Don't expect two chapters in one day again buuuuut I couldn't leave it like that :) (I'm a big softie, haha)
There aren't really a lot of Logans in Kendall's middle school.
There are a shit ton of jocks, plenty of preps, and a strong skateboarding crowd, but the few emos are late catching up; most still lean heavier on the side of goth, take added inspiration from the Vegas scene, and kind of just freak Kendall the fuck out.
So when James mentions Logan for the first time, Kendall's kind of expecting another James, and on the first ride over to Carlos's house where they'll be meeting and jamming together, the only flip-flops in his stomach are from never having like, been on a friend double date before. That's just. Weird.
Some experimental beats on a drumkit, the kind you'd hear before a set, grow louder as James swings open the basement door and Kendall follows him down the stairs. There's so much fucking shit everywhere that it's all Kendall notices at first - amps and instruments and crates and old exercise equipment and a giant fucking Barbie Dream House - and he's being introduced before he's even lifted his eyes.
"This is Kendall. Kendall, Carlos."
Carlos smiles and waves a drumstick in greeting, and Kendall waves back shyly, sliding a hand through his hair. "Hey."
"Where's Logan?" James asks.
"Getting drinks because Carlos's a lazy-ass."
Kendall turns around at the sound of the voice and forgets where he is. He forgets why he's here and what instruments he plays and his date of birth and possibly his own name.
Yeah, it's like that.
He forgets pretty much everything but what's in front of him: the dark fringe of hair that Logan flips out of his eyes with a flick of his head, the pink Fall Out Boy tee hugging his tiny frame, the jut of his hipbones visible beneath, just over the top of a pair of girls' skinny jeans, and Kendall knows they're girls' because he maybe kind of has the same pair. They look a thousand times better on Logan. Then again, the guts of rotted fish would probably look good on Logan.
Logan smiles, small and bemused, taking the last step down to the basement floor until he and Kendall are eye-level, and hands Carlos a fizzing, ice-filled glass of Coke.
He hasn't stopped looking at Kendall, and extends his newly freed hand. "Hi."
Kendall takes it on instinct, and it's cold and damp from the glass, which is really awesome because Kendall's pretty sure the room's about a thousand degrees right now, and his fingers - Jesus fucking Christ, this dude's fingers are long. He'd be an amazing pianist, and no, Kendall is totally not already having images of him seated at the keys, fingers sweeping nimbly across them, the long line of his neck exposed as he leans over slightly and OH MY GOD.
A thousand degrees, seriously.
"I'm Logan."
"I'm. Uh. Hi."
In Kendall's head, at that moment, a long, long line of exclamation marks paired haphazardly with question marks streams through his brain. He's pretty sure he hears Carlos snort, but it doesn't sound mean, it just sounds... unsurprised.
Logan smiles. "And... you're Kendall?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Hi."
"Hi." Logan releases his hand. "So, thanks for coming."
"No, it's - yeah, totally, thanks for, uh. Yeah."
Logan and Carlos share a look that means absolutely nothing to Kendall but seems to carry an entire fucking conversation for them. He'd be jealous, but there isn't much room in his brain right now for any emotions other than 'blguhrph.'
"What did you guys want to do today?" Logan asks, turning back to him.
"I, um. I do a really good Gollum impression?"
Oh, wow.
That. Seriously. There - there has to be an award for that. Right now Kendall is fully blown away by his own capacity for complete and total loserdom, and he already knew his capacity was sky-high.
But Carlos laughs and Logan grins and says, "Do it."
Oh Jesus fuck.
Kendall gears up his voice, clears his throat, offers a mental fuck-you to the part of his brain that's laughing and pointing at him, and launches into one of the better "my precious" soliloquies, complete with crouching and gesturing, ever the performer, losing himself even further in the character as the others start to crack up.
"See, I told you he could do anything," James smiles, and Kendall fights to keep his cheeks their normal ghostly-pale and not think of all the anythings he'd love to do to Logan right now.
"That's fuckin' sweet, dude," Carlos grins.
Logan's smiling too, but it seems to be against his better judgment. "So."
"So! Yeah. Um. I, uh. You guys know any Radiohead?"
Logan and Carlos share another conversation-look and a smile, and Logan says, "Go for it."
Kendall does, even adding in the solo bit he'd made up himself, forcing the chords to fade Logan from the forefront of his mind. He's suddenly remembering why he loves music, until out of nowhere, midway through, a voice joins his guitar, and he looks up to see Logan at the mic stand across the room, eyes locked on Kendall's, but Kendall can scarcely hear his voice over the sound of his own heartbeat.
He spends three minutes and thirty seconds willing himself not to fall. When Kendall falls, he doesn't tend to get back up very easily, and when he does, something's always broken.
At the end, Kendall opens his mouth to harmonize, catching the tail end of Logan's note, and Logan visibly melts.
James blinks, and Carlos stares with his mouth open, but he's staring at Logan, and Logan's staring at Kendall, and Kendall...
Kendall falls.
Then, there, that moment. That's when he falls, and all he can do is wait for Logan to pick him up.
Six years later, he's still waiting. Still fallen, still looking up, wondering how much will be broken if he ever gets back to his feet.
When Kendall's mind finally jolts back to a warped something resembling awareness, its first function is to shift around Kendall's definitions and perceptions until he unequivocally equates sunsets to loss, and there is a brief flash of thought about how sad that is, really, before the gears are finally turning in place and Kendall's feet are carrying him faster than he can think to the spot where Logan disappeared.
