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It's somewhere around midnight and Stewy’s half asleep when he picks up Kendall's call. He’d gone to bed early, intending to hit the gym before his morning seminar tomorrow — a plan he mentally cancels as soon as he registers Kendall’s tone of voice. He’s worked up about something, but the details aren’t clear, mostly because Stewy tunes out as soon as Connor’s name comes up. He listens to him babble about drama at dinner, not getting in much besides the occasional “mmhmm.” It’s all the usual shit, he assumes. Kendall was supposed to be with his family for half the week, but it’s Sunday night and he’s leaving, so it must have been a doozy of a ski trip.
Kendall ends the conversation by announcing he’s coming over, but he doesn’t mention an ETA. Stewy groans and messages his weed guy before getting out of bed.
—
He’s packing a bowl at the kitchen table when Kendall knocks, a couple of hours after his call.
He looks Kendall up and down when he opens the door. They are wearing comically different levels of dress — Stewy in boxers and a Harvard Class of 2002 sweatshirt, glasses on, Kendall in a suit under his winter coat with a beanie pulled down low on his head. His cheeks are red from the cold, so he must have smoked a cig outside or something before coming up.
“Hey,” Stewy says. “So, uh, bad times in the Berkshires?”
Kendall moves quickly past him into the apartment, tossing his coat and hat onto the floor like a child. So he’s in one of his shittier moods, then. Stewy shuts the door and tries to brace himself.
“Drink?” He asks, hopefully. He gestures to the bottle of Maker’s Mark sitting on the table by the weed. Most of the time he can pacify Kendall without too much effort. He’s got it almost down to a science, at this point. Tonight could be an easy one — just slip him enough depressants to make him pliable but not in need of a stomach pump, let him cry about whatever daddy did this time, and wait for him to pass out on the floor — but Kendall ignores the offer.
He starts in, picking up right where their phone conversation left off as if Stewy remembers any of what he said two hours ago. Manic energy is rolling off him as he paces into and then around the dining room, complaining about Shiv’s little show of rebellion turning down the Waystar internship — which, honestly, good for her, Stewy would say, if he cared.
Stewy goes to the kitchen to get glasses. Kendall follows him in and looms in the doorway, still talking. Stewy hears his name come up as he’s reaching into the cupboard.
“Yeah, sorry, what?” he asks.
“Are you not fucking listening?” Oh, apparently they’re fighting now, too. Stewy’s too sober for this shit.
“Listen, Ken, I don’t care. Will you sit the fuck down and relax?”
“How can you not care? This is — this is everything, Stew, this could be — it could fuck everything we have planned.”
Stewy holds the glasses against his chest and stares at Kendall. “What are you talking about?” He has tried to make it abundantly clear that there is no we between them, professionally. He decided years ago he wouldn’t touch anything Waystar — he’s got bigger fish to fry than Ken’s scraps. Why would anyone want to get wrapped up in the bitter little worlds of politics or media, anyway, when there’s money practically begging to be plucked out of pockets elsewhere? It’s insane to him.
Kendall steamrolls right through him, of course. Too high off his special blend of self-loathing and self-righteousness to listen to logic.
“I can’t believe I was so fucking naive. I see it now. Even if there’s no way Connor makes it through management training — I mean, come on. Jesus. He couldn’t manage a — a fucking lemonade stand. Shiv’s just biding her time until I fuck up again — which I fucking will, because I’m the only one willing to take a fucking risk. I’m the only one who actually cares.”
“Yeah, you’re a real fucking martyr,” Stewy mumbles as he squeezes past him in the doorway back to the dining room. He sets the glasses down and starts pouring the whisky.
“Maybe if you’d been there, like I asked, it wouldn’t have been such a fucking mess. I could have, like, explained what I was trying to do, with the re-brand, you know — we could have —”
“Ken,” Stewy takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes. “I’ve outgrown the family sleepovers. And you know, you should have too. It’s embarrassing, man.” Sometimes Kendall’s so fucking pathetic Stewy thinks it must be on purpose, like he’s just trying to get a rise out of him.
Kendall scoffs. “Like you don’t hang out with your family?”
