took you to Thessaloniki, the starting point of the trip—you’d fly back to New York from Heraklion, with the entire family, who were coming from various outposts across the globe. To start with, though, it was just the two of you, walking on the scorched tarmac of Thessaloniki’s international airport, leaving the gleaming private jet behind, already feeling slick with set in the hot, midsummer air. You had appreciated the perks of a private jet that day—no queues, no crying babies or seats reclined into your knees—and didn’t have to think twice about where your luggage was, because everything had been taken care of by a team of people you barely saw, working like ants under the foliage. A refreshingly air conditioned car had brought you smoothly to the port, where a smaller boat, already stacked with your luggage, had taken you quickly to the gleaming palace on water that was the Roys’ yacht. The boat was like a small, disturbingly empty, city; an almost utopian place, gleaming and shimmering under the Mediterranean sun, a labyrinthe of rooms and decks and corridors. Despite the surplus of space, it was split between a select few; Logan Roy, of course, his four siblings and their own guests, a selection of board members and his third wife, who you’d met only once or twice before, Marcia. That day was languid, a steady flow of arrivals as the hours passed and the yacht sat just outside of the port, watched by the locals and tourists alike, most likely speculating about the owners of such a gratuitous yacht, carelessly waiting for all the world to see.

You and Shiv had been greeted by Connor, in his pre-Willa days, already in his forties though; Kendall had appeared at first without your notice, but the sound of his children, still babies then, had alerted you of his arrival, alongside his then-wife, Rava, who you still respected wholeheartedly. Roman had been next, harder to miss, making sure to “jokingly” insult everyone aboard within five minutes. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered when it took him a minute or so to come up with an insult for you, but that train of thought was quickly lost to the arrival of the man himself; Logan Roy came with a fleet of people. He spoke about three words to you directly on that first day, but you supposed that wasn’t so bad—you were hardly novel to him anymore, given how your recent promotions had drastically increased your time spent with him and Kendall. Roman, however, was a different matter entirely.

You’d seen him around an awful lot, and spoken to him maybe twice, never for longer than a passing comment or introduction, though he knew of your friendship with his sister. And yet, here you were, on holiday with his family, and he was suddenly fascinated. Over those ten days, between your hours spent gossiping with Rava and his hours spent talking business with his brother and father, you somehow found time to get attached to the youngest son of the Roy dynasty.

Roman was a piece of a work, there was no denying it. He was insulting, defensive, childish, et cetera, et cetera, but he was often funny, too, and within days you had understood him well—he, like Kendall, Shiv and Connor, was driven by his father’s approval, but as is the way in any family, each of the siblings had manifested the same fears and motivations in different ways. Shiv’s fear of intimacy made for relationships with people who depended on her—for money or status—but who she could keep at an arm's length, and cast aside if they got too attached. Roman more openly craved connection, but his fears and traumas came to light in a more physical expression. The jokes at his expense had swiftly enlightened you to his troubled relationship with sex and affection, while, even this early on, Kendall’s addictions were beginning to form cracks in his determinedly “hip” façade. Most of these things you had already understood, but an extended amount of time on a vehicle that you can’t exactly leave had opened it all up to you—unlike the Hamptons, you couldn’t piss off to the other side of the island or back to the city, but only to the other side of the yacht, and even for a big yacht, it never allowed you to genuinely leave. The thoughts that would later become a strange, fucked up mantra began to formulate on that holiday; before you’d put it into words, or understood what you were asking yourself, the statement was swirling around your consciousness; the poison drips through.

Each of the Roy siblings was broken and damaged in a way you’d never seen before, but your long standing practice of people-reading and your love of untangling the dynamics within groups made the holiday a sort of project—by the end, you’d created a map in your head of the different events and people that made up the complex web of Roy troubles, built off the foundations laid by your friendship with Shiv and many brief interactions with her extensive family over the decade. It was an incomplete map—there would be things you didn’t discover until his death, a decade later, and things you would never know, but that initial map, fraction of what it would become, was the starting point for your relationship with Roman.

Your morbid fascination with the family, and apparent loyalty (though you only realised it years later) met with his intrigue with you. Shiv never brought friends on holiday, he disclosed on the third or fourth day—as such, everyone was trying to work you out, your game, your presence, beyond the limited stuff they already knew. But at the end of the trip, it wasn’t Shiv who you’d spent the most time with, but Roman.

