Zac

Dave's jaw dropped a little. "Bad news?" I nodded towards the door, and Dave looked over, jumping when he saw the brown envelope tacked onto the front of the door. He cursed under his breath, yanking it off abruptly. "Is this what I think it is?"

"I dunno, I just got here, and it was here. But it looks like it." I looked closely at Dave, whose pensive state was evident. "You okay, D?"

"You just got here?" Dave asked.

"Yeah, just a sec ago."

"But didn't you knock like five minutes ago?"

"No . . ." Our eyes locked and widened in realization. "Oh, shit."

Dave stepped into the hallway a little more, and looked up and down the hallway. Bare as a baby's butt. "Is he out there? . . ."

"Nobody was here," I squeaked. "Oh my God, dude, he was here like five minutes ago. The knocking must have been him putting the tack up."

"Did you get one?" he wanted to know.

"Umm, I - I have no idea. Shit, I should go check."

Dave nodded. "Um, you okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." Considering there is a fucking stalker around here somewhere. "You have that beach thing to go to, don't you?"

Dave sighed. "Yes. Stupid photo-shoot. I don't need any more pictures on my mind."

"I hear you all the way, Dave." I clapped him a little on his shoulder. He smiled at me, and that instantly made me feel better. He just - I mean, he had the sweetest smile. His whole face was just cute and friendly. Even his teeth, albeit a tad goofy looking sometimes, struck me as sweet then.

"Okay. Listen. We have rehearsal after the photo-shoot, which all in all should only go till about, um, I dunno. Seven. Eight. Something like that. What are you doing? Do you want to meet afterwards?"

"Yes, I do," I replied. "I'm not sure. We have a meeting to go to here in about thirty minutes, but it's right down the highway. After that, I'm not completely sure, but we might be meeting up with Ric Ocasek."

"Ric Ocasek? That officially kicks ass." I couldn't prevent smiling excitedly. "Good luck with that. I wanna know more later. This isn't the time, so when do you wanna meet?"

"Um, how about I meet you wherever you're rehearsing?" I asked shyly, as if asking him that were some huge sort of deal. "I can stay quiet and watch."

When Dave smiled at me again, I suddenly became aware of the intense magnetism between us, and things fell into an awkward but wonderful lapse. It was weird, but suddenly, neither of us could talk, and we just stood there for a moment feeling waves of strange feelings. At least, I was. Dave did not speak, and just looked at me with his big brown eyes, and an affectionate (I'd like to think so) smile on his lips.

Then: "'Kay. I'll get you the address."

"'Kay."

Dave turned back inside and disappeared momentarily. I felt like I was a prom date waiting for my girlfriend to show up in some sequined dress, just waiting there awkwardly with my hands in my pockets. Then, he appeared again, a slip of hotel stationary in hand. He handed it to me and I put it in my pocket.

"They won't let you in without a pass from us, but I wrote on that paper my permission and signature. And even after that, they probably won't believe you, so show them this." He reached out and put in my hand a gold necklace on a small chain, of a circle with the outline of a fish inside. "Our security knows those are ours. Now, you better go."

I stared at the necklace, then at him. "Yeah. Later, Dave."

Dave reached out and touched my hand. "See you, Zac."

Taylor

"Taylor? When will you be out of there?" Ike's voice questioned through the doorway.

I twirled the razor blade around in my fingers.

"Eventually."

It was so sharp and shiny.

Ike's voice continually whined. "We have to leave in fifteen minutes! I haven't had time to shave yet! Be out of there in three minutes or I'm busting the door down."

I smiled down at Isaac's empty razor on the floor, from which I'd pried the virgin blade, on a sudden impulse of wanting to take something apart.

"All right."

I sat on the closed toilet lid, in my boxers, my wet hair hanging on my back, fresh from the shower. It was amazing how dully I was performing the tasks of washing and cleaning my hair, of ritually rebraiding my rat tail, without my mind actually being in the room at the moment. As if it was just my body walking around doing things or standing in the shower, my mind still in the bedroom trying to understand what in the hell was suddenly going on.

But somehow, that razor blade brought it all back to reality.

