AN: Guys this is the second story I've updated today, look at me GO! Okay, I'm good now, lol. I just love updating and I love when I can do it often.

Anyway, thank you guys so much for the response to the first chapter! I'm so glad you guys like this story! I'm not sure if there will be one or two more chapters, but for now, here's chapter two! Behold the James angst! (Sigh) I really can't just write anything happy, can I? Lol, anyway, I hope you guys like it!

TRIGGER WARNING for purging and mentions of drug use.

He was officially going to lose his mind.

Five days. Five days he'd gone eating only fruits and vegetables and whatever meat he could get his hands on that wasn't dripping in grease. Five days of spending an hour in the gym each day, in addition to their taxing dance rehearsals and the studio and general horsing off. Five days. . . and he'd lost three-tenths of a pound?!

The scale couldn't possibly be right. It was broken or jammed or something because all that work could not have possibly been for barely three-tenths of a pound. He'd fully intended to get the extra weight off his body in only a week or two, extreme an idea as that was. He was counting on his metabolism and diet to get him there, and at this rate? He'd be lucky to get to 170.

"James!" came Kendall's voice through the door as he pounded on the wooden frame. "We're gonna start the movie without you if you don't hurry up!"

"I'm coming!" James snapped back good-naturedly. He slipped the scale back into its spot and stood, gazing into the mirror with a sigh. If he didn't know the number, he was sure he wouldn't have an issue. But 172 played on a continuous loop inside his head, and it was driving him up a wall, especially considering everything he'd gone through during the week to get the number back down.

Realizing it had been a while since Kendall had knocked and that the others would likely get suspicious, he quickly slipped his shirt back on over his head and headed out into the living room.

Logan and Kendall had already set out a generous array of unhealthy snacks in front of the orange couch. Carlos sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a massive pile of DVDs while using an even more massive swirly straw to drink from a soda can on the table.

"Will you pick a movie already?" Logan complained, looking irritably at the helmet-clad Latino.

Carlos kept the straw clenched between his teeth and muttered something unintelligible before returning to his pile. Logan shared a confused look with Kendall and shrugged before dropping down onto the couch and chugging from his water bottle (he couldn't sleep if he drank soda after six p.m., the nerd). James and Kendall plopped down aside of him, and Carlos followed after popping a DVD in.

The movie turned out to be "Finding Nemo;" Carlos chose it specifically because Logan detested it, and the other three boys always relished in torturing him with multiple cries of, "Shark bait! Hoo-hah-hah!" throughout the night. As was their custom, they missed the first third of the movie in their rush for the tasty snacks they'd set out. A large bowl of popcorn was passed down the line, and James hesitated, then waved it away when Kendall offered it.

Kendall raised his eyebrows. "No?"

James shook his head, confusing Kendall even more. "Nah," he said. "I'm. . ." He paused, unwilling to say, "I'm watching my weight," because James Diamond didn't need to watch his weight. An answer like that was sure to get a tease from the guys, however harmlessly they might mean it. He finally settled for, "I'm a little queasy."

That of course immediately caught Logan's attention, and he peered over Kendall's head to question James silently as the other two boys' focus returned to the movie. "Are you good?" he whispered, though James couldn't really hear him over the tv.

He got the message though and nodded, hoping the look he gave was a reassuring smile. Logan was a bit unconvinced, but he seemed to accept the answer and turned back to the screen. James' eyes remained glued to the bowl of popcorn that now sat in front of Kendall on the coffee table, and he fidgeted uncomfortably. He wasn't even hungry, not really. He'd eaten dinner; okay, he'd eaten a salad, but it was a truly massive salad topped with every healthy thing in the fridge (it had really been worthy of the Food Network, too), so he wasn't starving. But . . . the food was there. They always pigged out on junk food during movies, and he loved popcorn.

Popcorn was just air, right? It was literally nothing. It was so few calories, it wouldn't even make a difference. He hesitated, then grabbed a fistful and shoved it into his mouth. He had barely even started to chew before he realized it was covered in butter. Well, duh. They never ate plain popcorn. What was fun about that?

James suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to gag, and he fought to keep the food in his mouth. Logan would be all over his case if he puked, and that was the last thing James needed. He physically forced himself to swallow, and the popcorn felt like a sickening weight as it traveled down his esophagus. His appetite, already meager, completely vanished after that, as he literally felt the popcorn sitting like lead in his stomach.

The movie took an eternity to finish, and the boys quickly cleaned up and headed to bed while trying to keep quiet for Mrs. Knight and Katie's sakes. James managed to plaster a smile on his face as he and Carlos peeked into their friends' room (just as Logan was drifting off to sleep) to whisper-yell, "Sharkbait! Hoo-hah-hah!" Carlos passed out before his head hit the pillow, and James glanced enviously at his friend as he gathered a clean set of clothes and headed for their bathroom. Carlos could tolerate sleeping in his own sweat for a while. James could not, and they'd had a particularly hard dance session that day. Yes, a shower was an absolute must.

He locked the door (since Carlos was known for stumbling to the bathroom at all hours to pee without even opening his eyes once. . . he actually had impeccable aim, which James could never figure out) and immediately turned the shower on. He hated stepping into a shower before it was warmed up.

