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Mid-afternoon on a Saturday, Kendall is cooped up in his dorm room. Dust light swims in the sun that’s streaming onto his bed. The spine of his economics textbook wrinkles as he sets it open-faced on his knee. His legs are bent towards his chest, head uncomfortably tipped downwards as he reads the same sentence about foreign diversification over and over again. His mind is elsewhere, unfocused, thoughts made fuzzier by the mugginess of early September. It wanders to other things: his plans for the weekend, when he’ll be back in New York next, his dad’s 62nd birthday, and inevitably, Stewy.
As if on cue, Kendall hears the playful rap of someone’s knuckles against the door. It swings open before he can do much more than glance up from his textbook. Stewy rarely waits for an answer.
“Holy fuck, dude,” Stewy grumbles as he slips inside. “I’m fucking beat.”
Kendall watches as Stewy kicks the door closed behind him. He hops over a burgeoning pile of dirty laundry on the floor and flops onto Kendall’s bed like it’s his to claim. The mattress shakes. Kendall presses his tongue into his cheek, only slightly annoyed to see him. He crosses his legs one over the other before Stewy has the chance to roll onto them.
“Come right the fuck in, I guess,” Kendall says under his breath. He returns to his textbook and realizes he’s lost his place in the paragraph he was reading yet again. “It’s not like I was busy or anything.”
As per usual, Stewy ignores him, stretching out until he’s taking up the whole bottom half of Kendall’s twin mattress. He’s fresh out of the shower, his wet hair smoothed flatly against his head and his feet still bare. Judging by his oversized Ivy League t-shirt, a shallow scrape on his elbow, and the half-eaten granola bar in his hand, he had rugby practice this morning.
Stewy quickly reaffirms Kendall’s suspicions.
“Carson Reid—that dude from Econ—doesn’t know how to tackle for shit,” he says in between bites of his granola bar. He chews loudly, not bothering to look over his shoulder to check if Kendall is listening. “Like, this guy is 6’4” and he’s all flailing limbs. Swear to God, bro, our coach only picked him because he’s pushing 200 and his dad has a 2% stake in Whole Foods or something.”
Stewy rolls onto his side. He reaches behind him and rubs at a spot beneath his right shoulder blade like he has a knot there, granola bar still perched in his mouth. His groan is muffled as he presses his fingers into the sore muscle. Kendall watches as his t-shirt bunches up to reveal the dimples at the bottom of his spine. They peek out above the waistband of his loose-fitting basketball shorts, attractive and symmetrical amongst the lean muscle of his lower back.
Kendall absentmindedly dog-ears the page of his textbook as he stares. Numbers and figures and global market capitalization are suddenly scraped from his mind like old peeling wallpaper. Stewy groans lowly again and all that remains is the smooth tan of his skin leftover from summer break and the way his shorts are riding up his thighs.
“Jesus fuck,” Stewy says and Kendall is immediately pulled out of it. “Asshole nearly broke my fucking back with his shitty fucking form.”
Kendall looks away, worry suddenly interweaving with his irritation and his arousal. He attended most of the Harvard home games in freshman year even though Stewy never insisted on him coming. It was a good way to avoid studying while also clinching invites to Ivy League parties Stewy would have brought him to anyway. The sport was rougher in person than Kendall had thought it would be. The chaos of kicked up dirt and stained Harvard scarlet and sweat and shouting and blurred limbs was a lot initially to take in. During most games, Kendall found himself clutching the rigid edge of the bleachers every time Stewy was tackled into the grass or took down a player himself. But in classic Stewy fashion, he always got back up again, wiping the dirt from his uniform and smirking.
Besides some playground roughhousing in primary school, Stewy has always been gentle, gentler than he’d probably care to admit. Even when they get into arguments, his posture is easy and unimposing, edging on too relaxed as he holds himself with a finesse that’s uncharacteristic of people their age. It jars Kendall to see all that wiped away whenever Stewy plays. His jaw clenched, his gaze hardened and focused, his body aggressively darting between clusters of players to carry the ball across the in-goal line. The competitive nature of the sport suits him—just like anything competitive does, from board games to investment firm internships—but the roughness is something Kendall only sees out on the field, never off.
It turns him on as much as it concerns him. He feels it whenever Stewy comes out of the locker room with scraped shins and a flushed grin on his face, like winning was the easiest thing in the world. And sometimes, if Kendall is lucky and the game went well, Stewy will drag him to a secluded part of the locker room and immediately drop to his knees.
Kendall looks up. Stewy is still rubbing his shoulder blade.
“Does it really hurt that bad?” Kendall asks.
“Uh, yeah, man.” Stewy glances over his shoulder to flash a smirk at him. “Hey, if this doesn’t go away, do you think I have grounds for a civil case? Physical and emotional damages? I could milk Carson and his investment banker daddy for all they’re worth.”
