"You're really going to wear that hat, mate?"

I've never been able to resist taking the piss out of Freddie, and now isn't an exception. As knackered as I am, it's too good an opportunity to waste.

"Would it be on my head otherwise?" he calls back over his shoulder as we amble down the jetway towards the terminal.

"It's tough to tell if it is actually on your head since that feather is so fucking--"

I'm interrupted mid-sentence as I run smack into Fred, who has stopped unexpectedly at the end of the jetway. Skylar runs into me, and Brian into her. Deaky manages to avoid the pile-up and continues to walk forward cautiously, stopping next to Freddie.

"Oh. Wow." His voice is barely audible.

"What the hell, Fred?" Brian mutters tetchily as he stalks past Sky and me. "Did you forget how to put one foot in front--"

"Ho-ly shit," I murmur as I finally manage to catch a glimpse of the scene over Freddie's shoulder.

Just outside the jetway, lined up with military precision, are more than a dozen uniformed security guards. They stand at attention with hands clasped behind their backs and officious black-and-gold caps on their heads.

"Are they here for... us?" Brian wonders aloud as one of the officials steps forward, prompting our manager to scurry over. They gesture back and forth for a few moments until, with a massive grin on his face, Jake turns our way.

"Well, lads. This is it."

We glance at each other in confusion as the security guards surround us. I glance over at Skylar, who's looking around wide-eyed, and grab her hand. She squeezes it reassuringly and gives me a small smile.

"We're either being arrested, or this is excellent news," I whisper as I playfully nudge her shoulder with mine.

"They're here for Freddie's hat," she replies with a giggle, squeezing my hand once more.

We begin to walk en masse towards the main terminal, Freddie's giant goddamn feather waving back and forth majestically in my face. No one has bothered to explain why we're surrounded by security but, as we get closer to the exit, it becomes apparent that there are a lot of fucking people awaiting us.

"Is that...?" Deaky is the first to speak.

"It's a lot more than eight fans," I reply slightly in awe.

"Goddamn right it is," Freddie exclaims as if he's been expecting this the entire journey. One of my favorite things about him is that he takes everything in stride. Oh, there's a whole mess of people awaiting our arrival? No sweat, he'll just put on a silly hat and call it a day.

Wrapping my arm around Skylar's waist to pull her closer, I plaster a smile on my face. My mind is a whirl of emotions as I process the fact that, just beyond the terminal doors, is, from the sound of it, a huge fucking crowd. To see us. There's a general hum of excitement, the sounds of lots of people talking, laughing, joking around.

Freddie is the first to arrive at the sliding door that separates us from whatever lies ahead. He pauses for a moment, which gives me the perfect opportunity to yank off the hat.

"Hey!" He whirls around, his burgundy velvet jacket shimmering under the harsh fluorescent lights. I yank the offending object out of reach, passing it behind me to John. Before Freddie can protest further, our manager claps his hands on my and Brian's back.

"Are you ready?" He looks more excited than I've ever seen him, and I can practically see the dollar signs floating in his eyes.

"Ready?" I murmur to Skylar, who is still pressed against my side. Just as she looks up at me, but before she can reply, we're collectively pushed forward into the loud terminal.

I've never seen anything like this in my life. 

Snaked around the massive room are hundreds of young fans, most of them women, many of whom are holding huge handmade banners. WELCOME QUEEN! TOKYO LOVES YOU! Cheering teenagers hold up photographs of us, and I spot at least half a dozen bouquets of roses. 

Freddie pulls his aviators down over his eyes and, with a deep breath that belies his calm, opens the door. The crowd goes mad as he steps through the door, followed by the rest of us. The security guards fan out to form a large perimeter as we walk through the door, astonished smiles on our faces.

Are all these people really here for us? Were they expecting Lennon & McCarthy and instead got four strangers?

Bloody hell, does this mean that we've finally made it?

There's a surge forward, and I realize that Skylar's hand is no longer in mine. I immediately turn, my eyes searching the crowd until I find her, standing next to a roadie towards the back. She flashes a huge smile and motions for me to go on without her.

I debate turning back for her--ever since that night in Scotland, we're all a bit uneasy in large crowds--but instead am propelled towards the line of people. They scream my name as I approach, a few girls crying. The noise is deafening, and I have no idea what anyone is saying.

The four of us walk through the crowd, trying to shake as many hands as possible, hug as many people as possible, show everyone how grateful we are.

"Hello!"

"How're you doing?"

"Thank you so much, lovies!"

Everyone seems to own a camera, and the lightbulbs flash incessantly, causing me to blink rapidly. Every so often, I look around to find Skylar, who is watching us all from the side with a look of pride on her face.

Finally, the powers-that-be decide that it's time to go. The security guards once again flank us, and my eyes rove around the chaotic room looking for Skylar. This time, she's not where I last saw her. Where is she?

