Can we all just take a moment to appreciate Roger's abs here? (And also whatever is going on in Deaky's pants 👀).

**

Sunbury Festival, January 27, 1974

We're halfway through 'Ogre Battle' when I realize that this gig is doomed.

In retrospect, I should have realized it much earlier in the day when we discovered that Brian could barely move his left arm, and Freddie had a vicious ear infection. They'd both been given antibiotics and paracetamol, but the doctor hadn't seemed confident that either would help in the short-term. He'd shook our manager's hand cheerfully and walked out, shouting "Good luck, mate!" over his shoulder.

If that weren't enough to convince me that the show was cursed, then the festival emcee's introduction should have made it even more apparent. He called us a bunch of stuck-up pommies, just before he dropped his trousers and stuck his arse up in the crowd's direction. Not really the warm welcome that one wants, but maybe it's Australian humor, and the audience is laughing with us?

But I'm jetlagged as fuck, so I don't realize that the writing's on the wall until the middle of our fourth song.

It's a bloody scorcher of a day, and we're playing outdoors to a massive crowd of drunk Aussies who hate us. Freddie is working double-time to change their minds, belting out the high notes like a champ and prancing around like a maniac. I play furiously, trying to keep the beat even as Brian keeps trying to speed up, likely trying to finish this fucking set before his arm falls off.

After a few songs, our efforts start to pay off. The crowd gets into it, the boos and jeers turning into appreciative whistles and claps. For a brief moment, I allow myself to think that maybe everything will be okay. It won't be a great gig, that's for sure, but perhaps it'll be a mediocre one that we can have a laugh about on the flight home.

But then things start to go further downhill.

Brian plays the opening chords to 'Jailhouse Rock,' but Freddie fails to come in with the vocals. We vamp for a few moments until finally, we hear those reassuring words: The warden threw a party in the county jail! The prison band was there and they began to wail!

Except for the fact that Freddie is way off-key. I squint over at him, noticing that he's moving a bit strange as if he's dizzy. He walks closer to me and puts one foot up on the drum riser to orient himself as he continues to sing.

"You alright, Fred?" I lean away from my mic as I shout over the music.

He shakes his head slightly and looks at me with helpless eyes just before he turns back to the audience. I glance over to Brian, who is also following Freddie's movements with worried eyes. What the bloody hell is happening? Brian steps forward to play his guitar solo, and I see that he's not doing too well, either. He's the master of putting on a brave face, but the fact that he's in pain is unmistakable.

So, here we are with a singer who can barely stand, a guitarist who can scarcely play his instrument, and a crowd of jeering aresholes.

And then, just when I think the situation can't get worse, a section of the lighting rig crashes into the stage just behind me.

I'm so startled that I nearly fall off my stool, lunging towards the bass drum to steady myself and nearly upsetting the entire kit. Once I've managed to right myself--only missing a few beats, I might add--I glare over to our crew who are standing helplessly in the wings. The lead roadie is shouting something at his local counterpart, whereas my drum technician stands there staring at me with wide, horrified eyes.

Well, the good news is that this audience wasn't expecting much to begin with. It doesn't matter that this is the worst gig we've ever played, because they'll just assume that we're a shit band. It's a low bar but, hey, at this point, I'll take it.

We usually do a two-song encore, but no way is that happening.

"Thank you, goodnight!" Freddie shouts hurriedly into the mic before stumbling offstage to lean heavily on our manager. I give a half-hearted wave, keeping my drumsticks to myself this time. Our crew crowds around us, throwing towels our way as we're hustled back into the little trailer in the grass behind the main stage.

"Fred, you alright?" I repeat my earlier question as we fling open the door. Freddie collapses into a rickety metal chair and buries his head in his hands. Brian sits in the corner, gingerly rubbing his arm.

"Fuck!" Freddie finally breaks the silence with a roar.

"What happened, Fred?" John asks, walking over to put an arm on his shoulder. Freddie jerks away and kicks at a pile of papers nearby on the floor.

"My fucking ears are what happened," he replies angrily. "I couldn't get my fucking bearings... it was like I was swimming... Couldn't hear a goddamn thing."

"Brian, you alright?" I ask the guitarist. He nods, but I can't help but notice that he's grimacing in pain.

