[fic] It's So Hard To Breathe - 1/2
Title: It's So Hard To Breathe
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Kendall/James, Kendall/Dak
Rating: M
Word Count: 7,175 (Part One)
Warnings: Angst, a handful of naughty words.
Summary: “So you let Dak Zevon fuck you,” James says, and this time he doesn’t bother amending his word choice. “Interesting decision.”
Disclaimer: BTR is not mine. Obvs.
Author Notes: So this is part one of, uh, three birthday stories for jblostfan16 that I never got a chance to post in November because of my European vacay, Hurricane Sandy, and then me promptly breaking my laptop forever. I actually told Chris I'd post this one weeks ago and then I sort of died of the plague and couldn't double check edits or do much more than scroll listlessly through Tumblr. FORGIVE ME??? But yes, here. This is actually the newest prompt of the three she gave me, having originated sometime in October, I believe? The prompt was REVENGE PORN. It was interesting writing this along side We Trudged Along Through The Mud, because both revolve around media outings, but the circumstances and people are so totally different. Ahem. Anyway, Chris, dearheart, I hope you enjoy it, and I swear I have other fic for you that just needs to be polished up. ♥
---
Kendall’s floating, adrenaline-high and more than a little drunk, star-struck by all the big names that have been kowtowing at his feet all night.
BTR’s second album has gone gold, and he’s not sure if he’s more impressed by the accolades that won’t stop rolling in or the significant bump in his bank account that accompanied their success. Suddenly he’s got enough money to buy his mom a mansion in Maui and buy himself a second one right alongside it, if he so chooses, which is basically the weirdest feeling ever for a guy who’s been working under the table since his thirteenth birthday just so he could afford to keep up with his friends.
Kendall’s in his happiest of happy places, drunker than he’s been since Lucy Stone’s last birthday bash, and he’s not sure which of those two things contributes more to the position he finds himself in when the clock strikes eleven, pants down around his ankles while Dak Zevon’s dick presses hot and slick inside him.
And that’s how it starts, this big gay discovery thing, with champagne bubbles in his heart and his belly. It’s a big deal and it’s also not a big deal, because Kendall’s never had much of a problem admitting that he finds other guys attractive, objectively, in a no-homo-but-my-baby-sister-reads-me-Pop-Tiger-articles-about-you-all-the-time kind of way.
Except apparently it’s yes homo, and please, Dak, fuck, there.
In the dark, Dak has thick brown hair, not quite the right shade for what Kendall wants, but the texture under his fingers is exactly the same. He is all biceps and hard abs and angles that make Kendall shake, and if a name flashes through his head like heat lightning, Kendall forgets what it is the moment Dak begins mumbling filthy things in the shell of his ear, accompanied by a hot lick and a hard thrust.
The morning after is brutal, mostly because James is the one who finds him limping into 2J in the wee hours of twilight. Hollywood twilight, so the city is already up and buzzing, or maybe like Kendall it just hasn’t gone to sleep yet, but either way there are too many lights and sounds and all Kendal can process is the way he aches.
“Rough night, buddy?” James cocks one of his perfectly kempt eyebrows, obviously trying to figure out if the friendliest thing to do here is jump to his feet for an assist or stay seated and let the mocking ensue.
“Great,” Kendall grits out, “I’m really, really…why are you even awake, anyway? You hate mornings.”
“Skype date with Monique.” James lifts his laptop for show and tell. Monique’s a model or an actress or a dancer, stuck in Burma or Bangladesh for some kind of shoot. Kendall can never keep the girls James’s shuffles through like cards straight in his head.
He declares, “Right. I’m going to sleep,” but his legs legitimately aren’t working right, and he stumbles into the wall. Kendall has no idea if it’s the champagne or the searing pain every time he shifts that has him all off-kilter, but it doesn’t even matter. James is off his feet and offering an arm, concern clear in his pyrite eyes.
“You smell like a brewery,” James says, wrinkling his nose. “Or a brothel. Were you at that party Carlos kept talking about?”
“He’s persistent,” Kendall defends, and maybe he’s a little chagrined with himself at this particular moment in time. He feels like he’s been ridden hard and put away wet, more than a little used, with a headache creeping up his spine and settling somewhere in the back of his skull. Liquor’s just not as much fun once it turns your body to lead, and the walk of shame isn’t such a good time when all he remembers of the night are Dak’s lips on his neck and his hands everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
It’s not like Kendall’s committed to anyone right now, but the idea that he’s so easy makes his skin crawl. He’s supposed to be the one person in this stupid band that’s in control. He’s supposed to have more willpower than this.
James’s arm tightens around his side, familiar, but also magnifying Kendall’s guilt by inches at a time. Would James judge him, if he knew? Kendall can’t imagine that he would; James is pretty much the king of inadvisable hookups.
“Fucker doesn’t know when to give up. But hey, where is he?”
“Carlos?” Kendall asks, grimacing at the rawness in his throat.
James waits, expectantly, holding Kendall up while he sways on his feet. When it becomes apparent that Kendall isn’t going to say anything, he repeats patiently, “Kendall, where’s Carlos?”
“I, uh. Don’t know. The last I saw, I think Paris Hilton was trying to adopt him.”
“So you left him there?” James drops his arm, forcing Kendall to shift his center of gravity to the wall. He doesn’t feel so hot. “How could you, dude?”
“I-“ Kendall opens his mouth, but it is sore, like the hinges of his jaw have gone rusty. In a flash of memory, he recalls Dak guiding his cock between Kendall’s lips, the salty-sweet taste of cum and the sour way it sat on top of the champagne in Kendall’s stomach.
“Wait, what’s on your-“ James reaches out to touch, and Kendall lets him, lets him touch the livid blue-green of the bruise forming right beneath his throat. Breath hitched, almost afraid, James asks, “Kendall, what is this?”
“It’s fine, it’s okay,” he babbles. “I lost track of Carlos, but he isn’t a puppy, he can find his way home, and I just- I was distracted, alright?”
James is angry, pillars of fire in his eyes. He grits his teeth and demands, “Did someone hurt you?”
“Do I look like I’m hurt?” Kendall challenges, because James is not his keeper, and besides, it’s not like he’s never come home rumpled and mussed and radiant with afterglow.
James punches two fingers into Kendall’s shoulders. “You look hungover and confused. Excuse me for trying to make sure you’re alright.”
Kendall sucks in air through his nose. Meeker than he likes, he says, “I’m great. I just want some water.”
Immediately, the hard set to James’s shoulders relaxes.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He goes to the fridge to fetch a bottle, calling over his shoulder, “I can’t believe you guys went to that party without me.”
“You had a date.”
James always has dates.
“Still,” James insists, tossing the water bottle from hand to hand like he’s considering lobbing it at Kendall’s head. “Bros don’t do tequila shots without their other bros.”
“Right.” Kendall’s head is full of stampeding wildebeests, his muscles sore, his blood turned to soup. He can’t think over the ache rising up the back of his neck, a slow but powerful tide, and this is probably why he should have said no when Carlos shoved alcohol in his face. But Kendall’s no stranger to fun, and Carlos is an extremely persuasive whiner, and Kendall hadn’t actually planned on getting a hangover the size of Bangkok. He glares balefully at James. “I’ll keep that in mind, next time.”
“You better.”
James beckons Kendall over to the couch, and he makes his way on coltish legs. When he slumps down onto the cushions, he gets his reward; sweet, cold water that doesn’t do a thing for the pounding in his skull, but helps his parched throat immensely. He polishes off the bottle in three gulps, and oops, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. It sends his stomach roiling, sick creeping up his throat. Once it passes, Kendall is left dizzy, unprepared to make even the short trek to his room. Without thinking, he lays his head down against James’s thigh.
There’s no way he’ll ever make it to a bed now.
James doesn’t appear to mind. He clicks his laptop shut, all thoughts of Monique apparently forgotten. The light that begins to broach their living room windows is mostly blocked out by his silhouette, casting him in blackness. Kendall blinks blurrily up at James before nuzzling further into his lap. James begins to run his fingers through Kendall’s hair and kindly doesn’t say anything at all.
It makes it too easy to close his eyes, too easy for the world to steal away like a thief, leaving Kendall in blissful unconsciousness.
---
“I am never drinking again,” Kendall announces upon waking. He feels, all at once, like he got hit by a train, consumed a hydrogen cyanide capsule, and also as though an onion was left to rot in his mouth for a month. None of these sensations are particularly fun.
Peering down at him sleepily, James’s eyes turn to slits, because parties are his favorite thing and he hates nothing more than to attend them alone.
Kendall is forced to quickly amend, “I am not drinking again for at least a week.”
James’s expression softens. He must have fallen asleep too, careful not to jostle Kendall’s head from his thigh. It’s one of the nicer things that James has ever done for him. Kendall thinks about brushing his fingers against James’s jaw and then wonders where exactly the idea came from. He and James are touchy feely, but not like that, not so intimately.
Kendall blames it on the (loud, raucous, awesome-if-not-somewhat-painful) sex he had with Dak the night before, and how there wasn’t anything like healthy cuddling to follow it up. All of Kendall’s forays into the naked tango have usually involved some afterglow spooning, which makes this time singularly remarkable, even aside from the whole being penetrated thing.
“I think I heard Carlos come home,” James remarks casually, shifting beneath the weight of Kendall’s head, stretching. “He was singing Katy Perry at the top of his lungs. You guys had some night. So, who was the lucky lady?”