Stewy’s so surprised by the accusation that he giggles, and Kendall glares at him. He cannot imagine a world in which he voluntarily spends holiday weekends with his parents in the fucking Berkshires. It’s inconceivable. “What? I fucking don’t, dude!”
“You were just on vacation with them, like, two weeks ago.”
“It wasn’t a vacation, asshole, it was my grandmother’s funeral. And you knew that.”
“Whatever.”
“And did I ask you to get on a plane to Tehran? No? No, I didn’t. Because I’m a fucking adult.”
“You wanted in and I let you in — but as soon as I need you, you’re not interested? That’s typical.”
Yeah, like Stewy’s never there when Kendall needs him. Sure. Of course the spoiled little prince doesn’t notice. He brings a hand up to point at Kendall’s chest. “I’m not — I don’t want to be a part of it. Okay? Can you get that through your fucking head? It’s nothing to me, Kendall. I know it’s your holy grail for some fucking reason, but I don’t need that shit. I don’t want to… fucking, work for your dad. Or your family. Or you, man.”
“You’re a coward.” Kendall shoves him back against the table, hard enough that the bottle and glasses shake.
Everything slows down, like they’re moving underwater. Stewy takes a breath, in and out through his nose, a half-assed attempt to remain calm. He knows what this is — he knows all the tricks in Kendall’s book. He’s begging to play the victim, and he'll push every button he can until Stewy hurts him — physically or otherwise. When they were kids, a shove or a pinch or a broken toy would have been enough to resolve things, set Kendall off crying and Stewy pleading for forgiveness. Now everything is more complicated. Stewy likes to think he’s above the manipulation, but the truth is he just tries desperately to avoid these moments. It’s a reminder that he just exists as a means to an end in Kendall’s mind, one of many unhealthy coping mechanisms. He brushes Kendall’s hands off him. “And you’re a pathetic piece of shit. Don’t fucking touch me.”
Kendall’s face twists up at that. He picks up a glass and throws it against the opposite wall. It shatters everywhere.
As if to make up for the previous slowdown, Stewy’s brain fast forwards through whatever happens next. He blinks and he’s got Kendall pinned face down against the table. His chest is against Kendall’s back and his hand is pressing down on his neck. “Why’d you come all the way here, Kendall? Huh? Just felt like breaking some of my shit? Nah. You thought you could...” He cuts himself off before he says “use me,” because he does have some fucking self-respect left. He swallows that, and then continues, keeping his voice steady, hating himself for giving Kendall even this much. “I’m really just not fucking interested, tonight, Ken. Find some other way to make yourself feel better.”
He shoves Kendall into the table once more before backing off. Kendall stays down and doesn’t turn to look at him.
“Call your girlfriend, or your therapist. I’m going back to bed.” He picks up the not-broken glass and swipes the whisky off the table as he leaves the room.
—
Stewy leans back against the headboard, picking at his laptop keyboard but not really getting anything done, because it’s fucking three AM and he can hear Kendall moving around the apartment. There’s the scraping sound of glass shards moving across the wooden floor — presumably Kendall cleaning up and doing a shit job of it — then the smell of weed, followed by the high-pitched beeps of the microwave.
Kendall appears in the doorway holding a plate and looking sheepish. His face is blotchy and his eyes are red, either from smoking or crying or both. He holds the food — whatever it is — out. “I didn’t, uh, actually eat anything at dinner. Want some?”
Stewy rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, I’m pissed. I’m tired. And you could have shared the fucking weed, dude.”
Kendall walks to the bed anyway, lies down on top of the covers without invitation. Stewy considers pushing him off.
“What is that?” he asks.
“Grilled cheese?”
“No part of that shit is grilled. You’re disgusting.” Stewy takes half the sandwich and closes his laptop to use it as a plate.
Kendall takes a bite and frowns, then sets his plate on the bedside table. He lies back on the pillow and laces his fingers together over his chest. He’s still wearing his suit, jacket and all.
“You want some pajamas?”
“Not really,” Kendall sighs.
“You better not fucking cry in my bed. Guest bedroom’s down the hall.”
