If I'd Taken the Time to Know You

by hoarfrosted

Carlos knew it was his job to protect Logan, no matter the severe measures he had to take accomplish that. He just wished Logan was a little more accepting of his help.

Disclaimer: I don't claim jack-diddly. The title comes from Elvis Presley's I'm Leavin'.

So, this idea spawned from the fact that I couldn't stand Carlos for a long while when I started watching the show, but I love him now. I'm aware that this story would probably be better if I could handle a multi-chapter fic, but wutevs. I apologize for my lack of experience with angst. Largely a character study, so be very afraid of words.

1: Warnings for language, psychological disorder, abduction, minor character death, light violence, and a light overall religious theme (specifically Catholicism.)

2: Focuses mainly on one-sided Carlos/Logan and Logan/James. Set in Edina, Minnesota (like all my town AUs are, apparently). Told in Carlos' perspective. Odd numbered parts are present, even numbers are the past. Also, I want to be clear that Carlos is pansexual, which actually is important.

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If I'd Taken the Time to Know You

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I. Preface

Excitement was a feeling Carlos Garcia had never forgotten. It was the emotion he was most familiar with, one he'd always felt thrumming through his body with the most pleasant of vibrations, and as of recent, he'd been feeling it in spades, and it was revitalizing.

The past week had been amazing for him, and it was only been four days in. Anyone one who could feel what he felt, the literal waves of energy flowing off him, would never guess that it stemmed from something as simple as having a friend, because they wouldn't know what having a friend meant to him.

Carlos knew that people generally didn't understand him, and that was fine.

II. Back-draft

When he was eleven, Carlos lost his father, a police officer for the city of Edina, during a narcotics bust gone fatally wrong. Five years later when he was sixteen, he lost his mother to illness, leaving him, their only child, alone. His closest family lived in Mexico, not that there was anyone there that he knew personally. The only family they had ever visited was his abuelita, and she had died years before as well.

After long legal lectures that he was too young and ignorant to understand in courthouses and administration offices that frightened him with government services that had acronyms that he couldn't remember for the life of him, he was left with three options: move to another country to live with his closest relative –an aunt he'd never seen before, move into an orphanage, or, since he was of appropriate age, live on his own with the house and sizeable sum of money his parents had left for him, all for him.

The thought of living, of being alone had scared him immensely, as did the thought of living with strangers, whether they were blood-related or not, but worse than either of those, the thought that slithered around his heart and constricted so tightly that it hurt, was the thought of leaving the only home he'd ever known, the home he'd grown up in and made memories with his mother and dad in; the smell of perfume that still lingered in his parents' room – incidentally one of his favorite scents, the numerous places on the walls where the paint was a different shade after being patched up – evidence of Carlos' many stunts, the pictures and mementos stuck to the refrigerator with fruit-shaped magnets – where his last high-marked paper still hung. He couldn't leave it, any of it – how could he?

He decided to stay home. He stayed home and learned to take care of himself – cooking, cleaning, washing his own clothes, taking care of his mother's garden behind the house, walking to stores and buying whatever he needed, everything he never had to worry about before because there was always someone – Mami – doing it for him, and it was agonizing. Not because he had to labor for himself, but because, had he ever the need, there was no one else who could. It was a plumbless chasm in his reality, ever-present and reminding him that something was missing, something was wrong, and it was permanent.

School became a chore for him most literally, so much different from how he whined and complained about it before, when he would have rather been outside doing something fun with his time. He sincerely, honestly dreaded school.

He kept his grades steady. He knew that if his academic performance began to plummet, child services would get word of it and assume he couldn't handle being on his own, and he would not, could not have his options taken away from him. He was never a particularly intelligent child to begin with, but the workload seemed to be threefold in difficulty, even when the faculty eased up on him "for his loss", and he had no assistance in the form of his mother.

He would call her at any time and she would rush in, maybe wiping food from her hands with a cloth while the smell of her cooking wafted into his room through the open door, or maybe fiddling with pieces of electronics that she'd expressly forbade him from touching, and she would glance over his work and lay his troubles out before him and put it into words he could understand without a hitch, as if she knew everything in the world there was to know. It wasn't the knowledge that Carlos missed, that made droplets of tears roll down his cheeks and fall to his notebook, fading scribbled blue ink. It was the comfort of knowing that there was something, someone to fall back on and be safe against.

He'd tried calling out to her once, half a year after. His only response was his own echo, deafening in his ears and repeating harsh words that he tried not to understand.

Worse than the workload at school, however, were the people. The news of his mother's death spread like a virus destined to contaminate his life, and school was no exception. Everyone knew, and everyone pitied. Their eyes stared at him, full of concern and apologies for things they didn't know or understand and it made him want to empty the contents of his stomach because they weren't helping. He didn't want their pity. He didn't want their faces and their words – "I'm so sorry, Carlos" and "Are you alright, Carlos?" and the like repeated so many times that they began to lose all meaning and feeling and it was almost like they were mocking him – to be a blinding reminder searing in his retinas of everything he no longer had. He didn't want them to forget that he was an individual – Carlos Geraldo Garcia –and that he wasn't what he feared, hated the most, even when it defined his situation accurately.

An orphan.

So he lashed out at them, he yelled and cursed at them to leave him alone, everyone. Everyone who saw him as less of a friend and more of a case to be pitied and coddled, everyone whose eyes showed a clear picture of his mother's normally glowing face, ashen as her body's immune system gradually shut down, or his father's open casket, bearing a stiff, lifeless individual who he didn't recognize. He didn't need any of them. They caused him pain, and pain was the very least of his needs.

By the end of his high school career, Carlos had managed to alienate himself from all of his friends easily. They were too unaccustomed to his newfound despondent disposition, and they begged he return to his normal self – the happy-go-lucky boy who frequently skateboarded into lampposts and had a bright, sunny smile on his face for anyone and everyone. And yet, they were unwilling to treat him as they once had, handling him as if he were priceless porcelain vase that would shatter into tiny shards at the mere mention of parents or death, tiptoeing around him on rice paper. He preferred living without them. The only people that bothered visiting him at his home were government officials and friends of his parents, the neighbors and police officers and technicians from his mother's work that came over to check on him and taught him to handle bills and other important affairs, but never stayed long. He preferred it that way.

Or, so he'd thought.

After the graduation that he hadn't bothered attending, he spent most of the following year at home drowning in the stagnation of his own depression. He hadn't applied for any colleges; he hadn't been in the appropriate mindset to even consider college, not that he had the ability to stand it so soon. He spent his time sitting out in his backyard and staring into the vibrant hues of flower petals for hours on end, going into his parents' room and fiddling with his father's gun and handcuffs or just lying on their bed and soaking in the scent of his mother, cleaning rooms that didn't need to be cleaned – his mother loved to keep things clean, he wouldn't dare disappoint her.

Throughout that time, Carlos' mind occasionally went to taking his own life, being a coward and ending the soul-crushing solitude and the jagged throbbing in his heart that seemed to resonate throughout his body in one instant. He would take his father's gun from the bottom drawer of his parents' dresser and cradle it in his hands, wondering how much it would hurt to put a bullet through his brain like he'd seen criminals do on television to avoid capture, wondering what it would be like in heaven seeing his parents and his abuelita, but he would always put it back. He wasn't afraid of the pain or of death, but he would always see his mother's disappointed face. He would hear her telling him that his life was in God's hands, not his own, that she wanted him to live a full, happy life and make her proud, so many sayings and adages that she repeated to him with fond intelligence.

'Haces lo que puedas para proteger lo que amas.'

When he reached the age of twenty-one, the sharp pain became a dull throb. There were days when he could watch television or do physical actives or hurt himself and thoughts of his bleak life only plagued him occasionally. He was approaching a semblance of being better – his version of better.

With his vision clearer than it had been in nearly half a decade, he began to notice just how completely lonesome he was. His phone – a new phone, as the one his parents bought him ended up smashed against concrete in a fit of rage – showed that he only had two contacts, besides the ones factory programmed in; one of his father's old friends, Officer Salazar, and his helpful next door neighbor, Mrs. Wainwright. He hadn't seen any of his high school friends in three years, he wasn't a part of any social networking site online, he'd barely left the house since he'd graduated from high school, he'd shut himself off from the world.

He was so completely alone, and he was done with it.

He visited Mrs. Wainwright – possibly the first time he'd ever visited her voluntarily, and sheepishly asked for her assistance with college applications – he had a good sum of money left, more than enough to pay for any school without having to work. He got his driver's license and fixed up his mother's car, it having been unused for years. He did his best to go out into the city more often. He generally tried to reintegrate himself back into the world, and he considered himself doing just fine with it.

And then, he started classes at a local university.

Before his father died, Carlos made friends fairly quickly. Kids were easily charmed by him because he was the weird or wild one. He was the kid who said things that were amusing and offbeat, who earned a new scar or bruise or broken limb every week and had a riveting back-story to it, who held no prejudices and wanted to befriend everyone. He hadn't known it at the time, but that kid, that Carlos Garcia was the most well-liked kid of his entire school.

But that had been years ago, a full decade, and as he frequented his classes, he learned something.

Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how to be himself, natural and genuine, that Carlos Garcia. Sure, he could still make friends. He forced himself to be chatty and spoke to random faces that seemed friendly enough as he'd always done before, get into the same antics and jokes, and everything was okay for the time being, but there was one important difference between the friends of that Carlos Garcia and the one he was pushing himself to be.

The friends of that Carlos Garcia stayed.

Things were so, so very different. He didn't notice much at first, but as time passed, he realized that the friends he'd made slowly but surely detached themselves from him as swiftly as they they'd come, and he couldn't understand what he was doing wrong. He imitated himself as perfectly as he could, down to the very finest detail, but the results never varied. Friends came and, after a week, maybe a month if he were so lucky, they would leave, because he was too eccentric, too dangerous, too immature, too – everything he'd always been.

Every lost bit of companionship chipped at his fragility, making him feel so virulent and undesirable and alone. But what could he do? He couldn't change the only other version of himself he knew, the one that didn't snarl at friends who offered misguided comfort and who was friendly and energetic, and the harder he tried, the harder he fell. He wasn't smart enough to figure out what he should correct, and his relationship skills hadn't evolved in his years of social isolation, and he didn't have that someone who had all the answers to his problem, simplified and easy for his use.

So for that year, that entirely miserable year, he went through slews of friends, trying to fit himself to each and every one of their needs and standards and improve anything they saw wrong with him, but with no gain. By the end of second semester, he had the same two contacts in his phone, highlighted and ridiculing him.

When he reached the age of twenty-two and entered his sophomore year, everything changed – for the better. And it was all because of Logan Mitchell.

III. Shelter

Midday on Thursday in class, Carlos sat as far back in the room and as close to door as he could. His leg jittered erratically against the tiled floor, mirroring exactly how he felt inside. He couldn't even remember what class he was in, for his excitement was getting the better of him, his eyes continuously flitting to the clock above the door which ticked so so slowly and he hadn't written down a single example equation from the Promethean board his professor was scribbling on, but how could he possibly focus?

He was happy, genuinely and honestly happy, and it was something almost new to him seeing as how he hadn't felt such a way in years. Not even the scratch marks on his neck or the bruise forming on the side of his head fazed him. He didn't know what to do with himself half of the time, and he was sure that it showed outwardly, because he could feel it rolling off him, and he was probably behaving more strangely than usual, not that anyone typically paid attention to him.

In his electrified lull, he knew one pair of eyes, hazel and flecked with gold in the irises, was on him, indistinct in their interest. He ignored them. He needed to get away from them. They didn't know anything.

The moment the class was dismissed, he gathered his things and rushed out of the room, uncaring of the peculiar stares his haste garnered him. He didn't care about his classmates, any of them. They didn't understand why it was so important that he leave as quickly as possible. They didn't matter to him.

Only one person mattered to him, and Carlos couldn't keep him waiting.

He sprinted out of the hall to his mother's car, peeling out of the parking lot and off campus and leaving a trail of skid marks in the vehicle's wake. He had to slow his pace soon after, having nearly run two red signals and almost having hit a pedestrian. Throughout the ride, one hand was kept on the cool, leather material of the steering wheel cover. The other stayed in the collar of his shirt, fiddling giddily with a pair of keys that hung from chains around his neck and provided a pleasant weight, silver in color and warmed from constant exposure to his body heat.

