"You're fucking joking!"

"No." Bonzo's face was deadpan. "I'm not."

Robert felt queasy at the knees. "So...you're telling me that The Yardbirds - The bleeding Yardbirds - wandered into my parents' restaurant last night and I didn't recognise them?"

"Yes." The brief tic in Bonzo's jaw indicated that he was trying his damnedest not to burst into guffaws. "You tried to ignore them, in fact."

Robert groaned. Brilliant. Just brilliant. "Anything else you'd like to point out, mate? Anything else you ought to've told me last night?"

Now there was definitely a grin edging across Bonzo's face. "Well," He said, slyly, "you were right interested in the guitarist. The pretty bloke."

Robert flushed harder than a pot of strawberry jam. "Wh-what?" he stuttered, his expression making a vague stab at innocence.

Trust his best mate to see right through his ruse. "I thought you'd tell me, Perce." His tone was serious now.

"Tell you what?" Robert's mouth was unnaturally dry.

"That you're into blokes!"

Brushing his hair out of his line of sight, Robert fidgeted. "Was I that obvious?" he replied, in a small voice.

"Only because I know you so well, mate." Bonzo replied, soothingly. "Your secret's safe with me."

Robert needed no assurances - he was fully prepared to trust his friend with his life if necessary. My love life, on the other hand...

He felt his flush deepen further than he'd thought possible. Taking a deep breath, he confessed, "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Not a bird, not a bloke - no one. It's the first time I've had a wank in the shower imagining someone in there with me."

If such details made Bonzo want to run away, you'd never have known it from his expression. "So you have fallen for the bloke." he said, matter-of-factly.

"Yes." That was the undeniable truth - there was no point beating about the bush. He'd woken to sticky sheets and an aching heart that morning. Lust, it seemed, took no prisoners.

Bonzo cocked his head. "What are you going to do?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I meant what I said – what are you going to do about it?" Bonzo made a couple of vague, albeit erratic, gestures. "Your feelings, I mean."

Robert swallowed thickly. "Well...why should I do anything about them? Or, rather, how can I?"

His best mate grinned sneakily. "I know a chap who works at the hotel The Yardbirds are staying in. We could always slip the pretty bloke one of the flyers from our shows. He could even come and see us perform tonight. Maybe he'd even be impressed, eh?" Impressed enough to sleep with you, his look suggested. Somehow, most of Bonzo's thoughts seemed to revolve entirely around sex.

Whilst marvelling at Bonzo's initiative and the fact that he seemed to know a good many useful people, Robert had to admit that it was a terrible idea. "He'd never come see us. Why would he? We're just some jumped-up provincial hippies." And don't you forget it, he reminded himself. The last thing you want to do is piss off the most gorgeous bloke you've ever met.

"Come on, Perce–"

"No." Stressed, Robert tugged the ends of his long, golden locks. "That's a bad idea, and you know it."

Bonzo's face crinkled. Misery guts, it seemed to say. You love complaining. "Alright. If you think your hand's a good enough substitute for the real thing, who am I to point out that you're a silly git?"

Robert gritted his teeth. "I'm never going to get the real thing, so what does it matter?"

Bonzo snorted, then suddenly fell silent. Robert's parents had just entered the restaurant.

"Stop lazing about, love." Mrs Plant said, seeing a broom propped up against her son's chair. "We've customers coming in in a bit."

Come rain or shine, Robert's first chore of the day was always to give the restaurant's floor a good sweeping, just as Bonzo's was to wipe down all the tables. Robert was a haphazard employee at best, but today his mind was even further away than usual; he'd never left his chores till a half hour to opening time before.

"You give that floor a good, thorough sweeping, son." Mr Plant added.

I'd rather give Jimmy a good, thorough something else. Unbidden, the thought made the corners of his mouth quiver in a cheeky grin. Out loud, however, all he said was, "Right, Dad."

It didn't take a genius to deduce that he was a bit of a disappointment to his parents. They'd wanted an accountant for a son - someone practical, with a well-paying job. What had they got instead? An irrational dreamer with a penchant for flowered shirts. The frustration was often thick enough to cut with a knife and spread on a slice of bread.

Falling into the boring rhythm of work, work, and work was as easy as falling asleep and, come evening, Robert was thrilled to have the excuse of the night's gig to wrangle him out of the even more mundane chores of cleaning dirty pots and pans.

Needless to say, his parents weren't happy to let him and Bonzo off for the night, and their displeasure known.

"It'll do you no good," Mr Plant scowled, "playing that silly music of yours."

That stung. For all his shitty moods and general 'I-don't-give-a-damn' air attending to his chores at the restaurant, what he really wanted – no, needed – from his parents was their acceptance. Acceptance, not ill-concealed condescension twenty-five hours a day.

That was, apparently, too much to hope for.

"You alright, mate?" Bonzo nudged him as they walked to the club their band was to play at. There was an odd, anticipatory gleam in his eye.

"I'm fine. You seem full of beans, though."

Bonzo snickered, but offered no explanation.

His mind elsewhere – as it had been ever since Jimmy set foot in the restaurant – Robert shrugged and dismissed it as his mate being at the happy juice again.

On reaching the stage, he felt as though he was entering his domain. Here, before a roiling mass of rebellious youth, he felt whole. He was Robert Plant, rock star - not Robert Plant, failed accountant.

Standing onstage, peering through his leonine curls, he felt invincible as his gaze panned across the packed room. There were many young girls - each prettier than the next - vying for his attention. He glanced at them, glanced at their lovely faces, glanced at their plunging cleavage. He felt nothing.

Whether he wanted to lean heavily into the melodrama or not, his heart was stolen. Ripped out of his chest as if Fate had dealt him some-

Wait.

Shock coursed through his body. Seated in the audience was a very familiar, very attractive individual. A very familiar, very attractive individual that had no business being there.

Jimmy...

The band's bassist gave him an odd look, and he realised that he'd spoken the name aloud. Oh, well, might as well get it on with. Resisting the urge to blush like a chaste schoolgirl, he nodded at his bandmates to start the evening's first number.

Jimmy, I hope you enjoy this. Even a little bit.

When the truth is found
To be lies
And all the joy
Within you dies

Don't you want somebody to love?
Don't you need somebody to love?
Wouldn't you love somebody to love?
You better find somebody to love.

✦✦✦

Why has this turned into a bleeding romance novel? Sweet cheese, I don't know.

I swear there'll be smut a little later on, so don't flee in terror imagining chapters of Robert bemoaning his unrequited love. That ain't happening, I swear. Besides, he still needs to get into Led Zeppelin, if you catch my drift. 😉

Anyway, feel free to tell me how I did. I don't bite. Well, not usually.

The song is Somebody to Love by Jefferson Airplane - I found it rather apt.