“What?”
James taps Kendall’s jaw, the bruise Dak left twingeing uncomfortably beneath his fingertip. Something hot and uncomfortable sits in Kendall’s stomach, offset by the hazy warmth of James’s skin through denim. He tries to focus on James’s face instead of the marching band clanging around in his skull. “There wasn’t- I ran into a door.”
“You ran into a-“ James repeats slowly. “Did that door have hands and a mouth?”
Kendall is not sure if this is a trick question. Carefully, he says, “Not that I noticed.”
“Then it’s awfully amazing how it managed to give you hickeys.” James’s fingers wrap around his neck, moving up his throat, touching each red-blue bloom in turn. Then he moves to Kendall’s jaw, tracing the shape of the bruise, his heat leeching into Kendall’s bones. “And this looks exactly like-“
Kendall jerks his head away. He doesn’t need to know what it looks like. He was there. He felt every inch of Dak’s palm, cradling and holding in turn, pushing between his lips, and…
“Ken-dallll, you can tell me.” James wheedles, keeping his voice down out of the kind of fraternal respect that men who’ve had terrible hangovers before show other men with more current hangovers. “Come on. Is she ugly? Is that what’s happening here? You fucked a grotesque-“
“James,” Kendall hisses reprovingly, although the hissing part is mostly because loud noises are ow.
“Sorry, sorry, you made love to,” James corrects with air quotes, and that is totally not the part Kendall was taking issue with.
“I’m not a Quaker,” he mutters sulkily, bunching his fingers into his somewhat smelly t-shirt, mostly so he won’t end up flipping James off. “I can say bad words.”
“Can you? Can you really?” James does not look convinced, wicked delight illuminating his features. “Tell me all the bad word things you did with your unfortunate-faced lady friend.”
“No one was unfortunate-faced,” Kendall objects, because no one in their right mind would call Dak Zevon anything but attractive.
“Are you sure about that? You were wearing that shirt.” James points at Kendall’s striped graphic tee with an air of utter dislike. Then he switches tacks. “Is unfortunate too harsh? Was she just unsightly?” He drops his voice down low and continues, “There was a strange facial mole, wasn’t there?”
“James! There wasn’t a girl.”
“Oh, so we’re going to keep pretending you got love bites from a door frame? Cool, that’s fine, that’s-“
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“Your everything is my business,” James replies evenly, and any other day he’d probably even be right.
The truth is, Kendall’s still waiting for a panicky, frightened creature living in the back of his mind to attack, to scream out that he’s not gay, he’s not, and he never will be, except that creature doesn’t appear to exist. He’s accepting what went down with Dak in a scary-calm way, and while he thinks it might take a few more tries for him to be enthusiastic about the joys of gay sex, he finds he’s not unwilling to try.
Which is really fucking weird, and that, more than anything, is freaking Kendall out.
He’s reanalyzing every conversation he’s ever had with good-looking guys, who, in Hollywood, come a dime a dozen. Sure, Kendall is man enough to admit that he finds a lot of them gorgeous, but does he mean that in an envious way or in a way that is wanting? Did he flirt with any of them? How can he know? How can he tell the difference between what was flirting and what wasn’t, when it was all unconscious? Kendall’s always thought of himself as more of an action hero than that sensitive indie flick guy who dwells, so this is all very…unsettling.
Saying out loud that he needs time to curl up into the fetal position and wallow will only raise James’s suspicions, so instead Kendall tells him, “Not this time,” and beats a hasty retreat down the hall; both to escape his best friend’s nagging and to evade the fateful hour when his mom will rear her bedhead and sniff out the lingering scent of alcohol. Kendall plans on being safe beneath his blankets before she can work up any homicidal intent.
He showers mechanically, rubbing soap in all the places it’s supposed to go, and trying futilely to brush the taste of roadkill out of his mouth. Then Kendall collapses into bed, and blessedly, it’s just as easy to fall asleep cocooned in his comforter as it was to pass out on top of James.
If he dreams about tall, dark haired boys with terrific smiles, it’s okay. He won’t remember it later.
---
After the party-that-changes-everything, nothing really changes, except for how Carlos swears off tequila for the rest of his life or seventy two hours, whichever comes first.
Sure, James is kind of being as much of a cold hearted bastard as he knows how to be in a form of unsubtle retaliation for Kendall’s secret-keeping, but James throws tantrums about new and exciting things at least once a week. It’s easy for Kendall not to let it bother him. He’s used to being shunned for inexplicable reasons and extended lengths of time; James always tends to hold a grudge a little longer when it comes to Kendall. But ever since that one time the band broke up, he figures they can get through anything.
He would happily keep thinking that, if it weren’t for Logan and Carlos, who traipse into 2J early on a Thursday afternoon and proceed to steal Kendall’s phone.
Kendall doesn’t give it up without a fight, but the combined force of Logan and Carlos is surprisingly effective. Like being pitted against two very, very angry, very determined Chihuahuas.
Once he’s got the cell in hand, Logan clutches it tight and squeaks, “Uh. Okay. So how about we have technology-free day, guys? I think it would be nice if we had dude bonding time, without Scuttlebutter or The Slap or TV or Picturegram, and yes that means you, Carlos.”
Carlos, meanwhile, hugs the remote control close, daring Kendall with his wrinkled nose to try and take it. He doesn’t even flinch at the Picturegram jibe, which doesn’t do a lot to inspire confidence. Carlos lives Picturegram. Besides, Logan has that air about him, the one he only gets when something has gone terribly awry.
“What’s going on?” Kendall asks suspiciously.
Doing nothing to alleviate Kendall’s concerns, Logan rushes to say, “Nothing. Maybe let’s just not go on the internet ever, you know, because if you think about it, the internet is really dumb. I mean, who wants to look at cat memes and uh, world news, anyway?”
“Lamers, that’s who,” Carlos chimes in helpfully.
Kendall is really confused. “You love the internet. You’re always saying it’s one of the best modern inventions, right after chili cheese fries and Segways.”
Mournfully, Logan shakes his head, “I haven’t felt right about Segways since Bel Air.”
James wraps an arm around Kendall’s shoulders, a friendly gesture of camaraderie that says solidarity-man-I-also-think-Mitchell-is-acting-like-a-freak-show-maybe-he-blew-up-our-car. Kendall is perfectly aware that’s what it’s supposed to be, but he goes stiff all the same, because James has arms banded by steel and silky skin, and they are distracting, distracting, distracting. It isn’t the first time James’s magnificent biceps have fascinated Kendall, but he’s never fantasized about them before.
Now he’s struck by the idea of what they’d feel like wrapped around his middle, of James’s hands on his hips and his teeth on Kendall’s neck, and-
“Dude.” James wiggles his fingers in front of Kendall’s face, which isn’t really helping with the whole not fixating on his body parts thing. James has very nice fingers. Long. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great, I’m super,” Kendall says, snapping to attention. “Logan, did you blow up the car?”
Logan’s mouth drops open. “How could you accuse me of blowing up Precious Freedom? She is the light of my life, the boon of my existence, my only way to drive away from you assholes.”
James preens, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
He is the only person Kendall knows who thinks that asshole is a term of endearment. Kendall valiantly does not roll his eyes, focusing instead on Logan and his visible aura of guilt. “Right, so did you make her go boom?”
“I would never.” Logan puts his hands on his hips and does a very good job of looking exactly like Katie when she was four and wanted to stay up late and watch Fox News.
“If the BTR-Mobile is fine-”
“Her name is Precious Freedom!”
Without missing a beat, Kendall goes, “If Precious Freedom is fine, then what did you blow up?”
“I don’t understand why you automatically assume I blew something up. Why couldn’t Carlos have blown something up?”
“I’m sure Carlos convinced you to blow something up, but let’s be serious here, only one of us knows how to mix chemicals here, and his last name is not Garcia.”
James guesses helpfully, “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“I didn’t blow anything up! Yeesh.” Logan’s getting this pinched line to his lips that never means good things, and now Kendall’s really starting to worry.
“Are Katie and my mom okay?”
“Of course.” Logan softens a tad. “We wouldn’t hold something like that back from you.”
“Then you are holding something back.” James smacks a fist against his own palm, an aha epiphany that morphs from vindicated glee to dramatic horror in a moment. “Is it the band? Oh god, what’s wrong with the band? Are they striking against us in Belgium, again?”
He wastes no time tackling Carlos, wrangling the television remote away while Logan says, “James, no, James the band is fine, James, stop-“
The TV clicks on. Conveniently, it’s already set to Z! Entertainment Television, because that’s Kendall’s mom’s favorite station. Carlos is already attempting to wrest the remote from James’s hand, but on screen, they’re playing a short breaking news segment, and Kendall knows the second it begins that this is what Carlos and Logan are trying to hide. He fixes his gaze on the television, trying to figure out what, exactly he’s seeing.
They’re photos, grainy images with long stretches of skin, parts of the images artistically blurred out by the network, and all of them are under the header of IsAnyoneAwake Dot Com. At first, Kendall thinks some celebrity leaked a sex tape, again, and he feels piteously bad for whoever the tragic soul is. It’s not like the band has never been on the wrong end of creepshots; they’re lucky in that they have a really good publicist.
Or at the very least, a publicist who is very, very scared of Kelly Wainwright and Gustavo Rocque.