"It's like they were expecting a Beatle," a teasing voice says from just behind me. Grinning, I turn towards Skylar and playfully cuff her arm. The crowds continue to scream, more bouquets of roses are pushed our way, and the flashes continue to document our every move as we're hustled through the terminal. Outside there are even more people waiting, along with four cars ready to ferry us to the hotel.

We pause for a moment to wave to the crowd, and, without thinking, I loop my arm around Skylar's shoulders, and she leans up for a quick kiss.

Click! Flash! Click! Flash!

The moment is memorialized by a pack of cameras, both personal and professional. The crowd begins to move in, prompting the security guards to thrust us all into the waiting cars. Deaky, Skylar, and I collapse into the sleek leather seats as the vehicle slowly pulls away from the kerb. The fans surge forward, some of them chasing after us, still screaming and holding signs high in the air.

It's deathly quiet inside the car as John, Skylar, and I collectively stare forward, processing what just happened.

"Was that real?" John breaks the silence.

"That was real," Skylar confirms.

"Holy shit," I mutter. "That was insane."

**

The next week is a blur. The press conference, the award ceremony, the gigs. We're humbled and overwhelmed and flat-out amazed by the reception here.

I'm used to going about my daily life with no one the wiser, but here, everything is different. The day after we arrive, Skylar and I nip into a shop to buy some tea leaves, and two minutes later, I'm recognized. "Queen!" a teenage girl screams, pointing at me. A few hours later, we're waylaid by a group of schoolchildren who excitedly pepper with questions in broken English. Skylar crouches down to talk to them on their level, patiently answering them.

The following day, a knock on the door awakens me. I open one eye in the early morning light before sitting with a groan. Fucking jetlag. Throwing my legs unceremoniously over the side of the bed, I stumble over to the door to see a thick newspaper that has been pushed underneath. With a yawn, I reach down and pick it up, shoving my fringe out of my eyes.

There on the front page is a grainy black-and-white photo of the band; below it is a picture of Skylar and me at the airport. She's leaning in for a kiss, her eyes closed. I gaze down at her, a smile on my face meant just for her. Even though it was an eight-second moment in time, it looks unbelievably intimate.

My first thought is I want to track down the photographer and get a proper copy.

My second thought is, fuck.

It's not that Skylar and I have hidden our relationship from the media; it's more that no one has ever cared. She goes about her life at the hospital, and I go about my life with the band. We decided long ago that we'd try to keep her name out of the press, but it's not as if we're conducting a secret affair.

But here we are in black-and-white on the front page of a national newspaper. I squint down at the writing, wishing that I had my glasses. Not that it does much good since I can't read the characters written across the page.

Slowly closing the door and my eyes still on the newspaper, I turn to walk back to the bedroom. As could be expected, I run squarely into Skylar, who is standing there looking sleepy-eyed and jetlagged.

"Everything okay?" she asks quietly, stifling a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Half six," I reply distractedly. My internal monologue is as follows:  oh shit, don't be mad, oh shit, don't be mad, oh shit, I'm an idiot... &tc &tc &tc.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Skylar finally realizes that I'm not my usual talkative self. I quickly turn around so that the damning photographic evidence is hidden--as if that's going to help.

But Skylar is much brighter than me. Her arms go around my waist as she leans into me, and she presses a kiss against my back. A moment later, I feel the light pressure of her chin as she peers over my shoulder.

"Oh," she says with a soft exhale. "Wow."

I turn around and hand her the paper, which she accepts hesitantly. She stares at it for a long while before looking up.

"Roger Taylor and Skylar Evans," she says.

"You can read it!?" Good Lord, has she spoken Japanese all this time, and I had no idea?!

"No, silly," she laughs. "But that's my name. Your translator taught me how to write it. I have no idea how to read your name, but I'm making an educated guess that it's somewhere near mine, as I'm not particularly newsworthy."

I glance down at the mauve carpet briefly before looking up at her hazel eyes. "I'm sorry, Sky."

"For what?"

"There were five hundred fucking cameras there, I don't know, I just wasn't thinking, God, I'm--"

My self-flagellating words are cut off as Skylar wraps her arms around me, dropping the newspaper to the floor behind my back. She kisses me, at first gently and, after a moment, with more passion. As soon as we move apart, the apologies start to once again tumble out of my mouth.

"Oh, stop," she says. "It's not a big deal, Rog. It was bound to happen, right?"

"I suppose so," I reply reluctantly.

"And it's not as if Mary or Chrissie or Veronica are always in the press, right? They're still living their lives?"

"Sure, but--"

Skylar shushes me, leading me back to bed.

"You have your gig tonight, Rog." She presses me down into the bed, wrapping herself around me, the weight of her body a comfort. "Let's go back to sleep."