a/n: hi everyone! this is a follow-up to this story...i figured i'd post it in the same story as a second chapter, and leave a synopsis below. i will also list warnings. i am really loving this season and every second stewy is on screen. so please enjoy and if you do, please feel free to review or let me know what you thought.

synopsis: Stewy and Violet tell Kendall about their relationship. It goes about as well as expected.

warnings: mild sexual content, references to sex, vulgarity, references to drug use/abuse, anxiety, insecurity. basically everything you may find in succesion lol.

try

The tie was silk and burgundy in colour, rich and soft beneath my fingertips. I looped it around the pressed fold of Stewy's brilliant-white collar, standing between his legs as he leaned against the arm of a sofa. Then I gently tugged him forward before crossing the ends. His hands rested on my hips. It was for balance, he swore, although soon his hands lowered and lowered, cupping, squeezing. I felt his touch become more insistent, curling at the hemline of my dress and preparing to hike it up.

The skin of his jawline was smooth and warm. I mourned the loss of his beard between each feathery kiss, missing the scratch and draw of stubble. Without it, he was boyish, more like he had been that afternoon we sat on the steps of a Townhouse in Cambridge. It seemed like a long time ago.

"We'll miss the wedding, Stewy."

His words were mumbled into the hollow beneath my jawline.

"Then we'll catch the next. Ted's walked down the aisle more times than Kendall's gotten laid."

"Great. Because nothing puts me in the mood more than hearing about my brother's apparently lacklustre sex life."

Stewy huffed a laugh. "Alright, I'll admit that was the least sexiest thing I could have said. But I'm looking out for the guy. We should find someone for him at the wedding party before he starts humping legs like a horny bulldog stuffed into Tom Ford slacks."

"A bulldog? Really?"

"You don't think so?"

"More like a labrador when he pulls that sad face. You know the one."

Stewy scrunched up his face. "No. No. Still doesn't seem right. I'm thinking more like an old Chihuahua. Eternally trembling. Sporadically incontinent. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like Ken." I searched his eyes and added, "We're gonna tell him, right?"

"That we think he's an elderly Chihuahua about to be brought out back and -..." Stewy aimed an imagined shotgun and blew out his lips to imitate the sound. "Someone has to."

"About us, Stew."

He heaved a sigh.

"Yeah. I mean, that was the whole point of this thing, right? Turn up at the wedding and tell Kendall we're together now. A united front. Hivemind. Someone pinches you, I feel it, like that weird twin shit. Going as Sonny and Cher for Halloween this year kind of thing."

"We're not going as Sonny and Cher."

"I bought the wig. I'm gonna make a great Cher."

Stewy was purposefully trying to make me laugh, and he succeeded. But my hands were still fizzing with pins and needles, agitating me, making me unnecessarily smooth his hair, straighten his collar, test the buttons of his shirt.

"Ken -..." I started. "He'll -..."

Gently he reached for my hands, cupping them in his own to steady them.

"He'll what?"

"He'll find it funny. Right? I mean - he'll laugh?"

"Laugh," Stewy echoed slowly, "because his friend is boning his sister?"

"You're not gonna use the word 'boning'."

Stewy grasped my arms to hold me in place, revelling in my reddening cheeks, purposefully making me look at him.

"Oh, what? It's too vulgar for you? How about straight-up fucking then? No? Engaging in various coital activities, including, but not limited to, mouth stuff, vaginal stuff -..."

"Don't be an ass."

"Thanks for reminding me not to leave out the ass stuff."

"He'll understand. He'll understand we're dating."

"It might be a little convoluted for him but I think if we bring some graphs and pie charts, he might grasp the concept. He's a visual learner." Stewy cocked his head. "But where should we put the butt stuff? Graph or pie chart? I'm thinking pie chart."

"Stewy." I chewed my tongue between my teeth and then asked, "What if we waited?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Violet," he said, his voice much softer now. "Sneaking around for the last few months has been fun. Even added a little 'forbidden fruit' aspect to this whole thing. But we can't spend our entire relationship hiding out in my apartment on the off-chance someone sees us and tells Kendall before we can do it."

"It wasn't going to be forever. Just until he got back from Shanghai."

"And guess what? He's back from Shanghai."

"With the whole telecomm fiasco, though…"

Stewy groaned. "The point I'm trying to make is that we shouldn't have to hide at all. You're Kendall's kid sister. But you're not a kid. You can date whoever you want."

"And what if he - acts weird?"

Stewy snorted. "Kendall? Acting weird? Unfathomable."

"It's just -..." I inhaled and started again. "I want him to be happy for us."

"You know, even if - and I'm speaking purely hypothetically here - even if Ken isn't happy for us - so fucking what? Isn't it enough that we're happy for us?"

"No, of course. Of course. It's just -..."

For a moment, we simply looked at one another. He cradled my cheek, and his eyes ghosted the length of my throat before his gaze fell to the soft lush carpet beneath us.

I worried that I had ruined the night already, and we hadn't even left our suite. That was a habit of mine, spoiling the mood with silly little anxieties, the kind that knotted tight within me, like a ball of barbed-wire, jabbing and poking at the soft slippery organs inside, pressing so hard I thought something might burst like a balloon.

