A/N: WOOOOOOT This is for my darling friend BTR'slovesong whose birthday is in a few days! :D :D Happy birthday, Jar! Betcha weren't expecting it today, huh? SURPRISE! :D So before you all read this, go wish her a happy birthday by reading and reviewing all her stories because they rock and she rocks and I love her to pieces and she makes me laugh my socks off and she's super duper awesome AND I LOVE HER TO PIECES. :)
I am Scott Fellows and I own Big Time Rush, which is why all the episodes will be angsty bromancy sick fics from now on... JK. I wish. I own nothing.
I climb the stairs lethargically, trying to decide whether or not to call my mother. I should. She's been trying to get in touch, and I keep "missing" her calls. I love my mother, I do, but I don't want to hear her voice. It reminds me of home too much.
I decide to call her later tonight, when it's late. The phone probably won't wake her or Dad up, and I can apologize over the the answering machine for forgetting about the time zones, and ask her to call me back in the morning, which is when I will be in my first class. It won't me my fault. Just the tragic comedy of phone tag that a parent acts in when their kid goes to college halfway across the country.
I feel guilty. But not enough to make me talk to my mother. I don't want to keep telling her that my classes are good. That the campus is nice. The teachers and students are friendly. I'm doing well. Sure, the food's fine. No, I don't need anything from home. Yes, I miss you too.
These are all true. My classes are good, even though I can barely stand going to them. The teachers and students are friendly, as polite as they would be to any stranger. The food's great, as long as you have nothing to compare it to. I don't need anything from home, nothing material anyway. I miss you...
I walk in front of my dorm and fumble with my keys, holding back a yawn. I swing open the door, drop my stuff on the floor, and flop onto my bed, staring at the underside of the upper bunk. I swallow some water from a plastic bottle and look sadly at the pictures plastered on the wooden furniture. They feature mostly my three best friends, but I also see my old girlfriend, Camille, my family, and a bunch of old friends from L.A. and Minnesota, all jumbled into a messy collage. The memories make my throat hurt with nostalgia. I remember the day that Kendall, James, and Carlos came to help me move in; they were the ones that made the collage. Kendall brought a flash drive absolutely full of pictures, he and James painstakingly selected some to be printed out before just printing the whole folder, and Carlos went crazy with the scotch tape. I remember telling James and Carlos where the cafeteria was after they claimed to be dying of starvation, and sitting alone with Kendall after they left.
"Now Logie," Kendall told me after a few minutes of comfortable, wistful silence. "You know you can call us anytime, right? Even in at three a.m., or in the middle of a hockey game or a recording session, or whenever you need to talk. You know me and the boys are always gonna be here for you, even when we aren't together."
I remember just nodding, my throat to tight to speak.
I close my eyes and rub a hand over my stomach, desperately wanting company. I reach into the pocket of my sweatshirt and grip my phone. I hold it out in front of me, wondering who to call. James is probably in the studio, recording with Gustavo, or out on some fabulous date. He's living alone in The Palm Woods now, since Kendall and Carlos moved back to Minnesota last year when the band broke up. Or when I broke the band up, rather. I wanted to go to med school as soon as I could, so my friends agreed, being the nearly perfect friends that they are, to break up the band and let James go solo. He doesn't have us there anymore, but he still has all the old people from the Palm Woods, like Camille. I try not to think about that too much.
I doubt Kendall is doing anything, but honestly I don't think I could handle a pep talk right now. It would just make everything worse. I couldn't hear his voice without being reminded of the hundreds of previous encouragements he's given us, the dozens of situations we've been in together. Besides, Kendall's speeches aren't as effective over the phone.
Kendall is back to being a hockey star, only now he's going for a scholarship. He wants to stay close to home though, so he's been applying to all the Minnesota colleges that he can. From what I understand, he pretty much hits the ice every day for five hours, goes home and hangs out with Katie and Carlos, skypes with James, and calls me and leaves a message when I don't pick up. I hate ignoring him. I hate closing myself off. But I just don't want to talk to anyone.
Not until now. I really want to just forget I'm here and that I'm all alone and homesick. I want to laugh, and who better to help me with that than Carlos? I scroll down to 'Garcia' in my list of contacts and hover my thumb over the Call button.
Carlos is still just... Carlos. He sort of doesn't exactly know what's going on half the time, I think. He's still following Kendall around like a loyal puppy. I don't mean that in a bad way, and I'm not saying that Kendall minds in the slightest. But out of the four of us, Carlos is definitely the most... clingy. Although from what I hear from Kendall and James (who goes home practically every other weekend), he's doing stuff on his own a lot more. He works at an animal shelter, volunteers at a children's hospital, and apparently is going steady with someone. Who knew Carlos Garcia, a.k.a. El Hombre Del Flaming Space Rock Man, would have his life in way better control than Logan Mitchell, the future doctor?
Before I can chicken out, I press Call, and clutch the phone to my ear.
"Pick up, Carlos, please," I whisper.
He doesn't, though. He's probably out with his girlfriend. Or with Kendall. Or maybe James came home early this week and they're all hanging out.
Suddenly I feel ten times more lonely.
Still, his message machine picks up, and can't help but smile. I can hear James and Kendall and even my own voice in the background from when he recorded this at least three years ago.
"...Oh, it's going? Oh. Hi, this is Carlos! You should call me back. Because obviously I'm not here. Or maybe I don't want to talk to you. Wait I mean this is Carlos Garcia, sorry. Anyway, either way, call back. Or leave a message. Um, bye! Oh, thanks for calling. Whoa how do I stop it? ...Oh. *click*"
The tone rings. I'm so achingly desperate for company.
"Hey, Carlos-" I said, trying to make my voice sound calm and not so depressed, and failing. "Hi, um, well, I just called because... I don't know, I guess, I need to talk- I mean I felt like it, and... never mind." I sigh at myself. Oh, you're such a turd, oh yeah a giant turd... "Bye." The last word embarrassingly squeaks up an octave. What am I, twelve?
Where is this coming from? I'm really, really trying not to cry, but the pictures I'm staring at aren't helping. What made me think I was ready for this? I'm barely eighteen; what made me think I could move to Massachusetts all alone? I've never been alone before. It's strange. I've barely gone a single day without my best friends in ten years. What made me think I could live without them now?
I wonder if they miss me too. I mean, they were friends before they met me, right? I was the last to join our foursome. They spent nearly two years as an inseparable trio, until that quiet, friendless, nerdy little new kid got lucky when he moved to Minnesota and was put in Miss Turner's third grade class. He was somehow befriended by the three coolest eight-year-olds in the world, but hadn't they already built ties among themselves? My best friends were best friends without me; who's to say that they couldn't be again?
I don't know why I'm thinking like this. I guess I'm just in an angsty mood. I know I'm being melodramatic, but all of a sudden, I can't help the feeling of insecurity. That's just what happens when you're alone.
And all of a sudden, the tears are running down my cheeks.
A/N: THE END.
Ahaha, just kidding, the rest will be updated probably on... Saturday? Sometime this weekend hopefully. There will be either one or two chapters more, I can't decide. Probably two. I feel like three-shots are really weird format-wise, but oh well.
So I hope you liked it Chanson! And the rest of ya'll. :) I'm sorry it's so depressing and angsty... This is probably NOT what Channy-bean wanted to read. :/ Meh. Next chapter will hopefully be sort of humorous. Most likely it'll just be stupid, but then you can laugh at me. :)
Happy almost weekendish! :)