PREFACE: These are highly personal vent fics written in an attempt to seek comfort and rationality in my beloved medium and my favourite character, usually created in a single sitting whilst under a mentally-compromised state, and entirely left unedited afterwards. Hence why they tackle very serious issues and potentially-triggering topics, and also why they are generally terrible, convoluted to impossible degrees, and—more often than not—make absolutely no sense. Therein also lies my sheer inability and poorness as a writer as well; though there is no fair excuse for it, only proffered apologies for any confusions going forward. Necessary content warnings will always be included before every story, and please feel free to click off for your continuing peace of mind. And of course, take care and stay safe xx

ONE: THIS IS NOT A PROBLEM (IF CONVINCING THAT IT'S NOT)

[TW: SELF-HATRED, EATING DISORDERS, ANXIETY, DEPRESSION, SUICIDE.]

(1. bleed out deep blue lipstick and

you'll fake perfect cool tonight)

Kendall Knight can't remember how he got here.

One moment he's seeing the blinding white-hot of rage and discoloured crimson—next thing he knows, he's shivering in the middle of the Palm Woods swimming pool. Drenched in frostbitten Hollywood air and up to his heaving chest in chlorinated water and inky corruption, glistening almost obsidian under the mist-diffused moonlight—like a final baptism, only there's a significant difference in rituals, since he's going the complete opposite direction from heaven afterwards.

What an amusingly morbid thought to have; what a rather unamusing way to hallmark the celebration of an ending. Though, he reckons to himself, it might be nice to finally get rid of the annoying coldness that's been infecting his veins. And at least he's certainly dressed for the occasion, in remnants of a perfect all black-and-white dishevelment that's only ever reserved for birthdays and award shows and weddings and press releases and first kisses and funerals and other frivolous special events.

And where would a super party be without a super party king to crown?

The only thing spoiling everything for Kendall, however, it is the persistent taste of sourness in his thin-lined mouth. He doesn't really know where it comes from, either.

After all, he has never learned to properly empty himself, despite the thousands of times he has barricaded their bathroom doors just to contuse his knuckles with shivering bicuspids and scrape his tongue and throat raw, frothing mouth wide open in a silent shriek as he worships stained porcelain and desperately searches for that one unhappy trigger to make everything eject out of him; sins, sludge, secrecy, and sanity alike.

But despite his worst efforts, the rest of his bloated body—his vile, withering, ugly body—always betrays him in the end and betrays nothing else. As if punishing him for his gluttonous transgressions. As if disappointed with how he just wants to nourish himself normally without feeling guilty. As if telling him "this is what you've done to yourself, so live with it. Die with it."

Shouldn't have, shouldn't have done this to himself, should have stayed completely empty, so used to empty that even having to ingest air is making him feel disgusted, losing numbers in the form of losing oxygen. Overthinking about stupid things like that, he acts stupid most of the time and everyone's used to it, but this is too stupidly irrational even for him. It's so unlike Kendall.

What was like him, anyway?

He's mister cool rush, the super leader who chews raspberry gum and shakes everyone's outstretched hands as he makes plans for world-domination alongside his chaos-blooded best friends, the brave boy who rushes through the ice and takes on the challenge because he simply can, the Knight who can talk his way out of everything, have anything he ever wants, and can solve every problem if he needs to.

But when the problem is himself, who else was supposed to solve it?

Kendall usually solves it by facing everything headfirst. Now, he's going to solve it by drowning everything out.

No more use in playing nice and playing pleasantries, no more use in outpatient second chances and unholy Hail Mary passes, no more use in spinning pep talks ad nauseam and spitting out a hackneyed cautionary tale that's simply going to get swallowed up by the rest of tragic Hollywood's glamour-glossy fakery. No more use in only delaying the inevitable.

He's here tonight, so why should it matter at all?

