Clint

Almost as soon as the pizza arrived, Scott brought out the beer. I swear, I don't know how he gets it in the states, but he does, and I'm glad. I'm not an alcoholic or anything; I just like my beer.

The four six-packs appeared on the counter almost magically. In the rush for pizza, nobody really noticed when Scott slipped back into his room for a dozen bottles of Budweiser. By the time we noticed them sitting on the counter, he already had twelve more bottles in hand, six of them Bud Light, six of them Corona.

"Have at 'em, boys," he announced, setting the heavy cartons down next to the others. He promptly pulled a bottle opener from his back pocket and popped the top on a Bud Light.

I was the first one up, followed closely by Bob. Each of us grabbed a Bud. Dave reached for a Corona from behind us and downed almost half the bottle in one swig, seemingly oblivious to the foam that climbed up the bottleneck afterwards. Damn, he really was nervous.

Bob and I had talked earlier about keeping an eye on him while Hanson was around, but a bottle or two of beer shed a new light onthings. An hour after the pizzas had come, our concern for Dave had all but vanished along with the eleven bottles of beer that were missing from our collection. My bleached-blond brother grabbed drunkenly for a third drink and missed horibly, hitting Zac in the shoulder in the process. The youngest member of our underaged drinking party just laughed it off and handed my brother a Corona, then picked up a second for himself.

Looking around, I tried lazily to analyze everyone's current mental state. Isaac, I noticed, had only one beer and he wasn't going for anymore. Figures. He was too engrossed in his James Bond Marathon to notice the chaos taking place around him, anyway. Taylor also had only had one, yet he giggled carelessly with my piss-drunk triplet anyway. Scott was off in his own little world with his second drink, probably thinking up some deep, depressed lyrics. I don't know why he drinks; it always makes him feel shitty. Bob and I were just chillin' drunks. We sit back and watch the action while people make fools of themselves. Too bad we don't remember it later so we can laugh at them.

I love Budweiser anyway.

Taylor

Oh, the wonders of alcohol. By the time Dave had downed his second beer, he was hitting on me, and after starting his third, it was just blatant come-on after blatant come-on. I played drunk along with him, although I'd only had a bottle myself. A drunk gay like myself cannot be held responsible for his actions, and if you put two of us together, God only knows what will happen.

We sat in the corner of the sitting area in the Moffatts' suite, a little too close on the wraparound couch. No one really seemed to notice, though. Everybody and their brothers had been drinking, and Mr. Moffatt had retired to his room across the hall as soon as he'd grabbed himself a Bud Light. Somewhere in the midst of my conversation with Dave I'd seen Zac leave with the twins, probably to go play videogames. It was just the two of us, Isaac, and Scott left. It was time to make my move.

"Dude, you are so wasted," I laughed as Dave giggled mindlessly at some joke he never finished. "I need to get you in bed." I raised my eyebrows to imply my double meaning without attracting the attention of the silent guitar players sitting on the couch. I don't know if Dave understood what I was trying to say or not, but he giggled again before standing up and motioning for me to follow him to his room. If I liked Dave before, I liked him even better after we'd been drinking.