Soon, he arrived at his destination. His house, somewhere he typically wasn't excited to go as much as he was comforted by, but things were different now.

Carlos scrambled out of the car, leaving all of his supplies in the passenger seat. He would never be able to focus on any class work anyway, so there was really no point in attempting. After letting himself in with the house key on his car key ring and locking the door carefully, he removed his sneakers and slid on hardwood flooring into the kitchen, stomach rumbling on cue at the sight of the area. He took out the necessary ingredients, poured two plastic cups of red fruit juice, and prepared two sandwiches, one made sloppily, the other meticulously, with just the right amount of yellow mustard and sour cream and onion potato chips crushed on top and no tomatoes.

After cleaning up – Mami would never accept any messes in her kitchen – he padded impatiently to his the door leading to his basement directly across from the kitchen opening, tray of food held in one hand. The chains around his neck rattled together as he bent down to unlock the door with one of the keys, slipping into the dark area and securing the door once more. He flipped the light switch, fluorescent light illuminating the wooden staircase. The sound of obnoxious creaking filled the small space as he descended carefully, trying his best not to be his usual clumsy self and simply tumble to the bottom which, while quicker, would most likely result in a mess of spattered food and two empty stomachs. Not cool.

At bottom level of the basement were the utility room, the washer and dryer, the area behind the staircase where Carlos shoved things that he couldn't find a proper space for, and most importantly, another locked door leading to a medium-sized room with an attached bathroom. It was bit more dismal than he would have preferred, but it suited his needs.

Carlos approached the door as quietly as he could, pressing an ear to the cool surface of the metal door. Nothing. Grinning eagerly, he leaned down to unlock the door with the second key, grumbling when he accidentally tilted the tray and a splash of red liquid spilled onto the floor. He'd take care of it later. He pressed the door open slowly, cautiously – he didn't want a repeat of previous days, seeing as the scratches on his neck and the bruise on his head still smarted.

Peering inside, Carlos knocked on the door politely, eyes searching the small space until they found their target. A hunched over form sat on the carpeted floor against the cream colored wall near the bed, pajama-clad legs spread out rigidly in a V-shape. Wrists, white and smooth like porcelain, were secured in front of it with a pair of Carlos' father's handcuffs, light glinting off the metal from the bulb on the ceiling. The form's head was low, so only its dark hair was in Carlos' view.

"You up, Logan?" he asked with unveiled excitement, stepping into the room before locking the door behind him, the tumblers of the lock resounding through the room finitely.

IV. Porcelain, Part One

Logan was different from everyone that Carlos knew.

Carlos frequently used the cheesiest metaphors one would find in a romantic drama to equate him to something special; a shimmering diamond in rough coal, or that one ray of sunlight in the dark world Carlos lived in, or something, because Logan wasn't meant to be – couldn't be – lumped in with the rest.

Most noticeably to anyone with senses, he was smart, and not just the run of the mill, guy-who-gets-great-marks type of smart either. He was the type to have his head constantly buried in a thick book with a complicated title that was probably in a different language, and subsequently memorize everything from what he'd read. He was a definite genius and modest about it, even though sometimes there was the slightest hint of smugness in the tone of his voice when he corrected a professor's procedure for detecting the rate of osmosis – not in the 'I'm obviously superior to all of you because my brain is a thunderhead of infinite knowledge' sort of way, but helpful and informative and maybe the slightest bit meek, which was so endearing.

Carlos knew that he only noticed the little things because he paid too much attention to him, much more than he paid to the instructor.

Other than his brain, Carlos found himself noticing – liking – Logan's demeanor in public. He was nice and cordial to everyone, but not overly so. He would never strike up a conversation with anyone he didn't know unless they were partnered together for a lab, and even then he would only discuss the work they were meant to complete. He was an active participant in discussions, and his hand was raised for nearly every question, even though most of the times he was the only one willing to answer. Always polite and respectful and courteous, never attempting to rub anyone the wrong way.

They had one project together early on in the semester, something about plasma or plasmids. In private, Logan was different, more drawn in or tense or something Carlos couldn't place a finger on, at least in the beginning. His tone was one of professionalism, his gaze never lingered on Carlos for long, always on his notes with scribbling things in the margins with his messy handwriting, or on his textbook, or anywhere that wasn't Carlos. It was a strange, nervous sort of thing, or maybe distant.

Initially, Carlos had believed that he was the cause of the behavior, that his reputation for eccentricity had preceded him and Logan was afraid of him, which caused his mood to damper significantly, but a few wayward jokes later and Logan brightened considerably. He lost whatever shyness hindered him before and had no trouble looking at Carlos directly, and his facial muscles were alive, lips grinning crookedly or eyebrows rising incredulously. He even poked fun – Carlos didn't think he'd ever been so delighted to be called "dumb" in his entire life. It occurred to him that Logan just wasn't a very social creature, which explained the mechanical way he had about him sometimes, and it was all so fresh and exciting, reminding him of making a new friend on the playground in grade school.

After one paired assignment with Logan, the two of them became friends – not the week-long relationships Carlos had experienced freshman year that came and went like a breath of stagnant, toxic air, actual friends.

After one paired assignment with Logan, Carlos was captivated, though he didn't know it at the time.

V. Correction

"I made your sandwich just how you like it – uh, turkey on wheat with a little mustard, your favorite potato chips and no tomatoes," Carlos said brightly and grinned, unsure if Logan was actually awake since he'd yet to respond. Most times he refused to sleep on the comfortable bed in the corner of the room, which Carlos couldn't wrap his head around. Why sleep in awkward positions and wake up with cramps on purpose?

Logan's breathing was unmeasured, so Carlos took that as sign of his awareness. He padded over and sat cross-legged in front of Logan, setting down the tray of food between them. Logan's body tensed at his immediate presence, but Carlos chose not to make note of it. He knew Logan had no reason to fear him; there was nothing in the world that could make Carlos ever want to harm him.

Shrugging it off, Carlos rolled up the sleeves of his violet hoodie and grabbed his sandwich, taking a noisy bite out of the food. "Come on, I know you're hungry," Carlos coaxed gently, mouth half full of food. "You didn't eat breakfast either."

Seeing as it was unfair that Carlos couldn't get meals to Logan when he wasn't without facing certain dangers, such as Logan choking or using the food in some sort of daring escape method, Carlos decided that he would only eat when he was with Logan. It also let Carlos feel like he had a special sort of bond with Logan; even if simultaneous stomach rumblings weren't the most romantic of connections, it was something.

Unfortunately, Logan refused to partake most times. So far, he'd only ingested one meal two days ago and some fluids, but even then he'd barely touched the food. Carlos had assured him that nothing was poisoned or drugged, but Logan still refused, and it was worrying. Logan had a healthy physique, one that malnourishment would certainly ruin.

"Logan, you gotta eat something," Carlos set his food down and leaned forward to poke Logan in the arm twice, goading. Logan flinched slightly, gray t-shirt rattling against his form, but gave no other reaction, sitting as motionlessly as a delicate doll. Carlos pictured him as such sometimes. "Loges?"

Still, he received no response. Almost defeated, Carlos sat back on his backside and frowned at the patterns on the carpet, lips pursing tightly in dejection and confusion. Why wouldn't Logan speak to him? Previously, he'd always had something to say, and while it was usually orders to be freed or cursing him out, Carlos still appreciated hearing him. "Please say something," Carlos murmured softly, gazing up at his friend through low lashes.

Logan tensed again and finally looked up. Without access to copious amounts of hair gel, his dark, fluffy hair fell to his forehead in tufts, messily swept to the side, which was an attractive look for him. His eyes were rimmed red; Carlos could only guess that he'd been crying and was glad that he hadn't been present to witness it. His gaze with angry and hateful, and Carlos had to stomp the urge to look away. It wouldn't be that way for long. Logan only had to get accustomed his new home. That was all.

"Let me leave," Logan demanded icily, something he'd been repeating constantly. His voice was hoarse, leading Carlos to believe he'd been shouting for help again.

It wasn't exactly a greeting, but Carlos still brightened a little before shaking his head. He didn't like denying Logan, but what other option did he have? Logan continued to ask and it wasn't as if Carlos could release him now, not when he'd only just gotten him. His heart wouldn't be able to take it, he knew for sure.

"Why not?" Logan yelled, desperation steadily creeping into his voice. "What the hell could I possibly have that you want? You've been in my apartment, I don't have anything else! Why do you still–"

"No, no," Carlos interrupted, shaking his head frantically. "I don't want anything you have – well, I mean…I guess you have yourself?" He scratched the back of his neck – wincing when he accidentally grazed the scratch marks Logan had given him, trying to find words to placate Logan, but words never actually strong suit. He liked actions, personifying his emotions and needs and thoughts through his body, not his words, but he couldn't do that.

Logan was a man of words, of long drawn out explanations that were confusing to anyone with a short attention span and covered every nook and cranny of detail that there was. Logan needed to know the reason and logic behind everything before he was willing to accept it. Logan wouldn't understand if Carlos tried to convey anything through actions. Carlos could only curse himself for being attracted to someone so opposite of himself.

"I just – I want you! To keep you safe and…yeah."

Logan's brow furrowed and he gripped the chain of the handcuffs binding him. "Want me for what? You know my foster parents would never pay any ransom for me, so if monetary gain is your goal, your methods are a little impractical."

Frustrated, Carlos shook his head again, because Logan wasn't getting it. Carlos yearned to simply grab the boy and hold him as tightly as he could or kiss him until they were both breathless or something so Logan could understand exactly how he felt, but the task he was given was never that simple for him.

"No! I told you, I don't want anything from you like that, and you know I don't need your money. I just want you here, with me," he smiled earnestly and attempted reaching forward to lay a hand on Logan's arm, but Logan shied away jerkily, scowling at the offending limb. After a moment tense, Carlos withdrew his arm, his smile falling only a little. While he didn't blame Logan for the reaction, it still hurt to see his friend afraid of him. "I would never hurt you, Logan."

"Can't be certain about that, seeing as you've clearly lost your mind," Logan bit back harshly, drawing his legs close and hugging the soft material of his pajamas as best he could, keeping a wary eye on Carlos. "I don't know exactly what's going wrong with you, but you must have some sort of psychological damage."

Logan was speaking in that tone, like a psychiatrist or something, and Carlos wasn't okay with it. "Nothing's wrong with me," he mumbled, frowning at his sandwich while he picked idly at it.

"Carlos, look at this!" Logan held up his wrists pointedly, inadvertently showing the red imprints in his pale skin from pulling at his restraints, and Carlos unconsciously cringed at the sight. "You don't see anything wrong with this?"

And yes, some part of Carlos' mind did want to acknowledge that this, what he was doing to Logan, wasn't exactly socially acceptable. It wanted to tell him that he should end the trouble before it escalated into something further, something that he would regret until the day he died. But every time it did, he remembered the crippling loneliness he'd suffered before Logan had come into his life and healed everything without the slightest bit effort, just by being who he was, and the voice of his mother echoed in his head, in his heart, speaking one important adage:

'Haces lo que puedas para proteger lo que amas.'

"No," Carlos shook his head firmly and stood. "This is what I'm supposed to do, I know it."

Logan wasn't looking at him anymore, instead rocking himself back and forth slowly. "Trust me, you'll be okay with me here," Carlos assured him with a nod. "I…I've got plenty of money, so I can get you anything you want, and once I know that you try to run away, you won't have to stay in this room anymore. You already know how big the house is, so that's cool, right?" he grinned, even though Logan no longer seemed to paying attention to him.

Feeling more winded than he was accustomed to, Carlos headed for the door and unlocked it. He would come back to get the tray and dished later, as Logan had yet to eat anything and Carlos hoped that the hunger would get to him. Just as he was closing the door behind him, he turned back to Logan. The boy still hadn't looked up, resuming his position from earlier. Carlos bit his lip at the scene.

"I don't want either of us to be alone anymore," he murmured before closing the door.

VI. Porcelain, Part Two

Surprisingly, Logan was a talkative person – though most of the things he said were intellectual tangents that Carlos had difficulty following. He didn't have any reservations about sharing his personal life, and Carlos found that he liked that Logan was such any open book. It made him a lot more comfortable when Logan didn't notice his weird, fascinated sort of questioning and answered without halt.

Just another pro to add to the list.

