True, this wasn’t his first vision. The first time it happened, he had passed out right after and woken up to the worried face of Brian. His friend was convinced that it was a case of dehydration, easily so because it had been warm, hell, hot, for the past few weeks, and dehydration cases had been on the rise and besides, they had been holed up in the recording studio for almost the entire day and surely finding him sprawled in the middle of the studio with a mic stand on top of him and a bruised forehead was valid enough for him to worry. Five cases so far, Brian had told him, and one of them died and Brian wasn’t about to see that statistic rise because of him. All he had to say on the ride to a nearby ER was that he had the weirdest dream ever and it involved this kid being stabbed to death in some dark roadside or something by another man. Brian said not only was his dream weird, it was morbid.

There would be three more such visions (and he realised it was a vision and not a dream like he first thought when he got the second one while driving and he could only thank his luck that he was at a red stop), three more such fucking migraine attacks, before Howie came forward, because Kevin was no longer there with them, holed up in hotels and studios, writing and recording their next album, and said Nicky, I think it’s time for some intervention buddy.

And because he didn’t tell them about the visions but sudden attacks of migraines, an appointment was made with what he called the head doctor, because honestly, it was just easier to remember than say, neurosurgeon, and okay, head doctor tends to make him smirk while neurosurgeon just scare the crap out of him. Only it didn’t help at all because screw his dumb luck, he had the attack of the sudden migraine that led to another friggin vision minutes after he entered that tunnel, that vacuum of a tunnel with that annoying voice telling him every five seconds, try to stay very still Mr. Carter, hands on your side Mr. Carter, try not to blink Mr. Carter. He decided, after he had left the hospital a few hours later, that he’d blame the sudden attack on that stupid voice, because surely it was his agitation that had triggered that latest episode, surely if he had just kept his mouth shut and leave him alone, nothing would have happened. Yeah, surely.

They couldn’t do any brain scan on him after that because he had felt so weak, so weak that he was throwing up everywhere while the table, which really shouldn’t be called a table because it’s just a flat cold steel he was lying on, slid out of the tunnel and back into the room.

He had gone into shock, right after hyperventilating and then something bit him in the arm and the next time he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. AJ had mocked him like crazy, dude you’re such a pussy, and they knew something was up when he smirked and said yeah, instead of going all defensive on AJ’s assless ass. He figured it’d be better than saying no man, the whole tunnel thing was okay, it’s getting a vision of someone’s throat getting slit was what got me. No, he didn’t think that would go well with them.

= =

So Kevin sure knew how to build up the moment. His bruises were attended to, and Kevin had been so gentle, so careful with the wounds that he only hissed once, and that was when Kevin had dabbed friggin iodine on his chin (apparently he hurt that too), and that, that had hurt, like a bitch, because okay, getting to choose if he wanted yellow or purple iodine was fun (and what the fuck was Kevin thinking asking him which colour he wanted, what was he, five?), and he had picked purple to go with his purple shirt, but damn thing hurt and it was his face, and lets face it, he tends to care a bit more about the face than the knees since you can’t hide this under a paper bag, it’s like, out there, for everyone to see, and he would hate it, loath it, if this one was going to leave a mark.

Then Kevin offered him spaghetti and he had to do a double take, a whiplash on the neck, because Kevin did not just said he was going to make spaghetti for him! And then he had taken out leftovers and put them in the oven and he allowed himself to breathe a little. He didn’t think he needed food poisoning on top of everything else.

The spaghetti went down really nice with a tall glass of chilled lemon tea and then Kevin muttered something about not believing what he was doing and dropped four tablets of Tylenol in his palm. Dude four Tylenol, if this had taken place in some corridors of a hotel, everyone would start assuming he was on some kind of drugs. Probably Prozac, which wasn’t that unbelievable considering his current state of mental health might just warrant him that prescription.

They lazed around in the kitchen, it was so huge, he didn’t feel like moving an inch and making his way to the living room might just wake up that burning heat he had felt on his bruised knees anyway.

Then it happened.

“What happened just now?”

