The decision comes at around 6PM and it's almost unanimous. It's not unanimous, because Luke is not ready. I don't think he'll be for a long time, but as Candice sits on his lap like she used to sit on Oliver's, Luke Cartwright doesn't entirely believe he has a problem.

I know I am unhappy here.

Oliver knows he is unhappy here.

Demitri knows he is sometimes happy and sometimes unhappy, and that here does not help.

And Luke knows, deep down, that he is also unhappy.

"We're not breaking up, Luke. That's not what's happening." I urge, as we all sit in a circle on the floor of my hotel room. "Don't ever think that, mate."

Luke Cartwright is a broken man, one that can only be built back by having time away, time to recuperate. After that, then who knows? He started in this band as a sober, clean singer, surely he can come back to it that way?

He nods into Candice's hair, picking at his nails and feeling defeated. He never wants to come down, never wants this to end. But it's not Luke, I promise.

And as he agrees, the decision is made. I look at each and every member of Purple Envy; each member who never named the band, who never decided what we'd play and how we'd play; where we'd go and what we'd do; who looked into the eyes of every single fan and sang what we didn't believe, sang false lines that weren't even written by us. And the ones that were? The ones that were written by me? They were nestled in between hits and on B-sides, sat quietly where no one could really listen to them.

There's Oliver Godfrey; a boy who gives everything for anyone but won't give himself slack, or faith, or time. Who, despite not being in love with me, is willing to date me until he is. Who lets people sexualise and idolise and objectify him so the rest of us can bleed our hearts on stage; we sing while he looks pretty.

There's Demitri Fitzpatrick; a boy with a wild heart who loves and hates and doesn't understand when one is more than the other. Who does the impossible when getting out of bed is impossible. A boy who lets people question his fucking citizenship status because he's not white, because he doesn't have an English accent. A boy who has to force his brain to not go fast, but to not completely stop either. Every single day.

There's Luke Cartwright; a boy who just consumes. He consumes the people, the vibe, and the substance. He wants to be everything and everywhere. He wants to feel every high you can possibly imagine because at this point it's the only way to not feel unhappy. A boy who bleeds entertainment and knows that he'd die if anyone was disappointed. Everyone is watching you, Luke.

And then, there's me. Scott Connors. Scottie. A boy who has so much to say, so much to tell you, but I can't, because I don't have enough control in my life, because I haven't taken it. I've let other people write and sing and speak for me. I've let my love turn into lust and obsession to the point where I no longer know if what I feel is real anymore. I sing but I don't at the same time because they are not my words. My love life has become a story online, and people dissect everything about who I'm sleeping with. I sing about falling in love with girls when I all I really wanted to do is fuck the boy singing next to me.

I took my lust and obsession and frustration out on a cocky American who's too scared to admit he's scared. Who's surrounded by fucking idiots and who I am too far away from right now. Parker Watts needs to be here, with us, not alone in that giant house in L.A.

Demitri flicks his lighter on and off. "So, who the Hell is gunna tell Mitch?"

"All of us, I think. That responsibility shouldn't be given to just one of us." Oliver looks at me, "Right, Scottie?"

And I realise, Luke may be the lead singer, but I've become the lead of the band. They all watch, waiting for me to answer. But instead of giving them a proper answer, I nod, and smile, because I'm so proud of them, and of myself, really. I feel Oliver's hand find mine, because he can't help himself, I know.

"I still want to come to rehearsals, and pizza nights, even Playstation sessions. I hope you all understand." Candice wraps an arm around Luke to support herself. When Oliver does look at them both, there's nothing but love for them. "I'm your number one fan, I deserve that."

"Don't be a nerd, Candice." Demitri stands up and smiles, finishing rolling up his cigarette.

When everyone starts leaving, one by one from my hotel room, I think we all need just some time alone. Everything feels so big; every decision, every feeling. It's all too big. I scroll absentmindedly through Twitter because I must be a masochist. Without liking or retweeting I just scroll through the hashtags, through people's accounts, where people have taken pictures of me like I'm on a float during our very own Pride parade. It makes me smile, all the colours and the smiles but to be honest, it looks right daft. It looks dramatic, but at least it happened; at least it was a positive reaction to all this. I know other people aren't so lucky, and it's fucking awful to think that it's different for them.

I only look up from my phone when the sunlight from the setting sun streams through the window and shines on the screen and I'm completely blinded. And then I see Oliver, stood by the door, but he doesn't walk through it. He closes it, leaving me alone with him.

"I thought you'd all gone. I was just gunna order a pizza and watch Cartoon Network." I laugh, but I'm not met with it. He looks at me seriously; his shoulders slightly slumped, like he's been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for a long time. He walks over to me, slowly, contemplating every step. I put my phone in my pocket because whatever is happening now needs my full fucking attention.

I don't know if I've ever said I hate the height difference between me and Oliver. Because I don't, I fucking love it. The way he has to look down slightly at me, his lips slightly pouting and his slightly floppy hair touching my forehead.

"You're right, you know." He says quietly, and I can feel his fingers on my hips. "I think a lot about what you want, about what will make you happy that I sometimes don't think about what will make me happy, about what I want."

My eyes drop down to my hips where he starts pulling me closer. I never expected this to happen again. I never expected myself to let it. Because I want it, and by the sounds of it, he wants it too.

"We can't go through this again, Oliver. I'm not going to ruin a friendship based on one person sacrificing what they want in order for the other person to be happy."

"Have you asked me what I want? Do you even know? One person can't be so selfless. I'm not always doing this to make you happy you know. At first, maybe; maybe I liked seeing you happy and smile and be with me. But I like being happy too, sometimes I'd kiss you and it made me very happy. I liked it, Scott. I don't know why you're so adamant that I don't." One of his hands strokes the side of my neck, my cheek.

I don't want to ruin this very poetic and slightly confusing moment, but... I'm so fucking hard right now.

"What do you want?" No sound comes from me except for the whisper that rolls from my breath and into his mouth.

And he answers by pressing his lips against mine. Slowly, at first, until I grab the back of his head and pull his face closer. We are going to be one, or we fucking will be in a minute as I feel him undoing the buckle of my jeans as I undo his. Our faces don't part and only do for a second when he pulls my shirt over my head and I don't think I've got naked this quickly before.

We find ourselves on the bed because it's always where I've wanted to be with him. Not just the camp beds on the tour bus but in this giant, new, king size bed, where Oliver actually has room to straddle me and lean down and press hot kisses against my neck and my throat and bite my shoulder and I don't know how he knows I like that. I love it.

And we stay together, all the way through the night, not like last time; timid and unsure and uncertain. But instead, it's full of want and passionate and I don't really like to compare my situation to a steamy romance novel but tonight I just fucking might. We don't let go of each other, not when the sun leaves and the lights of Las Vegas come on making the room purple, making us purple. Everything is purple. And my lips are sore and my neck is sore because Oliver Godfrey is a fucking biter.

He's never done that before, because he never let out what he wanted.

And when my eyelids drop, so do his, and I think I fall asleep, but it's weird, because I thought I was already dreaming.