Even as he's full of chemical water and himself, Kendall's somehow beginning to feel a little lighter than usual. A little emptier, perhaps? A flutter of hope—or hurt—in his hollow chest. He's had his cake and didn't eat it, too, and the party's over—or it never even began? Perhaps it wasn't a celebration, after all...what a stupid thing to think. He just really wants to go home. Where's home? Palm Woods, Apartment 2J? Duluth, Minnesota? The opposite of heaven? No, no, that's not it. How did he get here, anyway? This is not the first time it has happened to him. But what the hell did I do now?

Kendall's friendship bracelets are starting to get slippery.

(2. blistered problems, don't scratch at 'em
pretty in leprosy and pink tights)

The scratched-up memories are playing out in a flimsy projector screen inside Kendall's feverish head as he tries to conjure up a fiction, and the pool is starting to boil him alive.

Remember, remember...

What was the last straw? Was it James offhandedly commenting how loose Kendall's flannel shirt is starting to look on him, as Mr. Diamond proudly paraded and preened his own perfectly-sculpted Adonis figure and hottest conquests who lusted for it—for him—in front of everyone without shame—the unabashed, barefaced way the younger boy could only ever shamefully wish for in his paralysis-plagued nightmares? Was it just another best-friendly remark turned sour, or was James deliberately taunting Kendall with his own curdled blood, just to feel good about himself? As if he still needed more of such a thing.

What else does James know? Does James know that Kendall's steadily rotting from the inside out and it makes him reek of putrid failure? Does James know of jealousy, and desperation, and self-resentment enough to make scissor scars out of sympathy? Does their pretty diamond boy know that he hurts to look at?

What was the last straw? Was it Carlos being on his tails all exhaustive week long and constantly razzing at him, even as Kendall practically pleaded the Latino to leave him alone? This resistance only lost him out to more persistence, as Carlos scolded him for being such a big dummy and double-dog dared him until he got defeated and took an extra serving of corndogs, and another, and another...until 'just one more' turned into another sleepwalking blur of midnight binges and a cramped Alka-Seltzer mess of morning stomachaches, that Kendall's trusty friend conveniently wasn't there for.

Carlos Garcia is a boy that's too full of cloying recklessness and love and hope to ever understand that sometimes, a mere helmet isn't going to be enough to protect you from getting hurt, and that sometimes, too much love itself can break a person...but why did Kendall let him? What was he still hoping for?

What was the last straw? Was it having to put up with Logan's scrutinising gaze as it drilled holes in his system and wore him out further, as if he wouldn't notice the boy genius shooting him down with those knowing eyes—those critical, reproachful, judgmental eyes—yet only ever steering clear of having to say anything at all, and only doing mental gymnastics and dancing ritualistic circles 'round and 'round Kendall just to avoid confrontation—just to avoid responsibility—just to avoid him? And Logan couldn't even feign ignorance in his case because he knows everything. Maybe even too much.

Logan also knows how much an unseen ailment can hurt, far more than any one of them ever can. Does he also know how to make it be unfelt? Does Doctor Mitchell have a cure-all remedy to fix his fucked-up friend and make it all feel better again? Or is he also turning sickly green himself from spiraling into avoidance?

But then again...it's not just Logan. Everyone has been avoiding him more and more these days, Kendall notices. Is it because he's been so extremely irritable and snappy towards everyone lately? Is it because his shedding hair has been falling out in dirty blond clumps and clogging up the bathroom drains? Is it because he's been avoiding them and no one really cares enough to find out why?

What did he say wrong? What did he do wrong?

Or have his best friends, his brothers, finally started figuring out that he's the one who's wrong, that just the mere presence of him is such a terrible vice in and of itself and having to put up with it's making everyone feel uneasy, that he's obnoxious and abrasive and useless and pathetic and it doesn't really take a genius to figure it out. It only takes a genius it figure it out first, and as soon as the rest of them do, well...their virtue of patience could only ever last them so long.

