Happy Easter!
I hope you all enjoy reading this. Really it's very close to my heart. And I love this so much, I've been obsessing over it for months.
Oh also I don't know how many of you here haven't read my other story, Minnesota Memoir, or how far you've gotten but in case you aren't going to read that before this (you should still read it!) just know I strongly and completely insist and believe that Logan has ASD—autism spectrum disorder.
Y'all better not skip over that bit of information or else you will be hopelessly confused.
^^^^^^^ Redirecting all you who skipped that very important detail
I am so prepared for this. I love this.
Recently, I've even been told it was just 'mwah, chef's kiss!'
So, it might be a little long. I hate the intro, personally, but I really wanted to get this out!
Enjoy, everyone! This is when I crush you with angst and feel great about it ;)
Logan knew not to take more than one Advil capsule every four to six hours. It said so on the label. And anyway, it was dangerous taking over-the-counter medication so freely. He knew that, he's always the one who knows that.
And yet, he was pushing it, taking one right at the fourth hour mark. He was pushing it further when he took two at the eight hour mark. One at twelve hours, two at sixteen.
The twentieth hour, he popped in three capsules before he would regret it. He crunched loudly, trying to distract himself from the headache he was trying to cure.
He had his head in his hands, massaging his temples. This headache could not go on any longer.
That seemed like an impossible feat. No one's luck was that good.
His was particularly bad.
Because those twenty hours had only been the first night of touring.
The next twenty-four solidified the routine. Advil, Advil, Advil, Advil, Advil, sleep.
Dance rehearsals fell in between the Advil intermissions.
Sleep fell in between the Advil intermissions.
Fan meet and greets, sound checks, costume changes,
It all fell in between the Advil.
The headache wouldn't go away.
The little blue pill was his lifeline.
And it didn't even work.
—
Logan knew his luck was bad, he knew it was awful.
But, he dared to think—nothing could get worse than the headache.
He had the audacity to believe that no one would notice.
The second week of touring, the fourth night, right before they went on, Carlos had grabbed his arm.
"Logan, are you okay?"
He nodded, even though his head felt like cotton and lead.
Carlos stared at him longer, Logan looked away first.
They ran onstage, Kendall and James in tow.
The beat dropped, his headache pounded.
He sang.
He counted to the next four hours.
—
Logan knew that he had never been particularly skilled in the rhythmic movement department. He was too stiff, and he mixed up his lefts and rights, only when it came to his arms and legs. Only when it came to being suffocated in a skin tight leather jacket or some other obnoxious costume choice.
Only when it came to Mr. X, only when it came to Gustavo, only when it came to Griffin.
And still, he had never considered himself particularly clumsy.
Sure, he would trip up sometimes, but that was a result of the whole lefts and rights issue.
He would never just trip. On air.
That couldn't happen.
But, that night, the third week of touring, three hours before the show, it had.
He had just been going over choreography with Kendall, it wasn't anything too challenging, just to commit it all to memory.
And he had extended his left foot out (this was a miracle, he almost always had the urge to extend his right foot), he extended. Too far, evidently. And fell.
Right there, flat on the floor.
Kendall helped him up, clapped him on the back, and showed him the step again.
Logan nodded like he understood, he did.
How had that even happened?
He shook his head—cotton and lead.
His headache pounded.
He popped in three Advil when Kendall had disappeared.
—
Logan knew he had always been sensitive to sensory input. It was a given, autism spectrum disorder practically ensured that, in most cases, anyway. In his case, especially. It was mostly sound, not light, that bothered him, but he had always considered himself to be mildly photosensitive.
The fourth week of touring, his eyes started to ache.
Along with the headache, which he was already treating, regardless of the treatment being unsuccessful.
At first, he blamed it on the lights. They could be brighter, and anyway, different lighting cues looked better in different venues. They were probably too bright.
Photosensitivity wasn't his biggest problem anyway.
He consoled himself with the promise of Advil, a cold glass of water, and a dark hotel room.
But his eyes ached in the dark, too.
This wasn't photosensitivity.
