Fifty Million Followers [BOYXBOY]

40.

We all want to tell Mitch Simmons. We're actually all itching to do it now. But as the news rolls around social media and newspapers and talk shows that Parker Watts has left Dawn Senate, we can't help but keep our mouths shut.

Parker needs this. This is his time.

It's only been a day or two, only a few more days until our Las Vegas show. I'm in the recording studio non-stop with Demi and Oliver and Luke because I've just got so many ideas, so much noise going on in my head that we need to get it out; all of us, together.

We write and play and sing and every time Oliver hits a note right I want to kiss him. I don't. I don't ever.

But what we write and play and sing is so different. The words, the words come from our mouths, sung as if we were speaking them ourselves. I don't sing about girls, I sing about feeling trapped, about having no control, about feeling tired. We all write, Demi about feeling like an outsider, about feeling crazy, about people adoring him when people like him are arrested and spat on and refused jobs. Sometimes Demitri draws and paints what he feels, and none of us bothered to ask to look at it. Now we do, and some of it could sell for a couple of thousand if he stuck them on Society6. Luke writes about never stopping, about going over the edge, about the monster that'll chew you up and spit you out when it's done with you. He's still hooked; it's all he can do to stop himself from losing it. Just a few more days, he tells himself, and then it's an L.A rehab centre for as long as he needs.

Oliver, Oliver struggles at first. How can you write about something you can't even understand either? He doesn't want to come out, he doesn't want the farce that I went through when he doesn't know what category he may fall into, if any.

We write together, and for now, we are all the talent.

And when we play, we use instruments that aren't computers; electric guitars, drums, tambourines, pianos and keyboards. The sounds are all coming from our hands and our souls. It's all us, everything is us, and it feels fucking fantastic.

None of us see Mitch in the shadows, watching us from a dark corner of the studio. If we were recording this, would his breath even make it on the track?

We all stop suddenly as he steps out, arms folded.

"Play these on the night." He says. "Screw the other shit. I never liked it in the first place." And he kicks the door open and walks out of the studio and sits at the recording deck. He puts his chunky boots on the desk, and turns a few nozzles and dials, and hits record. He leans into the microphone. "I wanna see the sound sweat out of your skin boys. Play it like you mean it."

.....

Parker answers on the first ring.

"First you don't answer my call, then you barely give me chance to tap in your number."

"Tap in my number? Put me on speed dial you dinosaur." His laugh could send me off to space. But I don't let it, I don't let anyone do that to me so quickly anymore.

"Congratulations," I say, blowing cigarette smoke from between my lips. I'm stood on my balcony. Down below, there are new protesters. Not many, not enough to need to police. We don't plan to leave this hotel; I don't plan on going anywhere. "I wanted to tell you before but you know, you wouldn't answer."

"I know, shit's getting real man." It sounds quiet on his end, the first time in a few days probably. "I'm gunna miss that house. I feel like I'm going through a divorce, I'm talking to the other guys through our lawyers."

"It's for the best."

"How are you?"

I stare at the sun for too long. "Tired, but a good tired. A non-stressful tired, sorry to boast."