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Summary: One shots interspersed between a three volume BTR origin story.
Egg (i/iii)
∞
At first Logan isn’t sure how not to hate it.
He can’t dance. He can’t sing. He’s ninety-seven percent sure the man in the FUBU loungewear is going to decapitate him and adorn the space above the fireplace in his ridiculous condo with his head while the likes of Snoop Dog and assorted members of Boy Quake sip red wine and study him like art. He of track suit and gold chain seems to grow stronger and grumpier on a steady diet of tears and humiliation, and thanks to Logan’s eidetic memory the furious tenor of his noise ordinance-shattering bellowing plays on a loop in his brain at bedtime. The horror of this high-resolution recall makes sleep impossible, subsequently ensuing all manner of flail-y, dance floor tragedy that explodes in an Elmer-Fudd-but-go-ahead-and-make-him-terrifying-thanks festival of rage featuring airborne saliva and pleas for divine intervention (Gustavo: If there is a God, why would you make them witness this??) before segueing neatly into a close up on aforementioned terrible, furious, noise ordinance-shattering bellowing.
This cycle repeats itself until the day the hue of Gustavo’s cheek turns a previously unseen shade of terror alert purple and Logan catches a glimpse of the fiery underworld populated by former boy band members. (He’d always imagined a Dante situation but with every member of the Mickey Mouse Club not named Britney, Christina or Justin).Whilst expertly butchering a reverse spin move, Logan nearly takes himself out on the bar at the back of the room, leaving Gustavo a nice little space in which to advance upon him like an Uruk-Hai chieftain who’s just spotted a jewelry-carrying Halfling. True to form Logan scrambles up against the mirror and makes himself smaller, trying to emotionally distance himself from his appendages in the event that one of them is snapped off in the next five seconds. The remainder of Gustavo’s face is a volcanic red, filled with unformed primal screams and self-esteem crushing mini tangents therein as he strides forward, sucking in air Logan thinks he can actually feel whipping across his face.
He’s certain the amount of rage is proportional to the number of times he manages to degrade this little reverse spin (and by extension the entire history of human rhythmic gyration) that’s easy for everyone not named Logan, and that failure correlates to the frequency in which any part of his body comes into contact with the satanic bar at the back of the room.
In conclusion: he might actually die today.
At the outstretched index finger adorned with bling, quaking with rage, his brain begins overproducing lengthy, heartfelt apologies ending in “your grace” and sincere-sounding reassurances that presenting Choice Cry in your Car Jam at the Country Music Awards is going to be 63.5 percent less Prada if Gustavo has to Skype in from prison. Before he can choose a method of survival however, Gustavo’s barreling down on him screaming what were just recently words and Logan’s amygdala-in the midst of flipping through the catalogue of supplicatory gestures ancient civilizations made to appease enraged Gods and instantly regretting that he doesn't have the time/lumber/accelerant/fire safety credentials to build/set fire to a Gustavo-shaped pyre in the parking lot-reverts to that of a small, pre-historic land mammal facing extinction.
So caught up in the very sudden idea of no longer being alive is he that for a moment he forgets about the absurdly predictable nature of his life.
“Dude.”
At the slightly scratchy inflection, all eyes swivel toward the upper left hand corner of the room. Kendall ’s kind of magnetic like that.
Minnetonka High School's Instigator of the Year award winner (2008-2009) slowly raises one eyebrow then the other, the effect of which is a confused Muppet being gradually enlightened. The room’s predominant sounds are Boyz in the Attic's last LP and Gustavo’s labored breathing.
Gustavo’s face begins to simmer.
Kendall glances at the ceiling.
“What?” Gustavo shouts.
Kendall smiles slightly. Stance wide, excuse me finger up in an artful homage to his mom's casual dismissal of creepy industry execs who ask for her digits in front of her children, he rocks back on his heels in barely contained delight; as though he’s been waiting forever for this very moment. Logan hears it before it happens but still doesn't have time to wince before-
“Chill out man.”