Classic Rock One-Shots

The Past is in the Past (~ Roger Taylor)

                Roger took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few seconds. He could feel the power of inspiration running through his veins, taking hold of his entire body like a cocoon. The intensity of it increased rather fast, sending shivers down his spine. He could feel it in his fingertips.

                His lips mouthed the only words he could hear, those which were making his heart beat like mad. It had been so long since the last time he found himself in that state. There were no drugs, no alcohol, only freedom and relief.

                Only him and art.

                Roger raised his hands and made large but quick movements with them. From any other point of view, he would seem like he was chasing bees or flies. But if you looked through his blue eyes, a castle made of ice was about to dominate him, emerging from the ground. There was a long staircase, which seemed endless.

                I'm free!

                His foot landed on the first step of it. His heart rate increased even more, much to his surprise, but also to his relief. Feeling free like a storm blowing in the mountains, he ran up the long stairs, his hands slipping on the guardrails as he passed them by.

                With his bare hands, he built the walls of the castle, without even touching them. No, he did not need any kind of physical contact. He had magic in him. If he had spoken this word loud with people around him, a joke about A Kind of Magic would have been inevitable.

                But even there, Queen was far behind him. He did not even care about the band at the moment.

                The corner of his lips rose as his blue eyes lowered to reach the floor.

                Here I stand...

                Roger bent his knee and curtly stomped his foot on the linoleum he was standing on. But the ugly colour of this floor was invisible to his eyes. It had long been replaced by a rose carved in ice, growing wider since his foot hit its core.

                There it came: his favourite moment.

                Roger gulped as he motioned his hands again. The castle was almost complete. A tremendous chandelier was now hanging above his head, as magic carved graceful patterns on the icy columns. He was twirling endlessly, admiring his masterpiece, a gleam of pride lighting up his pupils.

                Suddenly, a feeling of melancholy seized his heart, as he took off the crown that rested on his head the whole time. He stroked it with his fingertips, staring at the details of it, which he had never seen. A lump formed in his throat: he needed to whisper. To mutter. To speak. To shout. To scream. To yell.

                Completely lost in his thoughts, he did not even hear the door opening behind him.

                His hands clutched the crown, as his voice resonated in his throat, pronouncing the words he was hearing at the same moment. They felt like a whisper, when actually, they were loudly spoken.

                The past is in the past!

                Roger abruptly threw the paper crown, which crashed against the wall he was facing but was unable to see. His hoarse voice shouted what he had been holding back for a few minutes. His hands fumbled with something cold behind his head. He throw his neck forward, releasing his long blond hair, as his lungs emptied with relief. His hand stroked his hair with grace, letting it fall on his collar bone.

                He threw his arms in the air, feeling the magic spinning around his body, turning his plain outfit into a blue, fabulous new one. At the moment when a long, shiny fair blue cape formed in his back, he heard a crack behind him.

                "Roger, what the fucking hell is going on here?!"

                Roger jumped with surprise and shook his arms in every direction. His wrist got stuck in the wire of his headphones, ripping them off his ears. He faced the man who had been witnessing it all. He had long grey curls, wrinkly grey eyes, and was staring at him as if he had just been watching a tap-dancing squirrel in a tuxedo.

                Brian's expression was priceless.

                The blond man's face turned a bright shade of pink, as he tried to find an explanation to give his bandmate. How could he even explain what had just happened? How could he even admit what actually inspired him this much?

                Brian sighed and cocked an eyebrow. "I was looking for you everywhere in that damn studio, and I heard you screaming 'Let it go! Let it go!' all of a sudden. I didn't understand what was going on, and I was afraid that something serious was happening. And I just found you... there. Wearing a... blue pareo as a dress... Throwing a paper crown at the wall..."

                Roger avoided all kind of eye contact with Brian. His clammy hands dropped the headphones on the floor. They hit the lino three times before the plug got ripped off of Roger's phone. The music filled the room, while a heavy silence fell between the two men.

                Let it go, let it go, and I'll rise like the break of dawn, let it go, let it go, that perfect girl is gone...

                Brian smacked his hand against his mouth, trying hard not to burst into fits of laughter. He giggled uncontrollably as he stared at Roger's head. "Wait, seriously, don't tell me you're wearing this yellow towel on your head! Oh gosh... You made it look like a braid! Gosh you shouldn't have watched Frozen yesterday!"

                Roger clenched his fist and pushed Brian out of his way. He stopped at the door frame, reaching for the doorknob.

                The cold never bothered me anyway!

                Then, Roger turned away and slammed the door.