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The first time Kendall goes over to Stewy’s house he is eleven years old. He’s not sure why, but up until this point, they have always hung out at Kendall’s house. All the times he was invited over before his dad had said no, said he wanted them over at their house where he could keep an eye on them. This doesn’t make any sense to Kendall because it’s not like Logan is even around when they’re together. Usually they’re in Kendall’s room or his treehouse and Logan is somewhere else, busy like he always is. But for whatever reason, he had said yes this time, to a sleepover no less, and Kendall is both excited and terrified to meet Stewy’s parents.
He’s excited because he’s never met them before and Stewy is always talking about them. (“I can’t believe I’ve met your mom and dad and you’ve never met mine,” Stewy is always saying.)
He’s terrified because he’s sure he’s going to mess something up. He’s not sure how, but he is plagued by the thought that he will do something to offend them, something that will make them convinced he’s not good enough to be friends with Stewy (something he knows intrinsically to be true; it’s only a matter of time until Stewy figures it out too).
Somehow that doesn’t happen though. They hang out in Stewy’s room until his parents call them down for dinner. (“Sadegh?” Kendall questions, and Stewy laughs at the look on his face. “What, you didn’t think my real name was Stewy did you?” And Kendall punches him in the arm, embarrassed, because yes he did think that.)
The meal is something Kendall has never heard of and would probably embarrass himself trying to pronounce, but it’s also one of the best things he’s ever eaten and he tells them so. Stewy’s dad smiles at him and Kendall is struck by the warmth in his expression. He wonders if Logan has ever smiled at him like that but he knows he already knows the answer. He glances over at Stewy then, and he thinks he understands. It’s not that Stewy’s parents are perfect—just last week Stewy’d been complaining about his dad—it’s that the air is missing that palpable tension he can never seem to shake at home. It’s that, while Stewy might not like his dad, he isn’t afraid of him. Kendall shakes his head trying to dislodge the thought, not wanting to dwell on what that meant. He hopes they aren’t looking at him weird. If he’s not careful he’s going to ruin this night with his fucking emotions.
But Stewy’s parents don’t seem to notice his internal wrestling and Stewy himself just gives him a curious look, his head slightly tilted. Kendall shakes his head again, just enough to tell Stewy not to worry, that it’s nothing.
Kendall is asked if he wants seconds and he forces himself to refuse with a polite "No, thank you" even though it's delicious and he is still hungry. He doesn't want to make a bad first impression.
The rest of the meal passes without incident and Kendall is struck again by just how foreign this all feels. He didn’t know it was possible to have a family meal without it involving at least a little shouting and, on a bad day, some tears. Part of him wonders if things are only going so calmly because he’s there and they’re all just playing pretend that this is how things normally go. But he can tell that isn’t true: the dinner is nowhere near as stilted as dinner at his house when Stewy is over. Maybe it’s just because Stewy is an only child and so it’s easier for his parents than it is for Kendall’s. Whatever the reason, it is the calmest meal Kendall’s ever experienced, and he is on edge the entire time.
After they’re all done eating and the staff clears the table, Stewy’s parents excuse themselves to their bedroom, giving Stewy and Kendall free range of the first floor which includes a living room with a massive entertainment system and speakers plus the kitchen and dining room.
Kendall starts rummaging through Stewy’s video games looking for any he doesn’t have at home, which he’s unlikely to find, because he makes a point to get all the interesting games as they come out.
“What are you looking for?” Stewy says, sitting beside him on the floor.
Kendall huffs. “I don’t know, maybe a game that isn’t totally lame.”
Stewy punches him on the arm. “Fuck you, at least I’m good at video games. How many of your games have you even finished?”
Kendall ignores that because the number is embarrassingly low and shifts to look through his movies instead, a lot of VHSs and a few DVDs. “Whatever, I don’t even feel like playing a game.”
Stewy rolls his eyes playfully and shoves Kendall’s hands away. “Fine, dude, but if we’re watching a movie I’m picking.”
Kendall sits back and pouts but Stewy doesn’t relent. He pulls out Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey and raises an eyebrow at Kendall, waiting for him to start complaining. Kendall puts his hands up in surrender; he hasn’t seen this movie, or the first one for that matter, mainly because Logan thinks they’re stupid. Looking at the cover, Kendall thinks he might agree with that but he doesn’t say anything.
While Stewy sets up the movie, Kendall gets comfortable on the couch, wrapping the blanket entirely around his shoulders. Stewy turns around and rolls his eyes at the sight. He’s about to go get another blanket when Kendall—Kendall, who never initiates contact—opens the blanket up shyly, inviting Stewy to sit next to him. Stewy sighs exaggeratedly, as if he’s only doing this because he has to, but Kendall sees the smile on his face and matches him one.
Stewy sits with a bit of space between them—as much as he can manage and still be covered by the blanket—but then Kendall tugs his end closer and Stewy falls against his side, the both of them giggling. Stewy starts the movie then and they stay pressed against each other for the entire hour and thirty-three minutes. At some point, Kendall’s eyes start to droop and though he tries to fight it, he’s not very successful, his head dropping onto Stewy’s shoulder. He waits for Stewy to tell him to fuck off, but he never does and Kendall settles into his position, even as it makes his back ache.
“Kendall,” Stewy whispers, nudging him. When he doesn’t respond, Stewy squirms out from under Kendall, causing Kendall to fall into the couch, jolting awake. Kendall glares up at Stewy holding his sides in silent laughter. He nods his head towards the TV behind him. “The movie’s over,” he says, still laughing.
“Dick,” Kendall grumbles, standing and gathering the blanket in his arms to take back to Stewy’s room.
Stewy leads the way through the kitchen towards his room and maybe it’s just because he’s feeling guilty about waking Kendall up but he points at a plate of cookies sitting on the counter and says, “You should try one.”
Kendall looks at them warily. “What are they?”
“Nan-e berenji,” Stewy says, smirking slightly at the confused look on Kendall’s face. “They’re rice flour cookies that my dad made.”
“I didn’t know your dad baked.”
“He usually doesn’t.” They have people for that. “But sometimes I’ll come home from school or wake up in the morning and there’ll just be a plate of something. They’re good.”
Kendall drops the blanket to the ground and reaches for one of the cookies, the biggest one, in fact, but before he can grab it, Stewy snatches it up.
“Hey!” Kendall protests.
Stewy holds the cookie above his head and Kendall jumps up, grabbing his arm. They start wrestling, Stewy trying to wriggle his body away from Kendall, Kendall practically jumping on Stewy, both of them laughing breathlessly. Stewy’s always been stronger than Kendall, but Kendall manages to knock him into the countertop. He uses the leverage to reach up and grab the cookie triumphantly, even as it crumbles in his hand, but when he brings his arm down his elbow snags the corner of the dish, sending it shattering to the floor.
The sound seems to echo through the empty kitchen. In an instant, Kendall stops laughing. He feels like he just plummeted ten stories. He knew this was gonna happen, he fucking knew this was gonna happen.
“Oh, shit,” Stewy says, still laughing as he steps carefully around the shards, while Kendall remains frozen in place. Stewy looks up then, seemingly realizing that Kendall hasn’t moved at all.
As soon as they make eye contact, Kendall feels something in him collapse. “I-I-I’m-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I can-I can clean it up.”
He sees the confusion written on Stewy’s face. “Kendall, it’s just a plate. I’m just gonna—” and he starts to make his way out of the kitchen, sending another shock of fear through Kendall.
“Wait! D-don’t!” Stewy turns around, startled by Kendall’s frantic tone. He tries to calm his voice. “Just—please don’t tell your parents.”
The look on Stewy’s face tells Kendall that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’m just going to get one of the staff.” And with a last concerned look back at Kendall, Stewy leaves him surrounded by the mess.
