(cw: mentions of disordered eating/implied ed, some very mild violence)
"Do you ever think of
What you're standing at the brink of
Feel like giving up, but you just can't walk away?
Night after night, always trying to decide
Are you gonna speak out or get lost in the crowd?
Do you take a chance or stay invisible?"
–INVISIBLE
James felt incredibly sick to his stomach.
No, not just to his killer washboard abs, mind, but a little way past that, where his churned-up insides were throwing up one heck of a storm and bringing the painful party all the way up to his constricted chest. And no, not just to his splendid pecs, mind, but a little way past that, where his stupid heart…
Well, his stupid heart was just being a jerk to him, as usual. Ganging up on him along with his stupid brain. As usual.
The point was, James just didn't feel rightfully avenged enough. He wanted to scream some more and throw ten million tantrums all at once. He wanted to rip off his shirt and turn into a gigantic turquoise monster like RadioAction Heroes' resident mad scientist The Incredible Bulk and wreck everything in sight. He wanted to pick Kendall up by the waist and bash his stupid smug head in with a giant fist for being such an idiot who couldn't take a clue, for being a jerkfaced jerk and for lying to him and for completely ruining his biggest superstar dream.
But he knew that he couldn't really do any of those, not by a long shot.
Because bummer for him, he didn't truly have any rage-induced superpowers, no matter how dangerously close he felt at the brink of a choleric transformation. And even if James was the physically strongest one out of all of them, it still took all of his hardest efforts to lift Carlos with one hand Freight Train-style, and his best friend was already a tiny jumping bean of a human being, so picking Kendall up and bulk-smashing him was probably out of the question, too.
Though that crazy burst of strength that possessed him to death-grip crucify Kendall earlier...that one was probably just a fluke. It happened sometimes on very rare occasions of losing control, and James couldn't exactly explain why, but it was such a yucky kind of strength to him. It felt like some kind of real-life game cheat code, and it wasn't even satisfying because it didn't even feel like it was him dishing out the destruction, not in the slightest.
Huh...what if I do actually transform into someone—or something—else after all? Maybe...just not on the outside?
To quash this persistent self-animosity, James ended up sitting cross-legged in a corner of the room, keeping silent and glaring daggers at the wall as the collaged photographs of himself that he faced kept on grinning and posing and smouldering back, being tauntingly beautiful in front of him ad nauseam. Usually, the sight of his Adonis-like self would have comforted him—or at the very least, give him a reason to feel a lot more empowered and a little less miserable.
But not tonight. Tonight, he couldn't stand himself at all.
Him, the ugly monster of a madman.
After a few minutes of doing nothing but simply sulking and cursing the name Kendall Knight all the way to the lowest depths of the underworld and feeling the sorriest for himself, James ultimately decided that he would try to stop moping around and keep himself busy with working out instead. That always seemed to work with keeping his mind out of things.
It had been hours since the Palm Woods gym closed for the night, and he'd surely get murdered by either one of LA's notorious serial killers or mama Knight if he broke the curfew and tried sneaking out in the middle of the night just to find one that was still open, so James had to make do in his room for now. He managed to scavenge a ratty blue exercise mat from the very back of their closet, one he didn't even remember they owned. It looked like someone (whose name probably rhymed with 'Barlos') attacked it with a pair of kiddie scissors, and it smelled even worse than everyone's unwashed hockey socks festering on a hot summer day (that their poor surrogate mother had to constantly deal with), but James didn't really care—he just wanted to distract himself really badly at that point.
Unrolling the mat on the floor with a whiplike swish, he proceeded to do a few quick warm-up stretches until he felt limber enough, and snapped a sweatband on his forehead as he cranked up some bass-blasting EDM music to drown out the silence.
For about an hour and a half, James did nothing but mechanically work himself down to the bone. Even as his muscles burned all over, and his damaged nose started to feel weirdly prickly, and his heaving lungs felt like they were completely giving out on him, he still forced himself to do another round. And another. And another.
Don't think. Just do. Come on, James, just one last set...
Amid all his laboured panting and the loud pulsating strains of electronic music, the exercising teenager barely failed to hear the successive knocks on his door, steadily thumping along to the beat of the bass drop and getting more and more persistent by the minute until it couldn't possibly be ignored any longer.
'Are you in or am I wasting my knock time knock time knock time?
If you are, just say that you're knock mine knock mine knock mine…'
With a hefty groan, James crawled over to his vanity dresser and pressed a button on the speaker to turn off the music, collapsing right away on the filthy mat afterwards. Now that he was literally exhausted out of his brain, he just wanted to sleep, sleep in peace, sleep preferably at least for a million years—
Knock knock knock knock knock
"Jeez already, who's there?!"
"It's Logan." came the muffled reply.
"Oh." James mumbled cagily. "What the heck do you want?"
"I just wanted to check in on you. And check in on your current physical condition as well, seeing as your face took quite a blow or two...may I come in, please?"
Unsteadily getting on his feet, James trudged towards the door and opened it just a crack, barely enough for Logan to wriggle through the small space without snagging his lab coat on the doorknob. He greeted James with a stiff nod as he wrenched the doctor's bag he was carrying past the tight squeeze, and the taller boy peered at it with an inquisitive frown.
"Where...did you get that?"
"Oh, you know, I just keep it around for medical emergencies. You'll never know when you need to staunch and suture a nasty head gash, after one of your teammate accidentally gets hit by a platinum game controller in the middle of a super intense Biohazard Blast 3: Crotchy's Revenge marathon," Logan replied cryptically, "or, to simply check up and mend a possibly-broken nose. Which I'd be more than glad to do...if, you know, you'll allow me to."
In response, he was only met with an icy stare and flecks of dripping perspiration from James.
"But like, if it's not chill with you, then I could just come back or something, that's cool too, super cool!" Logan continued, making a few clunky gestures with his thumbs and nearly whacking himself with his bag, "That was stupid...haha, I was just a little concerned for your well-being but y'know, bleep—"
"In a minute." James fortunately cut his bleating short, "Just let me wash all this gross sweat and blood off of me." And with that excuse, he swung the door fully open and stalked out to make a quick beeline for the bathroom.
Finding not much else to do but wait, Logan plopped down on a leaky beanbag chair that coughed out a pathetic puff of polystyrene beads as he did so. He set his doctor's bag by his drawn knees, as he began looking idly around his two friends' shared bedroom.
