Ok, so this is my first sic-fic! The first few chapters are mainly non-eventful, but they took a while to write. I never write slash, and rarely upload my stories to FF, but I just really like this story. I rated it K+. I don't think it's that offensive, I'm just really paranoid.
Disclaimer: I don't own big time rush, or anything that might be considered copyright or whatever.
Logan woke up earlier than usual, sun shining on his face. He smiled brightly, squinting and yawning, looking over at his best friend Kendall, still sleeping happily in the bed opposite, occupying the right hand side of their shared bedroom, sighing and relaxing back into bed like he always did on a sunny morning like this, until he realized one problem. It was a Monday. That meant two horribly inevitable things. One, work, and two, school. No more sitting by the pool, eating fish sticks and watching cartoons, or playing dome hockey all day with his best buds. Of course he would still be with his best buds, but it would be different, because they would be, you know, working. It's not that Logan didn't like school, because he did like it, but everyone hates the feeling of having to leave their bed an hour or two earlier than usual, and actually having to do stuff that maybe they didn't want to do. The smile was wiped off faster when he got the slap-in-the-face "good morning" of a fast forming headache. He rubbed the space in between his eyes, trying to rid himself of the unbearable pounding in his head, noticing that a few things weren't quite right.
Firstly, his head hurt, but he'd already established that. But other than that he had a funny feeling in his stomach, like that feeling when you know something bad is about to happen. Only nothing bad was about to happen, and Logan couldn't figure out what was wrong. Not only that but his throat was scratchy, and although this usually happened when he woke up for a minute or two, it was slightly more aggressive than he remembered. He glanced at the clock. It read 6.05. It was probably just because he had woken up earlier than usual, he figured. Although, Logan had experienced many early starts and had never felt quite as bad as he did now. He came to the conclusion that all he needed was a glass of water and something to eat and he would be feeling good as new.
He swung his legs out of bed, sitting up a little too fast and feeing a surge of dizziness, resting his head in his hands for a second before powering onwards. He threw on a stray hoodie and jeans that were balled up at his feet and strode across the bedroom. He opened the door quickly, as to avoid the characteristic, annoying squeak that all the doors in the apartment seemed to have and slipped out, shutting the door as quietly as possible. He walked to the end of the balcony, tiptoeing down the carpeted staircase, not wanting to risk waking any of his friends prematurely by sliding down the swirly slide. This really got them mad on a "work" morning. Though it never had quite such an effect on a weekend, for whatever reason Logan would never know.
He walked into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding hitting his hip on the sharp corner of the island bench as he had done so many mornings before. He briefly wondered if he should make the most of the time he had up to cook something substantial for breakfast, but decided against it, as the boys would undoubtedly sleep through their alarms that were set to go off at 6.30 and he would have to get them up, and it would interrupt either his cooking or eating, neither of which he was willing to sacrifice. So he simply settled on the most nutritious cereal he could find, which sadly was Trix, but when you live with teenage boys, you won't find a box of bran flakes or oatmeal anywhere, although Mrs. Night did used to buy it and it almost disintegrated at the back of the pantry, sitting there for months, and slid two pieces of bread into the toaster. He filled a glass with water and got the peanut butter out of the pantry, waiting for his toast to be cooked, leaning against the counter and watching the seconds tick by on the clock, wondering if the ancient packets of nutritionally satisfying cereal were still in there somewhere, and if he could perhaps find one of them. He jumped, his train of thought lost, as the toast sprang up, and took the two pieces of slightly burnt toast out.
"Damn," he thought "I never have been able to cook toast without it being soggy or burnt. You would have thought that I, of all people would be able to figure out the recipe for toast. Heck, James even managed to write a scientific equation for it but no, I just can't make it."
He settled for it, because it was one of the less burnt batches he had made in his time, and sat on one of the barstools, swinging from side to side as he spread peanut butter on his toast. He poured the brightly colored cereal into the bowl, cursing the cartoon rabbit as the small spheres of sugar tumbled into the bowl, making a "clinking" noise, and pouring milk on the hideously under nutritious bowl of cereal, poking at it for a while, not feeling overly hungry and watching as the colors ran into each other, turning the milk sludge grey. He took a small sip of water. Usually he was all aboard the sugar train, but this morning he really just didn't feel like it. At least the milk wasn't chocolate milk.
He looked at the clock. 6.20. He might as well try and choke down some cereal before he had to worsen his demanding headache by waking the boys, risking his eardrums and extremities, and having to suffer at least three tantrums that he really didn't enjoy dealing with.
He couldn't figure out why he was being so pessimistic this morning. He lived with his three best friends in the world, in LA where it was sunny and warm all the time, he was in a band, he had girls chasing him everywhere he went, and he didn't even have that bad of a job. He had to sing and dance, and he loved both of those things. He wasn't usually this upset on a perfectly good day of his life. Heck, he didn't even have to face an entire day of school. He only had to be there until 12.30. He shook his head to clear the foggy feeling and raised his chin as he scooped up a spoonful of the rainbow sludge and put it in his mouth, the sugary taste souring as his stomach instantly disagreed with it. He knew his stomach was a little upset, but not this upset. He felt like he was going to throw up. He jumped off the barstool, running into the bathroom as quickly as possible to try and avoid throwing up on the kitchen tile. As soon as he was in front of the toilet, he spat out what was in his mouth, breathing heavily. He shuddered, looking at the godforsaken cereal-mush before flushing it away.
"False alarm. Thank goodness." He sighed to himself. He shakily rose to his feet, rinsing his mouth in the sink and looking carefully at his pale complexion. Considering he almost threw up, he didn't look too bad. He splashed a handful of cold water on his face, then turned the tap off and patted his face down with the hand towel.
"Whew! That was close." He thought. He scratched at the back of his neck, walking back into the kitchen, slowly approaching the counter. He looked into the bowl of the horrible cereal that had almost made his morning turn into a disaster, and dumped it down the sink angrily, almost violently, in disapproval of what it had almost made him do, flicking on the garbage disposal. He took the toast and put that where it belonged, in the bin, deciding that he really wasn't hungry. He drank half the water and poured the remaining contents down the plughole, setting the glass down gently in the sink, slowly running his fingers over his now, thanks to the water, bloated stomach uncomfortably, deciding maybe water wasn't best either. He sat at the bench and rested his throbbing head on his shaky arms. Maybe, just maybe, Logan Mitchell was getting… sick?
"No. I don't get sick. I get a minor list of ailments that disappear soon after noon. It always happens." Logan drilled into his brain in despair, not wanting to simply accept the fact that he wasn't feeling his best, and probably would end up confined to his bed, sealed in quarantine, by this afternoon. He could barely bring himself to think the word. Sick. Ugh. What a terrible, terrible word to be bestowed upon Logan. Sickness was what people came to him for. He didn't go to others. He was the doctor. And doctors simply don't get sick. So it was settled. Logan Mitchell was not sick. Ever.
Ok so first chapter down. What do you think? Reviews and criticism welcome, no matter how harsh or soul crushing they may be. :D
Thanks for reading!