Hey y'all! Haven't updated this in a while, been too focused on cranking out angst for Minnesota Memoir! I got this request a while ago from Honest2G (Guest) about Logan and public bathrooms. It has to do with a pre-show canon event, so I was trying to speed up writing Minnesota Memoir so I could put it in there, but that's not happening soon, so I decided to just deal with it.
Here's the chapter!
Happy reading! Enjoy!
It wasn't his fault he had a weak bladder. And it wasn't his fault that everyone else woke up late, so they were automatically late to the airport. Or, well, not late, just behind schedule. But, then again, Logan had crafted a thorough itinerary for how this day was supposed to go. And this meticulously thorough itinerary was not being followed.
Namely because everyone had voted (except him) to stop at the gross public bathrooms.
He would've waited until they were closer to their gate to go to the bathroom, not like he would've gone anyway. The gate wasn't too fart away, he could still see it ahead of them by, possibly twenty feet? If they were quick, they would still have twenty minutes before their flight to New York began the early boarding process.
He thought it was an odd scheduling choice, to begin their tour in New York, when they were already living in equally popular California. It would minimize transportation costs if they began in California. Not to mention, it would eliminate his current situation.
The current situation: he actually needed to use the gross public airport bathroom, because he had a weak bladder.
And, if he didn't think about it, he could ignore the plethora of germs and viruses awaiting him by the public urinals. However, in retrospect, if he didn't think about it, he didn't really feel the pressure on his bladder.
Nope. That was a lie. He felt it.
He would just have to get over it. He took a step forward. Kendall pulled him backwards.
He nearly collided with a gaggle of teens, likely a few years younger, probably only fourteen or fifteen. But they didn't look it.
As he stumbled, he froze.
He could hold it. Even if he couldn't, there was actually no chance he would be walking in there.
"Logan, come on. Aren't you the one freaking out about our lateness?" James asked. "Just go to the bathroom so we can get to the gate."
That had been his original plan. Unfortunately, that plan had been terminated.
He coughed, clearing his throat. "I'm fine. Let's go."
Except, now he couldn't tear his eyes away from the tile flooring of the bathroom, which looked far too similar to the middle school bathroom tile to be considered a coincidence. Come to think of it, the elementary school had the same flooring as well.
He had sat on that floor, rocking back and forth, at least four different times.
The first time was third grade, right after James had pantsed him.
The second was fifth grade, when his tour group for middle school orientation had knocked him backwards against the wall, leaving him bloody and concussed.
The third was sixth grade, after he had a particularly embarrassing and childish meltdown in the cafeteria, over a combination of events he couldn't remember.
The fourth time was eighth grade. This, he remembered the most clearly. That had been the day he almost kissed Kendall. He hadn't meant too, but he almost did it anyway, because he was oblivious when he was fourteen. And when he almost did that, because of some idiot bully whispering in his ear that it made total sense, another bully had grabbed him. Called him gay, called him and Kendall other things that they decidedly were not. And dunked his head in the toilet, letting him choke on the cold, bacteria-infested toilet water.
That had been the day Carlos took on the eighth grade.
He had gotten so angry once he had found Logan headfirst in the toilet, crying uncontrollably. He had gotten Logan out of the toilet, but told him to stay in the bathroom. He had scooped up Logan's broken glasses, dumping them in a nearby trash can. Logan was sure he remembered that the glass shards cut Carlos's hands
And Carlos had never seemed so vengeful, so authoritative in his entire life, only a fool wouldn't sit down, back against the wall, and listen to Carlos's instructions. Logan was not a fool, he listened.
Carlos didn't even secure his helmet. He ran out of that bathroom, then tackled the bully that put his head in a toilet. He tackled the other one too, the one that told him to kiss Kendall. And then he tackled any other guy within a five mile radius that happened to have their name on the eighth grade class roster.
It was the quickest battle Logan had ever heard. Heard, not seen, because he stayed in the bathroom.
Carlos came back, handed Logan a paper towel roll, and helped him clean up. As if he hadn't taken on the whole eighth grade just a minute ago.
He had gotten suspended for two and a half weeks straight, narrowly dodging Kendall's rebellious record of three, and got grounded too. But Carlos told him he didn't mind.