“Fuck off. I — I — It was a bad day, Stew.” Kendall chews his lip, gaze flitting between Stewy and the ceiling. That’s probably as close to an apology as he’s getting tonight.
“Oh, yeah? I hadn’t noticed. You look like shit, by the way.”
Stewy chews the rest of the rubbery cheese monstrosity in silence and sets his laptop on the floor. Kendall’s working up to something, he can tell by the look on his face. If it’s more bullshit about his siblings he’s throwing him out on the fucking street. He takes a drink of whisky, rolling it around in his mouth as he waits.
Kendall clears his throat. Stewy watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. His voice still comes out soft, hesitant, and he’s avoiding Stewy’s eyes. “Stewy. Have you ever… uh… been with other guys?”
This manages to catch Stewy off guard. He has not, in fact, been with other guys. Not for sentimental reasons, it’s just never really occurred to him. It’s easy enough to get pussy. And easy enough to get Kendall.
“No.”
“Oh.” Kendall nods thoughtfully, pausing again before he speaks. “I have.”
His voice is neutral and Stewy can’t tell if this is a confession or a brag. He’s surprised Kendall is admitting it at all and wonders what prompted it. Probably some paternal homophobia laced into the family skirmish at dinner. He’s even more surprised that it hurts, a little. Fuck that. He narrows his eyes. “And?” Kendall shrugs, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “What is this? Are you trying to make me jealous?”
Kendall huffs out a laugh. He curls onto his side and slips a hand under Stewy’s sweatshirt. An impish little smile forms on his face that Stewy unfortunately finds cute. He brushes a thumb over a nipple and Stewy tries to tamp down the shiver that runs through his torso. “Are you?” Kendall asks.
“No. I don’t care who you fuck.” He can picture exactly the type of prick Kendall bends over for: anonymous douchebags with big hands and disappointing cocks. Predictable. Boring. He doesn’t need to hear any more.
“Okay.” Kendall sounds smug now. “I just wanted to know what my competition was like. Don’t you?”
Stewy groans in annoyance, mostly at himself. All it took was a tactical switch-up for his resolve to crack. It’s fucking embarrassing. “Competition — is this a performance review?” He shoves his shoulder and Kendall flops back against the bed. “You fucking slut. Take your fucking clothes off.”
Kendall gives him a toothy grin and his chest suddenly feels tight. It’s always weird doing this when he’s sober-ish. He brushes off the impulse to pull him close again and kiss his stupid, annoying mouth.
They both get out of the bed. Kendall is following instructions, stripping down like it’s a race, while Stewy walks to his dresser. He opens the top drawer and digs around under the socks for the bottle of lube. He finds it, finally, and then his hand hovers over the box of condoms. He gives it a brief moment of consideration, then he closes the drawer. He takes his glasses off and sets them on the top of the dresser. When he turns around, Kendall is back on the bed, naked and blurred that much more around the edges. Stewy tosses the lube in his direction, tugs his sweatshirt over his head and joins him on the bed. Kendall’s climbing over him as soon as his ass hits the mattress, straddling his thighs and pressing their chests together. He picks up Stewy’s hands to put them on his hips.
“You are high fucking maintenance, you know that?” Stewy says. He’s still wearing his boxers, but that’s not stopping Kendall from grinding down on his dick. Patience was one of many virtues not emphasized in the Roy household.
Kendall’s hands are in his hair. “Yeah. You like it, though.”
“Hmm. You could show a little appreciation every once in a while.”
Kendall’s face flickers briefly into a frown. He presses a kiss to Stewy’s mouth, then along the line of his jaw. “Thank you, Stewy.” His tone is mocking but there might be a note of sincerity in there, Stewy thinks. He nudges him away, biting lightly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, bringing them safely away from honesty and back to the fucking at hand. He reaches for the lube. Kendall slides a hand into his shorts.
