Oh gosh—this chapter was fun for so many reasons.

And no, James half-redeemed himself in the last chapter, that redemption fell through. He thinks stupid things once again. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out.

Enjoy!

"Kendall, we're here," James says, parking the car. Once he's able, he shoves Kendall's shoulder in an attempt to wake him up.

Kendall doesn't even flinch. He knocks his head against the window, but remains sleeping.

"Come on, man," James mutters. "We gotta go see Logan."

James shoves his shoulder again, Kendall hits his head harder. He blinks, stifling a yawn.

"What?" he murmurs.

"We're here."

Kendall nods, leaning his head against the window again. "Okay."

He pushes open the door. It's no surprise that he almost falls out of the car. James grabs his arm.

Kendall jerks away. "James."

Kendall has this look in his eyes. Behind the tiredness, beyond that. It's—fear. Kendall is afraid.

James is afraid too.

James unclicks his seatbelt, pushing open the driver side door. He makes sure to slam it, it makes Kendall jolt awake.

He comes around to Kendall's side and slams that one too, for good measure.

"Let's go."

"I'm already going."

—

Kendall collapses into a chair the minute Carlos moves. He falls asleep soon after.

"Don't wake him up," James tells Carlos, who is completely focused on Kendall's sleeping form. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.

He hasn't.

And, paradoxically, Logan has been awake.

James looks at him, he doesn't look sick. He doesn't look like he has a fatal disease. He looks normal again. He's not crying, Carlos's texts made it sound like he was crying.

Logan didn't look upset. Logan looked fine.

"I wasn't going to wake him up," Carlos whispered. "I know he hasn't slept."

Carlos is the one who sounds upset. Mad.

Mad at him, probably.

"Yeah," James replied. "Let him sleep."

He's staring at Logan, who hasn't said anything. He does sit up in the hospital bed. He sits up and stares back. Then, his eyes find the floor.

"James," Logan says.

Logan sounds normal. Logan sounds normal, there's no reason for this, he looks normal. He looks and sounds normal. And he could probably get up from that bed too, if he wanted.

It's obvious Logan could get up right then, they could fly back to Los Angeles, everything would be fine.

Not to mention, Logan is talking. He can't be that bad if he can talk in the hospital.

Logan can't be as bad as everyone thinks he is if he's awake and talking and not sickly.

Logan pulls on the neckline of the hospital gown. He's taken some of the fabric and twisted it around his finger. He looks up at James again.

He's already said two words, how hard could it be to say two more?

Logan has been in this hospital for a week. He can't be that petrified still.

He turns his head towards Carlos, who approaches his bedside.

"Told you he'd come," Carlos says. "Nothing to worry about."

Logan is dying—that's what he thought.

Logan doesn't look like he's dying anymore. James doesn't think so anymore.

He had run out when the doctor told them the news, he hadn't even stayed the whole way through. Maybe he had just misheard.

If he had misheard, he wouldn't have thrown up in a gas station bathroom. He wouldn't have left his dad's house. He certainly wouldn't have driven to the Mayo Clinic himself.

James was just irritated and nervous when he was in the car with Kendall. When he threw up.

There isn't actually a problem.

Logan couldn't die. Logan was always going to live the longest out of all of them because he was going to be a doctor. If he didn't cure death, he would've known how to prolong his life.

Logan was not dying. That was just insane.

He was eighteen. He had to go to college. To med school.

A future without Logan in med school was not a future that was at all possible.

Logan was going to go to college. He was going to go to med school. He was going to be some amazing neurologist. He would cure every disease. Every illness, every neurological disorder. He would cure autism—that was his neurological disorder—he would make himself normal.

Logan had to live long enough to make himself normal.

Logan would be able to go to parties without freaking out, he would be able to solve his own problems, the ones that weren't math, without running to one of them all the time.

Kendall.

Kendall would punch James square in the face if he was awake, if he was a mind reader like Carlos used to think he was. And James didn't care. Kendall was asleep, Kendall was not a mind reader.

