Fic: Before You Know Where You Are (You're Saying Goodbye), 3/5
Title: Before You Know Where You Are (You’re Saying Goodbye)
Genre: Big Time Rush - Drama / Angst
Pairings: Logan/Kendall, small itty bitty Kendall/Jo and Logan/Camille
Details: Slash, showverse
Rating: MA/NC17
Warnings: Crossdressing, swearing, slash, homophobia, angst, not exactly HEA, smut, voyeurism, cheating (Kendall/Jo, Logan/Camille)
Status: WIP
Word Count: ~3100
Summary: As children grow to adulthood, their friendships change. Sometimes those friendships evolve, twist and shift into something foreign. What’s left can be messy, unable to be salvaged. Logan has a secret he’s kept to himself for as long as he can remember. Kendall finds out about it.
Author's Note: I just realized this almost all internalized. Not much dialogue. Huh. And I know I though this was going to be 3 parts, but today it seems like there will be four five. Five okay? I promise.
Logan doesn't know how to handle what's happening between him and Kendall. He feels like he's losing his best friend. The only looks they exchange are loaded with confusion, the only words forced and necessary. Does Kendall hate Logan for turning him away? Did he have time to think things over and decide Logan is some kind of twisted weirdo? The questions plague Logan to the point he feels nauseated when Kendall accidentally brushes against him, thoughtlessly touches his arm. Logan thinks and thinks and thinks until he is lightheaded, the only thing certain being the fact he is not gay, he does not want his friend to look at him in that lustful way ever again, he did not like the way Kendall's stiff length felt pressed so intimately against him.
Growing up, Kendall's dad wasn't around. Logan had insisted on sharing his own dad. Kendall would try to please Mr. Mitchell, but the most the man had ever treated Kendall with was tolerance. It made Logan furious. Kendall eventually gave up on caring what Logan's dad thought, but Logan couldn't forget the rude comments or mean-spirited glares.
Now, Logan wonders if his dad knew something he didn't. Now, he thinks back on his hero-worship of Kendall, the way he never stopped talking about the other boy, the way Kendall always wrapped an arm around Logan's shoulder - no matter who might be watching. Maybe Mr. Mitchell just resented the way Kendall was such a natural born leader and Logan simply wasn't. Maybe he just resented the way Kendall always seemed to lead Logan to trouble.
My son won't be a fag, Logan hears, the words repeated in his head, his father's voice, a mantra he can't seem to keep too far from his thoughts.
Days seem to pass as weeks and Logan opens his closet to find a small pink bag in the floor on top of his line of shoes. He picks it up, looks behind him and to the left and right to see if anyone is watching. Logan reaches into the bag and pulls out a notecard the same color as the bag. His eyebrows rise as he reads,
It seemed like you needed some of these. Just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you.
-K
~oOo~
Logan's finger hovers over the 'send' button on his phone for what seem like hours. He wishes he could stop thinking and just act, but that's what Kendall does. Erasing the message, he rewrites it for the twentieth time, runs a hand through his hair. He stares at the phone, the black letters burning into his eyes, the backlight going dark until he touches the phone to bring it back to life. His head pounds, and he's so close to changing his mind. This is something he doesn't want to want, tries not to want. He takes a deep breath, his nerves evident in the shakiness of it. Closing his eyes, he presses the button, his cheeks immediately flushing. For a moment, he panics and wishes there were a way to unsend a message. Somehow, he calms, pressing the phone against his lips: the closest thing to a kiss - he is determined - he will ever give to Kendall.
He goes into the bathroom and waits.
Kendall's phone plays out a notification, a song specifically for Logan. He retrieves the phone from his pocket in a rush, terrified and exhilarated at what the message might say. Both boys seem to have been balancing on a tightrope, meeting in the middle and finding it impossible to move any farther. He stops breathing as he opens his phone, the gadget seeming abnormally hot and heavy in his hand.
Do you want to see how they look? Come to our room, but don't let me know you're there, please. Ten minutes.