Kendall looks down at the floor with a surge of rage that shocks him. Of course this would fucking happen. He shouldn’t even have come over here; it was a mistake to think that he could have a real friendship. He stares at the shards scattered across the floor, and imagines it as his own life. Looking at the cookies that Stewy’s dad had made, he almost feels like crying. Kendall shakes his head. He’s being stupid and he knows it; he’s being stupid like he always is and so he tries to shove these thoughts down and make himself useful in the only way he can.
He grabs one of the bigger chunks of the plate and takes a second to admire the intricate designs. They’re beautiful and now they’re broken, because of him. He wants to throw it to the ground just to shatter it again. Wants to do it over and over until the pieces are so small you can’t even see them. Kendall remembers something then that he learned in school: that when porcelain breaks, it’s as sharp as glass.
And so, without questioning why he’s doing this, he turns the piece over in his hands until he finds a sharp corner and then he presses his thumb hard against it until the blunt pain turns sharp and bright and he pulls away with a gasp. At first there’s nothing—he can’t even tell there’s a cut there—until he presses his finger to his thumb and suddenly there’s hot blood beading up from the cut, which is wider than he had expected.
He forgets about the mess surrounding him and loses himself in the sensation. There’s something almost…pleasant in the pain. He’s still pressing down, forcing more blood to keep coming until it’s trickling down the sides of the pad of his thumb when Stewy walks back in the room with a maid trailing behind him.
When Stewy sees what he’s doing, he’s at Kendall’s side in an instant, barely paying any attention to the pieces still on the ground. He grabs Kendall’s hand, yelling something to the maid while he does. Kendall goes limp and pliant under Stewy’s touch, letting him drag him through the kitchen mumbling something about how he’d just been trying to help. While Stewy washes his thumb in the kitchen sink the maid goes on and on about what a helpful boy Kendall is but Stewy just stares at him. And Kendall? Kendall’s still stuck thinking about how warm it all felt, not just the blood but his whole body, like he had a fever, like it had flipped a switch inside of him, and all he can think is how can I feel like that again?
//
The next time Kendall feels that warmth buzzing through his whole body is the first time he gets drunk.
He’s fourteen, and he’s never felt so good in his whole life. He’s at some stranger’s house party that he came to with Stewy except he doesn’t know where Stewy is anymore and the music is so loud he can feel it in his bones and his head is just on the edge of dizzy—slightly wavy like he’s on a boat and the ground is moving—and nothing about this should feel good but this is the best he’s ever felt and all he can think is that life would be a lot easier if he felt like this all the time.
But then someone is bumping into him and the alcohol makes him way less steady on his feet than he’d normally be and this? This doesn’t feel so good. So Kendall follows the momentum, letting the flow of the crowd move him until he’s stumbling out the back door and into the crisp fall air.
There’s already someone out here smoking a cigarette, the cloud of smoke hanging heavy in the still air.
And Kendall’s never smoked before but there must be a reason so many people do, right? If it feels anywhere as good as being drunk, then fuck it, why not?
And besides smokers are like, contractually obligated to help someone out. Kendall’s only seen this in movies before but he feels pretty confident when he says, “hey, uh, can I bum a smoke?” and he flushes bright in triumph as the guy silently takes the pack out of his pocket and pulls a fresh cigarette free. Kendall can’t make out what brand it is but the box is red and then he’s being handed a cigarette and a lighter and he’s over the fucking moon.
It takes a few tries to light it, and he doesn’t get it until the guy seems fed up by the sound of the lighter clicking and wordlessly puts his hands up to shield the cigarette from the light breeze and finally, finally, it lights and Kendall inhales sweet sweet nicotine.
It goes straight to his head and he doubles over coughing. He sees the guy’s mouth quirk up in a smirk but Kendall ignores him, too drunk to feel embarrassed. He inhales again, holds it a little longer and exhales, nearly bowled over from the sensation.
It’s like there’s a blanket tamped down over his brain, all the nervous energy he didn’t realize he had is sucked out of him and his head lolls back on his neck.
He amends his statement from earlier: this is now officially the best he’s ever felt.
The guy he got the cigarette from flicks his to the ground, stepping on it as he walks back into the house with only a nod to acknowledge Kendall.
Kendall stands smoking for a few minutes, not feeling the cold around him, eyes focused only on the small lit end of the cigarette.
He wonders where Stewy is, if he would like this sensation as much as Kendall does. And then suddenly, and without explanation, he thinks back to that fucking plate he broke. The line of blood dripping down his thumb. That warmth, spreading through his whole body. He hadn’t done anything like that since, which is the way it’s supposed to be. It’s not like he’s depressed or anything, he honestly has no idea why he’d done that. The only thing he knows is that while he’d been doing it he wanted to keep doing it.
He doesn’t even know he’s moving until he is, until the cigarette is suddenly hovering over the pale flesh of his forearm. Without letting himself think too much at all about what he’s about to do (the alcohol is working wonders in that department, by the way), he presses the bright end of the cigarette to his arm.
It hurts. It hurts way more than cutting his thumb had, and in an entirely different way. His arm jerks back after less than a second and then he’s just left staring at the pinprick of red on his arm. It had hurt in that split second of contact, but now that it’s gone he feels nothing, and the mark on his arm is barely visible in the dark.
He’s…disappointed. Is that it? he thinks. He’s about to try again, to press the cigarette to his arm and hold it there, really let it sear into his skin, and he’s clenching his fist in anticipation but then he hears the back door open clumsily and he’s so startled that he drops the cigarette.
He turns and he’s about to curse the person out but it’s Stewy and he’s laughing drunkenly. “Kendall!” he says happily, and Kendall lets the sound fill his chest. Stewy is the only person who ever sounds happy to be saying Kendall’s name, even if the only reason he does now is because he’s drunk. “There you are, I've been looking all over for you!” He comes over and wraps an arm around Kendall’s neck.
Kendall laughs and lets Stewy drag him back into the throng of people inside but at that moment he has never hated Stewy more. I’ve been looking all over for you, Stewy’s voice echoes in his head.
Why? he wants to ask. What do you want from me? He’s never understood Stewy and he doesn’t think he ever will. How could he understand someone who willingly spends his free time with Kendall of all people? It’s almost insulting. If Kendall had a choice he certainly wouldn’t spend any more time around himself than he had to.
He follows Stewy to the living room where a group of people are passing around a joint and playing some dumb drinking game and he hits the joint when it gets to him and he tries to pay attention but really he’s thinking of that mark on his arm for the rest of the night. He runs a finger over it absently, wishing he could elicit that sting again like it was a scab that he could pick over and over to relive the pain. At some point the soft pad of his finger turns into his nail and then he’s pinching the spot between his finger and thumb. When he looks down now there’s two thin red crescents facing each other and he allows himself a brief smile before he moves his fingers farther up his arm and pinches again, harder this time.
//
Kendall keeps smoking, but he doesn’t try putting it to his skin again. He thinks about it almost every time he lights up, but whenever the thought comes to mind he just pinches himself, hard, with his nails, and the urge goes away. (Or it doesn’t and he has to pinch harder, either way.)
It’s better this way. Burning himself is just a step below cutting and both are way too macabre, way too fucking melodramatic for him to do. He’s not depressed, he’s not crying out for attention, this is just a thing he does and so he keeps on doing it. Kendall feels like he’s found a fucking secret to life. It’s better than being high, better than being fucking crossfaded.
He can do it anywhere, for one. At the dinner table when Logan starts in on Roman, in class when he gets called on and stutters out an answer, in the middle of a party when Stewy glances over at him questioningly and Kendall realizes he’s been staring at him for far too long. When girls approach him and try to make conversation during those same parties. When he sees Stewy talking to and/or making out with said girls at said parties.
