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The intense heat of the Salt Lake City sun burns right through the glass windows of the 97.1 ZHT lounge, but it has nothing on the blinding glare of the media cameras. Flashbulbs fire in a rapid, rhythmic pulse that makes the air feel heavy and electric. James Diamond—no, James Maslow, he has to remind himself that he is not entirely the character he plays on TV—shuffles forward, the heels of his boots clicking against the polished floor. He hitches himself onto the tall, slightly unstable barstool, his long legs bracketing the metal rungs as he adjusts to the height. Next to him, the rest Big Time Rush is settling into the same awkward rhythm of a promo tour stop.
Carlos Garcia is already fidgeting, spinning the top of his microphone capsule between his palms and kicking his sneakers against the base of his stool. Logan Mitchell leans forward with a hyper-focused glint in his eye, messing with the settings of a stationary camera pointed right at them, his fingers twitching over the lens. But James isn't looking at Carlos or Logan. His eyes drift to his left, landing on Kendall Schmidt.
Tomorrow, James turns twenty-two, a milestone that feels bizarrely adult amidst the chaos of a summer tour. For two years now, away from the screaming fans and the scripted television sets, Kendall has been his anchor. Right now, though, that anchor looks distinctly stressed. Kendall is slouched slightly, his shoulders curved inward as his thumbs nervously pick at the frayed hem of his faded graphic tee. It’s a telltale sign of his anxiety, a silent plea for a distraction. A sudden, wicked spark of mischief flares up in James’s chest. He knows exactly how to break that tension, even if it comes at his boyfriend's expense.
James taps his microphone, the sharp sound cutting through the ambient chatter of the tech crew and publicists. He leans in close, a smooth, practiced grin spreading across his face. "Alright, uh, usually we start these things out with some questions," James says, his voice dropping into that rich, confident register that always commands a room. He pauses for dramatic effect, eyes dancing. "I'd like to start out with a statement."
The shift in the room is instantaneous. Carlos stops spinning his mic, his brow furrowing as he glances over. Logan abandons his camera adjustments, tilting his head with a look of pure, analytical curiosity. They are used to James being theatrical, but this feels unscripted. Kendall, however, freezes entirely. His fingers stop plucking at his shirt hem. He doesn't need a telepathic connection to know that look on James’s face. As James slowly turns his torso and extends a finger, pointing it directly at him like a smoking gun, Kendall realizes with a sinking feeling that he is about to become the ultimate victim of James's chaotic energy.
James doesn't miss a beat, projecting loudly into the microphone. "Kendall just farted in that room."
For a fraction of a second, the room hangs in absolute silence. Then, the dam breaks. A collective burst of noise echoes through the lounge. Carlos shrieks, a high-pitched sound of pure delight, while Logan lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, instantly amused by the sheer audacity of the call-out. Kendall’s reaction is physical and immediate. A violent wave of crimson floods up his neck, swallowing his collarbone and rushing all the way to the tips of his ears. His jaw drops in utter betrayal, his blue eyes wide as he stares at James, entirely defenseless against the onslaught of public embarrassment.
James leans further into the mic, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he doubles down, utterly ruthless. "I'm not gonna lie, we had to wait in it for five minutes."
"That's amazing that you just got that on camera," Logan gasps out, his voice shaking with mirth as he gesturing wildly toward the recording equipment.
He is already reaching for his own phone, completely ready to document the historic downfall of their fearless leader. Carlos is completely gone. He throws his head back, laughing so violently that his entire body convulses. In his hysteria, he completely forgets that these promotional stools don't have backrests. He leans back into empty air, his arms flailing as he nearly slips right off the vinyl seat. He barely manages to catch his balance by grabbing the edge of the audio table, his laughter turning into breathless, wheezing giggles.
Meanwhile, Logan is snapping photos in rapid succession, the digital shutter clicks adding to the symphony of mockery. Kendall can't take it anymore. He groans, a sound of pure agony, and buries his burning, bright-red face entirely in his hands, his fingers pressing tightly against his eyes to shut out the world. James watches him hide. The initial rush of mischievous triumph softens into something much warmer, much more familiar. He loves making fun of Kendall, but he hates seeing him actually retreat into himself. Even though he's still quietly laughing, his chest shaking with amusement, James slides smoothly off his tall stool.
He steps into Kendall’s space, bridging the gap between their chairs. Without a word, James reaches out and wraps his arms around Kendall’s shoulders, pulling his boyfriend's hidden face right into the crook of his neck. It is a heavy, grounding embrace—an public apology wrapped in a private 'I love you.'
Enveloped in the hug, Kendall lets his hands drop from his face. The overwhelming smell of the studio fades, replaced entirely by James. He smells like the expensive woodsy cologne he’s worn for a year, mixed with the familiar, comforting scent of laundry detergent and summer heat. It’s the smell of safety. Despite the cameras, despite the teasing, and despite the fact that his face is still hot enough to fry an egg, Kendall relaxes. He leans heavily into the solid expanse of James’s chest, letting the mock-defensiveness drain out of him.
James holds him tight for just a second longer than a platonic bandmate would. Before he pulls away, he leans his head down, his lips brushing discreetly against the shell of Kendall’s burning ear. It’s a ghost of a kiss, hidden from the camera angles, accompanied by a low, quiet breath that only Kendall can hear. As James breaks the embrace and hoists himself back onto his own stool, he smooths down his jacket, settling back into his interviewer-ready posture. He looks out at the lingering smiles in the room, totally unbothered.
"We all do it," James says casually, a soft smile lingering on his lips as he shrugs at the media crew. "I just called out my little demon."
The room bubbles with a few leftover chuckles. Underneath the cover of the audio desk, out of the direct line of sight of the flashes, James reaches his hand across the small gap between their stools. He finds Kendall’s thigh and gives it a firm, playful squeeze, his thumb rubbing a quick, reassuring circle through the denim. Kendall feels the warmth of the touch radiate through his leg. The bright pink flush is still painted across his cheeks, but the tension is completely gone. He finally slides his hands away from his face entirely, offering James a real, crooked smile that reaches his eyes.
Seeing that the storm has passed and the ice is thoroughly broken, Carlos finally clears his throat. He picks up his own microphone, tapping it twice to draw the attention of the reporters back to the schedule. With a grin, Carlos prepares to start the actual, official press conference, the boundaries of their chaotic, loving brotherhood firmly intact.