You’d thought of it as a ten-day deep-dive into the family, one that wouldn’t be repeated and that would have few repercussions—for you, anyway, but something had been pushed into being on that yacht that would change the trajectory of your life.

Upon your return to the company, tanned and rested from your break, you found that your routine at work changed a little at first, and then a little more, and then completely. A week after the end of the holiday, Roman had barged into your office at around lunchtime, insulted a photo on your desk and dragged you out for an overpriced lunch to discuss work stuff—a legitimate offer, you later found out from Gerri, about an actual deal that he genuinely wanted to pick your brains about. The work-related talk had lasted maybe fifteen minutes before the two of you were side-tracked by something entirely inconsequential and spent the rest of the hour essentially gossiping. His coarseness surprised you a little, though it shouldn’t have, and you remember your initial reservations about his overt slights and hyperactivity—though nowadays you’ve grown to love both. The deal—the one he’d wanted to pick your brains about—had gone better than anticipated, partially, it was said, due to your counsel. So it became more regular—Thursday lunchtimes became your lunches with Roman, and he would stop by your office for discussions almost every day, uncharacteristically invested in his work, according to his siblings. You started to move up through the company too, taking on more responsibility, spending more time with the family, getting closer to the top.

At some point, you and Roman had become friends. You gravitated towards each other at galas and occasionally went for drinks after work on a Friday night. But, despite your time together, there was something odd about the dynamic—neither of you particularly spoke about your pasts, your childhoods. There was a certain shame you had about your upbringing—you knew it was entirely unfounded, that you’d been better off than the vast, vast majority, but then again, you spent most of your time with multibillionaires these days. Generally, you avoided discussions about family wealth, and guarded the inner-workings of your family, and all its troubles, in a way that is far more impossible for a family of the Roys’ calibre—you had your own secrets, a great many things you refused to discuss, and he knew that. In turn, Roman didn’t seem to want to delve into what it was like to grow up with the mighty Logan Roy as a father; so neither of you pushed it, and the subject of who you were pre-Roman began to fade; it would take a couple of years for it all to be disclosed, and even then, most of your big revelations about your relationship with him seemed to come in times of crisis.

You were friends. Work friends, really, but edging into the ground of the simpler terms; you were friends. You were, perhaps, his only one, or one of very few, and he was one of a fair few on your part, though he and Shiv were almost entirely separate from the company you kept outside of Waystar; you’d sometimes wondered what they’d think of the people you spent your Saturday nights with, or the clubs you frequented. But for years, he was your friend, and only your friend.

You’re not entirely sure when things began to get muddled, and lines began to blur. After one crisis or another, he had turned up at your door, late into the night, too tired and too upset to take the piss out of your apartment—a sure sign something was wrong—and ended up in your bed. You hadn’t slept together, but had spent the night beside one another, in hushed conversation or drifting into restless slumber. You’d woken up with his back to you, and it hadn’t been brought up again, not even when he turned up at your door a week later. Sleeping in the same bed as Roman became more common, though it was never sexual—it eased slowly from the simple need for company to admissions of wanting some form of affection—you would sometimes wake up to find that you had curled into one another, that in your unconscious states you had found an intimacy that was impossible in your waking lives.

And then, at some point, something had changed. You’d created a setting in which Roman could actually communicate—not without difficulty, but a space where he could say what he thought and attempt to move away from what he felt he should think. The emotional stuff took longer, but with those changes came a definite change in the nature of your relationship—namely, there was a newfound romance to it.

You’d held off the idea of a relationship with Roman for a long time—through all his joking, overly casual proposals, which you suspected were a way of him affirming some need for rejection, assuring himself that he was unlovable by presenting the ridiculous to have it shot down, as expected. But that had changed as he had, gradually, changed. As he became more open, more honest in that mesocosm of your apartment, developing a unique ecosystem of trust and loyalty and, you supposed, love, allowed him to become accessible to you in new ways.

Sex had taken longer. You were, to all intensive purposes, his girlfriend for a long while before you actually had sex. It was tentative, a slow process of breaking down barriers and rebuilding his relationship with a lot of things, in order to create a version of him that was capable of vulnerability. It’s still a work in progress. At some point (a nonchalant way of putting it—your milestones with him may have been muddled, but they were still deeply significant to you), the relationship had been opened for scrutiny at the hands of his family. You had, in some senses, created a healing process that they couldn’t comprehend, and you think that for that they will always resent you, but for the most part his siblings saw someone who made their brother a little happier and a little less skittish, and his father saw someone who could talk business and keep his son in check.

