split skin (hemlock grove, romancek, h/c)
featuring Roman and Peter, AU from episode 1x02, when Roman is waiting up with Lynda for Peter to come home after the full moon. couldn’t get this out of my head! Emeto, h/c, back rubbing, hair holding, the whole shebang.
Also, regarding Lynda’s brief anecdote - I have never read the novel upon which this series is based, so any folklore or biology regarding Peter’s lycanthropy was taken completely at liberty by me. Apologies for any discrepancies or offenses.
Peter hovered over the sink, shoulders hunched. Bruises laced his ribs, yellowing already. He panted a slight, uneasy rhythm; a groan rolled from his chest, still feral. “Please…” he gritted. “No orange juice.”
Roman stepped over the threshold, set the ice down, and held up the juice. “Your mom said you need to drink this. Helps with blood sugar, or some shit.” His eyes were very wide and bright. “So…is it like, being hungover? After…”
Peter gagged, doubling over the sink, and Roman reached for him, hand hovering in midair. He was unsure whether or not to proceed; he watched Peter’s bare back convulse with dry heaves, waiting for the shift of bones, the crunch of reformation. It didn’t come; Peter was here, human. And sick. Roman could deal with this.
Roman took a drag off his cigarette, lowered it, and tapped ash into the tray on the end table, all the while never diverting his gaze from the front door, hoping Peter would walk in at any minute.
“You know what they say,” said Lynda from the kitchen, her tone matronly. “A watched pot never boils.”
Roman said nothing, and lifted the cigarette to his lips again, continuing to stare.
The event – the, the fucking horrifying, awesome, transcendental miracle he had witnessed yesterday evening – had left him speechless and grappling for comprehension in the way one felt after narrowly surviving being hit by a bus. The adrenaline hangover had kept him up nearly all night, pacing and smoking and running fingers through his coiffed hair, until Lynda Rumancek came to him with a cup of piping hot tea (gypsy brandy, she’d said, miracle cure, drink up). Roman had drank, deeply, and had soon felt his eyelids growing heavy and a pleasant numbness swell within his skull and bosom, and he was finally able to sleep. His dreams, however, were plagued with snarls and growls, the creaking shift of bones, the splatter of blood and tissue. In the midst of this horror, as always, was the ouroburos, glowing white-hot like a circlet eclipsing a dying sun. Whispers, amid shrieks of the scared and the dying, and blood, always blood.
He’d woken panting and covered in cold sweat, and Lynda had insisted he stay for breakfast, saying she didn’t like his color or constitution. Roman decided it was better than calling his mother (but then again, being eviscerated alive by PCP-crazed sewer mutants was preferable to calling his mother for a ride home), so he’d obliged Peter’s mother and stayed. And so, together they waited.
“I remember Peter’s first Turn,” Lynda began, coming around the corner with two steaming mugs. She offered one to Roman (he accepted) and settled onto the armchair with her own. “He was…jeez, twelve, thirteen. Onset of puberty. Most boys get their first chin hair. Peter had that, and more, and then he surprised us all with Nicolai’s gift.” She sipped from her coffee, gaze far back into the past, a growing smile warm with fond familial mystery. “They say it skips a few generations, and only manifests among males. Being a single mom, it was my job to look out for Peter, because God knows Nicolai wasn’t in any mental state to dispense meaningful or healthy advice.” She took another sip of coffee and shook her head. “Teenage boys are one thing. Teenage werewolves, let me tell ya.”
“Nicolai,” Roman repeated softly, lowering his cigarette and glancing over at Lynda. “Was that Peter’s dad?”
Lynda chuckled, and Roman suddenly wished his mother’s eyes were warm like hers. “God, no. You’d have to get me shitfaced off six gallons of rye-”
The screen door creaked open, then, and in limped Peter, shirtless and filthy, hair bedraggled and mud smeared down his chest and arms. His eyes were dull, and intact, Roman noticed, recalling instantly (once again) how they’d slid so neatly from his sockets the night before.
“Hey, honeybun!” Lynda greeted, but did not rise to her feet as Roman did. “I left a couple fresh towels on the counter. Still warm from the dryer.”
Peter nodded, hair hanging in his face, and turned to limp down the hallway.
Roman looked at Lynda, wildly grasping for guidance. His heart pounded frantically, any vestiges of exhaustion replaced with a fresh surge of adrenaline and excitement and curiosity. “I wanna go talk to him,” he told her. “Can I?”
Lynda looked up at him, both hands wrapped around her mug. Her eyes were suddenly serious. “The Turn really takes it out of him. He’ll be sick, and he’s exhausted.” But then, the twinkle returned. “He could probably use a friend right now. Take him a glass of orange juice, make him drink it, and some ice chips.”
Roman nodded. “Got it.”
The bathroom door was open, and Roman paused in the doorway, holding the juice and ice. “Uh,” he started. “Your mom said I should bring these to you.”
Peter hovered over the sink, shoulders hunched. Bruises laced his ribs, yellowing already. He panted a slight, uneasy rhythm; a groan rolled from his chest, still feral. “Please…” he gritted. “No orange juice.”