Logan was the youngest person Carlos knew besides Mrs. Wainwright's seven year old daughter, only recently having turned seventeen – a stark five year difference between them. Logan explained that he graduated a semester early from high school with early admission into college, that he earned multiple scholarships that covered his tuition and that he had aced all of his advanced placement tests in high school so he wasn't required to take any basic college courses. He was basically the biggest overachiever Carlos had ever met in his entire life.

Unlike Carlos, Logan had no problem calling himself an orphan. Logan didn't divulge any specifics, but Carlos learned that both of his parents had died when he was young as well, and he had been sent to live in foster care. Logan's face had turned sour when mentioning his foster parents, lips spitting out words with clipped sardonicism when he unconsciously spoke of their indifference toward him, eyes stony when he talked about how they barely contacted him since he'd moved into the shoddy little apartment they'd provided for him. Carlos didn't even know them, and even he'd felt a bit of rage while listening to Logan.

While he'd regretted bringing up Logan's troubling past, their similar backgrounds made him feel even closer to Logan. Just having someone want to be near him was wonderful, but knowing that someone shared the same pain of loss that he felt, who knew what it was like to have people around you and still feel utterly and completely alone and miserable, that was a lot more than he could have hoped for.

After they shared one another's histories, Carlos made it his mission to spend more time with Logan, just the two of them, because he knew what it was like to be in his position, and he knew he had wished for a kindred soul for a companion as well.

They went to movies together when Carlos managed to pull the younger boy away from class work that wasn't due for weeks ahead, even if Carlos ate most of the popcorn and asked for explanations through most of the movies. They skateboarded and played other sports, even though most of the time was spent with Carlos hurting himself and Logan utilizing his smarts to fix him up – something they both abnormally enjoyed. They studied together often, even though that usually consisted of Logan studying and aiding Carlos when he needed – something that gave Carlos an inarticulate tingle in his stomach every time. They texted often throughout days when they weren't together, even though their conversations were nonsensical and random.

To Carlos, it felt as natural as breathing to be with the younger boy. If Logan thought it strange to hang out with someone who was years older than him and a genuinely odd, childish man, he didn't bat an eyelash to it, for which Carlos was grateful.

VII. Games

Carlos had the urge to see Logan again a few hours after lunch, having grown bored with watching television quickly. How could anything on television be interesting when Logan was so close by? He shut off the tube and slid over to the bookshelf near the sliding glass door that led to the backyard, where his mother's garden lived. He shook away any unhappy thoughts before they could surface. He had Logan, so he would be happy soon – always. There was no need to revisit the past just yet. Continuing on his mission, he grabbed a book from the shelf, looking it over and dusting it off. It wasn't as if reading was something he often did.

Just as he was about to head to the hall closet, the doorbell went off, chiming throughout the silent house almost ominously. For a moment, Carlos was struck with what to do, blinking curiously at the front door. Visitors weren't something he ever expected, unless it was children on Halloween or Mrs. Wainwright. Hoping it was her with another delicious casserole, Carlos set the book down and rushed to pull the door open.

On his stoop stood Officer Salazar, his father's friend and comrade on the police father, in his dark blue uniform. When the man saw Carlos, the corners of his mouth wrinkled in a smile – a tell of his progressing age. "Hey, kid, how ya been?" Salazar greeted before reaching to knock a knuckle against Carlos' head, something he'd done since Carlos was a child and had a metal plate fastened onto his skull. Carlos didn't bother informing the man that, despite his height, he was twenty-two and therefore not a "kid".

Instead, he returned the grin uneasily, fingers clenching tight around the doorknob. "Oh hey, Mr. Salazar!" he responded with mock cheerfulness, mind still worried about the purpose of the officer's visit. The uniform and the police car on the curb don't exactly spell out 'friendly'. "I've been good, I guess, doing stuff. Um, do you wanna come in?" he offered, moving to the side to allow the man inside. Though he was courteous, he was inwardly hoping the officer denied the request. The basement was firmly insulated and far below ground, but he still didn't want to risk a decibel to reach the officer's ears should Logan decide to be vocal.

Salazar's face fell and he brought a hand up to rub his graying hair. "Ah, no, unfortunately I'm here on business. Got a missing person's report for a…," Salazar reached into his breast pocket to pull out a small notebook and flipped through it, "…Mitchell, Logan? Lives in the apartment complex on Palm Wood Drive. Friend of yours, right?"

On the outside, Carlos nodded shallowly, but on the inside, he tensed at the mention, the blood draining from his face and his palms beginning to perspire. He was sure that he appeared as guilty as he was, but he couldn't train his body to react any other way. Had he really been caught so quickly? Granted, Carlos wasn't the most intelligent sort, nor did he have scheming bone in his body, but he knew he had covered his tracks well – well enough not be discovered after only four days, at least.

Salazar, taking his reaction as concern for Logan, gave him a comforting smile. "Don't worry too much, it's only been a couple of days. You haven't heard anything or seen him recently, have you? The boy's parents don't know a thing either."

Carlos didn't answer verbally, only swallowed the sharp lump in his throat and shook his head. "I, um, I'll let you know if I hear anything about him." He couldn't trust his mouth to say anything else.

"Right," Salazar nodded and patted Carlos on the shoulder. "Well, again, don't worry too much, I'm sure he'll turn up. You kids are always off doing crazy things. I'll keep you posted," the officer patted him once more and, just as he was turning to leave, something caught his attention. It took a minute for Carlos to realize what the older man was staring at, and his hand flew up to cover the scratches – Logan's scratches – on his neck, the chains around his neck tinkering with the movement. Carlos' heart beat so harshly in his chest that he was sure the other man could hear it, incriminating and deafening in his ears.

Both men were silent for a tense moment, and then a smile broke out Salazar's face. "Still hurting yourself on a daily basis, eh?" Salazar observed with a chuckle. Carlos had to keep himself from choking, smiling toothily and sharing the laughter. The older man bid him farewell and was off, Carlos' eyes following the license plate until it disappeared from view. Only then did he let a relieved sigh, closing the door and leaning against it to calm down his pounding chest.

It wasn't the prospect of incarceration that Carlos feared, which was strange since he knew the tales of jail violence and sexual assault – his best asset was his physical endurance. He knew no one would miss should he disappear mysteriously, though he hoped it would at least be noticed. Part of him worried about what would be done with his house should he be arrested. He simply wouldn't allow foreign hands to touch anything his parents had founded.

What worried him most was the possibility of being separated from Logan.

His chest clenched painfully, so he immediately tried to wipe the thought from his mind. Instead, he retrieved his book and took a box from the hall closet before heading down into the basement, meticulously securing everything as he went.

When he entered Logan's room, the light was still on from earlier. The tray of food was still in the same spot, nearly untouched. Carlos was pleased to see that Logan had at least drunken some juice. Logan was sitting on the bedspread in the corner, knees drawn close to his chest as before, head leaning against the wall. His dark eyes were focused on Carlos, giving him a familiar glare. Even though the anger was aimed at him, it warmed Carlos to know that Logan was still a fiery as usual, always contained behind a firm layer of professionalism and cold, calculating composure, which, while a little contradictory, was the only way Carlos could think of to describe it.

He covered the distance between them at sat down on the edge of the bed farthest from Logan, knowing sitting any closer would incite something unpleasant. Logan still tensed at the closeness, teeth grinding audibly in some emotion Carlos couldn't figure out.

"Let's play Checkers," he said simply, holding up the box for Logan to see with the illustrated image of two children playing the game.

"Let me leave," was Logan's only response, spoken in the same tone as always was. Carlos shook his head again; he could never verbally answer it, because he didn't want to hear what he sounded like denying Logan his freedom. He was sure he wouldn't even recognize his own voice saying something so cruel. Once Logan got used to the idea of being with him, he would never have to answer it anymore.

"Checkers," Carlos repeated, beginning to take out the game board and pieces out of the before setting up the red and black pieces on the flat surface.

Clearly unhappy, Logan let out a frustrated sound. "I don't want to play games with you, Carlos, I want to go home!"

"Why?"

"…what?"

"Why do you want to go that apartment?"

Logan was surprised at the question, sputtering nonsense for a short moment. It was in his flustered moments that Logan was his most adorable, to Carlos. "I – what do you mean why? It's my home, what don't you–"

"You said you hated living there," Carlos interrupted, flipping a red game piece between his knuckles. "You said it was really small and creepy there, and most of the time you don't feel safe," he informed, speaking about Logan's little apartment.

"That doesn't matter, it's my home. It has all of my things – my class supplies, my clothes, everything. I shouldn't have to explain to someone why they shouldn't keep me captive."

"How is that place a home?" Carlos' tone was genuinely confused, maybe a bit annoyed. He didn't look into Logan's face, didn't want to see what emotion was there. He focused instead on the younger boys thin gray t-shirt. "Home is supposed to be a place that you enjoy going to, because it's cozy and nice and people who love you are there. You don't like going there, so isn't living with me a little better?

He'd been to Logan's apartment rarely and it was just as depressing as Logan had described it to be beforehand, though he didn't say this out loud. It was small, only a compact living area and a bedroom with a connected bathroom. It almost didn't look lived in at all; Logan kept it extremely clean and had no personal mementos littered around, only books – Carlos had made sure to collect these and store them in own room, knowing how important they were to his friend.

It was nothing like Carlos' house, filled with pictures of family and friends, odd knick-knacks his mother collected on every available surface, various rooms showing evidence of his parents' clashing tastes. Logan's foster parents hadn't spent more than a dime over what was necessary on the place, probably eager to have him away. In Carlos' eyes, his house was infinitely more appealing.

Logan's glare was still present, though not as angry as before and more…curious, was it? "How is living here," he gestured to the small area with his shackled hands, the chain ringing pointedly in the silence, "an improvement?"

Carlos shifted in his seat, bringing his legs up to cross them underneath him and settling his hands down on his denim-clad knees. "Well, not this room. This isn't better, but the house is. I told you, it's huge!" he threw his arms out to accentuate his words, enjoying the way Logan's eyebrow rose at his strange gesture, something he'd missed. "I don't think you've ever even been through all of it.

"And besides, I'm here, so it's closer to home since you have someone here who…uh, you know…," he trailed off with a blush, looking anywhere but Logan's face, not that there was any point to it. If there was one thing Logan was oblivious to, it was other people's affections for him – Carlos knew it firsthand. The peculiar expression on Logan's face told Carlos that this situation was no different.

"I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but you and I obviously have opposing connotations of the word 'home'," Logan said a bit snidely, attempting to cross his arms before he realized that he was restricted. Carlos chose to ignore him; he didn't know what connotation meant, but he was sure that Logan was wrong in this case – a rare happening.

While Carlos usually believed that Logan knew everything there was to know, he didn't agree with how black and white Logan saw the world sometimes. Morality was one of the only things they disagreed on – that and the existence of poltergeist. If a man stole meager amounts of food to feed his family, Carlos would see no fault in his actions, while Logan would sympathize with his situation but encourage that he be punished for breaking the law. It was just something they differed on that, honestly, Carlos found a little challenging – in a good way.

An idea crossed Carlos' mind, and he tapped the game piece in his hand against the checkerboard, creating a meaningful ticking noise. Logan's expression had turned thoughtful, quiet, and it was the best time to try, "I'll let you out – out of this room, I mean, not the house," Carlos corrected quickly, not wanting to raise false hope, "if you make me a promise."

Logan blinked warily at him, drawing further into himself. Carlos pursed his lips unhappily, "I'm not going to do anything to you, dude," he reiterated. He couldn't help the way his stomach dropped every time Logan eyed him with frightened eyes, as if Carlos could ever think of causing him harm. In his mind, everything he did was in Logan's best interest. In the end, wasn't that what was most important? Ensuring his friend's happiness?

"Promise you what?" Logan questioned, his voice full of suspicion.

Carlos brushed it off. "You can leave this room…if you promise that you won't try to leave the house." After giving the proposition, he watched Logan carefully.

One of Logan's best qualities was his integrity. Things like cheating, stealing and lying weren't even in his realm of consideration. All of his grades were made purely on intelligence, determination and effort. He felt that stealing, like all other crimes, was morally reprehensible and wasn't allowed. He was the type of guy who would find a crisp one-hundred dollar bill on the ground and spend his afternoon trying to find its owner or turn it into the police with a smile.

It was that same integrity that made Logan the worst liar.