You didn’t know if there would ever be a wedding to commemorate it, and you doubted there would be children, but your ever-evolving relationship with him made you happy, and you knew it made him happy. Sometimes, you just wished that all that progress you’d made with him would translate to other aspects of his life, but such hopes never came to fruition—at the end of the day, he was still the young boy desperate for the approval of his hard-headed, abusive father.

It was that relationship with his father that made his relationship with his siblings so twisted. You and Shiv weren’t so close these days, but there was still amiable respect and remnants of that original loving friendship, but circumstance had torn rifts in the friendship of your teen- and twenty-something selves. In your thirties, that love had been somewhat lost, or changed—you’d probably always feel that friendly love for Shiv, the one responsible for this entire trajectory of your life.

Now, however, feels simultaneously like the best and worst time for a reflection on the ins and outs of your relationship with Roman Roy. Your bed is a mess, sheets tangled from Roman’s tossing and turning, his frame tense as he paces back and forth, pink flashcards clutched in his grasp. You’d helped him write them over the last few days, through the frustrations that he couldn’t get the words right or couldn’t express his true feelings.

It is only natural that on the morning of a funeral, you think of the funerals you have been to before. The one that stands out, the paradox, is the funeral that exposed your true upbringing to him; it wasn’t the wealth—Roman had hardly expected anything quite so extreme as his own family, but rather the people, your people, and how different they were from his.

You’d received the call late at night—UK and US time differences had gotten confused, your uncle thought you were five hours ahead, not behind—and had tried to gloss over the reason you were suddenly going back home for a week. Of course, in registering your time off with work—paid compassionate leave—he had discovered the truth, and insisted he accompany you. So Roman had met your family at a wake—not ideal, but it made sense. Your family, for all their flaws, had an open, friendly attitude; anyone was welcome in your home, and help was always offered where it could be, a notion so foreign to him that he’d never quite managed to grasp it.

Your family had been confused but welcoming of him; the context of your mother’s death was a strange setting to first impressions, but they liked him nevertheless. Your brother found his jokes more than a little amusing, and your little cousin seemed to think he’d hung the moon, which had more than baffled him—he’d never liked kids, even when they looked like you might have when you were little, even (perhaps especially) when they made him wonder about having children with you. That funeral had been a modest affair with a large turnout—most of the neighbourhood seemed to be there, but there was no fancy coffin or grand church; it was a small funeral, as your mother had wished, and as fitted the circumstances.

You remember a conversation with your sister a day or two later; sat in the garden, smoking, she had turned to you, posed that fatal question; What if the poison drips through? You had dismissed it initially, but at some point, probably after another depressive episode after, you had understood it. The poison drips through. But that was then, and this is now. This is not a modest funeral in your mother’s hometown, but a lavish one, in New York City.

No, this funeral is different.

Logan Roy’s funeral is not a neighbourhood affair, but an international one, and your Roman is doing the eulogy—hence the pacing and the flashcards. He is already dressed, and you are still in your pyjamas, but that is hardly the consideration—in this moment, you are simply concerned over whether or not Roman will make it through the eulogy; with every hour that passes, you become less convinced by his claim that he has “pre-grieved” his father’s death. If Roman breaks, the whole world will see it, abuse it, manipulate it; but everyone, Roy or not, should be able to grieve their parent’s death—no matter how awful they were—without judgement or manipulation.

He looks up from his cards— “You’re not dressed yet.”

“We have time.” you chide, but slip out of the tangle of bedsheets and turn the shower on. “Getting there on time is not going to be an issue.”

He dismisses you again, announcing the lines from his flashcards to himself as you shower, still going as you do your make up and dress, eat a little food—as much as you can stomach on a day like this, and make sure everything in terms of logistics will run smoothly, send a quick text to Shiv to make sure she’s coping—you’re sure none of them are—and eventually let Roman know it’s just about time to go.

His composure is already cracking by the time you get to the car. There is a sense of foreboding, and though you can’t bring yourself to iterate the thought, you have a distinct premonition that Roman’s eulogy will not happen as planned. You’re even wondering if he’ll sneak out before it’s his turn to speak, but you push the thought away. Roman would be okay, he always managed to scrape himself out of trouble, somehow.