The word, disappeared, is really more sickeningly scary than it lets on, because it suggests Kendall doesn't know where Logan went, which might be easier to take, but the fact is Kendall knows exactly where Logan went.
Looking down is dizzying, and it's not from the height.
No one would be surprised to find out Kendall's a psychotic, speed-obsessed roller coaster connoisseur, the faster the better, gauging the awesomeness of each by how much time he spends suspended upside down in mid-air, how steep the drops are, how high his stomach jumps. There aren't many things that offer him that kind of rush - performing, in a way; sex, in another.
But now, frozen in the same patch of sparsely grass-coated ground where Logan's feet stood only seconds ago (maybe not firm, maybe not solid, but here), staring down into a wind-choppy expanse of air and endless space, nothing has ever looked more terrifying. And it's not the drop that's making his head spin like he's drunk; it's not the rough, angry waves crashing brutally against the rocks in the water; it's not even the rocks themselves.
It's the empty space where Logan should be surfacing, gasping for air, and crawling to shore.
Should.
Should and isn't, and that's enough for Kendall.
There's not much thought that goes into it; no should-I-or-shouldn't-I - if anything, his mind has shut down to basic functions, which leaves room for logic and no emotion, and that's pretty damn lucky, because it takes a fair bit of logic and zero emotion to try and judge the kind of running start he needs to be able to jump out far enough to avoid the rocks and hit deep enough water that he won't give himself a concussion.
There's a scrap of emotion that seeps into his thoughts, then, of the wreck and of Logan unconscious on the beach, coated in sand and seaweed and blood.
He forces it back like bile (and there's a fair bit of that to force back, too), launches himself forward until momentum and gravity fight for control over him, until the wind is whipping over him so fast he can't even inhale without choking; until there's nothing under his feet but air, and it's - it's no different, really, than the first time he crept up onto the high diving board at his neighborhood pool in his Power Rangers swim trunks, six years old and trembling, while his mom smiled at him from the side, calling up encouragement and promises of his survival.
The stretch of stopped time between the jump and the cannonball landing seemed to both last forever and not exist at all, and by the time he'd surfaced, rubbing at his eyes and smiling, his mom coming slowly into focus behind her applause, Kendall had learned to conquer fear.
This is. It's the same. It can be.
No different.
Kendall wonders what happens if a fear conquers you first - if it's conquered you for so long you can't even remember what it feels like not to be under its spell.
A darkening mass of ocean and rocks and angry white crests is growing closer, and Kendall closes his eyes.
"Kendall... Kendall. Honey, wake up."
"Uh-uh."
"Come on, sweetie. You need to get ready for church."
Kendall forces himself to roll over, finding he's twisted in the sheets and that Vinny, his stuffed koala, has dropped to the floor. "But it's my birthday."
His mother smiles, smoothing a strand of hair out of his face. "I know, honey. Happy Birthday. Presents later."
"Can my present be not going to church today?"
At once her face morphs into one Kendall hasn't seen in over a year, since the day she was putting on make-up and Kendall bounced on the bed and asked, "Can I try some too?"
As soon as he's out of sight of the main worship hall, he tears into a run, not stopping until he reaches the men's room.
It's like the sex ed classes cursed him.
He'd stuffed the slip of paper into his backpack, gave himself an ulcer trying to decide whether to let his parents see it and sign off yes or no, knowing already what their answer would be.
'It's not up to the secular school system to teach you these things, Kendall.'
He spends the weekend practicing forging his mother's signature, and walks into class on Monday, handing the slip to his teacher with shaking hands, as if she'll spot his guilt and call him out.
The lecture's bad enough, complete with flip-chart diagrams, but the video's worse, and Kendall leaves school with the solid, devastating knowledge that he'll never get married.
On Sunday his best friend Chase performs a solo in the church choir, and Kendall watches, transfixed by his voice, the way the light catches his hair and his hands curl around the base of the mic, and wonders if he might ever be able to sing like that.
Before he's finished this thought, his pants are tightening and Kendall's panicking and reaching for his suit jacket, wrapping it messily around his waist and whispering to his mother that he needs the restroom.
Chase's voice fades out as Kendall tears through the building, stopping breathless as he braces himself on the counter, one white-knuckled hand on either side of the sink, and when he looks into the mirror, his face is flushed, guilt-stricken, and he looks - feels - five years older.
He thinks of horrible, unappealing things, death, spinach, his English teacher, but nothing works, and he remembers Chase is in his English class, and suddenly it's worse.
God's fair, he thinks. It's a completely, logically fair punishment. His parents always say punishments work best when they match the sin.
He comes with a "forgive me" on his lips and his mind swirling with the image of Chase's pale fingers wrapped around the microphone.
"I'm not going to college."
It's a little anticlimactic, considering how many days he's been practicing it, trying to hear the words as they'd sound in this moment, right now, working to anticipate the reactions.
His parents are silent for a long time. Kendall can handle talking, because he can retaliate with the same. But he can't fight quiet with quiet. He's Kendall.
"What do you... mean?" his father finally asks, like the very concept contradicts the laws of the universe.
"I mean I'm not going," Kendall states, feeling his strength rise with each word. "I'm auditioning for a contract with my band. I believe in them. In us. I know we're gonna make it someday."
