Canaries In The Mines
Chapter Three
By: Jondy Macmillan
-Kendall-
Kendall couldn't pinpoint the exact day that everything began to fall apart. He'd tried, over and over again, wanting to know the where and the when and the how of lifelong friendships coming to an end.
He'd never really thought about the future, but he'd always imagined the guys would be by his side. Then suddenly, they weren't.
There was something tragic about it, really. It was the stuff sad songs were made of, but when it had gone down, they'd all barely blinked. Maybe they hadn't realized that this was it, or maybe they'd known and just hadn't cared. He liked to think it was the former. His friends have never been callous, or cruel. Just…kind of oblivious, sometimes And obliviously, they'd grown up, moved on, and left Kendall sitting in the dust.
The funniest part was that all this time Kendall had thought they needed him. To hold the group together. To make everything run smoothly. To make their lives complete.
Except it was the opposite. He was holding them all back. From their dreams. From their lives. From being great.
One day he'd walked into the studio at Rocque Records to find the three guys he'd spent his life defending, laughing with, giving his complete adulation to staring at him expectantly. They were banded together in this one thing, in breaking the news to him. Big Time Rush came to a quick, unexpected end.
They'd been at the pinnacle of their popularity, but that hadn't mattered. Logan had been accepted at Harvard, his dream school. He was going to become an astrophysicist, analyzing the movements and patterns of stars, but first he had to pore over textbooks while drinking coffee at hip Cambridge shops and forget he'd ever been famous. Carlos was going to become a full-time actor, starring in hit movies and meeting all the hottest girls.
And James, well, James had been the only one who wanted to sing in the first place. He was going solo.
Which left Kendall where? He'd let his dreams slip through his fingers a long time ago, all for them. No one wanted an out of practice popstar on their hockey team. And being in a boy band was a certain kind of fame, the kind that only mattered to the teenage girls who'd idolized him.
Soon enough, he'd slip into the realm of obscurity.
It happened like this: James got big, quick. Instead of topping the charts as the next pop sensation, he surprised everybody, converting his image into this John Mayor-esque crooner, this sweet-voiced boy with a little bit of a dangerous edge, who sang songs about beauty and catastrophe and heart break. In interviews, he always sounded solemn, he always had his serious business face on without a hint of the guy who'd turned himself mangerine colored only a few years prior. James Diamond, the hockey player from Minnesota disappeared completely, replaced by James Diamond the heart-throb, the consummate professional.
He was a stranger with the face of a friend.
Kendall couldn't even stand to look at him. It didn't matter. The bastard still haunted his nightmares every single damned night.
The radio crackled with James's familiar voice, inviting him to wake up and greet the world. Kendall buried his face in his pillow. He'd always been the morning person, the one who was excited to meet the sunlight and the scent of coffee before bounding off to the rink because they were so going to own their next game. James was the one who'd hated the slow crawl from his bed, his bat-cave of silk sheets and warm down comforter. Kendall always theorized that the reason he spent so long in the bathroom in the mornings wasn't because he cared so very much about his appearance, but because he'd try to drown himself in the shower until he was fully awake, because he had to brush his hair ninety times before the bleariness of sleep dissipated. Kendall used to think a lot about why James was the way he was.
That was before, when he saw his friend every day, and not through the glass filter of a television.
Footsteps were beginning to echo around the apartment. The scent of pancakes wafted beneath his door; that would be Justin. He always made the best pancakes, and he was an early riser. They all were, really; they'd had it conditioned into them from days and weeks and years on tour, but Joe, Tripp, and Oliver liked to pretend they were rebels, to grab that last fantastic dream.
Groaning, Kendall slammed his palm over the snooze button, cutting James off mid-chorus. It was agonizing, constantly hearing his voice, but never hearing a word directed toward him. Although…okay, that might have been Kendall's fault. James had struggled to keep in touch with him, to slip conversations in between photo shoots and gigs in Tokyo, interviews on late night TV and charity galas. He tried his hardest.
Kendall had always been the one constant in their group, which was why it was so weird when he'd been the first of them to lose touch. A small, mean part of him didn't understand why it was that shocking. His friends had gone turncoat, but they still wanted monthly phone calls? Right, not happening.