The more it wears thin, the more their razor blade smiles dig into Kendall's stretched-out cheeks, leaving indented scars that may be mistaken for pretty little dimples if one doesn't look closely enough. And no one ever does. So he simply clenches his broken jaws and keeps smiling for the intrusive cameras, smiling until he shatters his gritted teeth, baring that brittle enamel worn down with cavities and stomach acids and plastic sweetness, like the flavour of artificial raspberry.

As it starts with a smile, so it shall end with one.

How did it go again? The end of November...the end of all things...

What was the last straw? Was it the thermonuclear fallout Kendall sparked against his dearest mother that was loud enough to be heard all the way to Minnesota, loud enough to shake walls and crumble foundations, and worst of all, loud enough for his younger sister to overhear? What was it mom said about me again? It still isn't coming back to Kendall. Maybe he can ask Katie-cat about it. But then again, he really shouldn't, and he should stop being such a big dummy brother to her. Poor her, for having a damaged idiot for a big brother. Did my baby sis also say anything to me? It'll come back to him, if he just ignores the migraine and tries hard enough and thinks harder...something, something about clashing beliefs and half-life lies that are starting to break everyone down and being not himself.

That's another stupid frigging thing, he shakes his head and the migraine agrees with him. Why wouldn't Jennifer Knight just believe that her darling son is fine? Kendall's fine. He's doing fine. He's gonna do god damn fine and great with an untouched cherry on fucking top and why can't the rest of reality seem to understand that? Yes, it's kind of a blatant lie. But if it's one that he still believes might come true, then what's the difference?

That the lie is easier to believe in, whereas the truth just plain sucks?

So leave Kendall be and he can easily repress his problems—like stuffing rainbow confetti down a poorly-stitched scarecrow and leaving it out in a field of fickle distractions, he'll spit out trite clichés and hackneyed platitudes, and keep himself just busy enough as he copes with everything and nothing. But point it out and the apex predators circling the sun will arrive—with their shining beaks and their raptured wings and their noble gilded cawing of "we just want to help help help you", as they rip him apart and keep his faded leftovers on a trophy shelf.

Now the crows are sick of feasting on his ragged flesh, and the tightness is starting to feel too painful for him to bear.

Tighter and tighter, the pressure in Kendall's throat is only getting more suffocating...

(3. and when the sun inflames distaste
to reveal the sicker mess you made)

What is there left for Kendall to remember, anyway?

Remember now? Of...treason...and plot...and reasons...left to give...

Kendall loves his friends, his best friends in the world, the best brothers he would willingly give the whole world to and then some even if they didn't ask, the ones that have always been by his side and always will be—except for the nights where the dark was too dark and they didn't have to find out he was part of the darkness too; far too scared of shadows and contagion, far too scared to end up afraid and all alone. Are they sunshine-blinded crows, too? They shouldn't have to be...but maybe it wouldn't be unfair to ask, either.

Kendall loves Jo—loved Jo—until she left for New Zealand to break out and follow her ambition, she's a dazzling girl with dazzling passions too far big for Los Angeles, for California, for the entirety of North America to ever contain, and his dazzled heart can only ever chase her down for one last impossible goodbye kiss as far as LAX. He still loves her and perhaps will even get to love her more someday, but he can't love her too much for now because the distance won't let him. Should she also be held responsible? Surely not...

Kendall loves his family, his wonderful mother who's cared and sacrificed so much for him, and his clever baby sister and forever partner in crime. They are always there for him, ever so supportive, giving everything they can for his sake. As seasons collided into the next calendar year and he grew more weathered, grew older against his will, they gave him reasons to feel brand new. They're the main reason why the darkness hasn't completely dragged him away and swallowed him up, the way it did to his father. Were they also the ones who propped him up just to leave him in the wilted field, left to be at the scornful mercy of the nature's harshest elements? No, that's just ridiculous. Is it? It is. Isn't it?