His parents share a Look, and Kendall's too frazzled to try to interpret it.
His father looks behind him, to Logan, James, and Carlos, and says, "I think you should leave us alone now."
Kendall turns around. Carlos is glaring at Kendall's dad, James's hands are slowly forming fists, and Logan's looking panicked but brave, ready to fight, his eyes questioning. Kendall nods, mouths ''I'll call you,' and they sulkily head for the door. Kendall hears it click shut and his heart sinks.
"Kendall. Honey," his mother starts. "Have you talked to God about this?"
Kendall turns back to her, and can't help the sardonic grin that creeps over his lips. "God doesn't talk to me anymore."
"Maybe you're not listening," his father says.
"Maybe God doesn't exist."
"Kendall Knight, I will not tolerate blasphemy in this home!" his father bellows, followed by his mother's quiet, tentative, "Is this about Logan?"
Kendall's eyes flash to hers in a panic. "What?"
His father is giving her a warning look, but she ignores it. "Are you - are you two. I mean. Kendall, are you engaging in sodomy with that boy?"
He can't help his eyes from rolling. "I'm not having sex with Logan," he hisses, hoping it doesn't sound as disappointed as it does in his head. "This is about the band, this is about making music, this is what I want to do with my life."
There is another long silence, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the apple-shaped clock on the kitchen wall, beside the fridge plastered with pictures from the last family reunion, of Kendall giving piggyback rides to his cousins, and his body starts to tremble at the thought that those days may only ever exist in his past, and not his future.
"Is that your choice then?" his father says quietly, and Kendall wants to say that it's not a choice, it's like breathing, there's no option for him, this is it, music is his religion, has been since he and Logan sang together, replacing hockey entirely.
But he stands there with his eyes closed, listens to twenty minutes of lecture and retaliation, fighting back only when he can't take the lunacy another second, and manages to hold his tears in until he's up in his room, digging out from under his bed the suitcase still boasting stickers and patches and friends' Sharpie notes from eleven years of church camp.
As he packs, Logan's smile flashes through his mind; Carlos's laughter; the way James tells stupid jokes that are somehow still funny. The way they sounded last night, listening back to their first track on GarageBand and the way Kendall's skin hummed with excitement, the way Logan looked at him at the moments when his best vocals shone through.
He sits on his suitcase to zip it up and doesn't pray for guidance. He's never understood the concept of praying for something you don't really want.
"Hey."
Kendall feels a hand on his elbow and knows, from the strength of the grip and the length of the fingers, the exact way they curl around him, that it's Logan.
He lets the hand guide him gently around, and smiles. "Hey."
He's just come from the bathroom, and as most of the guests have cleared out or are well on their way to passing out on the dance floor (or, if they're Guitar Dude, are still busy trying to photograph said passing out), they're alone.
"I, uh, we're leaving, so. I just wanted to say bye."
Kendall nods. "You, uh... staying in New York till tour starts, then?"
"Yeah. I - I think so. I mean, it's only a few weeks, and I haven't seen Beau in ages."
"Yeah."
"So."
Logan stuffs his hands in his pockets to get them out of his way. His suit's kind of rumpled by now, and he's relaxed enough to unbutton the top two buttons on his crisp, white dress shirt. His hair's a little out of place, his cheeks flushed from champagne, and Kendall thinks he's kind of devastatingly gorgeous.
"So," Kendall echoes, shoving the thoughts from his mind with skilled, practiced ease. "You, uh, waiting for a kiss goodbye?"
Logan looks up and smiles. "Thanks for the dance."
If there were any bit of Kendall's heart left in his own body that Logan hadn't yet snatched up, it's gone.
Kendall smirks. "We never did actually get to finish a whole song, you know."
"Yeah, I know. I owe you half a dance now."
"Yeah you do, asshole."
"Hey, it's your boyfriend who interrupted us, you know," Logan jokes, shoving at Kendall's arm.
"Yeah, well." Kendall smiles and shoves back. "You might've molested me if he hadn't."
"I totally would've. Taken you right there in the foyer with all those people around."
"Hell yeah, you know how I love an audience."
They share a smile only they can read, but it's easy, safe, because it's been so long since it wasn't safe; time heals (destroys?) everything, and too many roadblocks have been put in their way for this to still mean anything. In Kendall's mind, it's good as platonic when you're finally convinced nothing can, will, could, ever come of it.
It doesn't make it hurt any less, though.
"Well," Logan says softly, eyes darting. "Guess I'd better, uh. Camille's waiting."
"Yeah."
Their eyes lock and there's that moment between moments, all of a sudden - which Kendall won't learn about until Carlos's standing stock-still in the water, gazing down at fish as he hands Kendall a spear - between the moment when the realization strikes that something, here, now, could happen; and the moment you decide to act.
Kendall's trying not to act when Logan leans in, cupping his face, and presses his lips lightly against Kendall's cheek.
Kendall's eyes stay shut through the sensation of Logan's breath on his face, the whispered "bye," and when he opens them, Logan's gone.
It takes Kendall several seconds to decide he's not dead.
It takes him several more to push himself to the surface, ignore the sharp bites of pain in his leg, his shoulder, the dull throb in his head. He knows he's hit things, rocks probably, but mostly water and he's alive and has full use of his limbs and that's all that fucking matters.
