It begins where it ended.
Later, it will end where it began, but that's much later, and no one knows that yet. They don't know that this is a beginning. That this is the beginning.
Kendall doesn't know, either. He knows now only what his senses are relaying to him, and he knows (it begins) what his mind knew before the memories stopped (where it ended).
This is not that dream.
Only this time, it doesn't feel like a lie.
This isn't any dream he's ever had, and he is sure it's a dream, because Carlos doesn't kiss him in real life. It might be nice if he did, sometimes, but the point is, he doesn't. But it's a dream, and it feels damn nice, and it's been awhile since Kendall's had any kind of sex dream, and it's a dream, so he doesn't have to feel guilty that this feels good, and Carlos's so warm.
"Feel good," he tries to murmur against Carlos's lips, but suddenly it doesn't feel like a kiss anymore and his mouth is being filled with hot breath and he's choking, spurting up water he didn't realize was lodged in his throat, and despite it all, his mouth feels dry as desert sand, salty and scratchy and there's noise now, voices that he's trying to process.
"James. James!"
It's not a dream anymore, because Kendall doesn't hear sound in his dreams, but it's got to be the manageable kind of chaos if James Diamond is here, because James Diamond makes everything right.
There is shuffling, Carlos's arms strong around his shoulders, easing him up, and Kendall's eyes dart to the side to find James crouched beside him.
"You okay?" James asks. "Kendall, can you hear me? Are you okay?"
Kendall figures he must nod, because James nods back quickly, mutters "Okay," and vanishes.
It's a moment before he realizes he's looking around, vaguely registering beach and ocean, which doesn't make any sense, at all, because, no, airplane, and, what? And -
"Kendall?"
His eyes follow the noise, settling on Carlos, and finally, he's seeing. Seeing the way he remembers vision to be like, where it connects with his brain, which is terrifying because what he sees is blood, half-dried splashes of it across Carlos's face, centered in a dark clot on the side of his forehead where it's obvious it started, his hair matted in the mess of it, plastered against his forehead and cheeks in sticky strands, a few dots over his bare chest - and his eyes, darker than ever, and Kendall knows Carlos's eyes always grow darker when his emotions are high, but this is - this is not that. This is something else, beyond that. This is - Jesus. This is Carlos, covered in blood, and -
"Carlos." He reaches out, but the hands he sees in front him can't be his; they're dark and splattered with that same dirty substance on Carlos's face. Half-dried lines of it snake down his arms, and some part of his body is registering pain, somewhere in his head, throbbing, but seems somehow irrelevant, muted in the face of his terror.
Carlos catches his hands, holds them gently in his. "It's okay."
"Carlos. You're. Carlos."
"I'm okay, man. I'm okay. It's okay. It's okay."
The way his voice is shaking, his words losing focus, the way he's squeezing Kendall's hands, Kendall's present enough to recognize Carlos is trying to convince himself more than anyone else. And Kendall has back-burner thoughts of James, Logan, Guitar Dude, everyone else, but right now he just wants Carlos to come closer, pull Kendall into his arms, because Carlos is here, solid and certain and real and alive.
"Are you hurt?" Carlos asks, releasing Kendall's hands to cup his face, tilt his head a bit, forehead creased as he searches for signs of injury.
"I - I don't think so. Not - really. Not bad."
"Carlos!"
Their heads turn in unison, and Kendall sees more. Maybe more than he's ever seen, more than he thinks he can take in. Some fifteen feet away, James's crouched over a figure in the sand the same way he was over Kendall, whispering words Kendall can't hear, words that seem more private than just quiet. James's got his own t-shirt in his hands, fingers and teeth working fast to rip the white material into strips that he starts to wrap around the figure's head. Kendall can spot a long, jagged gash running from the top of James's shoulder halfway down his chest, a few scratches on his back and face, but he looks competent, safe, never flinching despite the rapid movements of his arms, the stretch of his shoulder blades as he works.
Carlos scrambles to his feet and heads over to James, the squish of damp sand under his feet fading from Kendall's ears as he runs, leaving Kendall to watch them, pull himself up and follow at his own shaky pace.
James is sharing the whispers with Carlos now, but they're louder, more distinct as Kendall approaches.
"-Need some water, when you go back see if you can find some bottles, and the first-aid kit, and if you can't find that, some vodka from the mini-bar if it's... still there, and any clean clothes or towels you can get your hands on, some of the blankets or pillows - "
Kendall gets close enough to see the figure is covered in blood, some dried, some still dripping from countless wounds, making his own hands and Carlos's face look clean, pristine and unharmed, and when he lifts his gaze to the figure's face, their eyes catch.
Jett smiles weakly, eyes unfocused. "Hey, Kendoll."
"Jett. Jesus."
He reaches out, but Jett doesn't reach back as Carlos had. His fingers twitch helplessly and James is there at once, a hand pressing gently at Kendall's chest as his other works to secure one of the makeshift bandages. "Back off," he says softly, eyes still on Jett. "Check on Logan for me. Carlos?"
Carlos nods, accepting something James holds out for him and taking off across the beach, back into the water where his pace is immediately hindered, and Kendall can feel his frustration until he watches Carlos dive headfirst into a foamy row of waves and head out about a hundred feet to where some three quarters of their plane is rammed into the shallow water, the tail end bobbing with the current.
