Every night, I imagine Oliver Godfrey snaking out from under the sheets and climbing on top of me. It's a recurring dream that I never want to end; I'm lying in bed in my boxers, like I always do, and at first I only see hands that grip on to my hipbones. You'd think, in a dream like this, you'd be frightened by a strange pair of hands appearing from the shadows. But these hands are so familiar, so awe inspiring, so well known, that every time I see them, my heart does little flips that tunnel around my chest and into my stomach.

Oliver pulls himself up and he's completely naked, towering over me and looking down like he's ready to eat me alive and I'm ready, I'm so ready.

His lips reach my neck. "Scott." He whispers. "Scottie, wake up." I shake my head.

"Scottie! Wake the fuck up!"

My head hits the bottom of the top bunk as I sit up quickly. A loud thwack rings throughout the tour bus, and my hands reach my forehead. I blink one eye open; Luke stands in the gangway, unlit cigarette hanging out his mouth and holding crisps and cans of coke like they're babies.

"You fell asleep again."

"It wasn't an accident."

His eyes wander further down, where my dick has decided to announce its presence in the form of a tent. My cheeks would go bright red if this wasn't the forth fucking time this week.

"You havin' those sexy dreams again, Scottie, my boy?" Luke smirks, eyeing me up and down, before tossing a full, cold can on to my bed, narrowly missing my erection. But I still flinch, still glare at him as he laughs back down to the front of the bus. He doesn't know the true definition of my 'sexy dreams' and I pray to God that he never will. I pull a shirt on whilst thinking of things that do not turn me on; my grandma, childhood photographs, stubbing my toe, girl parts. I've downed my coke already and I climb out of the bottom bunk, my feet padding along the tour bus carpet to the door.

Luke is sat on the top step, his lighter flickering and illuminating his face. He offers me a cigarette and I groggily take it. We're parked a little away from the gas station's store, but the light from the inside still shines on a girl frantically talking on her phone and looking over to us excitedly.

"It's not like I said anything...the bus has our fucking band name on it."

"Sure, blame it on the bus." I smirk, blowing out smoke.

Luke sighs. "I will always blame it on the bus – I fucking hate it, there's no Playstation! I mean, what tour bus doesn't have a fucking Playstation?"

"Maybe we're not famous enough to have a Playstation."

Luke laughs. "Oh Scottie, we're famous enough to have a Playstation each." And while the thought of four Playstations sounds ludicrous, it's probably do-able.

Numbness in my toes begins to creep in, slowly moving through my feet, and I stand and walk back inside, chucking my cigarette onto the ground. I never smoked before but hanging around Luke the chimney my lungs pulled me towards it, like they needed it if I was going to get through this tour.

Mitch says it's bad for my image, but I'm not Oliver, I'm not the clean-cut. I'm the fucking talent.

I mope back to my bed, rubbing my eyes when I feel a soft touch on my thigh. I stop, and look down. There's a hand on it, grabbing me. The hand is attached to an arm and the arm is attached to a body that lies in the bottom bunk opposite mine. Oliver lies topless on his stomach, his eyes still closed but with a smile on his lips.

"Scottie." He moans and I melt into a warm puddle. "Scottie, where are we?" I stare at his hands on my bare thigh for a few more moments before answering.

"America."

Eyes still closed, but now he's grinning and he tugs on my leg to pull me closer. "Smart-arse. Where abouts in America?"

"I don't know. I was never good at Geography. I think we're four hours away from the hotel. Luke wanted to stop to buy some fags."

"You shouldn't smoke, Scottie."

"I said Luke." His fingers uncurl from my leg, releasing me, and I look at him from up here, his back muscles contorting as he turns on his side. God, I want to crawl into bed with him, let him put his arms around me, and sleep forever. I could do it, I've imagined it a thousand times when the light goes out on the bus and he's just lying there, letting me stare at him from across the gangway. Surely he knows I'm staring by now? Surely he could feel my eyes burn into his naked back every single fucking night we were on our home tour.

Jesus, our home tour.

We released a single, then we released an album, and then we went on tour of Britain. I was eighteen and had a persistent hard-on for Oliver Godfrey and I barely knew him. I was in closed quarters with him and two other boys for three months and it was the worst and best experience of my life. I loved everything about it and I hated everything about it. It was our last gig when hundreds of teenage girls screamed and cried at us that I realised this thing that I had wasn't just going to be a thing, but a secret thing that I went to my grave with. At least, that's what I pictured when I looked into the black sunglass lenses of Mitch Simmons every time we had a meeting to discuss publicity and social media and other bullshit like that.

No, me liking boys is not part of the image.

Oliver's fallen back asleep, and so I crawl back into my own bunk, lying there and staring up at the bunk above me where I can hear Demitri getting angry at his Game Boy.

"Feckin' stupid blue hedgehog!" He shouts but Oliver doesn't stir, and I keep my smile to myself.