A/N: I've been told my notes have been getting longer and longer, and it's true. My rambling has gotten worse here lately. Stupid undiagnosed ADD. Speaking of, I'm watching Game Four of the World Series as I write this and Young just hit a game tying homer for the Tigers. Motherfucking bitchass fucker...

Anyhoo, LOOK! Update in a timely manner :D And not only that, but the next chapter is finished, too! And I'm about two-thirds the way done with the chapter after that, so hopefully there won't be any more huge waits between updates. If there is, blame writer's block, cause I'm having issues trying to figure out what happens past chapter 17.

Okay, um... oh! I don't drink. Ever. I feel I should put that out there. So if any drinking/being drunk/being hungover mistakes are in the next couple chapters, I apologize. Blame lack of knowledge. I just kinda went on what I've seen outta friends when they're drunk. Except for the time my friend cuddled me, repeatedly whacked me on the head as she pet me, and stated my hair was "soft like a kitty. Pretty kitty. Pretty kitty. Pretty kitty".

What else... OH! Belated shout out to rockchickwrites for giving me the idea of having someone recognize Kendall at his school. I meant to put that at the beginning of that last chapter, but totally spaced. And she also makes THE most kickass fanart EVER! Last one 'bout killed me. HOT!

I regret nothing in reference to MTV here. Heineken is property of Heineken makers. I want Carlos to be my best friend. And my dog is literally scratching at my door right now.

These notes are long as hell, too. Shit...whatever. It just can't be helped. Accept it as a strange idiosyncrasy of mine and love me because of it :D Enjoy the chapter! I'm off to yell at the end of this game (hopefully there's a positive outcome when I post this...)

EDIT: game ended AWESOME! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT! (I know that call was for the NL pennant and I know I'm not even a Giants fan, I just don't like the Tigers. Except Verlander, 'cause you can't hate that guy.)

A party was a party was a party.

Wait, what? No. That couldn't be right.

Kendall rubbed his head with his right hand, effectively moving his beanie back and forth over his skull, head tilted down so he was staring at the beige carpet. His back was against the wall, half empty beer bottle in his left hand, ankles crossed. And while his body was physically there, the rest of him wasn't. Not that much of a change from the past couple days really. Here, but not. There, but not. Just... gone.

With a harsh sigh, he put his beanie back in place, lifting his green eyes to take in the scene before him. Guitar Dude's living room was full of people, although the host himself wasn't visible. Probably off in the basement lighting up. Kendall halfway considered joining him but decided against it, realizing it would involve actually being social and having to interact with people.

Which, yeah, is kind of a "duh" thing, considering it was a party in a house full of classmates and a loose interpretation of friends. So obviously some sort of fraternizing would have to happen. It was kind of a requirement. Although that being said, his mouth was used more to chug alcohol than actually form words, the only syllables leaving his lips being "where're the drinks?" and "'sup?"

His eyes continued scanning the room, seeing—and hearing—the loud party goers, seeing people dancing, seeing people drinking, seeing people having fun. Unlike him. Although no one was having as much fun as that Mercedes girl currently dancing on top of the table by herself, red Solo cup in one hand, the bottom of her blue dress in the other. Yep, Guitar Dude had picked himself a winner in that chick.

Not that Kendall had any room to judge anyone's choice in romantic partners. At least Mercedes was around. At least Mercedes wasn't running off. At least Mercedes seemed to be into Guitar Dude, too, and wasn't afraid to show it.

The bottle of Heineken made its way to his mouth on its own really. And his mouth was the one deciding to let itself get filled, throat deciding to swallow. It was all beyond his control.

He pulled the green glass away, dropping his arm by his side, having guzzled about a quarter of its original contents—also not his fault—eyes scanning the room once more. Where they came across Carlos, sitting by himself on an armchair, soda can in his hand. Not that the guy needed the caffeine. But he sure as hell could've used a fucking smile in a can or some lame shit, considering how he was sitting there pouting. Which wasn't all that big a surprise really, considering the Latino's reluctance to come to this party in the first place. Yet there he was, alone and miserable, for once wondering what the hell was wrong with someone else as he stared up at Mercedes. Kendall had a feeling that his friend's need to make everyone else happy would cause the shorter male's own downfall, his own depression.