Kendall has this extraordinarily noble moment where he hopes, for the sake of the poor, naked couple that they’ve both got thick skin and great senses of humor. Then his stomach sinks down to his toes, his numb toes, because he can’t feel or think or even swallow the sick in his throat. He’s not sure if it has to do with the shitty quality of the pictures or a deeply ingrained self-preservation instinct; Kendall recognizes Dak’s face before he makes sense of his own.
But he’s there too, in vivid color, his lips bitten pink, wet with spit, open in a blissed out o. Kendall doesn’t get embarrassed, but if he did, being naked on national television would probably do the trick. …Good thing he doesn’t embarrassed.
He pinches himself to make sure this isn’t the worst nightmare he’s ever had, but his elbow hurts and he’s still there, naked, and he really wishes he knew that the kind individuals at Z! were going to throw him a coming out party, because at least then he could have bought cake.
Cake would probably help with the extreme nausea he experiences as a reporter giddily flips through the pictures, which Dak took, Kendall knew he took them, knew the camera was there but trusted Dak anyway. Because if you can’t trust the guy who takes your anal virginity, who can you trust, really?
Breathe.
Kendall’s never seen his body like this, framed by Dak’s, expression contorted and obscene. He had no idea he was capable of being obscene, honestly, but thanks to the good folks at Z!, yeah, he’s seeing it, cataloguing exactly what desperate and yearning look like on his own face. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if the TV in 2J wasn’t so darned big. Dak’s hand is massive against the pale just of Kendall’s hip, his mouth latched against Kendall’s shoulder outlined with High Definition clarity.
Breathe.
In the next photo, Kendall is open, exposed, but all that’s visible of Dak is the top of his dark head, the curve of his shoulders, and the splay of his fingers. It was right when they started, Kendall recalls, and with that memory is the slow burn of Dak sinking inside of him, the way he nipped between Kendall’s shoulder blades, the frenetic sound he made as he tested out what they could do together.
Kendall squeezes his eyes shut tight and counts to ten, a handy trick he learned at the anger management workshop the record company forced him and Gustavo to attend back in the early days, before every anger management counselor in Los Angeles County politely declined to work with them for the rest of eternity.
Something about issues with uncontrollable rage.
One, two, three, four, he can handle this, he totally is capable of not flipping his shit, five six, seven, it’s fine, it’s okay, there are bigger problems out in the world like hunger and poverty and his ass on national television, eightnineten, he’s done with this, What the hell?
“Breathe,” Logan commands, and this time Kendall hears it, is aware of the hand at his elbow and the way Carlos is crowding in on him, as though invading someone else’s personal space is supportive. James is the only one not touching him, who is standing apart from the group. His face is carefully blank, with no trace of a pout or a glare or anything resembling human emotion anywhere to be found.
As James is just about the most expressive person Kendall knows, Kendall is mightily alarmed. He watches James’s eyes flick from his still bruised jaw to the lightening marks on his neck and does not shrink away, tempting as it is.
The TV drones, “-sensation, Dak Zevon, has made no secret of his bisexuality, but what comes as a surprise is the striking resemblance between his boytoy and Kendall Knight-“
This is not the usual manifestation of James’s anger; it is something unrecognizable, alien. It is an expression Kendall has never seen James wear before, but Kendall refuses to be a coward. Even if the way James is looking at him makes him want to hide underneath his bed until the storm has passed.
Kendall says, “James, I-“
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, which works out okay, because Kendall has no idea how it was going to end. I’m sorry? Kendall doesn’t have to apologize for this, and James doesn’t deserve an explanation anyway. Logan clears his throat for like the eighth time, and Kendall redirects his attention.
The smaller boy is staring at the places where their bodies touch, which are myriad, because Logan often thinks he can attain or convey comfort through physicality. “Either you are spectacularly happy to see me, or you’ve got a phone call.”
Obediently, Kendall plucks his phone from where it rests in his pocket, squeezed in tight between his thigh and Logan’s hip. The number is unfamiliar, and he seriously considers not picking up. It’s gut instinct that motivates him into pressing answer.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hey, Kendall?”
“Who is this?”
“Wow, that’s cold. I’m hurt. This is really hurtful. Words cannot express the depth of this grievous injury, oh, and by the way, could you maybe open up the door?”
Warily, Kendall wriggles out of Logan and Carlos’s we’re-here-for-you-bro-clinging and stalks over to the door. He twists the knob with little fanfare and a lot of trepidation, because now that he thinks on it, yeah, he does recognize that voice.
“Hi, Dak.”
“Hi.” Dak Zevon breezes inside their apartment, flanked by two enormous men dressed entirely in black. “We’ve got a situation.”
The stiffness in Dak’s spine belies his easy posture, as does the furrow in his bodyguards’ brows; they’re trying to blow Kendall up with their brains, he can totally tell.
“I’d noticed,” Kendall replies dryly, and there is something about the unreality of Dak diva-marching into their apartment that snaps him into proactive mode. “Those pictures were never supposed to see the light of day.”
With the arrival of Dak, James is managing to emote again, even if his version of emoting involves glaring daggers. Meanwhile, Carlos is wringing his hands, and Logan is gearing up for a hissy fit, Kendall can tell. His boys, each of them, through and through.
“Please, you don’t think that was my doing?” Dak presents the room with his best superstar smile, the same one that charmed Kendall into dropping trou, and he tells them, “I have dignity. And a family movie in the works. I wouldn’t compromise any of that with a sex show, however riveting we both are sans clothes.”
Carlos’s lips part in a perfect circle of fascination, his gaze torn between Kendall and Dak and the TV still airing all their dirty laundry. He demands, “Then who did you give the pictures to?”
Dak’s upper lip curls in distaste. One hand pressed earnestly to his chest, he declares, “No one. I didn’t give them to anybody.”
“Are we going to argue semantics?” Logan pipes in. “How did they get out on the internet, Zevon?”
He is small and angry and completely ineffectual in terms of intimidating anyone, but Dak stares down at him like he has done something truly charming. He pats Logan on the head, an indistinct twist to his mouth that might be fondness. “Aren’t you a treasure?”
Logan, in a shocking show of masculinity, stomps his foot and screeches, “Answer the question,” all the while trying to see if he can melt Dak with his eyes. Dak’s bodyguards actually take a step forward, uncertain if Logan poses a real threat or if they should whip out their camera phones and record his tantrum for posterity. Kendall has the best friends.
Dak sighs huffily. “Fine, whatever, don’t get your panties in a twist. My ex and I didn’t break up gracefully, my computer was hacked, revenge porn happened, and it shouldn’t have.” He faces Kendall again, authenticity written in every line of his expression. “This is all my fault.”
Kendall can’t meet his eyes, can’t even look at him without seeing their bodies tangled and naked and sweaty. He mumbles, “It’s not only your fault,” and he means it. He never should have let Dak film them, or maybe he never should have had sex with him in the first place, but either way it’s over and done and everyone’s seen it. Going forward is going to be a bitch.
Hesitantly, Carlos says, “Um. Are you guys dating now? Like, is this a thing?”
“No,” Kendall rushes to say, and after a long moment, Dak confirms slowly, “No.”
Kendall knew, even in the midst of his drunken stupor, that he and Dak were a one-time thing. Dak doesn’t sound nearly so convinced, but whatever guilt Kendall feels about that is quickly swallowed by the sarcastic intonation of the Z! TV reporter, saying, “-a member of a boy band is gay. Color me shocked.”
In light of this, Dak’s intentions, whatever they were, fall by the wayside. Now they all get to play damage control.
“Our publicists should get together, pow-wow, fix this mess,” Dak says, because they are apparently sharing brainwaves. “I am a sparkling beacon of propriety and steadfast morality. No one’s supposed to know what my cock looks like, unless I show it to them.”
He buys his own bullshit, that much is obvious. Carlos does too, nodding along with earnest, starstruck fervor. Logan rolls his eyes. James makes a derisive noise, rather harshly for someone who used to read all of Pop Tiger’s Dak Attack articles to Katie while they painted each other’s nails.
And Kendall?
Kendall mostly wonders how he gets into these situations. An excess of Dom Perignon just does not seem to be an adequate explanation for the crazy movie star in his living room or his orgasm face plastered all over TV. He must have been like, a serial killer in a past life.
Patiently, if a measure of patience involves gritted teeth and fisted fingers, Kendall says, “America’s seen you naked before. Everyone knows you dig dudes. What’s the big deal?”
“That was art,” Dak huffs, possibly because he knows no one other than himself would call a film about nudist werewolves art. Carlos, for instance, dissolves into snickering, and Logan barely manages to refrain. Only James is able to stay gallantly stony. Dak forges on, “And they don’t have to know with their eyes.”
“Yeah, okay, but other than upsetting a few conservative mommies and daddies, I really don’t see this negatively impacting your career,” Kendall decides, rather petulantly, but hey, his reputation is in tatters. Petulance is allowed. Still, he’s supposed to be a nice boy, and he tacks on, “So, uh. Calm down?”
“I cannot be calm when injustice presides over the good people of this fine, fine town.”
Kendall blinks. Dak’s security guards are not laughing. Neither is Dak. He is really this much of a pompous ass. Oh.
“Am I on a secret camera show right now? Is that what’s happening here, or are you actually this insane?”
“You have great taste in dudes,” James provides spitefully, the first words he’s spoken in half an hour.