Surely he was tired of me. I fretted so much, so often, scooping anxiety from the ground like a pile of dust and placing it on the tongue of a golem to bring it to life, lurching forward to show the world an embodiment of what it was like in this tangled-up head of mine.

Stewy leaned back against the arm of a sofa.

He said, "Thanks, by the way."

Pure, unfiltered surprise slackened my mouth. "For what?"

"For attending this wedding with me. I know you hate this stuff."

He embarrassed me. I pretended to search for my purse, knowing all the while that it was on the dresser in the bedroom.

"Please. You're acting like I've never been to a wedding before. I'm not that -..."

There were an avalanche of words that could fill that cool blank spot. I chose not to finish.

His eyes were black and teasing. "You wanna make a bet?"

"On what?"

"On what kind of cake they're gonna serve. I'm betting it's lemon. I bet three hundred dollars Ted chose lemon. It's just like him. Dry. Sour. Makes your face shrivel up."

"Isn't he your friend?"

"Violet, I'm gonna level with you here."

"Oh, God. Is this another investor crash course?"

"Hey. People would pay millions for this shit and I'm giving it to you for free."

"Please, Mr. Hosseini. Enlighten me."

Stewy pushed off the sofa, pulling on his cuffs.

"In this line of work, 'friendship' is based on how much the other person has fucked you over. Like, fucked you just a little? Like just the tip? Friend. Most definitely a friend. But, like, fucked you so much and so hard you need a wheelchair because they rearranged your internal organs with their figurative unlubricated schlong? Still a friend. But you don't attend his wedding. So, yeah - Ted's a friend. But he's a just-the-tip kind of friend."

"I'm so glad you specified that it was a figurative unlubricated schlong. Now can we get this over with?"

"That is exactly what I said when Ted came at me with his unlubricated schlong," Stewy said, motioning toward his own crotch.

"The figurative one, you mean."

"Oh, no. This time it was the real deal. I'm talking monster-sized cock here."

For the hundredth time, I deadpanned: "Stewy."

"I am so sorry. What was I thinking? Talking to the Virgin Mary like that."

"I don't want to know about Ted's penis," I said. "Figurative or literal. I don't want anything to do with it."

"Do you think Adriana's saying the same thing right now over in the bridal suite? Like, 'keep that monster cock away from me! It's become sentient! It whispers to me every night when we're lying in bed!'"

"You know every time I see Ted tonight I'm going to be thinking about what's in his pants."

"I feel like it should bother me hearing my girlfriend say that but I totally get it."

"Well, you're the one that brought up his dick in the first place."

All while I spoke to him, I walked into the bedroom and found my purse. Its chain was silver, and sat cold on my shoulder. Stewy waited at the door of the suite, grasping hold of its gleaming handle and pulling it open for me. He bowed and swept out his arm like a doorman.

Behind him, the door quietly drew shut.

Before its lock had even clicked, I dreamed of that time, hours from now, when we would be finished with the small-talk and flutes and rich creamy tablecloths, and we could seal ourselves back into that room where I could be myself, alone with Stewy. I used to think that I could never be myself around another person.

But Stewy was strange. He had an easiness about him. He was able to smooth any bump, loosen any tangle - and that was me, all bumps and tangles.

Already, out in the open like we were, I was tensing up, stiff and tight, eyes flashing this way and that along the halls.

"If we're really lucky, maybe his sentient dick will speak up during the ceremony and cause a scene," Stewy continued, catching up to me. "Might cut this whole thing short early."

The elevator arrived. There was a sweet floral perfumed scent inside. I pushed the button for the lobby and watched the numbers tick on an old, antique-styled dial overhead.

Stewy offered his arm. It was warm and comforting in mine.

"Lemon," I mused. "It's not gonna be lemon."

"Three hundred dollars, baby."

"Red velvet."

"No fucking way."

"Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred," Stewy repeated. "For red velvet."

"Are you backing out? No monster cock in your pants to back up this bet?"

"Wow. Look at her talking about monster cock. What happened to the Virgin Mary?"

Giddiness filled me. The elevator sank low and so did my stomach. He had that effect on me.

"You corrupted me," I retorted.

"Do you think Ted's sentient dick sounds like Elvis Presley?"

Laughter fizzed in me like a shook-up bottle of soda. "What?"

"When his dick talks. Does it sound like Presley? Or maybe it sounds like Morgan Freeman. That'd be a fucking trip."

"No. Sean Connery. I've heard it."

"A Connery cock? Beautiful."

"Forget that. What about the cake? Five hundred dollars?"

"Fuck it. Make it a thousand."

"A thousand on red velvet."

The doors parted with a gentle ping. The numbers had run out, the time had come.

The heat in my stomach dampened as if dirt had been kicked over a smouldering campfire. Stewy left the elevator first. He tugged at me like I was the rusted chain of an old anchor on the seafloor, stubborn, unmoving, embedded.

But I followed, slowly, heels clicking against cold bland tiles.

We stepped out into the cool night air where a black anonymous car idled. Stewy held open the door. The leather was rich and nipped at me through my dress. He slipped into place beside me and the car pulled off.

I rested my head on his shoulder, peering out at the tall glittering buildings, at the strangers. The traffic dripped and waned.

Stewy asked, "How's Blackwell?"

"Fine," I said. "I'd like to stay there. I mean, I know what everyone's saying."

"And what are they saying?"

"It's a subsidiary of Waystar. I think you can connect the dots."