And wouldn't they just make a fucking awesome, fun to be around twosome.

Misery loved company after all.

Kendall snorted at the thought, bringing his bottle back up to his lips as he drained the rest of his beer, taking in all the other party goers, taking in the dancers, the loiterers, the couple making out on the couch, the TV airing some ad for a erectile dysfunction pill—shoot him if he ever needed those—for once feeling completely out of place. Normally he'd be off playing quarters with the guys in the dining room, or making suicides of whatever he could find in Guitar Dude's dad's liquor cabinet, or drunkenly playing the Les Paul he knew was in the office on the wall, making up his own serenades about how Jack Daniels and Jim Beam and Heiny Heineken were his only true friends. Which Carlos never seemed to appreciate, but the blond just chalked that up to a difference in musical taste. Whatever.

The Heineken emptied itself in his mouth—which he had no clue how that happened—and he contemplated getting another. But that would require him to move, as well as risk being social with whoever was in the kitchen. Decisions, decisions.

Luckily for him, a solution presented itself.

Lucy slid up to his left, leaning her side against the wall, a bottle in each hand, including the one stretched out towards him. She tilted it slightly, along with her head, a wordless "Aren'tcha gonna take it?" being spoken. Without hesitation, Kendall placed the empty bottle he'd been holding onto the low bureau next to him before taking the one his friend was offering.

"Here's to getting completely shitfaced and not remember anything from tonight," she stated, holding her own beer up by the neck.

"I'll definitely drink to that," he replied, clinking his bottle against hers, silently wishing he could forget a whole lot more than just that night. But since he couldn't, bottoms up!

And, yeah, okay, he knew that alcohol was a depressant and that it wasn't actually helping his mental state, just making shit worse, but that was added to the long list of Shit He Didn't Give Any Kind of Fuck About. He just wanted to be numbed, more so than he had been. His emotions may have been gone, but the physical pain was still there, like his actual heart had literally been broken, not some metaphorical cutesy li'l red doodle thing. The real organ that resided in his chest, the one that seemed to be having issues beating, the one that was hurting and making his entire chest cavity ache with a mixture of longing, sadness, and hopelessness. Which would make for one helluva cocktail and would knock him on his ass in five seconds flat.

Now that he thought about it, passing out sounded pretty fucking awesome, too, to just completely black out, no memory, no thinking. Just darkness, living up to its title in color. He'd kill for a night where he just slept peacefully—if at all—with no flashbacks of what had happened or dreams about what could happen but never will. Fuck, he didn't know which one was worse: the fantasies or the memories. Either way he'd be waking up alone, cold, and empty, trying to piece himself back together after falling apart during the night. Only now he was running out of super glue and the duct tape wasn't working as well as it used to.

Well, since he couldn't fix the problem, might as well hide it, like that hole he put in his bedroom wall that he covered with a poster. Three years later, his mom still had no clue. Maybe it would work in this situation, too.

With the reasoning of a retard in mind, he brought his new bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

Like a Bat Signal had been lit up in the sky—or this case the living room ceiling—Carlos was suddenly standing in front of him, disapproving look on his face. Ah yes, the Fun Police, the name all the more fitting given his father's occupation. Chances were the Latino had made his way over to keep a closer eye on Kendall, make sure he wasn't gonna do anything dumb. The blond had lost track of the number of times his tan friend had followed him to Guitar Dude's basement, literally just sitting in the corner watching while Kendall toked up, Carlos getting a second hand high. And grounded.

Whatever. Not Kendall's problem.

"Hello, Carlos," Lucy's voice was flat, sarcastic smirk on her face, the same one she'd given the Latino when he first showed up with the blond. The petite female wasn't a huge fan of the short male, the two of them rarely seeing eye to eye on anything, especially when it came to Kendall. Clearly she didn't know why Carlos had shown at the party, since he never seemed to enjoy himself, and so far, this time didn't appear to be any different.