“Nuh uh, take it fucking easy, man,” Stewy mumbles as he coats his fingers. He manages to tug the boxers halfway down his thighs with his lube-free hand, but then has to nudge Kendall to get up in order to get them off the rest of the way. He gets his hands on Ken’s ass as soon as they’re resituated, which is enough of a distraction for Kendall to keep his hands above the waist for a few minutes. He’s purposefully gentle as he opens him up, even as Kendall keeps twitching and rocking against him, trying to speed up the pace. When he’s got three fingers moving inside him, he asks, “You good?”
“Fucking obviously. Jesus Christ, what, are you waiting for me to die of old age? There’s probably easier ways to get your corpse-fucking kicks, Stew.”
Stewy pulls his fingers out quickly and Kendall winces. “See if I answer my phone next time, dick. You’ve got so many other options, right?”
Kendall rolls his eyes, but a few seconds later he’s sliding down on Stewy’s cock. Stewy tilts his head back against the headboard and closes his eyes. He digs his fingers into Kendall’s hips and Kendall makes a pleased humming sound. “You feel good,” he says, placing his hands on Stewy’s shoulders.
Stewy manages to unclench his teeth to grit out, “Yeah? Fuck, Kenny… give me a second.”
“Uh-huh,” Kendall says, but he doesn’t wait. He bounces up on his knees and back down again.
“Fuck!” Stewy yelps. As soon as he’s sure he’s not going to come, he flips them both over. Kendall’s not as scrawny as he used to be, but he’s still pretty easy to manhandle. He bends exactly how Stewy wants him to. He kisses him, taking his time, and when Kendall breaks away with an exasperated sigh he retaliates by setting the most excruciatingly slow pace he can manage. It takes some effort, because what Stewy really wants to do is fuck him into the mattress, but he’s proving a point now. He’s not a fucking wind up toy or a convenient accessory to someone else’s career. And as much as he might like having Kendall under his thumb — in bed or otherwise — he wants to be the one to put him there.
“You’re a real pain in the ass,” he says, softly.
“Uh-huh.”
Stewy moves his hand to trace Kendall’s cheekbone and jawline — it’s a caress that ends with Kendall sucking the tip of his thumb into his mouth, but in Stewy’s head it’s a slap. He imagines hitting him hard enough to bring blood up to the surface, turning skin crimson, then purple. He thinks about how Kendall would lean into it. It’s almost nauseating. He presses his thumb down on Kendall’s tongue.
Kendall moans at that. He’s fucking his fist, the movement getting more and more desperate. Stewy grabs his arms and pushes his hands over his head, holding them there. His reddened cock bobs dejectedly between them, dripping precum on his stomach. “You’re gonna come like this,” Stewy says.
“Can’t,” Kendall whines, but he makes no real effort to move.
“Wasn’t a question,” Stewy says. Kendall whines again, wordlessly, and Stewy shuts him up with a kiss. He pulls back to hover above him. He can’t resist fucking him harder now, watching him slip away, his gaze losing focus. He’s stopped bitching, nothing but sharp exhales leaving his mouth with each thrust — barely even grunts — and his fingers dig into Stewy’s hand where he’s got them pressed into the bed. There’s definitely no question that Kendall’s going to pop off untouched. The change in angle or the faster rhythm makes something click into place for Stewy, too, and he thinks suddenly that this might be the best sex he’s ever had. It’s definitely the best sex they’ve had with each other. He’s not even fucking angry anymore, can’t remember why he was upset about being woken up in the first place. Why the fuck would he choose sleep over this? Who gives a shit if Kendall’s only here as a form of self-flagellation? His chest feels all tight again and he sort of wants to die right now so he doesn’t have to do anything else, ever. He wants to convey this to Kendall, somehow, and also desperately wants the feeling to go away. Words spill out of him without his consent. “Fuck — You feel — So good for me. You know — This is the only thing you’re any good for, Ken? You know that? You’re gonna — You’re gonna have to make a career out of getting fucked.”
“Fuck, God, fuck.”
Kendall falls apart beneath him. He’s gasping and shuddering and Stewy keeps fucking him through it. Stewy lets go of his hands and leans down to put his mouth on his chest, his throat, his face. Kendall’s eyes are wide open like he’s in shock and his back and neck are arched so that his neck looks even longer than it actually is. Even with cum splattered over most of his torso and his hair half matted down with sweat, the adjective that comes to Stewy’s mind is, somehow, “pretty.”
