Fic: When the Music Stops, Part 3/?
Title: When the Music Stops
Genre: Big Time Rush - Drama / Romance
Pairings: Logan/Kendall
Details: Slash, AU
Rating: MA/NC17
Warnings: Adult situations (i.e. smut) at some point, mild angst, swearing
Status: WIP
Word Count: ~3400
Summary: An accident keeps Logan and his parents from moving to Minnesota. When Kendall and Logan meet years later, Kendall hears clear as a bell. Logan doesn't. "Sitting on a speaker instead of a drummer's throne, Logan turns up the bass, pounding out any bitterness he had let fester in his heart. He won't leave himself to rot, not anymore."
Masterlist
Logan loves his parents. He really does. But they have the tendency to coddle him beyond normal means. For example, family vacations were spent at the shared family lake house, year in and out, without variance. They feared going anywhere different, a change from monotony, would upset the delicate balance of their son's emotional health. Mom and Dad walked on eggshells around Logan long after he brought himself out of his funk, but Logan could never blame them for it. He knows that dark place he was in better than anyone. They only underestimated Logan's desire to stay out of it.
So when he gets to L.A., after he's settled into his dorm, the first thing he does is visit the beach. He's never seen palm trees or felt the cool tickle of salt water rolling up between his toes.
The sand is much harder to tread than he'd imagined, the tiny bits of beaten glass flinging far in front of him as he walks. He finds he likes the wet sand better than the dry; it's cool and less grainy. The first time he lets the surf wash over his feet, he jumps in surprise because the water is freezing. He hadn't expected it, although he thinks he should've considering how much more temperate California is compared to home.
He takes hissing breaths between his teeth until he adjusts to the temperature, venturing into the water just below his knees. He laughs and smiles to himself, aims his gaze at the horizon. The sun is warm on his face, and he closes his eyes, imagining the cry of the gulls like a tambourine, the crash of the waves like a cymbal. Logan feels the sound, the wind rushing past his ears.
This is the place he's just a normal guy. Not smart for a deaf guy, not a good percussionist for a deaf guy. This is the place he'll just be who he is. No one will gaze upon him with pity. No one will coddle him.
This is the place he'll be free.
-L-
Logan's first few weeks at UCLA go off without a hitch. He doesn't have to worry about annoying roommates. Because of the concessions the university makes for him, he has his own room. He has a buzzer on the door that flashes the lights to alert him someone is there, the same for the landline phone, although he doesn't use that much. Each of his classes has a stenographer attend whose purpose it is to type the lecture, the words transmitted to the screen of Logan's laptop. The university had given Logan the choice between the stenographer and a sign language interpreter. Logan chose the stenographer because the other students are none the wiser. The stenographer could just be another student typing notes along with the lecture.
He's loading up his backpack at the end of his English Comp class when he feels a tap on his arm. He turns around to see a girl with curly brown hair smiling at him. She shrugs her shoulders.
"Sorry," Logan says. "Did you say something?"
"No," she replies, shaking her head. Logan's eyebrows pull together, but he can't help but return the girl's bright smile.
"Did you need something?"
"Can you hear anything or is it completely gone?" she asks.
"Excuse me?" Logan returns, looking around to see if anyone is within ear shot. He's been so careful, and he feels momentary panic bubble up in his throat and takes a big swallow, trying to remain calm.
"Don't worry," she says, "I'm not speaking out loud." She signs, Do you know sign language?
He grabs her hands and stills them, eyes darting around frantically as he gives the professor a nervous glance.
"I hear some things," he mouths. "Very, very loud things, buzzing, humming, pounding."
The girl smiles and squeezes Logan's hands where he still holds hers. It reminds him he still clings to her and lets go quickly. "Sorry," he says, although he's not sure why he's apologizing.
"It's okay."
"How did you know?" he asks.
"Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?" She finishes with her hands, Maybe sign? I could use the practice.
"Okay," Logan says, "but can you stop that? I, uh, don't want other students to know."
She nods, still smiling, and Logan silently leads her across campus and back to his dorm. She sits at his desk, seems to take in his room slowly, as though she's trying to memorize the walls.