Coupled with his fear of stressful situations, his honor system wouldn't let him tell anything untruthful. Should he attempt, he couldn't help but exhibit every tell-tale sign of lying in the book, such as sudden perspiration on his forehead, or the strange urge to scratch the back of his neck or ear, or his voice squeaked as if he was still going through puberty, or his eyes flew to a hundred different places in a small span of time. It was sort of like watching a sitcom, and it was hopelessly adorable.

So when Logan breathed out, "I promise," in an octave higher than his usual timbre, Carlos already knew.

He let a sly grin spread across his face. "You're lying."

He saw Logan's face fall slightly before he covered it with his fists, leaving Carlos to wonder what was going though Logan's mind. Deciding to let the issue go, he set the checkerboard between them on the bed. "Wanna play now?"

"No, Carlos, I don't want to play any fucking games with you!"

Carlos flinched at Logan's tone, realizing that, while watching Logan's attempt at lying had been amusing for him, Logan wasn't in any mood to be teased. He'd been completely sincere in his offer to release Logan from the confines of the stifling room if he could have, but letting Logan escape wasn't something he could risk.

"What if we play for prizes?" Carlos offered. "Like – if you win, I'll give you something, and same for me if I win."

Slowly, Logan lowered his hands, scowl still firmly set on his face. There were little red marks dotting his skin from where his knuckles had dug into his cheeks and forehead, making Carlos feel even worse for his earlier amusement. "I don't suppose my freedom is an optional prize," Logan stated more than asked, sarcasm lining his words like razors.

Carlos tilted his head, but didn't answer.

"I'm guessing a cell phone is out of the question too," Logan huffed – cutely – and turned to the side. He had the thoughtful look on his face that Carlos saw so often, because decision making wasn't Logan's strong suit. "Fine, I'll play with you, not that I actually have anything to give you."

Carlos grinned, bouncing on the bed in his excitement, causing the checkerboard to shift slightly. Logan gazed at him a moment longer before moving closer to the opposite side of the game board, reaching out to grab the box the game had come in and search through it. "Where's the manual?" he asked, holding up the empty cardboard box.

Carlos blinked. "The what?"

"The manual with the instructions and rules on the game." Logan leaned over and dropped the box off the side of the bed onto the floor.

"Uh…I dunno? I haven't played this in a while. Probably lost it," Carlos said and shrugged after a second of thought. He was secretly glad that the manual was gone; giving Logan a book full of instructions and strategies on anything was like handing victory over to him.

Logan let out a sigh and muttered, "I've only played actually Chess before." Carlos almost snorted at that – who hadn't played Checkers before? – but stopped himself. Logan had been orphaned at an earlier age than Carlos had and wasn't exactly Mister Friendly; the reality of him having never played the popular board game was plausible.

"Want me to teach you how?"

"No," responded Logan automatically, spite back in full force. Of course Carlos knew that Logan wanted to learn – when didn't Logan want to learn something? – but didn't press the issue. It just meant that he was more likely to win, after all.

"If you say so," Carlos sung out teasingly before moving one of his pieces forward, and then they were playing.

It was obvious after a few expendable moves on the board that Logan was aware of most of the basics; he knew to stay on the same color tiles and that he couldn't jump over his own pieces. Carlos had to stop him when he tried to move a piece backwards, trying not to smile.

He ended up paying more attention to Logan than he did to the game – not that it mattered, since Logan wasn't very skilled without proper instruction, but – when Logan was focused on something, really focused on something, his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth or his pearly teeth gnawed at his full lower lip and his left brow twitched erratically and his eyes scanned rapidly over his whatever he was focused on. It was one of the reasons Carlos thought Logan was a cyborg, or at least half-computer.

When Carlos successfully moved one of his pieces to the opposite side of the board, he declared, "King me!" with a victorious smirk. Logan's gaze was down at the board, but even with the angle, Carlos could see Logan's lip poke out in a pout while he placed a matching piece on top of Carlos'. Carlos kept mostly silent during the game, not wanting to disturb Logan's concentration with idle chatter, though he did want to talk. Silence wasn't something he enjoyed.

Near the end of the match, it was clear that Carlos was the victor, having six remaining pieces – three of which were made kings – to Logan's three. He could tell Logan knew as well from the way his eyes narrowed at the board every so often. Finally, after Carlos took another of his pieces and left him cornered, Logan leaned back and with a heavy sigh, "I forfeit."

"Hah!" Carlos couldn't stop him from the jubilant cheer he gave, pumping his fists into the air excitedly. The bed bounced from the force of his cheer, causing some of the game pieces to slide from the board. Logan turned his pout up to him and, for a moment, it was as if he'd forgotten he was currently handcuffed in a dismal basement. Then, his eyes flashed with recognition and he was glaring hatefully again.

It was an experience similar to whiplash.

"Well, what do you want? I still don't have anything to give you," Logan turned away from him again, gaze on a nondescript spot on the wall near the bathroom door. Carlos wasn't sure if it was general anger or Logan being a sore loser – he was the 'pout and quit' type of loser.

Carlos grabbed the checkerboard and pieces and dumped them messily into the box on the floor before pulling out the book he'd brought earlier from behind him and handing it to Logan, who accepted it with slight hesitation.

"Read this to me," Carlos said, expression fully serious.

Logan blinked at him, then at the cover of the book. "'Harry Potter'?" his faced scrunched at the title. "You want me to read to this to you?" At Carlos' nodded, he continued with, "Carlos, you can read just fine on your own," in a deadpan.

Carlos shrugged, "I know, but I want you to read this to me." Truly, he hadn't wanted to use the book as his prize, but he figured it was the best method to persuade Logan to read for him. He enjoyed having books like Harry Potter, ones with fantasy and magic and fairytales, dictated for him, feeling it increased the magical effect one was meant to experience. Hearing Logan's voice in his ear would only add to that pleasure.

Logan regarded him carefully, as if he expected some sort of trickery from the request, and Carlos gave him as earnest a smile as he could fashion. Eventually, Logan sighed and slid to the edge of the bed so his feet were flat on the carpet and opened the book, grunting when the chain of the handcuffs restricted some of his movement.

Seeing him prepare to begin, Carlos slid close to Logan until their thighs and sides were lined up against one another. Logan stiffened and kept his gaze on the random page he'd opened to. "Is this okay?" Carlos asked softly, still mindful of Logan's vocal discomfort. Logan cleared his throat, but didn't reject him any, so Carlos cautiously, as to give Logan ample time to move away should he so desire, slid an arm cautiously around Logan's abdomen in a loose hold, his other arm keeping up his weight, and laid his head on Logan's shoulder so he could see the page the book was open to.

After a few deep breaths, possibly to calm himself, Logan flipped to the correct page in the book, marked with a paper clip, and started reading. Carlos found himself getting lost almost instantly, his senses drowning in everything Logan – his voice droning pleasantly in Carlos' ears, the clean smell of soap that rose from the soft skin of his neck, the warmth and stability emanating from underneath the confines of his shirt, the sight of his lips expertly forming words without pause – everything

In that moment, Carlos knew for a fact that he'd done something right. There was no way he could feel so happy, so comforted and content, had he not.

'Haces lo que puedas para proteger lo que amas.'

VIII. Splinter

It took Carlos months to realize his feelings for Logan, and when he did, he could only wonder how he'd been so slow.

Because it probably wasn't normal to stare at a friend all throughout class, noting the adorable way chewed on his pen cap and frown when he was stumped on an equation. It probably wasn't normal to wish to spend every free moment of time with a friend, even when studying together. It probably wasn't normal to wonder whether a friend's lips would taste sweeter than the apple he had devoured minutes earlier when they were out for lunch–

Then again, Carlos never really considered himself normal to begin with.

He couldn't stop himself from paying attention to every detail of what Logan did – attention that he probably should have spent on his assignments. It didn't help that he could never find a fault in Logan, not that he ever tried. It was a maddening, dangerous circle that he couldn't break from, and Logan's genial obliviousness to his feelings didn't help anything. It just made him more charming.

It had finally sparked in Carlos' head what it was that caused the particular abnormality – kind of like his brain and his heart finally decided to connect to one another – when he and Logan were studying, a completely platonic and unassuming setting that they'd been in so many times before. They'd been working on trigonometry assignments in Logan's apartment and, per usual, Carlos had ended up confused on a graphing equation – he liked lines better when they didn't undulate – and whined for Logan's assistance, despite them sitting only a foot apart from each other. Logan had only sighed benignly before moving to handle the issue, taking the notebook and simplifying the problem into words that Carlos could understand, just as he always did.

Carlos had been struck at that moment, staring at Logan as if he'd grown a third eye, because finally he understood the foreign sense in his gut that occurred whenever Logan helped with assignments. It was so similar to her that Carlos thought – maybe the feeling in his stomach was pain? Pain from being reminded of his mother each time he studied with Logan, because just as she had been once before, Logan had become that person Carlos could fall back on, and that memory should of have hurt. Right?

But Carlos didn't feel any pain when he thought of Logan or from having Logan there to support him whenever need be. In fact, he felt warmth at the idea. Logan's crooked smile flashed in his mind, encouraging and safe and making Carlos' heart beat just a little faster and the blood in his veins pump just a little quicker every time he saw it, no matter how many times he saw it, everlasting and constant and always there.

With Logan, he didn't have to imitate himself, he just was.

He was briefly bothered by how Logan's gender didn't bother him. He'd never been in a relationship before, but he could only remember being interested in girls. Being with Logan, Carlos found that he didn't miss the fruity smells, the high-pitches voices, the skimpy clothes or the long hair. Logan didn't need any of that to be appealing to Carlos, and Carlos desperately wanted to be with him.

That, of course, opened up a new host of difficulties for him, difficulties that he couldn't call on Logan for.

He'd never had a girlfriend because he was terrible at flirting, wooing. No girl wanted to date the class clown; he'd been there for entertainment, not genuine affection. It was the same niche he had dug for himself with Logan. He was pretty sure that was what 'Friend Zone' meant; doomed for all eternity to a life of endless pining and unreciprocated affections, but he didn't want that. Visions of he and Logan simply holding hands were just too sweet to ignore.

All of his knowledge of flirting came from blatant observations of other couples, internet sites, and cheesy romance films he watched with Logan – they both pretended to hate them, but secretly loved them; it wasn't manly to admit to liking the genre. From his sources, he learned that the best flirting was the subtle kind, with fleeting touches and furtive looks and suggestive lingo. He was glad for the tips, as his first plan had been to just tell Logan point-blank.

Images of Logan's horrified face had flashed in Carlos mind after he hypothetically confessed his affections and no no no. He couldn't be tactless else he would risk scaring Logan away.

Instead, he followed the romantic film route. He sat as close to Logan as could whenever he had the chance, be it in a public setting or a private one. When they had movies marathons at Carlos' house, Carlos would make sure to suggest at least one horror movie so he'd have an excuse to feign fright and cuddle against Logan, holding Logan's hand or his hugging Logan's waist until he was curled up in warmth – Logan always called him a baby or a little girl, but it was a fair sacrifice. Whenever Logan did something for him, Carlos thanked him with a firm hug or a peck on the cheek.

It advanced to the point where he could slip his hand into Logan's during his long-winded lectures and Logan wouldn't stutter or object at all. It should have been wonderful, electrifying knowing that Logan was so comfortable with him, that their relationship had progressed so far that the intimate physical contact was normal, expected even. It should have meant everything was going fine, only–

Carlos overlooked a few fine details, like the fact that Logan had always seen him as weird, ever since the day the met, meaning there was a grim reason for Logan being so accommodating with his delicate advances. And the fact Logan was the most emotionally oblivious person known to man – he wouldn't be able to tell if someone was angry unless they yelled or sad unless they shed tears; it was another reason Carlos thought him a cyborg. And the fact that Logan never once initiated any intimate contact between them.

He determined his erroneous methods of flirting when, on a bench on campus, he saw Logan pressing his lips against those of James Diamond.

IX. Descent

For the past week – or, ever since he'd brought Logan to live with him, Carlos hadn't had any significant interaction with James – not that he usually did. They only attended one class in common, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and both days he felt James' eyes on him near constantly. He hadn't stuck around to find out whether James wanted to speak with him or not.

So when he left his last class of the day on Friday afternoon and saw James diamond seated on the trunk of his car, it was surprising, and if Carlos were to be honest with himself, a bit intimidating. He knew for a fact that James' previous class ended over an hour ago, so he sitting, waiting there was deliberate. Then again, it let on the sense that James didn't want to be covert. That only made Carlos more apprehensive.