The first really mean words. Carlos kicks him in the shin without any prompting, which Kendall takes vicious pleasure in before returning his focus to Dak. Dak, with his strong jaw and his devil-may-care smile that’s dropped straight out of view. He says, again, much more sincerely, “I’m sorry, Kendall. This shouldn’t have happened, and it’s my fault. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” Kendall replies automatically, because he’s got pride, okay, and also he is still at the denial stage of grieving over his heterosexual, fully clothed reputation.
Brightly, Dak amends, “Humiliated, then.”
“I’m…not…humiliated,” Kendall says, this time with more of a lag between words.
At his side, still with the koala-clinging, Logan hisses, “Take the stupid apology already, or he’ll never leave.”
Kendall takes the apology.
Dak leaves.
Nothing is solved.
---
“So you let Dak Zevon fuck you,” James says, and this time he doesn’t bother amending his word choice. “Interesting decision.”
He has barged into Kendall’s room, without knocking or asking permission to enter, which is pretty much what James always does, but just once, Kendall wishes he could have an entire hour of privacy. Logan managed to chase Gustavo’s angry calls away, clucking his tongue all the while, and Carlos has been fielding 2J’s landline, which began ringing off the hook the second Dak left the Palmwoods. The one and only reason Kendall doesn’t tell James to fuck off is because he still remembers the way James completely shut down when Z! News came on.
He groans into his pillow, explaining. “I was drunk. He was there.”
“Really?” James doesn’t sound right, but it’s hard to pin down why. His weight dips the bed when he settles down beside Kendall, curling a hand around the back of Kendall’s calf. “If I’d been there, would you have let me do it?”
Kendall whips around so that he’s lying on his back, eyes wide and startled. “Whoa, hey, wait. Back this truck up. What?”
Levelly, James replies, “You heard me. Would you have let me fuck you?”
Kendall stares at James, wondering if maybe he is going insane now. This whole revenge porn thing could be some hideous break with reality that he’s suffering, and all of America maybe did not see his butt. Except James does not appear to be a hallucination, and when Kendall pokes his pectoral, it is real and solid and there. This is actually happening.
Okay then.
“You know I wouldn’t have.”
James expels air through his nose, like an angry cartoon bull. “I know. Because we’ve been drunk together, and I’ve been right there.”
Oh. Kendall sees where this is going now. He distinctly recalls when James got all pissy because Mercedes Griffin wouldn’t date him.
“You can’t actually be jealous about this. Trust me, dude, you don’t want to have sex with me, you’re just all aggro because it was Dak.”
“Yeah,” James agrees, without appearing to agree at all. “Yeah, I am really fucking mad that you chose Dak. What’s wrong with me?”
“James,” Kendall tries. “Don’t do this petty and spiteful thing. Please. Things are already hard enough-“
His voice cuts off with a yelp as James shoves Kendall onto his back hard, crawling over his body, getting in his face. Their relationship has consistently trembled on the brink of Too Intense, the fierce loyalty they swore each other at the tender age of five tempered with baser emotions neither Kendall nor James has ever handled well. They’ve fought and bickered and full-out brawled over song writing and prom king and heavier things; hockey, the band, girls. More than once, they’ve perpetrated pranks edged with cruelty, with jealousy, with the persistent desire to one-up each other. They’ve always made up, sure, countless times, but sometimes Kendall wonders if the reason they clash so often is because their friendship was never meant to be in the first place. This certainly does not feel very friendly.
James growls, “I would’ve been better. I would’ve made you beg. I would’ve made you feel every inch of my cock, and then I would-“
“Then you would what? Newsflash.” Kendall snaps his fingers together and apart, an imaginary flashbulb. He’s trying to hide his ragged breathing, turned on in a way he doesn’t get to be, he can’t be, because this is James, and, “You’re not gay.”
James lowers himself until his lips are less than a millimeter from Kendall’s, his breath minty against Kendall’s mouth, his warmth leeching through Kendall’s thin pajamas. It’s not fair at all, because it makes Kendall want James moving over him, in him, want to squeeze hot and tight around his dick until his insides are slippery with James's cum, want to maybe try bending James over some sturdy furniture and attempt fucking him in turn.
Without meaning to, his traitorous hips arch into the blazing spot of heat he can feel through the denim of James's jeans, the eye of the storm centered right between James's legs. He is mortified by his own lack of self-control. He's never done something so slutty, so sleazy, in his life. Only the embarrassment dims once he's pressed against the massive erection James is showcasing, with considerably less shame. James watches him evenly, eyes dark and wild, and then he fits their mouths together, less a kiss than the sweetest touch of lips and shared breath. He mumbles against Kendall's teeth, “Shows how much you know.”
Then James relinquishes the bed, and Kendall, bounding to his feet in a smooth movement. He announces, “Gustavo wants to have a band meeting. Find out if you’ve got any more sex tapes lying around. He called it contingency planning.”
Kendall is flushed, turned on, bewildered, but he still manages, “Great. That’s fantastic. There is nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to hold a post mortem with Gustavo about who I sleep with.”
James doesn’t answer.
He’s already fled the room.
---
The media circus does not die down. Apparently, in the whole of Hollywood, there is not a single crotchshot, divorce, lip-synching disaster, or budding romance more interesting to the paparazzi than Kendall Knight’s sexuality.
It is driving Kendall insane.
“It’s bad enough that everyone knows how big my dick is,” he bemoans to Logan, who excels at lending a sympathetic ear. “But now I can’t leave the apartment? Ever?”
“No one knows how big your dick is.” Logan pats Kendall’s knee, most of his focus trained on a biopic about Abraham Lincoln. “Maybe just your scrotal region.”
“Thanks, that helps. Way to bolster my self-esteem, buddy.”
Kendall thinks about holing up in the side of a mountain, with a big steel door that no paparazzo could penetrate. He would bring his hockey stick, a puck, a game station, and some magazines. Food, definitely.
The guys, for sure, even if Logan would leave eventually for med school and Carlos can’t take enclosed spaces for more than a short period of time.
James, though. James would make things fun. Probably. If he ever forgives Kendall for…whatever it is that he’s mad about. Kendall hasn’t quite sussed that out, exactly, because thinking about it makes him mad. James thinks he’s entitled to everyone’s attention, even if he doesn’t actually want their attention.
Kendall tries not to remember how it felt like James wanted his attention, because down that road lies very bad things.
James chooses this moment to dance into the living room, dressed in pleather and an extremely shiny silk shirt. He announces, “I have a date today,” which comes as a shock to exactly no one. James’s Skype-model-date-person is so one month ago, and he has gone through an entire chain of starlets, debutantes, female athletes, and aspiring singers in a one-man attempt to reaffirm that certain members of Big Time Rush do in fact like girls. He’s even dated the occasional normal chick, just to round out his numbers.
Kendall studies him up and down, unsure what length of time has become acceptable for gawking. Carlos, Logan, Katie, and Kendall’s mom have been A-OK with the whole maybe-possibly-sort-of-gay thing (of course you are, sweetie. Of course you are, his mom had said without batting an eyelash), but James is an unknown quantity. He hasn’t exhibited an inkling of interest in what Kendall does or doesn’t do when his jeans are off since that night the world went to shit, but he hasn’t been acting less James than usual, either.
This is honestly the first time he’s deigned to acknowledge Kendall’s presence in days.
Finally, Kendall replies, “That doesn’t explain why you’re dressed up as…whatever you’re supposed to be.”
“Maggie likes elusive, mysterious rockstars. I told her I’m in a band.”
“Honesty is the best policy,” Kendall recites dutifully, in the absence of his mom.
“Honesty doesn’t get me laid,” James says, and it sure is honest. “Besides, I never lied. I am in a band. She never asked me what kind.”
“I think the eyeliner might be overkill.”
“Please, there’s no such thing. If you’re not making anyone want to bang your brains out, you’re doing it wrong.”
“If I’m not making anyone want to bang my brains out when I pretend to be someone I’m not…?”
“No, always, and doing anything.” James preens for the sheet of glass containing the oven, winking at his own reflection. “Live your life like everything you do is an open invitation for fuck buddies.”
“I worry about you.”
“Worry away, peon. I’ve got panties to tear away with my mouth.” James flashes them both a peace sign, one foot already out the door, fully prepared to abandon Kendall with Logan and the Gettysburg Address. History normally makes Logan all hot and sticky under his clothes, but lately he’s been hyper-attuned to Kendall’s new penchant for penis, so he probably won’t start jacking it to Honest Abe’s Stovepipe Hat. Probably.
The prospect is daunting enough that Kendall begins scrambling to his feet, chasing in James’s footsteps with a cordial, “I’ll walk you to the lobby.”
Or it is cordial until he runs into the solid planes of James’s back. He appears to have forgotten how to walk, the soles of his boots biting into the thin Palmwoods carpet. “I thought you decided you weren’t going outside until the reporters found something more interesting to chase down, like World War III.”
“That was the plan,” Kendall agrees sheepishly, ducking his head to avoid a judgmental glare. “I miss sunlight.”
“And, my man, I bet sunlight misses you.” James pauses, straightens. His face lights up, bright and beautiful. It’s the first time in a long time Kendall’s seen him so happy. “Why don’t I skip out on Maggie?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Come on, for your first foray into the light in weeks? This is a Kodak moment.” He quirks a grin, gold-green eyes dancing, everything momentarily forgiven. If Kendall could see through to James’s soul, he thinks right then it would be an electric thing, fizzing and dancing and filled with light. Even though he’s a complete jerkface, Kendall really loves him sometimes. He just really-
Wait.