Muscles stiff, Kendall climbed out of bed, relishing the blessed silence afforded by the apartment, towering so high over the city even the constant melody of taxi horns and tourist cameras was drowned by the altitude. Sunlight hit his body in square patches, highlighting the places he'd grown lean, too skinny, ribs protruding. He didn't understand why he was always losing weight; he survived on a steady diet of take out carbs and beer.
His mom said it was depression, but his mom knew next to nothing about Kendall anymore. He wasn't depressed, and he wasn't wasting away like some waifish maiden from a storybook, yearning for a prince who would never come, thank you very much.
Padding out to the kitchen barefoot, in low slung pajama pants, the tall boy winced at the chilly tile beneath his feet, at the brush of cold air across his chest. Justin turned when he entered, a dry grin curving his lips, "Does this mean I have to make some for you?"
"You know it," Kendall grunted, sliding easily onto one of the stools by the counter.
"Got any plans for today?" his roommate queried, pouring freshly mixed batter onto a sizzling pan. It was an honest question. Unlike Tripp and Oliver, Kendall didn't have to worry about the trappings of being a popstar any longer. Unlike Joe, he didn't need to keep up the appearances of living for his family, spending time in public places and going to parties where he'd be openly photographed. And he wasn't trying to discreetly catch up on college studies, like Justin, who claimed he was on vacation for the year, but spent a lot of time locked in his room, learning all the things he'd need to know before his triumphant return to NYU.
Kendall had very little responsibility, and very little motivation. He needed to hit the rink sometime soon; it had been too long since he'd practiced, especially now that the peewee league he coached was in their off season.
"I might go skating," he said noncommittally.
"Cool," drawled Justin, who the blond had once taken out to Rockefeller only to watch as he fell on his ass at least forty consecutive times. The native New Yorker had no interest in athleticism, or sports, which was just as well. Kendall wasn't looking for a new team.
Tripp, Joe, and Oliver trickled out of their bedrooms around noon, yawning and demanding pancakes and plopping in a row onto the couch, waiting to be served. They were such lazy assholes.
"Dude, do any of you want to go to this party at the Met tonight?" Tripp asked, sitting cross legged in nothing but an unzipped hoodie and boxers, his hairless chest dotted with goosebumps from the cold air. He picked up an invitation and waved the thing around, only ceasing after Justin had delivered a stack of steaming hot flapjacks to the coffee table.
"The opera house?" Joe's face scrunched up in confusion, trying to snatch the paper from the smaller boy's fingertips.
"No, the museum, doofus. It's some charity thing to save the whales or prevent obesity in children or fuck it, I don't even know. But I heard there's going to be some live entertainment. I haven't been to a concert in ages."
"You give concerts all the time," Justin remarked, eyes narrowing as Joe accidentally drizzled syrup off the side of his plate, "Be careful!"
"Yes, mom," Joe mumbled, wiping at the mess with the hem of his battered old t-shirt.
"Who's playing?" Oliver asked tiredly, black circles like bruises beneath his eyes. He'd been stressing too much, too often about that girl he was in love with. Hannah Montana, with her bedazzled clothes and her tilted blue eyes and her slow Southern twang. Kendall wished for a moment he had it that easy, to be in love with some girl instead of the most unattainable person in the world. A rush of guilt followed; every one of his roommates had their own problems, their own circumstances. Oliver's situation wasn't really any better than his own.
Even if it seemed that way.
"Not sure," Tripp replied, studying the curlicue calligraphy on the face of the invite, "It just says 'surprise guests'. And going to concerts and giving them are not the same thing, dude."
Justin rolled his eyes and chose not to answer, instead watching the guys eat with pursed lips, like the coffee table guardian.
"I'm in," Joe cheered, loving every opportunity to score free champagne. Kendall nearly smiled at it, nearly reached over to ruffle his friend's hair.
He kept his hands to himself.
"Pass," Justin interjected, "All I want is a quiet night with some movies. I heard there's a film festival in town."
"What are you, eighty?" Tripp groaned, carding a hand through his thick brown hair, "Live it up a little."