How much time do you have? Logan signs, speaking the words also.
Plenty, she replies. I'm Camille.
Hi, Camille. I'm Logan. Despite his trepidations, Logan loves to speak with his hands, and it's almost a relief to be understood. Now, how did you know?
Camille grins, lips pulling back and showing two perfect rows of white teeth. She's beautiful, Logan gives her that, and she seems polite if not a bit eager. I sit behind you and I saw the lecture on your screen.
Fair enough, nosy, Logan signs, laughing. He knows most people wouldn't recognize the lecture on his screen for what it was, so he asks, Why do you know how to sign?
My mom had a best friend who was born without hearing. She taught me to sign as I learned to speak. I don't remember a time when I didn't know how to sign, but I don't get to use it often.
Logan has always thought signing would be best learned as a child grows. If only everyone knew sign language, there would never be any miscommunication. It's the onlyuniversal language, inflection interpreted with facial expressions. It wasn't as easy for me.
You weren't born this way. Camille doesn't formulate her response as a question.
No. You're very perceptive, Logan compliments, reaching out to pat Camille's arm, realizing human contact is something he's denied himself a very long time. It's not something he's ever missed, not really, not until he clutched her hands in the lecture hall.
It's not like it's hard to tell. You speak very clearly.
Thank you. Logan finally smiles in full, returning her split mouth grin.
Oh, you're cute. Camille pokes one of Logan's dimples. Can I ask what happened?
Logan's face falls and he sighs. Sure. There are several moments of silence as Camille stares at him expectantly. Are you going to ask?
Camille laughs out loud and Logan wishes he knew what it sounded like. You're a comedian, too? She playfully shoves his shoulder. What happened?
Logan is wary of sharing so much of himself; he's never been one who easily makes friends, even before the accident. He's found it's safer that way. The less information someone has on him the less they have to use against him. But something about Camille seems simple and caring, and she's already recognized Logan for who he is and is far from judging him for it. So he decides to share his story with her, if only for the chance to vent, to let someone else understand the quiet in his head.
Logan's hands tell the story for ages, and Camille doesn't interrupt. He tells her about the accident, the way he behaved afterwards, finding percussion and finding purpose again. He tells her how he doesn't want people to know because he doesn't want people to judge him for his disability, but rather for his abilities.
She nods and promises to keep it between them.
In turn, she tells him of her dream of acting, how she'd tried for years to break into it, how she hasn't given up on it but wants to have education so she can put she's a "trained actress" on her resume.
Her lack of hesitance has Logan feeling comfortable, but nothing is this easy, he reminds himself. Suddenly, he stops signing mid-sentence.
"I have to get to class," he says.
"Oh," Camille says, letting her hands fall into her lap. She looks at him in a way all too knowing. "I understand."
-K-
"Hey, James, did you find a job yet?" Kendall asks, attempting to feign an annoyed expression and failing.
"Uh, no," James says, producing a mirror out of thin air and smoothing fingers through his hair. "I had my bi-weekly cuticle treatment today, dude."
Kendall snorts, but it's fond. "Do you really plan on your mom, Carlos and me providing for you until the end of eternity? Because that shit gets old."
James looks at him around the edge of the mirror. "When will you realize providing for me is an investment? Just wait until my good looks get us a record deal."
"Silly me," Kendall says, "thinking talent has anything to do with anything in the music business."
"Yes," James is all seriousness, "silly you."
The move to L.A. wasn't a difficult decision, but finding the means certainly was. James begged his mom for months leading up to their high school graduation, and Kendall and Carlos spent most of the summer convincing their own parents.
There were many objections: You've lost your drummer and What about college? and Where will you live? Kendall, being the know-it-all he is, came up with answers to all of these: We'll find one easily in California; there are kids everywhere who want to be in a band and Just give us a year, maybe eighteen months, and if we're not making progress we'll go to school and James' mom said she'd pay our way until we can make it on our own.