He shrugged and took another sip of his drink, wondering if there was a way to cop out of this situation, this confrontation and then realised he was too tired to go around the subject, to keep denying them what they deserved to know, because at the end of the day, this wasn’t just about him, it’s about them too, the group, and the fucking management and oh God, surely it didn’t have to come to that! Those money hungry business people wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t get it. They’d probably nod their heads and make some quick bucks while the media ran their stories, how Nick Carter had gone crazy, and then cut him off the contract because he was no longer at the right frame of mind to continue, drop his ass like cow dung and dump him in that white, big hospital for the crazies and Backstreet Boys will be no more, and it will go down in history, twenty years from now they’d still be talking about how he had single-handedly ended the careers of the four of them, because Nick fucking Carter went out of control, went even further than leaving the group or entering rehab, got himself sick in the head with talks of fucking visions man. Fucking lunatic!

“I had a headache.”

“Really?”

He wondered if Kevin had actually expected something more, like maybe say out loud that he had a vision, maybe that might satisfy him, or freaked him out, or both.

“Well, migraine.”

“And now it’s gone?”

“Just dizzy.”

“This isn’t the first time you had it.”

And he knew it wasn’t even a question. A hidden challenge perhaps, pushing him, daring him to just spill. Say it, tell me what it really is, you’ve gone so far to keeping it quiet and look where you ended up now, here in my house, back to me, because they can’t help you now Nick, they’ve tried and nothing worked, and you told me you’re going to be fine once I left, you promised me you’re going to prove to me that you can take care of yourself, that you’re a man now, not just my fucking little brother, you’re not a disappointment, so don’t just sit there and not say a thing, look at me, look at me, I fucking dare you, I triple fucking dare you.

He caved. Anything to get that voice to shut the hell up.

Nodded his head, because yeah, he was going to spill, but he was going to take this slowly, carefully, there was no need to jump on the man and scarred him for life.

“This is going to sound crazy man.”

“Try me.”

“I don’t want you to chuck me in some hospital.”

“I’m not going to.”

“How would you know that, I haven’t even tell you.”

“We’re just talking Nicky, nothing more.”

Ran his fingers through his hair, because shit, where should he start? He had waited for someone to force it out of him, to just lay it on the table and offered him his only chance, and now that it was here, he didn’t know where to begin.

“How about the first time you had this migraine?” And who needs psychics or visions, if you have Kevin Richardson asking you things as if he’d been in your fucking head?

“The first time was when Brian found me passed out in the studio.”

“The dehydration episode?”

Yeah, episode, because that’s what it was, his life was a collection of friggin episodes, they were up to season 27 now and faithful audience knew the end was coming, this was it, the Nick Carter show was pulling down its curtains.

“Yeah, that one.”

Kevin just nodded, because that’s just Kevin, when he gave you your space, your speaker box to stand on, he backs away, he joins the audience, not talking, just watching and listening, listens to what you have to say, not prodding, not judging, not expecting anything but the truth.

“Kevin, it’s more than just migraines,” he started, assessed the situation, Kevin still listening. “Came out of nowhere, no warning whatsoever and felt like my head’s going to explode.”

“Stronger meds just makes me tired easily and I don’t want to be dependent on some drugs, so I didn’t take them, just your normal Tylenol will do.”

Still sitting there, just looking at him, strong features looking soft and calm, lulling him to comfort, showing him this is the face to be trusted, just say it.

“But this is where it gets crazy and for a while there, I really was beginning to believe that I should be in stripped jacket and forcing down pills to get myself catatonic or something, tucked in some fucking asylum so it’ll all just stop…”

Still there, still unmoving, no signs of breaking under pressure or freaking out from talks of asylums.

“These…migraines…they trigger…something…it let me see…stuff…things that happen to somebody else you know? But it’s not happening in front of me, like in…real time…it’s like I’m watching it happening in front of me but it’s not there and I don’t know who these people are but it felt real, I can see them and smell them and…and…ugh fuck this!”

A warm hand rested on top of his, gentle tap to let him know he was still there, that he was listening, but perhaps he’d make it easier for the both of them and acknowledged this.