Kendall loves the addicting glitter and drug-addled adrenaline taste of ditzy dizzy dirty Los Angeles, he loves being a mediocre has-been cog-in-the-machine musician, he loves being yelled at and derided and pushed around by their bratty music producer and manager, he loves being used as nothing more than another polished pawn in the moneymaking chessboard by their greedy shill of a businessman boss—no, wait, he doesn't love any of that bullshit, he's used to it, but that doesn't mean he has to love it. After all, he could have been making it bigger than ever as a hockey superstar by now...but instead, he's feeling a different kind of rush, puppeting as a 'leader' while he gets pulled along on tangled threads just to follow someone else's dreams, a sneering irony that only ha-ha-Hollywood finds hilarious. What's the point in living in a field of dying stars?

Kendall loves hating being seen by everyone and no one, hates loving being alive enough to only wish he didn't exist, loves making it big—but god forbid he gets too big, inflating fame with ego, conflating good looks with looking worse, bigger now and bigger still, until it turns into the big bang...but this is what he gets for getting too involved, he supposes. Should have stayed on the safer sidelines, should have stayed unspeakable, invisible, shouldn't have been such a cool boy with blackened eyes and gaunt ribs and a played-out self-esteem to match just to show off, because now the rush is catching up to his foolish youth to overtake him, and his bubblegum world's popped all over his shame-face along with his chewed-up heart.

Did he love himself too late, and can he turn it around? Does he love perpetuating all his self-sabotage, having far too much fun to fall down? Does he love being so amazingly deluded, so astoundingly myopic, and why did no one get out of the way? Why are there scarlet letters and shredded sticks poking out of his scaffold-crucified hands? Isn't it supposed to hurt? Is that it? Does he just love the hurt because he thinks he fucking deserves it? Is that my fault, too?

Was he the last straw?

Kendall's starting to feel incredibly lightheaded thinking about it.

(4. scabs in your nails, bruised mouth so stale
ugly in stonewashed jeans and plague)

What is it about Kendall now?

With trembling prayers in his clasped palms, he'll hold it tight and whisper his last confessions under the water, though there's no one around to forgive him anymore.

Yes, he's just another overthinking, over-obsessive, overwhelmed freak.

Yes, give him a petty little worry and he'll craft crumbling continents out of it, yet weep in consternation when his dragging legs can no longer cross the borders.

Yes, give him pure love and devotion unhindered, and he'll believe it's simply another impressive counterfeit idol to be sold off by golden-starved pharisees in exchange for paradise, and faithlessly turn it away.

Yes, give him one reason—even just a disinclined affirmation in the form of folded arms and hushed stares—to believe he's fucking worthless, and he'll brand the unfortunate title on his castigated forehead like a grotesque sobriquet for the rest of his life; if only to make the rest of the planet stop revolving on his perpetual selfishness.

If only to prove a point. If only to finally prove himself right.

They have it wrong when they say he's selfless.

After all, Kendall's always told time and time again that he needs to do better. That he's slipping fast, that he's not taking things seriously anymore. That what he's doing is not enough—that he's not enough. Him, who's always been trying to look out for everyone, and always puts everyone else's needs before him, even if it means sacrificing his own. Him, who'll pull heaven and hell together and rip himself apart just to make sure everyone's protected. Him, who's just trying to keep himself together, if only for everyone else, if not ever for himself.

Him, who, for doing all of that, can't ever wash the pungent stink of feel-good speeches and high expectations off of him, and now he always gets branded as nothing more than another contrived Gary Stu on the surface—even when the cracks are so easy to find, without having to cave him in deeper. Even when he's far from being the picture-perfect golden starchild they all expect him to be, and yet he still can't convince anyone of such an obvious fact. Because it's apparently bad to care too much.

Him. Kendall did this to himself and it's all his fucking fault.

What part of that isn't enough?

He's shrinking smaller and smaller under the collapsing weight of his own mistakes—not even 'smaller' in the way he sorely intended when he first set out to be empty—and there's no more room left for any tomorrows. No more room left for being fine. No more room left for being enough.