"What the fuck happened with the lights?" Freddie asks. "Where the fuck is Kevin?"

He stands up uncertainly, putting out an arm to keep his balance. Hobbling to the trailer door, he flings it open unceremoniously. "Kevin! Get your fat arse in here."

A few seconds later, our lead roadie--who, to be fair, is indeed on the portly side--heaves himself inside the tiny trailer. Our manager squeezes in after him.

"What the fuck?" I thunder in Kevin's direction. "I could've been bloody killed. What the fuck happened?"

Kevin looks at us and, correctly understanding that we were beyond angry, takes a step backwards. His back bumps into the wall as he looks at us nervously.

"I don't know, fellows. We installed it the same way we always do... I think..."

He pauses and sighs as if there's no way we'll believe whatever he's going to say next.

"...I think the local crew fucked with it. Call me crazy, but they were pissed off when we wouldn't let them install--"

"Those fuckers!" Freddie exclaims angrily, cutting him off. "Those goddamn saboteurs!"

Kevin breathes a literal sigh of relief that Freddie's hissy fit won't be directed towards him this time. In the distance, we hear the crowd going bananas for the headlining Australian band. I sigh and kick the wall, my foot hitting the plaster with a thud.

"Uh, guys, we have to do this all over again in two days," John says.

"I'm not fucking doing that again," Freddie exclaims.

"Well, Freddie--" our manager starts, but the singer is not to be dissuaded.

"If you three want to play for those fuckers again--well, I'm not sure if Brian will even be able too, but whatever--then, yeah, by all means, you should. Go right the fuck ahead! Be my guest! But I'm going back to London just as soon as the antibiotics kick in, and my head doesn't feel like it's going to fall off."

He stands up and stalks over to the door, storming out unsteadily into the hot night. Fred loves nothing more than a dramatic exit, so we don't think too much of it. Instead, our eyes collectively swivel to Brian.

"I can't play anytime soon," Brian says softly. "I could barely lift my arm out there."

I smile inwardly, happy that the decision has been made without me having to wave the white flag of defeat. Because I'm not risking my life under a potentially sabotaged lighting rig again. I could have been maimed!

"It's going to cost you," our manager warns. I can practically see the calculations running through his head.

"It's worth every fucking penny!" We hear a muffled Freddie from just outside the door. I suppose that once he had stormed out, he had realized that there was nowhere for him to go.

So, with that settled, we change clothes and head back to the hotel for our third and final night in Melbourne. We phone the hotel doctor, and I help Freddie to his room. By this point, he has a pounding headache and says the ache is so intense that he feels nauseous.

"Want me to stay with you?" I offer. "At least until the doctor comes."

"No, darling, it's our last night here... go have some fun." He lays miserably on the bed, flinging an arm over his eyes to ward off the light.

I roll my eyes and rub my face tiredly with my hand. Tonight's shenanigans were so intense and unexpected that I forgot to feel glum over the fact that Skylar has ignored me for an entire month.

"Seriously, Roger, you've been in the fucking doldrums long enough. Forget about your Ice Queen and go shag some Australian beauty. At least get a blow job, for Christ's sake. Maybe then you'll be a little less--"

"Okay, enough, enough," I say with a laugh, holding my hands up. "I'll stay with you until the doctor gets here, and then I'll see if Deaks wants to get a drink, okay?"

"You're more fun when you're slutty," Freddie grumbles.

"And yet you're the one pushing hard for a relationship with someone who hates me," I retort. "In fact, this bloody gig is the perfect metaphor for my relationship with Skylar. I try, try, try, and she just boos and hisses at me from the sidelines."

"Yes, well--"

"Fred, if your head hurts so much, then belt up. I'm tired of thinking about her."

Freddie is quiet for a few moments, and I wonder if he's fallen asleep. Then, just before the doctor knocks on the door, he replies.

"You know what they say, Rog. A good blow job heals a broken heart."

"No one says that, Fred," I say with a scoff and roll my eyes, walking over to the door to let the good doctor in.

**

Two days later, I stumble into my flat, feeling half-dead from the 30-hour trip. I sniff the air, the scent of Claire's perfume filling my nostrils. I don't know if she's still here, but she better not be in my bed because that's where I plan to live for the next week. Staggering over to the blessedly empty bed, I collapse onto it, fully-clothed, and pass out.

