Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

1. Smile!

Leeds, England.
29th May, 1982

——

A stranger appeared backstage in order to reduce my post soundcheck, pre gig, lapse of boredom.

The stranger, a man with posture that was impeccable enough to look painfully upright, mingled with the road crew a few feet away. Even from a small distance, it was clear he was classically and unrealistically handsome.

"Do you know who that is?" I asked Phoebe.

Phoebe glanced in the direction of my gaze, "For your sake, I hope an adoring fan that would love to get to know you better."

I couldn't help but let out a sharp burst of laughter, which caused the man to glance in my general direction. "How about you offer him a drink? From me?"

"Sure thing." And with that Phoebe disappeared and I went to retrieve myself a cup of water. I tuned out for a moment, attempting to memorise yet another new set list. This Hot Space tour seemed to be one continuous teething problem.

Seconds later, I heard the squeak of expensive leather shoes charge my way. My eyes flickered up to see the good posture lad striding towards me. Well, that was quick.

He looked even better up close, scarily prim and proper though. Tall and toned, silky black hair that was swept out of a fine boned angular face- yes, definitely better up close. Not a crease appeared on his grey business causal suit, not even when he walked. The urge to shake him up just so a hair would fall out of place was strong.

"Now Freddie," The man swiftly placed the full glass of wine on the table in front of me.

His crystal blue eyes were anything but inviting. I frowned at the untouched glass, before bringing my own cup of water to my lips. He didn't exactly look or sound too happy. You win some, you lose some.

"While I'm sure most people have to be in an inebriated state to enjoy your music, and whilst I'm also sure that the only way I'll get through this show is if I'm under the influence." He continued with a self-satisfied quirk of his lips, "I don't drink on the job."

The familiar voice resonated, as did the realisation that I had thought Hayes Griffith attractive enough to send him a drink on my behalf in the hopes of conversing more. Horror and surprise crept over me.

I spluttered water back into my glass, before a brief coughing fit ensued. That's exactly what I fucking needed. Brilliant.

Hayes arched a dark amused brow, "You okay?"

I stood up, trying my best to regain my composure, "Perfectly fine, thank you." I forced a smile, "You're Hayes Griffith I assume?"

He frowned, "Isn't that why you offered me a drink?"

"Ah- yes, yes of course!" I let out an easy chuckle, "I just didn't expect you to turn up to a random show."

Hayes assessed me with a critical gaze, as if already picking at all the things he could comment on. "I didn't want you all to expect me, which is why I have turned up for this show, and not the Milton Keynes gig."

It was physically painful to force a smile onto my face, "Thought you could catch us at a bad time did you?"

"Something like that."

Trying to talk to this man was like trying to draw blood from a fucking stone. Naturally, I wanted someone to come to my aid. I tried not to deflate too much when that person was the deathly shy John Deacon.

"I was just thinking Freddie," John appeared, bass in hands, "Maybe we put a lot of old stuff on the set list for Milton Keynes."

"John, this is-"