This Boy's Life Among The Electrical Lights
A/N: Uh, so I am supplementing my spam of old fic posting with new fic. Yay! So I think around Valentine's Day last year, Courtney asked why no one had written about James and singing (which actually Liz has done since then, oops). I was like MINE GIVE ME NOW, because I am bossy. So. For you, bb. Much thanks for the awesome beta by jblostfan16.
James Diamond can sing. He builds his life on that foundation, on the belief that music lives in his blood. Because he has to.
He is always causing trouble. That's what his mom says.
He looks like a little girl. That's what his dad says.
He is not very athletic. That's what his nanny says, usually after he's tripped down the stairs for the eightieth time, and according to his teachers, he is not very bright. His classmates say…well, that James cries. A lot.
They might be right.
But despite all that, he can sing. His voice is beautiful. That's what everyone says.
And that is how James knows that singing is what he will do with his life. Other first graders want to be veterinarians, firemen, astronauts, and teachers. James wants to be a popstar. Singing is the one thing that he's never had a reason to doubt.
Then he meets Kendall Knight.
The first time James hears the voice, he falls off the monkey bars. It is a short fall, but the transition from dangling in the air to landing in a crumpled heap on the ground isn't fun. James cries, because that is his automatic reaction to everything, especially scraped, bloody knees and bruises on his elbows.
Furious with himself, he wipes at his face, but he's got sand and dirt on his fingers, and it just makes it worse. He looks towards the blacktop, towards the sound that distracted him in the first place, eyes watering. He peers past the white chalk lines for hopscotch, past the lonely basketball hoop with no net, past the clusters of friends sitting on metal bleachers with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but he can't find the source of the song. James spins to the left, and then to the right, calming a little. He listens, for real now, trying to pick up on the strains of twinkle twinkle little star, first close, then far, then close again.
Realization strikes lightning quick; there, at the edge of the sandbox, on the swings. There is a little boy that James has never seen before, kicking his legs back and forth, swinging higher and higher and higher still. He has skin as white as snow, lips as pink as candy, and hair as golden as the sun. He is the source of the music, belting out lyrics at the top of his lungs as he flies up into the air like a songbird. James's chest squeezes tight.
For the first time in his life, he understands what people mean when they say something is so beautiful it takes your breath away. This boy, he is brilliant. He is blinding. And he is showing off for the girl that James kind of maybe likes.
She is sitting in the next swing over, flaxen curls flying in the wind, her laughter spiraling off in all directions as she tries to drag her sneakers in the sand and skid to a halt. Her name is Carmela, and James has known her since kindergarten.
He's never made her smile like that.
She claps her hands for the boy, absolutely beaming. He hops off the swing while it is arcing through the air, landing lightly on his feet. It's like he really does have wings. Smirking, the boy executes a tiny bow, and that is when he and Carmela both notice James standing there, little fingers bunched into fists inside his pockets.
"James," says Carmela, and she rolls her eyes a little, but she's smiling wide. "This is Kendall. He's new."
"Hi." Kendall waves. His grin is gap-toothed between the stretch of his pink lips.
James nods, curt, abruptly jealous. His knees sting.
"Did you hear him sing?" Carmela asks excitedly.
James nods again, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Isn't he awesome? He might even be better than you!" The friendly smile Kendall is wearing drops completely off his face. He mimics James, stuffing his hands into his pockets and watching Carmela a little disapprovingly. She babbles on, "Miss Lauren is going to be so happy. I'm going to go tell her."
Miss Lauren, their chorus teacher, will be ecstatic, James knows. He has always been her star pupil, but this songbird of a boy will outshine him, easy.
James is pouting, a little, his lower lip trembling from the idea of it. He watches Carmela's back recede as she runs across the blacktop, but Kendall remains. His hand is on James's shoulder, and he asks, "Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," James snaps, because the last thing he wants is for the school's new superstar to call him a crybaby.
But Kendall isn't daunted by James's ferocity. He blinks and asks, "Are you sure? Just. You're bleeding." Kendall points to James's knees and winces. "That looks like it hurts. Wanna go to the nurse's office?"
"I'll go," James says stiffly, sure that he's being dismissed.
Kendall brightens. "Mind if I come? That girl's weiiiiird."
"Weird?" James bristles a little, because hey, that is the girl he's going to marry someday.
Kendall wrinkles his nose, falling into step alongside James as they cross the playground. "I mean she's nice, but I don't want to join chorus."
Uncertainly, James asks, "You don't?"
"Nah, I'm going to be in hockey. My dad is taking me to sign up after school."
"Hockey," James repeats.
Kendall nods, lighting up. He guides James through the double doors leading into the school hallway, fluorescent lights flickering cheerily overhead. "Do you wanna play? You should come join. I don't know anyone. Being new sucks."
"I, uh. I don't know how," James says, reluctant, because suddenly he is looking at this Kendall kid in an entirely different light. Like maybe he could be a friend.
James doesn't really have any of those.
"They teach you!" Kendall replies eagerly, his sneakers squeaking off the hall tile. "And I can help! You're tall and stuff, you'll be really good."
Good isn't something James has ever been at anything, except singing. He's been okay with that for a long time now, but. Maybe it's not enough. If there are people like Kendall out there, people who can make a song sound that amazing, what chance of being a popstar does James really have? It's high time he learned a new skill.
"Doesn't stuff come like, flying at your face?" He asks, a little fearfully.
"Yeah, but it's awesome! Come on," Kendall begs. "Pleeeease. Say you will."
On the one hand, James is really fond of his face.
On the other, he can't shake the image of Kendall, swinging high up in the air, holding one long, perfect note, illuminated by sunlight with his white skin and his pink lips and his gold, gold hair. No one ever wants to be James's friend, because he is rich and spoiled and not very good at much of anything. No one, especially not golden little boys who look like they can take flight at any moment.
Of course James has to say yes.
The second he goes home, he asks his parents to sign him up for hockey.
And singing lessons, because James Diamond can sing, but now he knows there is always room for improvement. No matter how cool hockey sounds, singing is still his dream.
