a/n: this is my first hannah fic, I hope you like it. feedback is greatly appreciated. :)

She draws her knees to her chest, arms clasping around them.

She breathes in the autumn air, watching the gold leaves float, drift downwards.

She's so cold.

.0.

He clenches the shirt, stretching it. He buries his nose in the old fabric, the musky scent triggering thousands of memories and making his eyes sting.

Half the sequins are gone, leaving only fraying threads. There are holes, too, and the hem is coming undone.

He knows she always, secretly, hated the glitter of her alter-ego.

.0.

She wonders briefly, only for a moment, if he'll ever come back.

She's seen him out there, his energy, his passion thundering across the arena as he sings.

She matches that when she sings, pouring every ounce of emotion she felt writing those songs into that glittered microphone.

.0.

Every single pair of trainers he owns are scuffed, ripped.

And he owns a lot of trainers.

This is what fame does; damages everything, makes you different.

He shrugs, pulling on the least ruined pair and mussing his hair one last time, before heading to the stage door.

.0.

She's there, in the audience, her hands shaking and heart pounding.

The noise begins, people cheering and screaming, and she knows what it's like to be on the other side of this.

She feels so alone, like she's the only one who isn't screeching his name.

...he steps past the bass player, and she's gone deaf from the roar of the crowd, but she almost topples forwards when she sees him.

A piece of her heart cracks and breaks away.

.0.

He's sweating, tired, going hoarse from belting out long notes.

He's never felt so exhilarated.

He adores the rush, the adrenaline that pulses through him. The bass and drums send crashing beats through his body. He's angry tonight, never smiling at the girls in the front seats that throw clothes, posters, and flowers onto the stage.

Tonight, he really doesn't care.

.0.

She's still gasping.

She's gripping the backstage pass, her stomach flopping. The other girls in front of her are squealing, and she rolls her eyes.

A burly man walks into the room then, and behind him is Oliver.

She swallows, hiding her face behind her hair. She hears him greet the girls in front, his voice husky, and she steps forward.

His eyes meet hers, and they widen for a fraction of a second.

"Hi, there," he says, smiling at her. "What's your name?"

"Miley," she murmurs. She knows he's giving her the we'll talk about this later look. "Awesome performance."

"Thanks," he replies quietly, gazing at her with dark eyes. She swallows.

"What about some pictures, now?" the man behind him asks.

"Oh, right," he stammers, forcing a grin. She sees past him as he opens his arms for the girls, as he smiles, as the camera flashes.

When he turns to her, and the girls hurry away, giggling, his expression both warms and falters.

"Come here. Where's your camera?"

"I don't have one," she mutters, staring at him. "You know who I am, Oliver."

He pales. The man steps forward, asking a question, but Oliver holds up a hand.

"No, it's OK. She's right," he says. "Can you guys give us some privacy?"

The bodyguard reluctantly agrees, leaving the room. Oliver turns to her.

They stare at each other.

"Hi," he says.

"How's the tour?" she blurts out.

"It's – it's fine," he answers. "I'm having fun."

She nods, and moves closer.

"How's Lilly?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Fine."

"Does she talk about me?"

"Not really," she says bluntly.

He sighs, and he reaches for her hand.

.0.

They leave together.

Luckily they find a back door, and they're in a dark courtyard.

She grips his hand again, fingers twining around his.

"Miley? You OK?" he whispers into the darkness.

His answer is her leaning into him a little.

"How did you get here?" he hisses.

"Bus," she mumbles against his shoulder, and he suppresses a shudder at the vibration on his skin.

"Let me take you home," he murmurs, and he feels her nod.

.0.

His car is warm, and she's so tired.

He's a good driver, and eventually the ticking of the indicators lulls her to sleep.

.0.

She's so beautiful.

Her hair curls over her chest, the ringlets a russet brown that shines in the light from the streetlamps.

They all grew up, didn't they?

.0.

She's shaken awake.

"Miley, you're home," she hears him murmur, his voice soft. "Come on, wake up."

"Oh," she says, eyes fluttering open.

His face is hovering near hers, eyes wide and dark.

There is silence.

She finds his hand.

"Oliver," she murmurs, and she's not quite sure what she's saying, or why.

"Yeah?" he says, eyelashes flicking as he blinks.

"I – I miss us," she whispers, flushing.

He looks surprised, but his fingers trail up her side and then brush her cheek.

"I know," he breathes. "I do know."

He presses his forehead against hers, and they stay there for a moment, breathing.

.0.

She watches his car drive away, fingertips clasped around the doorframe, with a tear slipping down her cheek.

But her heart is slightly less broken.