The funeral is sombre, to no one’s surprise. You end up on the front pew, between Roman and Kendall, though you’re not entirely sure how. The service is long, as Roman Catholic funerals usually are, in your experience, and Roman will have to sit through the rest of it after his eulogy—whether it’s good that he’ll get it over with, or bad that he’ll have to sit with it for ages after is something you can’t decide on. You suppose that regardless of which point in the service he did the eulogy, he will always have to sit with his words.

And then it’s his part, and he doesn’t even manage the first sentence. You realise, the moment that he looks over to the coffin, that it’s over. You’re the first to get to him at the front, pulling the cards from his hands and letting him collapse into you, the cards getting taken by Kendall, the Roys all there to offer some form of support to their faltering sibling. His questions, his grief, are concerned with Logan’s body, lying and waiting in that coffin. It does, admittedly, seem unnatural that such a force could be contained in such a simple box. You feel almost like you are carrying him back to the pew, tucked under your arm, and welcoming him into your side, his body pressed into yours as though you are the only thing keeping him on earth, as if he would be gone without you. You let him cling, you make it to the end of the service without a further disruption, and then tell Shiv you’ll walk him back to the reception yourself, make sure he’s in a better state before you present him to the world once more. You sneak him out somehow, find a long route back that is not impacted by protests or by paparazzi.

The walk is slow, and he comes to himself little by little by the simple process of walking. He calms his breathing, starts to look about, register his surroundings and the events of the last few hours.

“Why’d you take us this route?” he asks. It’s not the quickest route, and it’s too strange a route to simply be about avoiding photos or crowds. He’s frowning, but you don’t seem embarrassed or confused by his line of questioning.

“My grandparents used to say that you should leave a funeral in small groups, and never all take the same route. It was some superstitious thing—like, if you all took the same route back then the soul of the dead would be able to follow you home, and they’d never leave.” You don’t say that you would hate for Logan’s soul to remain here, to follow him for the rest of his life.

He frowns at you. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him from staying.”

You sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll never escape him, will I?”

“Roman, for the first time in your life you can step out of this sphere. You can look at the world without the oversight of that bastard, and you can pick a direction. You have the choice, the ability to choose for yourself without his consequence. If you want so badly to escape him, then you can. It’s in your grasp.”

He doesn’t respond, meandering toward your destination. Eventually, he formulates a response. “He’s gone, but the rest of them aren’t.”

You don’t push it—it’s for another day. Instead, you hold his hands in the street, and the pair of you head towards the reception.

He’s beside you for the majority of the evening, until you go to get a drink so that kendall can have a word—a bad idea, in retrospect—and you return to find him gone. Kendall shrugs you off, and no one else knows or cares where he’s gone. You call him a few times, wonder if he just needs some quiet, and then feel your instincts correct you; Roman has not gone for a moment of quiet, you know him better than that, and there is no guarantee he is safe or calm or well.

So you leave, try his phone a few more times, and some morbid curiosity leads you toward the sounds of the protestors. Perhaps it’s your gut, perhaps there is something that viscerally understands his masochism and self destruction. You know you’ll find him in that mob, at the mercy of the only people who will show him violence like his father used to. You feel sick with the thought, nauseous with the understanding of what he is doing to himself.

Sure enough, by the time you find him he has been beaten to a pulp, he is black and blue and bloody, damn near smiling with the pain despite being barely able to stand or walk, destroyed by a sadistic crowd. They do not know this man, you think, as you bundle him into a car, they do not understand grief if they can do this to a man who had freshly lost his father.

At your apartment, you sit him against the bathroom wall, on the floor, splatters of blood on his clothes, tainting the white tiles. He’s incoherent as you sort the first aid kit, and find a cloth to clean him up with. You work methodically, sure to keep him conscious in case of a concussion, as you clean and dress every part of broken skin, and treat his bruises with an ointment you find in the bottom of the kit, and strip him of his stained clothes, providing him with a change. You do not leave him alone, for fear of what might happen, and help him into some new clothes, sweaters and top, too casual for him to ever actually wear—you’d bought the joggers over a year ago and seen him wear them twice—before settling him into bed. You know enough about concussions to know you should wake him up frequently to check on him, but for now you let the tears come in waves. You’ve cleaned the physical wounds, and you hope that with every round of tears comes a cleanse, one that will make the wounds of his broken life easier to heal come the morning, as though the tears themselves will act to wash the grit from the graze, or to pick the shrapnel out from the marred flesh of this open wound.