Most of the walls were plastered with several full-length mirrors and various iterations of James' likeness, which Logan supposed was to be expected. But among the bizarre conceptual headshots and grainy blue-steel selfies, there were also a few Pop Tiger poster pull-outs of Big Time Rush shot by Marcos Del Posey, as well as a smattering of snapshots of all the boys; most of them taken not by the flamboyant teen idol photographer slash director with an affinity for stuffie puppies, but by Carlos and the Polaroid camera he loved carrying around.
Some of it had them donning their hockey uniforms, some were taken during camp-outs and beach outings and other exciting holidays, some were just blurry messes and silly candid shenanigans with friends and family alike. Some were with big-time celebrities like Jordin Sparks, a cozy-looking Snoop Dogg and a very festive Miranda Cosgrove, Russell Brand and Patchy the Pirate, and one where they were mock-fight posing, curled claws and fangs out with ex-rival girl group Kat's Crew. There was even one with the four of them posing goofily with Gustavo, Kelly, and Freight Train (that their same shutterbug friend had scribbled in playful moustaches and sunglasses on everyone with a sharpie) in front of the Rocque Records building.
But apart from the abundantly-supplied James Diamond shrine and the photographic walk down memory lane, Logan began taking notice of a few other odds and ends scattered around the room—the really messy room, he mentally noted with particular distaste, kicking aside a pair of discarded boxers that was lying way too close to his seat for comfort.
These oddities included a towering stack of Pop Tiger, Man Fashion, and Helmet magazines, Carlos's cherished childhood teddy bear that he named Fofo-Oso, taped-up hockey sticks, shoulder pads, and other gear for playing lobby hockey (illegal though Mr. Bitters had declared the liability-ridden activity), a Garcia family picture encased in ornate wooden frame, a dizzying array of hair and facial products, disheveled islands of piled clothes and an assorted rainbow of bandanas, a spare helmet hanging by the back of the door, and—Logan couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in amusement—the plastic tiara James got from when they both won as Palm Woods prom King and Queen, glimmering from atop a shelf, just alongside their half-concealed embarrassing prom photo.
Logan smiled wistfully as he replayed the entire chaotic day in his head. Gustavo and Kelly being in charge of the whole revelry. Him meeting stolid Aubrey Stewart of Vampire Stories Chronicles Saga Trilogy fame and getting pummelled to smithereens by her scary bodyguards. Camille having to wear James' white tuxedo and kinda drowning in fabric but also kinda rocking the look. Scarier Mr. Taylor and his team of CIA agents literally gatecrashing the party to fetch his fugitive daughter and apprehend the suspect boyfriend. Guitar Dude and his literal guitar date. The Jennifers re-teaming up and destroying Carlos. And the scariest, awkwardest slow dance he had ever done in his entire life with a ballgown-donning James…
The one night when nothing even mattered...was it really that long ago? Oh, wow. That was such a crazy time for all of us—
James finally returned to the room, shirtless instead of gowned as he wiped his damp face with a towel, and abruptly interrupting Logan's reminiscing. Tossing his soaked sweatband and towel away haphazardly (an action which pained the aspiring doctor to witness), he plunked down by the side of Carlos's bed and beckoned his friend over.
"Alright." He sighed impatiently. "Let's just get this thing over with."
Obliging, Logan shuffled over to where James had sat. He opened his medical bag, fished out a stethoscope, and listened in on James' heartbeat for a few counts, making him wince from the cold chestpiece pressed to his bare skin. Logan checked his watch and muttered something about the heart rate being moderately elevated but otherwise normal, before slinging the stethoscope on his neck and turning back to riffle through his bag.
"So what's t—" James didn't get any further with his inquiry before a thermometer was shoved into his mouth, which he promptly spat out. "Dude!"
Logan's professional manner didn't waver in the slightest as he picked the medical instrument out of the castaway underwear, wiped it on his coat, and roughly stuck it back on James' mouth. "Spit that out again, and I'm gonna have to use the one Carlitos stuck into his armpit, okay?"
"Y'know, for a doctor, you're pretty psychotic," James grumbled under the glass rod on his tongue. "I think Camille's craziness is rubbing off on you…"
"Don't worry, Hippocratic oath says I have to first do no harm. Until the patient starts acting like a total jerkarino, then I'm sending them back to Hippocrates, so Mr. Greek Brainiac could deal with them instead. See how he likes it." Logan slid out the thermometer from James' lips and held it against the light. "97.8 degrees fahrenheit. A bit warm, but nothing unusual after some physical exertion, I suppose."
His forehead scrunched further with quiet concentration as he set the thermometer aside, and he took out a penlight and a nasal speculum from the bag to begin examining James' damaged nose to the best of his abilities.
"Is this—is this gonna take long? Also, that thing seriously looks like a freaking torture device." James squirmed away at the metal instrument and bright light being invasively prodded right at his face. "Ack, my sweet autumn eyes—!"
"Hey, hold still. I'm just gonna check out the current position of your septum for any external deformities to be sure, before I can dare to dive in any further…we can't be too careful, or there might be complications down the line, which wouldn't be desirable. Hmmm...looks like the swelling has considerably gone down, though, which is a good thing. Just out of curiosity, your nose hasn't been broken before, has it?"
"No, I uh—I don't think so." Logan nodded at James' answer, as he methodically inserted the nasal speculum into one of the nostrils. "I mean, I do have a super tiny scar on it from tripping and hitting my face on dad's secret cabinet when I was four, but that's about ieEYAHHH!"
"Oops—sorry, Jamesie!" Logan sheepishly laughed, momentarily fumbling his serious demeanour as he quickly retracted his trembling hand. "Must've opened the speculum tips just a bit too wide there. I guess I'm just feeling sort of nervous...I've never really done this kinda thing before."
"You WHAT?!"
"Here, let me try that again."
Before James could protest against it, Logan inserted the medical instrument into his right nostril once more and proceeded to operate it. This time, he proved to be more successful in his endeavour, and James silently thanked all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame that his acting physician hadn't managed to accidentally rip his entire nose off with their second attempt.
