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When Kendall finally shows up at Stewy’s penthouse, all he says is: “Hey.”
“Hey? Uh, Buddy?” He waves his phone in Kendall’s face as he squeezes past. “What the fuck is this?”
Kendall’s beeline to the couch is only stalled to gesture to the second, shorter glass left out for him on the coffee table (“it’s just water. I’m not wasting the good poison on you.”) before he makes himself comfortable.
“What the fuck is what?”
“What I’m fucking looking at. Articles. The fucking Logan Roast, man.”
Kendall’s eyes dart downward, reaching for his glass. “It’s necessary.”
“Necessary? Ken, they’re digging your dad’s grave in less than 48 hours and you’re flinging his burning corpse across every national news outlet.”
The flinch that jolts Kendall’s lips away from his water is so fucking hypocritical. If Stewy were in a worse mood, he’d pick that apart. Instead, he lets Kendall shoot him a knowing look through the lamplight.
“It’s what he would do. Don’t fucking pretend he wouldn’t.”
“Who? Logan? Logan Roy? No, I only remember him calling us in for lemonade after we finished a game of kickball.” His arm rests along the back of the couch. “Of course he fucking would. That’s not the point. I need to know your moves, man. You gotta loop me in.” He sips his Pinot Noir. “How are you swinging this while Roman’s eye-fucking the Waystar logo?
Kendall toys with the statue on the end table, tracing the lion’s teeth with his index finger as Stewy pushes down the image of the first-aid kit under the sink.
“Rome doesn’t know yet. I have, uh, Hugo freelancing it. He handed me his balls on a silver platter—“
“You’re blackmailing now? Classy, dude.”
“Stew. Just, like, c’mon.” He uncrosses his legs. “We play this soft? We look shakable; a flimsy fuckin’ card tower. The board needs concrete. The shareholders don’t want shaky, feeble hands holding up the sky over their precious fucking gold mine. We spin this: Logan was old and, uh, unwell and unstable. He made mistakes, so his son takes the reins and there's instant fucking world peace.”
“Clean and breezy,” Stewy condescends, nodding along like he’s placating a toddler.
“It's easier to swallow than the incompetence-is-genetic pill if we don’t.” He spreads his hands. “So, then, it’s done. It’s out there. That's it.”
“That's it,” Stewy repeats. “Did it take ten seconds or less for the CEO bug to lay its eggs in your brain? Give or take?”
Kendall shows some teeth, shaking his head. “Don’t act like you didn’t roll up to my dad’s wake glowing like it was fucking New Years Day.”
“Cheese platters for dead abusers are my favorite. Sue me.” He finishes his drink. “And spotlighting me doesn’t make your massive fucking CEO hard-on any less in my fucking face, Ken. This little—" a vague gesture with the empty glass, "—scheming like Ethan Hunt while Roman keeps the seat warm on your custom Barbie Iron throne.”
“You love it.”
“I really don’t.”
“Yeah, sure,” Kendall says. He wets his bottom lip, now eyeing Stewy in that way that has only ever meant one thing.
Part of Stewy wants to think: right now? but any surprise would be a boldfaced lie. He sent his kitchen staff home early for a reason. Kendall’s clock strikes this rare chime when the pendulum swings fully into the manic zone. Whatever the fuck that means.
It’s silent and the eye contact doesn’t break. Stewy sets down his glass and slides it out of reach.
“Ken.” It’s quiet but level, almost like saying, we both know what you’re thinking but be fucking sure about it, after deciding that buying a vowel would be a poor business investment.
“Stew,” he answers with a specific conviction that means everything except his name.
When Kendall’s knee lands on the innermost seam of the couch and Stewy’s hand comes up to grip the back of his neck, it’s familiar. Nostalgic, even. Stewy tries to think back to the last time they did this. He can’t remember enough about Shiv’s wedding to count that one, though his mind conjures flashes of skin through the cocaine and adrenaline.
He tugs them flush together. Kendall gasps against Stewy’s mouth and it’s so fucking gorgeous that he can almost forgive the hand bunching up a fistful of his favorite Italian shirt.
Into the shell of Kendall’s ear, he says, “bed.”
For a long moment Kendall’s mouth distracts him. His hands distract him. His whole fucking everything distracts him. When Kendall really wants it, he doesn’t let Stewy get a breath in.
“I’m serious.” He grips Kendall by the hair, losing count of the reactions he’s stifling. “I’m not fucking you on my couch.”
“Why not?” The low, breathless rasp. Jesus Christ.
Stewy shoves him backwards and follows him off of the couch, staying closer than strictly necessary.
“Fuck you. Bed.”
“Don’t need the play-by-play.”
“Hilarious.” He relinquishes his grip on Kendall’s shirt. “Croaking 41,000 feet in the air hilarious.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
Above them, at an angle, the darkness outside turns the skylight into a massive black mirror. Their reflections climb the stairs together until they disappear into the master bedroom, past the charcoal clouds. Really didn’t need that, Stewy thinks, but then has no more room for thoughts because Kendall’s hands are on him again, hastily fumbling his belt buckle.