Logan was healthy. Logan had a future.

He would be able to do all those things he hated doing.

He wouldn't be attached to his stupid computer and research. He wouldn't lose his mind over a misconfigured, messed up schedule. He wouldn't have to wear latex gloves to wash windows.

He wouldn't ask stupid questions about things nobody wanted to talk about.

He wouldn't blurt out medical information that no one wanted to hear. He wouldn't just have statistics ready to go off the top of his head.

He wouldn't ask if someone was mad all the time, he would get it.

He wouldn't have meltdowns that ruined their careers.

He wouldn't—he'd be normal.

He wouldn't be Logan. He wouldn't be the Logan that couldn't talk in hospitals, he wouldn't be the Logan dying from a fatal disease.

He would be normal.

He would be the Logan with a future.

Kendall would kill him for thinking this. Carlos would kill him. Everyone would kill him.

Except Logan. Because Logan would convince himself that James was right.

"Mom," Logan murmurs from the hospital bed.

James automatically turns to look behind him. Nobody else is in the room, except Kendall, who's sleeping, snoring.

Carlos left him with Logan.

James wasn't right. James couldn't be right about any of this.

Logan was who he was.

"Mom," he repeated.

Logan's mom was not in the room. James wasn't sure where she was.

"Your mom's not in here, dude."

Logan tugged at the hospital gown, he sat up straighter. He kicked at the bedsheets, and nearly at the tubes of whatever drugs they were pumping him full of. His eyes were wide.

Logan started to shake his head, he closed his mouth, lips pressed firmly together.

"You need to breathe, Logan, come on. Don't be stupid."

Logan didn't inhale, not until his face was tinged blue like the sheets. Then, he started to cry.

Kendall shifted in his chair.

Kendall would kill him if he woke up. Kendall would kill him.

Logan was shaking so much, and his crying was loud enough to be mistaken for screaming, it could be both. Just like the concert.

But worse.

His eyes were closed.

James took a tentative step forward. Kendall must be really conked out if he didn't wake up from this.

"Logan—"

Logan was still shaking, but he closed his mouth. If he was crying, if he was screaming, it was completely inaudible, internal. Like someone flipped a dimmer switch.

All of Logan had been freaking out. All the lights were out.

The lights were coming back on. He was calming down.

"James." he gasped out. He grabbed the back of his head, wincing.

"What?" James asked.

Logan just repeated himself, drawing his knees to his chest. He shouldn't do that, he'd get tangled in all the tubes. And wires. And machines. But of course, he does it.

"What happened, Logan?"

Logan shook his head again. And again. He was going to give himself whiplash, he wasn't calming down, he was hyping himself up again, mental breakdown, meltdown status.

Logan doesn't answer.

Kendall is definitely going to wake up.

Kendall is waking up.

Kendall is yawning.

"S–sorry," Logan whispers.

It's only the third word he's ever said at the hospital.

And it's directed at James.

"For what?"

Logan doesn't answer.

James knows, he shouldn't have asked.

Logan is sorry because he knows James thinks he ruined everything.

And James is sorry because his career might be ruined, Los Angeles and his dream might be ruined.

But what's worse is that Logan is ruined. Logan feels guilty.

Logan feels the need to apologize, when he's actually dying.

And what's worse than that is James knows that guilt will eat them both alive.

The difference is, James deserves it and Logan doesn't.

The difference is James will live longer than Logan.

The difference is Logan has a fatal disease.

The difference is Logan is going to die.

And James will live.

When he doesn't deserve it.

"F-for," Logan stutters out. His eyes are shut. "For wreck—ing—"

"Logan," James cautions him.

Please don't say it.

"Your life."

James can feel Kendall's glare.

"You didn't ruin my life."

Logan doesn't believe him, Logan looks away, Logan looks at Kendall.

James glances back behind him. Kendall is falling asleep as he stands back up. "Sit down."

Kendall mutters something under his breath.

"Kendall."

Kendall sits down.

