a/n: the moment you all have been waiting for! this was horrible to write.. so... so.. horrible.. but ya'll deserve it!
and another thing, i updated my story 'pretty' which is now called 'terrible things' after the mayday parade song.. can ya'll go check that out for me, too? please? i worked hard on it. ;^;
and finally.. important: guys i just beta'd a story for my awesome british friend Laila, who writes incredibly well! please do go look her up. :3 her username is WritingForFunIsWhatIDo. It's a ridiculous name[KIDDING, KIDDING] but her story is great! and it's KAAAAAMESSSS.
okay, time for the scary part /trembles
ready? leggo.
Right before James had started his solo tour, before he'd gone MIA for five months, Logan had taken him out, just the two of them, to celebrate. They'd gone to all of James' favourite places, done all of his favourite things: the day had been an ethereal rush, blood roaring in their ears the entire time; the night had been one spent on the moon, with stars scattered beneath their feet and the galaxy all around them.
Off the peak of the highest bridge in LA they'd jumped together, nothing but the trust in a bungee chord keeping them from falling into oncoming traffic. They'd gone jet sking the same afternoon, the whole ride being a game to see who could push the other off first(James won).
They'd gone motorcycling through the busy night-time streets, the wind howling through them and sending birds flying out of the hollows in their hearts. Their night shared had been that of an adrenaline junkie's dream, exhiliration and fast heartbeats staying with them until the morning; and a leisure-a-holic's paradise, the rest of the evening after the excitement spent lounged on the Palmwoods roof, where they slept until the next day.
Logan rolls over in bed and pulls the covers over his head. He hated memories, especially happy ones.
(All they did was remind him of how bad things were now.)
/
The cuts are healing. Slowly, but they are. Carlos is glad to see them go, he watches with intent intrest and impatience as the marks of the past slowly fade, the drawings, scribbles and words in white dissappearing with naught a trace. He's glad they're leaving, honestly, because even when he cut over it, he could still see it under the messy scars, in his mind's eye. Nothing that he wanted to deal with. Not to mention the other issue that made him glad the cuts were fading, an issue which was short and stocky and silent and always solitary, an issue that was deadbeat on two legs: Logan.
No matter how hard he tried, Carlos just couldn't shake out the way Logan had grabbed his arm the day they found James, couldn't erase it from his mind. Every time he saw his paler roommate, his arm would burn and spark and cinder and just melt in the exact same spots Logan touched him, fingerprints glowing bright orange on his clay skin. He wants to stop, not for him, but for Logan. Logan's his reason for doing a lot of things, and most of them are pretty productive. Like now, for example.
Carlos is in the bathroom, blade in hand. He twirls it delicately in his fingerpads, admiring the way the bathroom light reflected off of it's silver edge, the sharp corners of the triangular blade and the puzzle-piece-like circular hole in the center of it. He presses the corner against his thumb, applies pressure, pressure, and pulls away in time to watch the blood bead up in his rough palm skin with curiosity. He considers cutting again- after all, it's a quick fix, an instant release, his crack, his savior. (But then again, so's Logan.)
He has to stand on his tiptoes to do it, but Carlos puts his razor on the highest shelf in the bathroom, where he can't reach it.
(He hopes it stays there, far away from him and far away from Logan.)
/
James opens his eyes.. then sees it.
It's unclear at first, just a tall, stone-still silhouette painted black in the dim light, but as the light gets more and more bright over the next few hours, James can slowly start to make out a few features. He can tell it's black, bipedal, and has a slight hunch at the top of it's body. He can see two buldges at the top of the shape, twin circles that fan out like elephant ears. James blinks slowly, waiting for his vision to adjust in the dark, tries to figure out what he's looking at.
(but he can't tell, he doesn't know, and if there's anything James is afraid of, it's the unknown.)
"Oh my God." James breathes, because he can't decipher what it is and it'sohmygoditsmoving, it's slowly walking towards him and James is fixated with fear, he can't move, even if the bonds weren't there, he'd still be entirely paralyzed. As it comes closer, the light finally raises to the point where he can see it's features and- no way.
It's got a snout, a pointed thing that's dripping blood and saliva and has a sickly blue-purple tongue curling into itself; multiple rows of sharp teeth curled into a sadistic, rusty smile. It's got two wide, round, saucer-like eyes, pools of green with thick bloody rims and pinprick pupils; there's red cracks in the white scleras that aren't unlike an epicenter in an earthquake; the eyes themselves are crusted with something rust-coloured and sandy.
It's tall, it's lean, and as it moves towards him, James can't help but notice the way it's legs bend both ways, the way it's body sways slightly to the right with each step, the way it's leaning slightly backwards as it walks, looking down at him from it's snout. With each stumbling step it takes, James' eyes grow a little bit wider. No fucking way, he's thinking, because this is impossible.
