39. [PAST] The Reaping
Roman has thirty minutes to make himself and his brother adoptable. He's always been the strong one, the protector. Today, that might be his biggest mistake.
Author’s note
Dear reader,
Watch Jan carefully. Remember what he says his favourite story is. Enjoy!
Love,
K. Nett
(darkly dreaming, always)
PS Don’t just leave this post on “read”, I would love to know how you felt about it ❤️
[Narrated: 3rd limited, adjacent to Roman’s perspective]
Roman held the door like a gentleman, like someone who gave a shit about manners, and watched Jan slip past him with that dreamy, disconnected look he always wore -the one that made Roman want to shake him until his teeth rattled. Nine years old but carrying himself like he was six. Like an easy target.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes until the Larssens arrived for the final decision. This was it. Their last shot. Roman had heard the social worker on the phone yesterday - they were down to two choices. Them, or another pair of brothers in Bootle. If today went wrong, that was it.
Stuck in the system. Stuck in the poverty. Stuck with Jan getting the shit kicked out of him by kids who smelled weakness like blood in the water. The way things were going, Roman wasn’t sure his brother would make it to ten.
Twenty-eight minutes now.
Twenty eight minutes to transform from once abandoned street kids into something a nice couple might actually want. To save both their lives, if Roman could just keep Jan from messing it up.
“Bathroom. Now.” He steered Jan by the shoulders. His brother - every inch the beaten-up victim - mud-streaked face, split lip, cuts on his hands bleeding.
The water ran. Roman changed quickly, pulling on his best clothes - the grey jumper that made him look responsible. Checked himself in the mirror. Ran a hand through his hair. Looking good. Older than eleven. Like he could handle things.
Checked the time.
Twenty-three minutes.
Jan emerged, face clean but the bruises already darkening. Roman grabbed their foster sister’s foundation from her makeup bag without asking.
“Hold still.”
The makeup went on in quick strokes. Cover-up, they called it. Appropriate. He blended the edges carefully, checking his work. There. Almost normal. His brother had the kind of face that could go either way - pretty enough that maternal women wanted to protect him, delicate enough that bullies wanted to smash it in.
“Right. Get dressed. Black jumper and jeans on your bed.”
Jan drifted toward their room. Roman followed, already mentally rehearsing what he’d say to Mr Larssen. The football story - lead with that. Then the math scores. Then…
“I want to wear this one.”
Roman turned. Jan was holding up his old navy jumper. The one with the hole in the elbow, threads hanging loose where the fabric had finally given up.
“No.”
“I like this one.”
Nineteen minutes.
“Mate, you can’t wear that. There’s a massive hole in it.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“I don’t give a shit if it’s comfortable.” Roman snatched it from Jan’s hands, threw it on the floor.
“You wear that, you look like we can’t afford proper clothes. You wear the black one.”
Jan’s jaw set in that stubborn way.
“We… We can’t afford proper clothes. We’re in foster care.”
“That’s exactly why you need to look decent.” Roman could feel his voice rising, precious seconds ticking away.
“They need to see we’re worth the investment. That we clean up nice. That we’re not some scrubby little urchins who’ll embarrass them.”
“Mrs Larssen won’t think that. She is kind. She wants to help.”
“For fuck’s sake, Jan!” Roman grabbed the black jumper off the bed and shoved it at his brother’s chest.
“Mrs Larssen doesn’t matter. It’s Mr Larssen who calls the shots - when will you get that? This is about survival. This is about getting picked. You understand? If he doesn’t choose us today, we’re done. Finished. Is that what you want?”
Jan looked down at the jumper in his hands. Said nothing.
“Put it on. Now.”
Twelve minutes.
Jan pulled the jumper over his head slowly, like each movement required tremendous effort. Roman watched him, jaw clenched. Why did everything have to be a battle? Why couldn’t Jan just, for once, make things easier?
“Jeans. The dark ones, not the ones with the…”
“I know.”
Jan changed while Roman paced, checking the time, running through his mental script again. Football. Math. University plans. Show them he was capable, responsible, worth betting on. Show them both brothers were a package deal worth taking.
He glanced at Jan. The black jumper fit well, made him look tidy. Put-together. Normal.
Better.
Eight minutes.
“Come here. Let me check the foundation.”
Jan stood still while Roman examined his work. The bruise was covered, mostly. A shadow remained but nothing too obvious. His split lip was harder to hide, but maybe it would just look like he’d been biting it. Nervous kid, not beaten-up, pathetic kid.
“Right. Listen to me carefully.”
Roman put his hands on Jan’s shoulders, met his eyes.
“When we go down there, you let me do most of the talking. But when they ask you questions, you answer polite and proper. Don’t mention your bullies. Don’t mention that fucking book. None of your weird tangents about the golden ratio and equilateral triangles. Chin up, smile, a well-put together little treasure.”
“Got it,” Jan said quietly.
“You smile. You’re grateful. You’re normal.”
“Okay”
“And for Christ’s sake, talk to Mr Larssen, not just her.”
Jan nodded, but his eyes had that faraway look again. Like he was already somewhere else.
Two minutes.
“Jan. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening.”