He stripped his socks off before moving onto his shirt, stopping to stare at himself in the mirror after throwing the clothes on the floor. He didn't. . . he didn't look fat – did he? He never considered himself fat before. He was toned and built, and he took a lot of pride in the way he stayed in shape. He fought to keep his body looking the way it did, even though he'd never had any particular trouble with his weight. But now. . .

Oh, gosh he literally looked pudgy. He could practically see the fat as he leaned in close to the mirror and studied himself. His chest wasn't so bad, but his stomach made him nauseated. He could see the muscle, but he couldn't feel it when he tightened his stomach or when he ran his fingers across his skin. In fact, he could feel fat as he grasped a section of his stomach with his hand.

He glanced towards the scale and didn't even hesitate to pull it from beside the sink. He stepped onto it quickly, trying to ignore the way his stomach flipped because as much as he needed to know the number, he was dreading it.

172.

During a very dark time in James' past, a time he'd really tried as best he could to never acknowledge, he'd taken to getting high to deal with his parents' divorce. It wasn't a good solution, and he knew that. It was the whole reason he'd become so focused on his appearance, really. He needed an alternative coping mechanism that wasn't smoking himself into oblivion, and the mirror gave it to him. It didn't disappoint him.

But before that, before he'd really gotten into grooming himself to look like a brunette cross between Matthew McConaughey and Leonardo DiCaprio. . . before that had been the withdrawal when he tried to stop smoking. His older sister Gwen had advertised weed and cocaine quite well, considering how willingly he'd taken up the habit with her. But she hadn't warned him what it would feel like when he suddenly deprived himself of the white powder. James missed two hockey games and more time with his family than he could count because he'd locked himself away in his bedroom to try and stop the symptoms. The shaking was terrible, so bad he couldn't even grasp anything. He stood with his arms uselessly limp at his sides as his hands trembled ferociously. There were times he was so dizzy he couldn't even leave his bed, and he'd once had to crawl on the floor like a dog to get to the bathroom because he couldn't even stand upright. But the worst was the panic.

He'd only had two panic attacks, one occurring not even three days after he'd quit cold turkey (which in hindsight, wasn't the smartest idea). But he remembered the horribly dark feeling sweeping over him as suddenly as a light bulb going out, and before he knew it he was shaking and crying and feeling as though he were literally having a heart attack in his bathroom.

Ironically, he was technically now in the same place; a bathroom, just the one adjacent to his and Carlos' room, and not the one down the hall from his room at his mother's house. The feeling was identical though. He felt the panic creep over him like water, and he froze in place, running his fingers through his hair as his breathing accelerated and he desperately tried to get a hold of himself.

It's just a number, he repeated to himself, stepping off the scale and nearly tossing it back into its place. He couldn't bear to see it. It's just a number.

Except it wasn't.

It wasn't just a number. It was him.

He shouldn't have eaten the popcorn. Heck, he shouldn't have eaten such a large salad. He'd read once that you were only supposed to have one serving of fruit per day, as if two apples instead of one could somehow backfire and cause a massive weight gain. Maybe that was true for vegetables. Maybe all the healthy-looking food he'd piled on his plate earlier was rebelling against him for some reason. The popcorn certainly was. That had been a stupid decision on his part, really. He did so well through the entire week, and he'd ruined it with that. He wanted it out.

Gwen had purged a few times. She was a flyer in cheerleading, and she liked to brag about being the lightest on her team. Even at a young age, James knew it wasn't healthy. Food wasn't supposed to come back out like that. But she swore by it. And he'd heard girls talk about it at their school back home, and on social media, and even a few at the Palmwoods. And yeah, it wasn't anywhere close to the majority of them, but. . . surely it couldn't be that bad if so many people did it, right?

James eyed the toilet beside him warily, resisting the urge to wring his hands. He swallowed with a bit of difficulty. This couldn't possibly be a good idea.

But. . . he was "The Face" of Big Time Rush. He was supposed to look good. And "good" in Hollywood was absolutely not 172 pounds. Not by a long shot.

He knelt cautiously in front of the toilet and readied his finger, staring into the water as his pulse pounded in his chest. He really hoped it wouldn't hurt.

When they had to get shots, Logan always told them the anticipation was the worst part. Sitting in the waiting room shaking like a leaf and imagining gruesome pain was much worse than the actual injections, and on most occasions, he was proven right.

Not this time. This time, the anticipation was much more tolerable than the actual action.

James had a weak gag reflex; he got nauseated at the sight of anything even remotely grotesque. So, he'd barely gotten his finger to the back of his throat before he started gagging. He wasn't supposed to be throwing up, so his stomach heaved painfully until it expelled a good portion of his food from that day. He had no way to control when he stopped, and he continued to gag and heave and spit for at least a full two minutes before his stomach stopped trying to empty itself. It clenched painfully, and sharp jabs radiated from his torso up through his chest. His throat burned.

He leaned against the wall behind him, thankful he'd left the shower running to conceal the sounds as he wheezed. He clutched his stomach with a grimace. How did his sister do that on a weekly basis? James felt like he was dying.

The pain gradually subsided, and James gathered the strength to stand and flush his mess down the toilet. The food was out, and that was what mattered, although he was fairly certain he'd never do that again. And clearly avoiding food was going to be a problem.

He'd have to find another way.

AN: What did you guys think? Please review! I love hearing your feedback! I hope everyone has a Happy Easter! Remember, HE IS RISEN! God bless you!

-downtonabbey15