Fifty Million Followers [BOYXBOY]

8

We're only on the talk show for five minutes, and I know it's being broadcast to millions of people across the world because even I, a lad from Manchester, has heard of this talk show. Leonard Baxter is probably the most famous talk show host to date. He has variety bleeding from his veins; one day he's laughing along with comedians, the next, he's interviewing important people in political circles, interviewing internet superstars, then social justice advocates. The man is watched by nearly everyone, other hosts from other countries imitating the way he talks and dresses and interacts.

And he's gay, dramatically so.

His signature look is bright blonde hair, black, thick rimmed glasses, a purple suit, and a green tie. He looks like a comic book character, with a limp wrist and a high-pitched voice. He flounces around the set, the middle-aged women of the audience cheering for him on his opinions on the recent catwalk shoot or Chris Hemsworth's abs.

It's the type of gay that, as a kid, I didn't understand.

I found out a young age what gay meant. But, when sat on my living room floor, staring up at the likes of Leonard Baxter, my dad calling him a 'fairy' and changing the channel, I thought that to be gay you had to be a certain way – the Leonard Baxter way.

So how could I like playing football, fighting in the school yard, and thinking about boys naked?

I became obsessed with searching for gay celebrities like me, ones who didn't hang around with girls all the time, ones who didn't like to also cross dress, ones who were like me. But then I started writing songs about my feelings; and I guess that was as gay as I got.

But at the same time, I liked the way people looked up to Leonard Baxter. They admired him; they hung off his every word like each word was liquid gold dripping from between his teeth. I watched every episode, every interview.

And now, I'm going to be interviewed by him.

Shit.

We sit in a line, Demitri on the end, then me, Oliver, and Luke closest to Leonard, all of us sat on high stools like we're on some game show. My mouth doesn't open throughout the whole interview; I just stare at Leonard, who's quaffed his hair so high that it could hit the ceiling, and he's wearing a gold suit. A gold suit.

I've been told not to talk because they reckon the American audience won't understand me because of my strong accent. But that's bollocks; we already have so many American fans, and it's not like they look at me like I'm speaking an alien language.

But producers and TV execs think differently, so I'm silent.

Oliver, on the other hand, has an RP accent. He speaks the Queen's English, the English that's taught and instilled at an all boy's posh boarding school in the English countryside – which I know for a fact that he went to.

I've dreamt about his uniform way too many times.

And Luke, Luke oozes charm and charisma. He has Leonard and the audience and even the camera men in the palm of his hand. Every time he answers, we can hear the screaming fans outside bang against the studio wall and cry and shout our names. It's time like these that remind me why he's the lead singer.

He sits with his legs apart, his fingers linked in front of him.

"We've already played in Texas and Arkansas, we're playing a few shows here in Los Angeles and then we'll carry on around the rest of the States. It's gunna be big."

"You're gunna be big, boys!" Leonard smiles, raising his arms for effect which makes the audience cheer and the fans outside scream. "I mean, can't you hear that? They love you!"

"And we love them. Without them, we wouldn't be here. The fans are what got us here." Oliver chimes in. I look at Mitch Simmons, who's stood in the shadows of the studio, his arms folded. He nods an approval. He's still wearing his fucking sunglasses.

"You guys are the whole package! You're talented and sexy." Leonard winks at the camera, and I'm a little shit scared that the noise of the fans is going to shake the walls and bring them down. We all smile, Oliver's and Luke's more relaxed than mine. Demitri's lips don't turn upwards at all, but Leonard's been told by a voice in his ear to ignore it.

"And your accents are to die for, especially yours on the end." We all take a sharp intake of breathe as instead of ignoring Demitri, Leonard completely ignores the producers and eyes Demi with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "American girls love an Irish accent and you haven't spoken this whole interview! What do you say, why don't you let us hear just a little?" Leonard crosses his legs and leans in to us, eyes boring into Demitri. The fans outside are going crazy that I'm ready to be welcomed by monsters instead of teenage girls.

It's true; they love our accent, especially Demitri's, who's been named the 'mystery' because hearing him talk is like seeing a shooting star; really fucking rare.

But today, Demitri is not Demitri.

He slouches off the stool, feet hitting the ground with a thud. And, as I'm ready to hold him back just in case he decides to punch Leonard Baxter in the face, he turns on his heel with a scowl on his face, and walks off the set.

I love love love writing this story so much! And I hope you're enjoying reading it :) If you are, let me know in the comments and vote too if you fancy! x