Oh.
Fuck.
---
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Kendall/James, Kendall/Dak
Rating: M
Word Count: 7,175 (Part One)
Warnings: Angst, a handful of naughty words.
Summary: “So you let Dak Zevon fuck you,” James says, and this time he doesn’t bother amending his word choice. “Interesting decision.”
Disclaimer: BTR is not mine. Obvs.
Author Notes: So this is part one of, uh, three birthday stories for jblostfan16 that I never got a chance to post in November because of my European vacay, Hurricane Sandy, and then me promptly breaking my laptop forever. I actually told Chris I'd post this one weeks ago and then I sort of died of the plague and couldn't double check edits or do much more than scroll listlessly through Tumblr. FORGIVE ME??? But yes, here. This is actually the newest prompt of the three she gave me, having originated sometime in October, I believe? The prompt was REVENGE PORN. It was interesting writing this along side We Trudged Along Through The Mud, because both revolve around media outings, but the circumstances and people are so totally different. Ahem. Anyway, Chris, dearheart, I hope you enjoy it, and I swear I have other fic for you that just needs to be polished up. ♥
---
Kendall’s floating, adrenaline-high and more than a little drunk, star-struck by all the big names that have been kowtowing at his feet all night.
BTR’s second album has gone gold, and he’s not sure if he’s more impressed by the accolades that won’t stop rolling in or the significant bump in his bank account that accompanied their success. Suddenly he’s got enough money to buy his mom a mansion in Maui and buy himself a second one right alongside it, if he so chooses, which is basically the weirdest feeling ever for a guy who’s been working under the table since his thirteenth birthday just so he could afford to keep up with his friends.
Kendall’s in his happiest of happy places, drunker than he’s been since Lucy Stone’s last birthday bash, and he’s not sure which of those two things contributes more to the position he finds himself in when the clock strikes eleven, pants down around his ankles while Dak Zevon’s dick presses hot and slick inside him.
And that’s how it starts, this big gay discovery thing, with champagne bubbles in his heart and his belly. It’s a big deal and it’s also not a big deal, because Kendall’s never had much of a problem admitting that he finds other guys attractive, objectively, in a no-homo-but-my-baby-sister-reads-me-Pop-Tiger-articles-about-you-all-the-time kind of way.
Except apparently it’s yes homo, and please, Dak, fuck, there.
In the dark, Dak has thick brown hair, not quite the right shade for what Kendall wants, but the texture under his fingers is exactly the same. He is all biceps and hard abs and angles that make Kendall shake, and if a name flashes through his head like heat lightning, Kendall forgets what it is the moment Dak begins mumbling filthy things in the shell of his ear, accompanied by a hot lick and a hard thrust.
The morning after is brutal, mostly because James is the one who finds him limping into 2J in the wee hours of twilight. Hollywood twilight, so the city is already up and buzzing, or maybe like Kendall it just hasn’t gone to sleep yet, but either way there are too many lights and sounds and all Kendal can process is the way he aches.
“Rough night, buddy?” James cocks one of his perfectly kempt eyebrows, obviously trying to figure out if the friendliest thing to do here is jump to his feet for an assist or stay seated and let the mocking ensue.
“Great,” Kendall grits out, “I’m really, really…why are you even awake, anyway? You hate mornings.”
“Skype date with Monique.” James lifts his laptop for show and tell. Monique’s a model or an actress or a dancer, stuck in Burma or Bangladesh for some kind of shoot. Kendall can never keep the girls James’s shuffles through like cards straight in his head.
He declares, “Right. I’m going to sleep,” but his legs legitimately aren’t working right, and he stumbles into the wall. Kendall has no idea if it’s the champagne or the searing pain every time he shifts that has him all off-kilter, but it doesn’t even matter. James is off his feet and offering an arm, concern clear in his pyrite eyes.
“You smell like a brewery,” James says, wrinkling his nose. “Or a brothel. Were you at that party Carlos kept talking about?”
“He’s persistent,” Kendall defends, and maybe he’s a little chagrined with himself at this particular moment in time. He feels like he’s been ridden hard and put away wet, more than a little used, with a headache creeping up his spine and settling somewhere in the back of his skull. Liquor’s just not as much fun once it turns your body to lead, and the walk of shame isn’t such a good time when all he remembers of the night are Dak’s lips on his neck and his hands everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
It’s not like Kendall’s committed to anyone right now, but the idea that he’s so easy makes his skin crawl. He’s supposed to be the one person in this stupid band that’s in control. He’s supposed to have more willpower than this.
James’s arm tightens around his side, familiar, but also magnifying Kendall’s guilt by inches at a time. Would James judge him, if he knew? Kendall can’t imagine that he would; James is pretty much the king of inadvisable hookups.
“Fucker doesn’t know when to give up. But hey, where is he?”
“Carlos?” Kendall asks, grimacing at the rawness in his throat.
James waits, expectantly, holding Kendall up while he sways on his feet. When it becomes apparent that Kendall isn’t going to say anything, he repeats patiently, “Kendall, where’s Carlos?”
“I, uh. Don’t know. The last I saw, I think Paris Hilton was trying to adopt him.”
“So you left him there?” James drops his arm, forcing Kendall to shift his center of gravity to the wall. He doesn’t feel so hot. “How could you, dude?”
“I-“ Kendall opens his mouth, but it is sore, like the hinges of his jaw have gone rusty. In a flash of memory, he recalls Dak guiding his cock between Kendall’s lips, the salty-sweet taste of cum and the sour way it sat on top of the champagne in Kendall’s stomach.
“Wait, what’s on your-“ James reaches out to touch, and Kendall lets him, lets him touch the livid blue-green of the bruise forming right beneath his throat. Breath hitched, almost afraid, James asks, “Kendall, what is this?”
“It’s fine, it’s okay,” he babbles. “I lost track of Carlos, but he isn’t a puppy, he can find his way home, and I just- I was distracted, alright?”
James is angry, pillars of fire in his eyes. He grits his teeth and demands, “Did someone hurt you?”
“Do I look like I’m hurt?” Kendall challenges, because James is not his keeper, and besides, it’s not like he’s never come home rumpled and mussed and radiant with afterglow.
James punches two fingers into Kendall’s shoulders. “You look hungover and confused. Excuse me for trying to make sure you’re alright.”
Kendall sucks in air through his nose. Meeker than he likes, he says, “I’m great. I just want some water.”
Immediately, the hard set to James’s shoulders relaxes.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He goes to the fridge to fetch a bottle, calling over his shoulder, “I can’t believe you guys went to that party without me.”
“You had a date.”
James always has dates.
“Still,” James insists, tossing the water bottle from hand to hand like he’s considering lobbing it at Kendall’s head. “Bros don’t do tequila shots without their other bros.”
“Right.” Kendall’s head is full of stampeding wildebeests, his muscles sore, his blood turned to soup. He can’t think over the ache rising up the back of his neck, a slow but powerful tide, and this is probably why he should have said no when Carlos shoved alcohol in his face. But Kendall’s no stranger to fun, and Carlos is an extremely persuasive whiner, and Kendall hadn’t actually planned on getting a hangover the size of Bangkok. He glares balefully at James. “I’ll keep that in mind, next time.”
“You better.”
James beckons Kendall over to the couch, and he makes his way on coltish legs. When he slumps down onto the cushions, he gets his reward; sweet, cold water that doesn’t do a thing for the pounding in his skull, but helps his parched throat immensely. He polishes off the bottle in three gulps, and oops, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. It sends his stomach roiling, sick creeping up his throat. Once it passes, Kendall is left dizzy, unprepared to make even the short trek to his room. Without thinking, he lays his head down against James’s thigh.
There’s no way he’ll ever make it to a bed now.
James doesn’t appear to mind. He clicks his laptop shut, all thoughts of Monique apparently forgotten. The light that begins to broach their living room windows is mostly blocked out by his silhouette, casting him in blackness. Kendall blinks blurrily up at James before nuzzling further into his lap. James begins to run his fingers through Kendall’s hair and kindly doesn’t say anything at all.
It makes it too easy to close his eyes, too easy for the world to steal away like a thief, leaving Kendall in blissful unconsciousness.
---
“I am never drinking again,” Kendall announces upon waking. He feels, all at once, like he got hit by a train, consumed a hydrogen cyanide capsule, and also as though an onion was left to rot in his mouth for a month. None of these sensations are particularly fun.
Peering down at him sleepily, James’s eyes turn to slits, because parties are his favorite thing and he hates nothing more than to attend them alone.
Kendall is forced to quickly amend, “I am not drinking again for at least a week.”
James’s expression softens. He must have fallen asleep too, careful not to jostle Kendall’s head from his thigh. It’s one of the nicer things that James has ever done for him. Kendall thinks about brushing his fingers against James’s jaw and then wonders where exactly the idea came from. He and James are touchy feely, but not like that, not so intimately.
Kendall blames it on the (loud, raucous, awesome-if-not-somewhat-painful) sex he had with Dak the night before, and how there wasn’t anything like healthy cuddling to follow it up. All of Kendall’s forays into the naked tango have usually involved some afterglow spooning, which makes this time singularly remarkable, even aside from the whole being penetrated thing.
“I think I heard Carlos come home,” James remarks casually, shifting beneath the weight of Kendall’s head, stretching. “He was singing Katy Perry at the top of his lungs. You guys had some night. So, who was the lucky lady?”
“What?”