You look around your apartment, out the window at the city below, and an idea strikes you—almost certainly a bad one, but you’re beyond the point of caring. “Rome,” you say, “You wanna go to Barbados?”

-

Caroline’s place in Barbados is lovely, if a little mosquito-ridden, and it feels oddly bonding to care for Roman together with his distant, almost neglectful mother. She loves him, that much is true, but it’s never enough.

You have thought more about your own mother in the last two weeks than in the last few years—not because you’d wanted to forget her, you saw her in everything—these thoughts were more active, like you were searching for the memories that might guide you in how to deal with this, or help Roman to cope. Your mother had been a different kind of a parent to Logan, and her issues had never been sought out—it was like no matter what she did, she would always have been claimed the same way, her life would always have made yours worse, despite anyone’s efforts to change that.

The poison drips through. That had been your sister’s line, and now Kendall’s. You’d experienced some of what your mother had first-hand, and it always made you wonder if everyone is destined to become their parents, to mirror their lives no matter how consciously they tried to avoid it; whether they resign themselves to it, or try so hard to avoid it that they do a full circle, returning to the likeness of their parents, everyone you’ve ever known is the product of their parents; it is biological, cultural, psychological.

It’s no surprise when Shiv arrives, ready to turn Roman to her side of the discussion about the board meeting. It’s late afternoon when you and Shiv find a moment—Roman has disappeared, and you sit on the paved surrounding to the pool, legs soaked up to your knees, weight leant back on your arms. The youngest Roy is somewhere behind you, to the right, probably on a deck chair.

“Do you think—and tell me to fuck off if you like—that maybe this whole deal is a good thing?”

You hear her sit up, and turn to look at her. She’s frowning at you, “How so?”

“I don’t know, ‘cause, like, you guys—all of you—have just been trapped in this sphere of Waystar and ATN and your dad, and all of you are just fucking miserable. What if you—what would be so bad about just getting out? You could free yourselves from all this bullshit, and there’s no Logan to pull you back in, so you could just… be. Just, y’know, learn a bit more about who you are outside of your father’s sphere of influence. Plus, like, Kendall’s gonna break, Roman already has, and you—all of you—are, frankly, pretty fucking fragile at the minute.”

She moves to come and sit next to you, slipping her feet into the pool beside yours. “You don’t understand.”

You shrug. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“We’re never, really, going to be free of it. Any of it.”

She shifts, her head resting on the bare skin of your shoulder, hair ticklish on your neck. You rest the side of your face on the crown of her head. “Maybe, maybe that’s true. But for the first time in your lives, the door’s open.”

The silence stretches out over the pool, filling the air, making you wonder what’s going on in her head. You sit like that for a while and at some point you realise she’s crying— not sobbing, not shaking with the force of it, but just sitting there, letting the tears stream; you don’t think she’s even really blinking, but the stillness remains, you don’t move. She needs this. You know about the scheduled meeting rooms for crying—Roman mentioned it—but this doesn’t feel like mourning. Not for her father, at least.

“Hey, fucknuts,” Roman calls, appearing at the edge of the courtyard, still barefoot in the shorts and top Caroline had gotten him when you first arrived. Shiv swiftly brushes the tears away, smiling up at him. He looks between you. “Ah, fuck—what… nevermind.”

Suddenly, you are plunging through the chlorinated water, lungs straining at the shock, hands splaying out through the cyan waters, in some momentarily suspended, bubbly universe, the tiled walls of the pool reflecting its pale, eggshell blue translucence onto your skin. You burst upward, drawing in a deep breath and flicking your hair from your face as your toes find the floor of the pool. “Argh, fuck you!”

Roman is laughing, Shiv in a similar state to you, and the moment feels distinctly child-like. You wade through the neck-deep water to the edge, and reach up to him to help you out, but he shakes his head. “Fuck that,” he chides, “I’m not that stupid.”

Shiv is laughing now, and you realise that you’re smiling despite yourself. “Rome, come on, at least help the pregnant lady.”

“Yeah, Rome, help the pregnant lady!” Shiv echoes, joining you at the edge and reaching for him. He knows what’s about to happen and submits himself to it regardless, letting her get a grip of his hands and be practically thrown over your heads, crashing sidelong into water. The splash and waves lap at your chin but you and Shiv are too busy laughing to notice; he struggles upright and rolls his eyes through his smile.

“Cunts.” he groans.