"Let's see, let's see here…" Logan mumbled raptly, shining the penlight on the inside of James' nose. "Alright, there doesn't appear to be any concerning bruises or blood clots…"
"That sounds like a good thing!" exclaimed James, though he struggled to speak properly due to the speculum uncomfortably obstructing his nose and slightly stretching up his upper lip. "Please please please tell me that's a good thing, Logie!"
"I think so. It still looks like you do indeed have a broken nose—but luckily, it only appears to be a very minor fracture." Logan informed James as he carefully removed the nasal speculum and set down his tools. "There does seem to be some cartilage displacement going on, so I still might need to reset it, so that you won't run the risk of permanent septum deviation."
"Reset—is it...it's not gonna hurt or anything, right?" James asked, leaning away from him in suspicion.
"No no, not at all!" Logan cheerily assured. "Not for long!"
"Oh cool, that's good to hear...wait, what do you mean, 'not for lo—"
In one swift action, Logan pinched the bridge of James' nose with his index finger and thumb and yanked it back in place with a sickening crunch, causing James to shriek loudly in pain and topple out of the bed.
"Logad, whad da heg, ban, dad hurd!" he whined out as he clutched at his throbbing nose. "A liddle wardig woulda be dice!"
Logan ignored the stream of petulant complaints from his friend and crouched down, leaning in until their faces were barely inches apart. As he tried to make a grab for James' chin, the injured boy covered his lower face and quickly drew back from Logan, shooting him a distrustful glare.
"Hey—James—stay still!" he berated. "Hey, do you want your nose to get better...or do you want it to stay all messed up forever, and then your pretty face won't be perfectly pretty anymore?"
Upon hearing this, James did a mini-scream and clutched at his face, looking scandalised.
"Yeah, that's exactly what I thought." Logan smirked at him. "Now be a good boy and don't move, so that I could have a proper look at it."
"Fide, fide." James grouchily obeyed.
Securely holding James by his flushed cheeks and tilting his head up to an uncomfortable degree, Logan carefully resumed the appraisal of his patient's condition.
"Hmmm..."
"Well?"
"Yep, that looks good as new to me." Logan finally confirmed. "Well okay, not exactly—it's probably gonna be inflamed and feel quite tender for a little while, but it should also hopefully heal up nicely soon...and according to my observations, also most likely without any noticeable physical damages." He caught James' vacant stare and clarified, "Your nose and face is gonna be fine."
"Alright, cood!" James looked both relieved and grateful as he gingerly felt for his swollen nose. "Cool, I mean. Thanks a bunch, Dr. Mitchell. You're a lifesaver."
"Hey, it's no problem." dismissed Logan, though his pleased grin revealed more than his airy words had expressed. "Just a quick fix, is all."
"No really, what would I do without you? Go to the hospital? Or worse," James shuddered, "to that one skeezy clinic with the longhaired weirdo doctor who likes sharp things waaay too much? I'd rather jump straight into my own grave!"
"Aww come on, Dr. Hollywood's not that bad once you get to know him. I'm actually starting to learn a lot from him whenever he lets me assist in the clinic, and in return, he's learning to not stab people out of the blue!" Logan paused and cleared his throat. "Well, some of the time, at least. I mean, yeah, he has a liiittle obsession with attacking prank war victims with his brand new bone saw...and the other week, he also almost dosed another vocalist patient suffering from strep throat and mild flu with a tranquiliser syringe...right on her throat...so yeahhh, we're still kinda working on that. But hey, at least there's some progress, right?"
"I still wouldn't trust him with a plastic butter knife and oven mitts on." James shook his head, unconvinced.
"Yeah, neither would I. Anyway!" Logan digressed as he zipped open the smaller pocket in his medical bag and rummaged inside, "Here's a cold compress I've prepared for your nose, just press and keep that on there for ten to fifteen minutes—but try not to add too much pressure, okay? I also have some ibuprofen for you—and don't ask where I got them from, shhh—just in case the pain kicks back in later." He took out the mentioned items from the bag and handed them over to James.
"Awesome." The taller boy said as he accepted it. "Thanks again Logan, you're the best! Anything else I need to know?"
"Hmmm...oh! Just a few more extra reminders, to be sure. Keep your head elevated when you go to sleep so you don't exacerbate the throbbing or swelling, aaand go easy on yourself with physical activities for the next couple weeks. Which means no gym," Logan side-eyed the mauled exercise mat, "or crazy home workouts for a while. Hey, you might even get out of dance rehearsals, if Mr. X is feeling a little x-tra compassionate. Tsk, you lucky duck. But think you can handle that?"
"Keep my head up and take it easy. Got it."
Finding nothing else to say, Logan settled for peering intently into his medical bag and pretending to busy himself with meticulously jangling its ramshackle contents, as James slid back onto the bed and fiddled with the cold compress on his nose.
For a minute or two, there was only uncomfortable silence hovering between them.
"Um. Hey, by the way, I…" James finally spoke up, dropping the compress aside. "I'm really sorry that I yelled at you tonight. And told you to shut up."
"No, it's uh, it's fine." Logan shook his head as he stopped being engrossed with his bag. "It...it was a terrible time for all of us...and, I was just trying to maybe help, but uh, I guess I ended up making things worse, huh. Maybe I just...I dunno, I talk too much sometimes..."
"You didn't say a single word up until that very moment, Logan, what are you talking about? I just—" James exhaled briskly. "Look, none of it was your fault, I...I know I got carried away. Things just felt...really, really bad, and I was super angry and I wanted to say awful things and you and Carlos both got caught up in all of it. But you two didn't deserve it. You guys were just trying to help. So I'm really sorry. And I mean it."
"Apology accepted." He was given an awkward, yet sincere pat on the back by his friend. "And I'm sorry you missed your photoshoot today."
James snorted. "Ah, whatever. I couldn't get photographed today anyway, with these ugly injuries all over my poor beat-up face. Or wait, maybe I can…?" he pondered aloud. "How about...a beastly champion boxer and—and a ferociously flirty lion tamer for some possible concepts? Aaand I wouldn't even need makeup for it! Would that work?"
"M-maybe?" Logan flashed him an unsure smile. "Maybe not at all?"
"Yeah, you're right." He snapped his fingers in frustration. "Too cheesy. I guess I'll have to think of something else cooler."
"So...now what?" wondered Logan, and James knew that he wasn't just referring to the missed photo session anymore.
