Building Castles On Cobwebs

A/N: So I forgot to post this. Oops. This is the third story in the whole Entourush series, and it was breila-rose's birthday present! Yaaaaay. Whoops, it's been two months. But I totally posted it on LJ in time. For those just joining the series: one day on Twitter, I announced that the boys are going to grow up to be the dudes from Entourage (which is apparently a viewpoint shared by J-Mas, idek). After discussing the wonderful world of possibilities with eviljellybean and breila_rose , I kind of proceeded to let myself get talked into writing Neither Tarnished Nor Afraid, the precursor to this. And theeeen I kind of got talked into writing this sequel, The Spaces Between Stars. AND THEN breila_rose told me she wanted me to make it into a trilogy, so I did, because it was the month that she got to be birthday QUEEN. This is considerably shorter and less with the Entourage and more with the feelings, but I only had a MONTH! Also, Courtney wanted happy shiny things and not my paparazzi scandal plotline. Lol, Ilu, bb. The title is a reference to a Raymond Chandler quote below. Mucho thanks to my favorite homebitch jblostfan16 for the beta and the super spiffy banner she made.

ALSO. So the reason I just remembered to post this is because of this great anonymous review I got on NTNA. Unfortunately, being anonymous, I can't respond, which is super obnoxious. Damn ffn. I love talking to walls instead of having discourse. SO I'm going to be awesome and reply right up here: HI. dude! You're totally right in that Kendall is my favorite boy; I'm definitely most attracted to him. But you're wrong in that he's my favorite character? I love the dude to death, and I think he's really interesting, but I write from James's POV the most because he's the one I relate to best. Anyway, I'm not totally one hundred percent on what you mean by me putting James down, bb. I beat on characters pretty equally across the board, Kendall included. Going off this series, I'm going to assume you mean how I like to obliterate James's singing career. I don't know that it's particularly harsh? I guess it must seem like that if he's your favorite, but I don't actually think Kendall is better. It's a repetitive theme (in a lot of my fic) because basically all I'm doing is exaggerating the way James is treated in showverse. He consistently gets told Kendall's better. By Gustavo. By Mr. X. Even Hawk only took him because he was the most malleable. Which is sad. James wants it so damn bad. You can't actually think he's totally okay with that? In this series, it's particularly poignant because the character he's supposed to represent from the Entourage (Drama) shares all the same characteristics (his little brother outshines him at every turn). Now, if we're talking about how I tend to make James pretty fucked up in general, um. That would be because I like to assume he's human beneath his outer shell, and is subsequently flawed. Like most humans are? Generally I try to fuck Kendall up pretty hard too, although I guess it's less obvious when I don't write from his POV as frequently. Um. Yeah. I'd love to know if there was anything else bothering you, and I'm actually really super happy you like my fic, but until you unanon and actually speak to me, no. I can't lay off your/my favorite character. :) :) :)

"...all this desperate building of castles on cobwebs, the long-drawn acrimonious struggle to make something important which we all know will be gone forever in a few years, the miasma of failure which is to me almost as offensive as the cheap gaudiness of popular success."

You kiss the place above where his back dimples.

He sobs with it, begs, Kendall, Kendall, dude, please, one word tumbling on top of another until it's a string of nonsense with an edge of pleading. Not that it works; you plan on taking your time. You like the artistry of sex, the play of lights over the skin of James's back and how every twitch of your body elicits a different reaction from him, a hitched breath or a moan or a curse that sounds like praise. The more suppliant he is, the more you want to toy around with him, dip in and out of him at your leisure until his voice breaks with how much he needs you.

James is loud, and that suits you just fine, even though Logan doesn't know, and Carlos doesn't know, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned you're dating some French supermodel you've never even met in real life. She's releasing a pop album, supposedly, working overtime at Rocque Records, and that might be true. You've been so wrapped up in cataloguing the mountains and prairies and golden planes of James's body like some dauntless pioneer that you haven't stepped foot in a sound booth in over a month. Every time Katie phones she hurts your ears, voice pitching high like she's about to suffer a coronary, but she's got other clients, and you're on a hiatus.