Scrambling to stand, Kendall ignores the ache he feels when he thinks of Logan's please, when he thinks of how embarrassed Logan is, so embarrassed he has to pretend Kendall isn't even there, but he still wants Kendall to see. Instead, Kendall tells his family and friends he's going to bed, tries to keep his feet from moving as rapidly as the pounding of his heart.
Walking into the room, Kendall doesn't like how dark it is, how the only light comes in through the window and under the crack of the bathroom door. He turns on his bedside lamp, filling a circle of space with soft, white light. He looks around, trying to decide how best to be out of the way. Opening his closet, he slips inside, feeling like even more of a creeper than he already did, especially since unmistakable lust is already tightening his groin.
God, what are they doing? What are they doing?
This seems more dangerous, somehow, more dangerous than when Kendall stumbled upon Logan wearing something not made for a boy, more dangerous than when Logan didn't know Kendall watched. Because now, Logan knows, and Logan must want this, maybe even wants this as much as Kendall does. The idea is frightening and foreign and Kendall finds himself wanting to know what other secrets Logan has, this boy who, until a few weeks ago, Kendall thought he knew everything about.
Kendall doesn't know how he feels about Logan anymore; he knows it's different from the way he felt years ago, maybe even a few hours ago, and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
The bathroom door creaks, and any other thoughts rush out of Kendall with an audible hiss. Logan is wearing the silk stockings Kendall got him, no shoes this time. Kendall's eyes go up and up and Logan is wearing a black garter belt, tiny red bows, red panties underneath. It's all stretched at the top by a bulge in Logan's underwear. Kendall closes his eyes, but only for a eighth of a fraction of a half a second, and when he opens them again he notices Logan's arms crossed over his chest, embarrassed. Kendall wants to tell him it's okay, wants to tell Logan he looks even better in those thigh-highs than Kendall could've ever dreamed, but Logan made it clear he didn't want Kendall to make his presence known. He puts his hands in his pockets, bites the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking.
Kendall wonders what's supposed to happen now, now that he's seen Logan in the gift Kendall got him, and it seems Logan wonders the same thing. Kendall watches as Logan's lips form a round O, and he hears as the other boy expels a long breath, lowering his arms. Logan nervously shifts his feet, and the sound of the stockings rustling sounds out in the quiet of the room.
Logan, as always, moves to stand in front of the mirror, and Kendall notices a pair of red heels stationed in the corner. Logan puts them on in two smooth, practiced movements, and Kendall is so glad he turned on the lamp because in the soft light, Logan seems to glow. Kendall can see the flex of Logan's calf muscles, the way his ass immediately becomes more rounded and all Kendall can think is touchtouchtouch.
Instead of touching Logan, he touches himself, hands still in his pockets. Kendall presses the heel of his hand against his erection, and he tastes blood where his teeth still bite into his cheek. And Logan just stands in front of the mirror, moving his hips from side to side, looking at himself from different angles. Kendall is sure the other boy has no clue how fucking gorgeous he looks, what he's doing to Kendall by simply standing there.
Logan is at a loss as to what he should do next, what should happen next, but it doesn't seem like enough anymore just to know Kendall watches. He barely looks over his shoulder, towards the closet in which he knows Kendall hides, and the look is enough encouragement so that Kendall speaks out.
"Go sit on the edge of your bed," Kendall whispers, and fear and disgust and overwhelming want make Logan freeze. "I won't come out, I promise," the voice from the closet adds. Logan nods, unsure if it's relief or disappointment he's feeling as he follows the command.
Logan sits with a cautious quiet, his hands trembling a ridiculous amount. He places his palms atop his knees, the soft, thin fabric beneath his fingers begging him to run his hands over his legs. So, he does, extending a leg and pointing his toe, the shoe falling from his heel and hanging from the opposite end of his foot. His fingertips start at his ankle, tracing upwards at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sensation not only on his hands, but on his smooth legs. The silk on him reminds him of moments he felt safe, wound in the fabric of his mother's iridescent curtains as a child, visible yet feeling hidden, the sun or moon gleaming through the picture window. For a few moments, Logan forgets about Kendall in the closet, until he remembers how Kendall sometimes hid with him, and those were the times he felt safest of all.