Across the table, she licks her ruby lips, her teeth all white and shiny and sharp. She is a wolf in the middle of James's kitchen, wrapped up in a red coat. The light from the wall sconces pierces her diamond skin, turning her ephemeral and bewitching.
James does not want to sit across from this woman anymore. He does not want her to eat from the cereal bowl that should belong to his mother. She cradles it in her palm, and what big hands she has.
James does not want her blood red lips to touch that glass of orange juice, leaving behind a lipstick stain. She smiles, after, and what big teeth she has.
James really, really does not want to watch his dad bend over backwards to please her. She thanks him for it, and what strange power she has.
She is James's new stepmom. Or she will be. James isn't totally sure of the details. All he knows is that his mom hates this girl, with her flash looks and her crass attitude. All he knows is that his dad is completely infatuated with her.
All he knows is that she is a stranger and she is ruining everything.
When she sits in James's kitchen, she eats up every mention of his mother, like Brooke Diamond never even existed. James glares at his own orange juice and wonders if maybe he can drown himself in the glass. He is screaming inside, his heart bleeding out through his ribcage.
That's when Kendall shows up. His lanky body doesn't quite fill out the doorframe. Light spills in over his shoulders, illuminating his eyes, his skin, his hair. He glows with it.
Kendall wears a grin on his pink lips, pulled tight against his gap toothed smile, but when he looks across the kitchen at James, it doesn't reach his eyes. It's like he can hear it; the beast that rages inside of him. Maybe he can. They've been best friends for close to two years.
"Hey, little man!" James's dad cheers at the sight of Kendall. He ruffles his hair, hands still wet from dishwashing. Blond strands go every which direction, and James's dad laughs, "That's a good look for you."
Kendall tries to peer up, to see what exactly has been done to his golden hair, snorting, but James's dad is already carefully shaping it into a fauxhawk with his wet hands. He steps back and whistles. "Much better. You should let me put some gel in that. James never lets me mess with his hair. Or anyone else."
He gives James a disapproving look.
James scowls even more fiercely at his OJ. His dad is always doing this.
He likes Kendall better than James. That became evident about five seconds after he met him at James's first hockey game, when James's dad introduced himself to Kendall by saying, "So you're the kid who made my son grow a pair."
Ever since then, he's treated Kendall like he's going to grow up and inherit the earth, which makes James hate Kendall's stupid smirky face sometimes. But then Kendall, to his credit, says, "Thanks, Mr. Diamond, but I was wondering if I could steal James for a couple of hours?"
"He's all yours, kiddo," James's dad says benevolently, without even bothering to check if James wants to be all Kendall's.
He does. James will do anything to escape the cage his kitchen has become. He follows Kendall out onto the porch, a bit guiltily, because even though he's happy to see Kendall, he doesn't really feel up to doing much other than hiding beneath his covers. He asks, "What did you want to do?"
"I don't know." Kendall offers up a sheepish grin. "I didn't actually, uh, have anything planned. But you've been having a rough- um. I thought maybe you needed me." Kendall ducks his head, embarrassed. "I can leave. I just…didn't want you to be lonely, I guess."
James bites back his initial reaction, which is to lie and say that he's not lonely, not even a little bit. Tentatively, he asks, "Can we go to the fort?"
And even though there's not a whole lot to do out there, in the woods, Kendall says, "'course."
The fort is really just a shoddy lean-to they made one day when they were bored. It's situated in a bed of dead leaves that will probably turn to mulch sooner rather than later. Kendall's tucked a fleece blanket in the hollow of a tree. It smells gross, like rain and mold, but they sit cross-legged on it all the same, staring up at the canopy of trees. They're not far in, close enough to town that anyone could find them if they came searching. The sound of cars crunching pavement is near, the yells of kids who sound happier than James even closer.
They watch the wind play through the budding spring leaves for a while, the quiet comfortable in a way that James never knew it could be. Eventually, he thinks he's up to talking.
He starts small. "I can't believe you let him mess with your hair."
"Does it really look good?" Kendall asks immediately, touching the already wilting strands.
"Yeah," James admits reluctantly, because it does. Kendall's idea of styling usually involves a precursory pat down after he rolls out of bed, so the carefully arranged fauxhawk adds a dash of charm to his otherwise sloppy idea of fashion.
Which doesn't mean James likes it.
He thinks about messing it up, running his fingers through Kendall's downy hair and turning him back into the boy James is used to. He doesn't want his dad to have anything to do with who Kendall is.
But Kendall's beaming, and James doesn't want to chase that smile away.
He ends up doing it regardless, while they're laying tangled together, humming little made-up songs to each other. It's a game that never really ends until James goes, "Kendall?"
"Hmm?"
"My parents aren't getting back together, are they?"
There is silence, the kind that is absent of crickets or the crunch of tires on gravel or the low buzz of the phone lines outside. It consists of James's held breath as he waits for Kendall to come up with an answer, one James already knows, but will feel realer if it comes from his best friend's mouth.
"I don't think so." Kendall runs his fingers through James's hair, and see, James's dad is wrong. He lets Kendall touch his hair, because Kendall is safe. Kendall doesn't break up families or make fun of James when he cries, like he's doing now. He just pulls James in closer when he sees the first tear on his cheek and tells him, "It'll be okay."
James can't help the tears. He's eight years old, and still very much a crybaby.
"Jamie," Kendall says, and he sounds like his heart is breaking. James burrows into his scrawny chest, trying to hide his face in Kendall's skin because it is as comforting and familiar as James's own pillows. Kendall takes over their little nonsense songs, crafting them into melodies. In between notes, he murmurs again and again and again, "I promise, you'll be okay."
Less than a month later, Kendall's dad is arrested for fraud.
James isn't allowed to go to the trial, but he waits for Kendall on the Knight stoop, watching day turn into evening. He wants to be there for Kendall the same way Kendall has been there for him, to soothe all his worries and fears.
But it's weird. Kendall never cries. James sits with him in his room that night, curled beneath Kendall's comforter, watching his very dry cheeks as Kendall hums them both to sleep. James waits and he waits and he waits, but nothing happens.