"Easy for you to say," Justin grumbled, sounding every bit like the old man he'd been accused of being, "You know, life isn't all about parties."
"It isn't?" Tripp's mouth fell open in mock-surprise, and he made his eyes go humorously wide, "Do tell, Grandmaster Russo. Enlighten me."
"You- are a douchebag," Justin's shoulders sagged, his dark eyelashes fluttering shut for a moment, "Fine, whatever. I'll go to the stupid party. Am I going to be your date?"
"I don't know. You planning on putting out?"
Justin rolled his eyes and muttered something about living with immature bastards.
"What about you, K-dog?" Joe blinked up at Kendall, stuffing his mouth full of pancake, "You're going to come, right?"
Kendall liked Joe, a lot. He was a little thick, a little dense, and extremely concerned with the state of his hair.
James would love him.
Kendall did love him. Joe was the closest thing he'd found to a best friend since BTR had broken up. Sometimes, in the right light, Kendall thought maybe Joe was almost enough to make him forget about James- but then he recalled a gajillion different hockey games, a million different angles of James's smile, and that one drunken night not long before the band had dissolved where James had leaned in- and Kendall hadn't.
It had been the worst mistake of his life.
Plus Joe kind of had his own issues, and the last thing Kendall wanted was to get involved, make them worse. Because no matter how much he loved Joe, and no matter how much Joe loved him back, there were always two people who just meant more.
"Sure. I'm down," the blond replied, because they expected him to agree. He never said no, to anything. It was kind of his trademark.
Even if the last thing he wanted to do was go to a party.
"How 'bout you, Oken?" Tripp leaned into Oliver's side. He'd been mutely staring at the TV, even though the screen was blank and powered off, absently chewing his pancakes.
"I'm going. Record company's making me," the slightly taller boy sighed. From Kendall's vantage point, Tripp and Oliver looked like twins. The same haircut, the same inclination of their heads as Tripp muttered something into Oliver's ear. Probably, something like 'suck it up', knowing Tripp.
"Great. So we're all going. Fantastic," Kendall clapped his hands together unenthusiastically, and peered at them all over the back of the couch.
They really were the saddest group he'd ever seen in his life.
Charity galas, as a rule, were incredibly boring. Back when Kendall had been somebody, he'd tried to avoid them at all costs, as they usually involved three of his least favorite things; suits, small talk, and fake smiles for the paparazzi. Being cast back into the realm of anonymity meant he'd only had to pose like some kind of life size Ken doll twice tonight, but he was still forced to into a constricting suit by Joe, his fashion guru, and to make excessive amounts of small talk with these people whose circles he'd once run in.
How much could he honestly say about the fucking weather? It was New York in spring. Half the time the sky was blue and the streets were sweltering, and the other half was spent running from virtual downpours and stepping in one too many puddles. Why everyone kept commenting on how lovely it all was, like it hadn't been this way last spring and they wouldn't see a repeat next year, was beyond him.
The party was in the room that held the famed Temple of Dendur; gigantic pieces of some Egyptian rock placed in the midst of a glassed-in atrium. The lighting was sparse, dependant on the starlight and candles placed strategically on tables and spare flat surfaces. There were manmade streams to navigate around, and graffiti from ancient explorers to peer upon, but no one was really there for the culture.
At least the food was good. Surviving off Joe's pasta, Justin's pancakes, Oliver's PBJs, Tripp's tacos, and his own mediocre grilled cheese sandwiches meant he hadn't exactly been living like a king. Maybe a frat boy.
More often than not, some sort of takeout was involved in their nights, but even good gourmet food wasn't quite so amazing after sitting in a car with a delivery guy for half an hour.
Tripp and Oliver were continually barraged by starlets and fans who wanted to talk about their next career move or if they would take up acting. That was the good thing about being retired; Kendall had to fend off a question or three, but mostly people avoided him. They were scared his bad luck might rub off on them, like the shine off a new penny. Joe was getting the same treatment, but he was more charismatic than Kendall, better trained at being rueful and charming. People expected him to laugh good naturedly and discuss how he'd bounce back eventually. He had the connections, the looks, the right attitude.
