Fifty Million Followers [BOYXBOY]

38.

The decision comes at around 6PM and it's almost unanimous. It's not unanimous, because Luke is not ready. I don't think he'll be for a long time, but as Candice sits on his lap like she used to sit on Oliver's, Luke Cartwright doesn't entirely believe he has a problem.

I know I am unhappy here.

Oliver knows he is unhappy here.

Demitri knows he is sometimes happy and sometimes unhappy, and that here does not help.

And Luke knows, deep down, that he is also unhappy.

"We're not breaking up, Luke. That's not what's happening." I urge, as we all sit in a circle on the floor of my hotel room. "Don't ever think that, mate."

Luke Cartwright is a broken man, one that can only be built back by having time away, time to recuperate. After that, then who knows? He started in this band as a sober, clean singer, surely he can come back to it that way?

He nods into Candice's hair, picking at his nails and feeling defeated. He never wants to come down, never wants this to end. But it's not Luke, I promise.

And as he agrees, the decision is made. I look at each and every member of Purple Envy; each member who never named the band, who never decided what we'd play and how we'd play; where we'd go and what we'd do; who looked into the eyes of every single fan and sang what we didn't believe, sang false lines that weren't even written by us. And the ones that were? The ones that were written by me? They were nestled in between hits and on B-sides, sat quietly where no one could really listen to them.

There's Oliver Godfrey; a boy who gives everything for anyone but won't give himself slack, or faith, or time. Who, despite not being in love with me, is willing to date me until he is. Who lets people sexualise and idolise and objectify him so the rest of us can bleed our hearts on stage; we sing while he looks pretty.

There's Demitri Fitzpatrick; a boy with a wild heart who loves and hates and doesn't understand when one is more than the other. Who does the impossible when getting out of bed is impossible. A boy who lets people question his fucking citizenship status because he's not white, because he doesn't have an English accent. A boy who has to force his brain to not go fast, but to not completely stop either. Every single day.

There's Luke Cartwright; a boy who just consumes. He consumes the people, the vibe, and the substance. He wants to be everything and everywhere. He wants to feel every high you can possibly imagine because at this point it's the only way to not feel unhappy. A boy who bleeds entertainment and knows that he'd die if anyone was disappointed. Everyone is watching you, Luke.

And then, there's me. Scott Connors. Scottie. A boy who has so much to say, so much to tell you, but I can't, because I don't have enough control in my life, because I haven't taken it. I've let other people write and sing and speak for me. I've let my love turn into lust and obsession to the point where I no longer know if what I feel is real anymore. I sing but I don't at the same time because they are not my words. My love life has become a story online, and people dissect everything about who I'm sleeping with. I sing about falling in love with girls when I all I really wanted to do is fuck the boy singing next to me.

I took my lust and obsession and frustration out on a cocky American who's too scared to admit he's scared. Who's surrounded by fucking idiots and who I am too far away from right now. Parker Watts needs to be here, with us, not alone in that giant house in L.A.

Demitri flicks his lighter on and off. "So, who the Hell is gunna tell Mitch?"

"All of us, I think. That responsibility shouldn't be given to just one of us." Oliver looks at me, "Right, Scottie?"