"I...I have no idea anymore." he replied. "I know I talked a lot of hot garbage back there, but I'm honestly still feeling really confused about Griffin's huge-wordy word page...letter, whatever—and the whole superstar camp thing, and I'm extremely mad at Kendall and, and freaked out and everything just happened too fast and just, I'm—argh, everything's just making me feel like I'm going crazy!" he buried his head beneath his hands and groaned.
Dusting the Zombie Feasts crumbs off Carlos's HatMan sheets, Logan gingerly sat down next to James and clasped his shoulder for comfort.
"Yeah, that's totally understandable. I mean, to tell you the truth, I still feel kinda confused about it myself—and I'm supposed to be the one who understands everything! But I guess it's just...a bit too much to take in right now, isn't it?"
"Man, I don't know anymore." continued James miserably, "maybe Kendall's right. Maybe I really am too stupid to think for myself. I mean, I'm not a leader like him, or brave like Carlos, or even smart like you! All I am is a pretty face." he withered. "A pretty, big, dumb face."
"Don't say that!" Logan told the downcast boy. "Of course you're all those things, and so much more! And I may be book smart, but book smart isn't the only kinda smart, you know. You're much more intellectually perspicacious than you give yourself credit for, Jay."
James gaped at him like he was an alien speaking an unknown language. "Logan...please say that again, but like, in normal human words?"
"All I'm saying is, is that you are clever. Sure, maybe not in a way that people would usually define 'smart', but definitions aren't always simply black and white...and trust me, being super smart isn't everything, anyway."
"Yeah…" James carefully considered Logan's words. "but, what else do I have, then? Like, there's not really much else of me to work on anyway. It's nuts! Back in Minnesota, I was the face," he accentuated it with a halfhearted hand-wavy signature move, "I was the star of the whole show, and I could easily hold everyone's eyes on me without even trying!"
James' wistful smile fell away. "But...but now that I'm in LA with a whole bunch of other people more talented and amazing and—heck, even more beautiful than me!—it's like nobody really cares—nobody even looks at me twice. Here, I'm just a face...just another handsome grain of sand, in an extremely beautiful beach. Or, ha, maybe not even that. I mean let's not kid around, I'm just gonna be a washed-out faceless nobody in like, what, maybe a couple years?—if I keep going on like this. That solo superstar camp could've been my only chance to avoid falling away, and I could've truly made it big—even bigger than big! Worldwide big."
"James…"
"And now it's all gone, just like that. And I'll be nobody again, in a matter of time. What's so clever about that, huh, Logie?" James slumped. "Tell me, what else do I have going on for me? Nothing! I'm just a huge freaking loser!"
"I was always jealous of you, you know."
Without even realising it, Logan found himself blurting out his deepest inner thoughts. James looked taken aback at his sudden admission, and he internally cursed himself for not being able to catch himself in time.
But Logan knew that it was too late to take it back, so he had no other choice but to continue.
"I mean, it's like you've got pretty much everything I don't. The good looks. The charm and the swagger. The incredible talents, even. You always got the best roles and all the girls and the fullest attention of everyone so naturally, and nothing ever seemed to worry you or get you down—and you don't even need some stupid phone app to help you do that, like I do! Being smart isn't a bad thing, I get that, I do, but—but being a total milksop isn't as nice and I just...I'm an actual loser, and I wish I had your kinda brand of confidence sometimes, y'know?" he coughed and turned away. "Forget it. It's stupid."
"It's not, I just…" James muttered. "I never knew you felt that way."
"Well, actually...it took some time and a lot of thinking for me to realise that maybe it isn't jealousy at all that I'm feeling. Because it's more like...I guess...I kinda look up to you, James." confessed Logan. "It's like...I've done so ever since we first met, and I still actually do, now. Like, in a really weird way, I admire you. I really do."
"I...uh, better get in line, mister, and maybe I'll give you a confused astronaut headshot with an autograph for free!" James feebly quipped, failing to find anything else to say. But his lame remark still made Logan crack a smile, so he carried on. "Sorry, that was stupid. Real stupid. I say stupid things a lot. But in all seriousness...thanks, Logan. It—it really means a lot to me to hear that from you. And honestly…? I kinda really feel the same about you, if not even more."
"W-w-what? Now that's just dumb! I mean—I'm not saying you're dumb, I'm just saying that statistically—i-it's—" Logan bit one fist to stop his tongue from getting any more tied up. "You know what I mean. I'm...I'm not cool at all, so like...why would you?"
"Oh come onnn," James jostled his shoulder, "you're way cooler than you give yourself credit for, dude. I mean, you can do backflips and beatbox and rap! And not to mention, you're the only popstar slash hockey player who's also a member of the Future Doctors of America, so not only could you sing and dance and score nets, but you can also cure people and save lives while doing it! Well, maybe not all at the same time—but maybe if you trained hard enough for it...what's stopping you?"
"Pfft, that? All that's uh, it's nothing, it's just really stupid nerd stuff y'know, bleep blap bloop…"
"Well yeah, you're a nerd, but you're the coolest most loveable nerd ever in the whole universe ever, and don't you dare try to change my tiny caveman mind about that! Because you know what?" James poked a wry finger at Logan's 'math is cool!' pocket protector. "You're Hortense Logan freaking Mitchell, and if that's not cool, then I don't know what is!"
Logan's entire face was so vividly red at that point, and his cheeks blotched with an even darker shade, that James thought he looked closer to resembling an overripe strawberry than an actual human being. "R-really?"
"Aw, don't make me say it twice now, Logiebear," he reached over to teasingly pinch the flustered boy's dimpled cheeks, "even someone as cool as me couldn't handle that much embarrassment."
"Huh. That's weird, considering you love saying things twice."
"You bet I do!" James remarked in a low voice as he shot Logan a cheeky wink, playing along. "Hey, but really, though. I said what I mean, and I mean what I said. You can always count on that."
Logan raised both eyebrows and grinned. "Well, I am good at counting."
"Well mister smart guy, maybe when you get into med school and finally become a proper official doctor, you could figure out a way to switch around some bits of our brains together," said James as he tousled Logan's spiky hair with a knuckle, "so that I could finally be smarter and you could be confident-er and boom, everyone wins!"
They both laughed.
Sensing the lightened moment as another opportunity to help out with patching things up between his two friends, Logan cleared his throat once more and decided to take the chance.
