"You have become a big fucking problem, Connors." Mitch Simmons blocks my way out, standing as if the whole corridor is his. I think he might be glaring at me but how am I supposed to fucking know with those daft glasses on.

It's like he reads my mind, and he rips them off and stuffs them in his pockets. There's a large scar running down from his eyebrow, as if he's been mauled, and his eye's pupil and iris have whitened. The whole thing is disfigured by some accident. I swallow hard at the guilt of staring.

"Remember when I said if you had anything to tell us, and you said 'nope, nothing'?" He puts on a ridiculous, and quite frankly, offensive version of my Northern accent. "Because I do, I remember that lie all too well." He snarls, and I do it back, ignoring his eye and his insults. "I was the only one who hesitated about you being in the band, but the others fancied a rougher, tougher member next to two posh boys and 'the exotic one'." I'd heard Demitri be called that before; exotic, foreign. But all that meant was that he was the only one who wasn't white, like it was the only part of him that mattered when they chose him; his skin colour and his accent. I can hear Demitri's voice in my head;

Punch him for me, will you, Scottie?

Mitch leans back, away from me, and pulls on his leather jacket, making sure it fits just perfectly. "Staples Center is tonight. If you as so much bring up any of this on social media or during the show, I will ruin you. As usual, I will sort out your bloody mess."

My brain doesn't spit back up a witty remark, or jab, or comment, or anything. He's spoken like this to us before, all of us, but it's never made me feel so cold.

As he leaves me in the corridor, above a red light that glows 'on air', he shouts back, "Stay away from that kid." As he points to Parker Watts' dressing room, Parker inside no doubt nursing his bloody face.

I feel my back slide against the wall, and the headache grow.

.....

My phone is another life form that sits in my pocket and it screams at me every time it wants to remind me that my life is a total fucking cock-up.

And I can't. do it. anymore.

I love my job. I love making music, even if the music that gets approved on the album are actual gob shite. I love hanging with my friends, even if some aren't talking to each other, some are taking drugs, and one likes to kiss me sometimes. I love the fans, even if they stalk us, harass us, threaten us, and demand everything from us.

What am I kidding? Everything is a mess.

I'm not allowed to confirm or deny these 'rumours', but since what came out about Luke and Candice turned out to be true, my silence can be confirmed as anything the press wants it to be. They rip into me, I get calls and texts from my brothers. My fucking brothers; the ones who used to gang up on me for fun and protect me when bullies when I was a kid. Not like I needed help. I arrived into the world fists first, knuckles tight, ready to punch my way through life.

And the same blood runs through them, two large brutes who, if I'd mention my weakness for posh boys in public school uniforms when I still lived with them, they would have knocked me all the way from Bury to Salford with one combined swing.

"I...I can't talk about it right now."

"Look, Scott, mate. We're not...we're not kids, alright? It's not such a big deal anymore. You know that Nick got promoted to branch manager the other day."

Nick is the middle child. "Oh, Christ, what does that even mean, Rob? Branch manager of a gay pride parade?"

"It means we're adults. We don't care if you're a poof." My eyes roll so far back I think I see my brain. "You know Danny from down't street came out a few months ago. Lives in a flat in Whitefield with his boyfriend and a staffie called Rooney."

"As in Wayne Rooney? He still supports Manchester United?"

"Yeah, he may have come out but he's still a twat." Everyone knows that if you're from Manchester, you support Man City, Man United is for non-Mancunians. For a few glorious moments I forget that I'm famous, that my life is everyone's business, that my father won't return my calls.

Rob and I hang up as the car stops and people are banging on the windows. They can't see me, but I sure as Hell can see them. They scream and cry and hold placards with Purple Envy written all over them. I make eye contact with one young girl, though I know she can't really see me, but it's eerie all the same. She smacks her hands against the glass, while I'm escorted from the sliding doors, flanked by two men the size of houses, and taken through a poorly made gap from car to a random entrance of the Staples Center.

I trudge through the corridor as people see me and say into phones and headsets "He's here." and "Yeah, he's made it." It's only a rehearsal, a sound check, but my stomach flips when I realise I've got to face Oliver. Oliver, who's seen and heard everything second hand. Oliver, who kissed me all night last night.

I arrive on stage, the seats completely empty save for a few members of our team and Staples Center staff sat on some fold out chairs at the front of the stage. There's roadies fixing up lighting and our music dives in and out as techies get the sounds just right.

When I see Oliver standing there, I want to bury myself into a sandpit.

He's holding a guitar, a guitar that he no doubt won't be playing. He can play, but a backing track will do just fine. Demitri doesn't have his drums; Mitch doesn't like how it means he can't move around the stage, interact with fans. He's stood with me, and gives me a friendly thump on my shoulder.

And then Luke saunters up, his coat half on half off because he has no fucking idea how stupid he looks. His hair is mussed, the wristbands on his arms have doubled for no apparent reason (I'm assuming to hide the marks) and he grips me in a headlock.

I think he might mumble something supportive or comforting to me before reaching for the lead mic stand up front, but instead he says "Fuck, it's not nice having your personal life in public, is it?"

And I realise I punched the wrong person.