The water's only chest-deep where he's landed, and the mass of jagged boulders jutting out of the water are ten feet behind him, closer to shore, closer to where Logan (fell, dropped, landed, was) is. And is, is, simple and straightforward, present tense, to be, the state of existence, that's where Kendall's mind is stuck, has to stay stuck, if he expects to keep breathing.
He swims a few feet forward and yells, "Logan!" Stupidly, as if Logan will wave at him from shore, smiling and intact.
He gulps a lungful of oxygen before diving back into the water, swimming down to the ocean floor and trying to maintain some sense of direction, trying to gauge the radius where he should be looking, judging by where Logan must've fallen, and something in him is telling him to move further, closer to shore, where the rocks are most dense, but the other part of him is screaming protest, knowing if he finds Logan there, he won't be alive.
Surfacing quickly for air and screaming another desperate call of Logan's name for no use but good measure, he dives back down, closer to the rocks and flailing his arms out in every direction they'll go, pushing their range until they're stretched to the breaking point, desperate for his fingers to brush against a hand, arm, leg, face, just to find, find, find, because if he can find him, just get Logan into his arms, everything will be okay; it has to be.
The seconds pass, and Kendall knows time is probably going faster than he's willing to acknowledge, knows that for every second (minute, god, no, please not minutes) that passes, there's less chance of -
NO.
His wrenches his mind back to basic functions, logic and physicality, forcing his lungs to hold out another second, two, three, to reach just that much further before pulling back up for air.
The wind feels stronger on his face now, and the water somehow colder, the waves rougher and louder and the rocks sharper, and he screams again into the air, Logan's name and a string of obscenities, feeling his eyes beginning to prickle and he knows it's not from the saltwater.
It's getting darker, the sun nearly vanquished by night, and the rocks are getting harder to see.
His brain is weakening, starting to let the emotions creep back in, and Kendall knows he has little time before he starts to fall himself.
When Kendall falls, he doesn't tend to get back up very easily, and when he does, something's always broken.
Bracing himself with the biggest inhale he can take without his lungs bursting, he submerges himself again, working to cover as much distance as he can. With no real regular breathing in between trips down, the amount of time he's able to hold his breath is getting shorter, and each trip growing more futile.
He feels as if something's slipping between his fingers and he can't hold on.
He can't - can't -
And like that, it's over.
It takes a second to realize it's no metaphor, and what's slipping beneath his fingers is tangible, soft and swaying in the water.
Hair.
His hands fumble frantically as his body pushes himself down further in the water until his fingers follow the hair to a head, face, and it's only an instant before he's got a grip on the arms and is cradling Logan's head safely against his chest, lest it collide with anything else on the way up.
Kendall's spluttering and gasping when they surface, oxygen pouring into his starved lungs, but Logan's motionless. Kendall doesn't register it, though, doesn't register the blueish hue to Logan's skin and lips, the trickle of blood seeping down the side of his cheek, the harsh bruises on his face, the fact that his eyes are shut or that he's like dead weight in Kendall's arms, floppy and ferret-like, doesn't register anything but the fact that he's found him, and that's enough to carry them both to the shore.
It takes a minute to get to part of the shore that's not a cliff wall, that's actual sand and solid ground, and, a bit ironically, the moment they're out of the water, Kendall feels flooded, relief soaking him to the bone.
He lays Logan out on his back, ignoring the cuts and bruises scattered about his torso, and wastes no time in summoning up everything he knows about CPR, which is derived entirely from movies and TV and thank god for technology, because he's got about four things he knows he needs to be doing, and just knowing that much is a comfort.
He's slipping one hand behind Logan's neck, ignoring the chill of his skin as he tips his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other hand, and leaning forward to join their mouths.
It occurs to him, strangely, that this is the closest they've ever had to to a real kiss, and Kendall suddenly wants to cry.
The few seconds feel like hours, between breathing air into his mouth and pumping on his chest, repeat as needed, until Kendall remembers how to speak and nonsense begins to spill out.
"Logan. Logan. God. Logan, please, just, please, come on, don't be a fucking bitch about this, okay? Come on. Breathe for me, man, come on. Don't do this. Just come back, okay? Just come back. Just come back to me."
He keeps trying, air, chest pumps, repeat, three times, four, five, and he's not even holding back his own sobs now, knowing their hindering his attempts but physically unable to hold them back.
It's the last attempt, when his head is starting to cloud from lack of normal breathing himself, when he finally lays his head on Logan's chest, searching out a heartbeat.
"You can't. You fucking can't," he whispers. "I love you."
It's not the first time silence has followed those words.
But he can't find a beat, a sign, can't find anything - and for a moment, the world ends.
Then something is rumbling beneath his cheek and almost before he can jump to awareness, Logan's entire body is convulsing, shuddering as he attempts to breathe, attempts to lift his head as a steam of ocean water spills from his mouth, spluttering and choking.
Kendall nearly jumps out of his skin, goes numb, does backflips, god only knows what he'd be capable of, carefully helping Logan up, supporting him so he doesn't choke on the water, and there's a few solid minutes of simply breathing, harsh and rough from both, sometimes matched in rhythm and sometimes disjointed, uneven, while Logan just tries to come back to himself, tries to catch his breath, and Kendall tries to remember how to breathe at all.
When Logan finally looks at him, eye to eye, faces inches apart, Kendall freezes.
For the first time in his life, he's actually expecting Logan to kiss him.
