Work Text
7 October, 1979
London Coliseum
Roger had never felt like less of a rock star than he did as he waited his turn for the Will Call window. He tried to remember the last time he was in a queue for any reason at all, the last time he hadn't had People who did such things for him. Not in the past five years, at least, he decided as he tried to stop fidgeting with the bow tie that threatened to cut off his oxygen supply. He was wearing a tuxedo. A fucking tuxedo. No matter that the thing was a bespoke Savile Row creation and fit him like a second skin, it simply felt wrong on his body, as if he were an eagle bedecked with a blue jay's feathers. Or a crow's, since there wasn't a spot of colour anywhere. "It's a black-tie gala, darling," Freddie had informed him the day he handed Roger the business card of a particularly snobbish tailor. He had omitted that important detail when he'd asked Roger to watch him perform with the Royal Ballet. "You'll look utterly delectable; all the ladies in the audience will gaze at you with stars in their eyes." That was up for debate. From what Roger could see of the audience so far, the ladies were over the over-50 variety in upholstered gowns and furs, their necks and hands encrusted with the family diamonds. The ones who even bothered to look at Roger had eyes that were filled not with stars, but with thinly-veiled contempt for his windswept hair and artfully slouched posture. As the queue inched closer to the window, Roger began to wonder if Freddie would even notice if he weren't in the audience at all. Sneaking out and going to a pub sounded like a far more enjoyable evening. He sighed wistfully. No. He'd promised to see Freddie perform, and he would honour that promise. When it was his turn to ask for his ticket, he looked into the eyes of the middle-aged woman at the counter. She asked his name, which took him aback for a moment. He was so accustomed to being recognized everywhere that he had nearly forgotten how to introduce himself. "Roger. Taylor. Roger Taylor." She pursed her lips and fanned through the box of envelopes. "There's no Taylor here." A miracle! The pub awaited! "Sir, did you reserve the ticket personally, or did one of the performers request it?" So much for the miraculous pub. "A performer. Freddie Mercury," he responded. Was the woman rolling her eyes? "Ah. Tickets reserved by the performers are listed under their names, not the guests'," she said in a tone that clearly indicated that Roger was a philistine for not knowing that detail. She pulled out one of the envelopes, opened it, and removed a ticket. "Orchestra, Row B. That means it's on the floor, near the stage." "I know what it means," Roger snapped. He held out his hand, took the ticket, then turned on his heel to storm off. The brand-new dress shoes had slippery soles, Roger remembered too late as he skidded and fell, landing hard on his arse. Anywhere else in London, a dozen people would have come to his aid, checking on the condition of his hands as well as that of his dignity. But here, at this miserable, god-forsaken event, the ballet-goers simply clicked their tongues and shook their heads. "Probably drunk," Roger heard as he pulled himself upright and dusted himself off. Rather than face any more scrutiny from the well-heeled and ill-mannered, Roger took a program and went to his seat. It was in the absolute center of the second row, the first row roped off and empty. The seat afforded him a perfect view of the stage and a limited view of the orchestra pit. He could tell that there were a lot of people down there by the sheer number of stand lights, and he perused the program as the players began to tune and warm up. There were a lot of acts. A LOT. He scanned the page, looking for Freddie's name, and at last he found it in the two slots right before the interval. Sighing, Roger closed the program again and took a deep breath. His nostrils were assaulted by something like camphor. He turned to his left and saw two blue-haired old biddies taking their seats. One was wearing a fox stole around her neck - the source of the smell, as it had probably been stored in mothballs - and for once Roger saw Brian's point about dead animals being used as decorations. The poor thing had its tail stuffed into its mouth, and its beady glass eyes stared unseeing into the void. Roger winced and turned to his other side. To Roger's right was a middle-aged woman sitting with a younger one, and between them was a little boy of about nine who looked excited to be there, yet dreadfully uncomfortable in his miniature tuxedo. When Roger waved at him, the boy's eyes widened. Roger put a finger over his lips and winked. The boy sat back in his seat with an obvious look of joyous surprise on his face. After an interminable number of announcements made by a man Roger was clearly meant to recognize but didn't, the house lights went down and the orchestra conductor took his place with a low bow to the audience. The music was sprightly enough, and the long-legged ballerinas certainly drew Roger's admiration, but after a while it was all a blur. After an interlude where a ballerina dressed in black feathers spun around the stage on one foot and received thunderous applause for doing so, Roger heard the older women speaking in annoyed stage whispers as they jabbed bony fingers at their programs. "Can you IMAGINE, putting someone