"Go back to sleep."

Logan looks back at the floor by James's feet.

James can't watch this.

James can't watch him blame himself, not anymore, not when it's not his fault.

It might've been before.

But James can't watch that.

"You didn't ruin anything," James assures Logan. This is a lie, it doesn't matter, he feels numb when he says it. "You should sleep, too."

And James leaves, like he left before.

Last time he was angry at Logan. Now he's angry at himself.

A chair is knocked over. Kendall is following him.

Logan had to be asleep, they wouldn't have left him alone if he was awake.

So, it is with this comfort that James has the confidence to shove Kendall away. "You're an idiot. What are you doing? Go back to the room."

"Logan's asleep."

"Yeah, and maybe for once in your life you should listen to someone tell you to sleep yourself!"

Kendall only huffs in reply. He won't listen.

It doesn't matter, not really.

James goes back to Kendall's car. He pushes Kendall into the backseat.

He takes the driver's seat.

And he wants to leave the Mayo Clinic.

But he can't.

All he can bring himself to do is drive around the parking lot until Kendall is asleep again.

And then, for the second time, James throws up.

—

He doesn't know what he's doing. Why does he think this is smart?

It's not smart, not at all, and he's the smart one.

Not when it came to this.

But really, this stupidity was reaching an exceptionally low point, especially for him.

He should know better, he can't even talk.

He convinces himself that maybe since the room is empty, maybe it will be okay.

He's rehearsed the conversation in his head, he knows not to do that. He can't control what other people say. But he can control what he says.

He's rehearsed control.

So, in actuality, his pseudo-mutism should be a benefit. It would prevent him from blurting.

It would prevent him from sounding too morbid. Which Carlos and Kendall think, he's being too morbid about this.

How is he supposed to talk about this otherwise? Death is morbid.

It's not like he wants to die.

He just thinks everyone should be prepared.

Since he isn't.

All things considered, against his better judgment that likely disappeared the very millisecond he entered the Mayo Clinic, he calls Camille.

He hates the way the phone rings, how he can count to three between each ring.

One, two, three.

Ring.

One, two, three.

Ring.

One, two—

"Hey, Logan. How—"

She's going to ask how he's feeling. He feels awful, that's the truth, but he didn't rehearse for that. He rehearsed, in his head, at least.

He intends to say what he needs to say.

"I—"

That would be his fourth word at the hospital.

He lets the script run through his head

"I—want to break up."

He hears her say something. He needs to get through this. This is not a conversation. This is something he needs to get through.

"I think we need to break up."

He never intended on saying it more than twice, but he might have to.

"What?"

He'll have to at least factor in her responses. If she doesn't understand him, it will all be for nothing. Unsuccessful.

"We need to break up."

Camille doesn't pause like he does. "No, we don't."

He doesn't want to repeat himself again. She should get the point, he doesn't want to say it anymore, that makes it more real. He doesn't want to say it anymore, because then it means he broke up with Camille.

And, well, he never wanted to do it, but that's why he developed an internal script. He can't chicken out if he knows what to say, if he has an algorithm.

He hates this.

"Yes we do! We need to break up."

He rambled off some statistic that he included in the script, but it's obvious she isn't listening. She needs to listen. He wants to hang up. He needs to be done, or else he'll start crying, and then, definitely, Nurse Danielle or Dr. Jones or someone will check on him.

He knew this needed to be a private conversation. As private as it could be, given the circumstances.

"Logan."

Logan isn't paying attention. He needs to continue, he needs to get through the script, but she messed him up, he's stuck on loop now.

He knows what he's thinking: We need to break up.

He just isn't fully aware of what he's saying to her.

"Logan, stop. What happened?"

Logan cannot stop.

—

She pretended not to hear Logan stutter the same repeated sentence into the phone.

We need to break up.

Camille is nervous, but she's not freaking out yet.

Kendall had been updating her about Logan's testing. The last text she had from him said that Logan's tests came back. Either he had a disease or he didn't.