Stewy groans and runs a hand through Kendall’s damp hair. “Look at you, fuck. Fucking losing it for me. I told you — You look — Look at me, baby. I’m gonna come inside you — you want that?”
Kendall nods frantically and half-says, half-sobs, “Yes, yeah, fuck,” before throwing an arm over his face.
Stewy’s pace falters, and moments later his orgasm rolls through him like a tidal wave, like the first hit of designer drugs whiting out his brain. He can feel it reach his fingertips, his teeth. And there’s an undertow, too, an urge to keep pushing even as he’s pulling out — a part of him wants to shove Kendall so far over the edge he doesn’t come back, to drown him in it. He replaces his cock with his fingers, sliding in easily, and presses his thumb behind Kendall’s balls, wanting more. “That was fucking hot. Do that again.”
Kendall whines and shakes his head, face still pressed into the crook of his arm. He keeps moving, squirming around with every slow drag of Stewy’s fingers. He’s half-hard again almost immediately. His hand grips the sheets so tightly that his knuckles go white.
“Too much.” His voice is muffled, barely audible, though Stewy hears him all the same.
“What’s that?” he asks, purposefully pausing his fingers on the sweet spot.
“Please — Stew — stop.” Kendall gasps each word, desperate enough that Stewy can’t brush him off. Wouldn’t do to literally fuck his brains out, he supposes.
Regretfully, he pulls his fingers out. Kendall’s entire body goes slack. Stewy can’t completely stop himself from touching him, though, reveling in the little reactions — whimpers, goosebumps, spasming muscles — that follow his fingertips across over-sensitive skin. He squeezes Kendall’s ass and his still-too-soft cock and rubs his fingers into his sticky skin until they’re both equally filthy. Then he tugs Kendall’s arm down from his face so he can kiss him, sloppy and embarrassingly sincere. When he pulls back, Kendall is blinking rapidly. His eyelashes are wet. Stewy runs a thumb across his cheek and his voice is warm and teasing when he says, “Are you crying, dude? What did I say? Take that shit down the hall.”
“Shut up — fuck — I’m not — that was —” He’s still trying to catch his breath, half smiling as a couple more tears escape. He clutches weakly at Stewy, hands slipping down his biceps. Stewy likes him best like this, fucked out and not trying to be anything. He rolls onto his back and pulls Kendall along, so Kendall ends up on top of him with his face tucked into his neck. Stewy can feel both their hearts pounding erratically, off-beat.
“Mind-blowing? Yeah, I get that a lot.” Stewy traces his fingers up and down Kendall’s back. He’s warmer and heavier on top of him than he’d really like right now, but he can’t seem to let go — that undertow is still there. He’ll just have to hold him until Kendall lets him fuck him again, he supposes, and maybe the compulsion will dissipate.
“C’mon — you — you know that was — I mean...” Kendall can’t seem to get a full sentence out, his words muffled against Stewy’s skin.
“Mm, I like it when you can’t talk. Bet you can’t walk either. I guess my competition is for shit, huh?” He laughs.
Kendall manages a tired little huff of laughter and slaps him lightly on the chest, but doesn’t raise his head. After a minute of silence, he says, “Stewy… I came all the way here tonight because… I didn’t… I didn’t want anything. Sorry. Sorry for being an asshole. I just... needed you.”
Just like that, Stewy is sucked underwater. The vague tightness in his chest explodes into white hot panic and he’s thankful as hell that Kendall’s face is pressed against him so he can’t see what must be stupidly obvious at the moment. He doesn’t just love Kendall — of course he fucking loves him, they’ve been friends for twenty years — he’s in love with him. It’s a veritable crisis — the worst thing that’s ever happened to him — and all he wants with every single idiotic cell in his body is to grab Kendall and pull him down too.
He takes too long to reply, but doubts Kendall notices. He might already be asleep. “Yeah,” he says, weakly, “Well, lucky me.”
