Fic: The Realm of You, 12/?
Title: The Realm of You
Part: 12/?
Genre: Big Time Rush - Drama / Angst
Pairings: Logan/Kendall, Kendall/Jo
Details: AU, Slash
Rating: MA/NC17
Warnings: Dark themes, sexual content
Post Word Count: 1,103
Status: WIP
Summary: From friendship, to love, to something else entirely. When secrets are all they have, what is left when their lives become an open book? "I have no life but this."
Masterlist
She’ll come back, Logan thinks. It’s impossible to abandon Kendall fucking Knight.
The silence stretches so long, he can hear the faucet steadily dripping, plop, plop, plop into the tub of water in the bathroom. He stares at the door for ages, memorizes the pattern of wood grain on its lacquered surface until he’s sure he could draw it easily. Logan moves toward the door, gingerly places his ear against it. There is a slight shuffling, a hampered cough. He knocks, knuckles rapping featherlight as though posing a question.
The shuffling stops. Slowly, it starts again, coming Logan’s way. There’s a turn of a lock and the footsteps retreat, the sound of a porcelain lid being lifted, a sigh.
Logan turns the knob, the click echoing and hanging in the air, trepidation rising in Logan’s chest. He opens the door and steps in the bathroom, the humidity so thick he has difficulty breathing. He looks around the cavernous space until he sees Kendall, his cheek pressed against the toilet seat, his arms wrapped around the bowl. Logan tries not to openly weep or gasp or scream when he registers Kendall’s appearance. There is a towel around his waist, his naked back so frail he could fall apart, the column of his spine like the rungs of a ladder, each vertebrate visible. Ribs, ribs, ribs, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Logan rubs his hands across his face, counts his breaths along with Kendall’s bones.
He can’t get mad. Not when Kendall might chase him off. There’s no doubt in Logan’s mind Kendall won’t be surviving this much longer, not on his own.
Going to stand over Kendall, Logan waits to be acknowledged. Kendall finally lifts his head, his eyes half closed, a sweet, open smile blossoming on his mouth.
Logan thinks Kendall has no fucking right to look at him like that, not anymore, like Logan hung the goddamn moon and could blow out the stars like candles on a cake.
But Logan cannot deny the effect it has on him, the tug older than time in his chest, the stirring push and pull and pull and push on everything he is. Despite the sunken cheeks. Despite the vacant look in Kendall’s eyes.
“Hey, Logie,” Kendall slurs. “How are you?” He laughs, coughs, then puts his face over the bowl, gags.
“I’ve been better.” Logan moves to the sink, soaks a washcloth with cold water. He goes back to Kendall and puts the cool rag on his neck, squats down next to him. “You?”
“I think I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe I took too much medicine,” Kendall offers between bouts of heaves and coughs.
“Medicine?”
Kendall gestures over his shoulder to the bathtub. Logan glances over and sees a smattering of blue pills on the ledge. He bites into his lower lip to keep from snapping, to keep a clear head. Logan starts to help Kendall up, the taller man too weak and too feeble to protest.
“Where are we going, LogiePogieMoMogie? My knees hurt.” Kendall groans at the jostling and Logan settles an arm over his shoulder. “My hips hurt too. And my throat.”
Logan swallows down the sick rising in his own throat, his heart squeezed as though wrapped in a hangman’s noose. All Logan’s brains, his wit, his constant studying and he has no clue how to begin fixing this, fixing Kendall. His own words seem to echo in his head, It’s not up to you to make him better. But that’s not true, is it? Hasn’t it always been his self-proclaimed mission to see Kendall content? After all, Kendall’s happiness is directly linked to Logan’s, always has been, whether he likes it or not.
“I’m going to make you breakfast,” Logan replies.
“Is it morning already?” Kendall glances around, looking for a window, too far gone to realize there aren’t any in the bathroom.
“Close enough.”
Logan hefts Kendall to the kitchen, and it’s slow going, Kendall’s muscles (or lack thereof) protesting with each step.
“Feeling a little stiff, Buddy?” Logan tries to joke.
“Only for you,” Kendall returns, a high-pitched giggle bubbling out. Logan knows Kendall isn’t in his right head, and he’s disgusted with himself when that familiar yearning tightens his stomach.