The point is, he can do it anywhere and it’s not even a big fucking deal. He guesses that he’s technically self-harming, in that this is something he’s doing to himself and it’s slightly harmful, but really, he’s not actually self-harming. By that definition, all the smoking and drinking he does would also be classified as self-harm and if that were true then it would mean that everyone is self-harming all the fucking time. He figures the pinching is probably way less bad for him than the drinking and the drugs. He’s not cutting and he’s not burning and he’s not going to fucking kill himself so really, who gives a shit?
He does have to wear long sleeves all the time, which is mildly annoying. He’s pretty sure no one in his family would notice anyway, but it’s better to be safe than sorry and he really doesn’t need anyone asking why his forearms are covered in red marks, so he wears long sleeves and no one says anything.
It feels good to have a secret to keep. He feels powerful and in control; he feels fucking invincible. Whenever Logan starts to yell now, a small part of Kendall (growing larger every day) can’t help but want to provoke him further, wants to fucking beg to be hit. Logan’s only hit him one time before, in a fit of rage when Kendall was young and had just started stuttering, before he learned that hitting Kendall only made him stutter worse, and Kendall had cried so hard he’d thrown up, Logan looking on in disgust. Kendall knows that if Logan hit him again, this time he could take it. He wants to tell him that he’s stronger now, he’s not a fucking baby who cries every time he skins his knee. He knows pain, courts and craves it, and he just wants to prove that he can take it. He might not have been able to before but now, now, he can fucking take it.
This is why he starts jumping in front of Logan’s fists whenever they’re aimed at Roman. It’s not out of the kindness of his heart, it’s not because he hates seeing Rome get hit, it’s because he wants it.
The problem is, he gets too comfortable. He forgets, one morning, to wear a long sleeved shirt and he’s fucking right, no one in his family notices. They don’t look at each other, not scrutinizingly, or they do, basically all they do is scrutinize each other, each one a mini Logan in their own way, but it's not in any meaningful way. They don’t look deeply at each other; seeing each other as targets they just flatten one other, only picking the low hanging fruit.
So when Kendall comes home drunk one night, cigarette smoke still on his breath, arm fresh with red marks and bruises, and he wakes up Shiv and Roman, of course they’re gonna rat him out about the cigarettes and the partying but they don’t even notice his arm. And it shouldn’t bother him this much, in fact, he should be happy, they give him exactly what he wants in a way: when Logan confronts him and he responds with a snarky comment about how it took his 12 and 10 year old kids to notice something wrong before he did, Logan backhands him and Kendall pauses in his fury at his siblings to savor the taste of blood in his mouth.
Later, after Kendall tells Logan that Roman still wets the bed and Logan says he’ll deal with it, he spends a week pressing his fingers to the bruise, keeping the pain fresh and close. (Stewy makes such a big deal about it when Kendall comes to school sporting the bruise that he almost considers telling him the truth, wondering if it actually is that big of a deal. He quickly brushes this thought away and tells Stewy that he and his siblings got over excited while wrestling and he’d hit his face on the coffee table. He’s never sure if Stewy believes this or not and Stewy scolds him every time he sees Kendall pressing on the bruise, telling him he has to let it heal properly.)
//
The day that Roman gets sent to military school is the first day since that party that Kendall burns himself.
Roman is a silent ball of energy the whole day, literally fuming, Kendall can practically see the smoke pouring from his ears. He ignores Kendall resolutely; when he’s being shuffled to the front door he reaches over and ruffles Shiv’s hair without looking at her, and then he brushes past Kendall roughly, and then he’s gone.
As soon as the front door closes, Shiv turns and runs to her room, the distant sound of her door slamming shut the only sound in the apartment.
Logan huffs. “Well that was a bit dramatic, huh?” he says to Kendall, nudging him with his elbow like he’s in on some joke.
It makes him feel like there’s bile rising up in his throat but he just laughs stiffly and says, “Yeah.”
Logan shuffles deeper into the apartment, still laughing that fucking laugh that would sound jovial coming from anyone else. “Maybe now we’ll finally get some fucking peace and quiet around here.”
Kendall feels numb as he grabs his coat and walkman and headphones, jamming them over his head and trying to ignore the sticky feeling in his gut. When he gets down to the street his hands shake as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. As soon as it's lit and in his mouth his hand makes its way to his arm and he pinches hard. He’s feeling erratic, he’s still shaking, so he pinches harder and harder until he can feel his nails break skin and then he exhales in relief. He nurses the cigarette for a bit, luxuriating in the way the nicotine makes him feel while also feeling the pulsing in his arm.
But by the time the cigarette is nearly gone, he’s back to feeling numb, the mark on his arm just a mark with no sensation involved at all and he’s putting the cigarette out anyway so he thinks, fuck it.
He rolls up the sleeve of his coat, wincing slightly as the fabric scrapes his cut, but the pain is quickly overwhelmed by the satisfaction he feels looking at the broken skin. Before he can psych himself out he balls his hand into a fist and shoves the cigarette to his arm, about an inch from where he’s bleeding, and holds it there. His initial reaction is to jerk his arm away but he forces himself to push even harder, holding it there until the flame has been smothered by his flesh.
He’s breathless by the time he pulls away, brushing ash from his arm gently, staring in awe at his red angry skin. It’s immediately clear how much worse it is, this burn than the previous one. That was just red skin, a surface level burn, but with this one there’s a faint white circle at the center, where it had been the hottest.
Looking at it, he feels…elated. For a moment at least, all the guilt and shit he’d been feeling is washed away. He wants to do it again. He wants to do it again and he wants to never stop. He wants to take a knife from the kitchen and run it elbow to wrist. He wants to bash his skull into the pavement right then and there.
Kendall shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts, like some sort of suicidal etch-a-sketch. He decides then and there that this will only work if he has limits. If he only burns himself once a day, then it’s not a problem anyone else needs to worry about. Kendall is fine, it’s not like he’s going to kill himself or anything.
//
Kendall thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding it. They’re in college now—him and Stewy—at Harvard and for the first time in his life Kendall isn’t trapped under the watchful eye of his father. It’s fucking incredible. He’s never felt so free, didn’t even realize how much of a cage his life was until he’d broken out of it. And yeah, he still has to watch what he does in public, constantly aware of the possibility of being seen by someone who knows Logan, or worse a member of the press, but it’s still such a fucking relief to go back to his dorm at the end of the day and not be on edge. To actually have a space he can call his own and feel fucking comfortable in. To have a space him and Stewy can feel comfortable in. He never could have imagined feeling this way in high school. Like he’s allowed to reach over and touch Stewy and not have to worry about his dad walking through the door. And he thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding this thing he still does (which is what he calls it whenever he has to think about it, deliberately not saying the s-word, and also deliberately not thinking about how he still does this, how he never imagined himself like this: pathetic, still acting like an emo preteen even though he’s quickly approaching the end of his teen years), even though there isn’t really anyone to hide it from anymore.
Or at least that’s what he thinks, before Stewy goes and turns his whole fucking world upside down.
They’re drunk, because of course they are. In high school Kendall had managed to mostly keep the blacking out to weekends but lately he’d been getting shitfaced almost every night. He doesn’t let it bother him too much, reasoning that this is basically what college is designed for. Or like one of their friends likes to say: it’s not alcoholism until you graduate.
So, in the spirit of that age-old adage they’re sprawled on Stewy’s couch, admirably staying in for a change, but still pretty fucked up for a Wednesday.
Kendall’s aware (and drunk) enough to admit to himself that he likes this a lot more than all of the impersonal parties they go to. The warm press of Stewy’s body from where they’re overlapping is grounding, helping to counteract some of the drunkenness. If Kendall could, he would lie under Stewy for the rest of his life. They used to do that sometimes—in middle and high school when they were still too afraid to have sex—lying one completely over top of the other pressing their lips to each others’ necks in a poor imitation of a kiss. Now, after all these years and actually having sex with other people, still all it takes is one well-placed touch from Stewy for Kendall to feel like he’s gonna jizz in his pants.
It’s frustrating, the way that his body responds to Stewy.