Kendall's conviction of being in a dream suddenly renews.
Or maybe, like Aladdin, he hit his head harder than he'd thought.
That thought sends his stomach into a whirlwind again, because he really doesn't feel like he's existing in the same world anymore as Disney cartoons and Alan Menken tracks.
But he's existing - that much is certain. He's existing, and Carlos and James and Jett are alive and - and they're alive, and Jesus fucking shit, that's not usually a term he uses to define the people in his life, by their state of existence, and -
Check on Logan.
Shit.
Shitshitshit. No, no, no, no, no.
His eyes rip away from the small movement in the distance as Carlos reaches the plane, back to James and Jett and for the first time in twenty-one years of constant, faithful motion, his heart stops beating.
Five feet, seven inches, a hundred and fifty pounds and the delicate, unmistakable line of his hands tell him it's Logan; but nothing else offers clues. His face is stained and messy like theirs, his shirt gone and chest covered in scrapes, dirty sand, and bits of seaweed, his pants drenched and clinging, with black spots that look more like grease than blood, thank god, and it could be worse, it could be worse, Kendall's screaming inside to himself, it could be worse, only itcouldn't. It couldn't, nothing on earth could be worse than Logan lying covered in blood, nothing, except that it's Logan covered in blood with his eyes closed and he's not moving.
"Logie."
It comes out as a sharp spit of breath, a ghost of the syllable and nothing more, but it reaches James somehow, and he's abandoning his tasks for three quick leaping steps toward Kendall. It's too late. Kendall's legs are the first to collapse (his mind isn't far behind), and he's crawling on his hands and knees toward Logan, trying to make words come out to coax him back (won't say back from what, won't think it, just back), but he can't tell if sounds are coming out, can't even tell if his heart's started beating again, but he's sure it hasn't, not if Logan's isn't and oh god oh god oh god.
"Kendall - " James's trying to grasp at him, pull him back. "Kendall, he's - "
"Logan - "
"Kendall, he's alive - "
"Logan, Logan, he's - "
"He's alive, Kendall! He's alive, okay, he's breathing - here." James closes a shaky hand around Kendall's and guides it to Logan's wrist, presses Kendall's fingers lightly to the pulse. "See? See? He's alive."
Kendall can't breathe yet, but he recognizes the jumpstart of his own heartbeat.
"It's - James. I - he's. It's." He ghosts his free hand over Logan's torso, terrified to touch lest he tamper with his fragile state, send him over the wrong edge. "James. James."
"He's alive."
"So much - James - " His whole body's shaking, aching, voice in an octave he didn't know he could reach, in a tone that doesn't sound human, and James's responses are the only way Kendall knows he's speaking. "So much blood - he's - we have to - "
"It's not his, Ken - "
"So much - "
"Ken, it's - "
"It's everywhere, James! It's - "
"Kendall! It's not his. He's got a little head wound, that's it, right here, look."
He brushes a bit of Logan's hair out of his face to illustrate, and Kendall immediately wants to put it back, gently press down his hair until it's back in place, because if, when when when Logan wakes up, he's going to be be so pissed if his hair looks like this, and -
"Not his," James whispers, a hand on Kendall's shoulder. "Okay? He's just knocked out. Look - stay here with him. Talk to him, he might be able to hear you. Hold his hand, here." He guides Kendall down next to Logan, where Kendall remains scrunched stiffly against his motionless side. "Be real gentle, we don't know if anything's broken. Just talk to him, keep your hand on his pulse, if it slows down or speeds up, tell me, okay?"
Kendall doesn't affirm, but he doesn't protest, and it's enough that James squeezes his shoulder and scampers back to Jett, securing the bandages and trying to peel off Jett's shoes.
Kendall curls against Logan, remembering gentle, okay, and tries to ignore the scratchy wet sand caught in his pants, in his skin. He wants to pick Logan up and put him in a warm bath and wash him clean, but there's no bathtub, there's no warm, comfortingly sterile hotel room, there's nothing nothing nothing, but that path of thought sends his head spinning again so he forces himself to pretend. He's good at pretending. He's pretended for a long time. For his parents, his band, himself, for Logan, definitely for Logan.
He doesn't touch past his fingers on Logan's pulse, doesn't want to rub any of the sand into Logan's skin, just presses his body against Logan's side, drawing the slightest comfort from his warmth, and nestles his head into the crook of Logan's neck.
"Logie?" He breathes once, twice. They're home, they're in Vegas. They're seventeen, in Carlos's basement, Friday night, midnight, with empty pizza boxes on the floor and guitars and handwritten tabs strewn about the room in the dark. "Logan. Logie. Hi. I love you, hi." He licks his lips, ignoring his parched mouth, pretending. Water fountains and two-liter bottles of Coke. Starbucks. A fridge stocked with Red Bull and mango smoothies. "Hi," he whispers again. "You look like shit, you know that? You'd be so mad if you saw yourself." Pretending. They have to be quiet because Carlos's asleep on the couch above and if they wake him up talking, he'll throw things at them, and not just pillows. "You're still gorgeous though," he adds; then, "It's kind of nice that you can't tell me to shut up right now."