Shiv splashes him in the face with some water, and he swears again, splashing her back and catching you in the process. The ensuing water fight is short and chaotic, halted by Caroline’s arrival to tell you all to be quiet. Roman is laughing, the three of you paddling to the shallow end through some half-hearted apologies. Clambering out and grabbing some towels, you meander down to the seats and drinks table overlooking the seas, drying out your hair and letting conversation turn to business. This is where Kendall finds you, twenty minutes later, in a serious discussion about the board meeting.

The next few hours are a rollercoaster. Calls, discussions, debates, the classic Roy egoistical outlook on why each of them are better suited to the CEO position and why they have been groomed for it. Privately, as you meander in and out of their discussions, conscious that you’re not really involved in their family stuff at all, you settle on the idea that perhaps none of them are. Your feelings about the deal are one thing, meant to be separate from your feelings about them, but they intertwine now—the future of the company lies with them, and their capabilities, and their decisions. That’s not particularly your concern, you’ve been starting to manoeuvre your way out of your current position of influence, toying with the idea of leaving completely, selling your shares and heading elsewhere, but the idea of leaving them behind, leaving Roman behind, is too difficult to consider. What if you didn’t have to factor that in? What if you could walk away knowing it wasn’t them you were walking away from?

It’s this spiralling thought process that subdues you during dinner, ignoring Peter’s friend—James? John?—and knocking back continuous cocktails. Shiv frowns at you, “Trying to get hungover before the board meeting?”

You let out a half laugh. “If I drink a bit more tomorrow I won’t get the hangover.”

Kendall watches you for a second. “Clear minds tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. Caroline glares at you all for ignoring the pitch you’re currently being presented with and you glance at Roman beside you. He’s anxious, he has been since the morning of the funeral, and you get the sense that he—body, mind and soul—is consuming himself, like he’s just destroying the fabric of himself from the inside out, so destroyed by his father’s death. The whole structure of his life, its fabric and its character, has been defined by his father’s presence and absence, and the man’s ability to maintain his presence even through his absence, but that presence, that famed presence, their “dear, dear world of a father” diminishes with every passing second.

Roman’s hand finds yours under the table, slightly clammy, taking you by surprise. His initiation is uncharacteristic. You give his hand a slight squeeze, and in response he laces his fingers into yours, a more substantial hold. Be here, he seems to ask. The world goes quiet—it’s just you, Roman, and your palms against one another under the table.

Like all things, the moment passes, the chaos returns. More phone calls, an equivocal end to the dinner, and you end up at the house, the Roys down at the beach. You lie at the end of Roman’s bed, feet still on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan; there could be any manner of discussions going on between the siblings at the sea, you could wake up to find they’ve drowned one another or something. Knocked each other out with a coconut or some shit. Roman, your Roman, and his grief, his deep felt love and guilt and terror, lost in the storm of this entire shitshow. You think of that day at Connor’s ranch when you saw the scars on Logan’s back, Ewan’s eulogy about his polio and self-blame, the mirror he made his children look in when they cried. Broken people make broken people. It’s easy to think of time as linear—past, present, future—but it’s more of a circle, you think. Infinite, never-ending, always repeating the same old mistakes. Kendall’s distant fathering, Logan’s abusive fathering—were they really so different?

The poison drips through.

It’s difficult to compare your childhood with the Roys’, but you remember those same thoughts, of a different nature—you’d been lucky enough to live in a world where things were talked about, and you had been able to process things as they happened, rather than let them bubble under the surface, but there had always been that idea. Your family history, the mental health troubles, ECT treatments and various crises in your family history, long before your time, and the effects that you had grown up with. You remember the first time you understood that your mother wasn’t quite right. You remember trying to get her out of bed to walk you to school and the realisation that she wasn’t really there, not in her mind, anyway. And in your teenage years, when you felt that yourself for the first time, you remember the terror of becoming her, of losing all feeling until you couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time.

When you took Roman to her funeral, you hadn’t told him how she’d died, too scared it would be weird or uncomfortable. He’d worked it out, and confronted you in the bathroom at the wake. Sat on the bath met, you had unleashed it all on him, and it had been one of the few genuine conversations you’d had with him in those first years. It had been a different kind of a struggle to his—it wasn’t actively inflicted by your parents, it wasn’t an intentional abuse like the kind he had experienced, but an enforced bystander effect—instead, you had had to stand at the sidelines as your mother collapsed in on herself, decaying before your eyes until you gave up and left. Half the world away, you had learned to understand those things, but now Roman had hints of it in him—he was barely even a bystander in his father’s death, but the grief and guilt were parallel.