The one thing Kendall does let James do is hold his hand. Even though he's strong. Even though he is brave. James almost thinks it's a concession made more for his own sake than Kendall's.
He decides that night that he will be strong and brave too. The next time he's sad, instead of crying, James begins singing himself lullabies the way that Kendall always does. His voice is his solace, now.
No more tears.
Sheet music consists of complicated curlicues and bold black bars. Clutching a stack of songs and a flashlight beneath the covers, James pretends like he is reading his own secret language that nobody else can understand.
He tests a note or two on his tongue, breathes through the negative space marked by white on his page. It soothes away the restless anger that's simmered in his belly since earlier that day, when Kendall announced that he was finally joining choir.
It was the first day of sixth grade, a fine time to really stick the knife in James's back.
Kendall stood there, flanked by Carlos and Logan, happily explaining that he was about to make James miserable. He said it is so they can spend more time together, but there's no way that's true. They already spend like, ninety percent of their day with each other, between class and hockey, homework and video games.
Kendall's consistently better than James at all of those things.
Choir is the one and only thing James has that's his own, the one thing he's better at than anyone else in their school, and Kendall wants to take it from him.
A small, guilty part of James's conscience whispers that his best friend would never try to cut him down that way, but the larger part of James cannot figure out why anyone would want to be with him one hundred percent of the time. He's growing bigger, taller, handsomer, but it's not like he's quit being James Diamond. He's never stopped acting like the baby-faced brat that no one other than his teammates wants to be around, even if he has noticed girls giving him these long, weird looks lately.
Kendall has to have an agenda. He's going to sing in front of the whole school and steal the show.
Frustrated again, James tries to focus on the page, the black symbols swimming because of the wetness in his eyes.
He's not going to cry. He doesn't do that anymore. But he's just so mad. There is a furious creature in James's chest that makes his throat woolly, his insides crawl. It huffs and it puffs and it reminds James his entire life is about to be blown down.
The worst part is how he knows Kendall can breeze in and wrack up all the applause. No one other than him even remembers that Kendall is capable of carrying a tune, much less that he's brilliant at it. Tomorrow, they'll find out. Everything's going to change.
And James is going to grit his teeth and pretend to be happy about it, because what else can he do? Losing Kendall isn't an option. He might be a backstabbing jerk, but he's also Kendall, and James isn't ready to give all that Kendall-ness up.
In the hall, this afternoon, he looked straight into Kendall's too-green eyes and said…Great.
James could have stopped it all right there, but didn't. He couldn't.
Kendall was wearing this enthusiastic grin and that stupid fauxhawk, the one he's sported ever since James's dad told him it was the epitome of style, and all James could think was about how it looks even better on him now. He's losing his baby fat, his cheeks hollowing out, his chin thinning. Kendall's getting sort of really good looking, just to make sure the universe completely rubs salt in all of James's wounds. But he couldn't say no, not when Kendall was there, all proud and pleased. If he'd said something, the exultant curve of Kendall's lips would have vanished, and that made him feel like his throat was closing up.
So he didn't.
James growls out the words to the song he's supposed to be learning. It's the only way he has to express how very irritated he is. He'll let Kendall have this, he will, but James won't ever forgive him for it.
One day, probably, this moment's going to come back to bite them both.
James is eating dinner at the Mitchells'. He does this about once a week, because Logan's pretty cool for a nerd, and because on Thursdays Carlos and Kendall have both consistently shared after-school detentions since the beginning of the year. They haven't learned that blowing shit up in chemistry isn't actually what the class is about.
James doesn't mind though. He's been friends with Logan since third grade, and sometimes he gets along with him even better than he gets along with Kendall. Like right now, James is piling mashed potatoes into shapes; a castle, a crown, a buttery stallion. If Kendall was here, it would be a competition to see who could build the Great potato Wall of China. But Logan just sits there, minding his own business.
James likes that.
He does not like Logan's dad.
Mr. Mitchell is a nice enough man, with his coke bottle glasses and his careful, precise movements. He's a doctor, oh so very clinical, and every time he looks at James, it makes him feel like he's on the wrong end of a microscope.
Somehow the subject of the future comes up while James is in the midst of the careful construction of a mashed potato starfish, and suddenly Mr. Mitchell is sizing him up like he's a medical experiment gone terribly awry. "You really think you can make it in Hollywood?"
James drops his fork and wipes his abruptly clammy hands on his jeans, keeping his eyes trained on his peas. "I hope so, sir."
It's the wrong thing to say, he knows that even before Mr. Mitchell begins rattling off impersonal statistics about how hard James is going to fail. It's enough to make James bite down on his tongue, but he does not bite Mr. Mitchell's head off.
Both because he's polite and because he's worried it's true.
James wishes he was a giant-killer, unafraid to swing at beanstalks or intimidating men, not scared to defend himself in the least. But he is alarmed and fearful, unable to come up with anything but an empty smile and simmering fury that Logan's dad takes as tacit agreement.
After dinner, Logan approaches with worried eyes, furtively glancing towards where his dad is washing the dishes in the kitchen. "James, he didn't mean that."
"Yeah? I don't see you contradicting him, Logan," James snaps, and then he tries not to feel like he's kicked a puppy. It doesn't work.
He trudges home as dusk falls around his shoulders, bringing with it the buzz of cicadas and the last shrill cries of birds, settling in for the night. It's almost like a song, but James doesn't even think about singing along.
Maybe he really is going to fail.
Without music, what kind of future is there? He's never had any other dreams, except that one time he thought about joining the circus, and that other time he wanted to be a Jedi, but neither of those were exactly realistic goals. Logan's dad had a point, and if a single, cold-eyed man can make defeat weigh this heavily on James, what will an entire town full of them do?
Hollywood crushes people, and now it won't have any trouble crushing James. Probably.
James squares his shoulders against the night, taking the steps to his porch two at a time. He's halfway through the door before he notices there's already someone in his living room.
"What are you doing here?"
"Logan called." Kendall's hopped on the back of the couch, his Vans dangling dangerously over the white cushions. "He said you were Jamesing."
