Ana's Song

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The water swirled almost violently in the bowl, washing away the sight of his dinner, but not the smell. For once he was glad of his sensitive nose. Without it, he would have long ago become accustomed to the scent of his recently deprived stomach's contents, and perhaps fooled himself into thinking that no-one else would be able to smell it if he couldn't.
As his stomach ceased its convulsing, he felt the familiar emptiness settle on him. It was a good feeling, he repeated to himself constantly, it was a good feeling. A welcome feeling. A sort-after feeling. Sagging over the toilet bowl, he tried again – unsuccessfully – to find a way to breathe without aggravating the back of his throat, already savaged by the hydrochloric acid from his stomach.
It hurt so much.
His senses piqued as he felt eyes on his back. For one unnerving sliver of time, he thought he'd been found out. A second later, a cold feeling worked its way down his spine. A sigh of half-relief, half-terror escaped past his lips.
It was only Ana.
Her smile was icy; she couldn't work out why he was always so uncomfortable in her presence. After all, she was only trying to help. . . .

*
Zac heard the breaking strands as he savaged his hair with a brush. It was so annoyingly thick! How many knots had it decided to work itself into today? As much as he liked having his hair in all the tiny braids, he hated how frizzy it got once the time came to take them out. No matter how many times he washed it, it still stuck out a half inch, and he usually got a few electric shocks just from brushing it!
"Zac! Zac, watch it, you're gonna give yourself a bald-spot if you keep ripping your hair out like that!" He barely managed to suppress a groan. Bow down on your knees, His Royal Highness, the Lord God Taylor Hanson approaches.
"To be honest Tay I couldn't care less," the sigh that came from behind him was saintly, as a muleteer would sigh at the stubborness of his donkeys. It grated across his nerves. Hell, almost everything his self-centred elder brother did grated across his nerves. To look at him, one could be forgiven for thinking he was the son of Aphrodite; Taylor was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. The jealous called him gay, but that'd never stopped the girls flocking to him like bees to honey. Or, as Zac preferred to think, like moths drawn to a flame – they got too close, they singed their wings, and they fell into the coals.
He knew he was jealous, but not in the same way as most. He didn't want to look like his brother; the whole effeminate beauty thing wasn't quite his piece of cake. It was more a case of the girls. There were always fans hanging around, wherever they went. Just part and parcel of the whole celebrity rat race. Isaac kinda resented the fans' 'intrusion', as he called it, into their private lives, and Zac tended to agree with him. But Taylor, now there was a different story all together. He basked in the attention, which only fed his ego to even greater heights. It was Tay that all the girls came to see, and he knew it. Even when a girl talked to him, looked straight at him, appeared to give him her full attention, Zac could sense the eyes in the back of her head were drinking in the sight of the gorgeous middle Hanson. Within five minutes of coming offstage, Taylor had every pair of female eyes staring at him, enraptured, worshipping him as if he really was a god. They never guessed the game he played with them. To be honest, the only reason Zac knew about it was because he'd seen it so many times before; that certainly said something about his brother's charisma. Those girls were all too hung up on the fact that the oh-so-great Taylor Hanson was actually speaking to them, to hear the condescension in his voice. He flattered them with thanks and praise and a confidence that was hidden behind the shy smile he had perfected. They never realised that as he spoke to each one of them in turn, he was weighing them up. It was cruel the way he treated them, played them all for fools. He spoke kindly to them, won them over with honey-dipped words and sugar lumps, then picked out one that was the most to his taste and turned on the charm. The other girls gradually left as they were conveniently ignored, their elation at war with a strange sense of disappointment, and left Tay with his chosen sacrificial lamb.
The Lord God never went back to his hotel room alone.
'Love 'em and leave 'em', that was Taylor's adopted maxim. It was with disgust that Zac watched, as each morning the lamb, properly blooded, left his brother's room with a tiny smile of wonderment. Tay fed them the same line every time, 'As much as I hate it love, you better go, before my parents come knocking' and he'd signal up a 'loving' smile, that was as patronising as it was pitifully fake.
He used them. Each and every one of them. Didn't give a damn about it either. So long as there was something warm and female in his bed, he couldn't have cared less. And as much as he hated his brother for doing it, Zac couldn't help but envy him as well. People waited with baited breath to hear Tay speak, the only thing they did when he spoke was laugh. Nobody ever took him seriously. They all thought he was still a crazy, hyperactive, little eleven-year-old kid. Had anybody bothered to notice that he'd grown up in the last three years?! He was still the class clown in their eyes, the comedian that made a complete idiot of himself for a gag. Now that he was fourteen, he had a little something called self-consciousness. Looking back at everything now, he really had to wonder, with a lot of embarrassment, where he'd found the courage to do half the stuff he had.
So he'd taken a turn for the worst? He was jealous of his own brother and seemed to humiliate himself at every given opportunity. Memories of the night before's debacle sent a flush of hot embarrassment to his cheeks. The girl hadn't been that old really; she was too young and too short for Taylor's sensibilities. Blonde hair cut in the short slightly boyish style that seemed to be so popular right now, a Russian face, and striking tawny gold eyes. She was a lively little thing, even in the five minutes that she'd stood transfixed by Taylor, Zac could tell. She'd laughed and smiled, looked like she wanted to jump up and run a marathon to burn off some of the energy that sparkled in her unusually-coloured eyes.
Just as he'd known would happen, she had been completely ignored by HRH, the Lord God, who'd set his sights on a tall red-head with shapely legs and C-cup bra. Just as he'd known she would, the girl had approached him, had sat down to talk.
The rest was too embarrassing for him to remember.
He'd tried to act like Tay, smooth and eloquent and shy all at the same time. The girl, whose name he found out was Stacey, had just looked at him rather strangely, then she'd politely laughed, thinking it was a joke she hadn't gotten. He'd tried to keep up the act, made several too-subtle passes at her, then one blurted without the slightest hint of tact. She'd eventually made some lame excuse and walked away.