That's what you call it.

Really, you have no idea when you're going to get back on stage. It's not that you don't want to perform anymore; music is your life. But now, instead of prancing around for stadiums full of adoring fans, you sing every song into James's throat. You etch patterns into his skin with your fingertips, half written lyrics and childish stick figures, because you're an artist, but your visual aesthetic is sorely lacking. Your medium is words, now and forever, but there are no words significant enough for how you feel about James.

Even so, you write every line that means anything at all on the canvas that he has become. In turn, he throws it all back out at you, until together you become a bittersweet cacophony of words and sounds that promise too much and too little all at the same time. James is the best instrument you've ever played, and he inspires you more than any muse, sparks embers in the far, dark corners of your soul that you never even knew existed.

In the middle of the night, LA a neon glow in the distance, you'll stretch across the bed, naked as a jaybird. You manhandle your guitar until you've got it settled cold across your navel, the neck resting somewhere between your callused fingers and the hair of James's calf. You're going through this super mellow phase where you want every song you write to exist between chords on your strat, to swing up on the echoing tail end of every reverb.

Sometimes James sleeps through the melodies you pick out, strum up, hang in the air like stars before they dissipate back into the netherplace they came from. Sometimes he wakes up, and helps out, the same way he always has.

You think maybe that's the problem. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed. More than anything, you still want James to rain fire down on millions of people, ignite the dried husks of their hearts into things that blaze. But every time you bring up the idea of getting back out there, turning his voice into a force of nature, he covers your body with his, tells you you're sweet, tells you you're sexy, wraps his hand around you and brings you off with careful strokes until you can't really remember what it was you were talking about in the first place.

It's weird, but you always imagined he'd be selfish in bed, more focused on himself than on making his partner happy. And James is; he switches up angles and maneuvers himself until he's gasping with it, but he also watches you, every facial cue and tic of your body. Now you know; he's turned sex into a skill, and he understands you better than just about anybody. He memorizes you, mesmerizes you, and he instinctively gets how to push every one of your buttons. It's embarrassing how fast you bite his name into his shoulder, shuddering through it while he follows quick behind.

It can't last, this clandestine space that the two of you build. Neither of you are great at secrets, and besides, you can't just live for love. You like the idea of it, of ceasing to be whenever you step outside James's field of vision, but in practice love is not actually all you need. James alone cannot sustain your happiness, because happiness is too great a burden for any one person's shoulders. It is a variegated thing, supplemented by Logan's constant mothering, Carlos's wicked mischief, Katie's nagging, Kelly's praise, and the adulation of every fan you meet. James is the same way. There is the chaos that lives inside of you both, that you need to channel back out into your work, your music or acting or whatever art you choose. You each need the outside world, the trials and tribulations of it; it sweetens the time you spend in the private sphere of your bedroom. So the two of you will have to venture back out into real life eventually, the spotlight and the public eye and the paparazzi cameras. And because of that, you will have to make a decision to come out or crumble into dust, because neither James nor you are capable of keeping something like this quiet for any protracted period of time.

The way you feel about each other shines in every nuance of your features, and it won't be long before some aspiring tabloid reporter catches on. It's no secret that you swing both ways, but it's not like it's some hugely celebrated thing, either. Every time you were seen on Guitar Dude's arm back in the day, your sales dropped percent by percent.

Of course, that album blew chunks, but still. The essence of gay didn't help, like people thought cocksucking was contagious.

People are disappointing that way.

You try not to mull it over, try to focus on the shape of James's lips and the smell of sunshine in his hair. You like to concentrate on beauty, and you think that there is beauty in everything, even the grotesque. You have to. If you focus on the ugly parts of the world, you start to wonder what the point is, and you can't live like that. Faith isn't something you have a whole lot of, but you believe in yourself, and your boys, and the idea that what you're doing with your life will mean something in the long run, even if it doesn't often feel like it.