Yeah, Kendall joining the choir wasn't the end of the world. James was younger, then. He overreacted. They're still total bros.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means none of us like seeing you miserable, and your mom let me in. What happened?"
James doesn't want to talk about it. Which is weird, because Kendall is always the first voice he turns to; his best friend, pale awkward limbs and a crazed smile, always up to something. But what if Kendall, for some reason, agrees with Mr. Mitchell? What if he thinks James will never make it?
Kendall would never say so out loud, ever, because he's not that kind of guy. But James would be able to see it in his eyes, and that would be pretty fucking apocalyptic.
He shrugs noncommittally.
"Alriiight." Kendall draws the word out. "Let's talk about something else. What are you wearing on your feet?"
Kendall makes a face at James's oxfords, and he has no right to talk about anything fashion-related, ever. James glares at him.
"Fine, okay, something else," Kendall agrees. "I was going to come over anyway. I need advice. About. Like. Girls."
The last part is muttered, and even as he says it, Kendall's turning bright red, embarrassed from the flaming tips of his ears right on down to the quake in his knees.
James grins. This is steady ground. This is not something he ever sucks at. "Oh yeah? Tell the grandmaster what's on your mind."
"I hate you," Kendall says seriously. Then he asks. "Okay. Do girls like, come?"
"Of course girls come," James sniffs, because hi, stupid question. He's barely fifteen, but he's got answers to all the big important sex questions. Ever since his shoulders filled out and his legs got long, James has been popular, and he sure as hell is taking advantage of it.
Impatiently, Kendall tries, "No, but do they, like…?"
He makes a hand gesture that clearly means jacking off, with a little flare of his fingers at the end that James translates as, "Do they explode? No, god, how would people reproduce if girls freaking immolated every time they had an orgasm?"
Kendall's burning bright now, utterly humiliated, and it's sort of nice, the way he's gone all off balance. Kendall is a bit of a work in progress, James decides, and one day he'll be the kind of guy that no one can throw. So he enjoys this, being able to see all the strokes that will one day make Kendall into a man. James savors it.
"Sorry I asked, okay, I just thought since you're all…you know…a floozy-"
"I am not a floozy," James gasps, outraged.
Kendall is unimpressed. "Since when?"
"Since people stopped saying floozy when women got the right to vote, obviously."
"Fine." Kendall crosses his arms and gnaws on his lower lip. He's got on a striped polo shirt that is garishly obnoxious, but also accents his broadening shoulders, and James is delighted to have such a good looking friend. "Manslut."
Satisfied with this terminology, James adds, "And proud. So, why do you want to know how vagina works, anyway? Got a girlfriend?"
He's teasing, because Kendall doesn't meet girls without telling James about them. Partly because they're friends, and partly because Kendall can't resist a chance to compete. James always has Kendall beat with girls, but that doesn't mean Kendall doesn't like to be in the running, and James is forever the first to know.
So he's kind of surprised when Kendall shifts in his seat and says, "Maybe."
"Maybe?" James isn't sure why his anger gets the better of him, immediately. Maybe he's still broken up over what Logan's dad said, or maybe he just hates the idea of Kendall having secrets. Or maybe it's something about the way he sits there, gangly but vulnerable, with his skin lamplit as golden as the sun, lips pinched together into a thin snow-white line, and hair as sunny yellow as lemon drops. He is a songbird caged, uncomfortable, and James wants to know who he is behind it all. "And you didn't tell me?"
"There's not anything to tell. Yet," Kendall shifts awkwardly, red staining his cheeks. He kicks his heels against James's mom's couch, leaving tiny black scuff marks that James will get in trouble for later. He meets James's gaze, daring, unhappy. "I didn't want to jinx it."
James sulks, staring at Kendall's shoes. They are marked over with black and blue, song lyrics and an anarchy symbol and whatever he thinks is cool when he's bored in class. Around the sole of one, he let James practice his autograph so that there is a ring of James Diamonds scrawled from his toe to his heel.
James says, "I could've helped. I can help."
"I know you can," Kendall says soothingly, his eyes big and round and so, so green. "But I've got to do some things on my own, James."
That's basically James's biggest fear.
Kendall, Logan, and Carlos having their own things, things that they don't need James for. It's why he needs Hollywood, and superstardom, and a life that is so big and bright and beautiful that he won't even notice his friends are missing. It's part dream, part a desperate wish, and no matter what Mr. Mitchell says, it needs to happen soon. Otherwise, James is going to get left behind.
"James," Kendall says, well aware that he's said the wrong thing, somehow. His fauxhawk is in that awkward stage where it's finally growing out, half spiked in the air, half flopping in front of his eyes. "Come on. Tell me what happened at Logan's."
James thinks on it. He thinks about how Kendall's never been scared to face down giants or intimidating men, how Kendall wouldn't have put up with any of Mr. Mitchell's bullshit. He thinks about how Kendall is now keeping secrets, and how maybe James doesn't know anything about him after all.
Finally James says, "Logan's dad is wrong, you know. One day I'll be bigger than this whole fucking town."
"I know," Kendall says immediately, without an ounce of doubt. Kendall always believes in James; it's his own fault for thinking he wouldn't.
And maybe Kendall isn't leaving as soon as James thought, either, because from that day on, he tells anyone who will listen with absolute certainty, "James can do anything. He's going to be a star."
The first time James overhears it, he beams from ear to ear. He serenades Kendall with an impromptu song about how they'll be best friends forever, and why not?
Music is the best way he knows to show how he feels.
"Did you find him yet?" James shouts across the woods.
Carlos, mid-shamble, pauses with his arms outstretched. His lips twitch out of their horror-movie grimace, working into a petulant pout. "Stop making me break character!"
Near James's shoulder, Kendall snorts with laughter. "Now you've done it."
He buries his head into the fabric of James's shirt to hide his smile from Carlos, the heat of his breath warmer than the pale, late afternoon sun, lancing through the thick foliage that edges James's house. The fort he built with Kendall is long gone, but the picnic blanket lies here still, moldering somewhere beneath wet leaves and grassy moss.