Kendall rolls his eyes. His worry dissipates as Stewy snickers. He ignores the warmth that’s breaking out on the back of his neck, staring down at his textbook again.
“Alright, come on, Stew. I’m trying to study here,” Kendall whines. He clicks the pen in his hand for added effect. “I have a quiz on Monday and it’s worth 10% of my grade, so if you could please—”
“10%? That’s peanuts in the grand scheme of things, dude,” Stewy interrupts, dropping his hand from his back. He reaches over and grabs the edge of Kendall’s textbook, lifting it up so he can see the title. “Psh, come on, Ken. This shit’s easy. I can give you my notes if you’re so very worried about it.”
Kendall grimaces, tugging the book from Stewy’s grip. The warmth returns. “Uh, that’s not the point, dude.”
“Well then, what is the point?” Stewy props himself up on his elbows. “Enlighten me.”
Kendall sucks at his teeth while Stewy bats his eyelashes. He can’t tell whether Stewy is doing it on purpose or not. His irises look bigger and browner in the sun, his lashes somehow even longer. His hair is shiny at his temples, some stubble on his jaw remaining post-shave.
“The point is, Stew, you can’t just barge in here whenever you want, bro,” Kendall says. “You can’t kick my door in like you’re the fucking Kool-Aid Man.”
“Well, it wasn’t locked—”
“—but you’re not my roommate.”
Stewy laughs. “Oh really?”
Kendall bites back a smile in service of playing along. “Yeah, really. I could’ve been—I dunno—jerking off when you walked in here.”
Stewy rolls his eyes. His chin tips upwards as he coyly glances at the ceiling then back over at Kendall. “Sure, Ken. You say that like you wouldn’t fucking be begging me for a helping hand.”
Kendall flushes, heat pouring over his face and snaking down his chest. As Stewy laughs obnoxiously at his own joke, Kendall uncrosses a leg and uses it to shove him in the side. Not too hard but hard enough. Stewy keeps laughing despite Kendall’s best effort. He shoves Stewy again. His body sways with the force but doesn’t budge.
“That feels kinda good actually,” Stewy says as Kendall continues to jiggle his foot, trying to nudge Stewy closer to the edge of the bed. “Like one of those crappy massage chairs you find in a shitty Midwestern mall.”
Stewy smiles, his eyelids fluttering closed, and he looks like he’s actually enjoying it.
“Fine, dude,” Kendall huffs, removing his foot from Stewy’s hip. “You win.”
Stewy opens one eye to look at him, like he’s winking. Before Kendall has the chance to kick him again, Stewy reaches over and grabs his ankle. Kendall rolls his eyes. “Stewy—”
“Hey, why did my personal massager shut off?” Stewy teases. His fingers are warm and somehow long enough to completely enclose Kendall’s ankle in his hand. He lifts up Kendall’s socked foot, pretending to inspect it. “Do I need to put more quarters in this thing?”
Kendall jerks his leg and Stewy lets go, chuckling to himself. Kendall suddenly feels shy, having been out-teased as per usual, but it gives him an idea.
“Okay, fine,” Kendall says. “What if I try to work the knot out of your back then? Hm? In those circumstances will you finally fuck off and leave me alone?”
Stewy immediately brightens at that, and Kendall wills his face not to turn red, like they’re in the fucking third grade all over again.
“Deal,” Stewy says.
Kendall closes his textbook with a pointed thump. He tosses it aside while Stewy sits up again. He settles towards the end of the bed, crossing his legs. His back is turned towards Kendall, his face pointed at the door. It gives Kendall enough leeway to scoot closer, stopping just shy of his knees bumping into Stewy’s back. The mattress springs squeak, sounding louder than they really should. Stewy says nothing. Kendall stares at the uncombed curls at the base of Stewy’s head, the expanse of his shoulders, the way his loose t-shirt drapes over them.
It briefly reminds Kendall of grade school, sitting behind Stewy in class, focusing on a smudge of dirt on his school uniform instead of the lesson in front of them. School assemblies, tucked behind Stewy in a crowd of rowdy, inattentive kids. Kendall used to press his fingers into the notches of Stewy’s spine, painting an invisible picture against his back or a secret message he had to decode. Kendall had his hands on Stewy before he knew what it all meant, or at least before the meaning inevitably changed.
The afternoon sun is still streaming onto Kendall’s bed. It cuts Stewy in two, illuminating his shoulders so brightly Kendall almost has to squint. Kendall wants to press his mouth behind Stewy’s ear, take the skin between his teeth where the sun won’t reach it, but he doesn’t. He just stares, his hands still in his lap, not quite sure what to do with them.
