Starstruck

Part 9

Warnings: swearing

Historical Inaccuracies:

Only Freddie and Brian went to see Zandra Rhodes on that first evening. Also, this event occurred in 1974 and not in 1975, as I'm writing it :)

Word Count: 4.2k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

"Zandra bloody Rhodes?!" Roger cried for the hundredth time. "And she took your call?"

"Pretty fucking fantastic, isn't it?" said Freddie excitedly.

The meeting had lasted hours, from morning until lunch— in which Roger and John had gone to pick up Indian takeaway— and into late afternoon. Freddie had a multitude of different ideas, and the others had passionate opinions on these ideas, so the morning meeting had quickly turned into an all-day event. Reid had left early on, claiming he had another meeting, this time with Elton— Elton bloody John— but you suspected he was just tired of you and Freddie and Brian and Roger and Deacy yelling ideas back-and-forth at the speed of derby commentators.

Now evening was rapidly approaching, the last sunlight of the day slipping slowly from the sky. The five of you were walking down the road to the flat of the one and only Zandra Rhodes.

Zandra Rhodes. You could hardly believe it. Sure, Freddie was brilliant, and persuasive too, but you hadn't imagined that even he would be able to win an audience with one of the world's most promising designers.

Freddie led the parade with you and John at his side, and Roger and Brian followed behind. Freddie glanced back at you, flashing a giddy smile. Roger stuck him a cigarette and the two of them sparked up in the amber glow of the streetlights. Deacy made a face, and you and he fell back to walk apart from the two smokers.

Brian was deep in conversation with Rog and remained that way, talking animatedly about something, a song, maybe, that you only caught snaches of because of the way the wind blew.

Just then, Roger made Brian laugh. Not quietly or shyly, but properly laugh, where Brian threw his head back and his shoulders shook and his smile spread across his face, broad and beautiful. You'd made Brian laugh like that once— when you'd sat on the wall outside of the Union Pub, months ago. Months ago.

It felt an age ago, it felt like yesterday, and how those two ideas could coexist was beyond you, and yet, exist they did. Brian was familiar, like the stars that wheeled above, like the soft sheets of your bed against your skin, like the strings of your guitar that were and would always be in E-A-D-G-B-E form. He was reliable, he was always there. If six point six seven times ten to the negative eleventh was the gravitational constant, then Brian was yours.

John's voice startled you from your thoughts. "I see the way you look at him."

You felt yourself flush, heat rushing through you in the same way that happened when you missed a step on the stairs and only just managed to catch yourself in time.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, don't play silly with me, Y/N," Deacy looped his arm through yours. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. You're always looking at him when he's not looking at you, and you look quite besotted."

You opened your mouth to speak, then realised you had nothing to say. You watched your shoes hit the pavement instead. "It's nothing," you said finally, lowering your voice. "I'm just a little..." you bit your lip, searching for a word. You gave up. "I mean, look at him," you gestured vaguely in Brian's direction. His elegant silhouette seemed to shimmer in the darkness, as though he were made of dark matter, effervescently gorgeous in the shroud of mystery.