He feels the first tear crawl down his cheek, hot against the breeze that sweeps over them.
"Please," he breathes. "Come back. Please. I promise I'll always do my own homework. I'll never take first shower, and I won't walk around naked if you really hate it. Please, just come back, I need you."
It's horrifying, getting nothing in return, not an eyeroll, not a Fuck off, Kendall, not an irritated grunt as Logan shifts to the other end of the sofa. It's surreal, it's wrong, it's maybe the most wrong thing Kendall's ever experienced. And despite how hard he tries to keep his eyes shut, they won't stay, they just keep springing open, forcing him to focus on the blood, and even though James said, he can't erase what's here, right in front of him, even if...
Not his.
It's not his.
He's slow to rise, still trying to remember how his legs work, when he faces James, watching James work obliviously, whispering incoherence to Jett.
"Whose?"
James looks up, harried and desperate. "What?"
"Whose blood is it?"
"I - I don't know." His voice is soft as he turns back to Jett, almost like he thinks it will calm Kendall, but Kendall knows James isn't stupid.
"Where's Freight Train and Guitar Dude? And the pilot?"
Even Jett's eyes open at that, and Kendall may be riding out the most surreally traumatizing moments of his life right about now, body still achy and chilled like he's got food poisoning or a bad flu - but he still catches the beat that James misses at those two words.
"Carlos is getting them."
"Are they okay?"
"I'm sure they're fine, Ken. Probably just knocked out. We all were."
But Kendall doesn't wait for the answer, is already headed toward the shoreline and into the water when James snaps into awareness and bolts after him, a hand firmly on his arm.
"Kendall - Kendall, no! I need you here, okay? Logan is - "
"I want to see him."
"I need you here, Ken."
"I want - my - boyfriend, I want to fucking see him."
And even after three months of "official" amongst their close friends, the word, the title, still sounds foreign, beautifully foreign on his lips, still makes his heart flutter to think that finally, finally someone is his, that someone loves him that much, that he's got someone to take care of, to look after and who looks after him and fuck if anyone is going to take that from him.
"Kendall - "
"NO! I want to know that he's okay!"
"Kendall, stop, stop! I need you here. Carlos is getting him. Okay? He's getting him - "
"Fuck that." He tries to jerk away, but James has got him tight, and James is stronger, and right now Kendall hates him. "I don't fucking care, I want him NOW."
"No. No. You need to be here."
"Stop trying to fucking protect me!"
"I'm not - "
"You're a fucking liar, Diamond!"
"Kendall, I need you here. Logan needs you."
But James is not as unflappable as he apparently likes to think, and his hands on Kendall's forearms are shaking as hard as Kendall's entire body, and Kendall's eyes go dark, narrow, because it's cheap, it's a cheap trick trying to bring Logan into this, with James knowing what he does, knowing he can use it against Kendall, try to manipulate him.
"Kendall. Stay. Please. Just - wait. Just wait."
Kendall wills as much of the tension from his body as he can, enough at least for James to release him. He catches a spark of trust in James's eyes that Kendall knows he doesn't deserve, before James turns and heads back, crouching down to check on Logan. Kendall watches him go still as he checks Logan's pulse, and then the shaky exhale that shudders through him in relief. He leans down to kiss Logan's temple, and turns back to Jett.
Kendall takes a step forward. "What do you need me to do?"
"Um. I don't - I don't - " His hands tremble as he fastens another makeshift bandage over the last of Jett's wounds. "I don't know. We need - shit, we just need - everything. We need water."
"'S'okay, man, chill," Jett chokes out, slowly, like each word takes a breath out of him. "I'm good. You could like..." He coughs a bit, and James's faces tenses. "You could go work for House now."
"Yeah, uh, it's official," James says brokenly. "You've got lupus."
A corner of Jett's mouth curls up. "Damn it. Knew I - shouldn't have fucked that werewolf."
James smiles, but awkwardly, skeptically, like he can't believe anything could make him smile at a time like this. Kendall just stands there above them, frozen, scared to take a step on some false hope that if he stays still, maybe time will too, at least until he wakes up from whatever this is. His heart's beating rough and rapid in his chest, in his head, in his ears, so loud and harsh he doesn't even hear -
"James."
Kendall and James spin around, less at the surprise of the interruption than at its tone. Carlos stands at the edge of the water, his face washed mostly clear from the swim, his boxers clinging to his shivering figure, but it's probably ninety degrees out and the water isn't cold and he's shivering, his arms hanging limp at his sides, water spilling off his fingertips.
Kendall's instincts turn feral, warped, unable to process observations outside his senses; he doesn't even register emotions, not the terror in Carlos's eyes, just the physical circumstances: the ashen gray-white of his face, the fact that his arms are empty, no towels, no blankets, no water.
"James..." he stammers again, and for a second it looks like he's going to fall face-forward onto the sand, but he catches himself and drops to his knees, leaning over as his airport lunch spews forth from his mouth into the water.
"Jesus, Los - " James jumps to his feet, crossing the space and drawing close. "Los. Fuck, shit, shit - "
Kendall's still cemented to the spot, his feet pressed into the same indentation in the sand as they were moments ago, still frantic to stop time. But Carlos is already standing up with James's help.