"But you like it?"

I fiddled with the pearls of my bracelet.

"I love it," I admitted. "I like editing, proofreading. It's a lot easier when it's someone else's words you're worried about."

"It's been good for you."

I scoffed and sat up to stretch my arms.

"Seriously," he said. "You hosted that seminar last week. Fucking killed it."

Pride blossomed in me at his praise. It made me nervous. "I guess."

"So you're gonna stay in New York," Stewy continued.

"Huh?"

"You were talking about moving around, checking out other publishing houses."

"No. I'll stay here. Blackwell suits me. And it makes sense, really." My eyes flit to him. "I mean, logistically speaking."

"A-huh. Sure. Logistically speaking."

I snorted. "Shut up."

"So, logistically speaking," Stewy continued, "would it make sense if we lived together too?"

The leather stuck to me. It was uncomfortable.

"Live together," I repeated.

"Yeah. I'm in New York. You're in New York."

"A-huh."

"Well?"

"I mean -..." I shrugged uselessly. "Yeah."

There was a partition between us and the driver. It showed Stewy's face only partially in black murky reflection of the tinted glass. I was stumped to find he was smiling.

I asked, "What's so funny?"

"You," he said. "The way you freak out."

"I'm not freaking out."

This time, he laughed out loud.

"You're freaking the fuck out. It's fine. I said it because we practically live together already. How often do you sleep at mine? Pretty much every night. And if you want to keep working at Blackwell, and I'm staying in the city full-time now too, I mean, I don't know - it makes sense. Logistically speaking, of course."

"It's only been a few months."

"Okay."

"Don't you think it's too soon?"

"Sure."

"But you still want to?"

"Yeah. I like being the big spoon."

"Shut up."

"Okay."

"Move in together."

"Yup."

"Right. Okay."

"Yeah."

Nausea whirled. I became cotton-mouthed, mute, staring into his eyes. He stared right back. It was too bright. The sunlight was too bright, even through the tinted windows.

Then I latched onto a singular thought, which I had already blurted out, but which settled now in me fully, wholly.

It was that he wanted to live with me. He wanted me around.

What was so frightening about that? He was right. I stayed in his apartment more and more. I had sweaters, shoes, all scattered around his place. I was making myself a presence in his apartment, bit by bit, almost apologetically. Some part of me did it intentionally, wanting to know if he noticed when I wasn't there, or if he cared that I'd dropped a bag in his closet, or stolen a fraction of his walk-in closet for some of my spare clothes.

He had brought it up only once that I remembered, when he told me casually that he had gotten the brand of coffee that I liked and left it in one of the cupboards. And maybe he understood how much it meant to me, because he had smiled at me afterward and moved on, without dwelling on it.

But because I wanted to hear it, because I really needed to hear it, I asked again, "You want to?"

"Yes," he said. "I want to."

So I licked my lips and said, "Okay."

"Cool. Great."

"Do I tell people?"

"Who do you want to tell?"

"I don't know." Suddenly a bubble of laughter rose up and burst. "Everybody."

Stewy grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's tell every-fucking-body."

x

Within thirty minutes, we had reached the church where the wedding would take place. Through the windows, I watched a tiny crowd mingle beneath the shaded arch.

Stewy stepped out first, like he had in the elevator. He held out his hand for me. I was grateful. It was comforting to approach a crowd like that with his hand in mine, focusing on mounting each step and appearing fully at ease, even if I was frothing with nerves.

It was not even my own wedding. I was nothing more than a guest. But it brought bile to my mouth, all those people turning and waving and whispering Roy.

The church bells rang so loudly that the tremors darted up my legs, reminding me of lizards in Spain, placed on the palm of our hands for us to stroke until one sprinted along the length of our arms, its dark green body glimmering beneath the heavy sun.

I remembered how it had frightened Shiv. Her face had flushed a shade of beetroot as the lizard was peeled away from her cheek, where it had stopped its maddened sprint.

Roman had said that it recognised her as reptilian, too; its reptilian mother.

Shiv had spent the afternoon sulking by the pool in a sun-hat and sandals, spitting mean.

Once inside the entrance of the church, large and lofty and wonderfully chilled by its thick stone walls, my eyes flicked between each face, but I could not find the one I was looking for the most.

Had Kendall missed his flight? Had he forgotten the wedding?

And was that hope or regret in my chest?

Stewy lightly nudged my ribs. He dipped his head toward the back of the crowd. There was Kendall, dressed in navy. Somehow it made his pallor all the more pronounced, the shadows beneath his eyes stark to hollow his sockets in this dim light, so that he appeared waxy, corpselike.

"He's wearing Ralph Lauren," I said absently. "Not Tom Ford."

"He looks good."

"No he doesn't."

"Yeah," Stewy sighed. "He really doesn't."

"How should we do this?"

"I'll do it."

"What happened to a united front? Sonny and Cher?"

"I forgot the wig. It holds all my power. I'm nothing without it."

"He's gonna see us as soon as he looks over here."

Stewy pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Ah, fuck," he groaned. "Okay, look, I'll tell him I brought a plus-one, we'll razz each other a little bit, and then I'll signal you to come over."

"And what's the signal exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know. Tug on my balls three times and screech like a bat. Something subtle."

