Work Text:
Taylor has always believed that backstage is its own little world. It thuds like a heartbeat, a universe of cables and coffee cups, laughter spilling from dressing rooms, echoes of music seeping through the walls. It’s supposed to belong to the crew, the band, the artist waiting in the wings.
But now, it belongs to her family.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Her daughter is two years old and already a menace.
She’s toddling around the backstage hall in little sneakers, golden curls bouncing as she disappears behind a rack of sequinned bodysuits. Security hovers nervously, not sure if they’re supposed to intervene or let the kid continue her glitter-fuelled mission. Taylor, heavily pregnant and trying to stretch her lower back in the world’s least comfortable chair, sighs with fond resignation. She has done countless tours, but never before with a person pressing into her ribs from the inside and another one dismantling her wardrobe collection from the outside.
There’s a thud, followed by a delighted squeal.
The little girl has somehow wrestled one of Taylor’s thigh-high silver boots off its stand and tried to climb inside it. She collapses onto her diapered bottom, laughing like she’s performed the grandest trick of all.
"You think you can pull those off?" Taylor asks, her voice dry but soft.
The girl beams over, pleased with herself.
Matty arrives just in time to witness the spectacle, a bag of chips and two waters tucked under one arm. "That’s my girl," he says proudly, crouching to scoop her up. "Starting young with questionable fashion choices. She’s already way cooler than me."
Taylor smirks. "That’s a low bar."
He gasps, mock-offended, and settles the child on his hip. She immediately reaches for the chips. "You wound me."
"You’ll survive," Taylor replies, though her heart softens watching them.
Their daughter squirms until Matty pretends to let her "steal" the snack bag, triumphant giggles echoing round the room. Taylor rests her hand on her belly, shaking her head with amusement.
The toddler lifts her eyes to Taylor, waving the bag of chips around wildly. "Mama, mine."
"Yeah, everything’s yours," Taylor says with a weary laugh. "Have them."
"You’re doing amazing," Matty says, quieter now, eyes flicking to her swollen stomach. He nudges her foot with his. "Touring with two already—or, one and a half."
Taylor rolls her eyes affectionately, her chest warming. "Feels more like three sometimes."
Later, after soundcheck, she finds her daughter curled in her dressing room chair, a sparkly cape draped over her little body, fast asleep. Taylor strokes her hair, marvelling at how somehow, amidst all the noise and lights, this tiny girl has found peace.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Backstage smells different at The 1975’s shows. Less polished perfume and more beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke trailing in from doors someone forgot to close.
Taylor sits on a flight case just off the side of the stage, daughter perched beside her, both wearing oversized headphones, watching the band perform.
Her daughter points a tiny hand at the chaos unfolding. "Mama, daddy’s crawling around on the floor."
Taylor bites her lip to keep from laughing. "Yeah, he does that sometimes."
"Why?"
"Good question, honey."
The girl frowns, unimpressed.
When Matty sprawls on the stage floor in dramatic agony during a more emotional song, the toddler gasps. "He’s sleeping!"
"He wishes," Taylor murmurs, shaking her head.
After the show, when Matty stumbles back grinning and sweaty, his daughter insists on decorating his arm with a Sharpie. He sits perfectly still while she scrawls stars and crooked letters.
"Daddy’s got a new tattoo," Matty announces proudly, holding it out like it’s the world’s finest piece of artwork.
Taylor snaps a photo for her collection of blackmail material.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The birth of their son brings a slower, gentler feel to their life.
Taylor is on maternity leave. Tonight, she’s backstage at one of Matty’s shows, the baby curled against her chest, his smattering of dark curls brushing her chin. The venue is buzzing on the other side of the dressing room walls, but in here it’s quiet; just the soft hum of the air vent, the quiet coo of an infant, the distant noise of soundcheck thudding through the building like some sort of lullaby.
Their daughter hovers insistently, with tiny hands outstretched.
"I hold him now," she demands firmly, reminding Taylor of why they call her 'the tiny dictator.'