There is no way that it's Mickey Mouse coming towards him, not with the teeth of a shark, the lope of the contaminated, the wide-eyed stare of an addict. This is blasphemy, impossibility- but it's there, it's real, it's his childhood shattering before his eyes.
The creature that's so familiar and yet so distorted takes an abrupt halt directly in front of James, who's finding it hard to even remember to breathe. He waits in suspense as the figure looks down at him, mouth wide in an infinite-fanged grin; eyes round and perfectly circular, disturbed. His heart is roaring in his ears and his adrenaline levels are going through the roof, his mouth is dry and he's waiting for the anthromorphic horror before him to say something, anything.
(It doesn't.)
Without breaking eye contact, it's pulling a pair of clawed, gloved hands out from behind it's back and it's holding something glowing orange in one hand and something sharp in the other. James tries to scream, but all that comes out is a squeaking sound that makes him choke on his own spit.
"What are you going to do to me?" He asks, his voice not even reaching a whisper. But if the monster hears him, he doesn't know, because if it does, it doesn't awknowledge it- it simply stabs him in the stomach and twists.
(and as he lays there, burning agony ripping from his throat, James realises that there are worse things out there than he could have ever imagined.)
/
If Logan and Carlos had anything in common, it was that they didn't ask for help. Wait, that sentence needs rephrasing. More accurrately speaking, they didn't ask for help with the big things, the monsters in their heads, because of their pride. Sure, they wanted it, but there was always that 'I can handle myself', overly independent complex about them, not to mention the fear of bothering someone with their problems. So Carlos stayed silent, and Logan stayed away.
(No more.)
Carlos is in his room, tossing a ball against the wall and catching it when it boomerangs back to him. He's been repeating this simple action for hours, now, his attention to the real world completely blanked out, with nothing but an unfocused stare to show for it. He's thinking, remembering memories of a time when him and Logan were still best friends, when he hadn't done something(he didn't even know what it was) wrong, when they still talked and laughed and hugged and shared a room.
Carlos grasps the ball in his hand, rubbing his finger over the flourescent green fuzz covering it, and looks to the floor, knowing Logan is fast asleep on the couch downstairs. He takes a sharp breath and sighs, while the hot air rushes out of him, he can feel his heart deflating.
He doesn't even know what he did wrong, he thinks, drooping towards the floor. So why should he suffer?
He shouldn't!
Carlos stands up determinedly and struts out the room, dropping the ball behind him. He stomps downstairs and sits on Logan, feeling a bony chest shudder along with an annoyed groan from underneath him. Knowing he's going to be needing a (very) cold shower later, Carlos shuffles a little bit on top of Logan, crossing his legs.
"Carlos, you have three seconds to get off of me before-"
"Before what?" Carlos snarls, because he's seen this side of Logan before- well, maybe not, but he knows Logan well enough to realise that he's just masking his hurt with anger and a facade of uncaringness. It's a very annoying facade, Carlos thinks, and he's going to find out what he did to hurt Logan before Logan can hurt himself-
Carlos' gaze darts down, and he sees that Logan is shirtless, with every one of his ribs faintly visible under the tightness of his skin, and when Carlos leans a little bit, he can feel Logan's hipbones press lightly into his thighs.
-well, more than he already has, anyway.
"Be.. fore... Carlos, just get the fuck off me!" Logan groans, pulling his face out of his pillow to look up at Carlos with a threatening expression in his eyes. Carlos doesn't even flinch, because he's used to this- the fake anger and the hiding behind glares.
(This is going to be harder than he thought.)
/
James wakes up and sees he's still in his bonds, he's still in the same place- but the lights are off.
(But even in the dark, he can see their glowing eyes, hear their psychotic laughter.)
He feels a pang of dull pain in his torso region and sees that the stab wound on his stomach is still there, crusted and infected. He wants to reach out, run a finger along the wound that's honestly painful to just look at, but he can't, not with these bonds restricting him and it's the worst mental tic he's ever had. It hurts, it hurts so badly, but it doesn't matter how badly it hurts because he can't do a damn thing about it.
James reaches out with his mind, imagines a pair of arms around him and leans into the invisible touch, wishing so badly that it was real. But it never is, never has been, even when he lived under the same roof as them. He still wishes, though. But that's never gotten him anywhere, especially not now, when all he wishes for is just to be back home, far, far away from the demors haunting this dungeon and far far away from this stupid carnival.
Slowly, the lights turn on.
/
"No. Logan, please just tell me what I did.." Carlos looks so vulnerable and sad in front of Logan, he almost believes it's real.
Almost.
"Stop acting like you care about me." Logan says, shoving his face back into his pillow and breathing slowly because it would look really bad if he started crying with Carlos here.
"I'm not acting, Logan! I don't even know what I did to make you think that I don't care!" Carlos is quite the actor, Logan thinks. He would've made it pretty far on broadway. Too bad Logan's known him more than long enough to see through his charade.