Logan stares at him for a long time, nothing visible in his face other than shock, disorientation, and when a reaction finally surfaces, it's a bit removed from Kendall's expectations.
Logan's eyes scrunch up and his breath catches, and he's crying.
Kendall tries to stop it before it can start, wraps his arms tighter around Logan, pulls him to his chest, whispers things he hopes are soothing, but it only escalates like wildfire, dropping fast into sobs and choking and full-on screams, and when the words come out amongst it all, Kendall almost thinks he imagines them:
"WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAVING ME?!"
It's screamed into the air, fighting for audible presence with the harsh crash of waves and Kendall's own racing heartbeat, but it's clear enough.
Kendall can't speak; it's all he can do to keep his arms focused on holding Logan up so he doesn't flop over. Logan's limp against his chest, sobbing like the apocalypse is nigh, and Kendall doesn't. fucking. know. what. to do.
"I don't deserve it!" Logan screams against him. "I don't fucking deserve it!"
"Shh," Kendall whispers uselessly into his drenched hair. "Baby, shh, it's okay - "
But Logan seems to be choking on his own fucking oxygen now, and with him all hunched over the way he is, all Kendall can think to do is lift him until they're both on their feet. Logan's wobbly, unable to support himself at all, and without a second thought, Kendall's leaning over, hooking one arm around Logan's shoulder and another around the backs of his legs, and hoisting him into his arms, bridal style. He's heavier than he looks, that's for damn sure, but even through his sobs, his arms come up to circle Kendall's neck as his head flops limply down, nestled against Kendall's chest as he cries.
It's less than half a mile back to camp, but today it might as well be a whole ocean.
He can feel his back starting to give about ten minutes in, and his arms starting to burn like hellfire after fifteen, but he's lucky, in the end: as soon as camp's in sight, it's clear James and Carlos have been waiting for them, and both come scrambling toward them. Carlos's speed could land him in a marathon, and he's not even reacting, not even questioning, just reaching for Logan with panicked eyes and as soon as Logan sees him, he's reaching back, like a child, grabby and desperate, and Kendall gratefully transfers him into Carlos's arms.
He starts up crying harder again when Carlos has got him, but he's clinging to him like Abu used to cling to them, pressed flush against his front with his legs around Carlos's waist and his face buried in Carlos's neck. Something sets Carlos off and Kendall can see his eyes welling up, tears building and spilling down his cheek as his eyes search Kendall's for answers.
Kendall stares at the ground.
By the time James reaches him, Carlos is nearly back at camp. James doesn't say a word as he approaches, just stands beside Kendall as they watch Carlos place Logan carefully on the blanket, reaching behind to their stash of extras and draping one over him, folding another to prop under his head. Logan doesn't have patience for much more and pulls him down until they're wrapped around each other, Logan's head buried against Carlos's shoulder, still fighting broken sobs. From what Kendall can tell, Carlos hasn't said a word, and it's clear he doesn't have to.
He wills himself away from jealousy.
It's a moment before he realizes James has slipped his hand into Kendall's, and when he meets James's eyes, he crashes.
James is a step ahead of him, pulling Kendall against him with strong, solid arms, one hand firm around his back and the other stroking a soft rhythm through Kendall's hair, as Kendall's own tears begin to explode from repression. He can feel James's breath against his neck, a quiet, "Shh, Ken, I've got you," and he does. James does.
James doesn't try to say anything, doesn't try to pull back and search his face, doesn't try to make him talk. And when Kendall finally pulls away himself, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, James simply says, "Do you want to go for a walk?"
Kendall doesn't let go of James's hand, and James doesn't pull away.
They walk slowly, kicking at sand and remnants of waves that trickle over their feet. Kendall stops them before they get too close to the cliffs, and James doesn't ask questions.
There's a weak, skinny strip of sun left on the horizon, and Kendall's scared to see it vanish. Like if he doesn't make some sense out of this day while it's still here, he'll have lost his chance.
"He didn't jump," Kendall says suddenly as they're staring out over the water. It feels necessary, somehow, to clarify. To defend Logan. To make sure they all know that in the end, Logan didn't make that choice.
James turns to look at him, still silent.
"It was an accident. He - I mean. He was going to, but - then he wasn't, and - but he slipped."
James squeezes his hand, sensing Kendall's irrational guilt like it has a smell, like it's that obvious. "Kendall, you saved his life."
Breathing normally still feels abnormal, and Kendall barely notices when his breath catches. "He didn't want me to."
"That's not true."
"It is."
"Kendall - "
"He said so."
"Do you never say things you don't mean when you're angry?"
Kendall turns to look at him. "Truth also comes out when you're angry."
James smiles feebly. "No, the truth comes out when you're drunk. When you're angry... I don't know. What comes out is like... an exaggerated, overblown distortion of the truth. Logan may say he doesn't want to be saved, but what he probably means is, he doesn't think he deserves to be saved."
Kendall's throat tightens, and he studies James's face for signs of deification. "That's - that's exactly what he said."
James shrugs, looking out at the water.
"Why would he say that?" Kendall prods. "He - I mean. Five or six years ago, I would've maybe understood, but. He hasn't had self-esteem issues at that level for a long time."
"I think... it's maybe more than self-esteem. I - I think... maybe. It's guilt."
"Over what?"
For a moment James looks distinctly like he's going to say something other than what he says, which is, "I can't answer that."