"Okay, but you need to sit down first, sweetheart," Taylor says gently. "And be very gentle."
The girl scowls but complies, plopping onto the couch with the seriousness of a queen taking her throne. Taylor lowers the baby into her lap. He’s all dark curls and delicate sighs, too new to do much more than blink and dream.
Her daughter pats the baby’s belly clumsily. "My baby."
"Yours," Taylor agrees softly, brushing hair from her daughter’s face.
Later, Taylor watches Matty cradle the newborn, all wild hair and nervous hands, his expression soft and reverent. He kisses the baby’s curls, voice uncharacteristically quiet as he whispers something she can’t quite hear, and Taylor feels a lump in her throat. She thinks about all the chaos he carries on stage, all the noise he lives in, and how somehow he still fits perfectly here as well, whispering nonsense to a boy too young to understand but soothed anyway.
Both kids fall asleep by the time the show starts, one in a baby carrier and one sprawled across her lap. Taylor leans back, exhaustion tugging at her, and lets herself just breathe.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Her daughter is six now, her son three, and backstage has become a playground.
Their little girl, full of sass and confidence, commandeers the mic during soundcheck. "Check, check, one-two! I’m Taylor Swift!" she sings at the top of her lungs, followed by a dramatic twirl.
Matty claps like she’s just headlined Glastonbury. "That’s it, love! Mama better watch out, she’s got some competition!"
Meanwhile, their son wanders dangerously close to the stage cables. Taylor is about to intervene when Matty spots him too and dives in like a goalkeeper, scooping him up just before his tiny hands yank at a very expensive piece of equipment.
Taylor pinches the bridge of her nose. "Guess we know which parent he takes after."
"Oi," Matty protests, balancing the squirming boy on his hip. "He’s just… curious."
"Curious is one word."
Back in the dressing room, the kids raid Taylor’s makeup bag while both parents watch helplessly. Their daughter applies bright red lipstick with a staggering level of precision for a six-year-old, and their son smears blush across his cheek and calls it a day, grinning proudly.
Taylor laughs, snapping a photo. "Two very different kinds of artists," she tells Matty, who beams like this is the greatest performance he’s ever witnessed in his life.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the kids discover The 1975’s dressing room at tonight’s venue, they peek inside like it’s a secret treasure cave.
George is first to notice the small heads poking around the door. "Oi, intruders," he says, twirling a drumstick in his hand. "State your business."
Her daughter marches in with the confidence of royalty. "We’re here for snacks."
Ross, already holding a bag of pretzels, just hands it over without a word. The little girl beams. "Thank you."
Meanwhile, her son toddles straight for George’s open stick bag, grabbing a pair with triumphant glee. Before anyone can stop him, he starts smacking them against the nearest surface, the side of a flight case. The clanging echoes like gunfire.
George winces theatrically, covering his ears. "Mate, that’s brutal. At least aim for something in time!"
The boy just bangs harder, grinning with pride, and George sticks his tongue out at him playfully.
Taylor lingers in the hallway, arms crossed, biting her lip to keep from laughing, watching as Matty leans against the doorframe beside her. "Free babysitting," he murmurs, smug.
On the sofa, Adam has already surrendered his guitar to her daughter, who plucks one string with great solemnity. "I’m in the band now," she declares.
Adam nods, completely deadpan. "Fair enough. You’re better than your dad."
Matty gasps, pressing a hand over his heart in mock offence, which makes their daughter giggle gleefully.
Taylor has to cover her laugh with her hand.
When they finally corral the kids back out, her son is covered in drumstick chalk marks, her daughter is wearing one of Ross’s beanies pulled down over her curls, and all three band members are waving like proud uncles.
"Your family’s chaos, man," George calls after them, still grinning.
Matty shrugs, his voice full of warmth. "Best chaos I’ve ever made."
Taylor’s chest aches in agreement.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Her son is four, still small enough to get swallowed by big emotions. Tonight, the emotions win.
Taylor notices it as she’s heading back fromthe bathroom—his tiny figure tucked in the corner of the green room, arms crossed, cheeks wet with frustrated tears. A toy car lies abandoned by his feet.