"You stay here," I said. "I'll do it. I can - I can explain it better."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

"Alright. Well, remember to use the graphs and pie charts. Don't forget the butt stuff."

Kendall was chatting to a couple, waving his hands around in animated speech. All three of them laughed a little too hard at his joke, whatever it had been.

With feigned composure, Kendall then looked around at the crowd, hands sinking in his pockets, slouching somewhat. He still had a smile pinned against his face, which seemed painful to hold and still he held it.

I recognised his agonies. They were my own. Maybe it was hereditary, some genetic flaw in us. It was probably the reason relief filled his eyes as soon as he spotted me approaching him, though it was soon replaced with confusion.

"Violet?"

Excusing himself, he moved to meet me in the middle of the entrance. He hugged me. It was tight and crushing. His clothes had a whiff of mint.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "You know Adriana? Ted?"

"Not really. I'm here as a plus-one, actually."

"Wait, actually? Like, really?"

"Yeah. I know it's not really - well, it's a surprise, I guess."

"Yeah. The Reclusive Roy. That's what this article called you. Read it on the plane on the way here. Forget the magazine. But what a title. Right?"

"I'm here with Stewy," I said.

That smile was still bolted to his face. I found myself wondering if his cheeks ached or if his face had numbed. He leaned toward me like he hadn't heard me over the burble and murmur of the crowd around us.

"Huh?"

"Stewy," I repeated. "Hosseini. You know -..."

"Yeah, I mean, I think I know Stewy." His laugh was incredulous, slipping out and flying over the heads of the other wedding guests. "He invited you? Like - invited as a plus-one?"

"Yeah. We've been - you know."

"What? Like - together?"

"Yeah," I said lamely. "Like dating. A while now."

"How long is a while?"

"A few months."

"That's great. That's fucking awesome."

Kendall enveloped me in another hug, equally bone-crushing. Mint surrounded me once again. The embrace lasted three seconds too long. Once we pulled apart, he patted me on the shoulder, and that too was clumsy and lingered between us.

"Great," he said again. "Is he -... He's here?"

"Yeah. He's -..." I swung around, desperately searching, until I spotted Stewy wedged between two other investors. "Right there."

Kendall called out loudly, "Stewy! My man!"

Heads turned. Eyes pricked us. Conversations hushed and died out. Kendall stood, smiling. I smiled, too, dumbly, placidly, burning up, and still inwardly stuck on his mention of some magazine he had read on the plane. I couldn't quite tell what bothered me about it. But I wished he hadn't brought it up.

It made the words turn and turn in my head, like each letter was a piece of clothing in a washing-machine, sloshing around, occasionally pressing against the glass for me to read.

We watched Stewy pull away from the other guests.

Once he was close enough, he said, "Hey, Ken."

Kendall brought him into a hug, too, smacking his back twice.

"Stewy, bro. Been a while."

"Yeah, yeah. How was Shanghai? Learn some Mandarin?"

"Yeah. Fluent. Yeah, no. No, it was good. Learned a lot. Totally different lifestyle there, man. Learned a lot about Buddhist teachings. Really inspiring. Most of the population is into this folk stuff but Buddhism really speaks to me. Achieving internal balance. Peace. Alignment with oneself."

"Totally."

Kendall motioned between me and Stewy. "So - you two?"

With his usual blasé attitude, Stewy put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"Yeah. Look, I know it might be a little weird or whatever. And I probably should have told you I was gonna ask Violet out but -..."

"No, dude. Come on. What is this? Like, the fucking Middle Ages or whatever?" Kendall held out his hands, looking between us. "Seriously. Fuck off. Gonna offer a dowry next? That's - come on. It's cool."

"Yeah," Stewy said. "Great."

"Kinda had the feeling anyway, you know."

I eyed him. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah. One hundred percent. You two fought like a married couple every time you were together. Wait - not planning on getting married though, are you?"

Kendall pretended to lightly punch Stewy in the ribs. Stewy waved him off.

"Yeah, actually," he said easily. "We're thinking this winter. Before the baby arrives."

Kendall's smile faltered only momentarily.

"He's messing with you, Ken," I said. "Just - we're thinking of moving in together."

"Yeah," Stewy said. "Logistically speaking it made sense."

I shot Stewy a glare. He ignored it.

Kendall's smile bloomed even wider. "No kidding. That's - wow. Fast."

With one word, Kendall punctured the happiness I'd felt in the car. It rose and whistled as its helium slipped out, until it dropped, flat and shrivelled at our feet. Fast was the rhythm of my heartbeat. Fast was what I feared. I imagined myself in front of my father, telling him about Stewy, and his shrewd glacial stare boring into mine, repeating it: fast.

Stewy said, "You think so?"

"I mean - come on, bud. So what? Who the fuck cares, right?"

"Hm." Stewy cast a bored, cursory glance at the crowd around us. "Yeah."

"So." Kendall faced me. "Blackwell, huh?"

"Just starting out. Small stuff. Editing releases. Checking dates. Nothing major," I said.

"Dad trusted you to do it, though," Kendall said. "That's big."

Some impulse forced me to repeat: "Small stuff."

Stewy's eyes drifted. "Violet, you mind if I run over there and speak with Richardson?"

"Oh, sure. Go ahead."

Briefly, he reached out and squeezed my arm. Then he swam through the crowd toward this tall, pale man with tufts of blond-white hair on his head.

