My...my voice has stopped working.

The volume on the music turns up, one with vocals, so we only have to mime for it. It's so we can rest our voices for the final thing; God fucking forbid Mitch suggests that we mime for the actual gig. I would like to think that we'd all object, but for Oliver, that's just a normal night for him.

I stare at the back of Luke's head for two whole songs, barely moving my mouth. The grip on my microphone is so colossal I think I might be crushing plastic, crushing wires. We're supposed to move around to, pretend the fans are already there, move to the front and high-five them or even just touch their hands – they cry when we do that. It's weird.

I catch Oliver's eye a few times, and he looks worried for me, his gaze lingers on the one or two cuts on my face and the red of my knuckles from my fight with Parker. It's better than what I thought he would think; run the fuck away or shit I snogged an actual gay boy. I can't just stop in the middle of rehearsal now, I can't watch Mitch Simmons take his sunglasses off again and stare me down like the feeble little boy I am.

No, I am no boy, I'm a fucking monster who's about to tear the roof off of this stadium.

The minute, no, the second rehearsals are over, and I'm sweating under the lights, under the sound in here as it ricochets off of everything. I watch as Luke jumps down off the stage and strides off back to some cubicle or alleyway where he can snort and swallow and inject.

And my feet start moving, echoing his, and I know he knows I'm following him, because he turns his head slightly and without looking at me, gives me another little smile, one just for me and him. He rubs his nostrils, and turns into one of our dressing room.

I shove him hard against the wall, revelling in hearing his skull hit it with a thunk.

"I'm going to fucking kill you." I let my accent get stronger, let it flow out, remind him where I'm from, what I can do. I'm sure it's a side of me he's seen before, but it's never been directed at him, one of my best friends, because he's never done anything like this to me before. How could he?

He grabs fistfuls of my shirt. "Not if I kill you first." He says through gritted teeth, and pushes. I stumble backwards as Luke lands the first punch and I feel the cuts on my face from my last punch up open again. Liquid drips from my nose; the amount of times I've been fucking punched, you'd think I'd have a nose like Owen Wilson by now.

I don't let Luke get anymore, and throw my own at him.

We're both the fighters, the one with walls built so high that just looking at them the wrong way can end in blood. We're both fire, burning anything before it can hurt us. I'm so much like Luke and I don't even realise, not until we're faced with the same expressions, not until Oliver and Demitri are prying us off of each other. Oliver blocks my sight of him, uses his body to stop me from moving forward into another attack.

He presses his palms into my shoulders and says "It's Ok." at least five times slowly and quietly and I realise he means it in every other possible way.

He's OK. I'm OK. We're both OK. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.

Luke starts pacing and laughing, a fucking weird combination. He smoothes his hair a few times as if that's the only thing that's bothered him, but it's just because a birds nest nowadays a la Russell Brand.

"How could you?" It's barely audible; my lips don't really form the right shapes. "I'm your friend, Luke."

"Oh fuck, Scott. You are? I feel like you don't know what those words mean, I feel like none of you do."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Cartwright?" Oliver spits. "You slept with my girlfriend."

"A girlfriend you didn't give two shits about because you were too busy trying to bone Scottie." Oliver's cheeks turn a bright shade of red. "Yeah," Luke snorts. "The hotel walls aren't as thick as you think."

"I'm sorry, but what the fuck is going on?" Demitri steps in; hands raised as if he's entering a warzone without ammo. His eyes dart from one person to the next, hoping for anything at all. "You two are fuckin'?"

"No!" I mean, hopefully.

"But you're gay. You told me you were gay."

"Yes...I am gay." It's the first time I've ever said it out loud. It's feels weird on my tongue, but it tastes kind of sweet. I've never heard it be said, by me, like that before. I try not to meet Oliver's gaze, burning my skin next to me.

"And you're gay too?" Demitri points to Oliver, who is now a full blown tomato.

"I..." He looks at the ground, at anywhere but me or the others. If a black hole formed in the centre of the room, he'd jump right into it. "...no, I'm not. No. No." Every single time he says no, the more doubtful he sounds.

"Stop fucking distracting us." I turn on Luke, but I feel Oliver's hand on my shoulder again. "You didn't answer my question; why the flying fuck would you out me like that?"

"Because you did it to me! Candice and I? We saw you. We saw you see us making out at your butt buddy's house party. You took a picture of us; I saw the bloody camera flash. So, I followed you, and you literally just laid out your sexuality in front of me. I wasn't going to do anything with the picture, but you fucking sold me out." He gets louder after each word. "People have been vandalizing Candice's home in Ireland! She can't get a job! People keep finding out her number and ring her in the middle of the night, all because YOU decided to take a picture so you could break her and Oliver up so you could have his dick all to yourself. That's what it was, wasn't it, Scottie? You needed him all to yourself so you threw Candice under the fucking bus."

He takes in a deep breath, as if to keep going, but I realise it's just for effect. His big speech, how long has he been keeping that in there?

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what'?"

"To all of it." I'm dumbfounded. "What are you talking about? You think I took that picture of you and Candice? I didn't even know that was you. I was so smashed, Luke, I just assumed it was Oliver, you know, because they were fucking dating." His features soften. Luke isn't one to admit defeat, but the crease in his brow lessens at each word I say. "You would seriously think though, as your friend, the first thing I would do when seeing you and Candice together is take a photo? Are you fucking serious mate? Do you not think, oh I dunno, that maybe I would talk to you first? Bandmate to bandmate? Friend to fucking friend?"

For the first time, he has nothing to say. He just stares at me, but not properly, because his eyes can't focus, because nothing in that brain can fucking focus. And for a moment, I feel sorry for him.

But then, he takes a big gulp of air, like it's not enough; I can't have the last word, can I? He can't be wrong. He needs to be right, needs to be ahead, in front of us, his voice shouted louder.

"Oh, I'm sure you would have if you weren't too busy being in love with Oliver."

In love with Oliver. IN LOVE WITH OLIVER.

I hear a laugh behind me; it's Oliver.

"What are you talking about?" I can feel him looking at me, and at this point, can I really deny it? Can I lie straight to his face? Before I do anything else, think of anything else, I turn around, and just look at him.

And then he says "Oh."