Dave

Zac sucked in a gasp.

"What was that all about?" Isaac wondered, looking at us as if we had the answer and were just trying to make things extra-suspenseful for him.

"I have no clue," I said honestly. "Scott does that sometimes, though. Just shoves away emotions till they all come out at once, like an eruption or something. I'll go see what's wrong."

I stood and ventured around the coffee table.

"I'll come with," offered Zac.

I hesitated. "Uh, nah . . . I'd better do this by myself. Thanks, though."

"Yeah," Zac nodded, even though he looked a little depressed. "I guess that means I should go see what Tay's up to."

"Okay."

I said a short, embarrassed "bye" to Walker and went out the door. The corridor was empty, and I couldn't believe that I could hear muted crying noises from somewhere in the building. It was kind of creepy. I only assumed Scott would be going back to our room, so I began to walk down that way. Ooh, I hoped Tay hadn't ruffled his feathers the wrong way - Scott can be pretty testy and over-dramatic when it comes to displaying his emotions, and says stuff he doesn't mean, when he's just trying to get all the spare feelings out.

I made it to the elevator, but it was already on its way up, so I had a pretty good idea that I was just on Scott's tail. I waited patiently for the elevator, then rode the brief ride up. Staring down at the fountain in the lobby, my mind wandered back to the scary photo. I kind of wondered whether that was all real; it seemed threatening, but it also just seemed like something my mind was making up. I mean, really . . . what kind of person would take incriminating pics like that except people from tabloids and really psychotic people who wanted to play with your head? . . .

"I'm scaring myself," I realized, as the doors opened with a little "ping!" and my entire body jolted, alert as a fox compared to my busy mind.

Scott had been crying. It was weird. After rushing out of the bedroom like the devil was behind him, he'd just been standing there normally for a second. Then, he made a strange choking sound, and his body waved like he was going to faint, and I'd said, "Scott?" Then, like lightning, he'd just bolted and careened out the door, leaving us all in shock.

I wandered slowly out into the seventh floor corridor, passing by a security guard sitting on a bench. He held a small black device in his hand, polishing it with his handkerchief. I gazed at him nonchalantly as I passed by. He looked up and as we made eye contact, I looked away. I never have liked police. I always felt like they could see every little law I'd ever broken. Creepy. I decided to walk faster. Was it just me, or did it seem like everyone was watching me? It's just that stupid photograph. Someone is playing with your mind!

Hehe, speaking of photographs, Zac had quite a collection of fake Speedo pics and fake nude pics of his pretty older brother. Tay seemed to be quite the favorite of many perverted little minds out there. But, I had to admit, I could see why, and I could see why Scott was so taken with Taylor. He was really charismatic in some qualities. And, noting how he looked earlier in his nice-fitting black clothing and his neat blond ponytail, he fitted Scott's desire for a well-dressed, well-taken-care-of partner. He was probably just subtly delicate enough to soothe Scott's need for a pretty girl. And when I really thought about it, he and Scott seemed to fit each other like corresponding puzzle pieces, filling in and completing the empty spaces they both had. I'd never seen Scott beam so much at anything as when he and Taylor were whispering softly to each other at the Hard Rock. I almost ran into the door when I reached it, I was so lost in my little memories.

I pulled out my keycard and opened the door quickly. As soon as I did, I heard Clint and Bob's yelling in the next room, and that sobbing sound, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I looked around at the empty living room area. It was empty! Where was Scott?

Scott

I can't remember getting there, but I remember opening the door to room 734 and hearing Bob and Clint's loud voices, shouting at each other as they were playing a video game. They were in the bedroom. I felt the tears on my face and knew I didn't want my brothers to question them, so I looked around for somewhere I could hide and just be alone and sob. Ah.

I yanked open the sliding closet door and squeezed myself in among the hanging garments. It was hot and comforting in the closet, despite the smell of dustbunnies, and the soft material of a pair of my Dad's pants brushed my cheeks as I sank down to the floor and closed the door again. As I sank, it seemed like it was pushing the tears inside me up, and before I knew it, I was fully releasing the dam holding the river back. I could hear my own whimpers as I cried, and it didn't seem like it was me. In fact, I didn't feel connected with myself at all. Everything about the past two days and this morning seemed like it was a bad b-rated movie that people ignore at the drive-in movies, with improbable situations and blondes, blondes, blondes.

Blond. Tay. Tay . . .

You are ashamed. My mind relived these words repetitively. You are ashamed. You are ashamed that you can't be proud of liking a person of your same sex. You are ashamed that you are a complete asshole. You are a walking contradiction. No, you're not gay! You just like Taylor.

I love Taylor.

Hurt crowded into my chest again. Why did Taylor have to hit on the one spot that really mattered? I really didn't think I was gay. But that was confusing. I did like Taylor. A lot. More than I'd ever liked anyone. Physically, romantically, emotionally - I was interested in him in all aspects! I liked girls, of course, and there was the occasional there-goes-a-hot-guy thought, but doesn't that pop up in every guy's brain every once in a while? Before I'd met Taylor, I never, ever thought about doing anything with another male, but there was something . . . just something about Taylor that drew me to him. An unmistakable, inviting aura about him, that obviously drew the attention of many a screaming teenies as well. I was sure the funny, happy, excited, and peaceful feelings in my heart were love and not just sexual excitement. I recalled Taylor's words again.

You wanted a first kiss, you got one. You wanted experience, I gave you that.

It wasn't true, was it? Did I really just use him for that? Was it legitimate?

Come on, I thought desperately, reaching up with my hand in the dark and feeling the clothes hanging in front of my face. I was never thinking about that when I was with him. I only wanted to be with him in every way possible. I wanted him. I wanted him to feel what I felt. I was not ashamed then . . .