Carlos' attention turned to the raven haired female, muttering out a snarky "Lucy" as he gave her a heated glare, wordlessly blaming her for the Kendall's drinking at that moment. And, okay, yeah, she'd provided the beer the taller male was currently holding, but truth was, he'd end up with a Heineken in hand using his own gathering skills anyway. She just cut a few steps out for him.

Not that Carlos knew that, or even seemed to care. The Latino preferred to just blame Lucy for everything, causing a huge tension between the three of them, something the blond really didn't wanna fucking deal with on the best of days. Being in the state of mood that he was at that moment, he definitely wasn't putting up with any of their shit.

Which was why he rolled his eyes and turned away, his bottle once again magically making its way to his mouth. Weird how that kept happening.

He ignored the angry staring contest his two friends were currently locked in, his own eyes roaming the room once again as he drank deeply, the green orbs not settling on any one thing for more than a second or two. Until they came across the TV.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Guitar Dude had left the flatsceen on some music video channel—clearly not MTV, who hadn't lived up to its moniker in practically a decade—and of all the artists in the world, he just happened to be shown. In full HD no less. Fucking awesome.

And there goes the Heineken to his lips once again.

"Oh ew," Lucy commented, letting out a snort of a laugh, lip curled in disgust, eyes turned to the TV. "I seriously don't see how anyone can listen to this shit. It's so fucking lame."

Kendall's first reaction was to defend James, to say that the pop star had some pretty catchy songs, that it was fun to listen to, that there were actually some pretty good and deep lyrics in a couple of the tracks, not to mention the guy had a damn good voice. But he knew the second he said anything positive about the singer, it would raise some serious suspicions and Lucy would give him hell for listening to shit pop music.

So instead, he kept his mouth shut, swallowing the beer that was in his mouth as he brought the bottle back down to his side.

"I don't think he's that bad," Carlos argued, arms folded over his chest in defiance, another glare aimed at the leather clad female.

"Yeah, well you wouldn't," she responded, voice dripping with attitude.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you have shit taste in music. If this shit infecting my ears even counts as music in the first place." She cast another disgusted look in the direction of the flatscreen in the corner.

"It does so count as music! And I happen to enjoy it very much."

"Doesn't count as good music though, right, Kendall?" With that, she turned and set her black rimmed eyes on the blond standing to her right, expectation raising her brows as her arms folded over her chest and her hip stuck out.

Kendall's own eyebrows shot up, somewhat surprised he'd been dragged into it, when the whole time he'd been ignoring what was happening between the two of them, years of experience allowing him to tune out the arguments. His eyes flipped over to Carlos, seeing the way his own eyebrows were slightly raised in hope, brown eyes pleading to just agree with the Latino, to back him up just this once, to say that James wasn't a horrible singer and that his music didn't, in fact, suck.

But Kendall couldn't do that. "Seems pretty shitty to me," he muttered out, beer bottle centimeters in front of his lips before finally taking a drink.

Lucy gave Carlos a "told you so" look, which was ignored, since the Latino was too busy giving the blond a saddened, disappointed one, one that was just as bad, if not worse, than the puppy dog eyes.

The blond couldn't handle it, couldn't take the guilt his best male friend was putting on him, needing a way out of the conversation and fast. Luckily, his bladder chose that exact moment to start yelling at him to empty it. "I'm gonna take a piss," he announced lowly, putting the half empty beer bottle next to the completely empty one before walking away from his two friends.

He made his way through the semi-crowded hallway and ascended the stairs to the deserted upper level. Well, semi-deserted upper level, judging by the moans coming from the guest room as he passed the door. Lovely.

Kendall found the master bedroom without any issues, unlocking it just as easily, considering he'd done it a million times before. He entered the room, closing the door behind himself, and headed to the bathroom, knowing it would be the one that no one would bother trying to use. The bathroom downstairs constantly had a line leading to it and the guest one upstairs was no stranger to heavy traffic. So the lavatory in the master suite that everyone assumed to still be locked would be a safe place to hide out in for a little while.

Until Carlos goes looking for him.