He remembers Kendall, probably older than a normal kid when they stopped doing such things, hiding behind the curtains, fingers splayed against the glass, smiling when the heat of his fingers fogged and made a handprint against the cold. Logan traced the tip of his finger around Kendall's, through the fog of the window, making Kendall's laughter burst forth. Kendall would look at Logan like he were the nicest thing, everything, making him feel like they were the only two people in the world, staring out on naked shimmering branches, the sun bouncing on hard packed snow. Logan would look at Kendall and pretend his friend was nothing more than a friend to him, that the light streaming through the window didn't make Kendall golden, didn't make a feeling akin to longing tug somewhere in Logan's heart, his stomach, anywhere and everywhere with any meaning.
"Stretch out," Kendall says, and his voice has gone low, something coloring the words Logan thinks he knows but doesn't recognize. Logan goes to his back, looks at the ceiling and places his hands on his bare stomach, the pounding of his heart visibly moving the flesh below his rib cage. Without being told, Logan arches his back, moves his hands, running them upwards across his ribs, fingertips barely passing over his nipples.
"Yes," the voice from the closet hisses. "Would you, um," a pause, a swallow, "um, touch yourself?"
Of course, Kendall doesn't mean for Logan to touch himself in the way he has been. Logan hadn't planned on this, doesn't know what he planned on, but not this. Now that he's here, though, on his back, Logan wonders why the thought was so far from his mind. He tries to work it out in his head, wishing he had some paper and a formula to work things out; with math, there's always a certain answer, and right now, he needs the answer to always, questionably, unwaveringly be that he is not gay.
Put on your clothes, Logan, his dad shouted. Those girly clothes aren't meant for you. Be a man. Four-year-old Logan didn't understand, couldn't understand, not really, but this Logan does.
He shakes his head, and he can almost hear the nod in Kendall's voice when he says, "That's okay."
Standing, Logan kicks the shoes all the way off, gathers them to his chest and goes to the bathroom, clicks the lock. When he comes back out, thoroughly dressed as a boy should be, Kendall is pretending to be asleep.
For the first time, whatever he feels about Kendall creeps its way into Logan's dreams, and he loses count of how many times Kendall fucks him into oblivion in his nightmares.
~oOo~
It only takes two days before Logan is texting Kendall again, asking him to come see, to watch him, even though he promised himself the first time was the only time. Kendall agrees and Logan lets him know he doesn't have to sit in the closet; he can sit on his own bed. This time, Logan does touch himself, grasping his cock and pumping something like an embarrassing five times before he comes harder than he ever has, comes so hard all he sees are sunbursts of yellow behind his eyelids and everything is blacked out but gold. He's pretty sure Kendall comes when he does, but he won't look over at him; the tiny grunts and moans he makes are more than enough to make Logan fantasize about Kendall making those sounds around his cock.
Logan freaks out, paces the bathroom after and pulls at his hair.
It doesn't stop him from texting Kendall again and again and again, Logan decreasing the font on his cell phone until the dirty things he requests are small and have less impact. Each night brings Kendall progressively closer until he winds up sitting right next to Logan on his bed, the heat of Kendall sinking through the flimsy clothes Logan wears, the sound of his breath in Logan's ear. Logan tries to stay sane, tries to play like he's not affected by Kendall next to him, miles and miles of skin just waiting, waiting.
Kendall leans in so close to Logan that the heat of his breath tickles the nape of his neck, pushes heat to his face, his chest and everywhere else. And, god, he wants to reach out and touch Kendall; it's something they've both done so casually in the past. A bump of a fist. A pat on the back. A hand resting on a shoulder when a secret is exchanged. But this.
This is more.
"Will you let me help you out of this?" Kendall asks. Logan-as many times as they've done this, as many hushed curses of release they've mumbled right next to each other-Logan has never been able to look Kendall in the eye. Maybe before or after but never right in the middle of whatever this is they're doing. But he looks at him now, a thin circle of jade in Kendall's eyes being swallowed by the low light and want and want and want. Logan has always thought the metaphor about eyes being windows to the soul is garbage, but he's starting to get it. Logan denies the pride he feels, the satisfaction that Kendall seems to need to find a way inside of him, around him, conquer every bit of him.