For a long minute, it's Kendall’s hand under his waistband and Stewy’s tongue in his mouth. They stay like that longer than they should, working him over steadily at an awkward angle that Stewy can’t even pretend to care about. Kendall’s free hand helps him get his shirt off. He ruts into Kendall’s fist and feels the expletive more than he hears it.
Stewy can’t remember Kendall dropping to his knees but somehow, between blinks, he’s there.
“Fuck.”
Kendall’s mouth is on him. The heat hits him first, and then the true sensation.
Just like every time they do this, Kendall’s eyes stay closed, just savoring the feeling or the taste or whatever it is that brings him to Stewy’s floor like he’s operating on Jupiter’s gravity. A mindless hand rests on the back of Kendall’s head, clenching in his hair. Its so hot and so fast and so good. Too good.
He guides Kendall’s mouth away, eliciting a blank look.
“If you want this in your ass you’re gonna have to slow down.”
“Shut—” He snaps, before closing his eyes. He sits back on his heels. Leveling out his tone, he still says it. “Shut the fuck up, man.”
Even though that’s why you’re here. I can fuck you ‘til you’re catatonic but God forbid I talk about it, ‘cause then it’s real.
Stewy nods sardonically. “Right.”
He drags Kendall up to his feet and shoves him to the bed, pressing him down after he lands and working up the side of his neck.
“What, you’re manhandling me now?”
“You can pretend you don’t like it if it makes you feel better.”
After unbuckling Kendall’s belt, he doesn’t even look down to watch Kendall hurry to shuck off his pants, breathing hard. He tears Kendall’s shirt off and grabs him by the throat.
He hates getting Kendall ready. He hates all of the intimate sounds and private moans. He hates routinely losing a fight with his own urge to whisper, relax. That's it. Just relax into it. He hates the vulnerability in Kendall’s eyes. But still they stay there, in the most pathetic missionary because, well, he fucking wants to.
After condoms and lube and necessary shit involved with slipping in and starting a harsh rhythm, Kendall starts looking at him weird. It's like blissed out awe but worse because the look in his eye isn’t even vacant. Of course, balls deep, there’s a fucking puzzle to solve.
Stewy slows, looking down. “What? You want cuffs?”
“I want a fucking crown.”
“Oh, sure.” He grunts, rocking forward. “The old king is dead, long live the king.”
Kendall doesn’t let it phase him. “I’m the fucking CEO.”
“Interim.”
The winning smile across Kendall’s face is so sudden and alarming that, for an embarrassing second, Stewy’s adrenaline convinces him that the motherfucker is telepathic.
“It turns you on like a fucking supernova-powered flashlight.”
“The second you leave I’m paying someone so much money to kill you.”
The threat is subdued by the fact that he’s chasing that distant spark and panting against his cheek. Kendall laughs. Vapid cunt.
Stewy covers Kendall’s mouth with his hand and, from there, it's over faster than it began.
Catching his breath as he pulls out, he notices two things. First, that his orgasm wasn’t as drawn out this time. Fucking shame. Second, that Kendall isn’t rolling over to leave or saying something stupid. He settles against Stewy’s bare chest and stays there.
It’s a solid three minutes before Kendall speaks.
“I’m not, y'know, heartless. I’m not cold.” Back to the articles. “I just can’t let this slip away.” The again is implied.
What Stewy wants to reply is, I’m not worried that you’re acting like your dad’s death is a miracle. I’m worried that you don’t actually believe it is.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he whispers one of the other million possible tragic observations.
“You were almost out, Ken.”
It’s impossible to watch this Kendall — the kinda sober, bullshit Buddhist, therapy-attending version — jump back into the Royco dogfight and not say out like it means free.
So close to his skin, Stewy can feel him blink.
“Yeah, I was.”
Kendall’s face burrows into his chest, and Stewy wonders why he doesn’t just yank out his heart while he’s at it. Just reach in and rip it out. It would save him billions in damages.
After what was probably the better part of twenty minutes, Stewy sighs with an intentionally theatrical air.
“I need a shower. You do too.”
A reluctant groan. “Later.”
“The bodily fluids?”
“Later.”
“Fucking gross, man.”
Kendall mumbles an incoherent reply into his chest — low rumble and warm breath — and its all suddenly so fucking domestic it makes Stewy’s skin crawl.
He starts lifting himself up, shucking the duvet. Kendall rolls out of the way.
“Stewy?”
“What?”
“I’ll loop you in. Next time.”
“Yeah,” is all he says before shutting the bathroom door.
He lets the hot shower spray run over his eyes like it might weld them shut. Then he won't have to see Kendall drifting off to sleep in his bed like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s so fucking easy.