Kendall watched. "Bloodhound," he said faintly.

"What?"

"Used to call him a bloodhound in college. It's instinct with him."

"What is?"

"Everything." Kendall shrugged his shoulders. "Business. People. Stewy just knows."

Kendall abruptly focused on me again.

"Blackwell," he said again. "That's great."

"Yeah. It's been nice," I replied. "I took part in this seminar last week. Talked about autobiographies for a whole hour. On behalf of Blackwell, I mean."

"Hosted? Like, stood up in front of everybody and talked?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, I mimed. Yes, Ken, I talked."

"That's good. Really good. You're getting out there."

His tone pinched me. His smile grated me.

"Yeah."

"Lot changed in a few months," he said. "Wow."

"Yeah, well, I guess Stewy's had an influence on me. And like I said, I've been trying."

"No, yeah, it's pretty fucking stellar. No more, like, throwing up. You know like that time Dad tried to make you speak in front of everybody at Lake Como for his birthday."

There was a pause. His eyes were bright and fuzzed.

He said, "You remember that? Right? Conner had to bring you inside and find you some clothes. Puked everywhere. Dad was like - whoa."

"Why are you bringing that up?"

"It's a joke."

"Am I the punchline?"

His eyebrows rose. "Uh. No. What? Of course not. I didn't mean - are you serious right now?"

Though the room was light and open, my skin was flushed and hot. I was suddenly aware of the sweat beneath my armpits and the tight confines of my heels, shifting my weight and feeling as if I clomped around like a newborn foal.

"I was, like, ten years old, Kendall. I ate a whole bunch of cake. It was the frosting. Buttercream."

"Whoa, hey, Violet." He held up his hands in surrender. "I didn't mean it like that. Come on. You hate public speaking, that's all."

"I'm trying. Pushing myself. So who knows? At this rate, Dad might make me CEO of Waystar some day after all."

Kendall laughed. "Yeah. Totally. Hey, speaking of Dad, have you talked to him lately?"

"Not much. Been spending most of my time focused on Blackwell. Have you?"

"A little. Called him when I landed. He was heading into a meeting. Couldn't talk."

We both knew that that had been a lie.

"Yeah, well. Probably didn't miss much here. You're staying now, right? No more Shanghai?"

"No more Shanghai."

"Good," I said. "I'm glad you're home."

Finally, his smile loosened, and fell away. "Yeah. Glad to be back. Little bit like - I don't know. Fucking reverse culture shock or something."

"We should have dinner next week. You and me. I'll help you readjust."

"That'd be great. Yeah, no. For sure."

For a couple of seconds we stood staring at each other.

And it struck me that it was the first time I had nothing to talk about with Kendall.

x

As soon as the wedding finished, the guests clambered into cars and headed for the hotel where the reception was being held. It was a strange, lazy summer afternoon, languid, like one hour oozed into another.

Stewy had schmoozed himself into a quiet stupor, staring out at the traffic and trees and pigeons pecking the sidewalk. He held his phone in his hand, flipping it absently around and around.

"My apartment is like three blocks from this hotel," he muttered. "We could have stayed there instead."

I shrugged. "I like this hotel."

"Hm." Stewy flipped his phone again. "That went well. With Kendall."

The hotel came into sight between yellow cabs and buses.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hit me."

"Is it really that surprising that I hosted a seminar?"

Stewy turned his head to look at me. "What makes you ask?"

"I told Kendall and his reaction was -..." I hesitated. "He does this thing sometimes where he says something, and he knows it was kind of an asshole thing to say, but he just looks at me like I'm the one acting crazy when I point out that it was an asshole thing to say. Like I'm overreacting. Drives me nuts. So then I do act crazy. Like this bizarre self-fulfilling prophecy or something."

"Fuck 'im." Stewy yawned and stretched. "Doesn't know shit from Shanghai."

Yet it was almost like a projector repeated the scene between Kendall and I, over and over, each time that I closed my eyes.

"He brought up this stupid thing that happened when we were kids. I embarrassed my Dad, and -... well, it doesn't matter. He's embarrassed Dad, too. Lot worse than I did, considering Ken's fuck-up cost the company millions and mine was just a tablecloth and a dress. I mean, seriously, Dad practically banished him."

"Oh, yeah. Ken is Trotsky. Your Dad is Stalin. Shanghai was Ken's Siberia. It's weirdly poetic."

"But does Ken get that? Like, deep down he has to get that. Right?"

Stewy hummed, thinking about it. "No. No, I don't think so, actually. See, Ken's like that freak waterfall in Minnesota, the one where scientists can't find the bottom. His deep down is pretty much non-existent."

"It was doomed from the start anyway."

"Ken or the start-up?"

I snorted. "Hey. That's my brother. Give him a chance. He's still aligning with himself."

Stewy laughed, shaking his head. How easily he made my heart hammer.

"He should have aligned with the fucking start-up," Stewy retorted. "Followed the plan."

"I don't think he planned anything. That's the problem. You know Kendall as well as I do. He probably sat in a meeting for all of twenty minutes, saw some colourful graphs, heard them talk about targeting a young demographic using a mascot and a snazzy slogan and ran right to Dad for funding. Kendall dove in head-first, like he always does. And the start-up had promise, don't get me wrong."

"But?"