—
Logan knew he was getting very little sleep. Out of all of them, he was probably getting the least. Keeping himself up first to text Camille. Then to research.
This routine probably wasn't the healthiest.
But he knew he was at least getting some sleep. He was reluctantly pumping himself full of caffeine, reluctantly because he doubted it did anything.
But he knew he had slept.
So, the fifth week of touring.
Each day, each night, he dragged himself onto the stage out of pure exhaustion. He was used to it, it was normal. He dragged himself through the dances, he mumbled through the songs, he didn't mean to be so tired, but he was, and they all knew it.
He had even resorted to taking naps during the day. He would wake up at around noon. He would go to sound check. He would come back, sleep. Then, caught in the adrenaline rush of the concert.
What happened on the sixth night, fifth week of touring, made no sense.
They were backstage, they were onstage, he doesn't explicitly remember.
In any case, they were dancing.
They were singing.
And everything, every single muscle in his body, every single tissue, every single nerve.
Everything went numb.
For twenty seconds.
He had ended up on the floor again, only ten seconds out of the twenty.
"Logan?" James asked, after he had pulled him up off the ground.
Logan shook his head, brushing off his jeans. "I'm fine, I'm good."
James raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
Logan nodded. Firmly. Cotton and lead. He needed Advil. "Yeah."
Those were a horrifying twenty seconds.
—
Logan knew he had never drank a drop of alcohol in his life.
The sixth week of touring.
He wasn't drunk, he couldn't be drunk, he was underage, he was the most adamant enforcer of the 'no underage drinking' rule.
He was not drunk, it was actually, completely, in all circumstances, impossible.
And yet.
And yet he remembers hearing himself.
He had been onstage. It had only been for a minute.
Not even a full song.
He doesn't remember which song.
Not even a full song.
He had mumbled, muttered through the whole thing.
His words—he had slurred his notes together, into a dripping, out of tune mess.
He had heard it. He knew it.
He just didn't know why.
He hated not knowing.
—
Logan knew exactly where he was.
He was onstage, he was about to grab a stool, tonight his stool would be next to Kendall, tomorrow it would be next to James, the day after it would be next to Carlos.
He was about to grab a stool for Worldwide.
And the band would switch to the acoustic set.
Carlos had almost crashed into him grabbing his own stool, as he plunked down next to James.
James grabbed his stool, positioning himself next to Carlos.
Logan grabbed his. It felt too heavy, like he might drop it, but he set it down next to James.
Kendall placed his stool next to Logan.
Then, the four of them started arguing, as always, over who would pick tonight.
Logan always thought it was the most fair if they all picked one each. They each got someone to sing to, and four girls would be happy, hopefully, with the choice. He always voted for four girls.
He doesn't remember who won the vote.
—
Logan knew exactly where he was.
It looked like James's dream. There's bright lights, and loud screaming.
It's a concert, there are girls everywhere. Colorful posters.
It's a whirlwind of colors and lights and sounds.
James would love this.
James would love this.
But, Logan doesn't. This is his textbook definition of a nightmare.
But he feels awake.
He turns, looking beside him.
He's sitting down. He's on a stool.
He tips backwards, just slightly, he can feel someone steady him.
He stares out into the crowd.
He hears, very distinctly, these girls are cheering for James.
Someone even has an I LOVE JAMES DIAMOND poster, with a glitter-glue red heart.
Logan does not understand how he is in James's dream.
"Logan?" someone asks.
"Logan, you have to vote, man." someone else says.
"Dude, come on." someone else.
Carlos.
Kendall.
James.
He turns to his left. Kendall's there too, Kendall's in James's dream too.
"Kendall?" he whispers.
This doesn't feel like a dream, he feels awake. He doesn't like this dream, he wants to go back to sleep. Or, wake up again. He doesn't know if he's awake, he feels awake.
But this isn't real. This is a dream. He's asleep.
"What?"
"Kendall," he repeats. "Why—why are we—-what are we doing?"
"What do you mean, what are we doing, Logan? We're voting."
Kendall's voice sounds far away.