Carlos straightened his back and tried not to appear as unsettled as he was, walking toward his car with his supplies held underneath his arm. There weren't many people in the parking lot, but enough so that James' hazel eyes, the same ones that'd been watching him yesterday, shouldn't have been able to lock on him so precisely when he came into distance, predatory like a hawk sighting an injured vole. It wasn't a comforting feeling, and Carlos had to stop himself from reacting outwardly to the intense gaze. James didn't know anything.

The closer he got to the vehicle, the more he observed James' distressed countenance. His lips were set in anxious frown, chapped from the saliva of the tongue that frequently wet them. His forehead was wrinkled and his eyebrows furrowed. His hair wasn't styled to its usual painstaking perfection, a lock or two sticking out of place. His eyes were the darkest that Carlos had ever seen them. All around, the suspicious figure Carlos imagined, staring him down judgmentally, morphed into nothing but a worried ex-boyfriend.

Carlos cursed himself for letting his nerves get the best of him. James didn't know anything.

"Could you get off my car?" Carlos asked as politely as he could between clenched teeth, passing James on the way to the passenger's seat door.

James regarded him silently, mouth opening and closing metronomically while he tried to articulate his thoughts. "Look," he started, the confidence usually found in his voice absent, "I know we're not like, friends or anything, but I…I haven't seen or heard from Logan in four days. He hasn't answered his phone or come to class and he's not at his place or anything and it's freaking me out, and I know–"

"Please get off my car," Carlos tried again, placing his things in the passenger seat.

This time James complied, hopping off the trunk so his white sneakers slapped against the gravel. "I know you're the only person he hangs out with a lot, and his parents don't give a shit about him, and – did he say anything to you?"

"No, he spends all of his time with you now, so I don't know," Carlos slammed the door shut harshly and walked until he was behind the car, glaring at James. Images of Logan and James holding hands, kissing, sharing obscure smiles piled up behind his eyes, and he couldn't help the sudden rage he felt at James. "I wouldn't tell you if I did anyway."

James' gaze flashed from distraught to angry in an instant and his hands clenched into tight fists. "Dude, I don't have time for your stupid little crush on him! If Logan's in serious trouble, tell me!"

"I told you, I don't know anything," Carlos fought to keep his voice even, despite the way his blood boiled in his veins. He kind of really wished James would punch him, because maybe that would keep his mouth from saying anything stupid or incriminating or – maybe because, in some way, he knew he deserved it. "Maybe if you were a better boyfriend, he'd never be gone in the first place. You shouldn't have hurt him. You should've protected him!"

As if the words had physically wounded him, James' eyes widened and he took a small step back, his fists going slack against his jeans – Carlos felt disappointment at that. Then, his expression was unreadable, disquietingly so. "Protected him from what?"

He let out a frustrated groan – at himself and his inability to control his mouth, at his shitty life, at James, at being held back by James and having thoughts brought up by James, at things his mind couldn't formalize – and sidestepped James to get to his car door, avoiding the look he was given, "I don't know, whatever happened to him. It's – I told you I don't know!" He yanked his door open, narrowly avoiding hitting himself with the force he used, and hopped inside, beyond desperate to get away from James. He was so infuriating to Carlos, made every muscle in his body tense and ache with the effort it took to restrain himself from pouncing on him and punching his pretty little fucking face in until it bled and bled.

James wanted to say more, Carlos could tell, but he shoves his hands into his pockets and backed away from the perimeter of the vehicle, strangely quiet.

Carlos didn't want to think about what that meant.

So he pulled out of the parking space and drove away, keeping his gaze off James who stood there in his rear-view mirror until he turned.

X. Seer

Hate wasn't an emotion that Carlos was familiar with – at least, not applied to people.

He hated his predicament, his life sometimes, even though he knew his mother wouldn't be happy with him for those thoughts – 'Always appreciate everything God blesses you with', she'd say. He hated the echoes in home that bounced off the walls with his every footstep. He hated pineapples.

He never hated people; it just wasn't in his nature. He knew that some couldn't help the positions they were put in, the choices they were sometimes forced to make, and he sympathized with that wholeheartedly. Did it bother him seeing people he was once friends with throw him peculiar looks or whisper loudly, immaturely about him behind his back? Yes, but he never hated them.

When he realized that he despised, loathed, completely hated James Diamond, it came as sort of a shock to him, new and powerful and sinister.

Because when he saw James – his perfect fashion model face, both masculine and feminine and blended beautifully, his smile, bright and perfect like an advertisement for toothpaste, his skin the perfect shade of tan so he shined in the sunlight, his body, powerful and tall and sculpted to absolute perfection as if he was crafted by an Italian sculptor with an unpronounceable name – he couldn't help the pure rage that erupted deep in his belly like magma and ate away at his stomach lining.

Carlos had no problem admitting that it was jealousy; James was a word that he'd never be, a word that would never be associated with him.

Perfect.

Yes, Carlos was jealous of James. Jealous of the way James seemed to glide sinuously through college life with a charming smile on his face. Jealous of the way people flocked to and fawned over James as if he was the second coming, making friends he easily charmed with his charismatic attitude. Jealous of the way James seemed to have everything that Carlos had ever wanted.

Jealous of the way James had Logan, the way Carlos had always wanted him.

Whenever he saw them together, his thoughts were consumed by how unfair his universe was to him. How was it possibly fair that James, who had everyone throwing themselves down on solid concrete to get into his tight-fitting jeans, just happened to set his brilliant sights on one of the only people who didn't notice him, Logan? How could someone who had everything so easily handed to them just – take the person Carlos treasured most, the only person Carlos had?

It was a plot from a twisted romance film he'd yet to watch.

And yeah, he could've been happy that Logan was happy, that Logan was in a saccharine dreamland of rose petals with James, but he didn't have it in him. Not when his time with Logan was suddenly divided in half – him receiving the meager half, certainly not enough to nourish the soul.

Carlos' only solace was Logan, who was too good and too grounded to ever let his glamorous new boyfriend change his personality. Not once did he ever skip out on their movie marathon Saturdays. If James suggested to Logan that the two of them get lunch or hit a movie, anything open for invitation in his mind, Logan's first move was to ask Carlos if he wanted to join, despite the looks of annoyance James sported. Logan never attended a single fraternity party that James invited him to and claimed that he and drunk young adults "didn't amalgamate" – whatever that meant – preferring to study or do something lazy with Carlos.

After a while of this treatment, it became clear that James wasn't fond of Carlos either. That should have made him feel better, knowing James wasn't getting exactly what he wanted for once.

Instead, it gave him only more strife to deal with – something he felt he should have been familiar with at that point.

Now, he had to deal with James' eyes. His eyes. And, while it seemed insane to be afraid, worried by another person's gaze, James' were a completely different case. James had the ability to convey so much with those gorgeous irises of his with only a glance; just as well, he had the ability hide everything from the world.

None of that concerned Carlos – no, it was how James could see through people, read them so quickly and easily that frightened Carlos. Maybe that was why James was so could with people, because he knew them after just moments; James' emotional intuitiveness was the exact opposite of Logan's. Several times he had to turn away from James, as if he was turning away from a demon clairvoyant from a biblical tale that would find all of his secrets or turn him into stone or steal his soul, things he'd thought silly outwardly but inwardly feared when his abuelita had read them to him when he was young, and now–

They weren't so silly. James was that demon from his childish nightmares, staring into his eyes and purging his mind and heart and soul of all their precious treasures with just a glance – even though Carlos repeated the mantra James didn't know anything to himself whenever he was in his presence, James knew.

And James had no problem exploiting the secrets of Carlos' affection. Logan, as oblivious as he always was, didn't notice the mutual distaste Carlos and James shared for another and enjoyed having them both around. They didn't show their feelings in front of him so obviously; Logan wouldn't approve of their jealousy one bit.

James used that to his advantage.

He dangled Logan around in front of Carlos like one would food with a starving puppy, cruel and spiteful. He frequently played with Logan whenever Carlos was around, wrapping strong arms around the younger boy's waist from behind and nipping at his neck, making sure Carlos was in perfect view of them. He called Logan by the nickname Carlos had given him – Loges. He kissed Logan into a daze, teeth claiming plump lips like Carlos had always envisioned for himself. His marks always littered Logan's neck, possessive and burning so red against ivory skin that Carlos was sure it would burn if he touched – possibly what James wanted. Just as Carlos intruded on their dates, James intruded or their study time and Movie Saturdays, casually tossing Carlos a warding smirk each time he did.

James' message was clear. He wasn't content with sharing.

Carlos agreed with the sentiment.

XI. Encounter

By the time he got home, his anger had cooled considerably. Just the thought of going back to see Logan was enough to quell any annoyed thoughts he had toward James. It took him almost the entire car ride to push those eyes out of his mind.

Preparing lunch for he and Logan helped occupy him, physically and mentally. It wasn't much work; there was plenty of pasta left over from last night's dinner and all he had to do was heat some up. Logan hadn't eaten much of it, but it was more than Carlos usually saw him eat, so he hoped Logan enjoyed it. Though it wasn't noticeable at a fleeting glance, Logan's body was beginning to thin out from malnourishment, and his skin was paler than normal, not up to its normal glow.

This time when he entered Logan's room, he found the boy sitting on the ground against the wall cross-legged, staring pensively at the checkerboard in front of him. Seeing as there was nothing sharp or electronic in the Checkers box, Carlos figured it was okay to leave with Logan. Even when Carlos shut and locked the door noisily, Logan didn't look up, still trying to unlock whatever shallow mysteries the board held.

Carlos sat down in front of Logan and set the tray on the carpet next to the board, staring down at it curiously. The game pieces were in perfect formation for the start of a match, which didn't at all explain Logan's fervent gaze. It was creepy.

Just as Carlos was going to ask what he was thinking about, Logan said, "Let's play again."

Carlos' mouth snapped shut, blinking owlishly at the demand. "Uh, sure, but I thought you didn't know how to play…"

"Same wager as before," Logan continued on as if Carlos hadn't said a word.

Carlos craned his head down, trying to view Logan's face to determine why it was suddenly so important, and then Logan's words flashed in his head. The wager. "Logan, I can't let you go," he shook his head, unable to stop the action.

"I've gathered. You're still psychologically ill, after all," Logan muttered crossly. Carlos bristled at the comment. If there was one insult that affected him, it was one that questioned his sanity. He was sane. He was just fine. He wouldn't, couldn't be angry with Logan, however. He was still winded from his new surroundings.

Instead, he picked up one of the plates of food. "M'kay, but we should eat first," he took a forkful of pasta into his mouth, chewing loudly and making exaggerated noises of pleasure in hopes of enticing Logan

The plan didn't work. "I'd rather play," Logan pressed.

"Eat first," Carlos ordered, bits of food spraying from his mouth into the air.

Logan head snapped up to glare at him. "Don't talk with your mouth full, cretin," he admonished.

Carlos didn't know what the complicated word meant, but he was sure it was another insult, so he ignored it. "It wouldn't bother you if you'd eat."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Then eat."

"Repetition doesn't make me more inclined to follow."

Carlos grumbled a bit and took another bite before setting his plate back on the tray. "Fine, but if I win, you have to eat your food. All of it," Carlos smirked victoriously. Logan only raised one dark eyebrow in return and they started playing.

The game went quicker this time around without Carlos having to correct any illegal moves. Logan remembered every rule from yesterday's game and, by his improved performance, had formulated strategies of his own. Maybe that was why he'd been staring at the board earlier, Carlos gathered. He was certainly moving pieces around with more confidence.

Before long, Carlos was left with the lower number of game pieces, three to Logan's four and only one of them a king. He could have cursed Logan for being too smart all the time, but he knew it was his own fault, both for leaving the board with Logan and for paying more attention to Logan than he did to the match – Logan kept brushing his fluffy bangs from his forehead every minute or so and it was kind of really cute.

He really should have paid closer attention in hindsight. A second after those amorous thoughts flooded Carlos' head, Logan jumped two of his pieces, including his one king. Logan hmph'd lowly to himself before flicking his stony gaze upward, though there was a glimmer of pride there as well from his victory.

Carlos only shrugged sheepishly and smiled back, not at all sore about being defeated. "Guess I lose. Um, what do you want for your prize, sir?" He really hoped it would be something he could give Logan. Every time he had to deny his friend anything, it hurt him a little.

