Drowning In You
Zac
Once I start going off on Taylor, it’s nearly impossible to stop. It’s like the hotel room all over again, except this time I’ve had three years to truly articulate my feelings. Sure, I tried not to dwell on it, but that doesn’t mean I succeeded. With distance comes clarity, and the more clear Taylor’s actions became, the deeper my resentment grew.
“You really don’t have any idea what you did to me, do you? You think it was just about the sex? You made me…” I look around briefly, then realize no one probably recognizes us anyway. And even if they do, I’m too pissed off to care.
“You made me fall in love with you,” I say, swallowing back the bile. “Do you have the slightest idea how sick that is? I almost went to a therapist, but I was too disgusted to even think about it, let alone tell anyone else. You can’t just use people like that and not expect them to feel something. We can’t all be hollow like you.”
“Am I even the only one you’ve done this to? I mean, it’s hard to top seducing your fucking younger brother, but surely someone like you would get bored with just one target, right? So how many other lives have you ruined? How many hearts have you twisted? Do you even know? Do you even care? Of course you don’t! You’re Taylor fucking Hanson, sex god of all time. Why should little things like other peoples feelings matter to you?”
It takes me a moment to realize Taylor isn’t even listening; I’m about to add that to the list of insults I’m slinging, since it wouldn’t be the first time he’s just spaced out while someone was trying to talk to him. He used to do it to interviewers all the time, leaving Ike and me to pick up the slack. But when I take a closer look, I notice the way he’s shaking, the way his eyes are wide but unfocused. I’ve seen that look before, but not in a long time. Crap.
“Tay,” I say, trying to snap him out of it. “Taylor,” I try again when he doesn’t respond. I sigh heavily; this is perfect, exactly how I wanted today to go. First my brother shows up out of the blue, uninvited, unannounced, and sure as hell unwelcome. He acts like it’s a normal day, like we haven’t gone the last three years without seeing each other, for a very good reason. And then, to top it all off, he has the nerve to go and have a panic attack. Typical Taylor, always needing the spotlight on him, one way or another.
“Taylor, calm down.” I lower my voice, keeping my tone as even as possible. “Taylor. It’s okay. Just…” I groan in frustration. Tay used to have panic attacks when we first got famous, when the crowds of fans got too loud and too close. Funnily, when he started sleeping around, the panic attacks stopped; it was like he realized he was in control of the masses. On the one hand, it got rid of his fear. But on the flip side, all that perceived power went straight to his ego, making him the man he is today. Sometimes I almost preferred the panic attacks; at least they have medication for that, but there’s no drug I know of to cure being a self-centered, sex-crazed narcissist.
“Look, relax. You’re fine, okay?” I reach out to touch Tay’s arm briefly, and he nearly jumps a mile. His eyes snap to me, going even wider, and he tries to back away like I’m trying to stab him or something. I look around; one or two people are glancing over, but that’s all… for now.
“Dammit Taylor. Don’t pull this shit on me now.” My words only seem to make Taylor more agitated. I realize this is only going to get worse unless I get him out of here. I pull out my cell and try calling Ike, but it goes straight to voice-mail. Of course it does. I look at Taylor again; he’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his lips are moving. He’s whispering something to himself over and over, like a mantra or a prayer, but too quietly for me to hear what it is. Yeah, this is getting bad; I run my hands through my hair, pulling slightly in frustration.
“Okay… let’s go.” I stand up, waiting for Tay to follow suit, but of course he doesn’t. “Come on Tay, let’s get out of here.” I touch him on the shoulder, and he twitches, his eyes shooting open again. I hold my hand out; I don’t know if he’ll actually take it or not, but at least my intention is clear. He looks down at my hand, then back up to my face, but doesn’t move.
“Taylor,” I repeat, my tone firm. “I said, let’s go.” That seems to get his attention; he sits up straighter, one hand on the table. I’m one wrong move away from just leaving him here; he hesitates another couple seconds, and I sort of half-growl at him. His reaction is quick, reaching out with a shaking hand and taking mine. His palm is cold and clammy, but I ignore the unpleasantness and help him out of the booth. I grab the painting in my free hand and tuck it under my arm, then let go of his hand and wrap an arm around his shoulders. He wavers a bit, but lets me lead him out of the cafe, casting sidelong glances at me now and then.
