Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

4. Roger

I'm jolted half-awake as the bus hits a pothole, causing everything around me to rattle. I open one eye lazily, then shut it as soon as I see the early morning light filtering in through a crack in the curtains. It's too bloody early to be awake.

Shoving my head violently under the thin pillow, I squeeze my eyes shut until I'm once again lulled back to sleep. Just as a dream begins to form, I feel the lightest tickling on my forearm. Quickly drawing the threadbare blanket over my arm, I frown as I feel the same sensation on the back of my wrist. My hand darts out, grabbing a handful of thick, coarse hair.

"Fuck!" Freddie curses as I yank lightly on the fistful of hair, moving so that I can peer out from under the pillow.

"What the hell, Fred?" I loudly mumble. I peer into the dimly-lit tour bus and see a large, light blue feather clutched in my friend's fist.

"He did it to me too," John calls down from the top bunk.

"Also me," Brian adds wearily. He tries to sit up and hits his head on the ceiling, cursing loudly. I release Freddie's hair, and he sits back on his knees, looking delighted.

"Today's the day when we conquer Liverpool, darlings. We can't do that if you're sleeping all day." Freddie flashes us a toothy grin as he tugs on the bottom of the long-sleeved shirt that he pinched from one of the roadies. Since I'm used to seeing him in clothing that leaves very little to the imagination, he looks utterly ridiculous wearing the shirt of a bloke who's at least three times his size.

"Just because you don't require sleep doesn't mean that the rest of us don't," John complains, throwing his pillow off the edge of the bed. It lands squarely on Freddie's head, prompting him to let out a little yelp.

"I was going to buy you breakfast once we stop, but if you're going to brutalize me, then pay for your own fucking meals," Freddie huffs as he stands, brushing lint off his joggers. Brian's face brightens, and he throws his legs over the side of the bunk, careful not to bump his head again.

"That's called burying the lede, mate," he says as he hops down and stretches his arms up in the air for a stretch. "If there's free food involved, then I'm all in."

"I'd rather sleep if it's all the same to you," I groan into the pillow. I hear a suspicious rustling by the bed and reach my arm out preemptively. "Freddie, if you get near me again with that bloody feather..."

Freddie chuckles and throws the offending object my way; it softly lands on top of my forearm. Above me, Deaky rustles around and then hops down lightly to the floor. I once again place the pillow over my head, desperate for another hour of sleep, but it's soon apparent that I won't be getting any.

"Up and at 'em, Rog," Freddie croons after a few minutes, well aware that he's pushing every button possible. I can't survive without sleep, and he knows it. The bus pulls off the motorway and begins to slow as we approach our destination.

"Fucking fine," I growl, admitting defeat. I sit up, running a hand through my hair, which is sticking out every which way. I blink, trying to will energy into my body, which has been destroyed by the last week of gigs and afterparties galore. Yeah, the adrenaline rush when you're on stage is the highest of highest, but the inevitable crash afterward isn't nearly as fun.

The bus comes to a halt, and I pry open the pleated curtain next to my bed, spotting a tacky 24-hour restaurant a few meters away. The lads have all somehow managed to throw on clothes in the ten minutes since I was so rudely awakened.

"Coming, Roger?" Deaky calls over, looking much too energetic for this early in the morning.

"I'll meet you inside. Order me something with lots of grease and carbohydrates, please. If Fred's paying, make sure that it's the most expensive item on the menu."