Freddie felt like he knew a lot about the world. He's seen enough of it. And enough of the people in it. Enough to know that the truth isn't always apparent.
He knows you have to dig to find out what's really going on, and even then.. you won't always be successful.
Face-value is usually a lie, something convenient to distract people. And what is a representation when you can observe for yourself? Nothing can beat it. He knew, in theory, that what you imagine don't do people justice.
Then, why wasn't he braced for his heart going off like a firework when he caught sight of you? Exactly as you described?
What he imagined, had nothing on the real thing, he discovers. Your skin catches the afternoon light. You look so tiny when you're so far away from him. More and more beautiful when his eyes zeroed in.
He feels the nervous posture stiff in your arm, the way you won't be moved. Why were you putting up a fight?
He sees your eyes widen, your hand covering your tempting mouth in shock when his hand squeezes yours.
And if his heart was a firework before, what do you call this? This feeling of giddiness. You know it's him. And he knows you know it's you, he realizes.
Before his heart runs away without the rest of him, he needs to be absolutely certain, one hundred percent that it's you. But who else could have a face like that? How many angels could walk the earth at once?
You can barely look him in the eye, tears beginning to weakly plead apologetically. The same love in your eyes imploding in his own heart.
Either way, he needs to know. Freddie needs to see you close, needs to know what your shampoo smells like and how your lips feel, what your favorite colors are and what you read in spare time, how your laugh sounds without the shitty speaker quality of phones keeping him from you.
You looked into his deep brown eyes and shifted on your feet. You didn't want to cause him trouble by being too conspicuous. Photos of you meeting would be in the press in an hour, and they'd follow you home and release a huge scandal headline ten minutes later. You can just see it on every billboard in the nation: "Freddie Mercury Sleeping with a Sex Worker?!? More details at 5!"
The anguish is palpable, Freddie must be so tired of that. But, you're also tired, close to swaying. You almost wish you'd gotten a ride home.
His breath in your ear wakes you right back up. When he whispered an order in your ear, you could barely hide your squeak with your obedient nod of agreement.
You followed his orders, walking up a main street for a good twenty minutes, getting more than just a few weird looks.
You pause between a few buildings, letting the sunlight beat down. You'd been avoiding him, and now you'd have to face up to your feelings and his.
You arrive at an apartment building and pull out the key that he'd slipped into your pocket.
You're nervous enough about looking like shit, and finally being forced to confront whatever feelings you have for this rockstar.. and now you're stepping in his flat?
The butterflies in your stomach are out for blood. You feel the fight-or-flight reflex back in full swing. But you take curious steps as you walk toward the door that opens at the end into the bedroom.
When you tiptoe around the door frame, you're startled when Freddie opens the front door, coming to face you when he enters.
He closes the door gently behind him. His smile is still there, totally calm, but his fingers tapping along his leg give him away. He's antsy, too.