“I wish I could stay here forever.” Kendall speaks without meaning to. The one thing he hates about alcohol is how fucking honest it makes him.
“What, in college forever?” Stewy laughs. “No fucking thanks man. I don’t wanna be writing papers for the rest of my life.”
“No, not fucking college asshole, I mean like here, us, fuckin’ hanging out on this couch with you forever,” Kendall feels his face going red as he tries to explain and of course once he notices it going red the heat travels there even quicker and goddamn it this has got to be the worst thing about being white.
His frustration just makes Stewy laugh harder. Asshole. “Awww, Kendall, if you keep talking like that, someone's gonna think you keep me around for more than just my looks.”
Kendall laughs. “Right, because that’s why I keep you around.”
“What other reason could there be?” Stewy asks, faux innocence in his voice as he shifts his foot on Kendall’s lap, pressing it into his groin.
Kendall can’t hide the shiver that runs through his body. “Prick,” he says, shifting away from the pressure and Stewy just laughs. Kendall ignores the heat in his face and attempts to regain control. “But seriously, you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it before.”
“Thought about what before?” Stewy asks, looking at Ken affectionately.
“About how, like, this is all gonna go away.” He can feel Stewy’s curious eyes on the side of his face. “When we graduate, I mean. Like, we won’t be able to do this anymore.”
“Says who?” Stewy asks, no hint of mocking in his voice. At Kendall’s snort he continues, “no seriously Ken, why do we have to stop? We’re still gonna be friends, right? You’re not just gonna drop me as soon as you get your place in Waystar?”
Kendall looks up sharply at that. “Of course not, dude.”
Stewy smiles. “Okay, then I’m failing to see the problem.”
Kendall huffs. “C’mon dude, be serious. You’re telling me you actually don’t see a problem with us continuing… this…after college?” They’ve never taken the time to define exactly what this is.
Stewy just looks at him like he’s stupid.
“We won’t be living together still and-and I’m gonna be busy and you’re gonna be busy and it’s just not—it’s not something—”
“Ken.” Kendall looks up. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Stewy says easily and Kendall envies him and his ability to just not worry about things. Kendall doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand how someone like Stewy could pick someone like Kendall. “Besides,” Stewy says in a lighter tone, “it’s not like college is ending any time fucking soon.”
Kendall smirks. “Yeah and it’ll be even longer if you keep skipping classes.”
“Fuck you, I skipped two classes last week and you know they’re both fucking easy.”
Kendall puts his hands up, laughing. “I’m just saying!”
“Yeah and I’m just saying someone needs to mind their business.”
“Fuck you you’re just saying that because you know I’m right.”
“Kendall, just because you need to go to class to pass, doesn’t mean we all do.” And Kendall laughs but he knows it’s true. Everything that Kendall has to work on day and night to perfect always seems to come so easily to Stewy.
Kendall tries not to let that bother him right now. “Yeah, whatever dickhead, we’ll see what happens.” He thinks he’s doing a good job hiding the sullen tone in his voice, but Stewy knows him too well, and he nudges Kendall with his foot playfully, to remind him that he’s just joking. Kendall fights unsuccessfully to keep a smile off his face. “Maybe you should get me a new drink to apologize.”
“To apologize?” Stewy laughs incredulously.
“Yeah, to apologize, asshole!” Kendall laughs at the look on Stewy’s face.
“Why would I ever apologize to you?” Kendall makes a look of mock hurt and while Stewy is laughing Kendall grabs his foot and starts to tickle the sole. Stewy gives a surprised shout and then his laughter reaches a pitch it hadn’t before. He tries to squirm away but Kendall tightens his hold and doesn’t let up, despite almost getting kicked in the face.
“Fucking prick,” Stewy says breathless. He lets out another peel of laughter, “Stop!”
“All you have to do to make me stop is apologize,” Kendall sings teasingly.
“What the fuck, this is fucking extortion. This is like that time you broke that plate at my house because I wouldn't give you the biggest cookie!” Stewy finally breaks free and beams triumphantly at Kendall.
“That is not what happened! It was a fucking accident, man.”
Stewy laughs harder. “Jesus, dude, chill, you’re freaking out almost as much as you did when it happened.”
Kendall flushes. “Fuck you, it was my first time at your house I didn’t want to make your parents, like, fuckin’ hate me or something.”
“You thought my parents were gonna kick you out,” Stewy says between breaths, “for breaking a fucking plate.”
“Hey, just imagine what my dad would do if you’d broken a plate the first time he met you,” Kendall says sullenly, sore from being teased.
Stewy giggles. “I dunno man he might just like me more if I did that. No, no hear me out,” he says when Kendall protests. “It’d show how like, fucking masculine I am or something. Especially—” Stewy’s laugh gets louder, that particular laugh he has for when he’s making fun of Kendall, “—especially when I try to pick up the fucking shards with my bare hands!”
And Kendall’s drunk and he’s being made fun of, made to sound like he’s stupid, so Kendall gets defensive like Kendall does and says something he probably shouldn’t have. “Oh fuck you I didn’t try to pick up the pieces bare handed.”
“Yeah you did!” Stewy sits up, always excited to prove Kendall wrong. “You cut your fucking finger doing it! I was like wow this fucking rich kid who’s never had to clean a day in his life doesn’t know that porcelain is sharp.”
“Fuck you,” Kendall says again, “That wasn’t,” he feels like his brain suddenly isn’t working fast enough for this. “It’s not like I didn’t know it would be sharp.” He doesn’t even know why he’s arguing this point, it’s not like this is the first time Stewy’s ever made fun of him for being a rich kid but he feels compelled to defend his intelligence. He’s not stupid just self-destructive.
“Right,” Stewy says, dragging the word out. “You knew it was sharp and that’s why you grabbed it.”
It’s clear Stewy doesn’t believe this and Kendall should just leave it at that, but he’s drunk and when he’s drunk, he’s honest. “No, yeah! I remembered from class like when you shatter ceramics or whatever it’s like just as sharp as glass. So I just fuckin’…you know.” Kendall gestures vaguely, trying to figure out how to convey so I just reached out and pressed my finger against it as hard as I could until it started bleeding, you know like normal people do?
Now, Stewy starts to look perturbed. “No, Kendall,” he says slowly. “I don’t know. You knew it was sharp and you picked it up anyway?”
“Y-yeah, I—”
“Or you picked it up because you knew it was sharp?”
And Kendall can’t deal with that look on Stewy’s face like he’s worried about him or something. “Fuck, dude, I don’t know. Chill out, it was like seven years ago or something, I just wanted to fuckin’ know what it felt like.”
It feels like all of the alcohol hits him at the same time, and in the silence that follows Kendall thinks he might puke.
After what feels like a full minute of silence, Stewy says flatly, “You wanted to know what it felt like.”
This is not the way Kendall meant for this conversation to go and he’s getting increasingly frustrated. “Jesus Christ dude why are you looking at me like that? Why are you making such a big fucking deal out of this? It was a tiny fucking cut on my finger like literally almost ten years ago and you’re looking at me like I just said I was gonna take a walk off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Well that would be difficult considering we’re not in Brooklyn,” Stewy says wryly.
“Fuck off, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean Kendall.” Stewy sighs and looks like he’s debating whether or not he wants to say something when he bites the bullet. “Hey Ken, you do realize that I have seen you naked before, right?”
Kendall doesn’t like where this is going. “Uh, yeah?”
“So…I’ve seen your arm before.” Stewy seems almost apologetic to be bringing this up, like he hadn’t wanted or meant to tell Kendall at all.
Static rushes in Kendall’s ears. “My arm,” he says flatly.
“Yeah, Ken, your arm,” Stewy says gently.
“What…what is that supposed to mean? I mean like wh-what are you actually implying right now?” Kendall can feel his fucking heart pounding in his chest, and goddamnit why did this have to come up on their one night in, why can’t Kendall have one fucking night of peace and quiet.
