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Forgetting Zachary Quinto

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Welcome back to Holla at Hollywood, your first and last stop for all things happening on the small and silver screens! Today we're catching up with Zachary Quinto, star of Wednesday night hit Brains. After the abrupt cancellation of everyone's favorite sci-fi superhero series Heroes, fans of Quinto's scalp-happy character Sylar let NBC know they wouldn't rest until they got more! After fourteen separate petitions, the self-described "Sarmy" landed Quinto back on the network—and what started as a mid-season spinoff has since become one of primetime's hottest shows.

[cut to clip of Brains]

SYLAR: You know what I love most about you, Rebecca?

REBECCA: [breathlessly] What is it, Sylar?

SYLAR: Your beauty. You're so gorgeous; you can have anything you desire. You don't ever have to think or exercise your brain. [lifts a single finger in the air, smiles deviously] And since you're not using it…mind if I borrow it?

REBECCA: [screams as a red, bloodied line appears across her hairline]

Ouch! Looks like it didn't work out too well for Rebecca. In real life, Quinto only has eyes for Chris Pine, one of the regular writers on the series who's responsible for finding Sylar fresh brains to play with every week. The pair has been inseparable for nearly three years now, and they've been seen wining and dining each other all over Hollywood. But don't worry, ladies and gents—there's still plenty of Sylar and Brains to go around.

[cut to red-carpet interview with Quinto, who smiles bashfully]

"No, I'm not really a serial killer. I just play one on TV."

"Did they have to use such a corny clip?" Chris mutters to himself. He changes the channel and glances at the New York Times Magazine on the coffee table, which is open to the four-page feature on John Cho, that insufferable writer everyone's jizzing their collective pants over. Chris was using it as a way to distract himself from his work before it got too painful to read and he switched to TV. He scoops it up and starts again where he left off.

Cho, looking dapper in an impeccable suit, tailored to perfection, leans away from the table and gazes across the street. He sips his cappuccino and crosses his legs. Like this, the young novelist seems content to simply sit back and watch the world unfold around him as he takes mental notes.

"It's hard to stay mad about anything in this world when there’s so much beauty," he muses between sips. "Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, and my heart fills up like a…like a balloon that’s about to burst."

Across the street, a young woman breaks her high heel in a sidewalk grate and jolts forward, nearly falling. Cho gasps, obviously moved by the moment. He pulls a small Moleskine from his jacket pocket and begins to write. In no time at all, he has filled six pages with what could be the seminal text of his next masterpiece.

"Okay, seriously?" Chris says to no one. "That's a line from American Beauty. Like…word for word." He throws the magazine down on the table. "Does no one at the Times remember that movie? It won the fucking Oscar. Jesus."

But as much as Chris would love to sit around all day, muttering under his breath about some hack writer who makes more money than him, it doesn't matter. None of it does, because Zach is coming home today and Chris is going to get laid as hell. He's been puttering around the house for the past two weeks while Zach's been filming on location, with nothing but the many framed photos of them together to keep him company. Shitty Times article about an overblown asshole aside, the TV clip about him and Zach puts a spring in Chris' step as he heads to the bathroom and takes a shower for the first time in…two days? Three? Well, who's counting. The important thing is that he's going to be clean and horny by the time Zach gets back. He even trims his pubes for good measure. Only the best for his boyfriend.

When Chris gets out of the shower, towel slung around his waist, he's surprised to find Zach in the living room, already waiting for him.

"Whoa, hey," Chris says, grinning. "You're early. What'd you do, switch your flight? Man, you just couldn't wait to get a piece of this, could you?"

Zach merely lifts an elegant eyebrow and folds his arms across his chest.

"Chris," he says flatly. "I'm sorry, but it's over."

Chris' jaw drops in shock—and so does his towel.

"Oh, my god." Zach covers his eyes and groans. "Don't try to tempt me with that thing. Put it away."

"What the fuck, Zach? You're breaking up with me? You're gone for two weeks and then you just show up and announce it like that?"

"No, seriously, Chris. Go put on some shorts or something. All I can see right now is your cock. Your cock is everywhere."