"You need to come with me," he says, his voice having suddenly shed ten years, and some jolt in Kendall's subconscious tells him now, now, and propels him forward.
"I'll go."
"No," Carlos says almost as fast as the words leave Kendall's mouth, his head jerking up to catch Kendall's eyes. "No - no. James."
"Are you fucking kidding me, I'm not - "
"No, Kendall, no, no, just - "
"Where's Guitar Dude?"
Carlos's short, rapid breaths and frozen stare are his only response.
"WHERE'S GUITAR DUDE?" Kendall demands, oddly satisfied when Carlos flinches, because at least if he can scare them off, he can get what he wants, and his mind isn't working well enough to inform him that he's quite possibly starting to lose it.
"Kendall - "
It's James again, hand on Kendall's arm, like some fucking paternal figure he has no fucking right to be, and Kendall shakes him off, hard.
"Where the FUCK is Guitar Dude?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, charging with big, awkward steps into the water, when James spins him around, jerks him back.
"Kendall." His voice is even, calm, forced and shaking. "Stay. Here."
"Fuck you!"
"Kendall, I am bigger than you and I could take you the fuck down, do not make me."
Kendall's heart skips a beat. James has never raised his voice, never looked at him with those eyes, not him or Logan or Carlos, not once, and the sheer shock of it halts any attempts Kendall may have been about to make.
When he tries to meet Carlos's eyes, Carlos looks down, and the first, subtle wave of awareness strikes, teasing at Kendall's subconscious. He ignores it.
"Don't make me," James whispers, his voice back to normal and pleading, apologetic. "Keep an eye on them. I'll be right back."
Kendall shoves him off, storms back to the shore, wincing as the first sharp sting of tears starts to break him down. He collapses beside Logan, the same way he's done for years when tears hit, pressing his body close and nuzzling into Logan's hair. Eyes squeezed shut until he sees stars, he doesn't watch, only listens to the splashes behind him, holding his breath until they fade.
It's the longest wait of his life.
Longer than the thirty seconds after their first practice, when Logan dragged Carlos into the next room, shut the door, and came back out to tell Kendall they wanted him.
Longer than the time his parents caught him smoking weed and locked themselves in their bedroom for twenty minutes to decide his punishment.
Longer than the first night alone in his first apartment.
Longer than the silence after the first time he told Logan, I love you.
He's trying to pretend again, but it's getting harder to focus.
He focuses instead on Logan's hair. It doesn't feel or smell the way he's used to, but he tells himself it's Logan, and that's enough. Somehow, that's always been enough. He remembers what it smelled like that morning, when they got into the cab to go to the airport and Kendall was squashed between Logan and Guitar Dude (Guitar Dude, Guitar Dude, Guitar Dude, who he isn't thinking about at allbecause Carlos's getting him and he's fine, James will make him fine, James makes everything all right), and Guitar Dude was attempting to fix a weird setting on his camera, so Kendall had dropped his head to Logan's shoulder instead, and Logan had allowed it without question, just shifted his cell phone and texted one-handed, his other stroking Kendall's hair, and Kendall inhaled shampoo and aftershave and Logan and it was so fucking good that he fell asleep right there in the sun with the low hum of the car buzzing through his body, pressed between his two favorite people in the world, and that could really, really be another lifetime right now.
A splash behind him, the squishy wet pad of footsteps on the sand, pulls him back with a dizzy, sinking jolt.
When he sees James and Carlos, standing there with arms full of water bottles and blankets and nothing else, James sharing Carlos's ghost-white complexion, Kendall's sure he's dreaming again because life wouldn't do this, life wouldn't be like this, not when everything was finally starting to settle and now all he can see are flashes of Guitar Dude's smile, over and over and they're memories he doesn't remember and it makes no sense, everything makes no sense -
And James is supposed to be talking now.
He's supposed to be saying, 'Guitar Dude's helping Freight Train and they're bringing some extra pillows and the pilot's on the radio telling the nearest airport where we are.'
But James isn't talking.
James is staring at him the way Carlos stared at him fifteen minutes ago, and he's not. talking.
And it's in that moment Kendall decides they're both insane, James and Los; that the crash got to their brains and they don't know anything, they don't fucking know anything, and he's on his feet and running toward the water before anyone even realizes it, and he doesn't see anything but the expanse of water before him, the sickening sight of the plane, and it really is a dream now, like all the dreams where he's running and something impedes him, something stops him from reaching his goal, and the firm grip now is familiar, stronger, but this time he fights it.
"Kendall - "
"NO."
"Kendall, you don't - "
"Let me fucking GO!" And he's elbowing and squirming and twisting, but James's got him tight, both arms wrapped around his torso from behind, trapping his arms. "LET ME GO, fucking let me GO, James, fuck!"
"You don't want to see - "
"NO, let me GO - "
"Kendall, you DON'T WANT TO, please, youdon't want to see."
"This is YOUR FAULT, you should've - "
"Kendall - "
"Should've gotten to him, should've tried harder, this is your fucking FAULT!"