So now, once James is sated and fast asleep, you try to work out what to do. Back when you were teenagers, you gave James the wings that he needed to fly, but like Icarus, he was always trying to push his limits. When he fell, not even you could save him.

James has faced rejection one too many times. When Gustavo came to town, when the label dropped the band, hell, even when Kat's Crew entered the picture and you all thought they'd replace you. Hit after hit after hit telling him he's not good enough, and that must hurt like a bitch. Aside from you, and hockey, singing is all he's ever really had. His parents didn't mean to be cold when he was a kid, but they're like most workaholics; lost in their own ambition. You remember more than one sleepover where you woke up in the middle of the night only to hear James singing himself lullabies to soothe the monsters beneath the bed.

He takes every hit too hard, and you know what that's like, you do, really. You've gotten more positive reviews than negative in your life, but you can remember every single word of each and every critique. Bad things always make a bigger impact than the good; it's just the way the human brain is hardwired. And James is just like you, bursting with pride and drive, but for some reason you're the one Hollywood has blessed.

It's not like you asked for any of this, or even tried to get it. It fell in your lap, and you're fully aware you don't deserve any of it. You've worked hard to stay on top, but James has worked harder, tried more, strived, until one day he just gave up. You think James still wants someone to believe in him, but it's hard to ask that of anyone when he finds it so very difficult to believe in himself.

You're going to fix that, because surrender tastes like a dirty word, and besides, James belongs on stage. Even if James is scared, has let all the bad destroy how good he really is, you can't let that stand anymore. Not when love burns like a sun in your chest, casting light on everyone you connect with.

You guys don't say the L-word because it seems like something that doesn't need to be said, but still. You love James, and you know it, and he knows it, and soon enough the rest of the world will know it too. You might as well make sure James is back where he belongs by the time that happens.

You talk to Katie. She tells you to mind your own business with this air of fierce protectiveness she doesn't often adopt around you. Sometimes you forget that she grew up with the guys, and James is practically her big brother too.

"I want to do something nice for him."

"And James doesn't want to sing. He's told you a million times."

"He's lying, though."

Katie curses, and it still feels weird hearing your baby sister use a bad word, like you should tattle to mom. "I know." You wait through a pause that is pregnant with possibilities before she curses again and relents. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."

There's another long pause, and then Katie says, "He's been out of the game a long time, Kendall. What if I can't get what you're looking for? Am I supposed to find him a job at a bar mitzvah? It will humiliate him."

"Use my name," you reply, easy. Modesty was never really your gig. You tried to play that Midwest farm boy thing off with your dimples and your corn-fed smile and all that generosity your mom trained into you, but beneath all the genuine, you're inherently proud.

Well. You call it pride, but it's been referred to as other things. Overconfidence. Arrogance. Superciliousness. The truth is, whatever you call it, you were king of your small town, even before hockey, when a bike was your chariot and your court was the neighborhood kids. It only got better when you found out you had a skill, a talent you spectacularly owned at. You reigned over your high school class, regent, regal as fuck when you doled out smiles and charm and royal decrees. Hollywood has just amplified your natural hubris a hundredfold. Every time it knocks you down, you come back stronger, somehow; the devil's luck in your pocket and all these starry eyed supplicants falling to their knees at the sight of you. You keep waiting for the day they start trying to lay palm fronds beneath your feet.

That's one more reason you keep your boys around, aside from the history and the friendship and endless loyalty, the way you'd bend and twist and contort yourself just to make any of them smile. They keep you grounded, remind you that you're not actually a demigod, that your dad was not Zeus and you are not Hercules.

More than anyone, they know the limits of your invincibility.

"Alright. I'll figure something out," Katie says, but she still sounds uncertain, and you're not sure it's enough.

You figure you need a trial run.

The air tastes like lightning, and you've got inspiration on your tongue. The second James wakes you drag him by the arm and manhandle him out into the Escalade.