It doesn't matter. Logan isn't gay.
It's nothing. A big, enormous nothing that has come to mean everything.
Logan looks right in Kendall's eyes and wonders if he sees inside Logan too, if his own eyes are wide as a window at the first promise of Spring.
Letting another guy touch him wouldn't be gay, right? It's just this, just letting Kendall help him out of his clothes, like Kendall would if Logan had a broken arm or leg. So Logan nods to Kendall, short and brief, quick enough to be missed. Logan kind of hopes Kendall misses it.
He doesn't though, and Kendall reaches out with trembling fingers, Logan growing even harder realizing he's actually making Kendall nervous. So Kendall splays his hands on Logan's stomach to steady himself, pushing the thin material upwards with the movement of his fingers. Logan is panting, unable to catch anything, let alone his breath. He's dizzy and his heart is trying to pull him in a million different ways and he just wants Kendall to leave or maybe never take his hands away ever again.
Kendall only pushes the chemise up over Logan's nipples, never taking is off completely. He leans down and presses his open mouth against Logan's chest, as though he could swallow down the speed of Logan's heart. The contact does nothing but cause Logan to double his concentration, hands fisting the comforter below him, eyes trained on the ceiling, parted lips and panting breath. He's relieved Kendall doesn't ask permission to touch; it doesn't give Logan the chance to say no, leaves Logan an almost innocent bystander. Kendall doesn't ask when he loops his fingers through the edges of Logan's underwear, the tips of his fingers so close Logan almost bucks his hips, almost begs for Kendall to tug his weeping cock, wrap his lips around the crown, swallow, swallow, swallow.
"Are you okay?" Kendall asks, lips ghosting across Logan's nipples, his ribs, the rhythm of Logan's heart in his mouth, his head.
Logan doesn't answer because he doesn't know. But Kendall doesn't stop.
"You're so gorgeous, Logan," Kendall whispers. He moves down to Logan's hips, slides Logan's panties only just past his hips until the tip of Logan's dick is exposed, flushed red and rosy against black fabric. Kendall licks his lips, peppers kisses across Logan's hip bones to the staccato beat of his heart, one, two, three, one, two, three. "Do you have any idea? Do you know how…just how hot you are?" Then it's Kendall who is breathless, fingers twisting the lace and satin until it protests and rips and Kendall is very nearly embarrassed, but not quite.
Longing to bury his fingers in Kendall's hair, Logan puts them in his own instead, the heels of his hands covering his eyes. Before Logan can begin to formulate a protest, contradict Kendall's statement, his cock is enveloped by tight, moist heat.
"Fuck," Logan moans, because it feels good, so good his knees bend and his feet press into the bed, curling and clutching and looking for purchase to keep him grounded, remind him what's real.
He also moans because he's almost certain this is gay.
It's not gay to have your dick sucked, right? Logan thinks, excuses the action because there's no way in hell he can ask Kendall to stop. Kendall is all hands and tongue and teeth and lips, and Logan thrusts his hips once before stilling them. Kendall stops what he's doing.
"Stop thinking, Logan," Kendall says, tonguing a circle around Logan's naval, running hands across his inner thighs, reminding Logan of all the skin he has because he's aching in all the places Kendall doesn't touch him.
Logan looks down at Kendall, messy hair, red cheeks, lips wet and bright pink.
"Just stop," Kendall demands again, licking a line from the base of Logan's dick to the tip. Logan closes his eyes and nods and Kendall gets back to it, humming around Logan until he is gasping for air, mumbling, mewling like a kitten.
The feeling is nothing like he's ever known, steam in his groin, something building that goes higher than the clouds, throwing him to the sky as if by slingshot until he sees and feels the sun, and he's coming down Kendall's throat who tries his best to swallow it all.
Afterwards, Kendall looks at Logan the way he's always wanted Kendall to, a look reminiscent of those he would give Logan as they wrapped themselves in curtains, hid under tables, huddled under blanket forts. That look that means everything, like Logan is the perfect sunset or smooth warm up chords or green blades of grass pressing up through snow.