But James's words are so fucking loud in his head, and he's trying to scream them out, trying to fight them with a litany ofno, no, no, no, NO,in a voice he doesn't recognize, and when he can't fight the tears any more he goes limp in James's arms, crumbling, falling to his knees with James still behind him, still holding him close, and he can't hear the words anymore, can't hear James's words, wrong and lying and wrong, can't hear the lap of waves against their bodies, can't hear the brush of limbs and choked sobs as Carlos crouches beside them, trying to curl his arms around Kendall; in his head he can only hear the sound of his own screams, the sound of the way Guitar Dude says (said, said, said) 'I love you.'
Somehow he's broken away from them, somehow, he has no fucking idea how, doesn't know anything other than he's running, down the shore, away from them, away from the plane, away from the nightmare, grounding himself in the rhythm of his feet pounding against the hard, shimmering sand just above the water line, his stinging eyes fixed on the golden-pink of the sunset in the distance, chasing it, its certainty, its reliability, begging for it to take him, burn him, burn the memories and everything he knows, until he forgets.
It feels like days that he runs; miles at least. He runs until there's no beach left, until he hits a wall of cliffs and his legs give way, dropping him to the ground, his lungs spent and his head pounding, spinning, empty but for the pain.
In front of him, the sunset drops another notch, abandoning him, mocking him.
He closes his eyes against it. The cold splash of tears down his cheeks reminds him, once again.
This is not that dream.
"Let him go - Los."
Carlos spins on the spot, his face frustrated and helpless as he looks at James, at Kendall's figure disappearing down the beach, and back at James.
"Let him go," James repeats, pulling himself to his feet and trying to push the echoes of Kendall's words (your fault, your fault) out of his head, the same words that had been nagging at the back of his own fears, his own guilt, before Kendall had ever vocalized them. "He'll be okay. We need to focus."
Carlos nods, sharp and quick, but it's automatic, because there's nothing to do but comply. James looks around at their collection of water bottles, now strewn about the beach and a few floating in the water from their struggle with Kendall. The blanket, already soaked through from the swim back, lies bunched up and sandy. James snatches up the few floating bottles, tosses them to the shore, and lifts up the blanket, draping it across a low tree branch overhanging near Jett before he realizes Carlos is still standing frozen to the spot, watching him.
"...Los?"
Carlos doesn't move, doesn't give any indication he's heard, and James steps to him, instinct lifting his arms to wrap around Carlos, and it's only then that Carlos dissolves, broken sobs shaking them both as he buries his face in James's neck, like he'd just been waiting for James's secure touch before he'd let himself collapse. James holds him tight as he can, ignoring the sharp jabs of pain in his shoulder, ignoring the images bombarding his mind's eye from what they'd encountered in the wreckage; just holds him in a way he'd never imagined Carlos would need.
He has no idea how much he's going to find out, soon. How much they all need, that they'd never known.
"I've got you," he whispers into Carlos's hair, the damp, salty strands tickling his nose. "Los. I've got you. We're here. We're alive, okay? All of us and Jett, we're alive, man, we're good. We're good. Okay? We've got each other, we're fine, we'll be fine."
And he hopes it doesn't sound like empty reassurance, hopes it sounds genuine and true, because a part of him really does believe it, and if life has taught him anything, that's the part he's going to have to cling to.
James's eyes scan the horizon when they separate, unsure of what he's trying to find.
"Getting dark," Carlos says quietly.
"Yeah."
Their voices are shielding the panic well, or maybe they're both so scared they can't see anything for what it is.
"I think there's time for one more trip to the plane," Carlos offers.
"Yeah," James repeats, a little absently as his eyes. "Um, yeah," he says again, meeting Carlos's eyes as he regains focus, refusing to let himself think about how for the first night of thousands in his life, he may not have a bed to crawl into when the sun goes down. "Yeah, um. First-aid kit. Keep looking. Or liquor, something, we've gotta clean out those cuts. And - like, flashlights, anything. And maybe - "
"James."
They jerk around at the choked sound to find Jett where they'd left him, beside Logan, but he looks like he's trying to move, trying to shift his position. They run toward him, dropping down beside him, and James cradles Jett's less injured hand in both of his.
"Hey, hey," James soothes. "Stop trying to move, asshole. You okay?"
"It's." He draws in a labored breath. "It's spinning."
James meets Carlos's eyes for a brief moment, but looks away at once. He doesn't want to risk Carlos reading the worry he's certain flashed over his face. "What's spinning, man?"
"Everything. It's." His faces scrunches up a bit, and relaxes. "Doesn't really hurt anymore."
James can't stop himself looking at Carlos then, because that's not the kind of reaction even he can face alone. Carlos's looking pretty much the same as he's looked since it started, sickly-pale and dazed, but James manages to swallow and say, "Get me some water."
Carlos fetches a bottle, twisting open the cap and handing it to James. When their fingers brush on the ridged plastic, James can feel Carlos's trembling.
"Hey." He works a hand gently behind Jett's head. "Hey, shitface. C'mere. Drink some of this."
"So bossy," Jett drawls in a slow sigh, but allows himself to be propped up. James tips the bottle and most of it falls down Jett's chin, but a close watch tells him Jett must've swallowed at least a couple sips. James picks up a stray scrap of material from the ground, dumps a bit of the bottle over it, and squeezes it out before swiping it gently across Jett's face, trying to clear off the last of the blood to no avail because it just keeps fucking comingand James can't even fucking tell which wounds he's missed anymore.