"Where are we going?" James asks, cross, and he's hot when he's all pissy and annoyed. You flash him an impish smile and tell him that it's a surprise, and then you proceed to drag him to a seedy karaoke bar in Anaheim. James stares at the place like he might contract typhoid if he even steps foot inside.

"I'm not going in there."

"Like I'm giving you a choice," you scoff. You force him into a booth, let him dither around for a whole five minutes before you make him sing a Smoky Robinson song, hesitant at first, but with increasing volume. The crowd claps, polite, but not loud, since it's midday and there's only like, four people around. James is satisfied with that though, with applause directed solely at him for the first time in a long time. And you don't stop there; next it's Morrison, Dylan, Cobain. All the songs the two of you used to listen to when you were fourteen, with champagne dreams and a beer budget, sneaking your first joint in James's dad's garage, acting like the both of you were innovators, discovering music in a way no one else ever had.

It helps that you get James sloshed, keep neat whiskeys in sparkling crystal glasses coming one after another until you're both falling sloppily over each other while you dutifully cry some Christina Aguilera lyrics into your tacky little microphones, a sea of camera phones flashing at you from the crowd. And there is a crowd now, likely gathered after someone told their friend who told their friend who told their friend that Kendall Knight- yes, that one- was singing shitty karaoke and trashed in broad daylight. This is going to come back at you hard, both the sing-along and the drinking; the gossip rags will have a field day when they discuss whether or not you need rehab.

Again.

James tries to discretely extract the both of you from the situation, but he's wasted, and it's easy to talk him into one more song, just one, the last one. Except it's not the last one, and an hour and a half later you're watching him strut across stage like he owns the place.

He shines.

He glows.

He is the most magnificent thing you've ever seen, brighter than the Milky Way stretching across the desert with its pool of stars, more vivid than the Aurora Borealis. He looks at you from beneath his eyelashes, sultry, smirking, and you want to kiss him breathless.

You don't, but only because James handles his liquor a tad better than you. He stops your mouth with his hand when you bound up on stage, plays it off cool because James is cool, and he worries about public image. Which is awesome, because you can only imagine the shitfit your publicist would have if a picture like that came out.

Again.

Although you're never sure if that grainy black and white photo of your tongue in Guitar Dude's mouth counts, since it was sort of common knowledge, even before you announced it to the world.

"Later," James murmurs, and he makes good on that promise, takes you back home and pounds you into the mattress until your throat is raw from pantingyellingscreaming his name. He is a fairytale, a fantasy, a wet dream. He can't take his eyes off of you, and you can't look away from him, fascinated by the way you exist in each other's gaze, in this moment, a single entity.

The four of you sit around and watch crappy horror films, yelling obscenities at the screen whenever someone does something stupid. James leans into your side, and you've got your arms around his shoulders, and maybe that should tip Logan and Carlos off, but it doesn't. Logan's ankles are tangled with yours, and Carlos has his head pillowed in Logan's lap while he munches on a slice of pizza. This is normal, a routine you guys established when you were eight and haven't broken from since.

Except tonight, Katie calls.

You've got James, Logan, and Carlos piled into a car in minutes, claiming you've got to get your asses down to a venue pronto without giving away the reason. They think you've got an impromptu show, and you let them think that right up until you're at the back door. Carlos and Logan head on in, but James grabs your hand.

"You'll be amazing," he says, and he gives you a furtive kiss on the lips, a peck that turns your heart into a torch, heat blossoming in your chest. "You always are."

You tilt your head. "So are you."

James grins. "I'll show you amazing after the show."

He does this obscene gesture with his hands and his mouth and you think of fucking into his lips, slow and steady. He's making a promise, but you think he might break it. You tell him, "Dude. This isn't for me."

"What are you talking about?"

You push him inside the building, through the maze of backstage with a hand on his lower back. You ignore the crush of people vying for your attention, babbling about sound checks and set lists and lighting and push him straight into the nearest dressing room. It has his name on it, big block letters on this neatly folded piece of paper, and James catches a glance of it before you usher him in.