"I want to be alone for the rest of the day, so don't visit me anymore," Logan requested evenly, without hesitation.

Carlos really wished it didn't sting so badly when Logan exhibited distaste for his presence. How soon would it be before they were past this point and Logan would again be his friend, only closer physically and away from James? He knew that time would come eventually – it had to! – but he was a little impatient about it.

"But I – what about your dinner?" Carlos frowned, hoping to get out of the agreement.

Logan scoffed, "I'm not going to eat it, so there's no point in you bringing it."

"You have to eat something, Loges."

"Don't call me that," Logan's chapped lips tightened and he picked up his meal. "I'll eat this, only if you don't come back."

"Promise?" Carlos leaned in close to regard Logan closely, searching for any traces of deceit. Logan backed away slightly and nodded. "Pinky swear?" Carlos extended his pinky finger over the distance between them. That eyebrow of Logan's had risen back up to his fringes, openly stating how inane he thought the gesture was, but Carlos didn't retract the digit. Pinky promises were important, never to be broken. Everyone knew that.

When Logan finally wrapped his pinky around Carlos'– albeit with noticeable trepidation, Carlos was delighted not to see any signature signs of lying from Logan and he squeezed the pinky happily, enjoying the warm feeling that spread throughout his hand from the minor amount of contact. Sure, he wasn't thrilled with the inability to see Logan for the rest of the day – no, really, he was almost prepared to burst out into full puppy-dog eyes to get Logan to reconsider, but if his temporary absence meant that Logan's health, he would willingly oblige.

He gave Logan an affirmative nod and took his plate as he stood, planning on honoring the wager. When he turned back, he was comforted by the sight of Logan actually eating his food and assured that it wouldn't be so bad.

It was only for the rest of the day, right?

Unfortunately, it was a Friday evening, which was a time Carlos usually reserved for hanging out with his friend, before certain circumstances. He didn't have any classes on Saturday, and he had no intention of completing any assigned work. Just as well, he was bound against visiting Logan, no matter how badly his legs wanted to jet down the basement steps to see him. When Carlos got to the ground floor of his home, he was at a loss for how to spend the free time.

First, he cleaned the entire house – except for Logan's room – from corner to corner, dusting tables and wiping cabinets and sweeping floors and scrubbing showers, not that there was much to clean. He was finicky about keeping everything spic and span, which sometimes bothered Logan when he came over. He knew his mother would be proud of his fastidious cleaning habits.

After that was finished, he went into the backyard to tend to the floral garden, making sure the plants were as vibrantly colorful as always. He'd forgotten to care for them the previous day; Logan had read through a good portion of Harry Potter before Carlos began to feel his eyelids droop, which meant that he had to leave immediately. Would he love to have been able to stay there and sleep beside – with –Logan? Sure, but Logan probably wouldn't have appreciated the company, and there was the risk of him sneaking the keys from around Carlos' neck as well, and that just couldn't happen–

Logan couldn't leave him.

With all menial chores completed, he decided to kill time by lying on his couch in the living area and watching television. It worked out pretty well; he got rid of several hours of time by watching reruns of century-old cartoons and teen sitcoms that he really didn't like but held his interest. So engrossed was he that it took the sound of stomach rumbling to remind him of dinner. It was already dark outside when he checked again.

Carlos hopped over the back of the couch easily and slid over to the basement door, pressing his ear against the cool metal. There was no sound. "Crud," he frowned and trudged into the kitchen moodily, having hoped that maybe Logan would have gotten incredibly hungry for sustenance and companionship and would want Carlos immediately. It was far cry, yes, but Carlos was a big dreamer.

The time it took to prepare his dinner, eat, and watch more television wasted a few more hours. By the time he clicked off the television, it was near midnight.

With the living area completely dark, except for the blue dot of the DVD player on the television stand flashing, Carlos settled supine on the couch cushions, the seat more than long enough to contain his short stature. He wasn't sleepy at all, so he didn't find any need to go upstairs to his bedroom only to toss and turn in his sheets for half the night. Plus, being on the ground floor meant he was closer to Logan.

He didn't care if that was sappy at all.

As was usually the case when he was plagued with no outlet for his boredom, his mind turned to random thoughts – thoughts that he had to remember not to vocalize, thoughts that were mainly centered on Logan. 'Did Logan actually finish his food like he said he would? How does Daffy Duck keep snapping his beak back on? What should I wish for at thirty-four-past twelve? Would Logan like Greek food since he likes Greece? Did I remember to charge up my phone? If I got muscles like James, would Logan like me more?'

In the middle of his mental ramblings, Carlos heard a small clicking noise, similar to a dentist's probe when it clicked against teeth – or maybe a horsefly trying to escape from a closed window? No, it was definitely something metal, coming from behind the couch somewhere.

Curious, Carlos peeked over the back of the seat, searching for anything amiss. The tinker was coming from the small hallway that connected the opening to the kitchen, front door and basement door, which was highly suspicious. Carlos frowned, thinking that maybe a burglar was trying to sneak in to his home from the front door. It wasn't a common occurrence; Edina was a peaceful town, so any sort of criminal activity was rare – he'd always been proud of his father for that fact. Then again, the house was very nice, possibly nice enough for a wealthy person to live in.

Just as Carlos was ready to search for a weapon to defend himself with, the clicking noise stopped. His first thought was that the lazy burglar had given up after finding that the door locked, until – to Carlos' extreme surprise – the door leading to the basement popped open with the tiniest of creeks, and oh, there Logan was, poking his head out to survey the darkened house like a wary mouse – Jerry the Mouse, Carlos' distracted brain supplied.

The scene was sort of surreal, so much that Carlos thought that perhaps he'd fallen asleep some time ago and was having a nightmare of Logan escaping, because otherwise it didn't make sense. To make sure, he lifted one of his hands to pinch the tanned skin of his cheek.

Yep, it hurt.

It really clicked in his brain that he wasn't having a dream when one of the springs in the couch squeaked at his movement, immediately catching Logan's attention, and the boy was suddenly sprinting out of the door jam, stumbling over his feet in his own in his haste, chain of his handcuffs completely killing any silence.

Carlos had probably never been more thankful for his consistent lack of premeditation than he was then, because his body was suddenly vaulting over the back of the couch before his mind realized it. He ignored the feeling of needles agitating the soles of his feet at the poor landing on hardwood and started to dash after Logan. In the middle of his pursuit, more curiosity struck him, and he paused at the open basement door, bending over so he could see the lock more clearly with the lack of illumination.

The questions in his head – 'How the Hell did Logan get out? Didn't I remember to lock both doors? – were answered when he pulled a thin piece of metal from the inside keyhole, one that looked suspiciously like a distorted version of the paperclip that had been the bookmark for his Harry Potter novel, folded perfectly to press against the tumblers in the lock. At that moment, Carlos could've slapped his head against his forehead for his own stupidity, or he could've smiled at Logan's incredible ingenuity, or–

But Logan had already made it to the front door during Carlos' distraction, and his frantic hands had managed to release two of the three locks on the front door, and Carlos really needed to stop him. "Wait, Logan!" As quickly as his legs could carry him, Carlos ran after his friend, socked feet providing him very little traction.

The call startled Logan and made him turn with wide, alarmed eyes to see Carlos approaching him speedily. Carlos outstretched his arms so there would be no escape through the narrow hall, ready to capture Logan and, just as he thought he'd been successful – he even yelled out "Gotcha!" for Christ's sake! – Logan launched away from the door and ducked underneath Carlos' arms, heading instead for the patio door clear across the house.

After recovering from slamming into the front door, ouch, Carlos relocked the entrance and followed after Logan, already starting to feel a sheet perspiration veil his forehead from the panicked atmosphere. When Carlos stepped close to the younger boy, he was already bolting into the dining room, having given up on opening the backdoor – the lock to it was placed on the other end of the panel, not that he would actually know that.

And then they were running around in circles, from the kitchen to the small hallway to the living to the dining room and around again, sort of comically. Really, Carlos could have, should have caught him easily; Logan was fit, but he didn't often put his muscles to use, and he'd barely eaten all week, let alone used his legs at all, and Carlos was already faster than him, so those factors combined didn't necessarily equate to a speedy escape. So yes, Carlos could have caught him instead of getting closer to the fleeing boy's back and then slowing down a bit, and he should have caught him since the situation had the potential for horrifying consequences, but he didn't.

Because despite every thought swirling in his head, he could feel his lungs pumping steadily in his chest, and his calves were beginning to burn with the sudden exercise, and a droplet of sweat had traveled between his eyebrows and down to the point of his nose oh so irritatingly, and he was having fun. He couldn't help himself or the airy sensation in his stomach from the thrill, his memory flashing back to days of playing and winning games of Tag on sandy playgrounds, ducking underneath jungle gyms and getting sand in his sneakers with the effort of trying to catch – whoever it was back then, it didn't matter. And maybe that was strange, because Logan probably wasn't having as much fun as he was, and chasing the boy he'd taken around the frenetic nightscape of his home wasn't the happiest setting, but again, he couldn't himself.

It didn't last very long. The momentum became too much for Logan and he slid too far, slamming his hip into an end table near the banister with a dark blue oriental vase centered on it. The vase teetered precariously for a tense second before toppling over and falling to the floor, shattering upon impact. At the point, their game became too hazardous, forcing Carlos to put an end to it. He leapt deftly over the majority of the jagged shards littered on the floor, ignoring the few tiny bits that cut shallowly into his feet upon landing, and closed in on Logan, an easy task since the younger boy was both exhausted and limping slightly with his potentially bruised hip.

Carlos wrapped his arms around Logan's torso, effectively immobilizing his arms by his sides. Logan thrashed wildly to try and free himself, twisting his body and throwing all of his weight forward to weaken the hold, but Carlos kept his grasp solid, lifting Logan high up enough so his feet could no longer touch the floor. It was a bit of a strain on his back seeing as Logan was taller than him – which totally wasn't fair, but nothing he couldn't handle with Logan's light weight.

"Agh – let go of me!" Logan screeched and gave Carlos a swift kick in the kneecap with the heel of his foot.

"Are you okay? You didn't cut your foot, did you? Is your hip alright?" Carlos fretted while carrying Logan at a snail's pace around the radius of the shattered porcelain, edging toward the open basement door. Simply walking was a difficult task with the lively bundle in his arms, wiggling and grunting and panting like a wild animal.

"Fuck you!" Logan replied quaintly. And he was kicking, Carlos noted with a wince, beginning to feel his knees and shins sting from the sharp kicks Logan delivered to them in rapid succession.

"I thought that was kinda fun," Carlos remarked in a low tone, heat rushing to his cheeks from their close proximity and the warmth emanating from Logan's skin, not that Logan was paying him much mind in the first place. Through both their thin t-shirts, Carlos could feel the dampness of Logan's sweat, proof of the amount of energy he'd exerted, similar to his own state, and that was okay. Logan was sweating and writhing in his arms and cursing and panting breathily and that was okay.

Without any severe injuries, Carlos finally found himself at the threshold of the basement staircase. Logan's energy was kind of a problem, however. "Dude, if you keep kicking me, we're gonna fall," Carlos warned in a sing-song tone. Fortunately, Logan took the hint and ceased any further assault on his kneecaps, not the struggling or the cursing. Carlos was thankful; he wasn't worried about himself at all – he was durable, he'd fallen down dozens of staircases before, he'd be fine – but he didn't want Logan to incur any more injuries. He was still annoyed with himself for letting his friend hurt his hip.

Carefully, he descended the wooden steps, going on memory rather than sight since the only thing he could actually see was the pallid skin of the back of Logan's neck. Turning on the lights would have been smart.

He made it down the stairs without blunder. Logan had apparently tired himself out, which made it so much easier to deposit him on his bed. Carlos backed away from the bed afterward, worried that Logan might have more pent up aggression to unleash on him and his poor knees, but Logan didn't turn around, didn't move. Carlos could only see his back, muscles tense, and the way his form slumped forward, and his long fingers gripping the bedspread into bunches.

"…um, are you okay?" Carlos tried again, edging a little closer to the bed only a little, until he saw the slight tremble in Logan's arms, and the way his shoulders shook up and down. For a short, sweet moment, Carlos thought that maybe Logan was laughing because he'd enjoyed the time too, but then Logan's body hunched over more and a wet sniffle reverberated off the walls and he brought up a hand to pull at his dark locks and no no no, that wasn't right.