Jett's eyes fall shut, and James's arm stiffens. He can feel Carlos's eyes darting between them, but doesn't dare look up.
"Jett. ...Jett. Jett."
His eyes reopen enough for James's comfort, and James lets out the breath that had lodged itself in his throat.
"Don't do that," he snaps, brushing a finger over Jett's cheek. "Keep looking at me, okay?"
"Seen enough of your ugly face for today, Diamond."
"Like hell you have. Stay with me."
Jett doesn't respond, but he obeys, keeping his eyes on James to hold his eyes as Carlos crawls over to Logan, checking his pulse, his temperature, all the vitals, the routine of it already set and well-practiced in the last hours that have felt like days. He can see Carlos leaning over Logan, lips hovering by his ear, whispering words that likely no one else in the world would understand but the two of them. Carlos kisses Logan's fingers, one by one, his shoulder, his cheek, his temple, even a brief brush of lips against Logan's mouth, whispers to him some more, and gently touches the side of his face to Logan's chest. James suspects it's less to examine the heartbeat than simply to listen to it, its reassuring rhythm.
"Guitar Dude," Jett says quietly. "And Freight Train."
James's stomach flip-flops at the names, astonished at how a few letters, the sound of them leaving lips, can have such an impact on him. Slowly he meets Jett's eyes, and shakes his head. Jett's eyes shut again, but they're squeezed, biting back his reaction. It fails, and James catches the first tear with his fingertip; Jett looks like he might say something, but James can't take it, can't have this conversation, not when he has to see Carlos with Logan like this and worry about Kendall and look at Jett who looks nothing like the Jett who walked out of his room in two polos, proclaiming how much better looking he was than everyone else.
He swallows down the lump in his throat and looks up. "Los."
Carlos meets his eyes even through the dimming light, nods once, steals one last glance at Logan, and heads out into the water.
James feels a tug on his hand, and when he looks down, Jett is trying to wrap his fingers around James's wrist. "Knock it off," he smiles. "What did I tell you about not moving?"
"Suck my dick."
James raises an eyebrow, grateful for even a fleeting instant of being able to joke like this, like nothing's happened. "I could, you know. You'd be helpless. I could do whatever I wanted."
"And this - " He coughs, draws in a careful breath. "This is punishment how?"
James smiles. "You big homo."
Jett smiles back, and it looks painful, but it doesn't detract him; he doesn't even flinch. "Speak for yourself."
"Shut up."
His smile widens. "Lucy's?"
"Oh my god, you did not..." James's grinning and he's never been more grateful for the growing darkness, because he can feel his cheeks darken to red. Lucy's Room. During a party, a round of truth or dare, a lot of catcalls, and maybe the best kiss of James's life. "I hate you. Really, I do.
"I loved the way you kissed."
James stares down at him, and Jett looks more alert than he's looked this whole time, his eyes sharp and focused on James, his lips curled up at the edges, and James feels his heart jump because this is the first time they've talked about it, the first time they've said a word about it beyond "you're such a fag" and "whatever, gay" and falling into fits of giggles.
He doesn't want to think about Jennifer or Lucy, doesn't want to think of how far away they are or what they're thinking right now, doesn't want to think about the fact that he misses her or how scared she must be for him; he just wants to say Ditto, wants to say I'd do it again in a heartbeat, wants to say I thought about you for months after, every time I...
"I'm gonna change out the bandages soon," James says quietly. "I've got some more scraps behind you."
Jett does grab his wrist then, and the grip is weak, shaking, like he's substituting the energy he'd be using to breathe, and James's mouth opens, closes, wanting to tell him stop, don't, relax, but catching something in Jett's eyes that tells him not to speak.
"Hey," Jett whispers. "Listen to me. If. If I don't..."
"No."
"James."
"NO. We're not having this conversation. No. We're not. Shut up, we're not."
And he scrambles away without looking back, grabbing Carlos's and Kendall's shirts from a tree branch a few feet away and ripping them into careful strips. It feels good, tearing up the material; it makes him feel like he's still engaged, still helping; gives him something to do with his hands other than pulling his own hair out or digging his nails into the sand and screaming at the top of his lungs. But there's silence for too long, and the monotony of his task makes his mind start to wander, start to sink into the reality of, well, reality.
James can't work like that. Has to keep himself occupied. Stay busy to stay sane. The sentences work like this in his head now, broken and short as he tries to reassure himself that they're fine, they're fine, everyone who's alive is alive, and that's what matters and in twenty-four hours' time they're going to be in a brightly-lit emergency room somewhere with doctors and telephones and each other.
He isn't much surprised to find that each other is really the only part he cares about in all that.
He checks on Logan when he's done, stays with him longer than he needs to, lying beside him, whispering cheeky nonsense about his state of appearance, pressing an almost inaudible Love you, Logieto the side of his head. He wants to stay, just curl up there until Logan wakes up because his stomach's churning at the thought of having to look at Jett now, having to risk any more of that fucking honesty and presumption Jett's always trying to shove at him, just like he has for years. Just like James has loved for years.
It's different now. That's as much justification he can muster, but he takes comfort in its truth.
