As I felt my source of body-heat suddenly disappear, I woke up, seeing the white curtains of a hotel room, a television that was on at a low volume, and streaks of translucent, pale morning light streaming in through the window. I focused on how pretty and postcard-like it was, and how quiet it was in the room.

"Oh . . . we weren't going to wake you up," said an apologetic voice, belonging to a boy with long, dark brown hair and beautiful brown puppy eyes.

Bob.

"It's . . . mm . . . okay," I muttered, not really remembering anything at the moment except for someone had been sleeping in the bed with me and was now absent. I suddenly yawned and sleepily lifted up my wrist to gaze at my watch. Holy shit, it was eight a.m. - and I was up to witness it. I groaned, the lack of sleep I'd gotten suddenly kicking me in the stomach and demanding that I slip back into the Land of Nod. My eyes shut and I forced them back open again. I saw Bob grinning crookedly.

"You really didn't get much sleep last night, did you?" he mused. "Scott looks like crap."

"Thanks," said a voice, coming from within the depths of the kitchen adjoined to the living area.

My first instinct upon hearing his voice was to stretch out my arms and accept him into them . . . but I just sat up quickly and threw my legs over the side of the be. As a result, I fought a bout of dizziness.

"Um - you wanna borrow some clothes?" Bob snickered, and I nodded, dazedly.

Scott entered the room, holding a bottle of orange juice in his right hand. I shivered, not being able to hold back the tiny smile that came over my face. He was wearing blue jeans that had about eighty rips and holes in them, black boots, and a black t-shirt gently tucked into his waist, which also sported a black belt. Our eyes met momentarily, and memories came crashing back.

You taste good.

I hope I wasn't too loud.

No.

I'm not gay or anything, but sometimes - I admit - I get a hard-on from thinking about a guy.

There are lots of times when I think I'm bi, too.

Thank you for being there.

Touch it . . .

I will.

Memories assaulted me from every direction as I stared at Scott, and he stared back at me, the same memories playing back in his eyes. Slowly, a grin spread over his lips, and I just blushed and slowly maneuvered the blanket so it was covering any evidence of a morning hard-on, especially one spurred by a memory that seemed like an erotic, wishful dream.

"Uh . . . okay," Bob's voice said out of nowhere, and he stood there with an expression that obviously stated, Um, I've missed something, here.

"Were we too loud?" Scott asked me softly, and I could've passed out. The huskiness in his voice stroked me every right way, and it was almost like we were laying in each other's hot arms again. For a moment, I felt like I was, and my heart swooned.

"No," I murmured.

Bob just gave up on trying to understand whatever we both obviously could, and went into the kitchen, murmuring something about getting a banana.

"I'll get you some clothes," Scott offered, the twist on his lips almost too overwhelming for me to just stare at, but of course, I kept my ground. No need to leap up and rape him where he stood.

"Okay," I dismissed, leaning back on my hands and enjoying the warm sunshine tickling my back, while the warm feelings of being around Scott washed over my front side. My mind toyed with the thought of wearing clothes that belonged to Scott - every inch of my body touching things that every inch of his body had touched and would touch again. Before I knew it, he'd returned, bearing an offering of some long gray cargo shorts and a maroon-red button-up shirt.

"Um - I . . . I know you like red, so . . ." he flustered, handing the clothes to me. I was smiling, but it dropped off my face in astonishment of his knowledge of my favorite color.

Scott

Taylor's jaw lagged as he accepted the clothing I handed to him. I felt our fingertips just barely brush as he took them from me, but he didn't. He looked too bewildered. I abruptly began to feel stupid at telling him that I knew he liked red - he seemed to shboggled by it.

"Um . . . how did you know," he asked me, his tone not implying it as a question, but rather an interested little quip.

"I didn't, baby, you just told me," Clint piped, coming out of the bathroom and sliding in his own little out-of-context quote.

"I just - I don't know, I just knew," I said, trying to wriggle out from underneath that one. Taylor must have realized that I looked rather uncomfortable, so he said,

"Thanks . . . for the clothes."

"Oh, yeah," I said quickly.

He quickly slid on the shorts, and I tried not to watch him. Instead, I fakely busied myself with twisting on and off my orange juice cap.

"You don't even have bed-head," I breathed, just letting it slip out. Damn, I was on a roll of telling Tay things he didn't particularly need to know.