"What? You don't remember not being able to handle my bullshit?" Logan spits the words right at Carlos, cracking his brittle shell. The terra cotta warrior recoils from the attack, both astonished and ashamed at the same time.
"H-how'd.. Oh.. Logan. Didn't you hear the rest of the conversation?" Carlos asks, exasperatedly. Logan snorts.
"As if there even was a rest of the conversation." The starless haired boy mumbles, burrowing further into the crooks of the sofa cushions, prying apart Carlos with his voice alone.
"But there was, Logan!" Carlos says desperately, and Logan feels him shuffle awkwardly on top of him. "Yeah, I said we shouldn't care, but that's because I thought you didn't! Not because I actually didn't care." Logan feels a calloused finger poke into his side. "I do care, we all do. Honest, Logan, I was just having a moment of insecurity. I let the stress get to me, that's all. Please believe me.."
Logan stays motionless.
/
When James was five, his mother took him to Disney World for the first time.
They'd walked around the park, taking pictures with every mascot they saw(ooh, mommy, look, it's Pluto!), eating all the cliche foods, riding all the rides that James had wanted to.
They'd gone on Space mountain, with their blood pumping and adrenaline running as they looped and zoomed through the dark. "I don't like the dark," He said.
"Why?" His mom asked.
"Because you don't know what's in it."
They'd gone inside Spaceship Earth, mapped out their entire futures in one tiny screen. "Mommy, one day, I'm gonna shine," James had said.
"Like a Diamond." His mom agreed.
(but really, Diamonds reflect, so who was he kidding?)
It had been one of the best days of his life, and the first day of many that he'd spend under the Floridian sky, on rollercoasters and in parades. Because it was Disneyworld, the Happiest Place on Earth, wasn't it? Who wouldn't want to be happy?
Who wouldn't want to be happy?
/
Carlos fucked up, didn't he? He fucked up bad.. He should have never said those words about Logan- of course he cared, how could he not? Not caring about Logan was like not breathing for Carlos! And God knows he'd rather not breathe than not care about Logan- but alas, he was surely doing both right now- Logan just seemed to not believe the latter, or want him to do the former. All he wants is a second chance- a chance to prove to Logan he actually does care, he does, he swears-
"Prove it." Logan shuffles out from underneath a startled Carlos, crossing his arms over his bare chest and making incredulous auburn to chestnut eye contact. Carlos nods eagerly, leans in.
Contact.
/
When they were 17, James and Kendall got drunk for the first time.
They had gone to a club for the first time that night, too. Let in by the easy bouncer at the door, not stopped by the bartenders, not blocked by the sluts and whores that practically inhabited the bright atmosphere. They were young, they were free, and they took advantage of it. All night, they danced. Across beams of strobing lights and intoxicated from ambrosia, they danced. Kendall danced his way around James, James danced his way around Kendall. They intertwined, they did, and they appreciated every touch, every burning brush of skin on skin.
Touches turned intimate, grazes turned to more and soon enough, James and Kendall spent half the night liplocked in a supply closet.
The next day, they woke up with limbs woven close and their hearts even closer. But even despite the closeness, the newfound connection, they never spoke of it after that, they pretended to forget.
(but with each misplaced stare, each accidental touch, every strained word- they both know that they're never going to forget.)
/
When the lights turn bright enough for him to see, James looks in the same corner of the room, both terrified and curious as to weather he's going to see the same mutilated face as before, or something new.
When his sight adjusts to the darkness, James is appalled to find two silhouettes standing motionless. One of them is definitely the same one as before, and the next? He's not even sure what it is. It looks buffer than the mutant mouse-like creature beside it.. it's taller.. more..
canine-esque.
/
Logan hasn't slept well in ages. Not since he ditched the Cargan bedroom for the couch, not since he's had to spend every night in stone-still, faux apathy, with the cold biting his skin and crawling inside him to sleep. He hasn't slept well for weeks, months even. So it's a huge surprise when he wakes up feeling refreshed and, for once, not crawling with anxiety.
It's an even bigger surprise, however, when he feels a pair of muscular arms wrapped firmly around his waist, a pair of warm lips gently ruffling the hair on his left side. Logan freezes, slowly looks over to his left and sees a slightly smaller, slightly more buff human being snuggled up against his side. Along with the fact that they're both half naked, Logan thinks he has a clue of what happened last night- memories of foggy-clear bottles and heat between the covers flash brightly behind his retinas.
Oh yeah, he thinks, looking at Carlos. He definitely knows.
(the problem is, he couldn't regret it enough.)
a/n: and now you know i'm scared of mickey mouse.
also i feel exceptionally anxious because i made a stupid post on tumblr and i think i may have gained like 3 anti-me-ers because of it ;_; #beStupidFeelBad