James must sense that Kendall's about to explode, though, and after a moment, he runs his free hand through his hair, searching for words.
"I - I think he - I. Fuck. Kendall, I don't know."
Kendall's going to believe him, because he has to.
"I yelled at him," Kendall whispers to the ground. "I'm fucking horrible at this, I fucking yelled at him."
"He yelled at you too," James points out defensively, and when Kendall's eyes dart up for clarification, James rubs a thumb over the back of Kendall's hand. "I'm not psychic. He always yells when you two fight."
"He said something," Kendall says, fixing his eyes on one approaching wave to narrow his focus, heart beginning to quicken as he rethinks the words in his head that had been lost until now. "Before he - we were - I. I said I'd lost everything, and he said I still had us, that - that I still had him. And I - I said, I mean, I said it was fucking bullshit, that I'd never had him. And he - he said I'd had him every day since we met. What does that - I mean that doesn't even make sense, James, what the fuck does that mean besides, like, the obvious, which isn't even true? Why would he say that?"
James swallows, eyes warm but cautious. "Distorted versions of the truth," he says softly.
Kendall's eyes search his, still questioning.
James stares down at the sand, wet and pliant; at the spots where it rises up at the outlines of their feet.
"Maybe he wanted you to have him."
Logan is four years old the first time he tastes alcohol.
His father leaves a bottle on the counter, a bottle, miracle of miracles, that hasn't yet been emptied. Logan's curiosity gets the better of him and he manages a sip before spitting into the sink in disgust.
He decides then that he'll never understand his father.
He doesn't drink again until he's fifteen, three weeks after he kissed Carlos in his bedroom to prove Carlos wasn't fundamentally unkissable; three weeks he's spent thinking how fundamentally kissable Carlos actually is.
Carlos crawls through Logan's window at Logan's call, hours past either curfew, and Logan's so far gone he hasn't even bothered to hide the bottle of Jack's that's still sitting blatant and incriminating on his bedside table.
Logan lunges for him before Carlos's even got both feet on the bedroom floor, aiming for his mouth and getting the corner of his lip instead. Carlos jerks away, eyes fiery with anger, and snaps, "Are you fucking drunk?!"
Only then does Logan feel guilty.
Letting his father down, letting himself down; those are guilts he's dealt with long enough, but letting Carlos down is unthinkable.
"I just," he slurs, bracing himself on Carlos's arms, and Carlos's still amazing enough that he's supporting him, holding him up with two sturdy hands cupping Logan's elbows. "I just wanted..."
"Ohmygodyou'redrunk," Carlos says mostly to himself, his voice squeaky and weak, eyes fearful. "What the fuck were you thinking? Are you out of your fucking mind? After - after all that he's - what the fuck, Logan?"
Logan works to focus his eyes on Carlos's, and says quietly, "I just wanted to kiss you."
"And you have to be drunk for that?!" Carlos retorts, hoping the dizzying flutter his stomach made at Logan's words goes unnoticed.
"I wouldn't have had the nerve otherwise."
"Well you're not kissing me now, you dumbass. You smell like booze and you can't even stand up. You can kiss me when you're sober and promise never to do this again."
"I promise," Logan says immediately.
"Good. Jesus." Carlos releases him when Logan braces himself with one hand on the edge of the bed and sits down. "Go to bed."
Logan reaches out, tugging gently on the leg of Carlos's jeans. "Will you stay till I'm sober?"
Carlos can't seem to stop himself smiling, and even Logan smirks like he's won when Carlos drops down to his knees in front of where Logan's seated, snaking his and Logan's fingers together and resting them atop Logan's bony knees. Shaking his head like he can't believe he's doing it (or maybe trying to shake out his own nerves), he leans in, pressing a light, closed-mouth kiss against Logan's lips. He can feel Logan sigh, melt into it, into him, and it takes all his willpower to pull back, not to just stay there and sink into soft, pink lips and ten years of memories.
He squeezes Logan's hands. "I'll always be here."
He's a total fucking geek.
Like, complete with black-rimmed glasses and Gollum impressions and t-shirts with Disney characters branded across them and he learns video game theme songs on his acoustic by ear and he never, ever stops talking.
And those are his good qualities.
He plays guitar better than Logan, sings better than Logan, plays piano better than Logan ever could if he sat down to learn, he could make a burlap sack look hot, Logan stops breathing when he sings, and despite fucking up the lyrics all the fucking time and singing them completely the wrong way, he speaks the words with more passion than even Logan could ever breathe into them, and they're his words.
And Carlos totally, totally has a crush on him whether he'll ever admit it or not. (He doesn't.)
Logan wants to hate him.
And it's not like he's not trying - for a year he almost has Kendall convinced.
His own mind isn't so gullible.
Kendall's hands are shaking so hard it takes him three times of trying to hang up the phone before he manages to get it back on the receiver.
He turns to the room at large, three sets of saucer-wide eyes glued to him, and swallows.
"He wants to sign me."
Carlos cracks first, breaking into a smile. "That's great man," he says, and pats Kendall on the shoulder.
James is next, springing suddenly to his feet and glaring at Kendall, protesting about how it's his dream and Kendall's ruining everything.
Until Kendall clarifies.
"He wanted to sign me but I told him I couldn't be in a band without my three best buds."
James leaps at Kendall and envelops him in a hug, singing his praises and repeating over and over about how Kendall is the best friend he ever had, so much better than his mirror, or even his lucky comb.