Shoving that thought aside, the blond set about doing his business, washing his hands in the sink and splashing some of the water on his face. Then he stood there, hands gripping the edge of the counter, water dripping off his chin and into the sink as his head hung, mouth parted as he breathed heavily. His chest was still aching, making it hard to take in enough air—or at least that's how it felt. For all he knew, he could've been getting the perfect amount of oxygen and just didn't realize it, didn't know it. Seemed there was a lotta shit he didn't know lately.

Like why he was at that fucking party.

A heavy sigh escaped him, causing his shoulders to rise then slump, body as tired as his head. He should just go home. He knew Carlos would be fine with it, since the Latino didn't even wanna show up in the first place. And the blond doubted any would give a shit if he bailed early—except maybe for Lucy but she should go fuck herself and just be glad he came at all. His mom would be fucking shocked if he came home early, that's for damn sure.

Assuming it was even all that early in the night. Standing against a wall spacing out tended to fuck with your sense of time.

Brow furrowed, Kendall grabbed a hand towel and dried off his hands and face before reaching into his pocket for his iPhone. He ignored his lock screen—which totally wasn't that same fucking picture of James looking into his eyes as he sang and that was his story and he was fucking sticking to it—discovering he had a new voicemail. Curiosity hitting him, he dialed it up, putting the device to his ear to listen.

Which he immediately regretted.

"Hey, Kendall. It's me. James. James Diamond. In case you know any other Jameses. Jameses? James? I have no what the plural of James is. Anyway, I, uh, I was just calling-" There was a pause, presumably so the singer could figure out what the hell he was gonna say. "Actually, I have no clue why I'm calling. Guess I just wanted to hear your voice again. God, this is fucking stupid, I'm sorry. Just delete this, okay? Forget I ever called. I just... Sorry."

Kendall stood there in the middle of the bathroom frozen, hand locked around his phone, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, not seeing his reflection, not seeing anything in that room. He supposed shock did that to a guy, rendered you immobile, unable to perform the simplest task like swallowing that lump in your throat or inhaling your next breath. He was a wax figure, a mannequin, an immovable object that could barely even blink.

But, of course, his brain was working just fine. More than fine, judging by the twenty million thoughts racing around it. Sure, it shorted out and shut down for a moment there when he heard the first word of that voicemail, but it kicked itself back on shortly after, causing a tornado of thoughts and emotions to swarm in his head and leave the entire place damaged and ruined, with no FEMA in sight.

Basically he was fucked.

But it was all he could do, was just stand there and think. Over-think really. About how fucking good it felt to hear his voice, about how surprised he was that James had even called at all and the additional shock that the singer had even left a message—even if the pop star wasn't sure why, but that didn't matter 'cause there actually was one—instead of immediately hanging up when there was no answer. He wondered why the brunet had called, what he wanted to talk about—if anything—what had suddenly brought on this urge to call the blond after hanging up last time then two days of silence. He speculated over whether the elder male actually felt bad about how their last conversation went, over whether or not he'd apologize for being rude, over whether or not he'd finally give Kendall an answer as to why he left the dressing room, other than "I panicked."

Fuck! He was left with more questions than fucking answers, just like always.

Finally snapping out of it, he brought the phone away from his ear, looking at it to make sure he hit the right button necessary to repeat the message, listening to it fully this time, instead of allowing the shock and his manic brain to take over and cause him to miss anything.

And he most definitely didn't miss anything the third time around either.

Or the fourth.

Or the fifth.

"Guess I just wanted to hear your voice again."

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Holy fucking shit.

Hooooooly fucking shit.

Kendall shook his head to snap out of it again, making sure the message was saved before putting his phone in his pocket. He couldn't fucking believe it, no matter how many times he listened to it. James had wanted to hear his voice. The blond couldn't quite figured out why, given the fact that he wasn't the internationally famous singer, nor was he classically trained and able to sing fucking opera, but just the fact that the brunet wanted to talk to him was enough to get his duct taped and super glued heart at least back in working order.

Until reality sunk in.

He'd missed the call.

James had called and he missed it.

Yeah, having a voicemail was awesome. He'd be able to torture himself fuck knows how many times replaying that message over and over again, just like he did with the live version of that song and the clip of the singer instructing his audience to "give it up for Kendall!" Whenever he started to doubt himself or doubt that anything had ever happened between him and the brunet, he could listen to that voicemail and prove to himself that for at least a moment in his life, he actually meant something to the guy he had feelings for.