Yanking the brush through his hair in frustration, another loud protest of snaps following, Zac glared at his brother in the mirror. Tay wasn't paying him any attention, too intent on gazing at the scrap of paper in his hand.
"What's that?"
"Amelia's number," Amelia, Zac assumed, being the red-head he'd screwed last night.
"Amelia?" just to make sure.
"The red-head from yesterday. At least I think her name was Amelia," and Tay crumpled the paper and let it drop to the floor. "Two words, 'not interested',"
"Was she as bad as that?" suddenly too absorbed in studying his reflection, Taylor missed the sarcasm.
"She was okay. I've had better," no 'I guess's or 'I suppose's to soften the blow. Why was that not surprising? Even as occupied as he was, Tay heard his younger brother's bitterly disbelieving burst of laughter.
"You know sometimes Tay, you just defy belief,"
"Pardon?"
"You sleep with a girl whose name you don't even know, then you throw away her number as if she meant absolutely nothing to you! Please, excuse me for being revolted!"
"I see,"
"What?" this wasn't the answer Zac was expecting.
"You're jealous,"
"What?!" his act of indignation was pretty convincing, "You think I'm jealous of you?! For God's sake Taylor, you use our fans, treat them like whores provided for your own personal enjoyment, and you think I'm jealous of you?!"
"It's not like I pay them to come back to the hotel Zac,"
"That's not the point! Why the hell do you do it?" the whole conversation hadn't ruffled his brother's composure one bit, and Zac was beginning to wonder if what he felt right now was anything akin to arguing with a brick wall.
"I think the question you of all people should be asking Zac is 'how do I do it'," this was the Taylor he knew. Behind the facade of charming smiles and soft-spoken shyness was an arrogant, conceited, egotistical bastard who couldn't see anything past his own comfort. And the girls loved him. Twenty-four hours with a girl, and – if he wanted one – he'd have a devoted slave for life.
Unable to think of a decent comeback, Zac just glared at his brother and returned to brutalising his hair with an increased ruthlessness. But Taylor wasn't going to be put off that easily.
"I mean Zac, just look at yourself. Can you honestly tell me that what you see is something other people would take seriously? People expect you to be the idiot, because that's what they see you as," Tay was standing behind him, one hand casually leaning on the table. This was his favourite past-time outside a hotel room, ripping people to shreds with a polite smile, as if he were doing them a favour. Zac saw his brother glance down, saw the amusement that quirked the corner of Taylor's immaculate mouth; the Lord God had seen Zac's white knuckles, digging his nails into his hand to keep control.
"As much as it hurts me to tell you this –"
'Oh yeah, if it hurts you so much, then why the hell are you smiling, bastard?!'
"– but people are starting to talk, and it's starting to get slightly . . . embarrassing," Zac didn't move. If he did, he would have clubbed his brother to death with the hair-brush.
"Like what?" the words, however civil, were forced.
"Well, you've never been much to look at but, well. . . ." Tay was a good actor, the discomfort almost looked real. "You're starting to get . . . big," if he wasn't already sitting as straight as a tin soldier, Zac would have gone rigid. The emphasis was unmistakable. Big. In other words, fat.
"What did you say?" the words were low, burning with a hatred he always tried so hard to suppress.
"It's only what I've heard other people say Zac," and to add insult to injury, Tay very casually smoothed out the tight shirt he wore, deliberately calling attention to his own stomach – as flat as a table-top.
'God, he looks like fucking Adonis!'
Taylor continued with his crushing, 'well-meaning' criticisms, but Zac wasn't listening. His ears stopped up with rage, he saw his brother interrupt himself – to tuck a stray lock of perfect hair behind his pierced ear – and then only felt the blood dripping down his fingers where his nails had dug too deep in his palm.

