Identical Hazel Eyes

Tokio Hotel crew members work to construct the stage for the show that night. They piece together the scaffolding and risers that will hold Gustav's drum set as amps were brought out and cords leading to different electrical devices were lain out.

You stand with Georg in the vast space of the arena. The two of you hold controllers to the planes flying around above. Tom is on the phone with God knows who. You try not to care too much, but by the way he's talking rapidly in a hushed voice gains your attention. You watch him curiously, failing ton control they airplane properly.

"Hey!" Georg yells, gaining your attention. You turn your eyes to him as he moves toward the wreckage of two planes. "You crashed my plane!"

Although you can hear the anger in his words, you know that he'll forgive you.

"Sorry. I wasn't paying attention..." you call as Georg grabs the planes from the ground.

"Obviously," he mutters under his breath.

Georg pushes your plane int your hands, standing next to you and letting his take flight again. You do the same and follow it with your eyes as it gains on Georg's, chasing it through the air above. You laugh as Georg tries to loose your plane by zigzagging about. For the next half hour, while the rest of the stage and lighting is set up before you, Georg proceeds to chase your plane with his, successfully crashing them to the arena floor multiple times.

Soon, though, it's time to put the toys away and get ready backstage. Tom, Georg and you are lazing around in the dressing room, talking and laughing like usual. In the back of your mind, you're thankful that Tom pulled you off the ledge.

"Tonight's going to suck," Tom whines from the over sized chair he currently is sprawled across, his guitar laying in his lap as he strums at it lightly.

The familiar tune of Vergessene Kinder fills the room and you soon find yourself lightly singing along. Georg grabs up his bass and waits until the chorus to join in. You begin to pace, your mind focusing on hitting the notes. Half way through the slow ballad, you stop singing and snatch your water off the table.

Uncapping the bottle and putting the plastic to your lips, your eyes wonder the room. They took in Georg and Tom playing together around the coffee table, looking at its smooth surface as they concentrate on the music notes forming. Georg stops playing, cursing himself as his obvious mistake that Tom just had to point out.

"Messing up again?" Tom teases, continuing with the slow rhythm. "Can't you play just one song correctly?"

"Oh, ha-ha," Georg sarcastically glares at Tom. "You mess up all the time, so don't be pointing out my mistakes."

"At least I don't miss notes during concerts," Tom retorts.

"Oh! Don't even get me started!" Georg laughs, shaking his head as he strums the strings again. "You won't even admit to how many notes you miss..."

Tom didn't hear this, or maybe he chose to ignore it and keep playing, because they start up again, working together to play the song. You listen, drinking your water slowly. You replace the cap and let your hand drop to your side, the water being gripped tightly so it won't slip. You take a deep breath, close your eyes and hold it, clearing your mind and counting to twenty. You imagine the numbers as sheep, like that commercial on TV. They leap gracefully over white picket fences into sunny meadows of colorful flowers. You let out a loud snicker, the breath leaving your lungs quicker than meant.

Opening your eyes once more, you try to focus on the concert and preparing your voice, but you can't help but laugh at the stupid thought of sheep jumping over white picket fences. Trying to hide your amusement, you take another swig from your water; it's content becoming warmer the longer it says in your hand. You happen to take a deep breath at the same time the water splashes into your mouth, filling the dry crevices. The suction of air pulls the water unexpectedly into your lungs. You cough, covering your mouth with your hand. The water comes up and out, soaking your hand in a series of painful contractions.

Gripping your chest with your right hand, you take deep breaths, whipping your wet hand on your jeans as you recover. Tom looks at you in concern as you clear your throat. His hand still strums out the tune along with Georg, but they both burrow their eyebrows.

"I'm alight," you cough. "It went down the wrong tube..."

"Are you sure?" Georg asks, his fingers running over the strings covering the fret board.

"Yup," you hear your strained voice convince.

Taking another more careful swig from the water bottle, you begin your voice warm ups. As you begin to pace the room again, you fluctuate your voice, warming your vocal cords for the show. You pause every now and then to take a drink from the water bottle.

The usual routine continues. Tom and Georg play another song, pointing out each other's mistakes with laughter lacing their voices. Gustav joins the group minutes before the show, his headphones on and drum sticks in hand. He's completed his own preparation of drowning the nerves away with his music and jumping exercises. He now sits next to Georg, tapeing his fingers with medical tape.

"I'm so nervous," you confess.

"It'll be fine," Tom assures, trying to hide his own growing nerves. "It's not like we haven't played in weeks with no practice. As long as Georg doesn't miss notes, we'll be fine."

A smile appears on Georg's face as he shakes his head, giving up to Tom's endless torment. Tom smirks, satisfied that he's won this match. You roll your eyes, too nervous to comment on how Georg can't even come up with a good enough response.

Loretta knocks on the door and enters the room, a small brown box in hand. She walks across the room, a smile on her face as she sets the box on the coffee table. It's no surprise what's inside -- you've been through this drill many times before.

"No 'Hello, Loretta!' for me, I take it?" she scoffs, a contradicting smirk adorning her face. She looks around at your faces, surveying the moods. "Geeze, who died?"

"We're nervous," you voice.

"No. Bill's nervous," Tom corrects, reaching for his in-ear monitor in the box.

You move to do the same, seeing as the minutes seem to fly by when the shows about to start. You pull out Gustav's along with yours and hand it to him, thanking Loretta as she takes the silver box from your hands. She opens it and moves behind you, pulling out the monitor. She rests the ear pieces on your shoulders and pulls on the neck of your shirt, sliding the cord down your back. The cool casing causes a shiver to race up your spine.