James taps Kendall’s jaw, the bruise Dak left twingeing uncomfortably beneath his fingertip. Something hot and uncomfortable sits in Kendall’s stomach, offset by the hazy warmth of James’s skin through denim. He tries to focus on James’s face instead of the marching band clanging around in his skull. “There wasn’t- I ran into a door.”
“You ran into a-“ James repeats slowly. “Did that door have hands and a mouth?”
Kendall is not sure if this is a trick question. Carefully, he says, “Not that I noticed.”
“Then it’s awfully amazing how it managed to give you hickeys.” James’s fingers wrap around his neck, moving up his throat, touching each red-blue bloom in turn. Then he moves to Kendall’s jaw, tracing the shape of the bruise, his heat leeching into Kendall’s bones. “And this looks exactly like-“
Kendall jerks his head away. He doesn’t need to know what it looks like. He was there. He felt every inch of Dak’s palm, cradling and holding in turn, pushing between his lips, and…
“Ken-dallll, you can tell me.” James wheedles, keeping his voice down out of the kind of fraternal respect that men who’ve had terrible hangovers before show other men with more current hangovers. “Come on. Is she ugly? Is that what’s happening here? You fucked a grotesque-“
“James,” Kendall hisses reprovingly, although the hissing part is mostly because loud noises are ow.
“Sorry, sorry, you made love to,” James corrects with air quotes, and that is totally not the part Kendall was taking issue with.
“I’m not a Quaker,” he mutters sulkily, bunching his fingers into his somewhat smelly t-shirt, mostly so he won’t end up flipping James off. “I can say bad words.”
“Can you? Can you really?” James does not look convinced, wicked delight illuminating his features. “Tell me all the bad word things you did with your unfortunate-faced lady friend.”
“No one was unfortunate-faced,” Kendall objects, because no one in their right mind would call Dak Zevon anything but attractive.
“Are you sure about that? You were wearing that shirt.” James points at Kendall’s striped graphic tee with an air of utter dislike. Then he switches tacks. “Is unfortunate too harsh? Was she just unsightly?” He drops his voice down low and continues, “There was a strange facial mole, wasn’t there?”
“James! There wasn’t a girl.”
“Oh, so we’re going to keep pretending you got love bites from a door frame? Cool, that’s fine, that’s-“
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“Your everything is my business,” James replies evenly, and any other day he’d probably even be right.
The truth is, Kendall’s still waiting for a panicky, frightened creature living in the back of his mind to attack, to scream out that he’s not gay, he’s not, and he never will be, except that creature doesn’t appear to exist. He’s accepting what went down with Dak in a scary-calm way, and while he thinks it might take a few more tries for him to be enthusiastic about the joys of gay sex, he finds he’s not unwilling to try.
Which is really fucking weird, and that, more than anything, is freaking Kendall out.
He’s reanalyzing every conversation he’s ever had with good-looking guys, who, in Hollywood, come a dime a dozen. Sure, Kendall is man enough to admit that he finds a lot of them gorgeous, but does he mean that in an envious way or in a way that is wanting? Did he flirt with any of them? How can he know? How can he tell the difference between what was flirting and what wasn’t, when it was all unconscious? Kendall’s always thought of himself as more of an action hero than that sensitive indie flick guy who dwells, so this is all very…unsettling.
Saying out loud that he needs time to curl up into the fetal position and wallow will only raise James’s suspicions, so instead Kendall tells him, “Not this time,” and beats a hasty retreat down the hall; both to escape his best friend’s nagging and to evade the fateful hour when his mom will rear her bedhead and sniff out the lingering scent of alcohol. Kendall plans on being safe beneath his blankets before she can work up any homicidal intent.
He showers mechanically, rubbing soap in all the places it’s supposed to go, and trying futilely to brush the taste of roadkill out of his mouth. Then Kendall collapses into bed, and blessedly, it’s just as easy to fall asleep cocooned in his comforter as it was to pass out on top of James.
If he dreams about tall, dark haired boys with terrific smiles, it’s okay. He won’t remember it later.
---
After the party-that-changes-everything, nothing really changes, except for how Carlos swears off tequila for the rest of his life or seventy two hours, whichever comes first.
Sure, James is kind of being as much of a cold hearted bastard as he knows how to be in a form of unsubtle retaliation for Kendall’s secret-keeping, but James throws tantrums about new and exciting things at least once a week. It’s easy for Kendall not to let it bother him. He’s used to being shunned for inexplicable reasons and extended lengths of time; James always tends to hold a grudge a little longer when it comes to Kendall. But ever since that one time the band broke up, he figures they can get through anything.
He would happily keep thinking that, if it weren’t for Logan and Carlos, who traipse into 2J early on a Thursday afternoon and proceed to steal Kendall’s phone.
Kendall doesn’t give it up without a fight, but the combined force of Logan and Carlos is surprisingly effective. Like being pitted against two very, very angry, very determined Chihuahuas.
Once he’s got the cell in hand, Logan clutches it tight and squeaks, “Uh. Okay. So how about we have technology-free day, guys? I think it would be nice if we had dude bonding time, without Scuttlebutter or The Slap or TV or Picturegram, and yes that means you, Carlos.”
Carlos, meanwhile, hugs the remote control close, daring Kendall with his wrinkled nose to try and take it. He doesn’t even flinch at the Picturegram jibe, which doesn’t do a lot to inspire confidence. Carlos lives Picturegram. Besides, Logan has that air about him, the one he only gets when something has gone terribly awry.
“What’s going on?” Kendall asks suspiciously.
Doing nothing to alleviate Kendall’s concerns, Logan rushes to say, “Nothing. Maybe let’s just not go on the internet ever, you know, because if you think about it, the internet is really dumb. I mean, who wants to look at cat memes and uh, world news, anyway?”
“Lamers, that’s who,” Carlos chimes in helpfully.
Kendall is really confused. “You love the internet. You’re always saying it’s one of the best modern inventions, right after chili cheese fries and Segways.”
Mournfully, Logan shakes his head, “I haven’t felt right about Segways since Bel Air.”
James wraps an arm around Kendall’s shoulders, a friendly gesture of camaraderie that says solidarity-man-I-also-think-Mitchell-is-acting-like-a-freak-show-maybe-he-blew-up-our-car. Kendall is perfectly aware that’s what it’s supposed to be, but he goes stiff all the same, because James has arms banded by steel and silky skin, and they are distracting, distracting, distracting. It isn’t the first time James’s magnificent biceps have fascinated Kendall, but he’s never fantasized about them before.
Now he’s struck by the idea of what they’d feel like wrapped around his middle, of James’s hands on his hips and his teeth on Kendall’s neck, and-
“Dude.” James wiggles his fingers in front of Kendall’s face, which isn’t really helping with the whole not fixating on his body parts thing. James has very nice fingers. Long. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great, I’m super,” Kendall says, snapping to attention. “Logan, did you blow up the car?”
Logan’s mouth drops open. “How could you accuse me of blowing up Precious Freedom? She is the light of my life, the boon of my existence, my only way to drive away from you assholes.”
James preens, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
He is the only person Kendall knows who thinks that asshole is a term of endearment. Kendall valiantly does not roll his eyes, focusing instead on Logan and his visible aura of guilt. “Right, so did you make her go boom?”
“I would never.” Logan puts his hands on his hips and does a very good job of looking exactly like Katie when she was four and wanted to stay up late and watch Fox News.
“If the BTR-Mobile is fine-”
“Her name is Precious Freedom!”
Without missing a beat, Kendall goes, “If Precious Freedom is fine, then what did you blow up?”
“I don’t understand why you automatically assume I blew something up. Why couldn’t Carlos have blown something up?”
“I’m sure Carlos convinced you to blow something up, but let’s be serious here, only one of us knows how to mix chemicals here, and his last name is not Garcia.”
James guesses helpfully, “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“I didn’t blow anything up! Yeesh.” Logan’s getting this pinched line to his lips that never means good things, and now Kendall’s really starting to worry.
“Are Katie and my mom okay?”
“Of course.” Logan softens a tad. “We wouldn’t hold something like that back from you.”
“Then you are holding something back.” James smacks a fist against his own palm, an aha epiphany that morphs from vindicated glee to dramatic horror in a moment. “Is it the band? Oh god, what’s wrong with the band? Are they striking against us in Belgium, again?”
He wastes no time tackling Carlos, wrangling the television remote away while Logan says, “James, no, James the band is fine, James, stop-“
The TV clicks on. Conveniently, it’s already set to Z! Entertainment Television, because that’s Kendall’s mom’s favorite station. Carlos is already attempting to wrest the remote from James’s hand, but on screen, they’re playing a short breaking news segment, and Kendall knows the second it begins that this is what Carlos and Logan are trying to hide. He fixes his gaze on the television, trying to figure out what, exactly he’s seeing.
They’re photos, grainy images with long stretches of skin, parts of the images artistically blurred out by the network, and all of them are under the header of IsAnyoneAwake Dot Com. At first, Kendall thinks some celebrity leaked a sex tape, again, and he feels piteously bad for whoever the tragic soul is. It’s not like the band has never been on the wrong end of creepshots; they’re lucky in that they have a really good publicist.
Or at the very least, a publicist who is very, very scared of Kelly Wainwright and Gustavo Rocque.