The pause goes on for too long, and Stewy nearly catches Kendall looking as he glances over his shoulder. “Ken? Hello? What’s the hold-up? Thought we had a deal.”
“Sorry.” Kendall swallows and Stewy finds his eyes, holds his gaze. Kendall’s entire body feels like it’s blushing even though it’s not. Warmth slides downwards into his stomach like he’s just ingested a mouthful of hot coffee. “Um, can you show me where it hurts again?”
“Here.” Stewy reaches behind him and casually thumbs the undercurve of his right shoulder. “Dude, you should have seen the fucking pass I made before this dickhead decided to try and break all twenty-four of my ribs. I didn’t even have the ball. It was a late tackle—illegal as fuck—otherwise, I would have spotted it and—”
“Okay, I get it,” Kendall interrupts, trying not to cringe at the picture Stewy is painting in his head. He eyes the spot Stewy is still pointing out, then hesitantly replaces Stewy’s fingers with his own. Stewy returns his hand to his side. Kendall holds his breath. “Wish I’d been there to see you eat shit, bro.”
“Haha,” Stewy deadpans.
Stewy turns away again, and Kendall feels comfortable enough to get to work. He starts by pressing his thumb into the toned but tight muscle of Stewy’s upper back. To Kendall’s surprise, Stewy immediately goes quiet, relaxing into the touch as he massages his sore shoulder with careful fingers. Stewy slumps forward slightly when Kendall adds more pressure with the flat of his palm. An audible sigh leaves his lips.
Kendall feels warm all over again. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to get hard just from doing this. “Is, um, that okay?”
“Yeah, feels good,” Stewy says. “Just move your hand over a bit more. To the right.”
“Here?”
“No, Ken, here.” Stewy smirks at him as he reaches backwards and takes Kendall’s fingers between his own. He shifts them over to the lowermost part of his shoulder blade. Their hands briefly curl together before Stewy lets go. “There. Got it?”
Kendall nods, something stirring in his gut. “Yeah, I got it.”
He presses his thumb into the muscle again. It feels good to do something with his hands, especially when Stewy appears to feel so safe and comfortable beneath them. Kendall knows that hands can be frightening things, things that bruise and hurt and break skin. He knows better than most, even though he tries not to think about it. He forces the thought from his mind in favour of relieving Stewy’s tension as gently as he can manage.
Any frustration leftover from studying subsides as he focuses on the breadth of Stewy’s back beneath his palms and the texture of his t-shirt as it wrinkles and bunches under his fingers. Kendall tries to pay attention to where the muscle feels the tightest, but the warmth of Stewy’s skin is a compelling distraction as it seeps through the thin fabric. It leads Kendall away, and his hands eventually wander wherever they want.
They travel over Stewy’s shoulders, down the divots in his spine, brushing Stewy’s sides before returning to the spot he initially pointed out. Stewy doesn’t complain. His breath is steady, his head bowed. He seems relaxed, submitting enthusiastically to every touch. But as Kendall spreads his fingers out towards his ribs, Stewy winces. It nearly makes Kendall jump.
“Ouch, dude,” Stewy hisses. “Go easy.”
“Fuck, sorry.” Kendall’s hands immediately still, but Stewy gently catches Kendall’s wrist in his hand before he can pull away.
“Shit, Kendall, it’s fine. I’m okay,” Stewy says, looking over at him. “Just sore.”
Kendall nods. He relaxes, reaching over to smooth out a wrinkle in Stewy’s t-shirt. “Sorry, it’s, um, hard to see what I’m doing with your, like, shirt in the way.”
A pause, then Stewy nods. “Let me take it off then.”
Stewy pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor. Kendall stares at the nape of Stewy’s neck before his gaze travels down to his bare back, even and well-defined. Kendall could happily look at the space between Stewy’s shoulder blades for the rest of the day, but something catches his eye, pulling his attention away.
A bruise, fresh and blotchy, swallows up the right side of Stewy’s back where he seemingly hit the ground during practice. It nestles against his ribs in one ugly, painful streak, about the size of an open fist. Snaky broken vessels border it as blood newly pools beneath the skin, a deepening pinkish-red that reminds Kendall of childhood rug burn. He feels his stomach violently sink, and he nearly flinches away. His eyes drop to his lap, along with his hands, but the image has already burned itself onto his brain.
Kendall knows bruises—his own bruises—and Stewy knows them too. Growing up, they never talked about it. Their pact to deal with them was unspoken, something they naturally fell into after years of knowing each other. Whenever people made passing comments, Stewy easily came up with excuses, laying claim to marks on Kendall he would have never made himself, even during harmless roughhousing or competitive gym class games. Kendall was never good at lying or deflection, but Stewy made up for it. He always did, whether it was through borrowed sweaters or half-empty tubes of Polysporin or an ice pack fetched from the freezer in his family’s kitchen. Stewy was Kendall’s refuge, in more ways than one, and he owes him for that. He always does.
