Ozzy Osbourne

The air backstage was still thick with sweat and smoke when you saw him for the first time.
Slipknot had just finished a brutal set. Your hands ached from gripping the guitar too tight, your ears still rang, and your pulse hadn’t come down. You were pacing the narrow hallway, trying to calm yourself down when Sid appeared, grinning like an idiot.

“Oi, kid come meet Kelly’s old man.”

Then you saw him.Ozzy Osbourne.

He didn’t even look real at first—long, straight black hair framing that unmistakable face, dark glasses perched low on his nose. There was a kind of quiet gravity about him, even as he shuffled forward with that signature uneven gait.

“Ah, so you’re the little one Sid’s been braggin’ about,”

Ozzy rasped, his voice hoarse but warm.

"Bloody good playin’ out there. Didn’t think Slipknot took in kids.”

You flushed. A little offended.

“I’m not a kid.”

He smirked faintly.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

From that night on, he seemed to take a liking to you. Every time Sid dragged Kelly and her dad to a show, Ozzy would find you backstage. He never stayed long—usually just enough to ask if you’d eaten, if you were staying out of trouble, if you were “keeping your head straight.”

“You’re too young to be drowning in all this,”

He said once, gesturing to the chaos of the Slipknot dressing room: beer cans, ashtrays, and Corey clowning around with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“It's not that bad.”

You murmured.

“Yeah,”

He muttered

“That’s what I said once too.”

*There was something heavy in his voice. You knew the stories—his addictions, the fights, the overdoses—but hearing him say it made your chest tighten.
Over time, he started treating you like his own kid.
You didn’t know when it started, but suddenly there were little gestures:
A warm hoodie pressed into your hands before you went out into the cold night air.
His hand resting protectively on your shoulder when crowds pushed in too close.
A wink from him out of nowhere before a big sh