like that on the same bill as Merle Park?" "I know they feel they have to pander to the young, but really...a pop star?" They were talking about Freddie. His Freddie. Incensed, Roger started tearing little pieces from the corners of the program. He considered making spitballs out of them and flinging them into the women's elaborate hairdos. It wouldn't be as satisfying as watching Deacy lob peanuts into Brian's curls onstage, but it might make him feel a little bit better. On the other hand, he'd be a lousy role model for the little boy who was trying so hard not to stare at him. "And he's so vulgar. The things he does with a microphone, and on the telly!" Spitballs were starting to sound good again. "I simply cannot understand why people simply fawn over someone who's not that good a singer--" That did it. Roger turned to the women and glared. "Pardon me, ladies - and I'm using that term loosely," he hissed, "but you're talking about one of my closest friends and I'll thank you to stop doing it. Right. Now." They stared at him. The woman with the dead fox around her neck audibly gasped. Smirking, Roger settled back into his seat and waited for Freddie to make his appearance and show these bitter old cows a thing or two. And appear he did, in sparkly black, barefoot, held aloft by a trio of leanly-muscled male dancers. He was holding a microphone as if he'd been born with it in his hands. Perhaps he had been, Roger thought as he leaned forward and cursed himself for not bringing his hated eyeglasses. But he was still close enough to see Freddie interact with the dancers behind him as he sang with the orchestra. He wasn't dancing, exactly, more swaying in time with the music whilst the dancers stretched and turned and bobbed. It was obvious that the lead ballerina was supposed to be the object of his attention, especially when she draped herself over Freddie as he sang. But somehow, Roger's attention was raptly focused only on Freddie. Roger had spent the better part of a decade sitting at the back of Queen, and up until tonight he had considered himself to have the best seat in the house. It was only at this moment that he truly understood what it was like to be hit smack in the face by the sheer force of Freddie Mercury's charisma. He found himself holding his breath, eyes wide as Freddie launched himself into the air. The men caught him and held him aloft - still singing, miraculously, and how the hell did he DO that? - then took him offstage for the ballerina to have a moment alone. The stage was plunged into darkness for several seconds before the dancers returned with Freddie singing his lines about Scaramouche and fandangos as the lights shone red on whirling couples. A group surrounded Freddie, rendering him invisible until a shrill clarinet played the high note Roger had sung on the recording. Suddenly Freddie was up in the air again, this time in his spangly silver leotard. They let him strut across the stage, much to the horror of the elderly ladies and the delight of the young boy, who was barely restraining himself from clapping with the backbeats. Any other man on earth, much less any rock star with no dance training, would have looked an absolute bellend up there. Freddie Mercury was definitely not any other man on earth. "Nothing really matters," he sang as the men lifted him high and then turned him sideways. He extended a leg in the air, casting a smug "did you SEE that?" glance at the audience that made Roger chuckle fondly. "Nothing really matters to me." He handed off the microphone to a ballerina as the male dancers turned him upside down. For an instant he looked like the old paintings of the crucified Saint Peter, the image sending a shudder through Roger's entire body. The ballerina held the mic to Freddie's lips as he sang the final line. "Any way the wind blows," Freddie crooned softly, and Roger was so spellbound that he didn't even register what kind of gong was being used in the orchestra. The applause around him was thunderous. Even the annoying old women were clapping, although they were carefully avoiding looking at Roger. He stood up, shouting "Bravo!" at the top of his lungs along with several other audience members as Freddie took his curtain call with the sly, cheeky smile that captivated audiences all over the world. When at last the cheering subsided and people returned to their seats, Roger realised that tears were falling down his cheeks. Someone was nudging his right arm. He turned, and the middle-aged woman handed him a tissue. She was dabbing at her own eyes as well. "Wasn't he just amazing?" she asked. "I love that song." "Me too," Roger replied, twisting in his seat to wink at the little boy. "Hello - I'm Roger." "I know. Hi. I'm Wayne," the boy replied, blushing slightly. "So, tell me, Wayne, what did you think? Did you like it?"The boy nodded eagerly. He opened his mouth to say something, then suddenly sat bolt upright in his seat as the next performers took the stage to the sounds of the orchestra playing "Crazy Little Thing Called Love." Freddie wasn't in this number, so Roger didn't pay much attention to the brightly-coloured costumes and strutting 1950's-style dancing. He was trying to formulate something to say to him after the show, and was wishing Brian were here to provide him with more words to express his utter joy. When the song ended, the intro started up a