"Maybe, yeah. But...hey, um, listen, James...so like...I—hm, I know this isn't my place to say this, and—and I'm sorry to suddenly spring this on you out of nowhere, but…"
James' mirth immediately vanished as he tensed up, knowing what was going to come next.
Oh no. Here we go again. Just leave it alone, Logan. Seriously. Just drop it...
"Is there any chance at all that, maybe...you and K-Kendall could maybe..." Logan hesitated, carefully gauging his next response. "I dunno...just uh, try to talk things out, or make amends, or, or...or something of the sort? N-not—not that I'm trying to impose in your personal affairs or anything, that is!" he hastily added, "but I'm just trying to speak as a friend. For you. For the both of you."
"Ha, after all that he did?" James' voice dripped with pure venom. "Not in a million years."
"If you would just consider it for—for a moment…"
"What, did Kendall send you here?"
"What?! No—! Why would he?" Logan was clearly stung by the accusation. "I came here on my own volition, because I was worried about you!"
"Huh, 'worried'...now where have I heard that before?" James pretended to wonder. "Oh wait, that's right—from that ragey blond freakazoid who's responsible for this," their oldest friend's cartoon bedsheets fell away as he sprang to his feet and wildly motioned towards his faintly-crooked nose, "this entire freaking mess! I mean seriously, why would he do that to me? And what else has he been hiding from us, huh? We'll never even know! Why haven't you stopped to consider that, genius?"
"Kendall would never—!" Logan wavered. "Because—b-because I trust him! Why couldn't you?!"
"You freaking well perfectly know why." An insulted scoff escaped James' throat. "He couldn't be bothered to do the same for me, so why should I?!"
"That's...I—I'm s-sorry. I said the wrong thing again, didn't I?" Logan clutched anxiously at his elbows, trying to avoid the taller boy's sunken gaze boring straight through him. "I didn't...I shouldn't have said those things. I don't really know what I'm saying anymore, or if I even have anything left to say at all. I know it's not my p-position to get in between this—to act like I know what you're going through, or—"
"Yeah, because you really freaking don't, so why don't you just drop it and sh—" James' tongue almost slipped, but he managed to catch his mistake in time and breathed it out instead.
"I mean...I just don't wanna deal with this right now, okay? I'm just so tired. Please."
"Okay...sorry...I'll leave you alone, I s-swear...just...if, if you would just, at least, maybe c-consider it for t-the time being, even if at, at least for me..." pleaded Logan.
"Didn't you just hear me?! No means no, Logan!" James snapped as he ran terse fingers through his fringe and yanked some tuftfuls back, clearly an act to keep himself from laying his angry hands on anyone else. "Jeez, for a self-proclaimed smart guy, you can be pretty freaking stupid sometimes, you know?"
"James—c-c-calm down...p-please—"
"Shut up, god, just shut up already!" he suddenly slammed his fist against the wall, making his frightened friend cringe away from him. "You're the worst! And forget it! Forget all of it! Just go away and crawl back to your kindhearted frigging saviour and beg that jerk for forgiveness instead and just—leave me alone!"
"I'm s-sorry. I just want things to be fine…" Logan's voice was barely above a whisper as it started splintering apart, "I—I promise you I haven't even talked to Kendall tonight yet, because I just really wanted to check on you first...b-because I thought you needed someone to be there for you...but I guess not. I didn't mean to make you m-m-mad again. Sorry. I'll go."
Trying to keep the devastated tremors from racking his body—and evidently failing—Logan turned away and made a clumsy move to gather up his medical equipment and bag.
"Logan...Logan, wait—"
The distraught boy didn't stop to listen and quickly fled the room before James could see his tears.
James slowly exhaled. Gripped his knuckles tighter. Glanced at the door Logan left slightly ajar. Without thinking, he started punching the wall again, over and over until both bruises and blood started to stain his fists, until the concave indents grew deeper and numerous, until the searing pain distracted every last demonised thought taking over his foggy brain.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. You idiot! The admonishing chant played like a scratched-up record, atonal taunts suppurating over the edges of his vision, sprouting like a nasty cancer inside his stomach, branded in blood all over his corrugated forehead.
Maybe he should have set his stubborn pride aside for once and just apologised. Maybe he shouldn't feel so sorry for himself all the time and just lied enough to keep his friends happy, even if he felt the exact opposite. Maybe he should stop being so...so disgustingly pathetic. Because everything was all his fault, anyway. It was always his fault.
Him and his big fat mouth.
As James pulled back his burning arm for another senseless hit, he suddenly caught sight of his reflections following his lead—several James Diamonds with deranged expressions and splattered torsos and damaged souls, ugly madmen, broken-in monsters, so concerningly unlike him—making him abruptly cease with his tantrum.
Careless drops of dark red spotted their multicoloured shag carpet as James quietly approached one of the mirrors and stood in front of it, blowing out a ragged breath as he stared blankly at his bloodied, disheveled self.
Look at yourself. What have you become? Why...why are you like this?
He didn't even realise what he had done, how badly he had messed up, how badly he had messed himself up. Even looking at the crazed doppelganger in front of him, he still kind of hadn't. As confrontational as he could get sometimes, he really hated making people cry—least of all any of his best friends—least of all Logan, after everything he did for me, after everything he'd been through before we met him, I can't believe I...I did that to him, why did I...?—so this, whoever this psycho beast he had somehow transformed into, this was no noble-hearted radioactive superhero, and it sure as shoot wasn't him at all.
Forcing himself to look into that mirror, at the not-himself himself and suddenly realising something...it shot chills up James' spine, along with the sinking feeling that that twisted-up expression on his face was a whole different kind of disturbing familiar...
Everyone always said that he got his dad's eyes. But maybe that wasn't all he got from him.
Well, what else am I supposed to freaking do, then? Cry about it? Jeez, I know I'm pathetic, but I'm not that pathetic!
James just felt so...pissed off. Like there were a million different angry feelings shoved inside his now-rioting chest against his will and he didn't know how to get it all out without wanting to explode and making sure to take everyone down with him, fault or no fault. The party's friggin' over. Who's gonna clean up the mess?
He wanted to make Kendall pay for everything that he had done that night. He was annoyed at Logan for acting like he knew literally everything and for constantly trying to get in his business. He even felt affronted and hurt by Carlos, because the boy always automatically sided with mister guardian angel and didn't really appear to care about his feelings anymore, despite him being James' closest friend.