—
Kendall wakes up freezing a few hours later, first rays of morning light filtering in through half-shut blinds. He looks over at the blanket thief sleeping soundly on his side, facing away from him. He feels a rush of fondness. There’s guilt there, too, somewhere, and shame bubbling away beneath that, but, fuck, was last night actually… good? At the end? He feels good now — well, he feels cold and like he needs a shower, but the sleepy contentedness prevails.
He tugs on the comforter, untucking it from around Stewy’s body so he can join him under it. Cuddling isn’t exactly off limits, he doesn’t think, even if they rarely do it. It reminds him of their very early childhood, shared sleeping bags and twin beds, and how Stewy would squeeze him tightly in a bear hug after a long day in first grade, like they wouldn’t see each other again the very next morning. Hadn’t Stewy done that again last night?
He has a birthmark on his back, a smudge at the top of his right shoulder blade, and Kendall kisses it as he wraps an arm around his torso. Stewy sighs and leans into him, sound asleep until Kendall presses cold feet against his calves. He wakes up with a jerk. He pushes Kendall’s arm away so he can prop himself up to look at the clock.
He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out gravelly with sleep. “Oh, I need to go.”
Kendall laughs. He’s confused — at first he thinks it’s a weird joke. “What? Where are you going at fucking, what, 6am?”
“I have shit to do,” Stewy says, not angry, but not very friendly either. He gets out of bed. “I want to hit the gym before class.”
“Right. Okay,” Kendall says. That stings — they both know Stewy’s not the one with an obsessive workout schedule. He's always willing to blow off a session, and they can’t have gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. Apparently last night wasn’t so great after all. He must have been more out of it than he thought. He pulls the blankets more tightly around himself, even though it probably makes him look stupid. “Uh. Sorry about last night, dude.”
Stewy shrugs, already in the doorway. “What are friends for? I’m used to clean-up duty.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
Stewy rolls his eyes and turns away. “It’s always like that.”
Kendall lies there, listening to the shower run down the hall, and replays everything that happened during the night. Yeah, throwing that glass was kind of a dick move, and Stewy was definitely pissed at him for a while, but nothing that out of the ordinary. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten all weird and sentimental at the end.
Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He shoves the blankets aside and gets out of bed, doesn’t bother looking around for any clothes. He practically runs to the bathroom, where he jerks open the shower door. Stewy is rubbing soap into his hair. He doesn’t seem surprised by Kendall’s appearance. “Personal fucking space, dude,” he says.
“Why’d you wake up on the bitchy side of the bed? What did I do?” Kendall asks. Stewy rinses out his hair, then glares at him.
“What did you do? You know, I’m a person, Ken. A whole human fucking being. I’m not a prop or a punching bag or your dick on demand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stewy tosses a bottle of body wash at him and walks out of the shower, not bothering to shut the door.
“I said I was sorry about last night.” Kendall says, loudly. He can see Stewy moving around the bathroom through the fogged glass of the shower walls. He stands there stupidly for a minute, then makes a half-assed attempt to actually shower, since he’s already naked and wet. Anger flares up again as he scrubs the soap quickly into his skin. Since when does Stewy give a shit about anything? Kendall’s been so careful not to treat this like a romantic relationship — he knows he can be fucking emotional and clingy and people hate that. (What are you good for, Kendall? Getting fucked.) So he doesn’t ask too many questions, tries not to think too hard about what they are to each other, never acts weird around Stewy in public. He’s succeeded at all those things, he thinks? But if that’s not the issue... His anger morphs into anxiety at the thought. Who knows how bad he fucked things up without noticing?
He creeps out of the shower, wet feet slipping on the tile floor, feeling nervous and guilty and stupid. Stewy’s standing at the sink and Kendall doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful he hasn’t left the room. He grabs a towel from the rack on the wall and dries off before wrapping it around his waist. He walks closer to Stewy.
“It was good, wasn’t it? I thought…” Kendall trails off.
“You dump a lot of shit on me, you know?” Stewy says, not turning to look at him but glaring at him in the mirror.