Jett closes his eyes when James gets back to him, and he hopes Jett can feel the thank you in his fingers when he gently squeezes Jett's hand.
The sun's almost gone when the light splashing alerts them to Carlos's presence. He's got a huge, black plastic garbage bag in his arms, dragging it along the ground, and he upturns it onto the sand when he reaches them, breath heavy from the swim.
James's mouth drops as he scans the muddle of contents: more water bottles, dry pillows and blankets, and Jesus Christ, the fucking first-aid kit.
"Carlos Garcia, I'm gonna marry you," he breathes, crawling across the ground to sift through the items.
"I'm, uh. Gonna go find Ken."
He starts to head off, but James reaches up from the ground, catches his hand, cool from the water but no longer trembling. Instead it's limp, tired, and that worries James even more. He stands up, still clasping Carlos's hand, watching his face for the slightest hint of emotion. Carlos's been mostly numb since it's happened, just following orders in silence, and James doesn't know how to get him out of it, or if he should even try.
"I... thank you," he says. "You've been..."
He wants to say Carlos's being so awesome, perfect, the best help he could ask for; he wants to say he's proud of him and that Carlos should be proud of himself. But he doesn't want to patronize. He sees the way Carlos and Logan talk with their eyes, and he's learned enough to recognize when Carlos doesn't need words.
"Just. Thank you," he says again, softly.
Carlos nods, glancing around, his botJett lip caught between his teeth. "So this is real, huh?"
"I think so. Yeah."
Carlos smiles, automatic, forced and broken. "Thanks for, uh, saving my life?"
It sounds so fucking cheesy, like the end of a bad action movie, but he kind of did; he was the first one awake and Carlos was the first one he found. James forces his own smile, because fuck, if they can't keep their spirits up, they're lost.
"You're all scratchy," Carlos points out, reaching his free hand up to James's face to brush over his stubble. "You should shave before you go mackin' all over someone like that."
"Speak for yourself, caveman," James counters, ducking his head.
"Ass." It's quiet, gentle, affectionate as only Carlos can be in his insults. He squeezes James's hand before he lets go, taking off down the strip of beach.
James gets to work digging through the supplies, reverently setting the first-aid kit aside before spreading out one of the clean blankets on the sand. He goes for Logan first, for practice, lifting him up as carefully as he can and placing him on the blanket before turning to Jett.
"Hey, man. I've gotta move your fat ass a few feet, okay?"
Jett's eyes are shut, and it's unusual for him not to force them open and crank out a smile, even in his state.
"Jett. Dude, wake up."
James waits, kneels slowly beside him, waiting for Jett's eyes to spring open and for him to start laughing and saying 'Gotchya!' and please, please, Jett, just be the dumbass I know you can be.
"Jett."
And it's really, really not funny now.
"Jett!" He shakes his shoulder a bit without realizing it, and Jett cracks an eye open.
"H-hi, James Diamond."
"Fucking shit, don't fucking do that, Jesus!"
"Where did you go?"
"I've been here, asshole. Come on, Carlos got us a dry blanket."
"Carlos is here?"
"Yeah, he's - "
It's takes James a second to focus, to take it in - to let his mind take it in. There are about sixty-four things he's dreaded happening for the past few hours, and about eight of them just did.
"Yeah, man. Remember? He went to find Kendall."
"Yeah... okay."
"Yeah," James echoes reassuringly, and he knows, he knows, okay, he's not going to say it in his head, not going to admit it, he knows what's happening, and he's going to ignore it as long as he can, as long as it takes him to fix it.
It's careful, tedious work undoing the bandages he toiled so hard to fasten, and as he starts to remove them, the wounds leap out at him like an ambush in a bad dream: ugly, unidentifiable threats that he doesn't know what to make of, how to fight, and he feels like he's sinking, fighting a losing battle and no, no, no. Not losing. Not now. Not ever. Not Jett.
They're worse, the wounds.
James doesn't know how much worse or in what way, only that they look worse than he remembered. They're still bleeding, and James has no idea how so much blood could exist in one person, let alone someone as small as Jett. He fights the sharp inhale he's tempted to take, forces slow, even breaths and steady hands as he works, Jett's eyes drifting open and shut as James raids the first-aid kit for antiseptic, and finally lifts Jett onto the dry blanket, careful to keep his skin away from the bumpy, embroidered airplane company logo in the corner.
"You with me, man?" James asks as he secures the last knot of bandage fabric. "Jett?"
"Mm."
"Come here." He reaches for the nearest water bottle, which is hard to locate in the dark. The moon is fucking massive in the clear sky, and it helps. "Come on, drink."
Jett lets himself be handled, lifted up, but when James holds the bottle to his lips, he chokes on the first sip.
"Sorry, sorry." James's eyes are stinging now as he lifts the bottle again, slower. "Try again."
"Can't."
"Yes you can, come on."
"Tastes bad."
"It's water."
"You look scared."
"Should I be?" James challenges, because he's not going to fall apart, he's not. Not going to let Jett get away with anything.
Jett swallows, the effort visible in his expression. "James. If I don't - "
"NO, fuck you, no. We've been over this. No if's. We're good, we're fine, you hear me?"