A solid twenty hours later, I hear my name being called. Ignoring it, I hide my head under a pillow, which is a move that should work but never seems to.

"Roger," I hear again, this time more insistently. I bat at the figure standing next to the bed, willing them to go the fuck away. I've earned this sleep, and no one will take it away from me.

"You've been asleep for like three bloody days, Rog," my sister says. "Get up. We're going out."

I groan exasperated. Why can't anyone ever just let me sleep?

"I'm not going anywhere," I reply, my voice coming out muffled from under the depth of the pillow.

"Get up," she repeats. In response, I reach an arm out to pull the duvet over both my head and the pillow. She retaliates by yanking the bedding off of me entirely, allowing cold air to assault me.

I sit up grumpily and glare at her. "You know, I'm a big deal in some corners of the world. You'd do well to remember that and treat me with some respect."

Clare smirks. "Yeah, sure you are. Anyway, we're going out. Freddie called and he's put together a do at Kensington Pub to cheer you all up. Attendance is mandatory."

I run a hand through my hair, which is greasy and sticking out every which way. The very last thing I want to do is go to a party. Why can no one comprehend that I really cannot function without sleep? It's just not a talent that I possess.

"It'll make you feel better," Clare says encouragingly as if she can read my thoughts.

"I feel just fucking fine," I say with a groan as I stand up rather unsteadily. I rummage through the drawers to find a change of clothes before stalking towards the bathroom.

"What happened down under, anyway?" Clare calls out from the bedroom. I grunt in response and begin to undress. Fine, I'll admit, she's right. A drink will do me some good.

An hour later, showered and primped, we arrive at Kensington Pub. Freddie is looking a million times better than the last time I saw him, and even Brian seems to be feeling more like himself. I grab pints for myself and Clare, as Freddie dramatically tells her about the gig in Melbourne.

"--and then the entire lighting rig fell, almost hitting poor Roger on the head--"

"--it was only a small section of the lighting rig, Fred--"

"--and these Aussies, they hated us. Really hated us. We were lucky to escape with our lives."

He gestures theatrically, his voice ringing across the pub as we attract a small crowd of people. A pretty blonde makes her way over and inches closer until there's no more room between us. Clare rolls her eyes at me before skipping over to talk to Veronica.

"I'm Janine," the blonde says. She's jostled by someone behind her and uses it as an excuse to somehow move closer to put her hand on my chest.

"Roger," I reply, giving her a tried-and-true smile. "Can I get you a drink, Janine?" And just like that, my sex drive comes back, roaring into full effect after a month of laying dormant. It's incredible, after months of thinking about the same girl, I'm finally able to get her out of my head.

As we get all get increasingly squiffed, my movements become looser, my eyes more curious as they rove over Janine's body. Soon enough, my arm is looped around her shoulders, and we look like quite the couple.

"And he's back in the game," I hear Freddie say jokingly to someone. "I missed the horny little fucker."

"So, Janine--" I start to say, about to suggest that we make our way to her flat. But I'm interrupted by Brian's voice.

"Jenny!"

I look to my left to see the guitarist grinning like a fool at someone standing behind me. He seems so goddamn happy-- I'll be honest, I'd give pretty much anything to feel that happy to see someone--but then his eyes flicker to the left and his smile falters a bit. He glances at me and then back over my shoulder.

"It's the good doctor herself!" I hear Freddie exclaim. "I didn't think we'd ever seen you again, darling."

I freeze, suddenly realizing precisely who's standing behind me. My arm drops from Janine's shoulders as I slowly turn around to look into the hazel eyes of one Skylar Evans.

Damn, she looks good. Not so good that I forget how annoyed I am that she's been giving me the cold shoulder... but close. She's wearing a long black dress that's a bit too dressy for this particular venue, but she manages to own it.

She takes a step closer, not breaking eye contact. A small smile flickers over her lips as she glances at Janine--who has by now wrapped her arm securely around my waist to stake her claim--and then back at me. I force my face to remain impassive, squashing down the massive grin that's itching to come out.

"Hi, Roger."