*
Ana offered him a hand, but he ignored it, using the porcelain bowl to help him up.

He should never have let Tay get to him like that. The guy was a bastard, his only purpose in life was to stir up trouble for his own amusement. But Taylor had found the one chink in his brother's armour.
All his life, Zac had been dealing with the cracks about him being so much 'bigger' than his two older, leaner brothers. It wasn't his fault Ike and Tay were built like matchsticks! Long before the time that he should've started to care about his looks, Zac had been running around not so much for fun, but to keep the pounds off. He'd been doing it for years, but still there was a shadow underneath his chin, he still had dimples on his knees and elbows, and his fingers were still slightly thick with puppy fat.
A lot of exercise wasn't working. Time for plan B, less food.
It'd been so hard at first. A lifetime of indulging his love of chocolate wasn't going to be easy to deny. And how on earth was he going to hide it from his family? Taylor especially.
The answer had been quite simple really. He'd created Ana.
Here was the one person he could talk to about his desperation to lose the extra pounds that had always dogged him. She helped him get over the cravings for Mars Bars and ice-cream and Jello; every time they crossed his mind, Ana would whisper to him that he'd get fat, and the cravings would flee. She'd also solved the problem with his family. Wherever they went, whether it be a hotel or their home in Tulsa, he had an ensuite attached to his bedroom. He'd eat with his family, he'd smile and laugh, then he'd come back up to his room and donate his dinner to the city sewers.
Ana had been his godsend. She'd helped him to lose all his puppy fat. Gone were the dimples and the podgy fingers and the suggestion of a double-chin. He'd actually begun to feel good about himself.
He'd always told himself that once he'd lost all the pounds he needed to, he'd stop.
It had shocked and scared him to discover that he couldn't.
Ana, the girl who'd helped him so much, flew into a screaming rage when he'd tried to explain to her that he wanted to stop. The girl he'd created to be his friend had gone beyond his control. He'd wanted to start eating again, Ana had seethed at him.
'Youwillgetfatyouwillgetfatyouwillgetfat' over and over, like a mantra, she'd whispered that he'd get fat if he so much as looked at another morsel of food again.
He'd come to hate her. He hated her now as much as he depended on her. He wanted to eat, but he couldn't. He'd get fat, and Ana'd get angry.
Once he'd tried to eat, without Ana knowing. He'd come back to his room to find her sitting on the bed, her anger burning as red as that Amelia(if Amelia was her name)'s hair. She hadn't even given him the chance to deny it, she'd flown at him, pummelling his belly until he'd run into the bathroom and thrown up just to escape her fists.
Unsteady on his feet, Zac clung to a towel rack, trying to regain his balance. He'd thought Ike and Tay rivalled matchsticks well, one look at his own wasting limbs was enough to prove himself wrong. They had another show on tonight for MTV, in front of only God-knew- how many screaming fans; he really didn't want to do it. How was he going to find the energy to play properly if he barely had the strength to stand? Ana just smiled at him, approving. A surge of hatred caught him not entirely by surprise, but then he never despised her more than when she smiled. It usually meant he'd lost another war to her.
Somehow, he managed to walk out of his hotel room, down the corridor to the elevator. Ana often told him that she loved him, that she was the only one who loved him. It was a battle just trying to remember how many times she'd said it. Oh yeah, she loved him alright. To the bones.
The elevator doors opened. He stumbled in and hit the ground floor button. The room was starting to spin.

