Starstruck

Part 16

Warnings: swearing, drinking, feelings of worthlessness

Historical Inaccuracies:

• no idea what happened on the first night of tour; yay fictionalisation!

Word Count: 4.1k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

You'd never seen anything like it.

People had gone as far as to camp out in front the venue the night before, sharing blankets and passing around coffee and various types of alcohol to keep warm, cheering as the tour bus had pulled into the carpark, running to shake hands with the roadies as they began to unload equipment.

Then there'd been the next wave of show-goers, the second-most dedicated bunch. They'd arrived hours and hours before the gig, had clamoured for a spot in line closest to the front of the door.

And, from backstage, you could hear people laughing and shouting happily as they entered the theatre, overjoyed even just to be there, in a place where Queen would perform.

The enthusiasm was contagious, and it washed over you in waves, every cry as friends reunited to see their favourite band play live, every hiss of excitement when the stage curtains rustled or a roadie happened to pass through the main room of the theatre. Everywhere you looked, people were dressed in t-shirts with Queen's logo on it, t-shirts that looked like they'd been worn and loved since the beginning of time, and waved banners made with old sheets and acrylic paint. The dedication alone was flooring.

Freddie seemed to think so too.

"Can you hear them, out there?" he was saying.

The crowd was chanting, and the poor supporting band had never stood a chance; the people were shouting for what they wanted, and the shouts rang out loud and clear— we want Queen! We want Queen! We want Queen!

"Yeah," Roger nodded, a grin spreading across his face. He was already tapping his drumsticks, on the edge of a table, and alongside the rhythm, your heartbeat increased, the anticipation in the room building with each moment you lingered there.

"I wish Veronica were here," Deacy sighed, and you turned to him in sympathy. Through everything, she was always the person on his mind, the person he wanted to share a moment with. You couldn't imagine a purer form of love.

Roger said, "For god's sake, John, it's been barely a day," but he too sounded sorry.

Brian wasn't participating in the conversation, even as Freddie gushed on about the pre-show thrill, and as Roger resolved to take a Polaroid of Deacy each night before a concert, so that the latter could show Veronica and Robert how he'd continued to think of them while he was gone.

You approached Brian, who was doing his make-up in the mirror Freddie had recently vacated, drawing on black eyeliner with a heavy hand. He glanced over his shoulder as your neared, and his lips curved upward, but his expression was tight.

"You okay?" you asked, touching his shoulder lightly.

He straightened up from where he'd leaned to reach the mirror, and as you dropped your hand, you noticed the tremble in his.

"Hey," you frowned, taking the eyeliner from him and replacing it on the counter. "Are you— are you nervous?"

Brian bit his lip and glanced away in something like shame.

He looked so vulnerable in that moment, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, curls floating down to hide his eyes.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" he murmured, punctuating the remark with laughter that was probably meant to be light but did not come off that way at all.