But he could've actually had a conversation with him. He could've actually talked to him, gotten through to him, asked what was going on, why he kept running, why he kept coming back, what the fuck his deal was. He could've convinced the singer that it was okay, that there was nothing to worry about, that Kendall would be there for him, in any manner the brunet needed the blond to be.

Really, they could've talked about anything at all, from how their day was to whether or not they think "Star Wars" could be real and there could be other galaxies out there with species much like their own. Or they could've talked about nothing at all, just sat on the phone in their respectful places, just listening to each other breathe, every now and then asking if the other person was still there, repeatedly inquiring as to how they were, the answers never changing. They were both doing great, because they were on the same call.

Only it hadn't happened. And knowing James, it would be a while before it would happen again.

Kendall had missed his shot.

Hell, he more than missed it. He sent the puck over the glass and to the upper level of the arena. He'd completely fucking blown it.

"Fuckin' awesome," he muttered to himself, before smearing a hand over his face then putting both hands on his hips, staring at the room he was in.

He'd come to the bathroom to get away—and also to piss but mostly to get away—contemplating leaving the party altogether. Only now he was back to his original urge of getting completely shitface drunk and passing out, not remembering anything.

Well, anything from the rest of that night anyway.

New plan in action, he exited the master suite, fully resolved to getting wasted, no matter who tried to stop him.

Well, his plan worked well. Like, really, really, really, really fucking well. 'Cause he was loaded.

And loud.

And more than likely annoying, judging by Carlos' pout as he halfway carried his best friend towards the Knight house.

Kendall was laughing—for some reason that was beyond even his fucking sloshed up mind—arm wrapped around the shorter male's shoulders, leaning on him as he let his entire body just hang. The Latino's arms were around his waist, holding him up, doing most of the work for the blond as the taller male dragged his feet across the sidewalk. But as much fun as Kendall was having, as much as he was enjoying whatever the fuck was so funny, Carlos was the exact opposite, all pouts and anger and just blahness. It was like they had switched personalities in a way. Maybe that's what was so funny! 'Cause holy fucking shit was it hilarious to see the Latino actually pissed off.

And the blond knew he should feel bad, knew he shouldn't be so amused by it. He should feel guilty that he put his best friend in that mood, because the other male had been looking out for him, being the overprotective buddy that he was and making sure Kendall didn't do anything too stupid at that party, making sure he got home safe and in one piece. And he knew he should feel terrible for forcing his friend to attend the get together that he clearly didn't wanna go to.

But he didn't.

He was too busy giggling.

They reached the front door, Carlos leaning Kendall against the wall of the house as the Latino unclipped the blond's keys off the taller male's belt loop, Kendall moving his hips away with a smirk.

"You gropin' me 'ere, too?" he questioned, letting out a laugh. "Parkin' lot 'n' seein' me wet noddanuff?"

Carlos rolled his eyes, unlocking the door and opening it up before grabbing his intoxicated friend's arm. "Let's go," he said lowly, voice exasperated, clearly done with this whole thing. He slung Kendall's arm over his shoulders before wrapping both of his around the blond's torso, letting the taller male lean on him once more as they headed inside.

Kendall's feet dragged as he watched his best bud close the front door quietly, knowing he was doing it to make sure his mom or sister didn't wake up. 'Cause that's how Carlos was. He didn't look out for just Kendall, he looked out for the entire Knight family. 'Cause he was good people. And Kendall wasn't. Which was why James didn't wanna talk to him.

Why James kept leaving.

Why everyone kept leaving.

Except Carlos.

The two of them headed towards the stairs, Kendall looking at his shorter friend. A myriad of emotions washed over him, fucking with his already muddled brain, and he could barely understand any of it. Save for one thought.

"You haven' lef' me."

"No, I haven't," the Latino agreed, adjusting his hold around the blond.

"Why?"

"You know why." They reached the stairs, Carlos grunting as he heaved the taller male onto the first step, Kendall doing little, if anything, to help.

"'Cuz you looooove me," he joked with a smirk, teasing his friend.