Impatiently, James demands, "Did you find him yet?"
Carlos drops his arms to his hips, irritation turning his posture rigid. "Does it look like I found him?" Directing his voice towards the canopies of the trees, he yells, "Logan! Come out now! You won! And James is being annoying!"
"I'm not being annoying," James tells Kendall, whose pink lips curve with mirth.
"Nah," he answers with too much levity. To Carlos, Kendall calls, "Doesn't look like Logan's coming out, Carlitos. Onwards, outwards, you've got brains to devour."
Obediently, Carlos resumes his best undead impersonation, clomping deeper into the woods in search of tasty genius brains. Kendall reclines back against the base of the tree trunk they've dubbed the CDC, satisfied with his role as lord and master of everything.
He's got a hole in the knee of his jeans that he picks at, the white skin underneath so pale that it looks like bone. James huffs and sinks his head back down into Kendall's lap, blocking his access to the ragged edges of denim. "If Carlos ever becomes a real zombie, he'll never be able to feed himself."
Kendall's silhouette is sucking in all the weak sunlight around them, and it trembles gold as he snickers, his face obscured in shadows. "We'd have to tie him up in your basement and make sure he gets three square meals a day."
"Someone would have to give him sponge baths," James adds, wrinkling his nose as he gives that some thought. He announces, "Not it," at the same time that Kendall does. They're ridiculously in tune, feeding off each other's stupid ideas the same way they do on the ice, rushing the net where less reckless idiots never would.
There's a tug at his scalp, and James reaches back, touching the bumps he finds there with muted shock. "Are you braiding my hair?"
"It looks nice. You could be a princess," Kendall replies cheerfully, even though he's the one with cartoon eyes and aspirations of leadership.
"A tiara would really bring out the angles of my cheekbones," James deadpans, because Kendall's not going to judge him for being ridiculous. Kendall's favorite color is pink; he doesn't get a say.
"And the sparkle in your smile," Kendall answers, cupping James's cheek critically, molding skin beneath his fingers like he can make those angles and that smile pop, tiara or no.
"If I was a zombie," James half-mumbles, part of his mouth stretched beneath Kendall's fingertips, "I would be the prettiest. I'd get all the other zombies to do what I say."
"Zombies don't say anything, James," Kendall drops his hand and tacks on seriously, "Besides, you're not allowed to be undead."
"Why not?" James squints up at his best friend, the halo of light around his body so incandescent that Kendall's face could look like anything – a polar bear or a monster or the god of love.
Kendall asks, "What would I do without you?" Utterly serious, utterly sincere.
James wants to strain up and see the expression Kendall is wearing right then, but his limbs won't listen to him, acting as if they've been warned against it.
No peeking, or the spell will be broken.
Hurriedly, James says, "I'm sure you'd think of something. Hey, you know I've been writing a zombie musical?"
"Oh yeah?" Kendall's head thunks back against bark, his attention no longer one hundred percent focused on James's face. It is the strangest relief. "Have you already done the songs?"
"Sure," James answers, sitting up and twisting around, because the press of his head against Kendall's thighs is actually really kind of intimate. They're getting too old to be this close.
James begins belting out his new impromptu masterpiece a capella, conveying fire and brimstone and decay through baritone zombie grunts and alto zombie groans. Singing is his smokescreen.
Only James can't quite figure out what he needs to hide from.
James walks to the Sherwood Market to pick Kendall up every night after work. It's not like he has anything better to do.
Most evenings, he comes a little early, bugs Kendall through closing, whining, stop doing your job and pay attention to me. Tonight, James is exactly on time, and when he arrives, he stares at Kendall and doesn't say anything at all.
Kendall sighs. "I know you're mad."
James is mad. All he can think of is a younger version of Kendall, with his fauxhawk and his dirty Vans, disdainful of anything that even resembled pop music. That boy would never even think of snatching James's dreams away, but that boy is gone. The young man standing in front of James in a beanie and an apron, thin chain disappearing beneath the collar of his open necked shirt, stark against his collarbone, is someone James does not know.
He says, "You're thinking about it."
"I'm not thinking about it."
"You should be. How can you not be thinking about it?"
It, of course, being Gustavo Rocque, who barged into the Knights' house earlier tonight and offered Kendall a job.
After he left, it was utter chaos. Kendall took a late shift at Sherwood just to avoid talking to everyone about what's happened, but James refuses to be avoided. He squints his eyes and crosses his arms, trying for intimidating.
Kendall's shoulders creep up around his ears, his head hunching forward. The floodlights illuminate his obstinacy in Technicolor. "I don't want to be famous. At least, not like this."
James has never had any doubt that Kendall will be famous for something. His middle name is Donald, named for Kurt Donald Cobain. Kurt Cobain. If that's not a name meant for greatness, James doesn't know what is, and Kendall lives up to it. He was born to lead; everyone can see that. It shines through his skin, laces the vibrancy of his aura and the charisma of his smile.
"He wants you."
Kendall regards James warily, all cagy and wretched with slow-building anger. "I don't care."
"I do!" James shouts, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, knuckles cold, fingers turned to claws.
He's more upset than he remembers being since his parents' divorce, and he hates it. James abhors jealousy, despises the way it turns him into a total asshole. He absolutely loathes how his vindictive subconscious fallback plan always ends up being to drive people away, always the same sullen crybaby on the inside as he was in first grade. He's scared countless girlfriends off like this, and friends, but no one he's ever regretted losing as much as he would with Kendall. So he needs to stop, and he needs to stop now.
"What do you want me to do?" Kendall demands loudly, his blood boiling over the way it always does, fury making him tremble. He's not up to yelling yet, but he'll be there soon. "I can't help it that stupid Gustavo Rocque chose me."
"I know, damnit. I know that, so just…appreciate that. Try," James pleads, his urge to scream dwindling now that Kendall's said it out loud.
Gustavo Rocque chose him.
Betrayal closes both of their throats, makes it hard for words to jump to their tongues. But somehow Kendall manages. He squints down at the pavement and mumbles, "You should go."