Zac forced himself to sit up straight, focused on breathing in . . . and out . . . in . . . and out. . . . If he focused on his breathing, then he wouldn't have to think about anything. Any form of concentration gave him a headache.
The show hadn't gone too badly. He'd managed to last the whole way through, but to be honest, he felt like curling up on the floor and just going to sleep.
As per usual, Taylor was at it again. His captivated crowd was slowly filtering away, revealing tonight's lamb-of-the-day, a tall, willowy girl with white skin and a tiny spattering of freckles over her nose. She wasn't as pretty as some of the others that had congregated around his brother, but Tay'd always had a thing for red-heads. He was directing his full attention to her, talking animatedly about . . . hmm, he couldn't quite hear . . . ah, Monet. The girl must've been an arty-type. Zac couldn't help wondering when the Lord God would coax his sacrificial lamb back to his room; it usually didn't take very long.

But tonight, Taylor seemed to be having a slight bit of trouble. Nearly twenty minutes, and the girl looked no warmer towards him than she had at the start. Mutely cheering her resolve, Zac couldn't help a tiny smile; delicate beads of sweat were forming on his brother's forehead. Tay was getting desperate.
". . . And they think the reason why Monet's work only looks clear when you stand far away is because he was long-sighted. Did you know that?"
"They think that, yes," this girl's voice was low and liquid smooth. And right now, quite cool. Was it, a hint of . . . impatience, that Zac could see on her face?
"Well, Elie – you don't mind if I call you Elie?"
"I do actually. My name's Eilonwy,"
'Whoa!' Zac couldn't help a grin. Tay's prospects were sinking faster than the Titanic! Hopefully he'd freeze to death, just like Jack, and sink away under the North Atlantic Sea. Good riddance to both him and Leonardo DiCaprio.
"Oh, sorry, Eilonwy it is then –"
"Yes, it is," her interruption nearly cracked Zac's control over his laughter and Taylor's composure.
"I . . . um . . . well, I've got a stack of Monet prints that I always keep with me, if you want to have a look at them. Only problem is they're back at the hotel –"
"If you think you're going to get a cheap screw out of me, just because you're Taylor Hanson, you can think again,"
"What?! I –!"
"And don't try to play the innocent, you're as transparent as water. How about you go fuck your ego instead, see if it doesn't deflate a bit?" he couldn't hold it in a second longer, Zac burst out laughing. Noticing him for the first time, Eilonwy chuckled as well. Astonished, and quickly turning as white as a ghost, Taylor could only stutter as his chosen lamb abandoned him for his younger brother.

