"How do you know about this place?"

"I didn't know about it. I just wandered the streets until I found something like it."

"Stop dicking around and tell me, mate."

Parker wraps his red fingers around his coffee cup. I can almost hear the hissing and see the steam coming off of them when they both come into contact.

"My mom took me here once and I just remember it. It's in an alley, there aren't many people around and hey, you're not being accosted."

I nod. "True."

Parker and I are sat in this little cafe just off one of the main roads. New York City is another word for jungle. I'm surprised that no one presses their faces against the window to see us, or that other patrons don't turn around to get a good look at us, or hear what we're talking about. It's weird being in public, being completely exposed. Even with a body guard stood outside the door, eyeing up everyone who comes inside, I still feel like I'm stood naked for everyone to see.

Every time the door swings open, an icy breeze slices through my skin. I've chosen to keep at least one layer on despite the heaters blaring and the coffee burning down my throat.

I never liked coffee before, now I need it to get out of bed.

Parker stares at me, takes my hand. "Why are you so cold? Is your skin made of wafer?" His hand is like fucking volcano, it warms the whole of me; even my face which I know is turning red. He laughs at that, and I do too, my nose going a daft sort of beetroot.

"Do you have lava instead of blood?"

He cups my nose into his hands so that it can warm, and then covers my ears, then I feel his leg snake around mine under the table.

"I'm gonna have to be your travelling heater this Christmas, aren't I?"

"Trust me. It's like this in Manchester all the time, I'm used to it. That's me telling you to fuck off."

He grins, and my phone goes off. The day this fucking phone stops ringing is the day it collides with a wall. A text from Oliver reads;

Gettin real cold waitin for you and your bf. Pick me up a frap while you're there?

Parker does this magic thing where he can read your text from leaning over and reading upside down.

"A frappuccino? So gaaaaayyy!" He says it loud enough that a few people turn around in their seats. I grab my coat.

"Come on dickhead. Let's go before Westboro Baptist Church pops up from behind the percolator."

The cold hits me like a slap when we step outside. Down here there are no flashes or screaming, just the distant sound of someone playing Christmas songs and the crunching of snow beneath our feet and cars speeding through New York City.

Our bodyguard, Colin, walks nearby, never out of sight or mind, but doesn't draw attention by being too close. I feel the cold snake up to my ears and I know they've gone red because Parker bursts out laughing.

"You look like Rudolph!"

"He had a red nose you twat." I shove him away, and he comes colliding back over to me that he nearly knocks me over. We start fighting, but not really, the kind that could very well feel like tickling. One or two people pass, but no one gives a shit about two boys roughhousing down a back road.

I spot a black shiny car in the distance, and I know it's for me.

Parker catches me looking at it, I feel his hand slip into mine. Just casually, like it was always meant to be there.

"Are you nervous?"

I look at him. "Me? Course not, I've sung to bigger crowds."

"Yeah, but are you?"

There's a knot in my chest, a lump in my throat. I've sung to bigger crowds but this is different. These aren't people who paid specifically to see us; this is the general fucking public.

This is Times Square.

I can already see the lights, hear the people, the screaming, see the confused faces on passers-by. I know I get nervous, it ain't an uncommon feeling for me to get, but after months of no touring, it was sort of nice just write my songs and hang out with my friends and snog my boyfriend.

And eat a fuck load of McDonalds. Obviously.

Parker's hand tugs on mine, pulls me closer, and presses his warm lips against my cold ones. How the fuck does he do it, how the fuck does he stay warm when it's in the minuses out here?

"What's in you, Parker?"

He smiles, runs a hand through his hair. "Dunno. Cigarettes, alcohol, your dick."

"Fuck sake, I hate you."

"I love you."

And I stop, because I don't know what to say. I think about doing the whole what did you say? and then making him say it again, but I know that's stupid. I know I can make him say it a million times, and nothing changes the fact that I heard it the first time and here's the thing.

I can't say it back.

Because I love him too, but I'm not sure if it's the right thing to say.

And he reads my mind completely. He holds up his other hand. "Don't worry about it. If you're not ready, don't say it."

"I just...I throw those words around a lot and..." and this thing is special to me.

"Scottie, it's alright, really." He doesn't look wounded, doesn't look like I've shot him in the heart. Instead, he kisses me, and smacks my arse as I walk to the car.

"Don't forget to wink at the camera for me!"

I roll my eyes, because I love him so much.

.....

In another part of New York City, I feel like I'm about to throw up.

Didn't we go on hiatus? I keep asking myself. We have, but Christmas is about giving, and Oliver Godfrey, the man who can do nothing but give and give and give, saw Demitri and smiled, clapped him on the back and said 'here's an idea'. We're gonna sing in aid of Mind; a charity dedicated to helping people with mental health issues. It feels like nothing, but the bone crushing hug Demitri gave us both clearly showed we did something right.

As the car crawls along the city streets, I watch people use shovels to move snow out of the road, see vendors sell hot, sugary food that makes my stomach do even more turns. I'm everything but ready, but I can do this. Once I see Oliver, I'll know I'll be ok.

"What in fresh Hell is this?"

Oh shit. The frappuccino.

"I forgot. It's cold, it messes with your brain." I knock on my skull. Oliver rolls his eyes and cups my ears with his hands, rubbing the redness away.

"You should start wearing a hat."

"Nah, I look shit in them. It's a proven fact."

"I reckon Twitter thinks differently." I'm still at 50 million followers; gaining some, losing some, I think it'll be like that for the rest of my life now.

Someone mics me up as we enter this big tent that's supposed to act as a green room. Demitri waves from the other side of it, spinning drum sticks and speaking to Candice who's got these big fluffy boots on that I swear she got from 2006. Christ on a bike.

Oliver picks up Candice's phone, where Luke's open on Facetime, back in L.A, fighting his demons with a willing sword and knife and gun. He sees me, gives me a wave, tells me to smash it for him.

See, that's the thing. Today, I'm our lead singer, and our pianist, and our fucking talent.

Oliver sees the nerves build and passes the phone back to Candice, who starts cooing about how much she misses Luke. Oliver pulls me into a hug, pressing his cheek into the back of my head, still managing to warm my ears at the same time.

The nerves start to ebb away, they start to fly out of the fucking sky.

"One minute!" Someone shouts, and that's when I know that I'm about to go on stage at Times Square with my best friends, singing my words, playing our music.

We're all here for one thing and that thing is a thing I could never imagine me having. It was a pipe dream, one that was so far away in the horizon that I constantly thought to myself; what was the fucking point? What was the point when I could have realistic aspirations like becoming a doctor or a lawyer or finding the cure for Cancer?

They all seemed pretty more realistic than becoming an international superstar.

But realistic is fucking boring.

Oliver gives my shoulder a squeeze as we line up, already hearing the crowd scream even before they've seen us.

He whispers in my ear. "I hope I see you on the other side, number 80."

I smile, "You too, number 79." and we step out into the snow.