Kendall leans in to Logan's lips.
Logan turns his head.
Part Four
Genre: Big Time Rush - Drama / Angst
Pairings: Logan/Kendall, small itty bitty Kendall/Jo and Logan/Camille
Details: Slash, showverse
Rating: MA/NC17
Warnings: Crossdressing, swearing, slash, homophobia, angst, not exactly HEA, smut, voyeurism, cheating (Kendall/Jo, Logan/Camille)
Status: WIP
Word Count: ~3100
Summary: As children grow to adulthood, their friendships change. Sometimes those friendships evolve, twist and shift into something foreign. What’s left can be messy, unable to be salvaged. Logan has a secret he’s kept to himself for as long as he can remember. Kendall finds out about it.
Author's Note: I just realized this almost all internalized. Not much dialogue. Huh. And I know I though this was going to be 3 parts, but today it seems like there will be four five. Five okay? I promise.
Logan doesn't know how to handle what's happening between him and Kendall. He feels like he's losing his best friend. The only looks they exchange are loaded with confusion, the only words forced and necessary. Does Kendall hate Logan for turning him away? Did he have time to think things over and decide Logan is some kind of twisted weirdo? The questions plague Logan to the point he feels nauseated when Kendall accidentally brushes against him, thoughtlessly touches his arm. Logan thinks and thinks and thinks until he is lightheaded, the only thing certain being the fact he is not gay, he does not want his friend to look at him in that lustful way ever again, he did not like the way Kendall's stiff length felt pressed so intimately against him.
Growing up, Kendall's dad wasn't around. Logan had insisted on sharing his own dad. Kendall would try to please Mr. Mitchell, but the most the man had ever treated Kendall with was tolerance. It made Logan furious. Kendall eventually gave up on caring what Logan's dad thought, but Logan couldn't forget the rude comments or mean-spirited glares.
Now, Logan wonders if his dad knew something he didn't. Now, he thinks back on his hero-worship of Kendall, the way he never stopped talking about the other boy, the way Kendall always wrapped an arm around Logan's shoulder - no matter who might be watching. Maybe Mr. Mitchell just resented the way Kendall was such a natural born leader and Logan simply wasn't. Maybe he just resented the way Kendall always seemed to lead Logan to trouble.
My son won't be a fag, Logan hears, the words repeated in his head, his father's voice, a mantra he can't seem to keep too far from his thoughts.
Days seem to pass as weeks and Logan opens his closet to find a small pink bag in the floor on top of his line of shoes. He picks it up, looks behind him and to the left and right to see if anyone is watching. Logan reaches into the bag and pulls out a notecard the same color as the bag. His eyebrows rise as he reads,
It seemed like you needed some of these. Just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you.
-K
~oOo~
Logan's finger hovers over the 'send' button on his phone for what seem like hours. He wishes he could stop thinking and just act, but that's what Kendall does. Erasing the message, he rewrites it for the twentieth time, runs a hand through his hair. He stares at the phone, the black letters burning into his eyes, the backlight going dark until he touches the phone to bring it back to life. His head pounds, and he's so close to changing his mind. This is something he doesn't want to want, tries not to want. He takes a deep breath, his nerves evident in the shakiness of it. Closing his eyes, he presses the button, his cheeks immediately flushing. For a moment, he panics and wishes there were a way to unsend a message. Somehow, he calms, pressing the phone against his lips: the closest thing to a kiss - he is determined - he will ever give to Kendall.
He goes into the bathroom and waits.
Kendall's phone plays out a notification, a song specifically for Logan. He retrieves the phone from his pocket in a rush, terrified and exhilarated at what the message might say. Both boys seem to have been balancing on a tightrope, meeting in the middle and finding it impossible to move any farther. He stops breathing as he opens his phone, the gadget seeming abnormally hot and heavy in his hand.
Do you want to see how they look? Come to our room, but don't let me know you're there, please. Ten minutes.
Scrambling to stand, Kendall ignores the ache he feels when he thinks of Logan's please, when he thinks of how embarrassed Logan is, so embarrassed he has to pretend Kendall isn't even there, but he still wants Kendall to see. Instead, Kendall tells his family and friends he's going to bed, tries to keep his feet from moving as rapidly as the pounding of his heart.