Kendall has this extraordinarily noble moment where he hopes, for the sake of the poor, naked couple that they’ve both got thick skin and great senses of humor. Then his stomach sinks down to his toes, his numb toes, because he can’t feel or think or even swallow the sick in his throat. He’s not sure if it has to do with the shitty quality of the pictures or a deeply ingrained self-preservation instinct; Kendall recognizes Dak’s face before he makes sense of his own.
But he’s there too, in vivid color, his lips bitten pink, wet with spit, open in a blissed out o. Kendall doesn’t get embarrassed, but if he did, being naked on national television would probably do the trick. …Good thing he doesn’t embarrassed.
He pinches himself to make sure this isn’t the worst nightmare he’s ever had, but his elbow hurts and he’s still there, naked, and he really wishes he knew that the kind individuals at Z! were going to throw him a coming out party, because at least then he could have bought cake.
Cake would probably help with the extreme nausea he experiences as a reporter giddily flips through the pictures, which Dak took, Kendall knew he took them, knew the camera was there but trusted Dak anyway. Because if you can’t trust the guy who takes your anal virginity, who can you trust, really?
Breathe.
Kendall’s never seen his body like this, framed by Dak’s, expression contorted and obscene. He had no idea he was capable of being obscene, honestly, but thanks to the good folks at Z!, yeah, he’s seeing it, cataloguing exactly what desperate and yearning look like on his own face. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if the TV in 2J wasn’t so darned big. Dak’s hand is massive against the pale just of Kendall’s hip, his mouth latched against Kendall’s shoulder outlined with High Definition clarity.
Breathe.
In the next photo, Kendall is open, exposed, but all that’s visible of Dak is the top of his dark head, the curve of his shoulders, and the splay of his fingers. It was right when they started, Kendall recalls, and with that memory is the slow burn of Dak sinking inside of him, the way he nipped between Kendall’s shoulder blades, the frenetic sound he made as he tested out what they could do together.
Kendall squeezes his eyes shut tight and counts to ten, a handy trick he learned at the anger management workshop the record company forced him and Gustavo to attend back in the early days, before every anger management counselor in Los Angeles County politely declined to work with them for the rest of eternity.
Something about issues with uncontrollable rage.
One, two, three, four, he can handle this, he totally is capable of not flipping his shit, five six, seven, it’s fine, it’s okay, there are bigger problems out in the world like hunger and poverty and his ass on national television, eightnineten, he’s done with this, What the hell?
“Breathe,” Logan commands, and this time Kendall hears it, is aware of the hand at his elbow and the way Carlos is crowding in on him, as though invading someone else’s personal space is supportive. James is the only one not touching him, who is standing apart from the group. His face is carefully blank, with no trace of a pout or a glare or anything resembling human emotion anywhere to be found.
As James is just about the most expressive person Kendall knows, Kendall is mightily alarmed. He watches James’s eyes flick from his still bruised jaw to the lightening marks on his neck and does not shrink away, tempting as it is.
The TV drones, “-sensation, Dak Zevon, has made no secret of his bisexuality, but what comes as a surprise is the striking resemblance between his boytoy and Kendall Knight-“
This is not the usual manifestation of James’s anger; it is something unrecognizable, alien. It is an expression Kendall has never seen James wear before, but Kendall refuses to be a coward. Even if the way James is looking at him makes him want to hide underneath his bed until the storm has passed.
Kendall says, “James, I-“
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, which works out okay, because Kendall has no idea how it was going to end. I’m sorry? Kendall doesn’t have to apologize for this, and James doesn’t deserve an explanation anyway. Logan clears his throat for like the eighth time, and Kendall redirects his attention.
The smaller boy is staring at the places where their bodies touch, which are myriad, because Logan often thinks he can attain or convey comfort through physicality. “Either you are spectacularly happy to see me, or you’ve got a phone call.”
Obediently, Kendall plucks his phone from where it rests in his pocket, squeezed in tight between his thigh and Logan’s hip. The number is unfamiliar, and he seriously considers not picking up. It’s gut instinct that motivates him into pressing answer.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hey, Kendall?”
“Who is this?”
“Wow, that’s cold. I’m hurt. This is really hurtful. Words cannot express the depth of this grievous injury, oh, and by the way, could you maybe open up the door?”
Warily, Kendall wriggles out of Logan and Carlos’s we’re-here-for-you-bro-clinging and stalks over to the door. He twists the knob with little fanfare and a lot of trepidation, because now that he thinks on it, yeah, he does recognize that voice.
“Hi, Dak.”
“Hi.” Dak Zevon breezes inside their apartment, flanked by two enormous men dressed entirely in black. “We’ve got a situation.”
The stiffness in Dak’s spine belies his easy posture, as does the furrow in his bodyguards’ brows; they’re trying to blow Kendall up with their brains, he can totally tell.
“I’d noticed,” Kendall replies dryly, and there is something about the unreality of Dak diva-marching into their apartment that snaps him into proactive mode. “Those pictures were never supposed to see the light of day.”
With the arrival of Dak, James is managing to emote again, even if his version of emoting involves glaring daggers. Meanwhile, Carlos is wringing his hands, and Logan is gearing up for a hissy fit, Kendall can tell. His boys, each of them, through and through.
“Please, you don’t think that was my doing?” Dak presents the room with his best superstar smile, the same one that charmed Kendall into dropping trou, and he tells them, “I have dignity. And a family movie in the works. I wouldn’t compromise any of that with a sex show, however riveting we both are sans clothes.”
Carlos’s lips part in a perfect circle of fascination, his gaze torn between Kendall and Dak and the TV still airing all their dirty laundry. He demands, “Then who did you give the pictures to?”
Dak’s upper lip curls in distaste. One hand pressed earnestly to his chest, he declares, “No one. I didn’t give them to anybody.”
“Are we going to argue semantics?” Logan pipes in. “How did they get out on the internet, Zevon?”
He is small and angry and completely ineffectual in terms of intimidating anyone, but Dak stares down at him like he has done something truly charming. He pats Logan on the head, an indistinct twist to his mouth that might be fondness. “Aren’t you a treasure?”
Logan, in a shocking show of masculinity, stomps his foot and screeches, “Answer the question,” all the while trying to see if he can melt Dak with his eyes. Dak’s bodyguards actually take a step forward, uncertain if Logan poses a real threat or if they should whip out their camera phones and record his tantrum for posterity. Kendall has the best friends.
Dak sighs huffily. “Fine, whatever, don’t get your panties in a twist. My ex and I didn’t break up gracefully, my computer was hacked, revenge porn happened, and it shouldn’t have.” He faces Kendall again, authenticity written in every line of his expression. “This is all my fault.”
Kendall can’t meet his eyes, can’t even look at him without seeing their bodies tangled and naked and sweaty. He mumbles, “It’s not only your fault,” and he means it. He never should have let Dak film them, or maybe he never should have had sex with him in the first place, but either way it’s over and done and everyone’s seen it. Going forward is going to be a bitch.
Hesitantly, Carlos says, “Um. Are you guys dating now? Like, is this a thing?”
“No,” Kendall rushes to say, and after a long moment, Dak confirms slowly, “No.”
Kendall knew, even in the midst of his drunken stupor, that he and Dak were a one-time thing. Dak doesn’t sound nearly so convinced, but whatever guilt Kendall feels about that is quickly swallowed by the sarcastic intonation of the Z! TV reporter, saying, “-a member of a boy band is gay. Color me shocked.”
In light of this, Dak’s intentions, whatever they were, fall by the wayside. Now they all get to play damage control.
“Our publicists should get together, pow-wow, fix this mess,” Dak says, because they are apparently sharing brainwaves. “I am a sparkling beacon of propriety and steadfast morality. No one’s supposed to know what my cock looks like, unless I show it to them.”
He buys his own bullshit, that much is obvious. Carlos does too, nodding along with earnest, starstruck fervor. Logan rolls his eyes. James makes a derisive noise, rather harshly for someone who used to read all of Pop Tiger’s Dak Attack articles to Katie while they painted each other’s nails.
And Kendall?
Kendall mostly wonders how he gets into these situations. An excess of Dom Perignon just does not seem to be an adequate explanation for the crazy movie star in his living room or his orgasm face plastered all over TV. He must have been like, a serial killer in a past life.
Patiently, if a measure of patience involves gritted teeth and fisted fingers, Kendall says, “America’s seen you naked before. Everyone knows you dig dudes. What’s the big deal?”
“That was art,” Dak huffs, possibly because he knows no one other than himself would call a film about nudist werewolves art. Carlos, for instance, dissolves into snickering, and Logan barely manages to refrain. Only James is able to stay gallantly stony. Dak forges on, “And they don’t have to know with their eyes.”
“Yeah, okay, but other than upsetting a few conservative mommies and daddies, I really don’t see this negatively impacting your career,” Kendall decides, rather petulantly, but hey, his reputation is in tatters. Petulance is allowed. Still, he’s supposed to be a nice boy, and he tacks on, “So, uh. Calm down?”
“I cannot be calm when injustice presides over the good people of this fine, fine town.”
Kendall blinks. Dak’s security guards are not laughing. Neither is Dak. He is really this much of a pompous ass. Oh.
“Am I on a secret camera show right now? Is that what’s happening here, or are you actually this insane?”
“You have great taste in dudes,” James provides spitefully, the first words he’s spoken in half an hour.