Kendall had never had much use for charm, unless it involved getting him his way. He had no reason to be nice to his old patrons or the celebutantes who'd abandoned him the minute they'd received news that his band was going under. The only person there he even attempted to sweet talk was the cocktail waitress into grabbing him some olives.
It went fine, like that, for a while. He was getting used to being invisible, to moving through the crowd without a single voice reaching him. He was perfectly content that way.
Until one voice rang out, like a bullet piercing his chest, the only voice that had ever mattered.
Just for a second, everything went completely still, like it did during a summer rainstorm, a monsoon that muted all noise and movement and breath. Then the crowd began whispering in awe. The gala had scored themselves some big entertainers.
Maybe it was a mark of how close Kendall had gotten with his roommates that he felt their presence before any of them said a word, before Oliver wrapped an arm around his shoulders and guided him to one of the immaculately decorated tables and said, "Oh man. I hate this song."
"Really? I kind of-" Justin asked, settling himself on a plush chair, only to receive one of Tripp's elbows to the stomach, "-oh. Oh! I mean, yeah, it's so- poorly produced."
"Real smooth," Joe intoned under his breath, glaring at the dark eyed boy.
"Guys, shut up. It's not a big deal," Kendall was saying, but he sounded strange, like he was someone else. His roommates didn't buy it for a second. They were idiots, but they weren't stupid.
For the length of the song, they sat in stony silence, knowing it would be rude to bolt from the museum like they were being chased by a pack of stampeding bulls, but prepared to do so anyway if Kendall led.
He wouldn't. No matter what his mother or sister said, hiding out in an apartment in the middle of New York City wasn't running, not when he was the one who'd been abandoned in the first place. Kendall had never run from anything a day in his life. He wasn't about to start now.
The song ended, and James, tall, shining, and enigmatic in the mood lighting cast by the moon and the candles, stood. Immediately he was surrounded by a posse of unfamiliar girls, a leggy supermodel coming to cling to his arm. A new artist took the stage, ready to wail out some sappy ballad about finding and losing love. Fitting.
Kendall stood, finally able to exhale, finally ready to leave.
Once upon a time, James would have been able to sense his presence in a room almost instinctively. They'd been glued at the hip practically since birth. Every memory Kendall had was painted with shades of James's laugh, his dancing eyes, his smile. But the one time it counted- he shook his head. It wasn't supposed to be this hard; letting go.
Maybe they were still somehow synched, brain waves moving in time, because the moment Kendall turned to leave, the moment he scooped his blazer from the stiff back of his chair- that was the moment James's eyes met his.
In seconds, he'd made it across the room, past the ancient hieroglyphs and his milling fans; nymphets with bright red lipstick and old woman looking to rekindle the spark of their youth and young hipster men who wanted to congratulate James Diamond on capturing the fragile art of living with notes and lyrics and poignancy.
"Kendall?" he demanded, and his voice sounded choked. The gunshot click clack of the supermodel's kitten heels announced that his posse had arrived behind him.
Wordlessly berating himself, Kendall pasted on his biggest, phoniest smile and turned back towards his ex-best-friend, "Hi."
The taller boy's eyes scanned Joe, Tripp, Oliver, and Justin, sliding over their features, their clothes, and the way they stood defensively behind their friend. With a hint of something Kendall couldn't quite identify, James joked, "Starting another boy band?"
Three of them were pop rock gods in their own right, and there was no way he could tell that Justin couldn't hold a tune if his life depended on it. It was an easy mistake to make. That is, if he'd never met Kendall before in his life.
"I'm done with singing," Kendall retorted, knowing that his voice was laced with impetuous anger, but not caring. James, the real James, the one who hadn't become this phony industry bigwig would know that Kendall had never even thought of taking the stage without James, Carlos, and Logan backing him.
"That's- a shame. You always were the best of us."
"Yeah, well," Kendall shoved his hands in his pockets, "Fat lot of good that did me."
"Way to sound bitter, man," Joe hissed in his ear, breath warm. Tripp kicked him lightly in the shin, and Kendall winced. They wanted him to man up, and he so wasn't in the mood.