Carlos went absolutely ballistic that day.
And so, Logan remained staring at the tile floor, trying to forget exactly how raging mad Carlos had been.
Hearing Carlos yell like that—punch like that, fight like that—it wasn't normal. It was not happy, fun-loving, daredevil Carlos. It was savage.
"Logan—what's wrong?" Carlos asked.
His tone is not savage. This is normal. This is normal, regular, hyperactive Carlos.
Logan does not respond. He knows he has to step in there. He has to snap out of this and go in there, or else, he'll be lucky enough to meet some fan in the middle of whatever mental breakdown he was having.
He needed to take a step.
He's dizzy, wobbly. Kendall grabs him again.
"Logan?" he asks. "Look up."
He shakes his head. He's too focused, his vision is blurring, he must have forgotten to put his contacts. He shoves one hand in his pocket, searching for glasses.
Broken glasses.
Kendall takes his wrist. "Come on, man. You're good. Just look up, alright? Look at the departures board. When are we supposed to leave?"
The answer is 11 p.m. Their flight should be fully boarded and ready for takeoff by then.
He wants to tell that to Kendall, he wants to, because he knows the answer. It's not a hard question. But he doesn't.
A despondent shutdown was not on the itinerary.
"James, help, please?" Kendall is asking. "Carlos?"
Logan jerks away from Kendall's hold.
Carlos.
Carlos beat up so many kids, and he was just sitting there, freezing cold, listening. Too weak to defend himself, they always have to beat people up, they always have to defend him, they always have to protect him.
He cannot even walk into a bathroom.
An announcement over the intercom system, not for their flight, though that is difficult to tell, because the static is barely deciperable, causes him to jerk away again.
"You're good," Kendall reassures him, tightening his hold. His voice sounds far away, even though he knows it isn't. "We still have twenty minutes."
Logan cannot look away from the tiles.
"Kendall, let go," Carlos whispers. "I got it."
"Carlos—"
"Kendall."
It's not nearly as assertive as angry fourteen year old Carlos was, but it's still said with enough force to make Logan flinch. Kendall's hand falls away, and it is replaced with Carlos's warmer one.
Carlos leads him wordlessly in.
Logan is still unmoving, frozen in place in the middle of the bathroom floor.
Carlos taps his helmet. He's silent too, thinking.
"Logan, I'm going to wash my hands," he says slowly. "Wet, soap, rinse and dry. And I'm going to sing Happy Birthday three times, just to make sure I washed them really good. I'll probably stay here for a whole ten minutes, just scrubbing and washing and drying. Your hands can never be too clean."
Logan manages to nod, but he can still see that clump of teenagers in the corner, throwing wet paper towel wads at each other.
Carlos turns on the sink. "Wet," he says.
Logan takes his eyes off the floor to read the handwashing posters plastered on the bathroom walls, reprinted in Spanish and other languages. He becomes intently fixated on the German translation.
Then, Carlos squirts on a heaping, generous amount of foam onto his hands, obnoxiously rubbing them together. "Soap."
With the German translated, and therefore uninteresting, Logan manages to take a step towards the urinal.
With his elbow, Carlos turns the knob on the sink, letting the water spray over his hands. "Rinse, rinse, rinse."
He's humming the Happy Birthday song three times, just as his promised, while Logan is successfully not having a despondent shutdown in the bathroom.
Carlos rips paper towels off the dispenser for himself, once again acquiring an amount he does not need. Logan trades places with him at the sink.
"Sing the song, Logan!"
He half-heartedly mutters the chorus line under his breath.
"No, three times! And more enthusiastic than that, it's someone's birthday!"
And that's how he ended up being begged to sing Happy Birthday on his way to the boarding gate, all because his mumbling performance in the bathroom did not prove to be satisfactory for Carlos Garcia.
Who, by the why, is belting the same song as he lets his luggage trail behind him.
LAX Airport is in for it.
It's going to be the loudest ten minutes of their lives, right up until the plane takes off.
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," Logan decides.\
He's belting out like his life depends on it.
Soon, it's a decently sounding four-part harmony.
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," Kendall agrees.
Poor LAX.
Okay, I'm going to disappear for the rest of the week, as usual. Hope you enjoyed!