He grinned up at me angelically - again, so completely transformed from the mattress pimp he'd become last night. I ran my hand through my hair, embarrassed, and grateful when Bob came up to Tay and said,

"We're leaving in a half hour, but you're more than welcome to stay and partake in our fancy breakfast."

Tay and I smiled at the box of Pop Tarts and the glass bottles of orange juice on the table.

"Well, I really should get to my room and get some of my own clothes on," Taylor said, standing up and using the ponytail holder on his wrist to tie his hair back.

No, don't leave . . . don't put your own clothes on, I thought, suddenly offering Taylor a drink of my orange juice in a small, strange effort to make him stay with me, as if maybe if he took a drink he'd decide he had to stay and get his own, or something.

He took me up on the offer, taking it and purposefully gently caressing the rest of my fingers with a brush of his thumb as he did so. I sighed happily, watching him drink from my drink - a symbolic "your germs don't bug me" gesture.

"Ew, you shouldn't have done that, Tay, you've got Scott backwash in your mouth now," Bob grimaced. As if on cue, a *thwack* coming from the kitchen alerted my younger brother of his freshly-popped Pop Tart, and he turned to go get it.

"It isn't the first time," I remarked evilly as Taylor gave me the bottle back. We laughed in the open remark of our relationship.

"Hey boys!" my dad's loud voice exclaimed, causing us both to jump. He was at the door of the bedroom, wearing some old jeans from what I swear were the 1950s, and a white polo shirt. He looked all too energized. "Get enough sleep? Ready for the performance?"

"Yeah," we both said in unison of our separate questions.

"I ought to get back to my room. Thanks for letting me stay over," Taylor said, slipping his sandals on.

"No problem, son! Send Dave on over here real soon, we're leaving in a good thirty minutes."

"Okay, I will," Taylor replied. He stood and stuffed his wallet into the back pocket of his - my - shorts.

"Oh - uh - I'll - I wanna come with you," I stuttered.

"Okay, guys, don't take longer than about fifteen minutes, okay?"

"Sure," we said in unison again.

Clint came into the room, shaking his head. "They've been around each other too long. They're starting to talk alike --"

"They laugh alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike, you can lose your mind!" Bob suddenly broke into song in the kitchen.

Taylor and I stared at each other in horror and then amusement. I practically shoved Tay out the hotel room, and we didn't shut out the strains of a Moffatts rendition of The Patty Duke Show theme song until the door was closed behind us.

"Your family reminds me so much of mine!" Tay commented as we began to walk towards the elevators. Personally, I was just a little embarrassed, but said,

"Cool. That's cool. We're a lot alike. It's true."

"Yeah," Taylor agreed, and my heart leapt when he took my hand, even though it was dangerous to in public. The consequences of last night were trying to make themselves apparent to me now, and though maintaining a stiff friendship in public was probably best, we completely ignored it at the moment. My spirit was singing happily a song in the familiar tune of The Patty Duke Show theme song.

"I hope I have my key-card with me," Taylor said, using his free hand to search his - MY - pockets. "It's probably in my wallet."

We stopped at the elevator and pressed the down button. Since there was no one around, I let go of his hand and transferred it to his back pocket, sliding his wallet back out for him.

"Thanks," Taylor whispered, and after doing his fair share of peeking around, pecked my cheek.

"Mm-hmm." I sighed again with surplus happiness as we stepped into the elevator. The lobby was remarkably busy for it being eight - well, eight-ten - in the morning.

"Wonder if Bob thought we were being freaks," commented Taylor.

"No, you were no more of a freak than usual," I teased.

Taylor rolled his great blue eyes at me adoringly, choosing not to fire anything back at me. We came upon the third floor, which had people milling about on it, and strode down the hallway to the "Hanson Suite."

Taylor pulled out his key-card, humming a little tune. "Damn, I have it stuck in my head now," he laughed, stroking the card gently through the electronic lock. I laughed, too. He pushed the door open, and I followed him inside.

"Hey . . . nobody's home," Taylor said slowly, as we both stood inside the foyer and gazed into the empty room.

"Maybe they went down to get breakfast," I suggested. Tay nodded and looked at me.

"You realize we're alone now."

My mind dropped into the gutter, a fierce plunge from where it had been flying high in the clouds. Slowly, an evil grin crossed both our faces.