Carlos moved away from Logan until his back hit the door, eyes wide with fright. Logan was crying, here and now, something Carlos had never, ever wanted to see, but he didn't know why. Was the pain in his hip so severe that it wrenched tears from his eyes? Was it because he'd enjoyed being in the rest of the house so much that being in the room was saddening? Was he sad that Carlos had technically broken their pinky swear by visiting the basement?

That had to be it. Pinky promises were important, never to be broken.

"I-I'm sorry, Logan! Please don't cry! I didn't mean to come down here, I swear," Signals flew off in scattered directions in Carlos' brain; he was so confused, he didn't know how to make Logan stop, he didn't know what to do. Logan was crying and he didn't know what to do.

All he knew was whatever had happened was his fault, that he'd done something wrong. He was supposed to be helping Logan, protecting them both from being alone, not being the cause of anguish.

Carlos smiled nervously and began exiting the room, hoping to remedy whatever error he'd made. "Look, Logan, I'm leaving, see? Stop crying, please," he pleaded before shutting the door, hoping that it would end Logan's tears, or maybe he was just too much of a coward to sit and face the gravity of his mistake.

He really didn't know.

For almost an hour, he stood at the door to Logan's room waiting for the sounds of crying to subside, which didn't quell his worry any. Fatigue set in soon enough. He headed upstairs to crash on the couch, avoiding the remnants of the shattered, precious porcelain that littered the floor.

Another beautiful thing he'd managed to break.

XII. Angel

Carlos was never good with metaphors – or similes, whatever – but he knew exactly what to relate his relationship with Logan to, with the inclusion of James.

Next to her front porch, Mrs. Wainwright had a replica of a Japanese koi pond, surrounded by beautiful glittering stones and filled with the most elegant, lively fish Carlos had ever seen, painted with reds and blues and yellows with a gray base. He'd never been particularly interested in fish unless they were breaded and baked, but even he knew that the fish were special, probably not meant for any type of ingestion.

When he was young, both Mrs. Wainwright and his mother specifically had instructed him not to touch any of the fish, and really it was their fault when, subsequently, all he'd wanted to do was grab one of them, maybe pet them if that was possible. Whenever he'd seen Mrs. Wainwright's car leave her garage, he would rush over to her front porch and attempt to do so frequently, dipping his hands to cool water and running his fingers along their frilly dorsal fins, giggling at his rendition of petting.

He'd quickly learned that grabbing any of them was an impossibility. Their scales were too slick and slippery, and his small hands were too wet and slow. It'd been so frustrating, watching his hands enclose around their bodies as tightly as he could without hurting them and being so sure that he'd succeeded, only to have them slide deftly through his fingers. He'd try and try until his arms and the front of his shirt were soaking wet, or until Mrs. Wainwright returned home and caught him, though she would never punished him for it.

Logan reminded of a koi, beautiful and special, slipping ever so steadily from his grasp no matter how tightly he held on, how desperate he was to keep and him.

The first time Logan casually skipped out on one of their movie nights, Carlos hadn't been too bothered. Sure, he had to spend the day alone, but Logan did have other priorities sometimes, especially with a boyfriend. It was inevitable that it would happen at least once – only it wasn't a singular occurrence.

Logan was suddenly missing their movie nights more frequently, and their lunches together all but ceased to exist, and he didn't invite Carlos to hang out with he and James as much. Logan was always busy or out with James, and he didn't notice how is relationship with Carlos had shifted, had begun to deteriorate at its very core. None of that should have made Carlos as dejected as he was. It was all expected. It was something he'd been prepared for since day one, because it always happened. Friends came and went.

But he wasn't prepared for it, not at all, because Logan wasn't just his friend; he hadn't been for a while, and he couldn't class Logan with deserters, not when Logan filled the holes in his life so perfectly, like Carlos never thought we be possible ever again, like he belonged there–

He did belong there, and Carlos needed to keep him there.

He just didn't know how to – at least, until Logan had come to his house one Saturday evening, the most downtrodden Carlos had ever seen him. Carlos hadn't been particularly happy with him, but upon the sight of his normally cheerful friend so miserable, eyes tired and dull, fingers hands wringing each other out anxiously, every negative emotion had dissipated in an instant.

Logan's happiness took top priority over his own feelings.

Once Carlos had doted over and wheedled an explanation out of his dejected friend, Logan explained that, after a series of disagreements on James' definition of commitment and plenty of abstruse tension, he and James had agreed to "take a break", which meant they were essentially still close friends – too close in Carlos' opinion.

Carlos literally had to turn away from Logan's view, knowing that of all the emotions he felt at the news – anger at James for Logan's unhappy disposition, joy at Logan once again being available, disgust at himself for being cheerful about Logan's status, thoughtful about his next plan of action – joy would be the one shining on his face, and Logan probably wouldn't appreciate that.

Once he'd gotten himself into check, he did the best he could to comfort Logan, reciting lines of consolation that he remembered from their romance flicks, hugging him until he was sure Logan's ribs had collapsed, offering Logan whatever he needed that would change his mood, being the best friend that he possibly could.

And then, Logan had said something that altered Carlos' entire perception on the progression of their relationship, something that drove his righteous actions from thereon out.

"Are you sure you don't wanna drink? It's supposed to fix, like, all break-up drama and junk," Carlos asked facetiously, nudging the boy next to him on the couch.

Logan smiled dimly and nudged him back with an elbow, "Where'd you hear that?"

"Where I hear everything, T.V.," Carlos shrugged and grinned. "Guy breaks up with his girlfriend or something, goes into a bar and drinks all night, and then, poof!" he brought up both of his hands and fluttered them about for effect. "He's all better." And okay, maybe he was leaving out a big part in the middle there, like a crying in a car or a hooker or murder or something, but Logan probably wouldn't know that.

"I think you're missing a big part in the middle of that process," Logan quirked an eyebrow and pushed one of Carlos' fluttering hands away from his face.

Then again, Logan did know everything. "Not important," Carlos waved off the skeptical look he was given. "Point is, it led to happiness."

"Eventually."

"Eventually," Carlos repeated with a nod, then added under his breath, "after a few hookers." Logan heard him clearly and his smile widened before he exploded into a fit of surprising laughter, nearly doubling over in his mirth. It was the first time he'd exhibited genuine joviality since he'd arrived over an hour ago. The joyous sound served to energize Carlos fully.

Logan sighed contently before hesitantly leaning over to lie his head on Carlos' shoulder, back to his somber mood. Carlos automatically wrapped an arm around his shoulders, fingers teasing absently at the collar of his t-shirt.

After few false starts, Logan murmured out, "I know it's not…masculine or anything to say this…"

"Dude, we cry every time we watch The Notebook," Carlos reminded him with a snort, curious as to what Logan wanted to say.

"Sound reasoning," Logan smirked briefly. "I just…I can't thank you enough for being here for me – not just today, I mean, always, and that's cool." He blushed and scratched uncomfortably at his head, ruffling the styled spikes of his hair. Carlos' unusually focused gaze probably wasn't helping his nerves. It wasn't often that Logan shared…or had feelings, so he was understandably struck. "I know I'm not the coolest person to hang out with, or the most entertaining, so it's cool having you around and…you know…cool."

Carlos blinked owlishly at the sentiment before a teasing smile lit up his face. "That's so cool." Logan frowned at him before he began to withdraw. "Oh, come on! I was kidding! " Carlos panicked and pulled him back In, no real effort required. He was far too accustomed to his friend combating any teasing with witty, sometimes confusing sarcasm. "What made you get all 'serious face' all of a sudden?"

Carlos felt Logan shrug and shift against his side. "I don't know, probably something to do with feeling miserable." And there was the sarcasm, back with a vengeance. "Earlier, I was thinking about how you were literally the only person I could come to with this…it sort of put a few things into perspective."

Not trusting his mouth to form an appropriate response, Carlos simply laid his cheek on Logan's head, hair tickling his cheek. Logan snorted self-deprecatingly, "It's kind of pathetic knowing how alone I'd be if I didn't have you, even if I haven't seen you as much recently.

"I really do appreciate you, Carlos."

XIII. Demon

Saturday morning, Carlos was awoken by the sound of his doorbell's piercing chime.

Groggy and stiff from his makeshift bed, he rolled off the couch until he crashed onto the floor, groaning into the wood. After a few failed attempts to get up, he lied there, hoping whoever it was at the door would kindly get lost. A second later, the same irritating chime rang into his ears, forcing him to pick himself after a series of labored grunts and stretches.

Still exhausted from not being able to sleep in, Carlos wandered blindly to the door, figuring he could make it without torturing his eyes with harsh sunlight. The events from the previous night hadn't registered in fog enshrouded head yet, which meant he completely forgot about the shards of porcelain in the hall. "Shit!" he yelped when he stepped in the minefield, bouncing on one foot around the radius of the disaster site and shaking his injured foot until he shook out the shard embedded loosely in his foot.

When he made it to the door, he was already sour for the morning and had a fierce glare ready for his unwanted visitor. Throwing open the door, he saw that it was–

James.

Suddenly enough, the haze in his mind cleared and memories of last night flooded in and he tensed, eyes wide with anxiety at the man standing calmly in front of him, dressed as flawlessly as he usually was. Carlos chanced a gander down at his own attire and, yep, he was still only in and undershirt and sweatpants.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned carefully, voice rough from sleep. James gave no answer, only slid past Carlos into the house as if he was the owner, and already Carlos was angry. He didn't stop him, however. He knew he needed to analyze every action he made and every word he said for error, else he'd slip up.

That couldn't happen.

"James, what do you want?" he tried again, gaze following James as he walked slowly, methodically into the house, only a few feet away from the door. It was often that one saw James so pensive, scanning over every object in his sight as if in a new light. Carlos kept the door open, just in case he needed to quickly usher him out.

Then, James turned to him. "I want you to tell me where Logan is."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know any–"

"Yes you do," he glared fiercely, peering straight into Carlos' eyes and no. Carlos returned with a hardened glare of his own, resisting the urge to turn away from clear hazel irises, because if he did, he knew he'd stare directly at the basement door, and no. The only emotion he let show was the one he felt most honestly.

Hatred.

James leaned against a wall and crossed his arms, leather jacket emitting a certain element of ferocity, expression constant. "At first, I thought maybe he went back home for some emergency or something and ignored my calls, since he won't talk to me that much after I–"

"After you were a flaky bastard with him?" Carlos supplied with a tilt of his head.

A disdainful sniff was the only acknowledgment he received. "So if he was, he'd tell his professors or administrations so he could still keep up with all of his work. Logan never misses any of it," James gave a fond, fleeting smile, raising ire within Carlos. "But he didn't tell anyone where he was going, not even his parents, and you say you don't know anything…"

Then, there was an unidentifiable smirk playing across his lips, no trace of humor to be found, and he was sauntering forward until he was directly in front of Carlos, and he craned his upper body forward until their noses were too close. "But you're lying."

Carlos held his own under the penetrating, weighty stare he was given, trying his best not to tremble at the minty breath that fanned over his lips. He knew he couldn't crumble under this – him, because if he did, he'd fail to protect Logan from falling back into the arms of a demon. Over and over in his mind, he repeated to himself: James didn't know anything.

"Everyone on campus knows you're some kind of hyperactive, psychopathic freak, and no one wants to be around you." James didn't know anything. "The only reason Logan's still friends with you is because he's too blind to see what dead weight you are to his social life." James didn't know anything. "The sooner you get over the creepy fetish you have with him, the better." James didn't know anything. "He loves me, and he's not going to up and fall for you anytime soon, so get that out of your freakish brain."

"Get out," Carlos whispered venomously through his grinding teeth, fists shaking with rage at his sides. James withdrew from their close proximity, shocked at the demand, but made no mood to leave. "Get out!"

James flinched and returned Carlos' glare, but held up his palms in silent surrender, backing slowly towards the front door and away from him. Carlos had to restrain himself from rushing to violently shove James so hard that his skull exploded on concrete. He was already showing too much, giving too much away; he wouldn't let the Devil win.

Before he was completely out the door, James said evenly, without a hint of insincerity, "Just know that if you did anything to Logan, I'll fucking kill you myself," and then he was gone, leaving the door open for Carlos to slam and lock behind him.

Threat no longer present, Carlos slid to the floor with his back against the door, letting loose every shake of fear that he'd managed to cover. His breath came out in deep exhales. His fingernails dug painfully into his palms. Were his eyes not so tightly clenched, tears of frustration would have spilled out. His trembling hand reached into his shirt to pull out the keys, holding them in a deadly grip while he said a silent prayer.