"But the first red flag was the mascot. It was embarrassing. It made the company look like it was trying too hard. And what do young people hate more than a company that tries to relate to youth culture like they're one of them? Nothing. No. Scrap the mascot. Stick with the slogan. It was smart. It had everything they needed. Keep discounted rates for young people. But Ken can't think that way. Everything has to be big and extravagant. You gotta reinvent the wheel every time."

Stewy pressed the button to lower the window. The air was sticky like the leather seats.

"Six-hundred million invested only for it to fail and put sixteen-hundred people out of a job within a week," I finished. "And Kendall never should have spoken to the press when everything was falling apart either. He came off bratty. He needed to apologise. Look humble."

Stewy hummed noncommittally.

"Yeah. He screwed up big-time. But I didn't know you paid so much attention to the business stuff."

"Hard not to."

"You know," Stewy said, "I think it ate him up."

"What did?"

"Us," he answered breezily. "I don't know. He pretended like it didn't bother him. But I think it ate him up."

"I thought you said it went well."

"It did. Overall, anyway. It was just something in his eyes, I guess. And that Nicholson smile. Straight out of The Shining."

"Well, it's like you said. It doesn't matter if he's happy for us or not. Just that we're happy."

"Yeah?"

I turned my head at his tone. It matched his eyes: shrewd, intuitive.

Bloodhound.

"Yeah," I said.

Stewy nodded. But his eyes never changed.

I said, "You should have seen his face when I said I could take over Waystar some day."

With three chimes ringing out, his phone distracted him and he answered a call, putting his hand on my thigh while he spoke. I was still looking through the tinted windows of the car. I noticed a newstand a short distance from where we pulled up to the curb.

On the advertisement panel, front and centre, was my father's face.

The headline read: THE MOGUL MAKES HIS MOVE.

x

Name-cards were placed at each table. Stewy rounded our table, reading each name. Guests filled the ballroom in languid drips of twos and threes, chatting, squawking. Stewy snatched the cards from our table and began moving them around.

Trepidation shot through me. I placed my flute of bubbling champagne aside and reached for his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"Ensuring I don't blow my brains out," he replied. "An evening with Buster Strome of Strome Industries? No, thanks. I'm putting him on the other side of the table. I want Flynn Bell beside me. Heard rumours about him. Good connection to have. Don't worry. Kendall's still beside you."

"Great."

Stewy paused, glancing at me. "If you want to swap him out for someone else, say the word."

"What are my options?"

Stewy humoured me, shuffling the name-cards.

"Alright, let's see," he hummed. "Up first, we have an octogenarian Texan oil tycoon and his twenty-something-year-old girlfriend."

"Pass."

"Oh, this is a good one. You're gonna love this one. Trust-fund baby fresh from a semester of sociology who'll use the time between entrées to tell you about their thesis on Marx and the inherent evils of capitalism."

"That's tempting. Can we put that in the 'maybe' pile?"

"'Maybe' pile for the oblivious trust-fund baby. Got it. Okay, next on the list is - oh, no. I can't do this to you. It's bad."

"I can take it."

"Think about this, Vi. It's a 'gaze into the abyss and it gazes back into you' kind of deal here."

"Let me hear it."

"It's a member of the nouveau riche."

I raised an eyebrow, arms crossed and cupping my elbows. "Okay."

"Her bag is Cavalli," he said. "And she has a personalised number plate on her Lamborghini that spells out her name."

Letting out a feigned gasp of horror, I shook my head at him.

"No. Forget it. I'll take Kendall."

Stewy sighed. "I tried to warn you. But you didn't listen."

I grabbed my drink and moved to sit down.

"You're an ass. You know that?"

He placed another name card. "No," he murmured. "No-one has ever told me that before."

By the time Stewy had finished his sabotage of the seating plan, the ballroom was half-full. It was a soft ambience of hushed murmurings and clinking glasses until the bride and groom came into the room to a stir of claps and polite tempered whistles.

Ted held up his wife's hand, almost like a sport had been won, a championship of some kind; my gaze fell to his crotch. I barely hid a smile behind the rim of my drink.

Kendall appeared. He spotted his name-card.

"Hey," he said to me. "What's up? What's happening?"

I tipped my glass at him. "Hey, Ken."

Beside me, Stewy and Bell spoke investment and stock. Kendall sat. He deflated. His shoulders were hunched. He looked around the table. Then he poked at a napkin.

He said, "Cool napkins."

"How much do you think it cost to make them look like vulvas?"

Kendall let out a laugh, eyeing me. "Vulvas," he said. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Again that sense of judgement struck me, like he thought me strange but could not outright tell me. So he skirted around it with a quick spasm of his eyebrows and the widening of his eyes, turning his attention to the rest of the room to evade me. It stung.

After all, Kendall couldn't pretend to be bothered by blue jokes. Roman made them all the time. Had his first word as a baby been fuck or dick, it would have surprised no-one. Shiv was no better.

"Do vulvas bother you, Kendall?"

He glanced at me. "What? No. Just - I think they're swans."

"Do I bother you?"

"What?"

"Nothing." I swirled the champagne in my flute. "Never mind."

Kendall hunched forward, absently picking at his cuffs.

"So, look," he said. "I'm sorry if I came off like a jerk earlier. About you and Stewy, I mean. Caught me off guard is all."

