Getting on stage and facing a bunch of people you don't know is like being punched in the stomach...but in a good way.

No, standing on a platform in front of hundreds of people and playing music is like being pushed off a cliff.

No, pouring your heart out in song to people who love you, it's like flying.

Luke is front and centre, like always, caressing the stand of his microphone like it's a cane. We usually get mics that fit around our heads, to keep our hands free for dance moves. But in here it's raw, in here we can do what we want.

Demitri is behind us on the drums, battering them like every bad thought he's ever had, crushing them in between the drum's surface and the drum stick. Oliver and I flank Luke as always. A review of one of our earlier gigs called us 'back up singers', and I cannot unsee it anymore. But when I look at Oliver, I smile. I don't care that I'm not at the front, bathed in light while the fans scream my name so loud that the other side of California can hear it.

Oliver doesn't look back at me, too focused on the song, too focused on staring forward. But he looks different, I don't know how. He's wearing clothes I've seen before, his hair is styled the same way as always. No, he looks the same, but maybe it's the lighting? Maybe it's the way he holds the mic close to his lips, his hands partly covering the handle.

I squint in the bright lights of the stage, making sure I still look like I'm at least singing the backing vocals. He glances at me, painfully aware that I'm watching him, continuing to sing like I'm not there. But I see it, the way his lips move, the way his Adam's apple doesn't really bob as much as it should when you're fucking singing your heart out. Jesus.

He's miming.

.....

I've never seen him leave the stage so quickly. Luke hangs on a bit longer, throwing kisses to the crowd and waving and taking selfies with some girls at the front, charisma oozing out of him like he can't turn it off.

But Oliver, Oliver is supposed to stay. He's supposed to work the crowd a little, talk to them, have them fawn over him. After all, he's the one on the cover of magazines, the one who has a whole fucking calendar with just pictures of him half naked.

No, I don't own the calendar.

I race after him, pushing through crew and roadies to keep an eye on him while he turns further and further into the venue. Fewer and fewer people come down here, I expect, the lights getting dimmer, the corridors getting tighter, until I feel a hand on my arm.

I'm pulled into a closet. Of all the fucking places.

It's so dark that it hurts, and I wince as a light's turned on and Oliver's in front of me, so close that I could just lean in...

"Scott." It's the same as when he wakes up, lying on the other side of the bus. But there's no smile, no groggy hello, there's fear.

I swallow. "Oliver. Were you miming?" I don't mean to say it in the same way as someone might say Have you committed murder? But it comes out like that anyway.

And instead of replying with any words, he nods slowly, and then his eyes water.

Shit, I am in a closet with a grown man who is crying.

"Mate, mate!" I whisper, grabbing him by his shoulders. I want to touch more, his face, his lips, his nose, to dry his eyes with the pads of my thumbs. When did I become so selfish?

I've never seen Oliver cry before; he's never had a reason to. He's a part of one of the biggest boy bands out there. We're taking the world by storm, we've got awards and fans across the world who buy pictures and signed shit with our faces on.

He stares at me, the low light glistening on a tear that falls down his cheek.

"What's going on, Oliver? Why are you miming?"

Oliver takes in a deep breath, and pulls me into a bone crushing hug. I've had these before; you don't know it's going to happen, but it does and it fucking hurts. But, in a good way, because it's Oliver, and you're in love with him.

But then he whispers in my ear, and what I knew of Oliver comes crashing down.

"I can't sing."