"Hey," Eilonwy pulled up the chair beside Zac, with an amused grin still stretching her lips.
"Hi," Zac couldn't help it. Glancing over at his brother – who'd left white behind and was now turning a rather strange shade of green – he cracked up. It made it twice as satisfying when the girl beside him collapsed into giggles. Taylor looked like he was about to explode; he wasn't used to being laughed at. Instead, he stalked out, leaving them to their hysterics.
"I'm sorry. I know it's not that funny but –"
"Nah Eilonwy, it's okay. That's never happened to him before, and just, the look on his face!" chuckles replaced laughs, and smiles quickly replaced chuckles.
"Eilonwy?"
"Call me Elie," her wink was conspiratorial.
"Elie, do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Depends what it is,"
"How did you see through him? Taylor I mean,"
"It was fairly obvious from the way he looked everyone in his little gathering up and down and then smiled and ignored them,"
"Except you,"
"Unfortunately, except me. Why do you ask?"
"Just, like I said, that's never happened before. He always kinda picks someone out of his congregation, and then takes her back to the hotel, and that's that. They always look like they've been smiled at by God or something," his nose involuntarily screwed up in disgust.
"That's a good way to describe him, the way he struts around, thinking he's God,"
"Why else do you think his nickname is 'His Royal Highness, The Lord God'?"
"You're kidding!"
"He earned it long before we got signed,"
"So he's always been this up himself?"
"Well, not really, he's always been kinda self-centred to a degree. Before it was more . . . just, a little too much confidence in himself, you know? But the getting famous and the girls and everything's kinda swollen his head," sure, as much as he hated his brother, it was something entirely different to bitch about him to a girl who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. Blood versus water.
" 'His Royal Highness, The Lord God', I'll have to remember that one,"
"Well, it's only my nickname for him. You really don't want to hear what Ike calls him sometimes!"
"I'm sure I don't," she chuckled. There was a pause in the conversation.
"How old are you?"
"I turned seventeen last month. What about you?"
"Fourteen. I . . . um . . . please don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look seventeen," she just laughed.
"No offense taken. Here, I believe this knife in my back is yours,"
"Sorry," he shrugged with a smile.
"It's okay. To be honest, I don't think you look fourteen either," no, he didn't look fourteen. He looked more like a stick-figure. Who was it that had told her Zac Hanson was the 'big' one of the group? But then, that same person had said Taylor Hanson was the ideal new age gentleman. What a joke!
"Watch it, that's my knife you're stabbing me with!"

The TV was going, but neither of them were really watching. Elie was studying the gauntness that marred her new friend's face, and Zac was too busy ignoring the pleas of his stomach to notice.
He couldn't really remember how it had happened that she'd come back to the hotel. With him, not Taylor. With him. Not that he was trying to acheive what his brother was doing right now with a substitute Eilonwy down the hall. Zac recalled saying something about coming back 'just to talk'; he'd meant it earnestly.
Elie was great to talk to. Her cynicism just made things more interesting.
". . . .I swear, our school newspaper has got to be the biggest joke this side of the White House! They call it the Gazette, but they might as well call it the Mockery! In the pink corner, wearing Brittney Spear-esque fluff, we have the teenies, too busy worrying about their manicured nails to take anything else seriously, even the perving eyes of the tragic trench-coat cases in the black corner, away from anyone else, sharing a flask of vodka on the quiet, throwing this week's compost bit-by-bit at the editor – who only needs a moustache and he'll be a perfect take-off of Albert Einstein – standing in the middle of the room addressing his nerdy little hench-journos, who think covering the local church bake-sale is the scoop of the year!" she shook her head in pity, "Absolutely pathetic,"
"Yeah," her little tirade had been deliberate. The 'Newspaper Room' always got at least an amused smile, even from her parents who'd long ago gotten used to her sarcasm. But Zac wasn't smiling; the look of concentration on his face was almost painful.
"Zac?"
"Yeah?" his eyes were lucid as they turned to stare at her. For Elie, it only called the deep hollows of his cheeks to notice. The hands in his lap were bony, could almost be described as withered. She didn't like the conclusions she was drawing to.
"Are you hungry?" it was more than just a casual question, Zac could see that. Her voice was soothingly low-pitched, and laced with concern; he'd heard the same undertones in his mother's voice a lot the last couple of weeks. Of course he'd say no. He couldn't say anything else, Ana was standing by the door, glaring at him, a hop, skip and a jump away from hysteria. She was still furious at him for the few crackers he'd managed to eat at the studio the week before. He had to say no, Ana demanded it.
So why then was his head moving up and down, for all the world looking like he was nodding?
"Zac," the look she gave him was hard to describe. Earnest? Compelling? Hesitant? . . . Scared? "How long since you've eaten?"
'I had dinner only about an hour ago,' the standard Ana-pacifying response, it would stand him in good stead. Did he say it aloud?
"How long since –" a stricken-sounding voice was speaking, "I've eaten –" not his for sure! "or how long since –" it didn't sound like him, "I've eaten without –" it couldn't be his voice "throwing it all back up?" no, never.
Elie's pained expression spoke otherwise.
He'd never know just what it was Elie had taken breath to say.
Ana, white with outrage, had forborne to say anything before, but hearing his admission must have pushed her over the edge; she flew at him.
Blows pounded his torso, fingers sank beneath his skin, twisting his stomach in knots, forcing the bile up into his throat.