The first really mean words. Carlos kicks him in the shin without any prompting, which Kendall takes vicious pleasure in before returning his focus to Dak. Dak, with his strong jaw and his devil-may-care smile that’s dropped straight out of view. He says, again, much more sincerely, “I’m sorry, Kendall. This shouldn’t have happened, and it’s my fault. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” Kendall replies automatically, because he’s got pride, okay, and also he is still at the denial stage of grieving over his heterosexual, fully clothed reputation.
Brightly, Dak amends, “Humiliated, then.”
“I’m…not…humiliated,” Kendall says, this time with more of a lag between words.
At his side, still with the koala-clinging, Logan hisses, “Take the stupid apology already, or he’ll never leave.”
Kendall takes the apology.
Dak leaves.
Nothing is solved.
---
“So you let Dak Zevon fuck you,” James says, and this time he doesn’t bother amending his word choice. “Interesting decision.”
He has barged into Kendall’s room, without knocking or asking permission to enter, which is pretty much what James always does, but just once, Kendall wishes he could have an entire hour of privacy. Logan managed to chase Gustavo’s angry calls away, clucking his tongue all the while, and Carlos has been fielding 2J’s landline, which began ringing off the hook the second Dak left the Palmwoods. The one and only reason Kendall doesn’t tell James to fuck off is because he still remembers the way James completely shut down when Z! News came on.
He groans into his pillow, explaining. “I was drunk. He was there.”
“Really?” James doesn’t sound right, but it’s hard to pin down why. His weight dips the bed when he settles down beside Kendall, curling a hand around the back of Kendall’s calf. “If I’d been there, would you have let me do it?”
Kendall whips around so that he’s lying on his back, eyes wide and startled. “Whoa, hey, wait. Back this truck up. What?”
Levelly, James replies, “You heard me. Would you have let me fuck you?”
Kendall stares at James, wondering if maybe he is going insane now. This whole revenge porn thing could be some hideous break with reality that he’s suffering, and all of America maybe did not see his butt. Except James does not appear to be a hallucination, and when Kendall pokes his pectoral, it is real and solid and there. This is actually happening.
Okay then.
“You know I wouldn’t have.”
James expels air through his nose, like an angry cartoon bull. “I know. Because we’ve been drunk together, and I’ve been right there.”
Oh. Kendall sees where this is going now. He distinctly recalls when James got all pissy because Mercedes Griffin wouldn’t date him.
“You can’t actually be jealous about this. Trust me, dude, you don’t want to have sex with me, you’re just all aggro because it was Dak.”
“Yeah,” James agrees, without appearing to agree at all. “Yeah, I am really fucking mad that you chose Dak. What’s wrong with me?”
“James,” Kendall tries. “Don’t do this petty and spiteful thing. Please. Things are already hard enough-“
His voice cuts off with a yelp as James shoves Kendall onto his back hard, crawling over his body, getting in his face. Their relationship has consistently trembled on the brink of Too Intense, the fierce loyalty they swore each other at the tender age of five tempered with baser emotions neither Kendall nor James has ever handled well. They’ve fought and bickered and full-out brawled over song writing and prom king and heavier things; hockey, the band, girls. More than once, they’ve perpetrated pranks edged with cruelty, with jealousy, with the persistent desire to one-up each other. They’ve always made up, sure, countless times, but sometimes Kendall wonders if the reason they clash so often is because their friendship was never meant to be in the first place. This certainly does not feel very friendly.
James growls, “I would’ve been better. I would’ve made you beg. I would’ve made you feel every inch of my cock, and then I would-“
“Then you would what? Newsflash.” Kendall snaps his fingers together and apart, an imaginary flashbulb. He’s trying to hide his ragged breathing, turned on in a way he doesn’t get to be, he can’t be, because this is James, and, “You’re not gay.”
James lowers himself until his lips are less than a millimeter from Kendall’s, his breath minty against Kendall’s mouth, his warmth leeching through Kendall’s thin pajamas. It’s not fair at all, because it makes Kendall want James moving over him, in him, want to squeeze hot and tight around his dick until his insides are slippery with James's cum, want to maybe try bending James over some sturdy furniture and attempt fucking him in turn.
Without meaning to, his traitorous hips arch into the blazing spot of heat he can feel through the denim of James's jeans, the eye of the storm centered right between James's legs. He is mortified by his own lack of self-control. He's never done something so slutty, so sleazy, in his life. Only the embarrassment dims once he's pressed against the massive erection James is showcasing, with considerably less shame. James watches him evenly, eyes dark and wild, and then he fits their mouths together, less a kiss than the sweetest touch of lips and shared breath. He mumbles against Kendall's teeth, “Shows how much you know.”
Then James relinquishes the bed, and Kendall, bounding to his feet in a smooth movement. He announces, “Gustavo wants to have a band meeting. Find out if you’ve got any more sex tapes lying around. He called it contingency planning.”
Kendall is flushed, turned on, bewildered, but he still manages, “Great. That’s fantastic. There is nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to hold a post mortem with Gustavo about who I sleep with.”
James doesn’t answer.
He’s already fled the room.
---
The media circus does not die down. Apparently, in the whole of Hollywood, there is not a single crotchshot, divorce, lip-synching disaster, or budding romance more interesting to the paparazzi than Kendall Knight’s sexuality.
It is driving Kendall insane.
“It’s bad enough that everyone knows how big my dick is,” he bemoans to Logan, who excels at lending a sympathetic ear. “But now I can’t leave the apartment? Ever?”
“No one knows how big your dick is.” Logan pats Kendall’s knee, most of his focus trained on a biopic about Abraham Lincoln. “Maybe just your scrotal region.”
“Thanks, that helps. Way to bolster my self-esteem, buddy.”
Kendall thinks about holing up in the side of a mountain, with a big steel door that no paparazzo could penetrate. He would bring his hockey stick, a puck, a game station, and some magazines. Food, definitely.
The guys, for sure, even if Logan would leave eventually for med school and Carlos can’t take enclosed spaces for more than a short period of time.
James, though. James would make things fun. Probably. If he ever forgives Kendall for…whatever it is that he’s mad about. Kendall hasn’t quite sussed that out, exactly, because thinking about it makes him mad. James thinks he’s entitled to everyone’s attention, even if he doesn’t actually want their attention.
Kendall tries not to remember how it felt like James wanted his attention, because down that road lies very bad things.
James chooses this moment to dance into the living room, dressed in pleather and an extremely shiny silk shirt. He announces, “I have a date today,” which comes as a shock to exactly no one. James’s Skype-model-date-person is so one month ago, and he has gone through an entire chain of starlets, debutantes, female athletes, and aspiring singers in a one-man attempt to reaffirm that certain members of Big Time Rush do in fact like girls. He’s even dated the occasional normal chick, just to round out his numbers.
Kendall studies him up and down, unsure what length of time has become acceptable for gawking. Carlos, Logan, Katie, and Kendall’s mom have been A-OK with the whole maybe-possibly-sort-of-gay thing (of course you are, sweetie. Of course you are, his mom had said without batting an eyelash), but James is an unknown quantity. He hasn’t exhibited an inkling of interest in what Kendall does or doesn’t do when his jeans are off since that night the world went to shit, but he hasn’t been acting less James than usual, either.
This is honestly the first time he’s deigned to acknowledge Kendall’s presence in days.
Finally, Kendall replies, “That doesn’t explain why you’re dressed up as…whatever you’re supposed to be.”
“Maggie likes elusive, mysterious rockstars. I told her I’m in a band.”
“Honesty is the best policy,” Kendall recites dutifully, in the absence of his mom.
“Honesty doesn’t get me laid,” James says, and it sure is honest. “Besides, I never lied. I am in a band. She never asked me what kind.”
“I think the eyeliner might be overkill.”
“Please, there’s no such thing. If you’re not making anyone want to bang your brains out, you’re doing it wrong.”
“If I’m not making anyone want to bang my brains out when I pretend to be someone I’m not…?”
“No, always, and doing anything.” James preens for the sheet of glass containing the oven, winking at his own reflection. “Live your life like everything you do is an open invitation for fuck buddies.”
“I worry about you.”
“Worry away, peon. I’ve got panties to tear away with my mouth.” James flashes them both a peace sign, one foot already out the door, fully prepared to abandon Kendall with Logan and the Gettysburg Address. History normally makes Logan all hot and sticky under his clothes, but lately he’s been hyper-attuned to Kendall’s new penchant for penis, so he probably won’t start jacking it to Honest Abe’s Stovepipe Hat. Probably.
The prospect is daunting enough that Kendall begins scrambling to his feet, chasing in James’s footsteps with a cordial, “I’ll walk you to the lobby.”
Or it is cordial until he runs into the solid planes of James’s back. He appears to have forgotten how to walk, the soles of his boots biting into the thin Palmwoods carpet. “I thought you decided you weren’t going outside until the reporters found something more interesting to chase down, like World War III.”
“That was the plan,” Kendall agrees sheepishly, ducking his head to avoid a judgmental glare. “I miss sunlight.”
“And, my man, I bet sunlight misses you.” James pauses, straightens. His face lights up, bright and beautiful. It’s the first time in a long time Kendall’s seen him so happy. “Why don’t I skip out on Maggie?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Come on, for your first foray into the light in weeks? This is a Kodak moment.” He quirks a grin, gold-green eyes dancing, everything momentarily forgiven. If Kendall could see through to James’s soul, he thinks right then it would be an electric thing, fizzing and dancing and filled with light. Even though he’s a complete jerkface, Kendall really loves him sometimes. He just really-
Wait.
Oh.
Fuck.
---