And not just him. I don't think anybody really cares about you anymore. They all pretended to be your friend and now they want to freaking drag you down because they don't want you around anymore. Who knows, maybe they were always just pretending...
But pretending for your sake, or just for their own benefit?
After all, it pays to have a pretty face. It pays to have a stupid one around, so that they could all feel good about themselves and use you as their beautiful doormat while you stand around and be the brainless eye-candy for them, because that's all you'll ever be, right?
James's mauled fists impulsively seized up at the spiteful thought, but he forced himself to not start brutally acting out again. And it was freaking hard. The fact that he even had to think about the possibility that he was just another disposable thing for his best friends in the world, that he was just some useless thing that could be stepped on and set aside and thrown away in some landfill with the other muddied doormats once they're all used up, it filled him to the brim with indescribable furore. But they wouldn't do that to him. They wouldn't...
...why wouldn't they?
Okay, so maybe he also kind of lied. He wasn't just mad at his friends for what they've done. He was a lot more mad at himself for feeling so incredibly helpless. Because he was James Diamond, not some decorative doormat. He couldn't afford to be weak, he couldn't afford to get pushed around by people, and he definitely could not afford to look like a fool in front of everyone. He would figure a way out of things himself and try to save his reputation, even if it killed him. Because that's the only way his parents taught him to survive, whether they knew it or not.
'Why do you feel like you have to save yourself, anyway? Why do you keep acting out like this? Because your fragile pride is hurt and you can't take the hit? Because you're already cracking from the pressure? Or...because you won't feel like you would be enough, if you don't? Hah. Well boo-bloody-hoo, 'cause that's some grade-A namby-pamby talk if I've ever heard one!
You're a Diamond, for chrissakes, son. Now toughen up and act like one, or do everyone a favour and disappear.'
As much as he despised envisioning it, the warped memory of his dad had a point. James was painfully aware that he loved acting like an extremely self-absorbed, entitled, and spoiled brat most of the time—and very clearly so, that very night. But behind that tireless act of shallow and overblown confidence, there actually hid a highly-insecure person who constantly doubted himself. Who never felt like he was doing anything right, who had to make up for everything he lacked with a pretty face and a pretty voice and a louder-than-life attitude, because he probably wouldn't end up getting noticed by anyone at all, otherwise.
I have to make everyone pay attention, because how else would they know I'm here? Well...how else would I know I'm here?
But maybe that's why that same no-good father divorced his mother, and went on to marry and start a new family with some other lady over fifteen years younger than him, because his firstborn son had disappointed him too much. Maybe that's why James' super strict mom constantly set high expectations for him and made him feel like he had to do a lot more than he was capable of, brainwashing him with mantras of do better, act better, you have to be better, honey!, and even then, he still wouldn't be the best—he didn't even have it in him to defend himself and go against the overcontrolling Mrs. Diamond. And maybe that's why he had an awful tendency to plot against his friends and push them away, even if he knew that they had nothing but good intentions, because they were all genuinely amazing both inside and out, while he simply paled in comparison when next to them.
James didn't feel like he was ever enough. Because he wasn't enough, and he will never be enough.
Not for anyone else, and most certainly not for myself.
Swear upon Gretzky's soul, he did everything in his power to curb those maddening feelings of inadequacy, right in cadence with his fussy mom. He even worked his backside off to be as attractive and presentable as he could be, because pretend it wasn't the case as he might, being 'the face' didn't really come as innately to him as everyone usually assumed.
Sure, he was nothing but a cherry-cheeked cherubim cutiepie all throughout his childhood, and it won baby Jay-bug nothing but preening 'awww's and delightful face squishes from delighted relatives. But the more James grew up, the less it became an aunt-enticing asset and more so a literal ballooning problem. Especially during the dreaded puberty stage, where strained emotions were constantly running wild in their divided household and he stupidly turned to nasty greasy sugary food to cope with it, and it didn't exactly help that his body was also growing rapidly in all the wrong places and nothing seemed to be evening out.
A punch in the gut isn't hard to take when your gut's at that size.
After having to endure thinly-veiled comments from mommy about eating less junk food and more fresh greens, as she loftily flipped through her Diamond Cosmetics catalogue filled with gorgeous size-zero models, and daddy's nightly dinnertime litanies about kids these days being nothing but lazy television addicts whose only exercise came in the form of pressing remote buttons and channel surfing (but no, of course not his new son and daughter, they studied hard and were good children from a good wife), the younger James was hard-pressed to establish the fact that looking like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man's tiny Minnesotan clone wasn't going to win him the shiny plastic crown, silky first place sash, and girls' numbers with shy swirly xoxo's at the beauty pageant.
Best case scenario, he was looking at jeered biggest tubby award insults and hurled rotten tomatoes (which was bad news for facial moisturisation, he also found out). And worst case scenario, it would be a bucket of Kool-Aid rigged on the scaffolding directly above his head, ready to make a big splash and turn him into a crimson laughingstock with a single rope pull.
Kids can be so cruel, but maybe he really needed the sticky wake-up call...
James' gold-flecked eyes diligently trailed the current version of his form from head to toe. Flawless tanned skin, chiseled muscles bulging out and accentuating the best parts of himself, measurements that would equal to pure perfection in Logan's pocket calculator, healthy and strong and a ravishingly athletic body die for. The hard-earned fruits of his labour.
Years and years of relentless training and macro-logging and scarfing down sludgy protein shakes and other disgusting supplements (and sometimes even his mom's shady diet pills with Chinese labels, in fits of midnight desperation when the weekly weigh-in wasn't too looking great) and evil numbers being counted up, down, up, down by the stupid criticising voice ruling over his every waking moment, fluctuating computations that would make Logan's pocket calculator explode if he tried to input those numbers in.
Years and years of doing damage, undoing that damage with more damage, and now he was feeling like garbage and doing it all over again just to stay enough.
Years of hating himself enough to love himself, and it was only step one.
Because as James discovered, it was far better to be hated for what they don't have, rather than be hated for what you don't. So he had made it his personal life mission to look his best so he would finally be admired and even envied by literally everyone, relatives and strangers and pageant judges and teachers and friends and classmates and the whole world and universe alike, any and all eyes on him and him alone; because otherwise, what was the point of him?
