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Mason was waiting. He was waiting for Trace. Normally this would never be happening (usually they just "happened" upon each other) but well if they were going to do a duet obviously they'd have to do it together. And, well, you know. They'd arranged a meeting place, too. Mason was waiting for Trace just outside of the auditorium. He was holding a copy of the entire script of Dog Sees God and currently flipping through it - he'd forgotten to bookmark the scenes they were considering.

Of course they could just kind of point and shoot for it but they needed a scene that would appeal to the judges. Acting alone wouldn't do anything if there wasn't any emotional connection, and the scene needed to be touching, anyway. Which meant they had to work together.

Really work together.

Ah. Trace had arrived.

"I will be as manly or heterosexual as you like, and I wouldn't mind doing the homosexual thing either, nope," Mason grinned. "Also we are actors - we can kiss anyone and it wouldn't have to mean anything." This was probably what he liked best about acting. Nothing had to mean anything except whatever he said meant something. That and the hordes of fans he'd someday attract.

Mason-the-Douche nodded. "I've read the script, you know," he said, looking just a little hurt. He didn't have it memorized, but it was new to him so it was also excusable.

"...so we're gonna kiss?"

"At some point," said Trace, who did not believe in moving quite so fast into blocking. "Let's just run lines first. How about the piano sce-"

He jumped about two feet in the air. Holy crap, where had she come from? Even if she was just a school nurse and about as non-threatening a person you could meet, she'd startled him, damn it. At least he hadn't shrieked or had his tongue down Mason's throat or something, though. The last thing Trace needed was for word around school to be that he liked kissing boys, because he had a reputation to maintain and That Wasn't It.

"Um, okay," he said once his heart rate returned from its sudden spike into the stratosphere. "What are you swabbing for?"

The nurse grimaced. "We mislabelled a bunch of the last results," she said apologetically, setting her bag on a nearby table and starting to get out her equipment. "Yes, yes. I admit it. We messed up for once. Don't hold it against us! Now, dear -- you first. This is just routine, you know, we're not actually checking for anything specific."

This was addressed to Trace, who was handed a sterile cotton swab as the nurse helpfully held out the container the swab was meant to be dropped in afterwards. "Around the inside of both cheeks and on the tongue," she said. "Pop it in after, there's a love. What are you practicing for?"

That someone probably wasn't Mason, who reached a hand out to grab a cotton swab and moved it across his tongue, eager to get back to, you know, practicing. He nodded absently, took the swab out and held it suspended in the air, ready to be dropped into a container - he assumed the nurse wouldn't want him to mix his swab up with Trace's, after all.

"We were just about to choose a scene, actually."

Trace looked at the jar, then looked at Mason, and then looked back at the nurse. That was his sample doing weird s**t, after all! "What's it doing?" he asked uncomfortably. "Is that bad?"

There really was no other way to respond to that other than to start imagining you had accidentally contracted all sorts of horrible illnesses while going about your everyday life.