Roman stepped over the threshold, set the ice down, and held up the juice. “Your mom said you need to drink this. Helps with blood sugar, or some shit.” His eyes were very wide and bright. “So…is it like, being hungover? After…”
Peter gagged, doubling over the sink, and Roman reached for him, hand hovering in midair. He was unsure whether or not to proceed; he watched Peter’s bare back convulse with dry heaves, waiting for the shift of bones, the crunch of reformation. It didn’t come; Peter was here, human. And sick. Roman could deal with this.
He set down the juice (out of sight, out of mind) and settled his hand on Peter’s clammy back. The muscles beneath heaved with nausea-heavy gasps, and he rubbed a soothing rhythm, up and down, easing into the routine. “’s okay,” he murmured, to which Peter gagged again. “Go ahead. I gotcha.”
That prompt was all it took for Peter to bend over and vomit harshly into the sink, catch his breath with a short moan, and immediately retch again. Liquid splattered the dingy porcelain. Roman kept his hand on Peter’s back, a solidifying presence of comfort. “It’s all right. You’re good. I gotcha,” he repeated, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a corny fucking moron.
Peter struggled; his torso convulsed with abortive heaves, each breath a thin, ragged inhale.
“Peter,” Roman murmured, stilling his hand. “Breathe. You’re okay.”
It wasn’t like he’d never seen anyone puke. Some jock at some party, chugging one too many beers; a girl he’d dated briefly (occasionally paid for sex, sure, but wasn’t that the same thing?); Letha, dizzy after the carousel, when they were both kids.
But this was different. Roman felt a foreign warmth fill his chest as he comforted Peter. Sympathy, maybe? That had to be it. He’d have to ask Dr. Pryce next time they met.
“Oh God...” Peter panted, spitting thickly into the sink, and straightened up with some effort. Roman was surprised to feel reluctant when he lowered his hand from Peter’s back, and took a step back. Gave him some air while he recovered and rinsed out the sink.
“You okay?”
Peter sniffed, staring at his reflection with weary malice. His eyes were very wet and bloodshot, tears streaking his face in the aftermath of his exertions. “Never better,” he muttered sardonically, voice rough and hoarse. Roman thought he could catch an echo of the wolf’s growl. “…’s the worst part. Least the Turn’s quick. This shit fuckin lasts ‘til the moon wanes.”
He lowered his head again, a low moan escaping, and Roman felt the sudden urge to brush his hair out of his face (he resisted). His breathing went measured; he was trying not to be sick again. “…fuck…got the spins…”
Roman glanced over at the procured beverages on the counter. “You’re dehydrated,” he guessed. “Wanna try some ice chips?”
Peter spat again, a premonition to worse events. “Ngh.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, gripping the edge of the counter. “Gotta sleep…jus’ wanna sleep.”
“All right,” Roman agreed, placating. “Okay. Let’s get you to bed, then.”
He reached out for Peter, feeling like he ought to offer a steadying hand for the journey. Peter shrugged him off and turned, attempting independence, and suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth and whirled for the toilet, collapsing onto the pink bathmat and leaning over the bowl with a harsh gagging cough that shook his whole body.
Roman stared, transfixed, as Peter got sick again; not much was coming up but thin watery bile, tinged yellow with stomach acid, but it was taking a tremendous amount of effort to bring up (god, he knew what that felt like, and his own stomach twisted in revolted sympathy). Peter shook his head after that last coughing heave, trying to dislodge a string of mucus, and only succeeded in matting his lank hair with the fluid, unable to stop heaving long enough to fix it. Roman bent down, then, and carefully pulled Peter’s hair away from his face as he vomited.
“God-” Peter choked out, gasping between retches. “-not a fuckin’ girl-”
“Shh,” Roman admonished. “Just between us. Never leaves here. Okay? Just helpin’ you out.” He kept hold of Peter’s thick hair in one hand and lowered the other to rub his back again.
This new development seemed to be enough for Peter to surrender completely to indignity. He let Roman soothe him through the rest of the tapering dry heaves, and rested his forehead on the rim of the toilet to ride out the accompanying dizzy spell. “R’man…” he murmured, eyes closed, breathing labored. “C’n…want a washcloth….”
Roman got him a washcloth, wetting it with cold water from the sink and wringing it out fastidiously. He folded it twice and lifted Peter’s hair again to rest it on the back of his neck, relishing the sigh of relief Peter elicited at the contact. He dared to carefully rest the damp cloth against Peter’s face and forehead, experimenting with pressure and time duration, before returning it to his neck and resting a hand over the top.
“You gonna make it, man?” Roman asked, at last, when Peter seemed to be over the worst of the nausea.
Peter actually managed a weak chuckle, not moving beneath Roman’s administrations. “Gotta,” he mumbled. “T’hold your fuckin’ hair back.”
Roman cracked a smile. “Shee-it. Never gonna be long enough. Keep dreaming.”
The brief spell of humor was enough to break the shell of ice surrounding them into a thousand brittle pieces. Roman slowed his rubbing to a warmer, more intimate pace, and Peter leaned into his touch gratefully, humming lowly in relief.
“Feels good,” he admitted, barely above a croaking whisper. “Helpin’.”
Roman kept at it, trailing his palm up and down Peter’s spine, fanning out to rub smoothly down his abused sides, coming to rest just above his sacrum before running back up to the spot between his shoulderblades (the skin there had split apart in a festive peacock explosion of dark blood and arterial spray, moist ribbons of flesh trailing to reveal matted black fur; God, the sound)-
“Good,” Roman responded, softly. “Glad I could help.”