"I'm gonna call my mom," Carlos announces, and Kendall's kind of amazed he can even talk out of that ear-to-ear grin. He grabs Logan's face with both hands, plants a giant kiss on his cheek, then marches over to Kendall and does the same before racing from the room.
Logan lets out a breathless chuckle when they're alone, trying to draw in a steadying breath, and meets Kendall's eyes. "So."
Kendall smiles a little dazedly, waiting for something and Logan's not sure what. Logan can see his eyes start to glisten, and he knows, he knows this means more to Kendall than screaming fans and his name on a marquee. It means more than that to all of them, of course, but Logan knows for Kendall, it's his way of saying how much he loves his best friends.
Logan grins wider, trying to loosen him up. "You hang all over me every fucking day, are you seriously gonna sit there and do nothing?"
Kendall finally gets to his feet, stepping over to Logan as they fall into a hug. Logan's arms are tight around him, and Kendall's fast to take the hint, holding him in his usual bear hug vice-grip, and Logan smiles into his neck.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For what?"
"Doing this for us."
Kendall sighs into his hair. "You're an idiot. I love you."
It takes Logan a second to realize why he doesn't automatically say it back.
He and Carlos say it often enough, and maybe he and Kendall hadn't quite reached that point, but there's a first time for everything, and it's not until Kendall tenses in his arms that he thinks maybe - maybe - fuck.
Carlos is bursting back into the room, mile-wide grin still intact, and Logan and Kendall break apart. Logan's eyes are stuck on him, but Kendall's attention has gone to Carlos, like he's glad of the distraction.
"My mom says you're all coming to dinner. Also she screamed really loud so I can't hear out of my left ear now, but whatever."
"Awesome," Kendall smiles. "I'll get my stuff."
He's gone before Logan can catch his eye.
When Logan finds the black material bunched up on the sofa later that night as he makes his way to bed, he brings it with him, unbunching it and folding it carefully before placing it next to his pillow.
So he won't forget about it, obviously.
He lies down and flips open his phone. Inches from his head, he smells something that registers as 'Kendall' in his mind. Something like peaches and Irish Spring.
Logan scoots a little closer to the folded material, and starts a text message.
u left ur hoodie here. ill give back tomorrow. p.s. love you too.
It's that moment between moments again.
Not really; more of an era between eras. Logan knows in the back of his mind that at some point Kendall and Guitar Dude stopped sleeping in separate beds, but they haven't announced it to the world, so Logan can write it off as false speculation all he wants.
It makes him feel like a complete idiot, because Guitar Dude is exactly what he's been hoping for Kendall for years. He should feel satisfied, content. Not - whatever it is he's feeling, which feels like the opposite.
He turns the corner of the narrow, dark corrider in the venue, paint peeling from the walls and dim, flickering lights dangling from the ceiling, and sees them.
Kendall has Guitar Dude against a wall, chipped paint and all, hands on his waist, thumbing gentle circles into Guitar Dude's hips, their mouths moving in soft patterns of obvious familiarity. Guitar Dude's hands are splayed across Kendall's back, stroking smoothly, urging Kendall impossibly closer.
This isn't a first kiss.
Logan spins on his heel, trips over his own stupid pointy boots, stumbles back into the dressing room and doesn't, absolutely doesn't feel his eyes sting.
"So. You, uh, waiting for a kiss goodbye?"
Logan wonders how far upside down their lives would turn if he said yes.
He doesn't.
He says, "Thanks for the dance."
Kendall smirks, and to Logan it's such a write-off, a belittlement. Years ago Kendall still would've succumbed to hopeful eyes and long gazes, wondering if Logan meant more than the words suggested.
It's ironic that now, finally, Logan does.
"We never did actually get to finish a whole song, you know," Kendall remarks.
"Yeah, I know. I owe you half a dance now."
"Yeah you do, asshole."
"Hey, it's your boyfriend who interrupted us, you know," Logan points out, shoving at Kendall's arm to mask the disappointment he fears might've seeped out in his voice.
"Yeah, well." Kendall smiles and shoves back. "You might've molested me if he hadn't."
"I totally would've. Taken you right there in the foyer with all those people around."
"Hell yeah, you know how I love an audience."
A pang shoots through Logan's chest as he wonders if this is how Kendall felt, every time he paced across the stage to Logan, knowing Logan would pull away just before Kendall's lips made contact with his skin, and still going for the kill every time. Knowing it was a joke for Logan but never for him.
They're smiling now, that smile only they know, but Logan wonders now if he's ever really known it at all.
His eyes scan their space, searching for people who shouldn't be seeing this. "Guess I'd better, uh. Camille's waiting."
"Yeah."
He decides, fast and frantic, that it doesn't matter who's watching, because it's too late for any intentions he isn't supposed to have, and he's leaning in, touching his lips to Kendall's cheek, and it's not until he's pulled away that he realizes his hand had been cupping Kendall's face, thumb stroking soft across the stubble on his chin.
Kendall's eyes are shut, his lips parted, when Logan pulls away, whispering "bye" against his skin, and Logan, like the coward he's always been, slips out of sight before Kendall can open his eyes.
He thinks of old hoodies and text message I-love-yous and how everything was easier when you thought you had all the time in the world, when you thought your choices would make sense in the end and everything you feared was too big to actually exist.