The smooth, flawless strip of metal, smaller than the length of my first knuckle to my second, skimpier than a credit card, sharper than any needle. In a strange way, the blade was beautiful. Pure. New and waiting to be put to work. Experimentally, I found the end of my rat tail and sawed off a few hairs, watching them fall to the floor to be found and bitched about by my brothers. It was interesting. Watching them waft to the floor like they did, I mean.

I stretched out the end of my long flax plait across my left thumb, using my right fingers to stroke the razor's sharp edge against the strong, healthy hairs, watching them break individually. All too quickly, the blade sawed its way through the hairs, and upon finding my skin, left its mark on that, too.

I didn't flinch as it cut my skin, and watched the eager blood pool up around it. It felt sharp. It felt like pain, but it didn't . . . hurt. In a way, it kind of felt good to just really feel something, feel it to the point where it's physical as well as emotional.

It feels like Scott.

I widened my eyes as the pool of blood began to drip down my thumb, in wonderful scarlet streams, slipping with its heaviness across my clean skin. I'm bleeding.

I had blood. I was human. If only the people who thought I was perfect and happy could see me now, sitting in a hotel bathroom in my underwear, cutting myself with a razor blade just to feel myself getting cut. Just to watch myself bleed. Not thinking it was gross, as many would think. It was just blood. I had it, everyone has it.

Ow.

I suddenly ripped the blade from its deep wedge in my flesh, feeling it hit an extra strung nerve and my left hand spasming. The shock of real pain brought me back. Back to that tiled bathroom, from where I was in seven places at once. Maybe half of me was really sleeping in my bed, dreaming, maybe I was just a dream of some kind. But whatever it was, it seemed to be real, and my blood was starting to drip on the floor.

Standing, I held my hand over the sink and ran some cold water to rinse off the red liquid. I caught my reflection in the mirror, my skin flushed from its shower and my eyes wide and hollow. I surprised myself with the look on my face. I didn't look like me. I looked like . . . stressed just wasn't the right word. Then, I became aware of my dad's voice calling my name through the door.

"Yeah?" I called back, wondering if that was the first time he'd called my name.

"You got another package from your fan."

"What?"

Scott

For early April, the sand was chilly beneath my bare feet. Halfway pleasingly chilly, halfway driving cold shivers up my legs and making my feet ache. It was a bit of a gusty day, and the sun had decided to be streaky, playing a vigorous game of hide-and-seek with some angry-looking clouds. It was distracting me from letting the make-up-artist paint me with a fake face.

"Mr. Moffatt?" she asked as my eyes began to follow a pattern of sunlight on the sand, drawing my face away from hers. I snapped back, and her concentrated face filled my vision. She was poised with a lip gloss brush. I would have apologized, but I'm sure she didn't want my mouth moving. Over her shoulder, I saw Dave being outfitted in long black shorts and a sort of tight white T-shirt, and Bob getting his hair styled. We were all in a portable little tent pitched on a calm part of a blocked-off strip of beach, with many lights and cameras, Dad, some people on our production group, and the stylists. A rack of wardrobe was in the corner, and Clint was poking through it.

I hadn't paid much attention to the clothes they'd selected for me, and found myself clad in a white wife-beater, a loose, billowing white button-up shirt, and baggy white pants which, as I narrate, were being rolled up by a styling assistant so they rested around the muscle of my calves.

I fidgeted with my own silver ring, only being reminded of Taylor's Hanson ring. I thought about how incredibly cool it would be to have Moffatts rings, but we already had sort of signature golden necklaces with a fish representing God, Others, and Yourself, that a family friend had given all four of us. They weren't quite as unique, but we all loved ours and wore them all the time.

Then, I heard Bob's bitching among the chatter of the stylists,

"DAMN RIGHT WE WON'T GO SHIRTLESS!"

I suppressed a smile.

Clint walked up to me, in a black tech vest, a wife-beater, and longish white shorts, revealing his oddly tanned feet and thin calves. His bangs had gotten a bit of a trim.

"Hey."

I distractedly nodded at him while the woman hanging over my fussed about my own bangs.

"I wanted to apologize. I didn't mean to snap at you back there at the hotel," he said.

"'S'ok," I simply said.