'You have to stay beautiful, honey. You have to be wonderful, unmissable, you have to make them pay attention to you and be the star of the whole darned show, and they're all gonna love you as much as I do...we'll show them. We'll show them all. You're a Diamond, and we're gonna make you shine!'
In typical stage mom fashion, Brooke made sure to sign his sole darling child up for just about every recreational pastime and physical activity available in Duluth for 'training and exposure, better get used to it sweetie, and no buts, okay?'. So apart from being in the children's choir, local theatre scene, music club, and competing in a Peewee hockey team, James also struggled to maintain regular schedules in football, indoor rock-climbing, tennis with a squash racket, squash without a racket, surfing, bodybuilding, and marathoning, to name a few. Heck, he even suffered through the ballet lessons his mom put him and his equally-suffering best friends through, when she decided that snowboarding was far too dangerous a sport for them to take up—as if the exhaustion and constant burnout from having to keep up with all the other activities under James' repertoire wasn't enough to kill him alone.
Which it almost had, stretching him out thin and caving him in and pushing him out to his very limits, making him wish on his pinned Edmonton Oilers and Pop Tiger celebrity posters every single night (just after he collapsed on his bed, still in whatever getup he'd been sweating rivers in the entire day) that he would someday get picked up by a passing talent scout during one of his countless exploits—any one of them, he didn't care if he had to be a singer or a hockey pest or an elbow cream model or an invisible squash racket cleaner, and sooner than later cannot come soon enough—and finally get away from all of it.
Up until he garnered his coveted escape at last, now living it large in the city of the angels as a member of hit musical sensation Big Time Rush.
Sure, being part of a boy band isn't the easiest thing in the world, but it feels a million times more enjoyable and rewarding to me. I guess it's because it's something I actually wanna do. Like, it's something I actually care about, and people like Mama Knight and Gustavo and Kelly, they really care about this whole thing too. And even if it wasn't expected, it's definitely a whole lot easier with my best friends around, to support each other and have fun and go through everything with me…
James' wan smile petered out just as quickly as it had formed.
That is, until it isn't. Until they start realising that I'm not good enough for them and kick me out and replace me with someone else, replace me with someone hotter and more popular and better like Dak Zevon or Tanyon Lavelle or whatever. Because they think that they know better than me.
Do they?
And why don't I...?
Because even then, it seemed like it still didn't matter if James spent half his life working reps after reps at the gym bench press, and groomed every inch of himself for several hours until the alarm clock gave up and his friends start complaining about how he was holding them up, and spent days killing his conscience over an extra cheeseburger he practically inhaled because he was too lightheaded from hunger and was unable to resist the temptation. It didn't matter that his fingers just about locked up and fell off from playing the piano twenty-eight hours every week, and he put himself exhaustingly meticulous rituals and rules just to ensure that his precious voice would never get ruined, and that he worked harder than everyone else during vocal practice and dance practice and recording sessions...
None of it will matter at all 'cause even if I don't want to, I'm still gonna keep on getting older until one day my killer body and handsome face is gonna get all gross and saggy and wrinkly and gross...and when that happens, I obviously wouldn't be the face anymore...and then my amazing voice would also probably start to turn sour and sound worse and worse until no one would care about me or wanna listen to me anymore, and then my friends will hate me for it and fans would forget about me and even girls wouldn't like me anymore and then...and then what?
And then I'll be all alone?
Probably. And it would still be me to blame. And maybe I deserve it.
Even the transient thrill and the sick pride James got from picking up girls left and right with his good looks and irresistible charms never lasted long. He always hurt them before they hurt him, always gave them a reason to walk out the door after a few casual dates and fooling around for a bit, and he made sure that they stayed out of his life forever after every tryst, afraid that if they dug just a little deeper, they'd expose all the ugly scars from beneath his beautiful lie and get completely repulsed by it and dump him on the spot—and that had never happened once in his entire freaking life! His never-been-dumped record was perfectly spotless, and he planned to keep it that way.
Like yeah, it's a stupid thing to worry about, I know it is, but it matters. 'Cause if I'm the one who gets dumped, then just how bad am I, really?
It was easy for him to pretend that this hell-for-leather routine was all for the sake of upholding his pretty boy image, that he did it for the electrifying challenge of a conquest, that it only meant he was loads better than his dorky friends at asking girls out—and just like his crazy dad with all his boastful studmuffin stories that substituted for bedtime tales, whenever the old man got home late because of 'overtime', staggering into his room with a ruddy face and a missing necktie and sewer breath and not Diamond Cosmetics-brand lipstick smeared all over his shirt collar, and terrifying him worse than the make-believe monsters in his walk-in closet.
He was doing it because he was James Diamond, for crying out loud, and he was a dreamy and free-spirited youngblood who wouldn't ever be tied down by any one person (or palm plant). In fact, he was so good at pretending that he was starting to fool even himself.
But not tonight. Never tonight.
Tonight, that seventeen-year old lie was coming undone and falling apart fast before he could even make a move to salvage whatever bleached-out scraps might be left of him, undamaged-damaged him; all because one of the people he loved and trusted the most chose to pull the stray thread that was keeping it all together.
If I'm that easily destructible, then who would ever want to keep me around?
After all, he was James Diamond, and they could build monuments out of his self-centeredness just so he could tear it back down.
The truth sucked, but it seemed that outside of his temporary shallow attributes, James wasn't just not enough. He was completely worthless, plain and simple. Not like the successful and picture-perfect version of a great son his mommy always destined him to be. Not like his beautiful prodigy step-siblings that his daddy loved parading around and talking up an ego-bolstering storm about during his prodigal son's weekend visits. Not like boy genius Logan Mitchell, or mister congeniality Carlos Garcia, or especially not like...
Kendall freaking Knight. Always so self-assured. Always with a plan. Always looking out for his friends and family. After all, he was the one who got James and the rest of his friends all the way to Hollywood just to fulfill his life-long dream of becoming a star, because James couldn't even do that by himself. He couldn't even stand up for himself against an intimidating big-shot music producer like Gustavo Rocque, the way Kendall did without hesitation in that auditorium during that fateful day.