"And it was really fucking happy to see you before you walked in and broke my heart, you complete and utter asshole. We've been together for three years!"

"Which is why I didn't do it over the phone!"

Chris sits down heavily in his favorite armchair and runs his hands through his hair, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him. He just can't believe Zach is doing this to him after, well…everything. Zach breathes an audible sigh of relief once Chris' dick is hidden from view and steps closer, touching Chris' cheek.

"Christopher, look at me," he says. When Chris does, Zach gazes back at him in that aggravating way of his, as if he's talking to a dumb and petulant child. "We both know it's been over for a while. We've grown apart. I know it's going to be difficult, what with working together on the show and all, but…"

"If you're worried I'm going to write a scene where a piano falls on Sylar, well," Chris mutters. "You probably should be."

"Oh, Chris. It's Sylar. You know he'd survive somehow."

"I'm the writer, remember? I'll kill your ass if I—" Chris frowns as he looks at Zach's hand and notes the neat, manicured fingernails. Come to think of it, Zach's eyebrows are also plucked to perfection. He tilts his head and scrutinizes him. "Holy shit. You're seeing someone else, aren't you?"

"No," Zach says quickly. Then he shrugs one shoulder and looks away. "I mean. It's none of your business."

"But…you said I was the best you've ever had!" Chris motions to his dick. "And the biggest! The biggest, Zach."

"I know, Chris." Zach looks him up and down and sighs. "Honestly? That's what makes this so difficult."

And just like that, just as Zach said, it's over. He walks out and leaves Chris sitting there in the armchair with tears in his eyes, holding his dick. It's not the first time this Chris has found himself in such a position, but it's definitely the most painful.


"You know, I never liked him." Anne peers at Chris from across the kitchen as she eats strawberry ice cream. She shrugs and pulls her spoon slowly from between her lips. "I'm just saying. If it helps."

Chris pauses in eating his giant bowl of Cocoa Puffs and gives her a blank stare. Anne, his high-school sweetheart, may be his best friend and confidante to this day, but she drives him crazy sometimes.

"You never liked him. And you never thought to tell me that once during the entire three years that I dated him?"

"It didn't seem like the right time. You were so in love." She holds up the pint of ice cream. "But now that you're alone and eating your weight in junk food, I thought the sentiment might be appreciated."

"How could you possibly think you're helping?"

"I'm just saying, I think you could do a zillion times better than that self-absorbed size queen. So what if he's gorgeous and has his own TV show? You write for that show and you're super hot. In fact, you're the most talented writer I've ever met and you're wasting your time with this stupid-ass brain show, and anyone with a brain can see that. So go out and put your dick in some willing asses."

"I have been," Chris says, sulking. "I've already had at least four crappy one-night stands, and each time, I ended up getting bored in the middle. I had to think about that time Zach and I had hate sex at IKEA, just to finish."

"Hate sex at IKEA?" Anne repeats. Chris opens his mouth, ready to tell her all about that massive fight in the kitchen section over goddamn stools, of all things, followed quickly by Zach bent over the counter in one of the pre-made rooms, pants around his ankles, babbling nonsense as Chris fucked a few umlauts into his vocabulary. Anne, with her uncanny ability to see inside Chris' brain, holds up her hand and cuts him off. "Stop," she says. "Keep your dirty, primary-colored, Swedish sexcapades to yourself."

Chris shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. "It was hot, okay?" he says around his food.

"I'm sure the IKEA employees loved it."

"All anyone wants to talk about is Zach, anyway. As soon as I tell them what I do for a living, it's like, 'Ooh, that guy is sooooo hot! Can you give me his number?' It's bad enough that everything in this apartment reminds me of him." He grunts and motions to the cabinets. "I'm up to my asshole in boxes of flaxseed granola bars and quinoa. I tried to donate them to a homeless shelter and they told me to get out and never come back."

"I'm surprised that was all they did." Anne walks over and kisses Chris' forehead gently, then sits down beside him. She's beautiful, a real-life angel, and Chris knows she has a million better things to do than sit here and watch him sulk. On the other hand, she's always been good at whipping him into shape, at doling out the honesty in spades, and that's what Chris needs right now. Which is why he's surprised when Anne looks at him thoughtfully and says, "Why don't you get away from it all? You know, take a vacation?"