Stewy sighs, not unkindly. “Ken. Let me see your arm.”
“No, fuck you what?” Kendall wishes he could react differently. He knows that his angry, defensive response only makes him look more guilty, but his emotions have always been beyond his reach. “There’s not—there’s nothing on my fucking arm, you creep, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then roll up your sleeve right now and show me your arm,” Stewy says, matter of factly. “I mean, if there’s nothing to see, then why not?”
“Because I don’t have to fuckin’…subject myself to this just to prove a point to you. Who the fuck are you?”
Stewy stares at him. “I’m your best friend, Kendall, and I’m worried about you.”
Fuck. Kendall can’t deal with a sincere Stewy. He can feel himself shrinking under Stewy’s intent stare and he knows he’s fighting a losing battle but he can’t stop. “Okay well you can take your misplaced concern and fuck right off.”
For a second, Kendall thinks he’s actually succeeded in getting Stewy off his back. That this will end up like every other thing that’s too big for them to think about, relegated to that space between them that sucks up sincere conversation like a black hole. And then Stewy is launching himself from his spot on the couch, tackling Kendall with his whole body and reaching for his arm. A struggle ensues but Kendall is still drunk enough that it feels like he’s controlling his body from a distance, like he’s playing a third-person video game, and besides, he’s always been weaker than Stewy.
Stewy manages to pin Kendall’s torso to the couch, straddling his waist, but he’s still keeping his arms out of reach until one particular forceful grab locks onto his forearm and Kendall hisses in pain.
They both freeze at the sound—Kendall knowing that Stewy’s just popped one of the blisters from his recent burns—and Kendall sinks into the couch, all the fight going out of him at once. Kendall turns his head away, staring at the floor, at the walls, at the ceiling, at anything but Stewy’s face as he offers his arm to him.
Kendall feels Stewy roll up his sleeve so carefully, so gently, and then he hears his intake of breath as he gazes at the scene that Kendall thought he had been hiding so well.
He knows what he’s seeing, the minefield of scars spanning the past five years reaching from a few inches above his wrist to up on his bicep past where his sleeve is currently pulled up.
In a voice barely above a whisper, Stewy breathes out, “Jesus, Ken.”
Kendall tries for a laugh, manages a harsh exhale. “Is it that bad?”
“It’s not great,” Stewy says in a pained voice and Kendall chances a peek at his face, but the swirl of emotion he sees there is too overwhelming, so he looks away.
“Look, Stewy can we just…pretend this didn’t happen? Please? I promise it’s not that big a deal.”
Stewy makes a noise that kind of sounds like a laugh but doesn’t really come close. “Not that big a deal? Ken.” Stewy sits back so that he’s not putting so much of his weight on Kendall and Ken sits up. They’re still touching—legs and feet overlapping and Stewy still cradling Kendall’s arm—but they have equal footing now.
Kendall looks down for the first time at his arm where Stewy’s fingers are delicately tracing from scar to scar, deliberately avoiding the more recent, painful looking ones. As he watches him—the way his touch skitters over Kendall's arm—even as he knows that Stewy is doing it out of kindness, out of a desire to not cause him any more pain, he can't help but think: you have made yourself into something that no one wants to touch. He shivers and Stewy pulls his hand away. He feels strangely inhuman, like by doing this he's unwittingly undergone a dramatic, and permanent, transformation and he's only now realized. He feels cold all over at the thought and he shivers again. As if he can hide what's going on in his head, he tries to find something to say. “It looks worse than it is.” But his voice comes out shaky and so he clears his throat and tries again. “And-and I’m not just saying that, it really—I mean, they don’t even hurt after, like, an hour.”
“But…why, Ken?” Stewy looks up at him with those big, wide eyes, unable to comprehend why someone he cares about so much would do this to himself.
And Kendall has to look away and swallow over the lump in his throat before he can respond. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “It just…helps. For some reason.”
“It helps?” Stewy says in that same pained voice.
“Yeah. If I’m, like, anxious or whatever, it helps calm me down. It makes me feel like…like I’m in control.” Kendall doesn’t realize how pathetic this is going to sound until he’s already said it. It makes me feel like I’m in control? Jesus Christ, way to sound like a little kid, Kendall, good job.
Stewy is quiet for a beat. “You have to stop doing this, Ken.”
Kendall bristles. “Fucking, why?”
“Kendall—” Stewy seems shocked that Kendall would even ask this.
“No, seriously, why do I have to stop doing this? Because you said so?” Kendall registers the hurt on Stewy’s face but he turns away and pushes through anyway. “I’m not, fuckin’, slitting my wrists or some dumb shit like that, okay? You don’t have to-to worry about me, it's not like I’m gonna end up killing myself. This affects literally nobody but me; I don't know why you care so much.”
When Kendall looks up he’s shocked to see that Stewy’s eyes are wet. “You don’t mean that, Kendall.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Stewy sucks in a breath like he’s just been dropped into a pool of cold water. “Kendall,” he says slowly, deliberately maintaining eye contact. “I care about you. You’re my best friend. This may not affect me directly or physically, but it fucking affects me. I’m worried about you, Kendall.”
“Well, stop it. You don’t have to be worried about me, I'm fine.”
“Kendall, you're putting cigarettes out on your arm! How is that fine?”
“Because. It just is.” Kendall doesn’t know how to explain or justify it, and even if he did he wouldn’t want to. This is his thing. He shouldn’t have to explain it to anyone because it’s his.
“I know it’s hard, Ken, but just…just try to stop? Or…or at least do it less? If not for yourself then for me, please?”
And Kendall does try, is the saddest thing. He genuinely tries to stop but it feels like he’s fighting the most futile battle in history. Because what’s the point, really, when he’s already come so far? Why should he stop now when the evidence of his past exploits is always going to be right there, plain to see, on his fucking arm? Is there any reason he should feel worse about himself for continuing when he’s already done so much in the past? Stopping at this point just feels like putting a bandaid over a fucking bullet wound and so yeah, Kendall tries to stop, just not very hard.
For a few days at least, he completely resists the urges to burn. When they come he remembers the look on Stewy’s face—the shininess of his eyes and the choked way his voice had sounded—and he pinches himself instead. He can imagine the disapproval on Stewy’s face if he saw this, but figures he’d prefer it to burning. He manages to keep it up until he has a meeting with one of his econ professors who tells him he thinks he could be doing quite well in his class if only he’d apply himself, and Kendall repeats that in his head the entire time he walks from the professor’s office to the street where he lights up his cigarette. It keeps repeating until the voice sounds almost like Logan and Kendall puts the cigarette to his arm and his mind goes blissfully quiet. Why had he ever thought he could stop this? Why had he wanted to?
As he walks back to the dorm that he and Stewy share, he thinks. He’d thought now that he knows Stewy knows, it would become something they would be able to talk about. Because that’s something Kendall wants, sometimes. To talk about it, that is. It’s weird because he obviously doesn’t want to tell anyone, but there are times when he wishes he could skip the melodramatic emotional conversation where said person begs him to care more about himself and yada yada yada and go right to casual mentions, off color jokes, and the like. Because as much as he is loath to admit it (this is not who he is, he’s not some emo kid) this is a part of his life, but it’s a part he can speak about to no one. And so he’d thought, maybe, that that would change now. Maybe he could mention it like it was no big deal.
But if anything it just becomes even more unapproachable, like some silent mass that sits between them any time they try to talk. Kendall isn’t sure how Stewy would react if he tried to mention it; the last thing he wants to do is upset him or prompt a lecture that Kendall won’t listen to. But he wants to be honest with him and not talking about it, but knowing that Stewy knows, makes him feel like he’s being eaten up inside.
And then one day, Stewy does it for him.