Walking into the room, Kendall doesn't like how dark it is, how the only light comes in through the window and under the crack of the bathroom door. He turns on his bedside lamp, filling a circle of space with soft, white light. He looks around, trying to decide how best to be out of the way. Opening his closet, he slips inside, feeling like even more of a creeper than he already did, especially since unmistakable lust is already tightening his groin.
God, what are they doing? What are they doing?
This seems more dangerous, somehow, more dangerous than when Kendall stumbled upon Logan wearing something not made for a boy, more dangerous than when Logan didn't know Kendall watched. Because now, Logan knows, and Logan must want this, maybe even wants this as much as Kendall does. The idea is frightening and foreign and Kendall finds himself wanting to know what other secrets Logan has, this boy who, until a few weeks ago, Kendall thought he knew everything about.
Kendall doesn't know how he feels about Logan anymore; he knows it's different from the way he felt years ago, maybe even a few hours ago, and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
The bathroom door creaks, and any other thoughts rush out of Kendall with an audible hiss. Logan is wearing the silk stockings Kendall got him, no shoes this time. Kendall's eyes go up and up and Logan is wearing a black garter belt, tiny red bows, red panties underneath. It's all stretched at the top by a bulge in Logan's underwear. Kendall closes his eyes, but only for a eighth of a fraction of a half a second, and when he opens them again he notices Logan's arms crossed over his chest, embarrassed. Kendall wants to tell him it's okay, wants to tell Logan he looks even better in those thigh-highs than Kendall could've ever dreamed, but Logan made it clear he didn't want Kendall to make his presence known. He puts his hands in his pockets, bites the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking.
Kendall wonders what's supposed to happen now, now that he's seen Logan in the gift Kendall got him, and it seems Logan wonders the same thing. Kendall watches as Logan's lips form a round O, and he hears as the other boy expels a long breath, lowering his arms. Logan nervously shifts his feet, and the sound of the stockings rustling sounds out in the quiet of the room.
Logan, as always, moves to stand in front of the mirror, and Kendall notices a pair of red heels stationed in the corner. Logan puts them on in two smooth, practiced movements, and Kendall is so glad he turned on the lamp because in the soft light, Logan seems to glow. Kendall can see the flex of Logan's calf muscles, the way his ass immediately becomes more rounded and all Kendall can think is touchtouchtouch.
Instead of touching Logan, he touches himself, hands still in his pockets. Kendall presses the heel of his hand against his erection, and he tastes blood where his teeth still bite into his cheek. And Logan just stands in front of the mirror, moving his hips from side to side, looking at himself from different angles. Kendall is sure the other boy has no clue how fucking gorgeous he looks, what he's doing to Kendall by simply standing there.
Logan is at a loss as to what he should do next, what should happen next, but it doesn't seem like enough anymore just to know Kendall watches. He barely looks over his shoulder, towards the closet in which he knows Kendall hides, and the look is enough encouragement so that Kendall speaks out.
"Go sit on the edge of your bed," Kendall whispers, and fear and disgust and overwhelming want make Logan freeze. "I won't come out, I promise," the voice from the closet adds. Logan nods, unsure if it's relief or disappointment he's feeling as he follows the command.
Logan sits with a cautious quiet, his hands trembling a ridiculous amount. He places his palms atop his knees, the soft, thin fabric beneath his fingers begging him to run his hands over his legs. So, he does, extending a leg and pointing his toe, the shoe falling from his heel and hanging from the opposite end of his foot. His fingertips start at his ankle, tracing upwards at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sensation not only on his hands, but on his smooth legs. The silk on him reminds him of moments he felt safe, wound in the fabric of his mother's iridescent curtains as a child, visible yet feeling hidden, the sun or moon gleaming through the picture window. For a few moments, Logan forgets about Kendall in the closet, until he remembers how Kendall sometimes hid with him, and those were the times he felt safest of all.