"Kendall?" He asks in this little boy voice, but his jaw goes tight.

"Surprise."

"No."

"You don't get to say no."

"I get to say whatever the hell I want."

"James. There's an entire audience of people out there who came to see you."

This thing flickers across his face, barely restrained emotion, part anger, part hope. But he says, "You're not listening to me. I don't want to do this."

"I can tell when you're lying. Stop being such a pussy and get out there." James bristles, and you continue, "It's just like karaoke."

"What am I even supposed to sing, dude? Did you think of that?"

You hesitate. He thinks you're stumped.

He's wrong.

"Don't think I haven't heard you in the shower. You've written like, a million songs. Share them with someone other than the bathroom tile."

"No!" He says stubbornly, shouts it, and Katie peeks her head inside. She looks so grown up in her power suit and Louboutins.

"Everything okay? What's wrong?"

"Your brother thinks he's god and I disagree," James spits, venom and ire.

Katie rolls with it, unsurprised, and asks, "Alright, but what else is wrong?"

"I'm not singing."

"Hey. I didn't organize this for you so you could fuck it up."

"Hey," James mocks. "I didn't ask you to organize it."

You step between them before they can get into full on bickering mode. "Katie, go uh. Delay, if need be. The Diva and I might be in here a while."

"I'm not your lackey, I'm your agent."

"Please?" You ask softly, and she folds, always your baby sister, even in spike heels. She backs out of the dressing room and James just glares. And glares. And glares.

"You." You slap the back of his head. "What's your problem?"

"Am I supposed to be grateful to you for setting all this up?"

"No, you're supposed to be pissed I sprung it on you. I would be." That's not strictly true; you're kind of a go with the flow guy, but you probably shouldn't point that out when James is seething.

"If I wanted to sing, I could get a job on my own."

"Yeah? Then why haven't you?" You cross your arms and try to look impressive.

James doesn't look impressed, but he darts this glance at the side that is part desperate longing, part skittish woodland creature. "Because I don't want to."

"Sure. And Carlos hates corndogs. Listen, you can do this."

"I know." James frowns at the floor.

"Do you? Because I know. I've always known." You step in close, lower your voice. Your hands rest against his cheeks. "There has never been a day when I didn't believe in you."

"Kendall-"

"James. You have to face your fears sometime," you tell him, and you know that it's a little cruel, but you also know that it's what James needs to hear. He's still terrified of rejection, terrified of taking a chance because of the handful of naysayers that are sure to pop up- they always pop up somewhere, like fungus in the woods- and it's not right, because for everyone else he will outshine the entire fucking universe.

He reaches up, laces his fingers with yours. "I can't believe you did this. I hate you."

You bump your forehead against his, and mumble, "Too bad. I love you."

It's the first time you've said so out loud. James smiles wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Say I agree to go. You can't just tell me that every time you want me to do something for you."

"But I get a free pass this time?"

James's face scrunches into something distasteful, like he's swallowed a bug. "I guess. I still don't think-"
"You can do this. You'll be brilliant."

He straightens, gathering his bravado to him like a cloak, like a shield that will keep all the bad things at bay. "Of course I will," he says, cocky as fuck, and that's the boy you fell for, right there, before fame was even a twinkle in either of your minds.

You stay with him until it's time, until he's got his nerves steeled and Katie's shrieking at you to hurry the fuck up already. You stand backstage and look out on the crowd, which is modest; not small, not large, but perfect for a dry run.

James steps out on stage and opens his mouth.

His voice is magic.

His voice is a miracle.

His voice is yours, yours, yours.

It lives inside of you, grows there, a blinding, vivid thing that explodes inside of you, turns you off-balance and rights you again. You listen to it and think that he's a star. Soon enough, he'll surpass you in fame, and you're almost looking forward to it.

It wouldn't be so bad, being a part of James's entourage, for a change.