Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

18. Skylar

Quick question: I've been writing pretty aggressively long chapters thus far. Do prefer longer updates, or slightly shorter ones?

Oh, and also:  The following is intended for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is advised. 💃

"Do you think that we performed some sort of voodoo black magic or something? I mean, what the fuck?"

Freddie is the first of the four to lose his temper towards the overweight police constable, who has been questioning them for the last half-hour.

"--sir," Brian supplies, a weary but trying-to-be-polite smile on his face. "What the fuck, sir."

Roger snickers under his breath, which only serves to further outrage the constable. The four fellows are trying to play nice, but it's clear that they're exhausted, angry, and rather shaken up. The last thing that they want is to be interrogated about the night's events as if they somehow caused all the trouble.

The constable grabs the tour manager by the arm, pulling him into the hallway. He starts to squawk about banning the band from playing in Scotland, which throws their manager into a tizzy. While the two of them hash it out just outside the door, the four band members look at each other with expressions of disbelief. Roger glances over to where I'm sitting, his eyes brightening briefly.

The good news is that I'm no longer covered in the remnants of some random dude's blood. The building's security guard took pity and offered me the use of a dingy, infrequently used shower, where I scrubbed at my skin mercilessly. I'm now huddled in a corner, wearing Roger's Led Zeppelin t-shirt and Freddie's black leather pants, my arms wrapped around my knees. Roger and I look at each other wearily as we listen to intermittent complaints from the hallway: "troublemakers," "long hair," "rock-n-roll is the devil's work," that sort of thing.

Finally, after an hour of thinly-veiled accusations, we're allowed to leave.

"This town can go fuck itself," Roger mutters under his breath as he angrily picks up a small bag with his change of clothes, half of which I'm currently wearing. He looks at me, his eyes softening before he puts his hand on my lower back to steer me outside into the cold air.

We walk wordlessly to the hotel, the other three trailing behind somberly. I glance over at the drummer, his mouth set in a scowl. I get the sense that he's taking this harder than the others. Taking a step towards him, I slip my hand into his and gently squeeze it, earning a small smile from him.

"Try not to incite any more riots tonight," Freddie jokes to Roger in the hotel lobby as the receptionist doles out the room keys. "Though with that long hair and rock-n-roll attitude, I don't know how you couldn't."

Brian, John, and Freddie head to the hotel bar for last call, while Roger and I make our way silently to the fourth floor. The door shuts surprisingly loudly behind us as we look at each other in the ambient light filtering in from the window. Roger slumps against the nearest wall, closing his eyes briefly.

"Fuck," he mumbles. I study him for a moment before putting down my small bag on the floor and leaning against the wall opposite.

"Are you okay? That was a lot." My voice is lower than I intended, but Roger hears me and shrugs.

"You know it's not your fault, right?"

Roger hesitates for a beat, his eyes on the carpet beneath him. "Maybe if I hadn't gone back out for the last song--"

"It's not your fault," I say, cutting him off. "Rog, the mood turned batshit crazy well before then. I don't know what happened tonight, but I do know that you didn't cause it."