Hanging over the porcelain bowl, Zac fought his rebelling body. The water was almost tranquilly still, patiently waiting for its nightly offering; the food in his stomach. Cursing his sensitive nose, he tried not to inhale the sickly hospital-like smells of the bathroom. Without it, he would have long ago become accustomed to the scent of hotel bathrooms, and perhaps fooled himself into thinking that that the over-powering disinfectants would cover the smell of sickness.
As his stomach continued its seizures, he forced himself to forget the familiar emptiness that would settle on him if he gave in. It was a horrid feeling, he repeated to himself constantly, it was a horrid feeling. An awful feeling. A detested feeling. Sagging over the toilet bowl, he tried again – unsuccessfully – to find a way to breathe without aggravating the back of his throat, already savaged by the hydrochloric acid he'd continually swallowed back down.
It hurt so much.
But this time was different. This time he wasn't alone.
Eilonwy hadn't faltered when he'd turned a strange shade of pale green, she'd patiently followed when he'd dashed for the bathroom, she'd stayed with him, a gentle hand on his back, never flinching away from the convulsions racking his body. With Eilonwy there, he found his pool of reserved strength. Ana wouldn't win this time. He wouldn't let her!

The acid constantly washing the back of his throat made it harder and harder to swallow.
Determined as he was not to give in, it would be so easy just to let it all go into the water that had stared up at him for almost half an hour. Ana reclined in the shower recess with his stomach in her hands, hissing curses and twisting the fleshy organ like a dog toy. She wouldn't give him up.
He couldn't let himself panic. Stray tears of frustration worked their way out of his eyes, trickled down his cheeks to slip into the water, ripples flowing out from where they'd fallen. He couldn't fight a battle on two fronts! He couldn't war with Ana and control his own splintering emotions at the same time. He couldn't give in to the panic that wanted to rip him apart, rip Ana apart, rip everything apart!
Not strong enough . . . to fight . . . too weak . . . can't . . . have to! . . . can't fight . . . God help me! . . . make her stop!!! . . . .
"Come on Zac, you can beat this," Eilonwy's voice was calming, and heavy with a quiet confidence. She had faith in him. Why was it, he could scream those words in his head a hundred times over and it would do no good, yet coming just once from Elie was enough to inspire strength he didn't even know he had. As his stomach heaved again, he forced back the rising frenzy, made himself swallow, ignored the burning pain in the back of his throat.

Ana's fury was terrifying to watch, but he clawed back his fleeing resolve, determination almost blinding him. His head was swimming. The black dots flashed before his eyes; much more of this and he was going to pass out.
'No, focus on the hand! Focus on the hand!'
The hand.
Her hand.
His life-line back to consciousness and humanity.
The gentle pressure of her hand on his back was what kept him going. The words she murmured were unintelligible to his ears, but the succouring sounds overrode Ana's hysterical screaming. He focused on the light pressure, making himself ignore Ana, ignore the porcelain bowl, ignore the water that reflected his haggard face, aware only of the hand resting between his shoulder blades, offering solace from the hell that was Ana's world.
The cruel shrieks grew in volume, but he ignored them.
The hand. . . .
The hand. . . . . . . .
Five finger-tips, a source of warmth in the freezing room.
The hand. . . .
The hand. . . . . . . .
The knots in his stomach were easing.
The hand. . . .
The hand. . . . . . . .
The bile ceased to rise in his throat.
The hand. . . .
The hand. . . . . . . .
Ana was retreating.
The hand. . . .
The hand. . . . . . . .
The hand. . . . . . . . . . . .