He says it offhandedly, or like he’s trying to sound offhanded although Kendall can tell he’s been turning this over in his head for a bit now, maybe the entire time they’ve been home, sitting on the couch eating take out and watching (but not paying attention to) a college football game. Trying to figure out the perfect way to say it, so that when he does it comes out nonchalant, voice deliberately free of judgment.
“So…” he starts and Kendall feels his body tense up. “Did you burn today?” It sounds like he’s asking if Kendall went to class, like Ken’s answer either way will mean nothing to him.
And Kendall, Kendall has to fight his knee jerk reaction, which is to lie profusely. He wants to blurt out: no Jesus, what is this the fuckin’ Inquisition? Of course I didn’t burn today, do you have any fucking faith in me? But he knows he won’t be believed so instead he tries to mimic Stewy’s steady voice, to tell the truth casually, like it’s really not that important at all. He swallows loudly and says, “yeah.”
And there it is, the truth, out in the open for everyone to see. But the only person here is Stewy and he just hums quietly. After a beat he says, voice just as faux casual, “Can I see it?”
“Um.” Kendall blinks. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I—I guess.”
Stewy scoots closer to Kendall on the couch and Kendall rolls up his sleeve carefully, trying not to rub the fabric against the still-forming blister. The first time he’d done this, Kendall had deliberately popped the blister, mostly out of curiosity but also partly as a way to chase the pain. When they blister over it’s easy to forget about them. There’s no pain at all: the blister protects the sensitive skin underneath. When it’s exposed, the brush of his sleeve is enough to remind Kendall and he delights in digging his nails into the wound. But it also scabs over in a way that doesn’t happen if he lets the blister run its course, and he decides it’s better to let them heal, if only so they will be easier to hide.
The burn now exposed, Kendall finds himself watching Stewy’s face, trying to understand what he sees.
“There’s two,” Stewy says, knowing by now how to tell the fresh from the old.
Kendall looks down, surprised; he’d forgotten he’d burned twice earlier, once in his routine way and the second later, more desperately needed.
Kendall finds his voice. “Rome, uh, called earlier. Just, you know, from military school.” Stewy hums sympathetically. He doesn’t know the full story of Roman being sent away, but he knows that Kendall feels guilty about it, even if he assumes it’s just a generic older brother type guilt rather than what it actually is.
“How’s he doing?” Stewy asks and Kendall knows it’s just mild curiosity, a polite question to distract from the situation on hand, but he feels his heart contract at the idea of Stewy genuinely caring about the well being of his siblings.
Kendall clears his throat, swallowing over the unexpected lump there. “Uh, the same, I think. I mean, it’s hard to tell. It’s not like he would tell me if things were bad.” The conversation had gone the way they always do: Rome, pretending not to care about how Kendall is doing, slipping in questions about parties and remarks about Stewy in between his own stories about fights and teachers in which Kendall can never distinguish the true from the false.
“Yeah, you have that in common,” Stewy says and Kendall feels another pang of guilt, this one sharper. He tries to open up to Stewy, which he knows Stewy finds comfort in—knowing how Kendall is feeling even if he can’t do anything about it—but it goes against every instinct he has. “You know you’re not responsible for his well being, right?” And Kendall looks up, confused. “I mean, you don’t have to, like, punish yourself whenever one of your siblings stubs a toe.”
“That’s not—that’s not what this is,” Kendall says, even if he’s not entirely sure himself what this is. He’s not trying to punish himself, at least, not consciously. That’s not what he set out to do. But maybe it is a kind of punishment, and either way, Kendall deserves it.
“Uh huh,” Stewy says, completely unconvinced.
“Really.” Kendall says. “It just—helps.”
Stewy huffs, exasperated. “You keep saying that Ken but have you even tried anything else?”
Pinching, Kendall doesn’t say. Instead, he tries to deflect. “What, like, fuckin’ yoga or something? Meditation like those hippies that sit out in the quad? No thanks, Stew.”
“Oh and somehow this is better?”
“This is mine!” Kendall explodes. “This is the one thing in my fucking life that is mine and mine only. And I won’t give it up. No matter what you say.”
Stewy drops the conversation but he stays at Kendall’s side, his body a reassuring warmth that Kendall finds himself sinking into despite his best efforts. He feels like he’s going to be sick.
//
The only time Kendall ever cuts himself is the summer before their last year at Harvard grad. Him and Stewy had moved into a new apartment their first year after undergrad, a two bedroom just off campus. He’s alone that day working from home, Stewy at his job that keeps him busy most of the day, despite Kendall not really knowing what it is he does. Kendall himself is working at Waystar Royco, of course, and he’s just gotten off the phone with Logan talking about it.
It…didn’t go well. Kendall knows he should’ve long since learned to stop expecting things from his father, but it is so much easier to tell yourself that (or to hear it, numerous times, from Stewy) than it is to actually do.
There will always be a part of him that’s waiting for Logan to say, you’re right. I trust you. I want you to take over the company. I have complete faith in you. I love you.
But it will never happen. It’s too much to think about all the time, so he just has these moments, these revelations he’s had a thousand times over where he thinks: It will never happen. The version of your father that’s capable of expressing love will never exist. He will use you and use you for the rest of your life and then demand that you express gratitude.
And then once it’s been thought he will shove it all down again. No, he will think. He’s just waiting for the right time. He may not know how to say it, but he does love you. He believes in you. Why would he waste all this time if he didn’t? It will happen, it will happen, it will happen.
But right now, Kendall is struggling to convince himself. All he can hear is Logan’s voice in his head in response to Kendall asking if he’ll be ready to take over after he graduates.
Heh, well in a few years maybe. Maybe after we send you off somewhere, get you some experience in the real world, he’d said, disdain infecting his voice, letting Kendall know what he thinks of his years in college.
It’s not real. Kendall knows that. His seven years at Harvard, the best years of his life? None of it is real. Not his classes, not the parties, not any of his time spent with Stewy. Because once this last year is up, once the time on the clock has run to zero and the buzzer lets out its shrill shriek, all of this will evaporate around him and he’ll end up where he was always meant to be: with Logan Roy peering over his shoulder, moving him like a chess piece.
So Kendall hangs up the phone and the only thing he can think is that he wants a cigarette but he doesn’t have any on him right now—a side effect of his new habit of chain smoking, his once a day promise gone with the fucking wind—and he doesn’t want to leave the apartment, doesn’t want to burst from this bubble he’s ensconced himself in (into the real world, Logan’s voice says in his head) so he goes to the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet lid feeling like he’s been encased in amber.
This is his life, trapped by his father, and this is his body, littered with scars, and he simply will never be able to escape either. He doesn't like to think about it, what his life, and his body, would be like if he'd never self-harmed. There's no going back, there's no reset button, and so thinking about it only makes him feel insane. He can't stand looking at his arms and imagining them smooth. But now he can't stop himself. Looking at them makes tears burn hot in his eyes. He's fucking hideous. He's made himself hideous. No one will ever want to be with him. And it's entirely his own fault. This is his life and it will be his life until the day he dies and then he’s thinking that he can’t stand another fucking second of it.
He’s aware that he’s panicking—in that fuzzy way his brain gets when it’s having trouble making connections—and he thinks about calling Stewy. He’d told Kendall to do that once back in undergrad, late at night when they were wrapped around each other. He’d been tracing his finger along the inside of Kendall’s arm when he spoke abruptly into the silence. “You know you can call me, right?”
“What?” Kendall had asked dumbly.
“When you feel like doing this,” he’d said, moving his finger further up Kendall’s arm. “You can call me. Instead, I mean.”
It was so absurd that it had made Kendall laugh, but Stewy wasn’t joking. “What, so you want me to call you twenty times a day? While you’re in fucking class? ”
“If that’s how often you feel like this,” Stewy had responded easily.
And suddenly Kendall’d been on the edge of tears. “Right,” he’d said thickly. “Sure, Stewy, okay.”
“I’m serious.” Stewy’d insisted. “It doesn’t matter what time it is or what I’m doing, I’d rather have you call me than hurt yourself.”