second time and now Freddie appeared, still in the spangled jumpsuit only with a black leather jacket on top. He sang the song live as the dancers took their curtain calls, clapping and snapping his fingers with such beguiling energy that even the most staid, pretentious members of the audience were happily following along. Even the sour old biddies eventually gave in and patted their gloved hands together. A miracle. Roger felt an odd sort of pride, a mixture of his general love of Freddie as a human being and his awe of his performance skills and fearlessness. He could never imagine himself doing something like this, much less Deacy and certainly not Brian, although the mental image made him smile. When the house lights came up, Roger spotted Peter Freestone just in front of the orchestra pit. He was scanning the audience, his face beaming when he spotted Roger. "Oh, thank God you're here!" he cried as he rushed to the center of the first row, leaning over to shake Roger's hand. "Won't you come back with me? I simply cannot handle him myself!" Roger stood and stretched. "He always does better with some company after a show." He turned to the women on his right and held out a hand to Wayne. "Would you like to meet Freddie?" he asked. "I promise we'll take good care of him, and we'll have him back to you before the second half," he added to the other two women. The younger woman, beaming, started thanking him profusely as her son got out of his seat and straightened his tie. Peter lifted him easily over the empty first-row seats and helped Roger make the same hasty exit. The three of them slipped through an unmarked door and found themselves backstage in the midst of a flurry of activity. Sweaty bodies and sequins were everywhere. "This is pretty much what a Queen show looks like backstage, too," he said to Wayne, who giggled. Two tall, elegant women were having a rather inelegant fight over a rhinestone tiara that had clearly seen better days. Peter rolled his eyes at them. "God, I got OUT of ballet because of this insanity." Roger didn't think that Peter would be dealing with less insanity on tour with the band, but he decided to keep that to himself. They stopped at a door labeled "Mr. Mercury" in graceful cursive, and Peter knocked briskly. "Are you decent, Fred? You've got underage company!" Freddie opened the door wide. He was still in the silver jumpsuit with the leather jacket, of course, and he beamed at his guests as he ushered them inside. The room was overflowing with floral tributes in every colour imaginable. One particularly dazzling arrangement held a card signed by Elton John. "Darling Roger, how sweet of you to come! And who have you brought with you?"Roger squeezed Wayne's shoulder until he took a step forward and extended his hand to Freddie. "Wayne McGregor. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Mercury." Always so gentle with children, Freddie sat on his heels as he shook Wayne's hand. "It's Freddie, and the pleasure's all mine, dear. Tell me, what did you think?" It took a second for Wayne to find his voice, but once he started a fountain of words came out. "I thought that Jennifer Penney's foueteés traveled to the left but her hands were astonishing, and the company is simply insane if they don't steal Ferri from the Festival Ballet, and..." he trailed off, blushing, when he noticed Freddie's amused glance at Peter. "Oh. I'm sorry. I thought YOU were fantastic! You held your body really straight when they lifted you!" "You're a dancer, then." Wayne nodded. Freddie hugged him. "Well, if I can get such reviews from a professional, then this whole affair wasn't in vain, after all." He freed one hand and pantomimed writing, at which Peter brought him a program and a pen. "Would you like me to sign this for you?" "If you would, please." Wayne watched, wide-eyed, as Freddie wrote his name and drew a pair of pointe shoes with one ribbon forming the letter Q. He was quick with the pen, the strokes deft and assured, and Roger felt guilty that he often forgot how good an artist Freddie really was. A chime playing over the tannoy reminded them that the interval was nearly over. "Let's get you back to your mum," Peter said to Wayne as Freddie stood up and popped his back. "Are you coming with, Roger?" He looked around the flower-strewn dressing room and saw that several bottles of champagne and two glasses had been set out. "I think I'll stay back here, if you don't mind, Fred." He smiled at Wayne. "Glad to have met you - go out and give those silly old ladies a piece of your mind." "It was nice to meet you, too, Mister Taylor." Wayne's well-rehearsed manners failed him and he rushed at Freddie, throwing his arms around him and hugging tightly, sweaty leather and all. "Thank you," he muttered into the jacket. "I'll never forget you." "Of course you won't," Freddie said softly, petting Wayne's short hair. "I'm unforgettable. Phoebe, darling, take good care of him. And don't let me miss--" "I'll give you fair warning before he goes on, don't fret. See you later, guys." When Phoebe left with star-struck Wayne in tow, Freddie turned to Roger and smiled broadly at him. His makeup was a little runny around the edges but his heavily-lined eyes were sparkling. "And what did YOU think?" he asked as he opened his arms. Falling into Freddie's embrace as he had done a thousand times before, Roger rocked them