“This matters. Do you understand? This is the most important hour of our entire lives.”
“I know.”
Did he? Roman searched his brother’s face, looking for some sign that Jan grasped the stakes. But Jan just looked back at him with those big blue eyes, unreadable and calm.
They heard the car pull up outside. Roman moved to the window, watched a navy Range Rover park at the curb. The Larssens emerging - Mr Larssen in his usual crisp shirt, Mrs Larssen in a soft cardigan. Their little Yorkshire terrier trailing behind her. They always brought that dog, said they couldn't leave it alone.
Roman’s hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets.
“Right. Showtime.”
The doorbell rang at exactly 4:30.
The Larssens were punctual. Always.
Then came the summons: both boys called downstairs, about to audition.
No one was exactly sure what happened to their parents in the end, he recalled their screams the night before his mother and both him and Jan ended up on the streets. Sleeping rough. Queuing for sandwiches at the soup kitchen. His mother’s brand of uselessness had crystalline clarity in his memory: standing in that queue, mouth hanging open, unable to even ask for the sandwich because her English was shit and her pride was worse.
Eight-year-old Roman had done the asking.
Eight-year-old Roman had done everything.
Then she’d simply evaporated one August morning. No note. No goodbye. Just gone, like she’d been a ghost all along. Leaving him and Jan curled up together in the back of the Lime Street Station.
Jan never seemed bothered by any of it. Jan lived in his head, in some abstract dimension where theoretical problems mattered more than actual ones. Once, Roman had taken him shoplifting - for necessities, food, maybe a Coke if they were lucky. Jan had emerged with that book.
Six-years-old and he’d stolen communist puzzles.
Roman had wanted to strangle him. Roman had also wanted to protect him forever. These two impulses lived side by side in his chest, twin snakes eating each other’s tails.
Downstairs, Roman deployed his best self:
“Good afternoon, Mr Larssen.”
Northern accent smoothed into something palatable, but still there, melodic, posture open, smile genuine-looking. He’d practiced in mirrors.
Jan, naturally, sounded like he’d been raised in the fucking Windsor Castle:
“Good afternoon, Mrs Larssen.”
Not Mr Larssen. Mrs Larssen. Roman had just told him…
Whatever. Of course Jan would get it wrong. Roman had tried to break him out of that RP accent too. It made him a target, made him weird. But Jan was stubborn about the strangest things, like practicing rounding his vowels watching the BBC’s kiddie shows.
Mrs Larssen’s face went soft watching Jan. Mr Larssen’s face went nowhere - carved from stone, impossible to read. But Roman would turn that around, even if it cost him his soul.
They moved to the living room, sank into the corner sofa. The little dog -Rosie, her name was Rosie - sat in Mrs Larssen’s lap. Roman extended his hand to pat her. She barked exactly once.
Fuck off.
He pulled his hand back. Rosie still growled.
A rough start. But then, for an hour, Roman was perfect. He told them about football, about his maths scores (top of his class, actually), about his future plans - university, naturally, something respectable. Engineering, maybe. Mr Larssen gave two small nods. Roman counted them like gold coins.
Jan just sat there, head down, occasionally glancing up at Mrs Larssen with this shy, almost Victorian modesty. Like a maiden waiting to be chosen at a fucking dance. Roman wanted to kick him. What did he tell him? Chin-up. Smile.
Well, at least he kept his mouth shut.
Mrs Larssen ate it up. She smiled at Jan like he was exquisite. Whatever. Let her dote. Mr. Larssen was nodding at Roman’s answers. That’s what mattered.
“You’re very accomplished for your age,” Mr Larssen said, and Roman’s chest swelled. “Tell me, Roman - what do you think makes a good family?”
This was it. The real question. Roman had prepared for this.
“Stability, sir. Structure. People who show up when they say they will.” He paused, let the weight of that land. “People who don’t just disappear.”
Mr Larssen’s eyes sharpened with something - understanding, maybe. Recognition of the wound beneath the words.
“And you think you’d thrive in that environment?”
“I know I would, sir. I’d make the most of every opportunity. I wouldn’t waste it.”
The implication hung there: unlike some people. Unlike boys who steal communist books instead of food when they are starving and get their faces kicked in for being weird.
Then Mr Larssen turned to Jan.
“And what about you, son? What do you like to do?”
Roman’s breath caught. Jan’s hand drifted toward his bookbag - toward that fucking Moscow Puzzles book sitting right there, its Cyrillic letters ready to announce exactly what kind of freak he was.
“Reading,” Roman cut in, unable to stop himself. His hand landed on Jan’s shoulder. “He reads a lot. Kiddie stories, mostly. Isn’t that right?”
Jan blinked up at him, confused. “I…”
Roman squeezed. Hard. “Top marks in literacy. Teachers love him.”
Mrs Larssen’s smile widened, but her eyes moved between them. She’d seen it. The intervention. Shit.
“How wonderful,” she said. “And what’s your favourite subject in school, Jan?”
Another trap. Jan would say maths and they’d ask what he was reading and he’d pull out that fucking book and…
“Maths,” Jan said quietly, then added, “and literacy.”