James, for his part, maintained his bogus smile. It probably looked real to everyone else in the room, but Kendall could see that his teeth were grit the way they always were before he was about to body check someone in hockey. It was nice to know some things hadn't changed, "You look good, dude."
The blond nodded mutely. He didn't feel good. He felt like James was sucking all the air from the room.
"We were- on our way out," Joe declared, wrapping an arm around Kendall's shoulders, saving him from saying anything else.
Except Kendall wasn't having any of it. He shrugged off Joe's arm and said, "No, you know what? You guys go mingle. I'm just going to- catch some fresh air. It was- nice seeing you, James."
Without another word, he stalked off, knowing they were staring after him.
It felt kind of nice to be the one who left first.
Of course, that didn't last for long. He was perched on the steps of the museum fiddling with an emergency pack of cigarettes he hadn't touched in over a year when James found him.
"Please tell me those are not the same ones we bought at the convenience store in Yorba Linda," was his greeting as he settled primly beside Kendall, swiping the pack from his fingers. He tapped a cigarette out and lit it in one quick, graceful movement, pulling a pack of matches from a hidden pocket in his leather jacket.
"It might be," Kendall replied, inkling his head as James blew smoke rings.
"Logan and Carlos are worried about you. Your mom is worried about you. She says you've moved in with these guys she's never met. Said they might be hedonistic Satan worshippers-"
"Mom didn't say that," Kendall snorted, watching speeding traffic and throngs of tourists passing by. The city was so busy this time of year.
James passed him the cigarette with a raised eyebrow, "So that guy was Joe Lucas, right? From JONAS?"
"Yeah."
"Are you two like-" the dark haired boy made a rude gesture with his fingers.
"What? No! We're not- like that."
"Oh," for a long stretch of time, James stayed silent, and then, "Is there- are you like that with anyone?"
"Nope," Kendall confessed quietly, "You?"
"Nah," James grinned, "Why, you haven't been reading about me in US Weekly?"
"No."
His once-friend's face fell, "You don't even try to keep up with my life, do you? Or Logan's? Or Carlos's? Do you even care what's going on with us?"
"That's not-"
"It feels like it is. What the hell happened with you, Kendall? It's like you've fallen off the face of the Earth."
The smaller boy sucked smoke deep into his lungs, trying to breathe deep enough to asphyxiate himself. He hadn't been prepared for- this. For James being so close.
"I've been busy," he finally exhaled, lying through his teeth.
"Busy. Right. Look, word on the street is Gustavo's looking for new talent. He'd love to have you back. You know he would. You could be famous again-"
"I don't fucking care about being famous, James."
"Then what do you care about?"
You, Kendall wanted to say. It's always been you.
Instead he stood, flicking the cigarette onto the sidewalk, "I've got to go."
"Kendall, wait," James grabbed at his wrist, and Kendall could feel electricity jumping off the other boy's fingertips. He couldn't stand it.
"Later, dude," he apologized, wrenching his hand away. He began to walk, only pausing to look back as he turned the corner. James was still standing on the steps of the museum, staring after him, luminous in the moonlight.
Kendall wished he hadn't messed up so royally. That it wasn't too late.
Which didn't change the fact that it was.
He'd had a chance, once. Two months before the demise of Big Time Rush, there had been an industry party. The guys had gotten drunk, because that was what they did when there was free booze and not enough pretty girls. Well, to be fair, they probably would've been trashed had girls been part of the equation as well, but it was easier to imagine that none of it would have happened if they'd been distracted by fluttering eyelashes and a whiff of perfume.
At some point, Kendall had broken down. He told James, the thoughts that had been going through his mind, the way James made his jeans tight and his heart beat much too fast. Liquor made his tongue loose and his inhibitions drop to zero.
And then, like some kind of miracle, James had leaned in, his eyes aglow, his lips right there. Kendall had wanted him for so long it felt like a part of who he was.
Only thing was, he couldn't- take advantage. It was the one time Kendall Knight decided not to take a risk.
James never brought it up again, but- sometimes Kendall thought that was the moment that had ended his career.
A/N: Horrible? Horrible, I know. I didn't mean for it to be so horrible! Please review, and tell me if you didn't think it was horrible? Pretty please?