Kendall can’t remember what he’d said in response to that—if he’d mumbled an assent or just feigned being asleep—but either way he knows that he’d never had any intention of ever calling Stewy like that. Regardless of what Stewy says, that's asking way too much; Kendall takes up enough of his time already without treating him like he’s his own personal therapist on call.
He knows that Stewy would pick up if he called him now. Or, he might not pick up right away, if he’s busy doing something, but he would call back as soon as he saw, ducking into an empty room so he could have privacy. Stewy would do almost anything for Kendall, if he could just bring himself to ask. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Stewy asked him for one thing and he can’t even give him that.
He’s standing up before he realizes, frantically rummaging through drawers and shelves until he finds his razor and then he’s snapping the blade free and turning it over in his fingers.
This isn't what he wants, he thinks. He has no fucking idea what he wants, he thinks.
If you’re gonna do it, then do it. Don’t be such a fucking girl about it, he hears in Logan’s voice in his head.
And so, with his resolve hardened, he turns his arm palm up, makes a fist with his hand, and draws the blade horizontally across his wrist.
The pain is shocking, like getting a bucket of cold water dumped on his head, but Kendall just grits his teeth, exhales through his nose, and forces himself to do it again, an inch higher this time.
He pauses, watching the blood bead to the surface, and slowly but surely the pain is overwhelmed by the full body feeling of release.
It feels better than alcohol, better than drugs, it’s leagues above burning himself and he has enough awareness left in his body to wonder if this is all he’s meant for. If he’ll just keep finding new and better ways to harm himself until that’s all he is, until one day there’s absolutely nothing fucking left.
But it feels so good to watch the blood drain from his arm, feels like maybe those medieval doctors were onto something, maybe he just needs to get all of the bad blood out of him. Maybe this is a way he can purify himself and then finally, finally, be at peace.
He doesn’t really care either way. All he wants is to feel like this forever, and so he breathes in deep and on the exhale draws one more line across his arm, and then he sinks to the floor in pure relief.
The buzzing in his head is so loud, the sight of his own blood so mesmerizing, that he doesn’t hear the apartment door open, can’t make out the words that Stewy’s saying, just lets the tenor of his voice fill his body, joining the buzzing, and he sits there, doesn’t even make a move to close the bathroom door, doesn’t think he could move if he wanted to. He feels sedated, like his head is full of cotton, like he could lie on this bathroom floor for the rest of his life.
Stewy’s voice grows gradually louder, clearer, until he hears him say, “Jesus, dude, where are you?” before he appears in the doorway, looking down at Kendall.
His first instinct is to make fun of him for sitting on the floor, like dude why did we buy all this expensive furniture if you’re just gonna sit on the bathroom tiles instead but then he sees the blood, and a few feet from where Kendall lies the razor, discarded. Stewy jumps into action with a speed Kendall has never seen before, grabbing one of the towels hanging on the rack and pressing it to Ken’s arm.
Kendall’s not so out of it that he doesn’t relish the sting of the harsh towel pressed to his arm. He leans into it even as he starts feeling more numb than pain.
All the while Stewy is cursing under his breath, “Goddamn what the fucking fuck you motherfucker what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!” He pulls the towel back slightly to peek at the wounds, and then quickly presses it back once he sees the blood is still flowing. “God dammit Kendall, I don’t know how to fucking deal with this!”
“It’s fine,” Kendall mutters. He means it’s fine I’m not gonna die. He means it’s fine you can leave me alone. He means it’s fine Stewy it’s all always been fine is it unhealthy yes does he sometimes feel not in control of his own body yes but it’s fine it’s how he has to get by and so he will because he has to he has to he has to. But all he says is, “it’s fine.”
“Kendall,” and Stewy removes one of his hands from the towel to lightly grab Kendall’s chin, forcing him to look at him, “this is the complete fucking opposite of fine.” His voice is tight in a way Kendall’s never heard before.
And Kendall can’t help it—it’s the look on Stewy’s face and his proximity to Kendall, the warmth from those few points of contact spreading through his body—he starts crying. It starts quiet but soon it takes over his whole body, violently. Stewy shifts so he’s next to Kendall leaning against the wall and he pulls Kendall into his body and Kendall just collapses. He can’t breathe; he’s choking on his own spit and mucus, gasping open-mouthed for air. Stewy rubs his hand up and down Kendall’s arm, all the while using his other hand to keep the towel pressed to Ken’s forearm.
“Shhh, Ken, just breathe, okay? Can you breathe for me?” But he can’t. He can’t do anything. He can’t kill himself and he can’t live either. He’ll just keep failing at both.
Kendall tries to focus on Stewy’s hands on him to calm down, to ground himself like he’s done so many times before. But it’s not working this time because all it does is make him think that this is just one more thing he won’t have after this year and that thought makes him even more inconsolable.
At a certain point, Stewy shifts his attention back to Kendall’s arm, never ceasing in his soothing words. He removes the towel gently—or at least, he tries to, the towel sticking in the clotted blood—and Kendall winces at the pain although he barely feels it.
“C’mon, Ken, you gotta get up.” Stewy wraps his arm around Kendall’s shoulders, supporting underneath his right arm, the unharmed one. Kendall goes like a sack of potatoes, and Stewy grunts from the effort. “You know you could help out a little, Ken,” Stewy mutters with zero heat. But Kendall seems to listen, making more of an effort to support his own weight, and they walk, unsteadily, to Stewy’s bedroom, which is closest. Stewy deposits Kendall on the bed—on the side he sleeps on when they share—and says, “Okay, Ken, just wait here, can you do that for me? I’m gonna be back in just a second.”
Kendall’s breathing had calmed down slightly, but as soon as Stewy leaves the room it picks back up. By the time Stewy comes back it’s crescendoed into sobs again. His hands are on Kendall in an instant, soothing and rubbing. “Ken, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.” Kendall calms slightly—at least, he’s stopped shaking so much—and Stewy starts to gently clean his arm with a wet rag. He wraps it in a roll of ace bandages he’d found in a cupboard while Ken sits despondent.
Stewy starts to get up to put everything back where he found it, but Kendall reaches out and grabs his arm, stopping him from leaving. He’s about to tell him that he’s going to be right back when Kendall mumbles something too low for Stewy to hear. “What was that, Ken?”
“Are you…are you mad at me?” Kendall won’t meet his eyes and Stewy feels a pang in his chest. He drops the rag and bandages to the floor, telling himself he’ll deal with that tomorrow, not wanting to leave Ken alone again.
“Ken, maybe you should lay down? Try to sleep?”
“Sure,” Kendall agrees, tonelessly, not moving. He gets like this sometimes. Depending on his mood, if you try to tell Kendall what to do he’ll spit in your face and try anything but your suggestion. But other times, like now, it’s like he’s waiting for a command, like he’s just begging for someone to tell him what to do. “But…are you mad at me?”
Stewy sighs. “No, Ken. I’m not mad at you.” Worried, yes. Furious at the person who he’s pretty sure caused this? Definitely. But he could never be mad at Kendall, not when he looks like this, so exhausted and empty.
Kendall seems to accept that and begins to shuffle beneath the covers. Stewy helps him get comfortable and then climbs into bed behind him, gingerly wrapping his arms around Kendall’s waist, holding him as tight as he dares.
Kendall’s breath slacks off soon after that, but Stewy remains tense and awake, adrenaline keeping him up. His mind keeps returning to the image of Kendall on the bathroom floor. Stewy had been genuinely excited to come home to him, in a way that he found himself embarrassed by. He felt like that more and more lately, the thrill of coming home to someone, of that someone being Kendall, of being able to touch him in the privacy of the apartment they had shared for years.
But what if Stewy hadn’t come home right away? What if he’d decided to go to a bar to blow off steam with some of his work friends? What if Kendall had cut deeper and Stewy didn’t come home in time to save him?