“Nick, are you saying you’re having visions?”

Huh. He almost laugh, almost. The way Kevin said it, it was like asking Nick, are you saying you want a puppy? Are you saying you want a double cheeseburger? Are you saying you want a packet of Howie’s gummy bear? Kevin sounded so normal, so in control that he wasn’t sure if he had really said the word, if he had heard him said vision.

“Well…that sounds crazy isn’t it?”

“I don’t know Nick, what did you see in these visions?”

Was he mocking him now? Was he just playing along so he would spill everything, so Kevin could then plan the next course of actions? More private phone calls behind his back, lets figure this one out, what’s wrong with our little brother, is he crazy? Is he just stressed? How about therapy? Medications? What about the migraines? But he’s seeing things, awful things, is he going to react to it? What if the voices are telling him to do those things? Go kill people, kill himself.

His gaze dropped to his hands, to his trembling fingers, surprised to see them shaking, to be reduced to this sorry state in front of this man. This is it, he decided, it’s now or never. Forced back the smile at his own pun, because that might just drive the nail to the coffin where Kevin decided that he was indeed crazy was concerned. He couldn’t let him decide that rashly now, not when he wasn’t done yet, before he had the time to show him, to prove that this just wasn’t his overactive imagination playing with his head.

“I need my bag.” Surely not the answer Kevin was waiting for, but Kevin just had to give him some more faith in this one. “Where did I put it?”

“It’s right here buddy,” Kevin said with ease, and he wasn’t sure how to react to that. Was Kevin genuinely sincere about the whole not being judgmental thing or was that Kevin tiptoeing around eggshells, making sure he didn’t crack? Buddy, it used to be an endearing term coming out of Kevin, coming out of any of the guys, but lately he just couldn’t help wondering if it was something else.

The black bagpack rested on the empty chair next to him and he worked his way quickly, plunging his arm inside and groping around, fishing for the sketch pad, felt the hard edges of the worn book and pulled it out, lay it on the table, his ticket. The only thing he had to prove to his friends that he isn’t crazy, that this wasn’t some kind of a joke. Oh he wished this had all been some kind of a joke.

He took a deep breath and let it out anxiously, fingered the edge of the paper and then flipped it to the second page. Soft gasp, first unguarded reaction coming out from Kevin and he felt pity for the man, because this, this was uncalled for.

A girl in a van, holding a cup in her hand, one finger stirring at the red liquid inside and the liquid was red and her eyes, her eyes were black, entirely black, no whites surrounding the pupils, there were no pupils to begin with, just black. He was just glad he was born with this natural talent to draw, because this right here, was his release, his outlet to those pent up energies, to letting go those images swirling in his head hours and days after the vision had occurred, like the smell of stale bread lingering in the air hours after he had thrown the offending food into the dustbin.

He flipped to the next page, still believing that this was uncalled for. That it was bad enough he had to relive those images in his mind, now Kevin had to see it, probably wouldn’t shake those images off his head for days to come, if it ever will.

A guy in a parking lot of some sort, it was dark, his shading of the background had taken some brutal strokes of his 6B pencil. A knife stuck out just under his sternum, a sketch of a hand still grasping firmly on the knife, driving it deeper into the guy. Blood soaked his shirt, it was everywhere. He looked so young, probably a few years younger than him, black shadows under his eyes, he looked tired for someone that young, and his face, that look, it almost killed him.

He couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t go any further and pushed the pad towards Kevin, letting him handle it all, look at it, slam it shut, it was Kevin’s decision now. He made a grab for the tall glass of lemon tea and swallowed the remaining drink down his parched throat, didn’t think he was this thirsty. He was so tired, weak, and he couldn’t close his eyes, because he knew what was waiting for him on the other side, the latest motion picture, the latest visual he received while shooting hoops, the one he hadn’t had the chance to sketch away, the image of the yellow eyed demon staring back at him, grinning like some fucking Cheshire cat, and wouldn’t Kevin love to see a sketch of that one.