At first, it was all about making James' dream come true. Kendall, James and Carlos really, truly sounded terrible the first time they played together, and Carlos's cousin George was reluctant and shy when it came to giving them rhythm. But the first time - after countless hours of practice and pushing and vigilance - they actually made music, Kendall understood the band had become his dream, as well. Nothing compared to the feeling of the guitar in his hands, the sound of Carlos slapping the bass, Kendall's voice providing accompaniment to James', the drums pounding and leading them all. When it finally came together, Kendall had a hard time imagining a time when it hadn't. It's like things flew from there, like their voices and instruments meshed together in some kind of constellation, fit to be gazed upon by the dreamiest fangirl ever created.
It had to be fate.
Until George quit. That pretty much sucked.
But it was okay, because George wasn't part of the dream anyway, never really had been. It's been about Kendall and James and Carlos from the start. So they practice with manufactured beats or just go it acoustic until a drummer can be found.
They got kicked out of the first place they moved to in L.A., The Palmwoods, because they made too much noise. But that was okay, because they really needed to live somewhere there were no shared walls. The Palmwoods was a stupid idea anyway. Kendall blamed James, and maybe they fought about it a little, but that was okay too, because they made up when they found the perfect place that hadn't been available the month before.
It's this house with a basement (okay, maybe not so much a basement as a large food pantry), and there's just enough room for their instruments (including the drum kit abandoned by George when he unceremoniously threw down his sticks declaring his hatred for all three guys). The place might be awesomely tiny (one bedroom), but it's enough, and it has its own four walls, a refrigerator and a kitchen table. Who cares when they'll be famous soon anyway?
"Did you at least get any of the flyers put out?"
"Yeah, I put them at college thingies," James replies, his gaze going back to the mirror as he preens.
"College thingies?"
"That's what I said."
"Do you mean, like, dining halls, bars, dorms or - "
"That second d you said. Until campus police asked me to leave."
"James, what did you do?"
"Nothing." James finally puts away the mirror. "I just drew a lot of attention with all the ladies surrounding me." He winks at Kendall and flashes a trademark Diamond smile. Kendall groans.
"Well, how many flyers did you get out before you were kicked off campus?"
"I don't know. Two or three…"
"James."
"Okay, one."
Kendall takes a long, slow breath. This is James. This is nothing new. This is James. This is nothing new. "James, I need you to listen very carefully, okay?"
"Okay," James eagerly agrees, putting on his serious face.
"You want to be famous, right?"
"Right."
"You want to be famous as a band, right?"
"Yes, right."
"Do bands have drummers, James?"
"Is this a trick question? Because some rappers only use mixes and some boy bands… I honestly don't see their drummers, so I don't know." James throws his hands in the air.
Kendall just reaches out and affectionately ruffles James's hair earning a hand slap. "We need a drummer. And we won't get one if we don't hold auditions. We can't hold auditions if no one knows we need a drummer. And no one will know if we don't pass out flyers." Kendall grabs the flyers off the kitchen table and shakes them in annoyance. "Which, might I add, I spent hours cutting apart so they have these neat little strips at the bottom potential drummers can just rip off."
"So, are you saying I need to pass out more flyers?" James asks.
"Yes," Kendall sighs. He checks his watch before grabbing James by the shoulders, maintaining strict eye contact. "I have to go to work now, but when Carlos gets home, you guys take these," he plops the flyers into James' lap, "and make sure they're all out by the time I get off. Can you do that?"
"Pssh, who do you think you're talking to? I'm James fucking Diamond, and I'm amazing. We'll have a kickass drummer by next Tuesday."
Kendall stuffs his bus pass in his pocket, runs a hand through his hair. "I hope you're right."
As Kendall steps outside and makes his way to the nearest bus stop, he inhales, breathing in the possibilities. He loves L.A., the very air surrounding him sparking with creativity. He's found no matter where in the city he goes, if he listens closely, music flows on the wind just as surely as it delivers him air. This town is always busy, always moving, always providing something to see and feel and live. Up until their move, the guys had never even ridden in a taxi or hopped on a public bus. It's crazy and scary but enlivening beyond what they ever knew.