For the first time, Logan actually feels like an adult.
Kendall texts him when he's slouched in his airport-bound cab, Camille close beside him, asleep.
Give Beau a kiss for me. Will miss you while you're gone.
Logan knows from the proper capitalization, grammar, and intact words, that Kendall sent the message in a raging avalanche of nerves.
Logan doesn't listen to his racing heartbeat, only to his heart, and writes back, click your heels and wish for me.
It's nearly an hour before the response vibrates through his pocket.
I always do. You never come.
For four days, Logan is frozen in time.
He can't go forward, and he can't return to the manageable mess he was before. He's stuck on a ledge with wind in his hair and a perfect sunset at his back, calling him, mocking him.
His body carries him through the motions of daily activities, working at camp and fetching water despite Carlos's protests, but his mind is stuck on loop around those last moments, tripping over words and choking on warped, unintended confessions under a perfect sunset.
It went so, so horribly wrong.
It's been years since he'd stopped playing the scenario out in his head, in his fantasies, wondering how it might go if the time ever came, if the impossible ever became possible, if he ever got the chance to say it the way he wanted, the way it was meant to be said; if all the pieces suddenly fell into place.
It was never supposed to be like this, the words screamed on both sides with emotion too high to leave room for comprehension: a shock of chaos and anger, cut short at the very brink of resolution when it was supposed to have been a moment that never even existed outside its own fantasy perfection.
And now Kendall won't speak.
To be fair, neither will Logan.
Logan finds wide peridot eyes on him time and again, averting as soon as they're caught. He knows Kendall's waiting for him, waiting for something, but Logan doesn't know what and he can't afford to guess wrong.
Kendall keeps himself extra busy, only surfacing around camp when necessary, and always, always working. Logan doesn't know where the work keeps coming from but Kendall seems to find it. It reminds Logan of how his father always managed to find alcohol, even when there was none.
Logan thinks maybe it comes down to desperation. The rock-bottom kind.
It's almost bearable until the times Kendall will return to find Logan speaking quietly with Carlos or James, about nothing really, about how much water they have left or where his favorite t-shirt went, but to Kendall it must look like Logan's handing out intimacy and confidences at every turn and Kendall gets passed over, every time, just like before.
Carlos manages to catch him right at that moment between moments: far enough along to give Logan about eight brains' worth of time to think, but just before the breaking point; after a decade and a half, Carlos has worked it into an effortless, second-nature silence.
Carlos finds him outside his favorite cave, leaned back against the uneven stone entrance, turning a rock over and over in his hand; with each rotation, replaying a handful of the words that he hasn't been able to silence since they were screamed into existence days before.
It's not yet dinner, but he's waiting for the sunset. Every night now he waits, hoping maybe when it comes around it'll have some kind of trigger effect, give him some miraculous insight into the moment he can't let go of, the moment where everything crashed and so far Logan's the only part that seems to have been recovered - and barely, at that.
Carlos settles himself into a curved wedge of stone beside Logan, letting their shoulders brush. They breathe together for a few moments, silent, until Logan flips himself around and lets himself flop against Carlos, chest to chest, arms limp at his sides. His chin hooks around Carlos's shoulder, and a long-held sigh flows from his mouth.
Carlos drapes his hands loosely over Logan's hips and whispers, "You have to talk to him."
Logan stiffens in response. Carlos stating the obvious never seems to lose its effect as long as Logan's set on denying it.
"You have to tell him."
"Litos."
"Logan." He holds him out at arm's length; down to business.
"Los, he'll - "
"Logan, he doesn't understand, he - he thinks you hate him."
"Carlos, he'll hate me, I'm not - I can't - I'm not ready for this!"
"You don't fucking have the luxury of getting ready for this, Logan! You've had years to get ready for this! We don't get to bottle shit up here, got it? We have to fucking stick together, all of us, no secrets and no bullshit, or else we're not gonna fucking make it!"
Logan stops breathing, because it's the first time in four months he's seen Carlos completely, unabashedly scared.
"I - I'm sorry," Carlos stutters, his face softening. "I didn't mean - I just."
"Don't apologize for being scared," Logan says at once, because he knows that's what this is about. That Carlos has spent every day their whole lives trying to be that solid-rock figure Logan couldn't get from anyone else, and Carlos's been so long substituting himself in the role that he probably doesn't even remember what it's like to let out fear, to let it show. To let Logan see he isn't invincible.
Carlos looks down at where Logan's entwined their fingers. "I just. I'm worried about him. Both of you. You're both suffering and I feel like - like - it doesn't have to be that way."
And it's so simple, not even a particularly remarkable observation, but it's striking Logan for the first time - that it really doesn't have to be this way - that there's a chance something might actually change, shift, and it would be okay.
That something could bend without breaking.
He squeezes Carlos's hands, thinking of how many times Carlos's kept him from breaking, and whispers, "Okay."
James is finishing up dinner when they return, stoking the fire as the sun just starts its descent, but he's alone.
"Where's..." Logan starts.
"He went off by himself for a bit," James says quietly.
Logan looks at Carlos, already expecting the "now or never?" set into Carlos's questioning eyebrows.
Something's leaping around in his stomach, heating to a queasy, unsettling level, as Logan asks, "Where?"
James pokes at the fire a moment before looking up, studying Logan, like he's trying to make sure Logan can manage this alone.
He swallows. "I think you know where."
