AN: Yes, I know that I still have the last chapter of the ever-popular fic Why Me to finish. That will be out in good time, but I wanted to work on this new story first. The idea came to me last week, but since the news of Oliver's role in the up and coming season 4 has been released, I figured now was as good a time as ever to write a fic like this. I guess you could call it a song fic, seeing how it is based on Green Day's Last Night on Earth...but it's a going to be multi-chapter with both Oliver and Lilly switching POV's. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hannah Montana. I do not work for Disney. They have given us the great gift of Loliver, and I couldn't be happier about that. They even made the whole commercial..."together at last."

"Two minutes, Oliver!"

I hear the booming voices of the backstage crew, but nothing computes. I'm lackadaisical and not aware of their warning. There's a much more important matter occupying my mind. It's crippling me in both figurative and literal meanings. I don't want to move and it feels as though I can't. No one's here to help. There's no force to lift my spirits. Why bother?

Failure to send message...

Sighing heavily, I slouch back in the tan colored arm chair. Frustration and anger should never be mixed with home sick and heart ache, yet there's a wave of that very solution washing over me right now. I'm not going to quit. I will sit here as long as it takes. Composing myself, I try again, fiddling with different buttons and options.

Message failed...

"Everyone back stage, please!"

I ignore more commands. I'm determined to complete my mission. They don't know what it's like to be in my shoes. This is what they do for a living and have for years. My situation is different. The lights. The crowd. The feeling- it's all new to me. No one ever told me there's a catch; a down side living a dream. When you leave, your heart stays behind. Life is sucked out of you. Hopeless, helpless, useless...

"Oliver?" My guitarist pokes his head around the corner of the open door. "C'mon, man. We gotta go!"

"In a minute." I mutter out the side of my mouth without looking.

"We don't have a minute!" He walks in and points at the clock on the wall. "We need to be out there now!"

My eyes are fixed on the electronic device in my hands and what's glowing on the screen:

Sending message...

"Geeze, Oliver!" My band mate tries to grab and pry my only communication source back home out of my hands. It's the fight of the century. I squirm in my seat, pulling out of his reach. "Who could you be texting that's so..."

I look up with distant, cold eyes as he trails off. Nothing else needs to be said on my part. At least this message is clearly sent and received.

"She's ok, don't worry." He pats my shoulder as a means of condolence. How does he know? That's just it. He doesn't. I'm the one with jumbled feelings. I have a missing piece to my puzzle. For peace of mind, I need to find this out on my own. No one here can tell me everything's alright. Absolutely no one.

My focus goes back to my cell phone screen. The words have not changed. A letter is still being pushed through the slot of a mailbox. Do I blame the old, blue piece of junk itself, or seek vengeance on the thick, cinder block walls and cement-based floor that could be robbing service?

I take a quick glance at the time. Seconds are ticking away at a seemingly faster rate. I don't have the will to let this issue go unaddressed, but I know I must (at least for the time being.)

"Go." I say weakly. No eye contact is made. "I'll be right out."

The guitarist nods and exits quietly. Gripping both arms of the chair, I slowly lift myself to standing position. Balance is off; my legs shake and wobble. Perhaps I'm top-heavy from the giant weight in my chest. I'm functioning on back-up mode. There's just enough emergency power to sustain life, yet I'm being crushed to death every second.

Disappointed and empty, I shove my cell into one of my pant's pockets. Hope remains, but in a tiny measurement. All I can do is pray it works. A confidence booster is what I want. Completion is what I lack. Lilly is what I need...

My feet drag as I ascend the stairs. Faces of my band and the crew greet me. Some have stern looks, because I'm late. I'm not in the mood to deal with them. They can be mad if they want, and scream at me for all I care. An explanation and apology can come later. Business first.

Everyone dashes to their places. We don't even do our usual pre-show ritual. I warm up my voice and wait for my cue. There's no use in trying to clear my head. It won't be the first time I'm going on stage preoccupied, but I've never had to deal with such a heavy heart. I never perform without talking to her beforehand. I can't do this without letting her know one thing. I'm not ready, but I don't have a choice. It's show time.

I walk out on stage to cheers and applauding. My mind boggles; I'm not that popular outside of Malibu. Quite a few people are here for such a small venue. Out of all the shows I have done throughout the state these past few weeks, this one seems to be the most packed. I take my place in front of the mic.

"How's everybody doing tonight?" I ask. The crowd erupts. I try to smile in return, but get hit in the chest too hard by an empty feeling. My heart sinks to my stomach, which has been in knots all day. It's important I stay focused, but I miss her too much.

I swear the sent of apples diffuses through out the room, and adorable laughter echoes off the acoustics. Thinking that it will help ease the pain, I envision our last kiss. (How magical it feels when our lips touch.) I was wrong, though. My mind, heart, and soul now ache for the sensation. Why do I torture myself?

"Good, good." I sigh softly between words. Like a fool, my eyes search the mass of people. I know my girl's not here. The dreamer in me wants to pretend she's in the front row. At most shows, that's where she can be found; smiling up at me and singing along obnoxiously. Not this time. She couldn't follow, and I couldn't bring her.

I'm still as a statue on stage for a moment. All these pictures and memories are surging around in the back of my mind, just begging to be released. Physically, the pain of a head ache forms right between eyes. I feel weak and a little spacey. The saying goes, "the show must go on." I will honor that, but it'll go on my way.

I look behind me to my left. "We're gonna start things off a little different..."

I back off from the mic stand and walk across the stage. The band is shooting confused glances and so is the crowd. They whisper theories amongst themselves. I stop in front of the keyboard. It's slightly old black Yamaha that I've had for years. Pushing a few buttons, I find the setting and tone I want.

"What are you doing?" My bassist questions me out of the amplifying range of his mic. He knows I'm not scheduled to be using that instrument until much later in the show. I fiddle with the position of my own microphone in front of me, which can be heard as unpleasant feedback. The sound guy in the back is caught off guard by my sudden action and has to turn knobs and move faders.

My head is down, leaving what little part of shaggy hair I have left to shield my face. I'm regretting cutting so much of it off now. I'd really prefer my eyes to be hidden from everyone's view during a time like this. They're glazed over and are missing their shine. Myself, I am missing my spark. Plus, if they turn red (no, when they turn red), I don't want anyone to see. From an outsider's perspective, I must be a total wreck.

"This is-" I try to make visual contact with the crowd, but fail. "This is a song dedicated to the most beautiful and special girl in the world, who hopefully knows I'm thinking about her..." I shut my eyes tightly for a few seconds and breathe out sharply. "And that's all I'm gonna say..."

I partial turn my head so that only the musicians can see me. Now they have another reason to flip out: I'm changing the set list on them at the absolute last minute. We have had this planed and rehearsed in the same order since the first show. Surprisingly, they don't seem angry. This time, I see compassion. Now they understand.

"Last Night on Earth." I crack through my whisper, getting three nods in return (one from each member.) The song fits our situation so perfectly that it has become my personal anthem on this tour. It's almost as if the lyrics were written specifically for us.

Soft lighting illuminates the band, but my figure alone is the main focal point. I bite my lip and breathe deeply. My fingers twitch as I play the beginning chords. Eyes shut and see her face. That's all I can see, so therefore, I act like we're alone and start singing only to my Lilly-pop:

"I text a postcard sent to you. Did it go through? Sending all my love to you..."

Poor Oliver. Hopefully, this will be a little easier to write than I first thought. I'm currently working on a few stories, but updates will come as soon as possible. Let me know what you think.

-Marissa