I hail a cab, wishing I had any other option. I want to ask him where his hotel is, but I doubt he can remember his own name at this point, let alone where he’s staying. So, grudgingly, I give the taxi driver my own address. Tay looks out the window the entire drive, like he’s trying to memorize the route, maybe in case he needs to escape. It takes us about twenty minutes to get across town, thanks to the afternoon traffic. When we finally get to my building I have to practically drag my brother out of the cab; the driver gives me a funny look as I pay him, but doesn’t say anything. It kinda makes me wonder what he must see on a daily basis, but I’ve got more important things on my mind.
The elevator is out of service, just as it’s been since before I moved in, so it’s a long walk up four flights of stairs. Thanks to Tay being pretty much useless, what should take two minutes takes closer to five; I’m exhausted by the time we get to my door. I put the key in the lock, but hesitate; I never thought I’d see the day when my brother would be at my doorstep, and I never imagined I’d be letting him in, but what choice do I have? Like it or not he’s still my brother, and my stupid conscience won’t let me leave him alone when he’s like this.
“You’re only staying until you get your shit together, then you’re out of here,” I tell him over my shoulder as I open the door. “Got it?”
He nods absently, and I let out a slow breath. Nothing good can possibly come of this, but it is what it is.
Taylor
I had almost forgotten what they were like–the panic attacks, that is. Almost.
The most terrifying and frustrating part is that a part of my brain knows what’s happening and knows that it isn’t a real or rational reaction. But the panic drowns that voice out, beating it down until I can barely hear that rational side of myself anymore. When Zac snaps at me, saying words I can barely even hear, and reaches for my arm, it only gets worse until my body just shuts the rest of the world out. It’s as though I’m drowning, everything around me distorted and muffled by the sheer terror pumping through my body.
Once the door to Zac’s apartment shuts behind us, I feel only the slightest bit of relief. Part of the cause of my panic has always been large crowds of people, so I know rationally that being in public made it worse. Yet being alone with Zac isn’t any better. I’m doing the best I can not to think of what he has planned for me now. I don’t understand why he didn’t just leave me there; he obviously wants nothing to do with me. Yet, here I am, in the place my brother calls home now.
That thought brings me back to reality more, lifting just a little bit of the haze that is clouding my mind. I glance around nervously, taking in my new surroundings. I’m immediately struck by how bare his apartment is; the living room we’re standing in is small and furnished with the bare essentials. A cabinet of video games and a few nicely framed pieces of art–some that look like his work and some that don’t–stand out as the only signs of Zac’s personality. Yet, it looks lived in; not exactly dirty, but there are signs of everyday life laying around in the form of dirty plates and scraps of paper. It doesn’t look temporary, like he might have any plan to ever leave here and come back to me.
This is Zac’s life now. That realization does nothing to comfort me.
I let myself collapse onto the couch, because all of this panic has left me with no energy to do anything else. Zac stands over the couch, his arms crossed like he’s waiting for some sort of answers or something. I don’t have anything for him, and the way he’s looking down at me makes that panic bubble up again. I can feel it creeping up my body, wrapping around my lungs and squeezing out the air until I’m left gasping for breath.
Zac is talking again. I hear my name, but I can’t respond. With every word he says, his voice grows more and more stern, more impatient.
“Taylor,” he says. “Listen to me. You need to focus on me.”
Under the irritation, there’s a strange sense of authority. He knows how to deal with my panic attacks, after all. He was always the best at helping me to calm down after walking through a throng of screaming girls or playing a concert where the rumble of the crowd made me fear for my life. He knew how to help me through the attacks, and in time, I learned how to talk myself through them as well. I learned how to listen to that rational voice that told me there was truly nothing to fear.
Right now, I don’t believe that voice. What Zac did to me was every bit of what he’s accused me of doing. I may not have suffered in silence like he did, but I felt every bit of his rage flow into my body and I’ve felt it for every second of the last three years. I sought him out in the hopes that he had rid himself of that anger, that it had all left his body that day. His rant in the restaurant proved me wrong about that.
Zac still hates me. If nothing else, I can at least see that clearly now.