"A vacation? To where?"

"Well, I'd suggest a remote cabin somewhere, so you can actually do some work on that brilliant novel of yours, but knowing you, that's never going to happen." She kicks him lightly under the table. "Idiot."

"Ow." There's the ballbuster he knows and loves. Chris frowns and looks into his bowl. "Maybe you're right. I should go somewhere really far away. Like, a place I've never been or even really thought about."

"Siberia," Anne suggests. "The Congo? Mars?"

"What about…Australia?"

"Sure, I guess. Why Australia?"

Chris shrugs. "I dunno. I've always heard good things about it. Zach's been there a couple of times. He said there was this place in Sydney he really liked. Or near Sydney? I can't remember. I should text him and—"

"Oh, my god, are you fucking kidding me," Anne groans, throwing her head back.

"What, I can't go to Australia because Zach has been there? It's a huge fucking country. Maybe I'll find myself in the Outback or whatever."

"You can go to Australia, but you're not going to talk to fucking Zach about it. Also, Sydney is nowhere near the Outback. But I'm sure someone would be willing to drive you out there and leave you to peel to death in the sun."

Anne gets up and puts the ice cream back in the freezer, then washes the spoon in the sink. When she lets out an abrupt peal of laughter, Chris looks up to see her holding a rubber butt plug, which was not so cleverly hidden in the cutlery drawer.

"What the fuck is this?" she asks. Chris feels himself turn bright red.

"We used it. Sometimes."

"In the kitchen?"

"Sometimes!" He's so busy blushing and diverting his eyes from the sex toy that he doesn't see Anne move to the sink and shove it down the drain, then reach for the garbage disposal switch—that is, until it's far too late. "Whoa, are you fucking crazy?!"

"The dick is gone, and all remaining vestiges of it should be, too. In the name of freedom!"

"Anne, don't! ANNE!"

There's a horrible crunching sound that whirs down to a shaky rattle, then silence. Now he has no butt plug and no garbage disposal.

All in all, he really could use that vacation.


The flight across the Pacific is long and Chris falls asleep on the trip from the airport to Bondi Beach, the final vacation destination he chose after minimal research and a shitload of beer. In his haste to get out of town, however, he neglected to make hotel reservations. When he walks into the opulent Bondi Royale Hotel and Resort, he figures the place is so huge that they have to have an available room for him.

"Nnnnnnope, not a one," the man behind the front desk says. His accent doesn't sound the same as everyone else's here, but Chris can't bring himself to try and place it because he's too busy ogling the dude and goddamn. He's tall and broad—but not too broad—with flawlessly tanned skin and carefully sculpted dark hair. Hazel eyes with a depth of color that Chris couldn't begin to describe in words, no matter how many times he consulted the thesaurus. Not to mention the crisp white suit and violet shirt beneath, the top three buttons undone to reveal a whole lot of tantalizing skin. The sight alone is totally worth the cost of the flight, and the total obliteration of his savings account. Chris is so wrapped up in his lusty daydreams that he barely hears the man when he says, "Well, there is one room available. The Brisbane suite."

"Great," Chris says, looking up. "How much is that?"

The man eyes him critically and smirks. "Judging by your outfit, more than you can afford. Sorry, Mr. Pine. Should've booked in advance."

Chris pouts and touches his plaid shirt defensively. "Okay, first of all? That was cold. Second of all, I know. I know. This is so unlike me, I swear, but…" He shakes his head and exhales, frustrated. "Look, I just got dumped and I came all the way here from the U.S. and there were, like, four screaming babies on my flight over, and—"

There's a flurry of activity behind him and Chris pauses to look back and see what's going on. And, hey, wonder of wonders—it's Zach. All the way over here, in Australia, in the exact same hotel as Chris. Of course. Because Chris' life just happens to be uniquely miserable that way. Zachary Quinto, in the flesh, signing autographs for giggling girls and fawning twinks, smiling that gorgeous smile that Chris used to believe was only meant for him. He doesn't realize he's gawking until the man behind the desk speaks again.