He hadn't texted in a while.

The other guys hadn't either.

Was it cancer? She tried to remember what the odds were for surviving cancer. She had read about it, she had an audition once where she was the daughter of a sick mother. Maybe it wasn't totally accurate, but it's not like it could be inaccurate. She hadn't gotten the part, but she was pretty sure the mother—

"I have Niemann-Pick type C disease."

She had never heard of that before. That didn't sound like cancer.

"What's that?"

He pauses. Camille waits.

Logan knows it's just a statistic. It's just a fact. It doesn't apply to him yet, he can't even register that the words he's saying mean anything. Just a recitation, just a statistic.

"It's a neurodegenerative brain disease where cholesterol is not metabolized properly, causing fatal buildup in the spleen, liver, and brain that—"

She knows Logan wouldn't lie. Logan is awful at it. And he wouldn't lie about anything medical.

But this is not true.

"Fatal?"

He knows Camille's voice has gotten soft. He's not doing very well at being not morbid. "Yeah."

Camille doesn't respond.

Logan picks up where he left off, slowly remembering the symptoms. "It causes lack of muscle tone, loss of intellectual and cognitive ability, possible ataxia, cataplexy, difficulty swallowing, slurred—"

This is real. She can hear him. This is not a nightmare. This is reality.

She inhales. She exhales. Like this is just stage fright, like this isn't the most horrifying conversation she's ever had in her life.

She inhales, she exhales.

Finally, she speaks.

"Logan, stop. Don't tell me anything else."

She doesn't know why she bothered. She knows Logan won't stop.

"But this is important. This is why we have to break up."

It's important—and it's horrifying. It's the worst thing in the world.

Losing Logan would mean she lost her world.

She inhales, exhales.

"You still love me. I still love you."

"It doesn't matter that we still love each other!"

Camille frowns. She tries to reason with herself, Logan's just told her he has a disease, obviously he already knows all about it. And he did not say it didn't matter that they loved each other. He just didn't say that.

He wouldn't have said it.

He wouldn't have meant it.

She inhales, she exhales.

"Yes, it does."

He knows what he said. He regrets it. "Yes, of course it does, you're right. But Camille, we have to break up."

He might regret it, but he doesn't see what's wrong with it.

"No—"

He cuts her off.

She inhales, she exhales. This is not working. Her lungs are not working. They feel collapsed.

"You're not going to want to date me when I have the cognitive abilities of a two year old!"

That wouldn't happen, that didn't happen.

Her lungs, the lungs that feel collapsed, are miraculously functioning. She's barely breathing.

"Logan—"

And he cuts her off again. She stops breathing,

"No, no, don't tell me will because I know you won't. Camille, I'll be confined to a wheelchair or something, I won't be able to move or talk, my brain will stop functioning."

She's going to cry. This is not real, inhaling and exhaling, that is just some shit exercise that doesn't work, it never worked, maybe she convinced herself it did.

Nothing was working, nothing felt real.

She blinked away the tears. She blinked away the awful fleeting mirage of Logan in a wheelchair.

That wouldn't happen. That couldn't happen.

"Logan, maybe we shouldn't talk about this over the phone."

Or, at all. But she knew they needed to talk, and that he wouldn't let the conversation go unfinished.

"How else are we supposed to talk about it?"

This doesn't feel right, the words feel like chalk, like cement.

"I booked a part. We shoot in Minneapolis."

This isn't bad news. Logan makes a sound like it is.

"Congratulations."

Logan's in the hospital, she remembers.

It's better than the last call, he's having full length conversations with her.

Not that the conversations are good.

Hearing his voice hurts more than she thought it ever could.

"I love you," she reminds him.

Logan is quiet for a moment. It's not hesitation.

"I love you, too."

She knows he means it. It's just hard.

Because he doesn't believe her when she says it to him anymore.

The line clicks.

He hangs up. And he starts to cry.

Camille hangs up. And she starts to cry.

How was that for no angst threshold? Hope you enjoyed!