“How much have you had? Pills I mean.”
“Who counts that sort of thing?”
“Most normal people,” Logan mumbles. Kendall laughs again.
Once in the kitchen, Logan makes Kendall fried eggs, brings him a cup of orange juice. He puts the plate in front of Kendall and for the first time since Logan’s arrival, Kendall is quiet, contemplative. Suddenly, he looks as though he might cry. Logan sits across from him at the table.
“What is it?” Logan reaches across the table, unable to keep his hands to himself, takes Kendall’s thin fingers in his.
“You always did know how I liked my eggs.” Kendall gives Logan a half-smile, the green of his iris glowing against the red lines in his eyes. It’s like he’s reading something in Logan, staring into his thoughts, his heart, his very soul. “Remember how you used to make my breakfast smile?”
Now, Logan laughs, a quiet, breathy thing, a memory of a fondness of a moment long gone. “How could I forget?”
Kendall breaks the gaze and looks at his plate again. “You know, I’m not really hungry,” Kendall whispers, the words so quiet Logan strains to hear them.
“I know you’re not, but you still need to eat.” Logan pushes the plate closer to Kendall. “Please? For me?”
The memories in the air are so tangible, the men breathe them in. Logan urges Kendall to eat as though their precious moments are solid enough to be made into sustenance, and they could provide Kendall the nourishment he needs.
Kendall nods and begins to nibble and graze, looks of disgust marring his features. Logan sighs in relief when he eats about half the plate before putting down his fork.
“I’m sorry,” Kendall says, and Logan is confused for a moment until realization dawns.
“Please don’t, Kendall.” Before Logan knows it, he finds himself crying, hot angrysadbroken tears burning trails down his face. “Just keep it in, okay? You can be okay again. I promise. I promise, Kendall. Please.”
“I’m so sorry, Logan.” And Logan believes Kendall, actually, even as he gets up from the table and bolts for the bathroom, moving faster than Logan would have believed.
Logan gives himself a moment to grieve, shrugs aside the feeling of betrayal. He removes the phone from his pocket and makes a call.
Part 11 Part 13
Part: 12/?
Genre: Big Time Rush - Drama / Angst
Pairings: Logan/Kendall, Kendall/Jo
Details: AU, Slash
Rating: MA/NC17
Warnings: Dark themes, sexual content
Post Word Count: 1,103
Status: WIP
Summary: From friendship, to love, to something else entirely. When secrets are all they have, what is left when their lives become an open book? "I have no life but this."
Masterlist
She’ll come back, Logan thinks. It’s impossible to abandon Kendall fucking Knight.
The silence stretches so long, he can hear the faucet steadily dripping, plop, plop, plop into the tub of water in the bathroom. He stares at the door for ages, memorizes the pattern of wood grain on its lacquered surface until he’s sure he could draw it easily. Logan moves toward the door, gingerly places his ear against it. There is a slight shuffling, a hampered cough. He knocks, knuckles rapping featherlight as though posing a question.
The shuffling stops. Slowly, it starts again, coming Logan’s way. There’s a turn of a lock and the footsteps retreat, the sound of a porcelain lid being lifted, a sigh.
Logan turns the knob, the click echoing and hanging in the air, trepidation rising in Logan’s chest. He opens the door and steps in the bathroom, the humidity so thick he has difficulty breathing. He looks around the cavernous space until he sees Kendall, his cheek pressed against the toilet seat, his arms wrapped around the bowl. Logan tries not to openly weep or gasp or scream when he registers Kendall’s appearance. There is a towel around his waist, his naked back so frail he could fall apart, the column of his spine like the rungs of a ladder, each vertebrate visible. Ribs, ribs, ribs, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Logan rubs his hands across his face, counts his breaths along with Kendall’s bones.
He can’t get mad. Not when Kendall might chase him off. There’s no doubt in Logan’s mind Kendall won’t be surviving this much longer, not on his own.
Going to stand over Kendall, Logan waits to be acknowledged. Kendall finally lifts his head, his eyes half closed, a sweet, open smile blossoming on his mouth.
Logan thinks Kendall has no fucking right to look at him like that, not anymore, like Logan hung the goddamn moon and could blow out the stars like candles on a cake.