She pauses at the doorway.
Matty is already kneeling in front of him, curls damp from showering off post-soundcheck sweat. His voice is gentle in a way Taylor remembers from whispered 3 a.m. calls years ago. "Hey, mate. What’s going on in that head of yours?"
The boy hiccups. "She didn’t let me sing," he says, pointing a betrayed finger at his sister, who is in the opposite corner, unapologetically strumming a ukulele.
Taylor bites back a laugh, staying quiet.
Matty nods solemnly, like this is the gravest injustice in history. "That’s rough. Everybody deserves a solo."
His son’s lip trembles. "I wanted to sing loud."
Matty leans closer, stage whispering. "Wanna know a cool secret? You don’t need a stage to sing loud. Wanna show me right here?"
The boy hesitates, then mumbles out a tuneless line of whatever song has been stuck in his head all day. Matty claps like he’s just witnessed a headline performance.
"There it is! Best voice I’ve ever heard." He kisses the boy’s temple, pulling him into a hug. "You’re my favourite singer."
The tears dissolve into a shy smile.
Taylor presses her shoulder against the doorframe, watching them. For all the noise and glitter and chaos, it’s this—quiet corners, small storms calmed—that makes her chest ache with love.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The kids are older now, eight and five, and confident in their backstage kingdom.
They sit on the floor, colouring over the set lists with markers, turning them into masterpieces of dragons and rainbows.
When Matty enters the room, he pretends to be horrified. "You’re ruining my genius!"
Taylor sips from her tea and smoothly says, "It was already ruined."
Their daughter glances up from her artwork. "Yeah, daddy," she says, deadpan. "And you shouldn’t kiss people on stage. That’s so yucky."
Taylor nearly spits out her tea.
Matty pauses mid-string change to stare at her. "Unbelievable. Betrayed by my own child."
Meanwhile, their son has found one of Matty’s guitars and is strumming it with intense focus, tongue sticking out. Matty crouches beside him, guiding his tiny fingers on the frets, and Taylor feels her heart swell until it almost aches.
By the end of the show, both kids have crashed, curled into each other on the couch like kittens.
Matty points at them as he comes off stage, sweaty and grinning. "They’re the real headliners."
Taylor kisses his cheek, and says, soft but teasing, "Finally, something we can agree on."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It hits Taylor, near the beginning of what will be a long night, just how ordinary backstage has become for her children.
She’s just finished her vocal warmups when laughter ripples down the hallway, bright and high-pitched, followed by the clatter of drumsticks scattering across the floor. She follows the sound, a smile tugging at her lips.
When she peeks into the room, she finds both kids squeezed together on a drum stool, her daughter demonstrating with the authority of someone twice her size while her son bangs happily on whatever surface he can reach. Matty leans against a case nearby, grinning like he’s watching the best concert in the world.
"They’re naturals," he says proudly, tipping his chin toward the chaos.
Taylor smiles, shaking her head. "One’s off-beat and the other’s bossy. Definitely ours."
Her daughter pauses long enough to explain, "We’re practicing for our band," her face completely deadpan.
Taylor crouches beside her. "You sound amazing, honey," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of her daughter’s perfectly styled golden ringlets, before turning and doing the same to her son’s messier, darker curls. "And so do you."
Later, when both kids are fast asleep in the green room, drumsticks still clutched in their hands, Matty whispers, almost to himself, "They’ll never know normal, will they?"
Taylor studies their faces, soft and safe in sleep. "No," she says quietly. "But maybe this is better."
She leans into him, and together they watch the rise and fall of small shoulders, hear the distant hum of crew setting up, feel the hush that only comes after a storm.
Backstage used to mean nerves, adrenaline, costumes. Now it’s juice boxes, Sharpie tattoos, lipstick smears, and tiny bodies asleep before the lights even go down.
She turns her head slightly, catching Matty’s eye. He winks, and Taylor smiles back.
Everything she’s ever wanted now belongs to her, and she couldn’t be more grateful.