Yes, locking myself into a literal closet is the best thing I could have done. Because hey, I'm out of the metaphorical one, might as well crawl into the real one at the other end of the green room.

I can hear people on the other side, bustling in and out of rooms, preparing for tonight's big opener. After Staples Centre, it's on to the rest of the U.S. I think Las Vegas might be next, but who fucking knows, who fucking cares?

We've been here so long, but the tour is nowhere near over. Our time in L.A has been considered a break from touring, but if a break is a nightmare wrapped in sun and palm trees than yeah, maybe it is.

But I just need this time, this space, where I can think about nothing, listen to no one.

I light up my phone. Still no calls or texts from my dad.

I don't know whether this is my own fault or me shifting the blame. I know, for one, that Luke is an utter bellend who doesn't understand the consequences to his actions. He doesn't know that, while people speculate with who I'm sleeping with, and drawing fucking graphic pictures of it, I'm also getting death threats, I'm getting tweets from people I recognized from school calling me a 'fairy'. A fucking fairy. Me? The one who most likely knocked them out before double Science?

No, I'm not proud of that. Luke may attack with words, but I attack with my knuckles. They're both wrong.

Maybe I have an anger problem? Jesus, Scott; don't open that door.

I can't hear the fans upstairs but I know they're here, filling up every seat. We're sold out, by minutes, so I was told. Each seat has a person in it who paid that obscene amount of money to watch Oliver mime, Luke gyrate, Demi stalk off stage, and me; the guy they can't even fantasize about being with anymore, so what's the fucking point of me?

My eyes sting just as there's a faint knock at the door.

"No one's home."

"I feel this is slightly ironic, and kind of out of character for you." It's Oliver. His voice is careful and soft. I unlock the door and sit back on the floor, back against the wall, and he lets himself in. I've been sitting in the dark, and so the light that comes from the outside is striking, making my eyes water even more.

Oliver stands there, looking down at me, until he makes me scoot over so he can sit beside me. He lets the door close again, and we're engulfed in darkness.

"I am so sorry this has happened to you, Scott. I mean it; this is...this is a big thing."

"I guess it's my fault for fucking a guy at a party."

"Are you kidding me?" I can't see him, but I feel his body shift to face me. "Scottie, that's such a normal thing to do. You can't honestly believe that's something you're not allowed to do?"

"I said to Mitch there was nothing I needed to tell him. I fucking lied to get in the band."

"You don't have to tell him anything Scottie. You are perfectly within your rights to withhold personal information from him. He doesn't own us." Funny that. It feels like he does. We go where he wants us to, say what he wants us to.

"Did you tell him that you couldn't sing?"

He laughs. "I didn't need to, he heard it." I think about Oliver's audition, of how he might have belted out a tune, thinking he was perfect, and all three producers covering their bleeding ears. And he still got in. It's fucking hilarious. "Scottie, I'm sorry...about what happened between us." He's hesitant, our arms touch we're so close.

I can feel my heart sink.

"I didn't realise you were...and then this whole thing about you being...it was so awful of me to put you through that. I've barely spoken about it, haven't I?"

"Why haven't you, then?"

"Because I don't know why I did it. But I mean...I enjoyed it. I really enjoyed it. But I don't want to mess things up between us."

Why couldn't he have just left me alone in this closet? "I didn't take that picture of Luke and Candice."

"I know you didn't. I believe you."

"But I am gay. And I am in love with you. I can't just make it go away." I wish I could. Oh, I wish I was a robot born without emotions; it sounds so much more drama-less. But then, I feel Oliver's hand in my hair, one of his legs overlap with mine. "And I think you're too touchy-feely with me, mate. I love it too much." I feel him recoil slightly.

"I am? I didn't realise..."

Shit, why did I say that? Now he'll be too cautious, and he won't touch me at all when I love it so fucking much. Christ, what the Hell do I even want?

.....

With us all mic'd up, the room is dripping with hostility.

Demitri, like all of us, has succumbed to his demons and is already refusing to go on stage. I want to help him, but I fear that I'll only make it worse. What the fuck do I know about what's going on with him? I haven't been paying attention enough, to either Luke or Demitri. I could have prevented this. I could have made things easier.

But when I go on stage, those things disappear. I make it a rule for myself to leave my phone with an assistant or someone who never sets foot on stage. Because it's me, the fans, and the music. They scream and they cheer and they cry and I revel in it, pelt out a tune that I didn't write, maybe do some corny dance that flashes a bit of midriff because the girls in the front row will love that.

Wait, maybe I can't do that anymore now. They know, I know they all know. The whole fucking world knows. But I just keep singing, keep dancing. There's a keyboard to the side that I can play with; they love it when we go slightly off script, it shows that we're daft, cheeky lads. It's what we're marketed as.

Cheeky British boys who'll do anything for a laugh.

Not mentally ill.

Not addicted to drugs.

Not talentless.

Not gay.

That's what I am now, the gay one.

Before I know the concert is over. Three hours of watching Luke fire up that crowd like I don't know what. Lights and screams and walls of sound. He's a great lead, even if he's off his fucking his face, even if he's ruined my life.

It's our last night (it's 3AM, so maybe morning?) in our hotel, and when we return, none of us talk to each other, retreat to our own rooms like we don't even know each other.

Except for Oliver, who comes to say goodnight to me, in the most Oliver way possible. He stands too close, his hands almost ruffle my hair, he has to physically restrain himself from touching me, realising that everything he does and says to me, makes it worse, everyday.

I didn't realise he had said before. But when I look at him now, sad and just trying to solve it for me, I think that maybe he did realise he was doing it, but didn't know what it meant. It's been twenty-four our since we kissed in his room the whole night, so maybe that's twelve hours? It feels so long ago, in another world, one where the guy gets the guy.

"Am I a bad person, Scottie?"

"Why would you think that?"

"You...Candice..." He shakes his head. "I'm tired."

"Go to bed, mate."

Eventually, Oliver just nods, mumbles a sad good night, and closes his door. I do too, and face my hotel room. It's a fucking tip; clothes, cigarette packets, pizza boxes. My phone's battery is dead, and I toss the thing on a table that has so much shit on it, it looks bigger than it actually is. I don't bother changing out of my clothes, my pillow hits my head (or is it my head hits the pillow?).

I'm tired too, Oliver. I'm tired too.