"You're not the boss of me," James retorts, eyes snapping fire. He pushes down against the fury boiling sharp in his gut, but the tense lines of Kendall's body set it aflame.
"I don't want to be the boss of you. I want to not punch you in the face."
There is an electric hum in James's bones, warning him not to be dumb. Fighting with Kendall is as natural as breathing, but in this case he's not sure that the wounds they'd inflict upon each other would ever be able to heal.
For James, it's the closest of calls between protecting his pride and keeping Kendall around. There is a version of him, an older model that desperately wants the former. It's the remnants of the little boy he was before Kendall came along. But James is trying to grow up, trying so hard, and if he's not quite selfless, he's not helplessly greedy either.
Kendall wants to turn this thing down for James, and all James can remember is his tiny green eyes peeking out from beneath his comforter, right after his dad's trial. All he can think is that Kendall deserves a few good things in his life.
Stubbornly, he insists, "I'm walking you home," and widens his stance on the slippery patch of ice.
Kendall's lips thin. "You're not going to change my mind."
It's actually funny, how they're standing on opposite sides of this argument, trying to spare each other pain. If only James could remember how to laugh. Maybe, once Kendall flies away and leaves him all alone here in this cold wasteland of a place, it'll come back to him.
He accedes, "We'll see."
Resignedly, Kendall slumps back against a long row of shopping carts. "We're not done talking about this, are we?"
James wants to sidle up next to him, knock their shoulders together and smooth away the frown lines creasing Kendall's cheeks. But all the jealousy and self-loathing brewing in the cracks and fissures of his bones firmly plant his feet in place, simultaneously Kendall's friend and his enemy, caught between bitterness and hapless adoration. "Nope."
"Can we leave it until tomorrow?"
James shrugs. His impulse is to say no, to scream and to shout, but none of that will convince Kendall that he needs to do this. Tomorrow he can bring Logan and Carlos to the table. Everything's better with reinforcements.
"Sure." He crosses his arms and adds petulantly, "I'm not talking to you until then."
Kendall groans, his fingers clawed around the carts tightening reflexively. "Of course you're not."
They walk home in stony silence, or James walks home in silence while Kendall provides a running commentary on their latest history test (bad), their last hockey game (epic), and James's most recent girlfriend (worse than the history test).
At the Knights' door, bathed in pale porch light, Kendall turns to James and says, "I don't want this to change anything."
James doesn't know how to tell him that it already has.
He goes home and buries his head in his pillow, but no matter what he does, he can't fall asleep. All these songs spring to his lips, but he doesn't give voice to any of them. Normally, singing is his refuge.
Not anymore.
The one downside California has to offer is blonde, brown eyed, and eternally in James's way. Jo is pretty and fun and precisely Kendall's type, which is inexplicably irritating to James. He doesn't have anything against her as a person, exactly, he just wants her to take a long walk off a short pier.
Yeah, okay, that's mean, but it would really free up Kendall's time.
He's always off on dates, doing date-stuff. It doesn't leave a whole lot of hours for friend-stuff. Specifically James-stuff, because James requires a lot of care and affection and upkeep. He can feel himself wilting without the luminous spotlight of Kendall's attention focused on him for a minimum of oh, say, five hours a day.
It's not much to ask. James isn't that high-maintenance.
He's really, really happy that Kendall found a girl who can put up with his action figure reenactments of ESPN Classic games, though. James is. Honest. Kendall's last steady girlfriend had been a total shrew. Pretty and fun and sweet are exactly what he needs.
So even though James is starved for Kendall's affection, he tries to muddle through.
He's got singing, and girls of his own (a lot of girls of his own), and Carlos and Logan to occupy his idle hands. He also has these dreams, sometimes, that wake him covered in sweat. They leave James with memories of blond hair ghosting through his fingers, with a taste on his tongue that is so very bittersweet, but they're just dreams. Jo can have Kendall. Jo will appreciate him.
He's certain he's made the right decision when he comes home from a date one night to find her lurking outside Kendall's door. James is going to call out to her, say hey, find out what's going on.
Something forces his throat closed.
She stands there in the dim hallway, the shadows drawn close to her slender body. Her hair is lit the brightest, shiniest color, light from another room turning it into a white-yellow halo that spills over her thin shoulders. She is a stained glass creature, a princess, listening to a sound that is wrought with beauty. It's like she is caught in the midst of an enchantment.
James doesn't have to peer through the door to know that she is watching Kendall sing Katie to sleep. He knows what it's like to be captivated by that voice, by that boy. He leans back against the wall and listens too, because he can. Because he's never quite been able to free himself up from the charms of Kendall's singing, and because it's nice, familiar, a lullaby that never gets old.
On the spot, James decides that yeah, Jo might be a dirty little Kendall-stealer, but she's also really nice, and breathtakingly pretty. Funny how James isn't attracted to her like, at all. But he does think he's making the right decision letting her have Kendall.
As he makes the choice, Kendall's voice washes over them both, and James presses a hand against his chest, trying to figure out why it aches. The song reverberates beneath his ribs, settling there, encouraging words to bubble up on his own lips, laced with a melody. They escape from his mouth much, much too easily.
He can't help it. Singing is a part of him the same way that Kendall is, and James can't keep a hold of anything he loves.
The problem with things said in anger is that you mean them. But just because you mean a thing in one hot, feverish moment does not mean it is true. It does not mean you want it to come to fruition.
Even so. Once it is said, you cannot take it back.
The band implodes. Kendall's daddy issues are big enough to fill a cruise ship, and so, instead of fighting for their right to exist, to sing, Kendall gives up on Big Time Rush. And it's okay, for Kendall, because he has all these other talents and options.
James doesn't. Seeing Kendall surrender their shared dreams for no good reason makes him snap. He says some things. Most of them are nasty. He makes an ass out of himself, for sure. Then, because James is all about making dramatic exits, he pedals off on his bike only to be scooped up and out of Minnesota, back to Hollywood, where he belongs.
Only, he doesn't feel much like he belongs without the guys. James spends a millisecond giving consideration to life as a social recluse, but he can only stand the company of his thoughts and his full length mirror for so long. He tells Hawk he's in the market for new friends and is presented with an entourage forthwith.
