continued from here. / @ofunethics
hunting isn't really roman's thing. the rifle feels too big and unwieldy in his hands; he imagines slipping, accidentally shooting a person. in the nights leading up to these trips, he dreams that he shoots ken or gerri and, when he comes down to dinner, they're the main course. his already pathetic appetite takes a hit, of course, but there's always plenty of alcohol at these things, and sometimes he gets to sneak out to smoke with ken and shiv just like when they were teenagers. it's not all bad.
though hannibal's fucking mythology spiel doesn't help. roman looks past him over to dad, taking court in an enormous wingbacked armchair by the roaring fire. he looks like a king, a god, someone certainly capable of sacrificing a kid. who will it be? roman wonders, gaze flicking around the assembled minions. it won't be shiv, he knows that. ken's tipped to take over these days, so it won't be him, and connor doesn't even factor into the equation. he swallows and drains the last of his whiskey in one gulp. ( later, he dreams the same dream, except he's the one that ends up atop the dinner table. he feels every tine of every fork where they pierce his flesh. )
"here some confiding," he says, one arm wrapped defensively around his middle, "i think you're just a bit fucked up." he doesn't quite manage to make it sound like an insult; instead, it's like recognising like, although he's not quite self-aware enough to do it on purpose. "hey, do you have a shrink? someone you, like, vomit all your feelings and fucked up thoughts to? or do you just do it in front of the mirror?" he shoots hannibal a vague smirk. "no, not your fucking sex life, i'm not asking if you fuck in front of a mirror - although, do you? - i'm asking if you... i dunno, therapize yourself? you probably should, you know? what you just said about iphe-whoever was pretty fucked up."