I was still tender and bruised. Perhaps that was what made me sound so petulant and bratty, like Shiv at the edge of that Spanish pool.

"And here I thought you'd known all along."

"Stewy's a good dude. A really fucking good dude. But he's got a reputation."

Again there was an flat heat hanging around me, like there had been in the car; I wished that I opted for an up-do, because my hair lay heavy against my neck, itching my shoulders.

Suddenly, I loathed this dress, too. It was a burgundy dress, the shade purposefully chosen to match the tie that I had gifted Stewy and which he wore that night and that I thought would subtly link us together.

Yet there was no subtlety in it. I felt like a little girl at prom with a corsage around her wrist. Young and immature and wearing too much make-up.

"And what reputation might that be?"

"Well, it's -... We're talking private equity here," Kendall said, shrugging. "You know. Stalking the weakest in the herd. Sinking teeth into them. Dragging them down into the bush. Letting all the hyenas join to pick apart the gristle and meat until only the bones are left."

"So Dad has something in common with him. Great. That'll help when I introduce them."

"Huh?"

"Dad does that," I said. "Swallow up smaller businesses and spit them out as soon as he's had enough. Only difference is the hyenas around Dad aren't so sure they'll get a share."

"There's a little more nuance to it than that. Stewy swims with sharks. He is a shark."

"I thought he was a bloodhound," I replied frostily.

"God. Violet, can we drop this already? We're - … It's like crossed-wires."

"Fine. Okay."

The champagne tasted flat and bitter. There was a speech from the father of the bride. It lasted too long. There was sniffling and tears and photographs taken, great popping flashes.

The groom led the bride to the dancefloor. To watch them, I had to turn my back to Kendall. It was in the middle of At Last that he leaned forward in his seat and spoke into my ear.

"You want to introduce him to Dad? Like, formally?"

"Eventually."

"Huh."

Shuffling around in the seat, I faced him again.

"You're calling him a lot of things. But you're forgetting that he's been a good fucking friend to you."

"Never said he wasn't."

"But you're acting like it. Like he's Brutus and you're Caesar on the Ides. Stewy's been a good friend to you."

"Right."

"He looks out for you. That night, at Cambridge, when you almost fucking got yourself killed because you were high and stupid -..."

Never had we spoken of that night at Cambridge. Shame flared in his eyes, sorrowful eyes. It had been wrong to make allusions between Stewy and Brutus, because the dagger was mine and I had struck bone. It winded me. I reared, steadied myself.

So I finished, flat and dry and remorseful: "He's a good friend."

"Yeah. Real good friend."

"Sarcasm? Great. That always helps."

"Who do you think gave it to me in the first place?"

Caesar had risen from the steps, fitted in the latest Ralph Lauren suit, to return the favour.

"What?"

"Cocaine," Kendall said. "Blow. Nose candy."

"I know what it was."

"Dust," he continued. "Bump. Flake. You know you should ask him if he has some right now. I bet he does. Stewy always does. He's the go-to guy for it."

"Like I didn't already know what people in the financial world do, Kendall."

"So you were really that surprised when it was me?"

"Yeah. I was. Because you were hanging out of a fucking window."

"It was stupid. Yeah. But I was letting loose. Having some fucking fun. I'm being serious. You should ask Stewy for a line. He'll show you how it's done, like he showed me. Then maybe you'd learn how to loosen up a little and quit acting like Courage the fucking Cowardly Dog every fucking time there's, like, even an ounce of human interaction involved."

"Courage the Cowardly Dog, Ken? Really?"

"Yeah, really. Like you're living in Nowhere and it's all fucking, like, ghouls around you or whatever."

Silence reigned. The killing blow had come.

Strange that it came from the mention of a stupid little cartoon.

Kendall cast me a sideways glance and said, "You overreact. That's all I'm saying."

"Don't do that to me."

"Do what?"

There was a threat of tears. I sniffed and looked away from him, desperately darting my eyes back and forth, bouncing around the room from table to table in an effort to quell the onslaught of tears. There was tension in my jaw. It ached. I wanted to detach it and toss it aside.

"You know what," I said. "Quit acting like it's me."

"Like what's you?"

"Everything. Every-fucking-thing. I'm not doing anything wrong here."

"No-one said you were."

"Sure."

"Are you really going to cry right now? Like, seriously?"

Pain jabbed me between the ribs, brutal, slow. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I might."

"Look, this is stupid. If Stewy makes you happy, I'm happy. Dad'll love him."

The luxurious beige tablecloth, decorated in tealights and floral arrangements, blurred from sight. His tone had been soaked in barely-veiled sarcasm.

Speaking to my family had always been like an exercise in shadowboxing, bouncing and ducking and weaving from a phantom in front of me, because the swings were never claimed, never owned.

There was nothing in front of me, no distinct shape that I could name, but I felt the swift crackle in the air with each punch and knockout. So I knew there was something that I was battling. Something that wanted to hurt me and knock me down.

If I tried to call out to it by name, it remained invisible.

From birth I had been on the fucking back foot.

So I punched out into that dark blank space in front of me, saying, "Yeah. Well, cat's out of the bag on me and Stewy. So I guess I'll call Dad tonight and tell him. You know, because he actually answers my calls and doesn't make up some bullshit about being in a meeting to avoid me."

Kendall's face ravaged me.

