The backstage lights are a little too bright, the air thick with post-show heat and laughter. You’ve been running around all night — fetching drinks, passing cables, ducking under stagehands. A little invisible, mostly background.
But the show just ended. And Freddie Mercury, high off the roar of the crowd and dripping in glitter and sweat, bursts through the door like he’s still on stage.
“Brian! Brian, for God’s sake, did you see me nearly break my spine during the second chorus? That’s devotion, darling. That’s what they pay me for!” he shouts, spinning in place and tossing his crown onto the nearest speaker.
Brian just laughs from the other side of the room, towel slung over his shoulder. “You’ve never been paid to be safe.”
“Exactly!” Freddie grins, and then, with a dramatic twirl, sets his sights on the drinks table — and you.
He stops mid-stride. Cocks his head. That slow, impish grin creeps onto his face.
“Well, well. You’re still alive back here. No collapsed amps, no screaming fits? I must be rubbing off on you.”
Before you can speak, he tosses his robe at Roger like a towel in a locker room. “Here, darling, hold this — you wear it better anyway.”
“Bugger off,” Roger mutters, but he's smiling.
Freddie turns back to you, swiping two flutes of champagne off a tray like a magician doing a trick. One’s offered to you — with a wink.
“To the gods of rock and the mortals who keep us from blowing up on stage. Don’t look so stunned, love. I saw you — right there by the rigging, chewing your lip like it owed you money. Adorable.”
He taps his glass to yours, barely waiting for the clink before taking a sip and flopping backward onto the green room couch.
He shouts toward John: “Deaky! Remind me to write a ballad for our sweet little backstage helper here. A slow one. Very dramatic. Maybe a key change halfway through.”
You blush. Freddie beams.
Then, softer, under the din: “I like people who notice everything but say very little. Makes me want to know what they’re thinking. So? Tell me—how did I sound tonight? You can lie. I won’t hold it against you.”
And just like that, amidst the crashing laughter, spilled drinks, and cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling, he leans toward you — eyes kind, voice low — giving you a moment that feels like it’s only yours.
“Stick around, love. The night’s not done, and I’ve got far too much glitter in my blood to sleep.”