The Latino just snorted as he rolled his eyes, focusing more on the stairs and trying to get them both up them than trying to figure out any sort of response.

And the blond knew it wasn't true. He just liked messing with the shorter male—especially when he was wasted—liked trying to get a rise outta him, liked tryna piss him off and frustrate him. 'Cause halfway carrying his drunk ass up stairs wasn't enough.

But no matter what he did, what he said, or how he acted, the Latino put up with it, dealt with it, didn't get pissed or frustrated or upset or run off. And what Carlos had said was true, Kendall did know why, even through his alcohol addled mind. The blond once again found himself glad for it, even if he'd never say it out loud.

They managed to make it to Kendall's bedroom, Carlos unceremoniously dumping the taller male on the bed, the blond laughing as he landed on his back, legs hanging off the side. The Latino knelt down and set to work untying his friend's boots, knowing the drunk ass wouldn't be able to do it himself and was more than likely mere seconds away from passing out.

"Tryn' get me naked, huh?" Kendall joked with a smirk, lifted his head to see his friend's reaction, only to get a little dizzy. So he laid it back down, wondering when the hell his bed had been moved onto such a slopping hill. Or a teeter-totter, since it was now tilting the other way.

The Latino didn't acknowledge the blond, didn't take the bait, didn't do or say anything, just pulled the left boot off before setting to work on the right's laces. Whatever. He was never fun when the taller male went out, especially afterward. But Kendall knew Carlos would snap out of it, that the next day he'd be back to his bubbly, sunshiny self, that his current Debbie Downer attitude wasn't a permanent thing and was only for the night. They'd been through this before, and chances were, they'd go through it again.

The boots fully off and placed next to the bed, Carlos stood, taking hold of Kendall's long legs, lifting and moving them around so they were on the bed, the blond's body turned so his head was up near the pillows. The Latino didn't say a word as he went to the adjoining bathroom, the taller teen hearing the sounds of water running then stopping, the medicine cabinet being opened, a rattling, the door being shut. A minute later, Carlos came back through, glass of water in hand, still not speaking as he walked over to the nightstand.

He placed the glass on the piece of furniture, putting a couple pain killers next to it. "You know the drill," he stated, the two of them having done this fuck knew how many times.

Kendall just nodded, rubbing his eyes, feeling tired.

"Text me tomorrow so I know you're alive?"

A thumbs up.

A harsh sigh left the Latino's mouth before he turned and left, closing Kendall's door soundlessly, sneaking back out the house so neither Knight female knew he'd been there.

Kendall yawned, scratching his belly before rolling over onto it, only to move back onto his side when he felt his iPhone dig into his thigh. He removed the smart phone from his pocket, looking at the screen and remembering the voicemail he'd gotten when he went to the bathroom earlier. He still couldn't believe he missed a phone call from James, one he'd probably never get again, considering the singer's penchant for running and hiding.

Motherfucker.

The blond sat up, brow furrowed in anger as he glared at his phone, the voicemail repeating in his head. "Forget I ever called." Yeah fucking right. And he sure as shit wasn't deleting it, regardless of the pop star's request to do just that. How the fuck was he supposed to do either of those things? How the fuck was he supposed to just forget that the male he had feelings for had actually called, had actually reached out to him once again, had actually tried to contact him.

Had forgotten to fucking explain himself once more.

Mother. Fucker.

Kendall's frustration at the elder male came back full force and before he even knew what he was doing, he was unlocking his iPhone and pulling up the singer in his contacts, hitting the "call" button without hesitation.

Drunk dialing was just always a great idea really.

It rang once, twice, and on the third time, he got off the bed, pacing over to his window. His free left hand scratched the side of his head under his beanie, mentally begging the singer to pick up his fucking phone and answer the goddamn call.

Which he actually fucking did.

"'Lo?"

The blond stopped pacing, standing halfway back towards his bed, hand no longer scratching, eyes open in shock that the singer had actually finally picked up. And his voice sounded so fucking good, even if it was a little sleepy and confused, the teen obviously having woken him up—which he admittedly felt a little guilty about—those damn butterflies back in his stomach and his heart pounding out of control, just like always.