XIV. Distilled

Saving Logan proved to be more difficult than it appeared at first glance.

For one, Logan remained obstinate throughout all of his efforts. Carlos invited Logan to move out of his dingy apartment and move into his large home which had two unused bedrooms. Not only would it sever Logan's dependence on his parents, but he would be out of that disgusting building and living with Carlos. How awesome would that be? Carlos had already imagined waking up to the smell of burnt food and finding Logan in downstairs in the kitchen, smiling sheepishly as he held out a plate of runny eggs, burnt toast and undercooked bacon that Carlos would eagerly wolf down, because Logan was a really terrible chef and how could Carlos not love him? Maybe that image wasn't perfect to anyone else, but for Carlos, it was a dream.

Only Logan was too proud and too independent to ever accept the request. As soon as Carlos had offered, he'd immediately declined without hearing every wonderful pro of the new living situation, saying that he didn't want to take advantage of their friendship, and that the commute to campus from the apartment was quicker. No amount of reasoning swayed him from his decision, which wasn't awesome. At all.

The second problem was the most frequently recurring aggravation that Carlos had ever known; James. Only two or three days after Logan had told Carlos of their better, James had begun his ill pursuit. Logan told Carlos of the pining text messages and phone calls, and even then they were tame versions of the originals, leaving Carlos to wonder what James did when the two of them were together or anything else that Logan didn't divulge.

To make matters worse, Logan was beginning to weaken to his advances. Carlos could see it each time James sent him a message on his phone; the way Logan's face lit up and the sides of his eyes crinkled with amusement, his lips formed a small smile and his thumbs worked nimbly to respond. The sight made him so envious, so disappointed in himself for allowing his friend, the one he was meant to protect, to fall for a demon once more – or, maybe Logan had never stopped in the first place?

But what he could do but sit on the sidelines, watching his friend doom himself to inevitable pain? Talking did nothing; persuasion and logic weren't too things he had great grasp on, not that stubborn Logan would listen. Hoping and praying for Logan's safety was just as futile, maybe even more so. His mother wouldn't be able to bear the sight of him in God's Kingdom if he failed the most important duty he'd ever been given – aiding the boy he loved.

He needed to do more, use more than just his words and his faith, use his actions.

It was literally the most thought and effort he'd ever put into any task in his life – saving Logan – but he couldn't be sloppy. He had to put every bit of effort he could into it, one-hundred percent.

He did research on what he needed to do, which was surprisingly easy with the amount of content on the internet and on television, describing ways that criminals managed to keep unwilling victims for long periods of time. Carlos didn't associate their actions with his at all; they were criminals, kidnapping for their own selfish reasons and personal gain. He was going to protect his younger friend, shield him from the harsh world around them and stop him from causing himself any pain.

Other things he needed took more time, but were just as easy to gather. His basement was well below round and firmly insulated, insuring that sound sparsely made its way between barriers. He made sure there was nothing sharp or anything that could be used for escape in the basement bathroom. He had a locksmith install new locks on every door in the house to avoid suspicion, not only the basement and front doors. With him living alone in a large house, the excuse swung by without a hitch. He didn't get ropes or anything, feeling they were too harsh and shady, opting instead to utilize his father's handcuffs, proud at their continued virtuous usage. Rophynol wasn't something he'd preferred to use, but he recited the "ends justify the means" axiom to quell his nerves.

Weeks later on a Sunday night while he was over at Logan's apartment, he decided to go through with his plan. The dilapidated apartment complex only housed three people besides Logan: the curmudgeonly landlord who was seldom present – which explained the poor conditions, an old spinster who rarely left her room, and a recovering drug addict on parole. There was no one who would see him or accuse him of wrongdoing when he…took Logan, along with some of his effects.

He would never say kidnap; that's what criminals did. What he was doing would make Logan happy, and that's all that mattered.

XV. Equidistance

"Loges, do you wanna come outside with me?"

Carlos had figured out his mistake after his encounter with James. His first desire to simmer down his anger, after he'd cleaned up the vase, had been to visit the backyard and immerse himself in the floral garden, to breath in the fresh, colorful scents to calm his nerves. Then it hit him, how selfish and stupid he was being; didn't Logan need to calm down as well? Wouldn't it be nice for Logan to smell something besides carpet and wintermint toothpaste all of the time? He'd rushed downstairs immediately after the idea surfaced, even forgetting to carefully open the door to Logan's room, less suffer another bruise to the skull. There was only one flaw in the idea, but he would handle it.

Logan jumped at the sound of his voice, face full of surprise and anxiety at the proposal. "What?"

"Outside," Carlos pointed out the door animatedly, "with me! It's Saturday and it's all nice out. Wanna come out to the backyard?" Logan stilled on the bed, and Carlos thought he was going to deny the offer until he scrambled off the bed and padded close, excitement palpable. Before he could try and exit the door, Carlos held out a halting hand to his chest. "But, you have to promise me that you won't scream or try to run when we get out there."

The nod he received was begrudging, but devoid of any falsehood, and it made him beam in return. "Good, 'cause if you do, I'm gonna have to stop you stop you somehow," he said, smile morphing into something feral. Yes, he knew it wasn't cool to use Logan's intimidation of him to his gain, but he really wanted to take him outside. It would be good for both of them.

Carlos kept a soft yet secure grip on Logan's wrist as he led the way to the backdoor, both to ensure that Logan didn't jet away and to feel the warm, somewhat clammy skin beneath his fingers. It was pleasant. He unlocked the door, noticing Logan's irritated frown as he did, and pulled the taller boy outside behind him.

The backyard wasn't very elaborate or large, only containing an old wooden porch swing his parents had bought from a garage sell, the garden, and a walkway made of circular stones separating the two areas. The garden itself was made of two rectangular beds, each with six horizontal rows of vibrantly colored petals, the contrasting hues resembling a rainbow sliced in half, jumbled up and glued back together – that's how Carlos liked to view it, anyway.

Once they were sitting down, momentum swinging them idly on the croaking seat, Carlos stared at Logan from his peripherals, hoping to heaven for a positive reaction. Logan was squinting, eyes still adjusting to the sunlight. His breaths were long, even, and less hoarse than previous, almost as if the fresh air purified his lungs and throat. His skin looked healthy in the warm glow of the sun, nowhere near as sickly as it had before, which was a blessing. All of it was.

Carlos' tanned hand released Logan's wrist, a proud smile spreading across his lips at the accomplishment. Knowing he could trust Logan, Carlos stood and walked the short distance to the edge of the closest bed, crouching down and pointing to a row of pink clustered flowers for Logan to see. "See these? These are begonias. They're super easy to take care of and tough, like the Hulk." Carlos turned to Logan and put on a brutish face, flexing his biceps to imitate the fictional hero before grinning and bouncing over to another row.

"These ones are moonflowers," he petted the closed, trumpet-like white petals of a nearby flower softly. "They only open up around nighttime, and they smell really good." Pink spread across Carlos' cheeks and he muttered, "I was kinda thinking of giving you some of them once they matured," then he was standing a pointing to a row flowers on the second bed, not waiting for any response. "Oh, and those blue and yellows ones over there are morning glories."

He didn't know what he was doing, blabbering on about different types of flowers. Maybe he was trying to fill the heavy silence over them, or maybe he wanted to impress Logan with his floral knowledge, or maybe he wanted to distract himself from Logan's declining physical health. It wasn't really successful. Logan's face was expressionless, dull chocolate orbs following Carlos' every movement attentively. He looked exhausted, defeated, draped heavily over the porch swing. It explained why he hadn't attempted to escape.

After explaining things about few more flowers, Carlos stopped in the middle of closest flowerbed, in front of a row of short, lavender-colored flowers with petals that resembled quills. "These are China asters." A somber smile curled the corners of his mouth upward, "they were my mom's favorite, because they were the first type of flowers she tried to go, and they come in a bunch of colors."

Talking about his mother winded him, and he retook his place next to Logan on the swing. "Mami used to have this one saying – she said she got him from her grandmother and she used it on dad all the time. It's kind of what I go by, all the time, you know?" He scraped a fingernail nervous against the bench, "It goes 'Haces lo que puedas para proteger lo que amas'."

Carlos could see the tinge of confusion in Logan's near-blank expression, so he continued on unsteadily. "It – um, it means…'Do what you can to protect what you love' in Spanish." He forced him to look directly into Logan's eye when he said it, not willing to let fear overtake him.

Logan's dark brows furrowed deeply and his dry lips twisted into a frown and, for a moment, Carlos thought he would still have to spell everything out for his friend. Then, all at once, realization shined on his face, eyes wide and mouth taking air in a sharp gasp.

"Carlos, I…are you…" Hearing the inquiring lilt in his tone, Carlos nodded vigorously, having anticipated the clarification. One part of him was relieved to finally have his feelings out in the open, while another part feared hearing Logan's negative reaction, if that were to come. "…why did you do this?" Logan spoke again and there was no anger or hatred, but disappointment, and that hurt so much worse than he'd ever imagined.

He didn't want to be a failure on top of all else.

He knew couldn't give Logan vague explanations any longer, and the words spilled from his mouth like a verbal waterfall. "I don't know, I just – I thought if I did this, I could protect you from everything like I'm supposed to. I mean, I tried to help before, but I was so useless and I couldn't do anything and you were so sad, especially with James, and–"

"What does James have to do with this?" Logan frowned.

"James is the reason you were so sad all the time," he couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone with the statement. Logan caught onto it. "He's the reason you felt alone in the first place, just because he couldn't stop being a whore. He wasn't any good, and he…," his voice grew quiet here, and picked at the cotton fabric of his pants, "…he was gonna take you away from me."

Logan silently stared at him before his gaze drifted over to flowerbed, red godetias and white geraniums reflected in his eyes. "Carlos, you're my best friend, definitely the longest friend I've ever had, and I thought you understood me better than most people, including my own parents and James. Apparently, I was wrong."

Flustered, Carlos rushed to correct him, "But, I do know you–"

"No, you don't." Logan's voice was stern and forceful, but not angry, making Carlos shut his mouth instantly. "If you did, you'd know that I would have never abandoned you. I can't believe you thought I was that type of person."

"No, with James, you–"

"James is…was my boyfriend. That title doesn't indicate that he controls any aspect of my life, especially not my friends. I choose who I want to associate with, and he has no influence over that. If James had ever given me an ultimatum between the two of you, I would've chosen you in a heartbeat, and he knew that – I knew that." Logan's gaze shifted to him, displeasure evident. "The only one who didn't was you."

Carlos blinked away the stinging pain in his eyes, turning away from his friend. "…I'm sorry, Logan."

The stern tone left Logan's voice, leaving him sounding tired and soft, "I know you are."

"I didn't know what to do. I was so tired of seeing how sad and alone you were, and I was too, and I couldn't talk you into changing it…or anything. I don't know, I – I'm so sorry. I didn't know how else to protect you and keep you with me. I didn't want to fail."

Logan shook his head and stared up at the blue, cloudy sky. "Sheltering someone from the world and its flaws isn't protecting them. It's dooming them to unbridled ignorance and leaving them susceptible to psychological breakdown after imminent exposure to environment external to their shell shifts their manually altered perception of reality. Did you want me to go insane?"

Carlos didn't understand most of what Logan said, but he understood the last part, and he immediately shook his head. "No, of course not!"

"That's what you would have caused, even if it wasn't your intent," Logan shrugged shallowly, as if there was no real gravity to his words. Carlos knew he was the cause of that as well.

"…I'm a bad friend, huh?" Carlos asked with a humorless smile.

"Misguided. Radical," Logan answered, leaving Carlos to wonder.

"Do you hate me?"

"I should."

Silence followed soon after, draped over them lightly. Carlos knew Logan wanted to hear more, know more, tell Carlos everything he'd done wrong, or maybe just leave, but there was something that ate at him so ferociously – he had to ask.

"If I...," he choked after swallowing a large lump in his throat, "if I let you go right now, would you still be my friend? Would you stay with me?" After he asked, he made sure not to watch Logan, not to search for any signs of lying. If Logan lied and agreed, maybe he could live with that fantasy for a little bit, knowing that he wasn't the cause of another lost friend.

He kept his eyes on the China asters, listening to Logan's contemplative sigh.