"Scott, you know when something's wrong you can tell us."

"I know."

"I just don't understand why you won't."

"It's not that big a deal," I said, and then my entire body experienced a pang of guilt. It was a big deal. Taylor was a big deal to me, more so than the stupid pictures (oh yes . . . we'd gotten another one, but hadn't had time to open it because everyone was around). The fact that he thought I was using him was unbearable to me. Upon returning to the hotel, I wanted to go see him and attempt to talk things out.

"There's no need to lie, because when you do, it's obvious," Clint told me.

"Is it?" I purposefully clipped my speech in attempt to veer Clint from the topic of my feelings, but there was just no doing that with a brother you were so close to. I may not have been a triplet, but I was still closer to my brothers than other siblings were, because we were together so much and music was something we all shared, just like feelings. Sorry, Clint. Not this time.

"Very much so. I don't mean to pry, but I just feel like if something is really so wrong, that we should know, so we can talk about it and try to help you solve the problem."

Do you really want to know? Do you really want to know that I'm in love with a boy, and not just any boy, a celebrity, and not just any celebrity, Taylor Hanson? Not only that, but someone who shouldn't know about it knows, and is using the information to an extreme measure?

"Clint . . . drop it."

Zac

I reached into my pocket for the millionth time during the super boring meeting with super stupid record "officials" who were bitching about Ike talking about cutting his hair. There was the pendant, and the golden chain it was hanging from, right where I left it last time. I fingered it, not paying any attention at all to what anybody was saying.

Is Dave Christian? I wondered, thinking about the religious significance of the fish symbol. Of course, he didn't seem very devout, if he didn't feel the automatic guilt I felt for feeling curiosity about my own sex. I guess, in the very end, that it didn't matter. Dave was open-minded, and I was getting there.

I pulled the necklace slowly out of my pocket, and reached up to string it around my neck. Fumbling with the clasp, since I couldn't see it, I fiddled with it for a few moments before Taylor leaned back in his chair and whispered to me, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get this fastened," I whispered back.

Taylor frowned a little. "Here, I'll get it for you." I let him take the tiny clasps from me, and he leaned in and concentrated on hooking them. Apparently, it wasn't much easier for him than it was for me. "Shit, Zac. Where'd you get this? I've never seen you wear a necklace, let alone a gold one."

"It's Dave's," I answered.

"It's Dave's?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Well, what are you doing with it? Damn, this hook is really tiny." He squinted his eyes.

"Dave gave it to me. Well, he lent it to me, at any rate," I murmured.

"That was nice of him."

I smiled at Taylor. That sounded exactly like something our mother would have said. Oh well, Taylor has his really sweet motherly moments. "Yeah."

Tay seemed distracted. "Zac, you didn't talk to Scott, did you?"

"No, but I was going to. They had to leave before I could," I replied.

Taylor smiled successfully as he finally joined the two clasps. "There you go."

"Thanks." Taylor drew his hands back, and his hand caught my eye. "Ow, what happened there, were you playing with a rabid cat, or did Scott get just a tad feisty?" I questioned, grabbing his hand and examining the cut that ran along his thumb. Taylor jerked his hand away quickly.

"Nothing," he hissed.

I raised my eyebrows. "Okay . . . sorry, didn't know that was an offensive topic. You know I don't care about you and Scott, at least, I've told you that about a million times now."

"Oh." Taylor visibly relaxed. "I know. I'm glad you changed your mind."

"I'm glad you finally told me that you like guys."

"Whatever, Zac, I don't like all guys, for the zillionth time."

"Woah, woah. No offense. Sorry again. Can I ask you a question?"

"Okay," he whispered.

"What's it like to kiss a guy?"

Taylor paused, investigating me. "Why do you want to know?"

I felt my ears flushing. "Just because."

"It's not like I can compare it to kissing a girl or something, seeing as how I've never had a girlfriend," Taylor said, "but . . . it's pretty incredible." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Scott's a good kisser." His eyebrows knitted a little. "I really wish he were here. Oh, sorry."

"Is it something I would ever want to try?" I asked, halfway getting shy again.

Taylor opened his eyes again. "What, are you thinking of kissing a guy?"

I sat back and didn't reply.