Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

48. Roger

When I used to daydream about fame and fortune and everything that goes with it, I never imagined all the waiting around it would entail.

I swear, I've spent half my life on airplanes. The other half has been spent being escorted through airports, head down with what I hope is a humble smile on my face. I don't even remember the last time I strolled through a crowded place without a security detail or the last time I left the house without being recognized.

It's been mad since "Another One Bites the Dust" took over America last year. The press has proclaimed us the biggest rock band in the world, which is fucking great, obviously, but how can we possibly live up to that? Will we just keep releasing hit after hit, always perfectly capturing the musical zeitgeist? Or will we crash and burn, never to be seen again?

"Can you fucking believe this?" Freddie exclaims loudly from behind me, interrupting my thoughts. An elderly woman a few rows ahead looks back at us disapprovingly, and I wonder why we're flying commercial since clearly, we've lost all sense of decency.

"Rog, have you seen this?" He shoves a handful of papers around the back of the seat. They land in my lap, and I peer down at them, unable to see much without my glasses.

"What's all this?"

"They want us to do the same fucking performance both nights," Freddie says, still a bit too loudly.

"That doesn't make sense," I say. "It's not as if we have it all choreographed."

"Who signed off on this? John, did you see this?" Freddie pulls the papers off of my lap, shoving them onto Deaky's chest, ignoring the fact that the bass player is snoozing soundly. Seriously, how can he sleep anywhere?

"What the hell, Fred?" he exclaims, startled. Again, the woman looks back at us, and I shrug apologetically as if I've never used such language in my life.

"Who approved this?"

"Approved what?" Now Brian is in the fray, having put away a thick book.

"The Montreal show," Freddie hisses across the aisle. "Where we're flying right now. It says right here that we're meant to do the exact same show two nights in a row."

"But there have never been two gigs exactly alike in the entire history of Queen," Brian whispers back, affronted. "What's the fun in that?"

"Exactly my point!" Freddie says, banging his fist lightly on the top of my leather seat. It jolts me, and I look back in irritation.

"As soon as we meet this fucker in person," Freddie continues, "I'm going to-- oh, hey, Skylar."

My head swivels around to watch Skylar walk carefully down the aisle towards us. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a small smile and is about to reclaim her seat next to me when Freddie's arm reaches out.

"Mind if I borrow her for a bit, Rog? I need some, uh, counsel."

Skylar laughs and willingly throws herself in the seat next to him, so I turn around and close my eyes.

"Now, listen, darling," Freddie says, his voice lowering to a whisper. I smile, so happy that Skylar has finally agreed to travel with me--even if it is only for 36 hours--that I don't mind if she and Fred want to scheme the entire flight.

Stretching my back, I try to find a comfortable spot. I genuinely wish that I could sleep properly on planes. That's all I've ever wanted, really. Sod all this rock-n-roll nonsense, if I could just fucking sleep, then jetlag wouldn't be nearly as bad and--

"Don't start," John mutters from across the aisle. His eyes are closed, his arms crossed on his chest. "You're ruminating about jetlag again."

My eyes wide open, I stare at the seat in front of me. Holy fuck, John is a mind reader. How the fucking fuck did he know--