This deal was his version of moving to NYC. An escape, an out.

You must drift off, because you open your eyes to the muffled chant; a meal fit for a king. Downstairs, you find them, concocting some awful smoothie, cackling like maniacs. As teenagers, it had been one of those games you’d played when their parents were away, seeing who could stomach the most awful of concoctions for trivial prizes and rewards—apparently this is similar, an initiation to a proper CEO position, on Kendall’s part. You make yourself known by handing Shiv a bottle of Tabasco, Kendall groaning and the other two cheering.

Caroline’s interruption only spurs it on, and by the time you’re heading back to bed, the smoothie having been dumped on Kendall’s head, a crown, you can barely stand you’re so tired.

Still vaguely unfamiliar, you wake up with Roman’s face pressed into your neck, his breath warm and ticklish on your skin, arm thrown over your waist and legs tangled together, a position that makes you think he really is comfortable with you, even if it’s taken a ridiculously long time to get here. You wonder if he can hear the air in your lungs or the blood in your arteries, or whether he notices the patter of your heart as you recognise this display of unconscious affection. Eventually, the rest of the building comes to life, and Roman wakes, moves from you with a sort of embarrassment, changing from his Walmart shirt into business attire. You wear the pantsuit you’d gotten with this board meeting in mind a while back, your office fashion being a slight point of pride—you weren’t the biggest fan of the drab stuff people usually wore, and liked to use interesting cuts and shapes to create range in the endless blouses and blazers and skirts and trousers of your work clothes. Subtle, but not boring.

Back in NYC, after a morning of calls and diplomacy and last minute bids for votes, you are greeted with a room full of people in expensive suits waiting and chattering anxiously as board members start to file in. You still don’t know how to vote, whether you’ll side with the siblings or not. Instead of stressing, you wrangle some gossip out of Stewy and do a shot in the bathroom. Zero hour.

With a pencil, you tally up each vote on a Post-It note stuck to the page of your notebook where you were planning to take notes, both Shiv, to your right, and Roman, to your left, glance at the tally every few seconds. You will be the last three votes.

When it reaches Roman’s turn, it is 6-4 toward the deal, he votes against and you are faced with a choice. If you vote for the deal, Shiv’s vote is purely nominal, and the deal will go through whether she likes it or not—you will be the decider; if you vote against, then it is an even 6-6 and she will cast the deciding vote. You look at the faces of each of the Roys, the children who have grown up to get to this moment. It feels ridiculous that it might be your choice. In the end, that is what makes you vote how you do—this is their livelihood more than it is yours, and you want Shiv to have the options in front of her—you can cope either way. So you vote against the deal—not for any loyalty to Kendall, but for one of your oldest friends, to give her some ounce of autonomy when you know that’s something that has been scarce in her life. Perhaps it's cruel to give her the choice between her brother and her husband, but, selfishly, you don’t want Roman to hate you.

“No, I vote against.” you eventually utter out, earning a triumphant nod from Kendall. Shiv glances at your tally, confirming the equal scores, confirming that it is her choice that makes or breaks the deal—literally.

And she breaks.

You see them, the Roy children, through the glass walls that separate the various conference rooms. You see the pain, the anger, the fear; it comes to a head, and all of the raw emotion of the last days is borne into the world, witnessed through the glass. You listen to Kendall’s rage, and for a minute you are a teenager, listening to one of Logan’s tantrums after one of Roman’s misdemeanours. For a minute, you realise how quickly Kendall turns into his father. For a minute, you feel your heart break on their behalf—at the end of the day, they are children, mourning for a father whose love was confusing and hateful.

The poison drips through.

You are your mother’s daughter, and he is his father’s son.

Afterwards, as you stand beside Shiv in a commemorative photograph, it is understood that there is no singular reason behind this. The freedom of her siblings; the power as the wife of a CEO, not the sister; the wishes of her late father; Kendall’s rage; Roman’s breakdown; the inevitable becoming of one’s own mother. When you and Roman leave, despite the knowledge that Roman is emotional and angry and probably confused by a sense of relief, you resolve that you will call her in the morning. You’ll make your exit as quietly as you can, but you will try to book Saturday morning brunches with her like you used to when you were in your early twenties. You’ll text Rava a little more, and try to create some positive influences in the next generations of Roy children.