Because now this regretful inadequacy is seeping out of Kendall's split wrists, scarlet tendrils snaking into arctic translucency, and the swimming pool is steadily filling up with the final remnants of him.

He feels rather sorry for Buddha Bob, who's probably the civilian casualty that will have to clean out the visceral mess he made. Feels a bit sorry for Mr. Bitters, who'll soon have his precious swimming pool and shiny Palm Woods reputation tarnished with rusty iron and a tacky crisis hotline. Feels so incredibly sorry to Jo, who'll have to meet a rude awakening in the middle of the night, when the phone call of his terrible news comes ringing all the way from the other hemisphere; a distance closed off by infinite grief. He'll never even have a chance to tell his dazzling girl that he will always love her forever.

Kendall feels almost sorry for himself, too, but he feels far too weak to ask for help—something he should have done a long time ago, anyway, far too late for begging now—so instead, he'll stay quiet and sink under, free of all troubles. Until it's time for him to resurface. Until it's time for him to be free.

And the rest of his best friends and family? The people he feels the most sorry towards? The people he's truly leaving behind? What of the irreparable mess he's left them in his destructive wake? Not a single trace of an apology, or an explanation, or an I love you, or even just a final undaunted goodbye?

Carefully...careful not to care, callously numb and betting on one last bad decision.

Kendall doesn't want to be selfish. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He just needs his hurt to stop.

Because even if he did attempt to change himself, to rewrite his tragic fate at the eleventh hour, even if he kept his shallow lungs from breathing bleach and hauled himself out of the waters now running red to let the scolding sirens and blue lights flash in his pallid face, even if the sun-bleached crows patched up both his ancient and newborn wounds in saviour's cloth and kept him safely away from their sharp beaks...it still wouldn't be enough to save him. The seasons will always collide, the party will always end, the scarecrow will always decay, and there's absolutely nothing he can do to make the mess become undone. Being alive—staying alive, even if barely—hasn't been enough.

Nothing in living is ever enough for him, so why start now, when it's so much easier to simply cease it all?

Even when Kendall feels like he's too much—too big and bad and boisterous for life—that doesn't make him enough. Not enough to be a good friend. Not enough to be a good son. Not enough to be a successful superstar. Not enough to overcome his worsening afflictions. Not enough to actually be brave and seek help. Because he's fine, right? He's doing so fine. He's fine and it's sick, it's so sick how fucking fine he is, so fine how fucking sick he is. Not fine enough. Not sick to be not fine, either.

But he's sick of being the worst, sick of being nothing more than an unraveling strawman argument, sick in a repulsive body he doesn't want to own and sicker in the head but not obviously—what else can he do about it except pretend to be fine and fall apart on his own? Will that prove him right in being wrong?

Or is he wrong again for being right about it?

Oh no, of course not...he's not sick enough. He's never sick enough.

Maybe he's just tired.

Kendall's starved afterthoughts are starting to ebb away into a dull rush, along with his eternal summer-hazed vision blurring spiderweb constellations and the burning glow of attention-seeking Hollywood lights and the unblinking moon in the upside-down sky, along with the raspberry-pink air bubble refusing to pop on his bluish lips, along with the rest of him, cool boy him, cold boy him, empty him...

For a moment, he's falling fast and everything hurts so much, too much, please help me, oh god, please...and he thinks he hears a comfortingly unfamiliar voice—was it his own? was it someone else's? who's left but himself?—screaming his name over and over again as it begs and beckons him to come back please!, but the overwhelming noises of anguished existence abruptly cuts to liquid silence, peaceful and pure. And suddenly, he's floating. He's fading. He's home.

And Kendall Knight finally remembers; and when he smiles for the last time, it's the most fine he's ever felt in his entire life.

[TITLE LYRICS: WISHFUL DRINKING - TESSA VIOLET]