Roman nearly collapsed with relief. Literacy. Safe. Normal. Thank God.
“Oh, lovely,” Mrs Larssen leaned forward. “And what’s your favourite story, dear?”
Jan’s eyes dropped to his lap, that shy look appearing. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost dreamy.
“The Wind and the Sun”
Mrs Larssen’s face melted.
“Oh, that’s a wonderful fable. The sun's gentle warmth made the traveller take off his coat.”
Jan nodded, a small smile playing at his lips before he ducked his head again.
Great, nice and generic and NOT communist literature.
Mr Larssen nodded, but his attention had shifted back to Roman.
“You seem very protective of your brother.”
“Someone has to be, sir.” The words came out harder than Roman intended. He softened his tone. “I mean, we look after each other. That’s what family does.”
“Indeed.” Mr Larssen’s expression was unreadable. “And if you boys were to join a new family - how do you think you’d adapt?”
This was it. The real question beneath the question. Roman sat straighter.
“I’d be grateful for the opportunity, sir. I’d work hard. Help around the house. Keep my grades up. Whatever was needed.” He paused, then added with careful emphasis: “I know how to pull my weight. I’ve been doing it a long time.”
The implication was clear: I’m useful. I’m capable. I will carry us.
Mr Larssen nodded slowly. Roman saw approval in his eyes. Definite approval.
“And you, Jan?” Mrs Larssen asked. “How would you feel about a new family?”
Jan glanced at Roman first - a quick, uncertain look - then back at Mrs Larssen. His voice came out small, careful.
“It would be nice,” he said quietly. “To have... stability.”
He’d used Roman’s word. The little shit had been listening after all. But then the unthinkable happened - Jan rubbed his face. The foundation smudged off, stuck to his palm, revealing the bruise running through his cheek.
THAT FUCKING IDIOT. FUCK FUCK FUCK.
Roman’s heart stopped.
Mrs Larssen’s hand went to her chest.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her eyes were actually glistening. Her palm went to his face.
“What happened?”
Jan held her gaze for just a moment, didn’t say a thing - but something passed between them that Roman couldn’t quite read - then he dropped his eyes again. That modest, vulnerable posture.
Roman watched Mr Larssen watch his wife’s reaction. Saw something calculating in that gaze. A decision being made, or confirmed. They won’t take them. This was it. Jan fucked it up. JAN FUCKED IT UP BIG TIME.
But Mr Larssen’s attention came back to Roman, a small nod of acknowledgment. Maybe he’d salvaged it. Maybe the nods meant Mr Larssen could see past one stupid mistake.
The foster mother chose that moment to check her watch. “Boys, why don’t you go eat your dinner in the kitchen? It’s gone cold now, I’m afraid.”
Roman stood reluctantly, every instinct screaming that leaving the room was a mistake. But Jan was already up, floating away like none of this mattered.
Once in the kitchen for cold dinner, Roman positioned himself near the door. His hearing had always been excellent. A useful skill for a lad who needed to know which way the wind was blowing.
“… they are good boys…”
Hope swelled in his chest. Mr Larssen’s voice came through.
“… very impressive…”
Yes. He was. And maybe, just maybe, he saved them both.
“...give him the best start in life...”
“...our age... caring for both...”
The words landed like a punch to the teeth.
One.
They were taking one.
Roman’s body understood before his brain fully caught up - chest tightening, breath shallow, hands cold. He looked across the table at Jan, absorbed in his puzzle book of course, completely oblivious, eyes tightening occasionally working out the maths.
Roman was going to miss him.
His eyes burned. He put down his fork carefully, trying to hear more, but the voices had dropped too low.
Jan stood up, announced he was going to do homework, floated away without a worry in the world. The foster mother hummed something cheerful. She didn’t know yet. Probably hoped for a happy ending. And it would be. For Roman.
Roman crept to the living room door, positioning himself in the crack of light and shadow. The Larssens sat close together, paperwork spread between them. Mrs Larssen touched her husband’s hand, spoke quietly. Mr Larssen nodded. Then nodded again.
Then:
“It will have to be Jan. We’ll take the younger boy.”
The floor dropped away.
Roman stood there, body empty, mind racing. He’d miscalculated. He’d read it wrong. Had it been Mrs Larssen all along? Had Jan somehow known to play to her? No - Jan wasn’t capable of that kind of strategy. He was just... himself. His tragic, pathetic self. But that was apparently enough.
The social worker was talking about timelines. Weeks, not months. Jan would be gone soon. The Larssens had been vetted, approved, circling the children for months.
Jan had won. By doing absolutely fucking nothing.
Roman told himself he was happy. Jan needed this more - he was weak, impractical, made for a gentler world than this one. Roman could survive anywhere. Roman always had. He knew how to bend people to his will. Well, except today. But you can’t win them all.
If only one of them could escape, it should be Jan.
Roman repeated this to himself like a prayer, like truth, like anything other than the scream building in his throat.
Jan would be saved.
Roman had shown them he didn’t need saving.
So they wouldn’t.
Good story. I like those last two sentences.
Klar Nett are you implying that poor little Jan strategized against his brother? That boy is 9 years old! I like the idea though. Makes the story much more complex.