Fifty Million Followers [BOYXBOY]

30.

I feel like my life has been split into two.

There's the one with Parker, where the rest of the world falls away and it's just us. It's my life before the band, the one I had where no one knew who I was. I didn't have Twitter, wasn't even present on social media. In fact, I don't think my phone even had wi-fi.

I'd go round my mates' houses, play games, drink, fight, hang about street corners. I had a shitty little shop job that paid for my trips to Blackpool. I never had someone like Parker though; someone who encompassed all those things in his life too, but was also like me in so many other ways. That part of me didn't exist back then, not properly, not out on the surface.

Then there's the other life, the one everyone knows and hears about. It's my career, travel, absolute freedom from the confines of Northern England. It's money and it's music. It's finding a boy who, despite everything, loves and cares about me, even when I fuck it up, even when he doesn't know how anymore.

Oliver was the only one who was concerned when I came back to the bus late after visiting Parker. He didn't say anything, because it's none of his business, but I could tell in his weak smile and how his hand reached out, yet again, but recoiled when my words echoed in his head.

I hate myself for saying that, but I'm right; I do love it too much.

The road to Las Vegas is long...I think. No, yeah it is. Christ, when was the last time I looked at a map?

None of us are really doing anything; Demitri has created a cacoon of blankets around him, and he refuses to come down from his bunk. I can't hear his Gameboy, I can't hear anything. Luke is being too proud and he won't come near me should I expect an apology, because I know I'm not getting one, the bastard. He's fidgeting like bugs crawl under his skin. There's no gear on the bus, nothing for him to snort. He's not so far gone that he needs to be put in a locked room and go cold turkey, but he's sure as Hell not looking great. His eyes are red rimmed, his skin pale,  he's chugging Lucozade like it's got cocaine in it. 

And then there's Oliver Godfrey, who keeps talking to me about music and writing and back home. He makes me laugh a few times, and we even get in a few card games. The sun shines out of his eyes sometimes, his hair golden, his smile genuine. Despite everything, I know I'll always have him, in one way or another.

It takes us almost the double amount of time to reach Las Vegas. Four hours becomes eight and my head is resting against the breakfast bar. We realise we're slowing, that we've pulled up at a truck stop.

"What gives, Alan?" Luke yells.

"It's 1AM, lads. I'm calling it. I already texted Mitch and he said it's fine." Mitch Simmons is already in Las Vegas because he flew in on a fucking plane.

I look out the window, but it's so dark that I only see myself staring back. There's a light flashing; my phone going off. Sometimes, I turn on the notifications to see if it slows down, to see if the words are nice and not hateful or sexual. Those are the only tweets that exist now. I pick it up and actually, there are a few nice ones. People who're late to the party, mind, but here and lovely no less. Lots of heart emojis, even other verified people saying how much they support me. My stomach is in knots.

"Where are we?" Oliver asks.

I don't look up from my phone, but I know he's smiling when I say "America."

.....

When Demitri comes back, he practically leaps out of bed, changes his shirt and bounds out of the bus.

"There are fire pits out there, you know for fires!"

"So?" Luke mumbles, half asleep and flicking his lighter on and off. Demitri rolls his eyes and nabs the lighter off of him. "Oi, I was using that!"