He feels himself falling, he'll wake up, he's fallen out of bed before.
So he lets himself fall.
"Logan," someone hisses. Stabilizing hands.
James.
No, but the hands belong to Kendall.
"Kendall?" Logan asks again.
His head hurts.
Like—cotton balls and lead rods.
"Kendall?"
The girls are screaming louder. The lights are brighter.
He wants to wake up.
He wants to wake up.
"Kendall?"
He doesn't like this dream.
His head feels like cotton balls and lead rods.
He wants to wake up.
He wants to wake up.
"Kendall?"
This doesn't feel real, he wants to go home.
Stabilizing hands.
Kendall.
"Kendall?"
He hates this, he wants to go home, anywhere else, not here.
Not here.
His head feels like cotton balls and lead rods.
Not here.
His body feels numb.
Stabilizing hands.
He's crying.
He's crying.
Why can't he wake up?
He can't wake up.
He can't wake up.
He can't wake up.
"Kendall?"
—
"Kendall?"
Kendall freezes. He doesn't know what to do.
"I'm right here, Logan. Everything's okay."
But Logan can't hear him, he just keeps asking, keeps repeating.
"Kendall?"
"What is going on?" James whispers past him.
Kendall's hand twitched again. He doesn't know what to do, Logan's acting like a broken record. "I don't—I don't know, James."
"We have to pick," James reminds him, glancing between Logan and the screaming fans.
Who seems to be picking it up.
Quieting down.
"We need to get Logan backstage," Kendall decides.
There's this sick feeling in his chest.
James's eyes go wide. "We can't just stop the concert, are you insane? Gustavo will lose his mind. We'll be fired."
"Logan can't perform, are you blind?" he retorts.
Carlos looks on from his position on the stool. He's twisting his helmet strap, rebuckling it. It clicks right next to his mic.
The mic.
"We—we have to get Logan's mic off," Kendall says.
"Kendall—"
"James!"
James looks back behind him, at Carlos. Carlos stands up first.
They leave the stage.
The fans go silent.
The stage goes dark.
—
"Kendall?" Logan whispers.
"I'm right here," he reassures him absently.
This doesn't feel real. This is a dream.
Kendall lets the mantra cycle through his head as he delegates tasks: he's going to deal with Logan's jacket, James will untie Logan's tie, Carlos will get the mic.
This doesn't feel real. This is a dream.
"James, get Logan's tie off. Carlos, the mic."
They nod.
And it's quick, and it's slow.
"Head up, Logan," James mutters.
Logan doesn't move. James moves Logan's head back himself. He slips the tie over his head, off.
Carlos untapes the mic from Logan's face, staring. "Logan's not looking at anything."
"Why does that matter, Carlos?" Kendall asks, mostly sarcastic, entirely bitter, entirely exhausted.
This is a dream.
"No, look, Kendall," Carlos insists. "His eyes are moving weird."
"That doesn't matter," Kendall mutters, dismissing it.
This is a dream.
"Kendall?"
It's not Logan, broken-record player Logan. It's Katie.
"Hey, baby sister," he manages.
This is a dream.
"What's going on?"
He doesn't know.
This is a dream.
He's talking to Katie, but he's looking at Logan. Carlos is right, Logan isn't looking at anything.
"I don't know."
"Kendall?"
But that was broken record player Logan. Broken record player Logan never heard him.
"I'm right here, Logan."
He's a broken record too, now.
This is a dream.
And a nightmare.
Gustavo is fuming.
—
Griffin is calm. Blunt, as ever.
He breaks their world in two.
"Big Time Rush is hereby disbanded."
And then he leaves.
When he just broke their world in two.
Broken record.
Broken dream.
Broken world.
In two.
And now they have to pick up the pieces.
They're not Griffin's problem anymore.
Happy Easter everyone! Enjoy the angst.
Hey, Cece…
Did you figure it out?
Because I know I did a happy Cargan update earlier…
But I also did this…
And I hope, in the kindest way possible, that you cried!
This is your gift! I sincerely love this and I hope you love it too! Happy Easter!