"Oh, stop, Tom!" she scolds. "You can't lie one bit."

Thanking her once again, you clip the black monitor box to the waist band of your jeans behind you, plugging in the jack to the cord just put down your shirt. Fixing the collar, you grab your water bottle again and take a generous draft, your nerves being swallowed with the liquid.

"I'm not lying, Loretta," Tom counters.

"Oh ho ho! Don't even get me started, Mr. I-didn't-mean-to-walk-in-on-you!" Loretta retorts.

Tom's face flushes in embarrassment. You snort with laughter at the playful argument. Tom mumbles something inaudible as he puts his own monitor on. Loretta helps Georg with his, snickering at Tom's embarrassment.

"He'll never live that down," she chuckles.

"Cause you'll never let him!" Georg exclaims, his own laugh coming through in his voice.

You glance at the clock, seeing that it was 18.50. Ten minutes and you'd be on stage, letting the adrenaline pump through your veins as your eyes scan the fans' faces. Taking another deep breath, you let your eyes close and try to get rid of the remaining nervousness. Tom grabs your elbow, pressing his fingers into your pulse. You let the breath out slowly, feeling the stress leave you with the carbon dioxide. You smile at Tom's calming effect, his hand on the crease of your elbow.

"It's time," you hear Saki say from the door.

Georg and Gustav stand simultaneously. Tom moves away from you, the connection broken as he reaches for his guitar on the once occupied chair. Pulling the strap over his head, Tom grips the fret board and strums lightly. The two of you follow the others out of the room and down the hall to the backstage area.

The screams from the fans reach your ears as you put in your monitors. A technician hands you your microphone and your grip it tightly. Tom and Georg hook up their guitars, with the aid of another technician. The lights go down and the screams increase. Tom, Georg and Gustav are sent onto the stage. You stand off to the side, right near the stairs to the riser behind Gustav's drums.

Through the ear piece, you hear Gustav begin, getting the crowd to scream. You could see the curtain fly up, revealing your band mates to the screaming fans. Tom steps foreword, playing the slow rhythm. You bring the microphone to your mouth, taking a deep breath to belt out the first line, feeling the rush come. Your nerves are forgotten, becoming a thing of the past. You hear your own voice over the music.

As the chorus approaches, you climb the stairs and burst onto the riser. The fans scream for you as your right hand comes up, suspended in the air. The heat of the lights on your body is familiar and no longer have the searing effect they used to. Instead, the heat builds inside and bursts out when you strut across the platform. You shine, a large smile coming onto your face as you stand, your feet a little more than shoulder length apart. You rest your right hand on your hip.

"How you doin', London?" you exclaim, the excitement building just within the first song.

The response is a deafening scream. Your smile grows as Tom begins the next song. The show progresses. The audience is so full of energy that you can't help but bound across the stage and do your famous little dance. Half way through he song, you move down the runway, looking at all the faces within the crowd. The band continues an instrumental version of the song as the crowd realizes what's going on. The fans that keep up with the videos online know that this is the time to scream loudly to gain your attention. But you've already made your choice.

"So," you begin, feeling awkward standing in front of all these people briefly, talking to them like you would if they were your classmates. "I think we need someone up here, because I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what comes next," you joke, laughing as you pull the microphone away to hear the screams.

Searching the faces that look up to you, you find that one again. It's like your eyes are drawn to hers out of everyone else's. She doesn't notice you looking at her, it seems, because her head turns to the guy screaming next to her, a smile raising the corners of her lips. She turns back to look up at you on the stage, but by then you've looked away, looking at the fans in the front row. You try to make it look like you're still looking, taking your sweet time to scan the faces in the front row on all sides of you. Turning back to her, you smile and point at her.

"You," you say into the microphone. "The one in the turquoise shirt! Guys, help her out," you ask the security members.

The corners of her lips turn up in delight as she's helped over the barricade. Her head turns to the guy she smiled at, her tongue poking out in mock teasing. She is helped on stage and you smile, taking her hand to help her up, too. The stage seems higher than it seemed before fans packed the arena. She lets go of your hand to fix her shirt that has ridden up. You grab her hand again, noticing how beautiful she is.

In the stage light, her hair looks like silk, so soft and smooth. Large styled curls made her auburn hair look fuller. Her eyes, big and round, the most purest of all the blues, were rimmed in eyeliner and sparkles accented her eye lids. Her face had the most innocent look, like she knew you were going to pick her, but was hiding it.

"What's you name?" you ask, noticing that she was shorter than you by a good six inches.

You help the microphone so that she could say her name.

"Laura" she says, looking up at you with a fear showing through her eyes. Her voice was melodic, very beautiful in its own musical way.

"are you ready to sing with me?" you ask, a smile appearing to reassure her.

She shook her head, which made you're eyebrow raise. She brushed the hair that fell when she lowered her head aside and reached into her front pocket. She struggled to pull something out while you stood patiently, the microphone gripped loosely in your hand. It was far enough away so it wouldn't pick up your voices.

She pulls out a piece of paper, looking up at you with an odd look in her eyes. She hands you the paper, but it was thicker in your hand. She mumbles something as you flip the paper over, shock filling you as you see two teens in their swim trunks, the youngest in sunglasses with a fake smile on his face. The dreaded twin's smile is stained with a fallen black tear.

"I'm glad you're alive."