A Night at the Theatre

Chapitre 9

5th of September 1975

You knocked at the door of the apartment, but wondered if they would hear you as the music was already loud. You thought about neighbours, but your wonderings got answered by Freddie opening the door. He took you in his arms and dragged you in. You opened wide eyes: the apartment was rather small, but was heavily decorated and full of people. He bent to say in your ear, for you to hear above the music: "Do as you were home, drinks are in the kitchen. Oh, and if you want to beat Roger's ass, wait for everyone to be there." He winked and left you, still at the entrance of the flat. You walked towards the crowd, a bit unease when a blond-haired woman came to you and started to congratulate you about your performance last week before leaving towards the kitchen, telling you to serve yourself too if you wanted.

You turned suddenly as you felt a hand on your shoulder; you smiled when you saw Brian standing in front of you. "I didn't know Freddie hadn't the same definition of 'Not a lot of people' as I did." He puffed: "There are a lot of things Freddie hasn't the same definition as the common of mortals do about."

You eyed the room once again; the only person you recognized outside the band was Paul, right at Freddie's ass, as usual.

"Brian! How are you?"

A small man had popped up next to you, tapping on Brian's shoulder and making his glass' content threaten to spill everywhere. He didn't look at you and huffed: "It's been so long, I need to know what my ex-classmate's been doing during all those years!"

And sill ignoring you, the man who did half of Brian's height dragged him in the crowd, the guitarist throwing you worried looks.

And once again, you were alone in the middle of the living room. You decided to go finally grab a drink and headed to the kitchen. You quickly nodded at the young man pouring himself a glass before eyeing the room, looking for one for you. He cleared his throat and eyed you; "Oh, are you y/n y/l/n?"

You looked at him, not answering as you felt it wasn't really a question. "Hello, I'm Gus Lowe, photographer." He smiled cheerily and extended his hand, the huge camera hanging around his neck balancing on his chest. You cocked an eyebrow and didn't shake it; you didn't get why a paparazzi was there. But he looked very young and more excited to be at a party than anything else. "I saw you perform last week, that was something, eh! It's good they found you. I can't wait to work with Freddie and the boys – and you, now – again!"

He was tiptoeing on the tiles, holding his glass between both of his hands tight and you readied yourself to see it explode.

He opened wide eyes: "Oh, let me serve you." In seconds, he poured you a glass and came to you, his hands shaking slightly; but the very next moment, you don't know how, he tripped on you don't what and the beer spilt on your entire front – it couldn't have splashed more and stained more of the cloth than it did.

The photographer took a bright magenta taint and started to stutter before grabbing a towel hanging there that he dangerously approached to you.

You raised your hands: "Listen Gus, don't- I think-"

"Oh, sorry I bothered you."

Both of you turned: Roger was standing there, eyeing the scene, his free hand gripping at the doorframe.

How convenient.

Gus yelped: "Mister Taylor!" and you rolled your eyes. The drummer stepped towards you, stumbling a bit, as you started to unbutton your shirt; you luckily had a tank top under it. "Wait, let me help you."

Roger put his empty glass to the side and went to help you out of it but you were quicker and removed your shirt alone. You spat out: "I can remove my clothes alone Roger, thank you."