Kendall forces himself to look at the bruise again. It appears just as sore and unpleasant as before and in desperate need of tending. Kendall reaches out and brushes his index finger across Stewy’s spine, grazing the place where his skin transitions from unblemished to blooming bright red. Kendall swallows down his hesitation.
“Fuck, man,” he says. “You should have told me it was this bad.”
“What do you mean?” Stewy asks.
The soft concern in Stewy’s voice pushes Kendall forward. “The bruise.”
“What? Oh, shit—”
Stewy peers over his shoulder to try to get a look at it. He lifts his arm up, pulling at his skin, and freezes when he spots the red spilling over his side. He looks at Kendall knowingly, but Kendall leans forward before Stewy has a chance to say anything. Kendall drapes an arm around Stewy’s uninjured side, palm resting flat against his naked stomach.
“What can I do?” Kendall asks.
He gently presses his forehead to the back of Stewy’s neck. Stewy softens under the touch.
“Ken, it’s just a bruise. It’ll go away.”
Kendall sighs. “Yeah, I know.”
He pulls away, then just barely brushes the pad of his thumb across Stewy’s bruised ribs. The mottled colours disappear and reappear underneath his finger, and Stewy reassuringly leans into him as he moves his hand over it. Oddly, Kendall is fascinated by the bruise, its uneven shape, how the pink blotches loudly interrupt the smooth brown of Stewy’s skin. He’s beautiful still. He never isn’t.
“Does this hurt?” Kendall asks as he rests his hand flush against it.
“Nah, man.” Stewy shakes his head. “You could never hurt me, Ken.”
Kendall feels his throat tighten. He removes his hand from the bruise and returns to massaging Stewy’s shoulders to divert the sting in his eyes. It feels more intimate now that Stewy has his shirt off, his skin soft and warm and slightly tacky from whatever lotion he applied post-shower. Kendall worries that his hands are clammy and unpleasant, but he can feel Stewy’s muscles relax beneath his fingertips. It convinces him to press a kiss against Stewy’s neck, just below his ear. Stewy hums agreeably in response and Kendall shares a smile with himself. He keeps working.
They don’t need to say anything. They’ve never needed to. Kendall continues to indulge Stewy with his hands, but now with his mouth as well. He slowly strings kisses across Stewy’s shoulder blades, brushes his lips down the seam of his spine. He nips at his skin lightly with his teeth, just enough to show Stewy that he wants him. Eventually, Kendall bows his head and softly presses his mouth to the bruise. He flattens his tongue against Stewy’s ribs and hears Stewy’s breath catch in his throat, nearly a moan. Kendall has to stop himself from smirking. He kisses Stewy again and feels his skin prickle with goosebumps underneath his lips.
“Ken—”
Another kiss, then Kendall pulls himself away. “Still sore?” he asks.
Stewy’s answer doesn’t come as quickly as it usually does. “No, Ken, I—”
“Good,” Kendall says. He straightens but remains nestled up against Stewy on the bed. He presses his lips back to Stewy’s neck underneath his ear. “Alright, now fuck off so I can study, bro. I have, like, so much shit to read.”
Stewy laughs at that, genuine and almost too loud. Kendall expects to be viciously teased in return, but instead Stewy turns around, deftly bracing himself on his knees. Before Kendall knows it, Stewy is tackling him back onto the mattress. He flattens Kendall against the bed, straddling his waist with his legs on either side of his hips. Kendall yelps, but does nothing to fight him off. Stewy pins him, hands encircling his wrists to bring his arms up above his head.
“What were you saying about studying?” Stewy asks, an eyebrow cocked.
Kendall feels his face burn. “Ugh, Stewy. What the fuck, man.”
Kendall half-heartedly wriggles in Stewy’s grip, but it doesn’t do much, if anything, to loosen it. Probably because he doesn’t actually want Stewy to let him go. Stewy peers over him, grinning, their faces dangerously close. Kendall laughs, and he feels like a kid again, if only for a brief moment.
“Hey, no fucking fair, dude,” he huffs in mock exasperation, then wriggles again. Stewy’s grip remains firm, but not too rough. Never too rough. “You can’t just tackle me without, like, a polite heads-up. You’ve been practicing this shit all morning. This is fucking illegal.”
“Is that what this is? Illegal?” Stewy asks as he leans down, closing the space between them even more. Their noses nearly touch. “Well, if you want, we can practice right now, bro.”
Kendall smiles. A real smile, the one that splits his face in two. He nods. “Alright, Stew,” he says. “Deal.”