He remembers Kendall, probably older than a normal kid when they stopped doing such things, hiding behind the curtains, fingers splayed against the glass, smiling when the heat of his fingers fogged and made a handprint against the cold. Logan traced the tip of his finger around Kendall's, through the fog of the window, making Kendall's laughter burst forth. Kendall would look at Logan like he were the nicest thing, everything, making him feel like they were the only two people in the world, staring out on naked shimmering branches, the sun bouncing on hard packed snow. Logan would look at Kendall and pretend his friend was nothing more than a friend to him, that the light streaming through the window didn't make Kendall golden, didn't make a feeling akin to longing tug somewhere in Logan's heart, his stomach, anywhere and everywhere with any meaning.
"Stretch out," Kendall says, and his voice has gone low, something coloring the words Logan thinks he knows but doesn't recognize. Logan goes to his back, looks at the ceiling and places his hands on his bare stomach, the pounding of his heart visibly moving the flesh below his rib cage. Without being told, Logan arches his back, moves his hands, running them upwards across his ribs, fingertips barely passing over his nipples.
"Yes," the voice from the closet hisses. "Would you, um," a pause, a swallow, "um, touch yourself?"
Of course, Kendall doesn't mean for Logan to touch himself in the way he has been. Logan hadn't planned on this, doesn't know what he planned on, but not this. Now that he's here, though, on his back, Logan wonders why the thought was so far from his mind. He tries to work it out in his head, wishing he had some paper and a formula to work things out; with math, there's always a certain answer, and right now, he needs the answer to always, questionably, unwaveringly be that he is not gay.
Put on your clothes, Logan, his dad shouted. Those girly clothes aren't meant for you. Be a man. Four-year-old Logan didn't understand, couldn't understand, not really, but this Logan does.
He shakes his head, and he can almost hear the nod in Kendall's voice when he says, "That's okay."
Standing, Logan kicks the shoes all the way off, gathers them to his chest and goes to the bathroom, clicks the lock. When he comes back out, thoroughly dressed as a boy should be, Kendall is pretending to be asleep.
For the first time, whatever he feels about Kendall creeps its way into Logan's dreams, and he loses count of how many times Kendall fucks him into oblivion in his nightmares.
~oOo~
It only takes two days before Logan is texting Kendall again, asking him to come see, to watch him, even though he promised himself the first time was the only time. Kendall agrees and Logan lets him know he doesn't have to sit in the closet; he can sit on his own bed. This time, Logan does touch himself, grasping his cock and pumping something like an embarrassing five times before he comes harder than he ever has, comes so hard all he sees are sunbursts of yellow behind his eyelids and everything is blacked out but gold. He's pretty sure Kendall comes when he does, but he won't look over at him; the tiny grunts and moans he makes are more than enough to make Logan fantasize about Kendall making those sounds around his cock.
Logan freaks out, paces the bathroom after and pulls at his hair.
It doesn't stop him from texting Kendall again and again and again, Logan decreasing the font on his cell phone until the dirty things he requests are small and have less impact. Each night brings Kendall progressively closer until he winds up sitting right next to Logan on his bed, the heat of Kendall sinking through the flimsy clothes Logan wears, the sound of his breath in Logan's ear. Logan tries to stay sane, tries to play like he's not affected by Kendall next to him, miles and miles of skin just waiting, waiting.
Kendall leans in so close to Logan that the heat of his breath tickles the nape of his neck, pushes heat to his face, his chest and everywhere else. And, god, he wants to reach out and touch Kendall; it's something they've both done so casually in the past. A bump of a fist. A pat on the back. A hand resting on a shoulder when a secret is exchanged. But this.
This is more.
"Will you let me help you out of this?" Kendall asks. Logan-as many times as they've done this, as many hushed curses of release they've mumbled right next to each other-Logan has never been able to look Kendall in the eye. Maybe before or after but never right in the middle of whatever this is they're doing. But he looks at him now, a thin circle of jade in Kendall's eyes being swallowed by the low light and want and want and want. Logan has always thought the metaphor about eyes being windows to the soul is garbage, but he's starting to get it. Logan denies the pride he feels, the satisfaction that Kendall seems to need to find a way inside of him, around him, conquer every bit of him.