He cleared his throat, snapping himself out of it, knowing that he actually needed to talk when on the phone. "Yeah, hey. Hi."

"Kendall?"

"Uh huh." Fuck, what was he supposed to say now? "God your voicemail."

"Oh." His voice was flat, Kendall panicking, worried he'd said the wrong thing once again. "Thought I said to forget I called."

"Yeah, nod fuckin' hap'nin'," he stated honestly, not holding back. He was never really all that censored, but alcohol definitely made it fucking worse. "Not when you fuddin' din' 'splain why you hang up las' time." Oh, awesome, he was slurring. Perfect way to sound in control of everything and pissed off.

"Are you drunk?" And, of course, James picked up on it.

"Dun' matter," the younger male stated, pacing once again, turning around when he reached his bed and heading back over to the window. "Need tuh talk tuh ya."

"Can't it wait 'til your sober?"

"Nope. Cuz you no call an' you run an' leave an'—" He paused, reaching his bed once more, sadness hitting him. He felt those same earlier depressing emotions, had those same self-hating thoughts that he always had. "Why do you leave me?" he asked lowly. "Why am I not good enough? What can I do to make you stay?" He sniffed, eyes tearing up as he turned around and sank onto his ass on his bed.

"Fuck, Kendall," James breathed out, the sounds of creaking and fabric shuffling coming down the line, making the younger male think the elder was sitting up in his own bed. Or his hotel bed really, since the pop star was still on tour at the moment. "You've done nothing wrong, okay? You aren't the problem here."

A humorless laugh escaped the blond as he stared down at his dark jeans, fingers on his left hand stroking the denim covering his knee. "It's not you, it's me, right?"

"As cliché as it sounds, yeah. I'm fucked up."

"So am I," Kendall pointed out. "We can be fucked up together. Remember? We said that. We said we can be crazy together. I still want that. Still want you."

"Kendall." His name was a groan on the other male's lips, and he felt that familiar belief that he fucked up, that he'd said something to make the pop star wanna run.

"I'm sorry!" He blurted out, jumping up to his feet, only to sit back down when he felt dizzy. He tried it once more, rising to a standing position a lot slower. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm fuckin' up 'gain. I'm sayin' wrong thing. Jus' don' hang up, don' leave."

The blond felt his panic well up once more, getting higher with each passing second of silence. His chest was rising and falling harshly as his breathing became shakier, stomach clenched, throat practically sealed shut due to the huge lump in it. Chewing on his left thumb nail, he stared straight ahead at nothing, impatiently waiting for the singer's response.

"I'm not leaving."

A long relieved breath blew out of Kendall's mouth, his entire body slumping as he felt like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders.

"But— " Fuck, the blond did not like that word. "I think we should talk tomorrow when you've sobered up. 'Cause chances are you won't remember any of this."

Yeah, not happening. "Right. 'Cause you gon' call an' not hide for days or some shit."

"I'm gonna call."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Swear?"

"Kendall, I promise, I swear, I give a fucking blood oath. I. Will. Call."

The teen just nodded, staring at the ground, thumbnail back in between his teeth. Fatigue had come back, his anger having dissipated, and he slowly sank back onto the bed, ready to crash. "'Kay."

"Go get some sleep, sober up. We'll talk tomorrow."

"M'kay." His eyelids were getting heavy, hard to hold up, and he rubbed them before shaking his head, trying to stay up, trying to stay on the phone.

But once again, James was ending the conversation. Only this time, it didn't freak Kendall out, didn't cause any panic. He figured it was because the singer had promised to call again, swore he'd reach out to the teen and talk to him again, and he had a gut feeling the pop star was a man of his word, that he wouldn't just say that shit just to say it.

"Goodnight, Kendall."

"Ni', Jims."

The singer laughed before repeating "'night" then hanging up, the conversation over.

Kendall yawned, reaching over to put the iPhone on his nightstand, before allowing gravity to pull his body down so he was laying on his side. His eyelids were the next to fall victim to the force, falling down and shutting the world out, as his body became heavier. It didn't take long for sleep to claim him and drag him off to his blacked out state, smile on his face.