Fifty Million Followers [BOYXBOY]

28.

Yes, locking myself into a literal closet is the best thing I could have done. Because hey, I'm out of the metaphorical one, might as well crawl into the real one at the other end of the green room.

I can hear people on the other side, bustling in and out of rooms, preparing for tonight's big opener. After Staples Centre, it's on to the rest of the U.S. I think Las Vegas might be next, but who fucking knows, who fucking cares?

We've been here so long, but the tour is nowhere near over. Our time in L.A has been considered a break from touring, but if a break is a nightmare wrapped in sun and palm trees than yeah, maybe it is.

But I just need this time, this space, where I can think about nothing, listen to no one.

I light up my phone. Still no calls or texts from my dad.

I don't know whether this is my own fault or me shifting the blame. I know, for one, that Luke is an utter bellend who doesn't understand the consequences to his actions. He doesn't know that, while people speculate with who I'm sleeping with, and drawing fucking graphic pictures of it, I'm also getting death threats, I'm getting tweets from people I recognized from school calling me a 'fairy'. A fucking fairy. Me? The one who most likely knocked them out before double Science?

No, I'm not proud of that. Luke may attack with words, but I attack with my knuckles. They're both wrong.

Maybe I have an anger problem? Jesus, Scott; don't open that door.

I can't hear the fans upstairs but I know they're here, filling up every seat. We're sold out, by minutes, so I was told. Each seat has a person in it who paid that obscene amount of money to watch Oliver mime, Luke gyrate, Demi stalk off stage, and me; the guy they can't even fantasize about being with anymore, so what's the fucking point of me?

My eyes sting just as there's a faint knock at the door.

"No one's home."

"I feel this is slightly ironic, and kind of out of character for you." It's Oliver. His voice is careful and soft. I unlock the door and sit back on the floor, back against the wall, and he lets himself in. I've been sitting in the dark, and so the light that comes from the outside is striking, making my eyes water even more.

Oliver stands there, looking down at me, until he makes me scoot over so he can sit beside me. He lets the door close again, and we're engulfed in darkness.

"I am so sorry this has happened to you, Scott. I mean it; this is...this is a big thing."

"I guess it's my fault for fucking a guy at a party."

"Are you kidding me?" I can't see him, but I feel his body shift to face me. "Scottie, that's such a normal thing to do. You can't honestly believe that's something you're not allowed to do?"

"I said to Mitch there was nothing I needed to tell him. I fucking lied to get in the band."

"You don't have to tell him anything Scottie. You are perfectly within your rights to withhold personal information from him. He doesn't own us." Funny that. It feels like he does. We go where he wants us to, say what he wants us to.

"Did you tell him that you couldn't sing?"

He laughs. "I didn't need to, he heard it." I think about Oliver's audition, of how he might have belted out a tune, thinking he was perfect, and all three producers covering their bleeding ears. And he still got in. It's fucking hilarious. "Scottie, I'm sorry...about what happened between us." He's hesitant, our arms touch we're so close.

I can feel my heart sink.

"I didn't realise you were...and then this whole thing about you being...it was so awful of me to put you through that. I've barely spoken about it, haven't I?"