But Logan cannot deny the effect it has on him, the tug older than time in his chest, the stirring push and pull and pull and push on everything he is. Despite the sunken cheeks. Despite the vacant look in Kendall’s eyes.
“Hey, Logie,” Kendall slurs. “How are you?” He laughs, coughs, then puts his face over the bowl, gags.
“I’ve been better.” Logan moves to the sink, soaks a washcloth with cold water. He goes back to Kendall and puts the cool rag on his neck, squats down next to him. “You?”
“I think I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe I took too much medicine,” Kendall offers between bouts of heaves and coughs.
“Medicine?”
Kendall gestures over his shoulder to the bathtub. Logan glances over and sees a smattering of blue pills on the ledge. He bites into his lower lip to keep from snapping, to keep a clear head. Logan starts to help Kendall up, the taller man too weak and too feeble to protest.
“Where are we going, LogiePogieMoMogie? My knees hurt.” Kendall groans at the jostling and Logan settles an arm over his shoulder. “My hips hurt too. And my throat.”
Logan swallows down the sick rising in his own throat, his heart squeezed as though wrapped in a hangman’s noose. All Logan’s brains, his wit, his constant studying and he has no clue how to begin fixing this, fixing Kendall. His own words seem to echo in his head, It’s not up to you to make him better. But that’s not true, is it? Hasn’t it always been his self-proclaimed mission to see Kendall content? After all, Kendall’s happiness is directly linked to Logan’s, always has been, whether he likes it or not.
“I’m going to make you breakfast,” Logan replies.
“Is it morning already?” Kendall glances around, looking for a window, too far gone to realize there aren’t any in the bathroom.
“Close enough.”
Logan hefts Kendall to the kitchen, and it’s slow going, Kendall’s muscles (or lack thereof) protesting with each step.
“Feeling a little stiff, Buddy?” Logan tries to joke.
“Only for you,” Kendall returns, a high-pitched giggle bubbling out. Logan knows Kendall isn’t in his right head, and he’s disgusted with himself when that familiar yearning tightens his stomach.
“How much have you had? Pills I mean.”
“Who counts that sort of thing?”
“Most normal people,” Logan mumbles. Kendall laughs again.
Once in the kitchen, Logan makes Kendall fried eggs, brings him a cup of orange juice. He puts the plate in front of Kendall and for the first time since Logan’s arrival, Kendall is quiet, contemplative. Suddenly, he looks as though he might cry. Logan sits across from him at the table.
“What is it?” Logan reaches across the table, unable to keep his hands to himself, takes Kendall’s thin fingers in his.
“You always did know how I liked my eggs.” Kendall gives Logan a half-smile, the green of his iris glowing against the red lines in his eyes. It’s like he’s reading something in Logan, staring into his thoughts, his heart, his very soul. “Remember how you used to make my breakfast smile?”
Now, Logan laughs, a quiet, breathy thing, a memory of a fondness of a moment long gone. “How could I forget?”
Kendall breaks the gaze and looks at his plate again. “You know, I’m not really hungry,” Kendall whispers, the words so quiet Logan strains to hear them.
“I know you’re not, but you still need to eat.” Logan pushes the plate closer to Kendall. “Please? For me?”
The memories in the air are so tangible, the men breathe them in. Logan urges Kendall to eat as though their precious moments are solid enough to be made into sustenance, and they could provide Kendall the nourishment he needs.
Kendall nods and begins to nibble and graze, looks of disgust marring his features. Logan sighs in relief when he eats about half the plate before putting down his fork.
“I’m sorry,” Kendall says, and Logan is confused for a moment until realization dawns.
“Please don’t, Kendall.” Before Logan knows it, he finds himself crying, hot angrysadbroken tears burning trails down his face. “Just keep it in, okay? You can be okay again. I promise. I promise, Kendall. Please.”
“I’m so sorry, Logan.” And Logan believes Kendall, actually, even as he gets up from the table and bolts for the bathroom, moving faster than Logan would have believed.
Logan gives himself a moment to grieve, shrugs aside the feeling of betrayal. He removes the phone from his pocket and makes a call.
Part 11 Part 13