Another fresh wave of tears came crashing from me, a never-ending tsunami of confusion and horribly mauled nerves. For a moment I imagined myself leaping off the balcony. Or the earth opening beneath me and swallowing me, so I wouldn't have to deal with any of this.

I'm sixteen fucking years old! I should be able to control my emotions and here I am, sitting in a hotel closet crying like a three-year-old! Over another GUY! And I can't stop! It won't stop! Why, why, WHY did this have to happen? More than anything, right now I just need someone, and I can't even control myself enough to be able to keep the person I need in my life!

"Hello? . . ." a muffled voice rang. "Scott, where are you?"

I nearly killed myself choking back my tears. My chest shook violently. It was Dave. I prayed he wouldn't find me, but at the same time, I wished he would, so he could talk some sense into me and tell me what had just happened was no big deal. I buried my face into my arms. "I'm in here, Dave."

"Scott? Is that you? I can't hear where you are," Dave's voice came. I reached out a fist and pounded on the closet door from the inside.

"In here."

The door slid open a little, sending a crack of light into the corner. "Scott? . . ."

Dave

I saw nothing but Scott's suits and our nicer pairs of pants hanging up in the provided hangers. I peeked in further. "Scott? . . ."

"Hrrr," Scott's voice projected, and I pulled the door open further and found him on the floor in the opposite end of the closet, sitting tightly, his body curled into a little ball and his face buried far, far in the realms of his streaked mane. His back jumped as he gasped for breath.

"Scott? You okay? What's wrong?" I asked, trying to use a nice voice.

To my surprise, Scott just shrieked and started crying heavily, a violent storm of tears for rain and angry noises for thunder. I decided to climb into the closet with him, and sat amongst the shoes on the floor and the hanging clothes. As I pulled the door shut again and shrouded us in darkness, I asked gently,

"What happened?"

Scott's response was much the same - a whimper and a fit of fervent sobs. I had no idea what to do, feeling utterly helpless against Scott's army of bitter tears. Sometimes in Scott, if you dug far enough, you could find a deep, swelling pocket of ruthless, wild emotion that even he could not keep a grip on. It came out in different ways, according to how you nurtured it - in happy tears, bitter or angry, sad and lonely, depressed and melancholy bouts of mood swings. Obviously, these were uncontrollable tears, and his whimpers and angry groans were displaying his mix of helpless fear and hostility. I was getting no other response, so I did what felt right. I felt my way in the darkness till I found his shoulders, and edged my arm around him. He stiffened and shuddered hard, lost in his own fury of emotional release.

"Shh . . ." I found myself cradling him a little, pulling his trembling limbs closer, my hand softly petting his head. "It's okay."

"I - do - NOT - like - crying," Scott was choking, his crying so violent that it was all his diaphragm could allow before he gasped in for breath.

Surprisingly, Scott is usually very comfortable with crying.

"Just cry. Crying is healthy," I replied, leaning my cheek on his silky hair and sighing deeply. "And when you calm down, tell me why you are crying."

"Dave," sobbed Scott, and his body yielded to my embrace. I pulled him closer and cuddled him as if I were his father and he were a toddler with a band-aid on his knee. His nice pants and blue shirt seemed out-of-place on his shaking body. He should have been wearing Transformers shorts and He-Man sneakers and carrying around his ratty old green-checkered blanket that he used to have when he was little. He seemed to have such a slippery hold on his inner self that it had went flying out of his hands and splattered onto the wall.

"Did something happen with Taylor?" I questioned patiently. Scott practically wailed, so I assumed something did happen with Taylor, and I assumed it wasn't good.

Scott's voice came. "I didn't mean to."

I scrunched up my nose. "Didn't mean to what?"

"It all happened so fast, I didn't even know I was saying what I was. I couldn't help it. I didn't mean to. I was just upset. I-"

"Did you say something that offended him?" I asked, surprised. Who could imagine Scott and Taylor not looking at each other lovingly when they thought no one else was looking?

"I guess so," Scott sniffed, lifting his face. Hair stuck to his red cheeks, damp and hot from his tears. He wiped his hair to the side and sighed, his chest shuddering. "I just blew up at him. Not really, I mean, I didn't yell, but we both said some stuff that was way out-of-line."

"I don't blame you," I said sympathetically. "I feel a little different lately, too."

My mind ventured back to Zac.

"Dave, I'm going to be straight with you. Taylor's probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. I seriously have never felt this way in my entire life. Every single thing about him seems so perfect and right. It's not fair. Life is so jacked. Why is it, when I find the perfect person, when I find someone I feel like I can just . . . connect with, and understand, and be understood by, and there's never any dissension, that God has to look down on me and say, 'That's not right. They're not supposed to be together' and screw it up!"

I raised my eyebrows. I wouldn't have gone so far as to try to place the blame on god, but I understood Scott's basic opinion.

"He said I was ashamed," Scott then confided in me, a few more tears escaping and soaking the shoulder of my shirt. I felt them, hot and real, on my skin, beneath the soggy fabric he'd already cried on.

"Are you?" I asked him, tenderly reaching up and tucking his awry hair behind his ear.

Scott sighed. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to think."

"I think, that, you're supposed to follow your heart," I offered him.

"Easier said than done," replied he. "What if following my heart puts both Hanson and The Moffatts in deep shit? What if I don't know what my heart is telling me? And what if my heart is completely wrong?"

"I think your heart is telling you that Taylor does mean something to you. Otherwise, you wouldn't be bawling so hard on my T-shirt. Right?" I smiled. Scott's lips twisted up in a half-smile which turned into a pained frown.