Oh, so it was his emotional neediness after all. Well, at least he can work with that. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t make that fucking face. Ugh. That’s not even the fucking problem.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Just…” Stewy throws up his hands. “I…” He fumbles for words, a rare sight. “Sometimes I get tired of the preamble shit. The asshole double act. Like you don’t think I could… fix you without breaking you first. It makes me feel… It makes it all feel like bullshit. Honestly. Is it?”
Kendall’s gut twists. “Is it what?”
Stewy sighs. He waves a finger between them. “This. Is this… actually something, or do I have competition?”
It was stupid of him to bring that up last night. He doesn’t even know what he was hoping for with it — just to prod Stewy’s jealousy? Maybe he wanted confirmation that there’s nothing special about him, them. But what’s he supposed to do now, explain that it was really just a couple of bathroom blow jobs he barely remembers?
“I told you. I need you. I meant it, Stew.”
Stewy looks skeptical. Kendall moves closer, reaches out to place his hand low on Stewy’s back, just a few inches above the towel wrapped around his waist. His skin is still warm from the shower.
“I’m not fucking playing you, bro. You’re like the only person I really like.”
Stewy scoffs and turns his attention to a bottle of shaving cream. He squirts some into his hand and starts applying it to his face. Some of the tension between them dissipates. Kendall holds back a breath of relief — whatever the fuck that storm was about, it seems to be passing. He hops up to sit on the counter next to where Stewy stands.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” he says.
“Fuck off,” Stewy says to the mirror. He picks up a razor and runs the water in the sink. Kendall immediately plucks it out of his hand.
“You trust me?” he asks, smiling.
“Not even a little.” Despite that claim, Stewy moves to stand between Kendall’s knees and bares his throat for him.
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not completely fucking useless. I know how to tie my own shoes, too.”
“I literally taught you that.”
“I knew how —”
“Bunny ears method doesn’t count. Everyone knows that.”
Kendall decides to let Stewy have this win. He tilts his head to the angle he wants and starts shaving him. The repetitive process is nice, as is the proximity. Stewy’s eyes are closed — he seems to be enjoying it, too — and Kendall takes the opportunity to stare more closely than he would normally allow himself to. When he looks at himself in the mirror, nothing seems to line up quite right, but Stewy’s face — it’s like someone took the time to make sure all the pieces would fit together perfectly. Kendall takes in the curve of his mouth, the barely-there pores on the tip of his nose, the long eyelashes, the smooth skin under a day’s worth of stubble. “You know, I think you could pull off a beard,” he mumbles, “if you wanted to.” Stewy hums noncommittally at the idea.
He continues, the process moving fast despite his slow, precise movements. When he’s almost finished, he takes a moment to admire his handiwork and taps Stewy on the chin.
“I love you dude, you’re my best friend,” he says.
Stewy flinches and Kendall nicks him with the razor, a tiny cut on his jawline. “Shit, sorry,” Kendall says, pressing his thumb tightly to the cut as he finishes with one last careful swipe. Stewy doesn’t react at all, just stares at him weirdly with those big brown eyes. He has to remove his finger as he twists around to grab the hand towel and run it under the sink. When he turns back to Stewy there’s a dark bead of blood there. He wipes the towel over his cheeks and then presses it to the spot, checking after a few seconds to make sure the bleeding stopped. He smiles somewhat cautiously at Stewy, not sure what to read into his silence.
“‘Stewy, will you please suck my dick,’ would suffice, you don’t need to overdo it.” Stewy says.
Kendall tries to smile wider but is interrupted by a yawn. “Does that mean we can go back to bed?” he asks. He tosses the hand towel away and drapes his arms dramatically over Stewy’s shoulders.
“I am not fucking carrying you,” Stewy insists, but he’s laughing now and Kendall thinks he can push his luck. He locks his ankles behind Stewy’s back.
“You’re the one who got us up in the first place,” he whines.
Stewy’s hands wrap around the backs of his thighs to pull him forward on the counter top. Kendall kisses him and is relieved when Stewy kisses him back with even more force. Fingers dig into muscle and Kendall melts into it, lets Stewy lick his way into his mouth. Their chests are flush against each other until Stewy pulls back just enough to mumble, “You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” against his lips.