Jett watches him with unblinking eyes, until exhaustion sets in and they drop shut, blinking open every few seconds as reassurance.
"James."
Carlos's voice shoots through his ears unexpected, and he spins around to see Carlos alone, silhouetted in the moonlight against the expanse of ocean and sky.
"Where..." James starts.
"He's... he knows where we are."
"Is he..."
"I." Carlos stares at the ground. "I don't think he's gonna talk for awhile."
James doesn't say anything. Words haven't gotten him very far tonight, it seems. If anything, they keep getting him in trouble.
"It's not - you know."
James watches as Carlos seats himself beside Logan, facing James and Jett. He waits for Carlos to continue, still not trusting his own voice.
"It's not your fault. He's grief-stricken. He's irrational, he's just - "
"I know, Los," he whispers, because he can't hear any more right now.
Carlos takes the hint, keeps himself quiet and motionless on the blanket. Time passes undocumented, dragging into the night and James can't tell if an hour's passed or two or five, or ten minutes. The utter silence of their surroundings is something he's never experienced his whole life; just the sounds of soft water and light wind, no traffic, no humming refrigerator, no muffled car engine. It's terrifying and beautiful all at once, and part of him wishes he could hold onto it for longer than just a day, or two, or however long they're going to be here.
He's waking Jett up every ten minutes to check on him, talk to him, and Carlos is assigned himself to Logan duty, and it works, like this, the silence. Nothing happens and that's good. Nothing happening is really fucking good right now, James thinks.
When the sound of footsteps breaks into their little square of beach, James is the first to look up.
Kendall's eyes are on him before he can even adjust to the light. James can't read them, but it's not from the darkness. No one speaks, and after a moment, Kendall turns and takes a few steps toward the water, stopping at the edge and dropping down, hugging his knees to his chest as he stares out at the water. James has never seen him this composed, this calm or quiet, and it's the kind of thing he'd always thought would be nice to see once in awhile, but all he wants now is to turn back time to the moment that morning when Kendall burst into Jett's room in the midst of the pillow fight and jumped right in, practically begging for the gang-bang tickle fight that followed.
If there's one thing James would give anything to hear right now, it's the sound of Kendall's laughter.
Jett coughs suddenly, shaking him out of his thoughts. Carlos tenses beside him, sitting up, and even Kendall turns around.
"Jett, you okay - " James stops as his hand touches Jett's forehead. "Fucking shit, you're burning up. Los - "
Carlos is on it, soaking a scrap of material with some clean water from a bottle, and James hastens to press it to Jett's head.
"What're you trying to do to me, asshole?" James demands, his voice breaking as he leans over Jett. "What's going on? Where does it hurt?"
Jett coughs again, forcing his eyes open. "Doesn't anymore," he chokes.
"No. No. Come on. Tell me. Don't be a lazy-ass, man, come on. I'll fix it. I'll - come the fuck on, Jett, stay with me - "
He can feel Kendall's eyes on him, and out of the corner of his eye he can feel Carlos poised, wanting to say something, but he knows what it'll be and he won't fucking take it.
"Hey," Jett says.
"Hey yourself. Come on. Keep talking to me."
"I love you, you fucker."
"No, no, come on, knock it off. Don't be a dick. This isn't the fucking movies, Jett, don't do goodbyes, you don't know shit, you're better than this, we can do this - "
"James..." Carlos starts, the preemptive flinch audible in his voice.
"NO," James snaps, eyes dark as they flash to Carlos's. "Don't you dare." He turns back to Jett, tipping drops of cool water from the bottle onto his fingertips and spreading them gently over Jett's face. "Come on, man, tell me what to do. Please. Jett, please. Just tell me what to do."
His voice is gone now, devoid of the strength he's been forcing into it since this started, it's breaking and he's not fighting the tears anymore, just letting them drop to Jett's face, hoping they'll tell him everything James can't put into words.
"Come on," he whispers. "Tell me. Just. Fuck, fuck, tell me."
"You listen," Jett says quietly. "That's what you do now. Shut up and listen."
It's the worst silence of James's life, and the most unfair request, but he's never been able to deny Jett anything.
Jett takes a breath. "Tell Lucy I love her."
He can hear Carlos choking back a noise, and fuck, just, fuck, and no.
"Tell." He stops, waits until he's sure James's eyes are steady on his. "Tell James Diamond I've had a crush on him since he moved in, and if Jennifer weren't around he'd really have to watch his ass."
James hates the part of him that wants to laugh then, because it makes the ache in his chest and the lump in his throat a thousand times worse, makes the pounding in his head send him far into dizziness, and he can't hold himself up anymore, falling down onto the scratchy brown blanket beside Jett, one arm draped over his chest, head nestled against his shoulder, holding him as tight as he dares. Everything's fuzzy and nothing feels real and he thinks Jett maybe whispers "Love you" against his hair and he thinks he maybe whispers it back, and he doesn't know how long it is before he notices that the heartbeat under his hand has stopped, the breath on his ear is gone, and Carlos's silent sobs are no longer silent.
His scream hits the darkness, shatters the last of his control, the last ounce of hope that this had been a dream.
This is not that dream.
This is not any dream, because dreams have an end.
And this is only the beginning.