It doesn't matter. Logan isn't gay.
It's nothing. A big, enormous nothing that has come to mean everything.
Logan looks right in Kendall's eyes and wonders if he sees inside Logan too, if his own eyes are wide as a window at the first promise of Spring.
Letting another guy touch him wouldn't be gay, right? It's just this, just letting Kendall help him out of his clothes, like Kendall would if Logan had a broken arm or leg. So Logan nods to Kendall, short and brief, quick enough to be missed. Logan kind of hopes Kendall misses it.
He doesn't though, and Kendall reaches out with trembling fingers, Logan growing even harder realizing he's actually making Kendall nervous. So Kendall splays his hands on Logan's stomach to steady himself, pushing the thin material upwards with the movement of his fingers. Logan is panting, unable to catch anything, let alone his breath. He's dizzy and his heart is trying to pull him in a million different ways and he just wants Kendall to leave or maybe never take his hands away ever again.
Kendall only pushes the chemise up over Logan's nipples, never taking is off completely. He leans down and presses his open mouth against Logan's chest, as though he could swallow down the speed of Logan's heart. The contact does nothing but cause Logan to double his concentration, hands fisting the comforter below him, eyes trained on the ceiling, parted lips and panting breath. He's relieved Kendall doesn't ask permission to touch; it doesn't give Logan the chance to say no, leaves Logan an almost innocent bystander. Kendall doesn't ask when he loops his fingers through the edges of Logan's underwear, the tips of his fingers so close Logan almost bucks his hips, almost begs for Kendall to tug his weeping cock, wrap his lips around the crown, swallow, swallow, swallow.
"Are you okay?" Kendall asks, lips ghosting across Logan's nipples, his ribs, the rhythm of Logan's heart in his mouth, his head.
Logan doesn't answer because he doesn't know. But Kendall doesn't stop.
"You're so gorgeous, Logan," Kendall whispers. He moves down to Logan's hips, slides Logan's panties only just past his hips until the tip of Logan's dick is exposed, flushed red and rosy against black fabric. Kendall licks his lips, peppers kisses across Logan's hip bones to the staccato beat of his heart, one, two, three, one, two, three. "Do you have any idea? Do you know how…just how hot you are?" Then it's Kendall who is breathless, fingers twisting the lace and satin until it protests and rips and Kendall is very nearly embarrassed, but not quite.
Longing to bury his fingers in Kendall's hair, Logan puts them in his own instead, the heels of his hands covering his eyes. Before Logan can begin to formulate a protest, contradict Kendall's statement, his cock is enveloped by tight, moist heat.
"Fuck," Logan moans, because it feels good, so good his knees bend and his feet press into the bed, curling and clutching and looking for purchase to keep him grounded, remind him what's real.
He also moans because he's almost certain this is gay.
It's not gay to have your dick sucked, right? Logan thinks, excuses the action because there's no way in hell he can ask Kendall to stop. Kendall is all hands and tongue and teeth and lips, and Logan thrusts his hips once before stilling them. Kendall stops what he's doing.
"Stop thinking, Logan," Kendall says, tonguing a circle around Logan's naval, running hands across his inner thighs, reminding Logan of all the skin he has because he's aching in all the places Kendall doesn't touch him.
Logan looks down at Kendall, messy hair, red cheeks, lips wet and bright pink.
"Just stop," Kendall demands again, licking a line from the base of Logan's dick to the tip. Logan closes his eyes and nods and Kendall gets back to it, humming around Logan until he is gasping for air, mumbling, mewling like a kitten.
The feeling is nothing like he's ever known, steam in his groin, something building that goes higher than the clouds, throwing him to the sky as if by slingshot until he sees and feels the sun, and he's coming down Kendall's throat who tries his best to swallow it all.
Afterwards, Kendall looks at Logan the way he's always wanted Kendall to, a look reminiscent of those he would give Logan as they wrapped themselves in curtains, hid under tables, huddled under blanket forts. That look that means everything, like Logan is the perfect sunset or smooth warm up chords or green blades of grass pressing up through snow.
Kendall leans in to Logan's lips.
Logan turns his head.
Part Four