There's a ringing in my ears when I wake up. It's not from an alarm or from a notification, but from my ear drums, absolutely obliterated from the night before. I don't know if it was from the music or that girl's screams at the bus stop.

I think about throwing up, but I don't, and I reach for some pills that might dull the pain in my head but won't kick in for a good while. It's a haze, last night, remembering only the fan, the phone call with Parker, and the kiss from Demitri. I didn't even bother to check if he's alright; just one text telling me he went off with someone.

Shit, I remember the call with Parker, and my gut twists inside me. Did I say anything odd? I woke him up in the middle of the night, why did I do that?

I pad in tracksuit bottoms and a plain shirt to my door, smelling something that I need in me right now.

It's bacon. It's fucking bacon.

The floor in the corridor is empty, and to my side is Oliver at his own door, having a whole banquet wheeled into his room like he's a king who hasn't eaten in days.

The first thing I notice is that he's topless.

"You forget to order breakfast?"

I nod. "Looks like you're having a party in there."

Oliver laughs. "My eyes are bigger than my belly." And then there's silence. He moves out of the way of the door to let the guy wheel in the covered breakfast but I do know for a fact that there's bacon under one of those dishes and Oliver sees, sees my hungry eyes and my watering mouth.

He motions with his head. "Come on, I'm not going to eat it all anyway."

.....

Oliver and I sit opposite each other at the small round table by the window. I'm devouring most of the breakfast laid out because a hungover stomach is a fucking starving one. It's like I've never eaten before, and even if American bacon tastes a bit weird compared to home, I'm still licking my fingers and guzzling down orange juice like this is my last meal. All the lads have seen me eat before; it's not a pretty sight but they're used to it.

Oliver, once I'd entered a room, had put his shirt back on. I can't tell whether it was for me or for him; knowing that I'm in love with him, it might help me actually talk to him instead of stare at him. Or, if he felt like I'd be ogling at him, and he'd feel exposed.

I'm not thinking about it too much, not when there's a plate of hash browns beside me. It seems the hotel have brought together a full English just for us.

"So you went out last night?" He asks, playing with his scrambled egg that I might rip away from him if he keeps going. "I asked Candice...she told me you didn't invite me on purpose."

I stop mid chew and look at him. Oliver always looks amazing when he's half tired with bed head and a lop-sided grin. I reckon I'll be met with a sad look on his face but when there's just...support, I smile back.

"It wasn't a malicious thing, mate."

"No, I know. It's good. But, we're still best friends, right? I don't want to lose you."

"We'll always be. I've got to help you sing remember."

He scoffs, finally putting a fork full of egg in his mouth. "I think that's a lost cause, don't you?"

"No way! You're doing stellar, we just need more time. I reckon you could properly sing, without backup, by the time we're back on stage in a few days. Vegas won't know what hit 'em."

Oliver smiles into his breakfast, and I want to fly to the fucking moon. It's feelings like these I've got to keep to myself now, because they're no good out in the open. Soon, this'll end, soon, it'll be over.

He stares at me, his eyes big ovals of colour and reflection, and I'm chewing slower. I feel one of his legs entwine with mine under the table. The sun dances on his hair, making it more golden than its usual light brown.

"I'd do it you know, if it made you happy." My breathing slows. I'm hungry again, but it's a different kind of hunger. I push it down as best I can, try not to think of the way he looked when he opened his door earlier.

"Why would you?"

"Because you're my best friend. I'd do anything for my best friend." Oliver offers too much, I never offer enough. I wonder if he knows how difficult that is; realising that you're not as good as your friends are. I sigh, and push my plate away.

"I appreciate that, but you can't, Oliver. As much as I want to take advantage of that," And I mean, I really do. "You're my best friend, but I wouldn't make you do anything for me. Know what I mean?" Oliver nods, defeated that he can't help me. Because if what I want did happen; if we dated, made it public, told the world and battled everything together, deep down in my gut I'd know that it would be all for me, that he'd get only a fraction of the satisfaction I got. How could I be so selfish to accept that from him? As much as it is tempting, I can't have this conversation with him every time we're alone.

"Oliver, are you gay?"

He contemplates for a second, leaving my mind to go at 100 mph. When he finally looks back at me, rubbing the arms of his velvet chair, he says "No. But I don't think the term 'straight' can be used, can it?" He laughs, because he's right. He's willing to fucking date me to make me happy. He likes to kiss me, despite not wanting to take it too far. Someone who thinks and acts like that can't be straight and he knows it.

"Well, don't make out with a guy at a party otherwise Luke'll release the picture to the papers."

And we both laugh at that, but I can already feel a question about to be fired back.

I answer before he can even ask. "You've already asked me this, mate. I'm not dating Parker."

"Do you want to be?" I... "Because if you do...you know...that'd be great."

"You'd be jealous."

"Of course; I want you to come to me to be happy. But I understand, Scott. I really understand. And I get it, you know? He's hot..." My eyes widen, and he realises what he's just said. My mind's going crazy; oh my GOD. There are pictures, images in my head. I shift in my seat and cross my legs and I need to do something.

"You can't say shit like, Oliver."

"Oh...OH. I'm sorry. No, he's awful, really ugly, not a nice person at all!" And we're both laughing at the idea of a threesome that will not happen because I may explode. So would Twitter. So would our career.

When our laughter dies down, the shouting rises. We both look to the window, and I'd rather Oliver stand up to see what it is. He does, and he swallows hard at what he sees right at the bottom of the hotel, outside the lobby.

"You didn't tweet where we're staying last night, did you?" A crowd of fucking fans, just what we need. I'm about to say no but he holds his hands up. "Jesus Christ."

"What?" I join him at the window, but all I can see are dots and maybe a few placards.

Shit, they're not declarations of love; they're not even fans holding them up. They're protesters.

"It's not like this is the most conservative place in America, is it?" Oliver says, but the sound in my ears is just static. Most of the protesters are white and middle aged; parents, I reckon. Their signs have pictures of me on them, pictures of me with red lines across my face, condemning me, of brain washing their little girls.

"Scott? Scottie," I feel Oliver's hands on my shoulders, pushing me away from the window. "Scott, it's OK. They can't come near you, we have to find Mitch. It's alright."

But I can already hear them, shouting, screaming about what I've done, poisoning the music industry with my agenda.

This is what I was afraid of.

This is why I kept it hidden, for so long, I kept it way down, so no one could hurt me. And now it had arrived to devour me whole. I remember Mitch's words, of everything I'd unraveled. How I couldn't just keep it all to myself.

I feel Oliver's chest press into my face as he hugs me. I'm too shocked to react, until I do.

"Right, how do I get out of here alive?"