They all have shark smiles and too much ambition. When they take James clubbing, the strobe lights flash with menace. He imagines he can see the blood on the dance floor, the hidden bones of all the fake friends that came before.
James thinks about running, but where would he go? Kendall's back in Minnesota, giving up on everything, and besides, he never went dancing with James, except under extreme duress. He could move his hips better than any of James's new BFFs, their faces bathed in flickering blue shadows, all of them pale specters of the people James really misses. He could, but he wouldn't, and he won't, because he's a traitor and a jerk.
James was a jerk too, but it's different.
The dreams that plague his sleep are changed now. Darker. Sometimes he has Kendall's throat between his hands. Others, James doesn't do anything other than listen to Kendall tell him he hates him.
That one's probably forewarning. James always holds onto the hope that maybe someone will love him so much that they won't care what a dick he is, that they'll accept his bad side the same way they accept his good. That never happens. Not ever.
Which, whatever. James has got Hawk, now. He's got new (scary) friends. But when he tries to think of something he had before Kendall, anything, he comes up blank.
There's only one bright light in the murky past, before first grade.
His voice. It is the one constant in his life. It is the one thing he can count on. Singing has never let James down.
Kendall doesn't apologize. Not for real.
He shows up at James's luxurious remodel of 2J with his dimples and his flashy grin and the words I'm sorry on his lips, but there isn't anything behind it. He obviously doesn't care that he was a world-class asshole.
Worse still, he accepts James's forgiveness as implicit, like forgiveness is a thing he actually deserves. Kendall Knight, hero and champion, riding in on his high horse to champion the band and save the day.
Disillusioning him is something James so does not have time for, because he's got a national tour back on his hands, with girls to charm and pigs to sign. His anger growls, tosses and turns, desperate to lash out, but on stage, the ache in his head and his heart recedes. He's a brand new version of himself, an untouchable superstar, a different class of human.
James is not going to let Kendall ruin that for him.
They spend their evenings cramped together on the tour bus, where James shuns his friends for the company of strange girls. Groupies are cool. James likes groupies.
Kendall isn't so fond of groupies, because he has Jo, and he tries to immolate each and every one of James's new friends with is eyes when they scamper off the bus come nightfall.
James doesn't care. Letting the newly reestablished peace settle over them both is the easiest way to move on, but it doesn't mean he has to simper and bow to Kendall's every whim. Even if Kendall is kind of hot when he glares.
By the time they're back home again, it's much too late for a confrontation. The status quo is status quo again. Yipee. James skips over the rifts and fissures that mark their relationship in his mind and tries to act the way he always has. Best friends forever, even if Kendall has drastically altered how James feels about forever.
They start a new album, they pursue new levels of idiocy. Jo breaks up with Kendall, which is a bummer. Kendall deserves it, maybe, but it still sucks to see him sad. Heartbreak suits no man, and Kendall is particularly pathetic. His stare is blank and empty, his skin flushed pink from not-crying-but-looking-like-he-wants-to, lips drenched gold from the apple juice boxes that Carlos, Logan, and James have to hand feed him. He's a mess in the bright overhead lights of 2J, and it tugs at James's heartstrings.
That could be a good thing. Part of the path to healing, or whatever. It's hard to resent someone when they're wilting in place, when they can't even smile, when they can't even sing. More than anything else, that is the thing that makes the hard lines of James's grudge soften.
He can't imagine that ever happening to him; a fairytale girl breezing off to another country with his voice in tow. That's why singing exists in the first place - because it is salvation.
It's a rare rainy day in Los Angeles, and all James wants to turn his frown upside down is the solo in their new song.
"No," Gustavo tells him pithily. "That belongs to Kendall."
"Sort of like everything else," James grumbles, tired and cold, and his socks are still kind of wet.
Gustavo's kept them in the studio late, because they have a music video to film in the morning and a demo track to lay down and basically an entire mountain of responsibility that never ever seems to get smaller.
Equally cranky and water-logged, Kendall bites back, "What's that supposed to mean?" And then they're off and running.
James tells Kendall that he knows what it means. Kendall snaps that James should stop being so cryptic. The fight escalates, the way their fights always do, until Kendall tells James to stop acting like such a diva because, "You're not the center of the universe, James."
That's the blow that drives him stomping out of Rocque Records in a cloud of fury and spite, because this is what every fight they ever have always comes down to. James deludes himself into thinking he's special in Kendall's eyes, only to find out that he's not. And it doesn't matter how he struggles to put up stronger walls next time; Kendall always brings them crashing right back down.
Predictably, his best friend, his best enemy, comes stalking out after James, calling his name. James refuses to slow down, the gunmetal sky looming so close that he could probably touch it if he stood on his tiptoes.
Kendall pounds after him, yelling, "James! I don't get what I did, James, stop!"
James's shoulders are bunched into knots, his hands curled into fists. He is a gigantic ball of rage, the rainwater on his tongue doing nothing to make him feel better in any way. Drops trickle into his eyes, pool in his elbows, spiking a bad day straight into hell. Without meaning to, James retorts, "It's always so fucking easy for you."
"What is?" Kendall wrenches at James's elbow, eager to resolve this so that they can go back in and be dry. He spins James to face him, authoritative and pissed.
In the glow of the streetlights flickering on all over the county, every inch of Kendall is as beautiful as the day James first saw him, with his white skin, pink lips, gold hair, smug face.
Fuck. Him.
"Everything!" The word tears out of his throat, jagged and raw. But now he's said it, and he doesn't want to take it back. "You take all the things I want and you don't even know how to appreciate it."
Kendall is all injured green eyes and a painfully straight spine. He asks hollowly, "What have I ever tried to take from you?"
"Carmela? The choir? Gustavo? The band?" James ticks things off his fingers. "You have to be the best at everything. Why can't you just leave the things I love alone?"
Swallowing hard, the lines deepen in Kendall's face as if he's just downed something particularly sour. "James. I thought I was something you loved."
Harsh. That was really, really harsh. "It's not the same, and you know it."