Gradually becoming aware of the cool tiles underneath his aching knees, Zac gulped in the air that was slowly getting so much easier to breathe. The hand on his back shifted, became an arm around his shoulders. He didn't have to starve himself for Ana. He could eat. He could smile.
He'd done it. Finally.
The elation that he expected to feel never came. Too tired to do anything else, he slumped against the warm human form next to him. One arm around his shoulders became two arms embracing him; he clung to Eilonwy, unable to hold back the sobs lodged in his throat.
"It's okay Zac," she whispered to him, sounding just as much like a mother as a friend, "It's over, everything'll be okay," His reply was lost, muffled against the hollow of her shoulder.
They sat together on the bathroom floor for a long while, Zac gradually getting a hold of himself, Elie continually murmuring words of comfort. The sobs had quieted down to faint sniffles, interspersed with the odd hiccup, the overactive tear-ducts under control.
"Are you okay now?"
"Yeah," his voice was still a little shaky.
"You sure?" she made sure the words were soft. The general opinion among her friends was that she'd be sarcastic to somebody five minutes away from dying of cancer, but she knew when to summon up her long-repressed sensitive side. Now was such a time. Zac was looking less and less like a famous rock-star, and more and more like a little lost child with every passing minute. The damp eyes that turned to stare up at her held a shadow of appeal, a plea of entreaty that nearly broke her heart. Even with his brothers around, Zac was still the black sheep in the flock; who was there for him to confide in? Isaac was just a little too old to understand, Taylor was an arsehole, and would he have even considered telling his sisters or his parents what was going on in his mind? It was hard to conceive, someone being so alone in a family of nine, an outsider in their own house – or hotel in this case – but his eyes were all the proof she needed.
"Elie?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank-you,"

*
The soft light spilled across his eyes, gradually pulling him from the first decent sleep he'd had in weeks. A tiny smile stretched his lips; how good did it feel to be able to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face? Something shifted beside him, something just as warm but human, reminding him.
He couldn't help a tiny chuckle.
Slowly, carefully, he sat up, the pillow propped behind his back. If Tay had walked in at that moment, to find his younger brother sitting in his bed with Eilonwy soundly asleep beside him, Zac knew exactly what he'd think. Despite the fact that both Zac and Elie were still dressed, and that he'd slept under the covers and she still rested on top of them, there could be no doubt what Tay would think.
The sun was getting stronger, creeping over to bathe Elie in its glow.
Gently, Zac reached out and ran a delicate finger against her hair, which showed not so much red as a carmine chestnut in the morning light. She looked so peaceful. They hadn't slept together.
She'd been so kind to him, helping him, comforting him, understanding him. He'd been exhausted, so weak she'd refused to leave him. And he'd have rather died than let her sleep on the floor, after all she'd done. Maybe at some subconscious level, he'd thought that if she was close to him, he might be able to protect her from Ana.
Ana. . . .
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. She lay on the floor, in a crumpled heap; dead, like the memory she was. Somehow it was fitting. He couldn't summon any pity for her. The bones of her ribcage pressed sharply out against her pale, almost translucent skin; she looked like a skeleton.
Movement beside him distracted his attention, and he found himself staring into a pair of cat-green eyes.
"What are you staring at?"
"Ana," Eilonwy gave him a slightly confused look, but didn't comment. Instead, she casually tested the water.
"Care for some breakfast?" whilst her head was tilted down, she stared quite intently up at him. Not that he noticed. Grinning, he grabbed the room service menu off the bedside-table.
"Hmm . . . apricot danishes to start with? Or raisin toast? What about a few cinnamon rolls as well? . . . Think they'd have any chocolate pop-tarts lying around? . . ."


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