The longer he thinks on it, Kendall feels like James is right. They will have a kickass drummer by next Tuesday, logic be damned.
-L-
Logan pounds out his frustration on the drums, his eyes closed, arms moving in a blur until they burn.
Boom-crack-ba boom boom-crack, boom-crack-ba boom boom-crack
How could he have been stupid enough to audition for a band? Maybe somewhere in his wildest dreams he's imagined being in a successful group, touring the world, signing autographs. But what band in their right mind wants a deaf drummer?
Beating the drums harder, he ignores the sweat rolling into his eyes, bashes the cymbal as though it were that lead singer's face. He should've kept his hearing impairment to himself, he thinks. He's kept it from his fellow students this long. He should have lied.
Boom-crack-ba boom boom-crack, boom-crack-ba boom boom-crack
But Logan doesn't want to be a liar. There's no way he could've kept it to himself if he was going to be working with them. He's not ashamed of himself, not at all. In fact, most of the time, he's pretty goddamn proud of himself. Until some cocky bastard laughs in his face and says, "We need someone who can contribute creatively to our band. Someone who can really feel out the sound." Fucking asshole, emphasizing the word sound. Logan might not be able to hear someone talking, but he knows when a word is drawn out, mocking. Fuck him.
Logan doesn't need to be in a band to be a musician; he can fucking write sheet music, craft fucking arrangements that would make that prick's head spin. He's more of a musician than that dick will ever be.
Boom-crack-ba boom boom-crack, boom-crack-ba boom boom-crack
He finishes out, beating the toms and snares and cymbals so fast the sound is practically a purr. Logan is out of breath and panting and exhausted. He stands slowly, gathering up his things on shaky legs. When he turns to exit the practice room, he glances up at the door and is shocked to see Camille standing there.
"Are you stalking me?" Logan asks.
Camille just stares at him, some weird expression on her face. "You're really fucking good," she breathes, her lips barely moving.
"What?"
She signs, You're really fucking good.
"For a deaf guy?" Logan adds for her because he's still a little angry, maybe the tiniest bit bitter, but he's quickly shrugging it off like he always does after he plays.
"No, like, you're really fucking good for anybody." If she's offended by his tone she doesn't show it, but she does pick up on the fact he's angry.
Do you want to talk about it? she signs.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
"I was looking for you." She comes closer to him and Logan backs away from her.
"Why?"
Camille's expression shifts to something almost like hurt at Logan's retreat from her. She starts digging in her bag and pulls out a folded flyer, unfolds it and holds it out in Logan's direction. He looks at the paper without taking it. Logan trains his eyes on Camille's mouth, waiting on an explanation.
"This really pretty guy was at my dorm today, and he said his band is looking for a drummer." She shakes the flyer at him. "You should show them what you've got."
Logan immediately crinkles his nose and makes a disgusted noise. "Hell, no."
"What? Logan, you're unbelievably good, and this guy was so nice."
"Of course, he was nice, you're a pretty girl."
"Aw, you think I'm pretty?" Camille smiles wide before shaking her head. "Anyway, why shouldn't you?"
"Camille…" Logan starts, her name hissed between his teeth. Part of him wants to snap and shout and tell her to mind her own business, but he's not that guy. He's not the jerk who takes things out on almost-strangers.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Camille asks again.
No, Logan wants to say. No, because that would mean letting you know I get upset sometimes and that would mean you comforting me and that would mean we're becoming friends and I can't have friends because friendship isn't a real thing because people are always really just looking out for themselves and what they want so why not skip the pretense and just look out for myself?
Instead, Logan says, "I tried out for a band today and when they found out I can't hear they didn't want to know anymore about me."
"Oh, Logan." Camille doesn't hesitate to wrap her arms around Logan's shoulders, hug him close. Logan doesn't admit it makes him feel better. When she finally lets him go, she signs, Sometimes, people are assholes, but I'm not. You can trust me.
Logan doesn't think people in general are trustworthy, he never has, but for the first time, he really hopes he's wrong.
Part 4