"All I know is that I-" Kendall's eyes flutter closed. He's picking his words carefully, trying not to lose it, James can tell. "I joined the choir because I didn't like being away from you. Gustavo gave me this stupid job because I was trying to defend you. The time the band broke up, dude, that wasn't about you at all."
The rain is drowning everything, muting the wretched gasp of their breath, the thunder of their heartbeats. Kendall's picture perfect, this wounded boy standing on the soaked sidewalk of a busy street. He's a casting director's wet dream, but mostly he's making James's head hurt. He can't believe any of this. Kendall's not stupid. He must have celebrated how very jealous and angry James was because of all his tiny victories. Otherwise he simply didn't know, and that's somehow worse.
That means there's something deeper here that has gone grotesquely wrong.
James counters, "And Carmela?"
"Carmela, seriously?" Kendall's laugh is ragged, unhappy. "It took me a minute to even remember who she is."
"You always have to prove you're better than me," James protests, his voice wretched. He's the one in the right here, so why does he feel like an idiot?
"Like you don't try to beat me right back?" Kendall rebukes him, eyes snapping back open. "All this time you've been waiting for me to what, to stab you in the back?"
James grits his teeth. He's not going to answer that, because it makes him sound petty. And it's not true. James wasn't waiting for that all the time. Not even most of the time, yeesh. He wouldn't have stuck by Kendall through thick and thin if he trusted him that little.
Just, occasionally James gets low. That's when it's easier to listen to all his doubts than Kendall's unwavering presence at his side.
Kendall says, "I thought we were friends. I thought –" he laughs again, and this time it's completely humorless. There is a green-yellow sheen to his eyes in the streetlights, a leonine luster that's scarier than the hoarseness of his voice. He's an animal, he's alien. "I actually thought you liked me."
"I do like you, you moron. That's the fucking problem."
The muscles in Kendall's neck tighten, but he doesn't look quite so wounded anymore. "How does that even make sense?"
Rain in LA tastes like wet ash. Cowardice too, isn't exactly sweet in James's mouth. He's sick of it. He's sick of keeping everything locked up so tight that he's barely even allowed himself to think about it.
Lips slipping wetly against each other, he bursts, "Because I think about kissing you and then you turn around and screw me over. Does that make enough sense to you?"
"James-"
"You get the girl I like, and the job I want, and you never had to work at any of this." James folds his fingers across his own neck, squeezing into his windpipe. "You are like, cosmically blessed, and that's fine, that's okay, if I knew you weren't going to leave one day and take it all with you."
The tightness in Kendall's jaw is bleeding away, understanding breaking across his features. He opens his mouth, but James cuts him off.
"What am I supposed to do when you're gone? No one wants to listen to me without you."
Kendall's fingertips press into his arms. He looks like he's thinking about punching James right in the face. Eyes narrow, he is panting, he is radiant there, soaked through by the rain and the golden streetlights. It's not fair how even like this he is James's stupid fairytale boy, his songbird, his grip on James's heart so tight and so deep that he can't separate which parts are good and which parts hurt anymore.
Kendall presses his free hand beneath James's collarbone, splaying over the place where his lungs rise and fall. James's own hand remains wrapped around his throat, but now Kendall's index finger is brushing against his pinky. It's the tiniest comfort, amplified a million times over by the surety in Kendall's gaze. He says, "James. No matter what I do, you can't start doubting this. You are an amazing musician. You're the most talented guy I know. I…can't always be strong for you, because dude, I make mistakes. A lot of mistakes. But I'm not what makes you shine."
Petulantly, James tells him, "You help."
"No. You depend on me too much. Not that I don't like it, just. I'm scared if I mess this up, one day you're going to give up, and you can't. You would have gotten here eventually on your own. I swear that you would've. You don't understand how incredible you are." Kendall quirks a smile, and so does James, because okay, it's kind of weird sentiment for such a narcissist. "I shouldn't have given up on the band. I shouldn't have given up on you."
James gulps down his fear. "Why did you?"
For a moment, Kendall's distant, thinking about something that is not James at all, but then he's back. He says, "I was mad, and I wasn't thinking straight, and I'm going to try really hard not to do it again. Only, I can't be your lucky charm all the time. I can't be your strength. I can be here for you, and I can believe in you, but you need to be brave, and you need to believe in yourself. That way, if I mess up, you won't always be paying it."
"You're…" James tries to think of a response to that, but there's not much that he can say, other than that he'll try.
He doesn't think that he could ever get to a point where he could give music up, but there have been times when he was close, from meeting a little boy on the playground who sang better than he did to losing the dream he'd believed in for his entire life. He came close and he didn't give in.
Kendall's right; he was able to make that choice on his own.
James still doesn't want Kendall to ever leave, but that is a neurosis for a different day.
"I'm what?" Kendall asks, a smile creeping into his voice. It spreads warmth that feels like sunlight in James's gut, chasing away all the resentment that James has harbored for far too long.
"You're really close. And wet."
Kendall lets go of James's elbow in favor of pushing the hair away from James's face. He has stars in his eyes, shining, twinkling, unmatched by the black, tempestuous sky. "Is it raining? I hadn't noticed." He beams, a drop of water pooling on his lower lip. "You know, I think you said you wanted to kiss me."
"Did I?" James feigns surprise. "Would you rather go back to the studio? We could get warm and dry and – mmph."
Their mouths slide together, wet and easy, Kendall initiating it the way he does with everything. His hand and James's are both trapped between their chests, but it's easy to turn them palm to palm, to link their fingers when Kendall's mouth opens, pliant, and James touches their tongues together.
He's got a new melody brimming in his bones, humming under his skin. It might be good. It might be great. James can't wait to show the world…later. He'll write it all down later.
The sounds escaping between them float off into the stratosphere, where they'll exist forever, because that's what music does. It never stops and it never surrenders, it never disappoints and it won't ever die. It forms dreams and it dries tears, it channels anger and love and joy and sorrow. Music is everything, and James Diamond has a million songs left to sing, but for now he's got a Kendall to kiss; breathless and panting, hot and wet, and in every way he's ever wanted to.