And they only ever wanted him. Kelly and Gustavo didn't even bat a scornful eyelid at James' chickened-out yet still sincere audition, but they were somehow impressed with Kendall's impromptu soapbox tantrum enough to stalk him all the way back to the Knights' house and offer up James' dream career to him instead. And Kendall didn't even have to try.
But...who could blame them? I can only sing and dance and look pretty for the cameras, but I guess I'm still not special enough for them, not like—not like...
Brave-faced, selfless, confident, wonder boy Kendall Knight. Who had the fire. Who was his most longtime best friend. Who betrayed him. Who lied to his face and hurt him. Who didn't trust him enough to tell him about serious and important things. Who couldn't even trust him to make huge decisions about his life on his own.
Is that it, then? Do you feel like Kendall betrayed you with what he did? Do you feel like he cares too much? Or he just doesn't care about your feelings? And what about Logan and Carlos, for that matter? Do they care, too? And why should your friends caring about you even be a bad thing? Because it makes you feel weak? Because you think it's all just a fake act? Because you feel like you're being suffocated by them?
"Or is it just because you think you're better than everyone else?" He said to his reflection.
James groaned loudly as he turned away. His head was starting to hurt from all the overthinking. Or maybe it was just from fatigue and dehydration. Either way, he should really stop talking to himself in the mirror.
All these head games are making go freaking insane, and I hate hate haaaate it! Stupid Kendall. Stupid Griffin and his stupid crazy superstar plan. Stupid crazy Hollywood. Stupid, stupid me.
Maybe he was being stupid. But acting like an idiot made it way easier to not think. It made it easier to ignore everything else and just go for things and deal with whatever came head-on, instead of being wrapped up in a million made-up problems which only led to cold feet and never getting anywhere at all, like what usually happened to Logan—and look where that got him. For James, it was much easier to be an idiot and own up to it—like what Carlos does, but what my best bud lacks in common sense, he makes up for with bravery and street smarts and that winning smile of his, and I'm just just a plain drab idiot—than to pretend like he knew what he was doing and end up screwing up everything for everyone else. Because look where that got Kendall...
And look what he did to me. He wrecked my face. My only chance. My biggest dream...
Kendall didn't even have any good excuses for doing it. He knew that being famous was number one on James' 'List of Things to Do Before I'm 20'. Kendall also knew that it wasn't just at the top of the list, it was also written in giant all-caps, underlined five times, and surrounded with shiny stars using a purple Unicorn Princess glitter pen that James nicked from his snooty stepsister's study table. Kendall should have known better, not just from the times the younger boy 'forcefully borrowed' the list during some big time razzing sessions and added stupid stuff to it like 'lick Jean-Luc Varn Darn's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame', but also from James incessantly talking and obsessing about it just like, all the freaking time.
So his super-ambitious ambition was hardly a state secret. It was all James ever wanted, all he ever seemed to care about in his entire life, so much so that the entirety of Minnesota was pretty much informed about his relentless thirst for notoriety; and he knew that his fountain of fame wasn't going to be found in that upper Midwest backwash.
It was right here, in Los Angeles, California. And so was he.
And now I'm so close, almost close to more than halfway there—and yet, somehow still so far away...
Why did he want to chase this glimmering superstardom dream in the first place, anyway? Why did he want to be so desperately famous? So that he could build a better life for himself, where he could have all the fortunes and pleasures in the world easily handed to him whenever he so pleased? So that he could prove to his mom and dad and to the other haters who had doubted him that they were wrong, because he could do something great and he was worth the trouble, after all? So that he could show everyone that he was special and had enough talent, looks, and charm to come out on top, and that he had more than what it takes to be a star?
Or was it because he was simply scared to get stuck living a boring life, scared to waste his and everyone's time, and scared to end up being completely forgotten by the world?
If a diamond shines in the forest and no one's around to see it, does it really even exist?
That didn't sound right. Logan would've killed him for butchering that phrase. But then again, Logan was probably somewhere in the crib either crying his eyes out or coming up with ways to sneak poison in James' pomade wax to actually kill him, so who really freaking cared anymore. Certainly not James. If no one cared about it, then why should he?
Is it really worth the trouble to think about all of this craziness? I mean, who are you even kidding—are you really even worth the trouble at all?
No...no point in it, anyway. What's done is done, and now both Kendall and Logan hated his guts. And it probably wouldn't be long before he also finally drove Carlos away, with the extremely insufferable way he had been acting up...
Or maybe he already had somehow, because Carlitos—his partner in crime and bestest friend ever, the one guy he felt like he could trust the most and always count on to be there for him no matter what, the only person whose radiant face he desperately wanted to see more than anyone else, the only one who just might be able to make him feel alright, after all—hadn't even done so much as knock on their bedroom door once or even pop his helmet 'round the corner and show his dumb grinning face to check on James that night.
Great. Just freaking great.
Ignoring the spasms on his contused knuckles and the tender soreness of a pulled muscle in his upper arm, James looked back and limply ran his fingers across the mirror, painting streaks of drying red that obscured his morose reflection. No one needed this. No one needed him. He was just getting in the way of himself...getting in the way of everyone...he couldn't even save himself...
'...well, I wouldn't need to, if you didn't keep acting like a little selfish kid who keeps getting in trouble and dragging us along with you!'
The hand contorted. The final punch struck. The mirror shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, snowflake-like shards glinting as they rained down upon the scarlet blots in the shag carpet, and the madman was no more.
Maybe this is the real James Diamond after all. Ugly. Messy. A no-good psychotic monster. Maybe the rotting apple didn't fall far from the rotten tree...
Who would want this mess around?
James loved his friends—no, his brothers—more than anything and anyone else in the world, he really did, but it seemed to him that all he ever did was cause a rift between everyone and just act like a deadweight for all of them. Him, James Diamond, the most worthless, most selfish jerk in the world. It was already too late for him, but he didn't want them to rot the way he had. Maybe they would all be better off without him.
What if...
It was a tough decision, a drastic one he wasn't sure he even wanted to resort to. But after a long time of sombre contemplation, he had finally made his mind up.
James knew what he had to do.
(a/n: The lyrics from the one song James was working out to was actually taken from Did You Forget by LTX, which is James Maslow's current EDM music project with Eugene Ugorski, so. I suppose that makes it a bit weird in this context, but it is a pretty nice song. Just as a little easter egg tidbit.)