Starstruck

Part 3

Warnings: swearing, drinking, one mention of homophobia, slight sentiments of sadness

Historical Inaccuracies:

Brian is probably a total whiz at derivatives, and maths in general, for that matter; he taught maths at Stockwell Manor School, North Brixton, in 1971.

Word Count: 4.8k

‧⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧

Your phone call with Heather had delayed your would-be perfectly timed arrival at the Union.

You were worried now that you would have to push through regular bar-goers in order to get to the concert, but Fate had extended her fortune to you this night— the stage was set up on the green in front of the pub, only footsteps away from where you and Brian had sat on the wall watching the stars only last night. Was it really only last night? It already felt an age since you'd seen him last. And how strange it was to think that he'd been friends with your friends all this time. You wondered vaguely how long he'd known them, how close they all were.

But up on the stage, it wasn't Queen who were playing. It was another band. You sighed in relief; you'd only missed the opener's first song or so.

How the hell you were going to get to the front, though, you did not know.

A mass of people had already gathered before the stage and were jumping up and down to the music of the all-female rock band. You hadn't the faintest idea as to how you would find the Brendan in this mess, and you didn't want to be that arsehole whom everyone hates, the one who shoves their way to the front of the concert without any form of regard or respect for those who had queued for long and grueling hours to be within a breath of the stage. So, you resigned yourself to the middle of the crowd, fluffed your hair, and angled your head to the stage.

Then, someone tapped your arm. "Y/N!"

"Heather! Like, how'd you find me? It's already teeming out here, you know," you embraced her and found that she had dusted her arms in glitter, much of which now transferred to you.

Heather shrugged, "Seems luck is with us tonight, what with the rain from this morning not making a reappearance."

"Oh, definitely," you agreed loudly over the music, eyeing the sky, which was surprisingly free of clouds.

"So who's playing now?" Heather hollered back, nodding her head to the clash of drums, heavy bass, squealing guitar. "They're good," she added appreciatively.

You smiled. "All girls, too."

"Rad! We need more of those."

You searched for the drum-insert above the heads of the crowd, hoping to glimpse a band name or tag. Sure enough, the drums read The Runaways.

"It says The Runaways," you shouted.

A girl next to you, dressed in leathers and sparkles caught your eye with a wave of her hand. "Americans, relatively unknown," she called. "On tour in the UK, unofficially."

"I think they're killer!" you told her.

"Absolutely! Bound to be successful!" and she turned back to her head-banging.

Then, before you knew it, the singer was thanking the crowd, and your stomach felt as though it were in shambles. You looked over at Heather, bouncing on the balls of your feet. Heather winked.

"...let me introduce her majesty, QUEEN!"

The crowd screamed in insanity, especially enthusiastic for being composed of barely two hundred people. The band must really have kept a hush on tonight's concert.