He squeezes his eyes shut trying to block out images of Kendall’s lifeless body on the floor. Stewy feels like he’s out to sea, waves crashing into his body and tossing him carelessly. He never signed up for this. Well, he supposes he did when he decided to be Kendall’s friend, but he hadn’t known it would be like this. He’s failing. He’s failing at something he didn’t sign up for and what’s at stake is Kendall’s fucking life.
Stewy is surprised at first when he feels his eyelids start to droop, but then he thinks about it, does a sort of self-assessment, and he understands. Taking care of Kendall is fucking exhausting. He’s never been more emotionally drained in his life and he has no fucking clue what to do about it.
Just as he can feel himself start to slip, he feels, rather than hears, Kendall say something, a low rumbling under his arms. “Hm?” he asks, tiredly.
Kendall snuggles further into the blankets, his voice muffled. “I love you,” he mumbles.
Stewy feels his heart clench. They’ve said it before, of course, they’ve been friends since they were kids, but usually it had a “man” or “dude” following it, usually it was said with some humor to it. It wasn’t usually like this, soft and tender and so fucking sincere.
Stewy sighs again, deeply. “Yeah, Ken. Me too,” and as he says it he realizes how deeply he feels it so he says it again. “I love you too.”
He can’t tell if he imagines Kendall pressing further into him or not. He falls asleep trying to figure it out.
//
When Kendall wakes up the next morning he is immediately aware of two things: the pain in his arm and the empty space next to him in the bed. He feels unexpectedly relieved. Stewy must’ve gone to work already which gives Kendall time to come up with a good story to explain what happened yesterday. He isn’t sure what to say, but he knows it can’t be the truth. He isn’t even sure what the truth is. Why had he done what he did? What was he trying to accomplish? He can’t say, which makes a pit of anxiety begin to grow in his stomach because he knows he is sure to be asked those very questions later today. But it’s okay because he has time to figure this out.
With that thought in mind he feels more at ease and gets out of bed, gingerly avoiding putting any pressure on his left arm.
But when he steps into the hall he instantly recognizes that he’s not alone in the apartment. He finds Stewy in the kitchen, making eggs. Stewy glances up from the stove when he walks in but doesn’t say anything and Kendall clears his throat. “I, uh, thought you had left for work already.”
Stewy hums while tending the eggs. “I called off.”
“Oh.” Fuck. “Well, uh, I mean, I’m gonna have to go in soon so—”
“Actually,” Stewy says, still not looking up from the stove. “I called you off too. I said you were sick.”
Kendall’s head snaps up at that. “Wh-what? What the hell, Stewy, why would you do that?”
And now Stewy looks up, slowly and deliberately dragging his gaze across Kendall, landing it on the bandages on his arm. “That’s a good question, Kendall. Why would I do that?”
Kendall ignores the pointed sarcasm. “Listen, asshole, you can’t just—I mean what are people going to think?”
Stewy snaps off the burner and turns his whole body to face Kendall. “I’ll tell you what they’re going to think. They’re going to think we got so fucked up last night that we’re too hungover to come into work and that you weren’t even conscious enough to call off yourself. Is that a problem for you, Your Highness? Or would you rather them know the truth?”
Kendall takes a deep breath. Now or never. “Listen, Stewy, about what happened last night—”
“Oh, I’m sure this’ll be good!” Stewy clasps his hands in front of himself in mock attention.
Kendall closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Opens them again. “I know what it looked like. I know what you think I was doing. But I swear to you, that’s not what it was, okay? I was just…upset. I was upset and I did an impulsive thing and that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t have to be, like, a whole thing. It’s not—it’s not something I’m planning to make a habit out of.”
“Oh! Oh, okay! It’s not something you’re planning to make a habit out of, well, that makes me feel a lot better. Kendall!”
“I’m just…saying, okay? I’m not, like, suicidal, or whatever.”
Stewy just stares at him and Kendall tries not to squirm under his gaze. “Do you remember what you said to me the first time we talked about your burning?”
“Do I—what?”
“Do you remember—”
“I heard you! No, I don’t fucking remember what I said to you four years ago.”
Stewy gives him that look that he doesn’t know how to read again. “You told me that it was no big deal, that I wasn't allowed to worry about you, because at least you weren’t cutting.”
“Stewy—”
“No, Kendall, let me finish. It fucking… hurts to watch you do this to yourself. And I feel like a fucking idiot for not trying harder to make you stop before it got to this point.”
“Stewy, it’s not—I’m not some kind of victim here. I-I’m doing this…because I want to.”
Stewy is silent for a moment. “Ken, you do realize that this isn’t something healthy people want, right?”
“What the fuck does that mean? You’re saying I’m like, what, sick or something? Next you’re gonna say I should be fucking institutionalized. Fuck you.”
“I’m just saying,” Stewy says calmly, not rising to the bait, “you can’t go on like this forever.”
And, fuck, that one actually hurts because Kendall knows it’s true. The thought comes into his head then, with so much clarity it almost scares him: He’s going to kill himself one day. It might not be on purpose, he might even just be trying to have some fun, just a few too many hits combined with a few too many drinks. Kendall knows he’s going to kill himself one day because he doesn’t know when to stop. He’s never known when to stop. Suddenly, Kendall realizes how exhausted he is; he becomes newly aware of the stinging pain in his arm. “Whatever,” he says, finally. “Can we just, like, continue this conversation later? I’m fucking tired, man.”
Stewy’s face softens, whatever traces of anger were there no longer to be found. “Yeah, of course, Ken.” Because Stewy can never say no to Kendall. “You should eat,” he says, motioning to the eggs on the stove which have gone cold and congealed. Kendall’s stomach flips just looking at them.
“No, thanks, dude, I’m not hungry. I’m just gonna go lay down.” Stewy looks at him with those worried eyes but doesn’t say anything and Kendall leaves him there by the stove. He makes his way mindlessly to Stewy’s bedroom, collapsing on the bed and burrowing his face in Stewy’s pillows. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when this is no longer an option; when he’s in an apartment on his own, unable to reach out and bury himself in Stewy’s smell. He feels tears start to leak onto the pillow and he squeezes his eyes shut to try and stem the flow but it doesn’t seem to make a difference.
Stewy comes in a few minutes later and settles beside Kendall on the bed, his back against the headboard. Wordlessly, Kendall adjusts so his head is now in Stewy’s lap and Stewy’s hand falls to Kendall’s head, threading through his short hair.
Kendall is almost asleep when he hears the familiar click of a lighter followed by the soft sound of Stewy exhaling. He shifts slightly to glance up and sure enough Stewy’s nursing a bowl, blowing the smoke out the open window next to the bed. Stewy raises an eyebrow mid hit and holds the bowl out to Kendall as he exhales.
Without speaking, Kendall shifts so that he’s sitting up, his body pressed to Stewy from hip to ankle. He takes the bowl gratefully, loving the burn in his throat and the immediate calm that washes over him. They sit in silence, passing the bowl back and forth until it’s cashed and then Stewy sets it on the windowsill and wraps his arm around Kendall’s shoulders.
Kendall’s head finds the crook of Stewy’s neck and he stays there, feeling content and at ease, such rare emotions for him these days. “You’re not going to leave, are you?” Kendall breaks the silence and immediately feels embarrassed, needy and exposed.
But Stewy answers instantly and with zero judgment in his voice. “Of course not, Ken. I’m right here.”
Kendall hums, pleased and reassured and barely even ashamed that that’s all it takes for him to feel better, just some sweet words from his best friend. He knows that they’ll have to deal with everything going on, knows Stewy will force him to confront things he desperately doesn’t want to face, but that all seems very far away right now. Now, it’s just him and Stewy warm in bed in their nice apartment and whatever else comes next, at least he’s gotten to have this, this feeling of being surrounded by someone who loves him, of being completely at ease, of being safe.