back and forth a few times before speaking. "Honestly, Fred, you took my breath away." "Is that good or bad, dear?" Freddie inquired, holding Roger at arms' length. He was looking for an honest answer from his friend, not the shallow, fawning praise of strangers. "I didn't know what to expect at first, but you...Christ, Freddie, I've never had the chance to see you, really SEE you, take hold of an audience like that and be part of it." He came up for air and held out his hands. "Look, I'm still shaking a bit." "Oh," Freddie said softly, his head tilted to one side as he gazed at Roger with unabashed affection. He grasped Roger's hands in his and kissed the backs of his knuckles. "Oh, darling, that's the sweetest thing you could ever have said to me." "It's true," Roger replied, not at all surprised that his throat was a little tight from all the emotion he was trying to hold in check. "You're amazing up there. I couldn't take my eyes off you if I'd tried." He flicked a bright smile at Freddie. "If we were in America, they might burn you as a witch." Freddie laughed at that, throwing his head back as he drew Roger in for another embrace. "Enough of your flattery - let's drink!" How typical of Freddie, thought Roger as he twisted the wire key on one of the bottles of Piper-Heidsieck. For someone who sought the limelight, who desperately needed approval and praise, he was so quick to deflect it when he deserved it most. Holding the newly-opened bottle aloft, Roger let Freddie bring the glasses over then filled each one nearly to overflowing. "Cheers, my love," Freddie said as he clinked his glass against Roger's, spilling sparkling little drops across their wrists. Not a fan of champagne, but desperately wanting alcohol in his system, Roger gulped down half of his glass at once. He looked over the rim at Freddie, who was sipping in quiet contemplation. "What're you thinking about, Fred?" "Oh, this and that." Freddie fingered the petals of some white roses spilling from an enormous bouquet."Should we put some ballet into our next touring show? God, can you imagine the look on Brian's face if you asked him to do something like that on his guitar?"Freddie looked over from the midst of the floral tribute and shook his head. "I was just spreading my wings a little, and it was for a good cause." Roger's next sip of champagne was more careful and he wrinkled his nose as bubbles assaulted it. "Still, you got to fulfill a lifelong ambition, and you looked amazing doing it!" "Mmm." Freddie perched lightly on the edge of his dressing table. He tossed two makeup brushes to Roger, who immediately began drumming on the back of his chair. "Do you ever dream about doing something...else, Rog?" Roger tossed one brush in the air and caught it neatly in the same hand. "This is all I ever wanted to do. Not sitting backstage at a ballet - being a rock star." He waggled his eyebrows at Freddie. "Brian claims he doesn't want to be but he's just being Brian-ish when he says that. Deacy is...getting there. But you and I, mate, we're VERY good at it." "You are, darling," Freddie states in his most matter-of-fact voice. "You were born to it. I just wonder, sometimes...what else could have been my fate." Roger poured Freddie another glass of champagne. "Whoa, that's heavy talk for a night like this." "Is it? I'm so sorry." Freddie took another drink and smiled, but it seemed a bit forced. "What will you tell the rest of the guys about tonight?" "That they missed a fucking force of nature and that I'm your new favourite member of Queen," Roger said glibly, trying to wrangle a genuine smile out of Freddie. It worked. Freddie got up and mussed Roger's hair. "You always were, but don't lord it over them or I'll never hear the end of it," he whispered. Roger's heart skipped a beat. He let himself bask in Freddie's smile and was about to make a joke when someone knocked on the door. Phoebe stuck his head into the dressing room. "He's about to go on." "He, who?" asked Roger. Freddie, in a star-struck voice Roger had never heard, replied with a single word: "Nureyev." Even Roger knew who Rudolf Nureyev was. "I didn't even realise he was on the bill." "He's the BIG draw of this event - he's doing 'Afternoon of a Faun.'" Roger raised an eyebrow, having no idea what that meant. "You'll love it. Come with me - you must see this. It's an absolute dream." Roger followed Freddie to the wings, where they stood amongst ballerinas in stiff costumes with elaborately braided wigs. Some of them gasped and giggled when they saw him, but most were riveted, as Freddie was, to the man on stage: Nureyev. Freddie followed his every move with his eyes, hands fluttering in imitation of Nureyev's. When the faun stretched, Freddie's back arched until he bumped into Roger. He rested his head on Roger's shoulder and wrapped his arms around his waist, patting him gently. "He's so beautiful," Freddie whispered. "God. I'd give anything to be able to do that." The ballerinas went on stage with their Greek-vase poses to enact the ballet's story. For Freddie's sake Roger tried to see past the old-fashioned costumes and hear past the music that was far too wispy for his tastes, trying to see the ballet through Freddie's adoring eyes. On some level he knew he was witnessing "greatness," but he couldn't imagine anything or anyone greater than the friend who watched breathlessly from the wings.