There was no sweet tangy pleasure settling on my palette. His gaze dropped to the table.

He said, "You weren't kidding. Really have learned a lot from Stewy."

Because I could not stand the feeble whisper of his voice, and because I could not bear that wet sheen to his own eyes, like my eyes, I stood from the table. He had been right. I was Courage the fucking Cowardly Dog.

I snatched up my purse and looked pointedly at him. He had shrunk in size. His shoulders were tight.

And I wished I had called him more when he was in Shanghai.

I said, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

"Okay."

"Ken -..."

Somewhere in the room, a cork popped from a bottle. But there was still a cork lodged in my throat and it stopped up any apologies. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed twice.

"Just be fucking happy for me."

x

An hour later Stewy looked at the slice of cake on his plate and said, "Fuck. Red velvet. I owe you a fucking grand."

I thought about buttercream frosting on a different cake, a different time. I pushed the plate away from me. I'd lost my appetite.

Kendall had already left.

x

The faucet was the sole sound in the hotel room, burbling from the bathroom where Stewy brushed his teeth. With the pillows propped behind me I felt crusted and cold and fur-tongued, even though I had cleaned, showered, and drank only a small flute of champagne.

Stewy wore a pale blue bathrobe. It had the brand of the hotel on the chest. He dropped onto the bed beside me.

"Let's watch that shit we love," he said.

Picking up the remote for the large television at the end of our bed, he flicked through stale bland channels until he landed on one of those stations that ran at night and sold gimmicks like glasses with magnifying lenses for the elderly and weight-loss tablets that looked more like veiled laxatives.

Stewy laughed at a shower-head that sang Christmas tunes. The colours of the screen, so bright and flashy, fused together. I heard only the tinkle of a jingle and the numbers to dial.

"Stewy," I said.

"Yeah?"

"If Kendall asks you for a line, don't fucking give it to him."

He was very still on the bed. Eventually, he said, "Okay."

The commercial which followed was for a cup that changed colours when filled with boiling hot water. Before it ended, Stewy reached out and took my hand, bringing it into his lap. I sank against the pillows and leaned my head on his shoulder. In the dimness of the room, with only the light of the television, I was drifting off to sleep.

Suddenly Stewy whispered, mimicking Sean Connery: "Violet, it's me…Ted's sentient dick… I snuck away from Adriana because I want you so much more..."

The heaviness lifted, expelled in a single laugh.

"Knock it off," I grumbled, lightly kicking at Stewy under the blankets. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Who needs sleep? Not me, baby. I'm up and harder than ever," he continued, holding onto his half-decent impression of Connery. "Hey, are you listening to me?"

"Goodnight, Stewy."

Stewy sighed. "Goodnight, Violet. Goodnight, Ted's sentient dick."

x

The lighting of the restaurant was dim, making it difficult to spot the steps leading down to the booth where Kendall waited for me. He rose from his chair. I kissed his cheeks. He still had that faint scent of mint. I wondered if it was his aftershave.

The menus were placed in front of us. We passed some time deliberating between the duck confit or a beef dish.

In the end we decided to share a charcuterie board.

Halfway through swallowing a mouthful of terrine, he said, "So, the wedding."

"Yeah. It was -..."

"Nice. Yeah."

"Sure."

Ken waited a moment. Then he said, "I liked the vulva napkins."

Kendall's eyes met mine. All that tension that had lingered between us - the last few days of awkward, staggered texts to arrange this dinner, and dancing around conversations with Roman and Shiv about the wedding, and conjuring up reasons to cancel only five minutes before I sat in this seat - all of that tension burst. It was that easy.

"So you finally agree that those were vulvas and not fucking swans."

"Yeah. Totally vulvas. If you and Stewy get married in winter, I really think you should have a bunch of vulva napkins," he said. "Bold statement."

I tipped my head back, groaning. "We're not getting married."

"A-huh. But I'm mentally prepping myself. Considering I'm gonna be Stewy's first choice for best man."

"Oh really?"

"What? Like he's gonna pick one of his fuck-wit brothers?"

"There's no wedding."

"Fine. Okay. When did you start dating anyway? Like, officially?"

"We were talking for a while. After that night in Cambridge, I mean. Then you both graduated and I thought we might lose touch a little, since he was travelling and stuff. But he came back to New York. We met up. Kind of went from there."

"Cool. That's great."

"Yeah?"

He laughed. "Yeah, Vi. It's fucking great."

The waiter brought a fresh bottle of water for us, filling our glasses. I peeked at Ken between sips. He noticed.

"What?"

"Thanks, Ken."

"Yeah. Whatever."

"So," he said. "Tell me about this seminar."

"You don't want to hear about it."

"I do, Vi. Come on. I really do."

So I told him.

x

notes: 1. can you tell i'm not a rich roy child because i had to google stereotypes of nouveau riche people and found that stuff about cavalli lol

2. has kendall seen courage the cowardly dog? i like to think so. it's my headcanon ok
3. most of the business stuff is reworked murdoch family drama
4. yes i laughed every time i typed 'a-huh. yeah' or 'yeah. sure. yeah, no'.
5. violet is getting some confidence. not much. but she's getting there. then again is it ever good for a roy child to be tooooo confident…historically, no.

i hope you enjoy the rest of the last season and thank you sooo much for reading! much love x