"I guess you recognize him," he says. "It's a real thrill when he comes through these parts. All sarcasm intended."

Chris tries to muster a smile and fails. "Yeah, I, uh. I recognize him from the other week. When he broke up with me."

"Shit. Really?" The man—Karl, his nametag says—looks between them and cringes. "I don't suppose you want to come and hide under the desk."

Chris blinks, letting a most inappropriate thought wash over him. "Yeah, um. No. Why, did he see me?"

"Judging by the way he's walking over here, looking annoyed, I'd wager yes."

"Christopher?" And yeah, Chris would know that shrill, how-dare-you tone of voice anywhere. Zach practically has it patented. "I can't fucking believe this. What the hell are you doing here?"

Chris laughs awkwardly and forces himself to make eye contact. "Would you believe that I'm secretly a government agent? And the past three years were all part of an elaborate undercover mission? And now that I've told you all that, I have to kill you?"

Zach folds his arms across his chest and smirks. "You don't even know how to program a DVR. Excuse me if I seriously doubt your espionage skills."

"I'm on a much-needed vacation, if that's all right with you," Chris says. "What are you doing here?"

"Also on vacation," Zach says. He looks a little nervous, his eyes darting around. "But seriously, did you follow me here? Because I'm really not into the whole stalker thing. I know some guys are, but I—"

"Quinto, I swear, I could write a fucking sonnet about this ass," someone says, walking up and swatting Zach's butt, right in front of all of them. Chris is shocked to recognize the guy as John Cho, that pompous, pretentious asshole novelist who quotes Oscar-winning movies without proper credit and doesn't give a shit because no one is going to be brave enough to call him out on it; who interrupts an interview to write pages and pages of drivel without any regard for the other person's time or sanity.

Who is, apparently, the mystery guy currently boning Chris' ex-boyfriend. Which is really just a terrific turn of events. Exceptional, even. He's so thrilled, he could just puke.

"Chris, this is John," Zach says, reaching back to surreptitiously rub his butt. "John, this is Chris. My, um. My ex."

"How serendipitous," John says, shaking Chris' hand. It's a weak handshake, which somehow makes Chris feel the slightest bit better. But not really. "I love coincidences like this. Very inspiring. I'm John Cho."

"Yeah, I know who you are. I read the Times piece about you."

"Oh, that thing." John rolls his eyes and laughs. "A little over the top for my tastes. You'd think I slept with her or something. At least then she'd have good reason to gush."

And seriously, could this possibly go any better? Chris shuts his eyes and waits for a robbery to start, or for the ceiling to cave in, something, when Karl suddenly clears his throat behind him. He forgot the guy was still there. But he is, which is great—all Chris needed was an audience to complete this perfect moment of shame and self-loathing.

"Excuse me, sirs. But I believe I've found a room for you after all, Mr. Pine." He gives Chris a rakish smile. "The Brisbane suite. I hope you'll find it acceptable."

Zach looks like he's about to shit a brick. "Since when can you afford that?"

Chris swallows. "I just, uh, unloaded some stock. And whatnot. It was passed down from my grandfather. Like a family heirloom, but, you know. Stock."

John nods slowly and pulls out his Moleskine, taking notes. Chris somehow resists the urge to punch a hole through his face.

When they're finally gone, Chris turns back to Karl and forces a smile. "So, that was totally worth it for the look on Zach's face, but there's no stock. Obviously. But hey, if there's a spare supply room I can have for, like, two hundred a night, I'll take that."

Karl scoffs and passes him a plastic room key. "Take the suite. Hardly anyone can afford it. She gets lonely. Just don't throw any wild parties or wreck the place." When Chris looks at him in disbelief, Karl touches his forearm. "You deserve it, mate. Bad enough he broke your heart, but now he's running around with some twat, rubbing it in your face?"

"Well, he didn't know I'd be here."

"Still. Judging those twats. The both of 'em." He pulls his hand back and Chris immediately mourns the loss. "Elevators are to your right. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Pine."

"Fuck, well. Thank you. Seriously, I don't know how to repay you."

"Well." Karl tilts his head and grins. "Gratuities are more than welcome."

Chris nods, smiles, and nearly snaps the room key in half.