Chapter Text
There will be time, there will be time (…)
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea.
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
*
When Freddie has a picknick, he does it on an oriental rug. When Roger comes back from the phone booth to tell Dominique he’s staying for dinner at Freddie’s, he has to laugh, seeing him sitting cross-legged there in the middle of the otherwise bare room, sipping champagne from a crystal flute and nibbling on a sandwich with tinned ham from a dainty porcelain dish. He looks right at home. King – no, Queen – Freddie the first.
“I’m giving up coq au vin for tinned ham sandwiches?” He saunters closer, looks around the room again. One of the cats appears in the doorway, mewls plaintively, and then moves on, presumably to its own suite.
“It’s all I had in the cupboard, darling, but if you insist, there’s an Indian place down the road.” Roger, staring out the window, can hear the sly smile on his face when he says, “Of course, it’s quite enough for me to feast my eyes on a dish like you.”
Roger rolls his eyes but can’t quite hide his smile as he turns around and bows to take off his shoes. He joins Freddie on the rug. Next to the plate of ham sandwiches is a silver dish with a mass of quivering red jelly on it, a tin of sardines, and sliced bread that actually looks fresh. Between them is a magnificent porcelain tea pot with gold-rimmed cups on a tray that has definitely belonged to a royal family member at one point. When he looks up at Freddie, he winks while taking a sip of champagne.
“Champagne, Rog?”
“No thanks, I’m driving.”
“Ah, ‘the machine of a dream, such a clean machine’… Tea, then?” Without waiting for a reply, he sets down his glass, bends forward and pours steaming hot tea into a cup. Roger is reminded of the tea parties he used to have with his sister in the garden when they were children. He imagines Freddie as a sort of Mad Hatter holding a tea party for his cats, setting out their food in a circle around him while he reclines with a cup between two fingers.
“Fred… are you alright?” Roger asks. “I mean… are you eating alright?” He gestures at the jelly.
Freddie laughs his tinkling laugh. “I’m marvellous. Who’s got time to do the shopping when you’re moving house?”
“I could’ve picked something up on my way here…”
“Nonsense, Rog. Go on, have a sandwich. I hope we’re not both above sandwiches at this point.”
Smiling at the irony of those words said in what can only be described as a ballroom, Roger takes a sandwich and bites down, idly thinking of that time their van stalled along the motorway and he was eating the exact same thing, vowing to himself that if they made it big he would never sit in a van or eat a ham sandwich again. Yet here he is, and – it’s actually quite good. Good old English tinned ham and a scrape of mustard.
Freddie watches him as he eyeballs the room again. “I feel like I’m having tea in Versailles,” Roger says, crumbs falling out of his mouth.
Freddie laughs. “That’s the idea. Say what you will about old Louis XIV - executions aside, the man had an eye for interior design.”
He leans back on one arm, his legs stretched out on the rug. He looks down at it and says, offhandedly, “This is a Bulsara family heirloom, you know.”
Roger looks down between his legs. If it once had yellows they’ve faded completely to beige, and there are brown blots on it that may or may not be part of the pattern. It could use a good wash, but he doesn’t say so.
“You’ve kept that with you all this time?”
Freddie nods. “My parents brought it back from Zanzibar. It used to be my grandmother’s. It was in my bedroom while I was growing up… It was in our living room when I lived together with Mary. And it’s the first thing I brought over here.” He smiles a little. “To make it feel like home.”
His face clouds over for a second and he chews his lip.
“How is Mary?” Roger asks. Freddie’s face lights up.
“Oh, she is marvellous. She’s moving in next weekend. I can’t wait to live so close to her again.”
“That’s great.” But Freddie continues chewing his lip after he says it, and stares at the window from where he’ll be able to see her.
The wide, white room feels stifling somehow and makes him want to leave, all of a sudden. Roger coughs. “I should, uh…” But when Freddie turns his head and looks at him with that expectant look – the very same he wore so many years ago when he first handed them a song he had written – the words stick in his throat.
“I’ll have some champagne after all,” Roger finishes, lamely, and Freddie is on his feet in an instant. “Not to worry, I’ll get some.” He is back in a minute, carrying an ice cooler with a big bottle in it. He fills up Roger’s glass with the grace of a waiter at a burlesque party – which, of course, is exactly how he looks now with his moustache.
“And how is Dominique? And the children?” Freddie asks him as he hands him the glass. Oh, bloody hell, Roger thinks, is this how each visit will go from now on? Does he imagine I’ve gone respectable just because I got married?
“They’re fine, yeah.” Freddie fixes him with a look.
“Am I sensing some hesitation to talk about your beloved family? No trouble in paradise, I hope?”
“No, Fred,” Roger says. He takes a sip. “There’s just not much going on with them, is all.”
“It must be nice to be able to spend so much time with them, though,” Freddie muses, scooping up a spoonful of the jelly. Roger watches, fascinated, as the quivering blob disappears into his mouth. Freddie swallows, shudders, then puts the spoon down again with a light laugh.
“I’ve always wanted to try that. And I’m glad to say… it’s disappointing.”
Roger raises his eyebrows, contemplating the jelly. Ever the adventurous one, Freddie.
“Yeah, it is nice to be able to spend time together... Though sometimes I miss, you know… not having anybody to answer to.” The words are out before he knows it. Roger bites his lip. He’s already said too much. Even though Freddie probably knows him better than anyone, such off-the-cuff proclamations will start living their own life with him – one that isn’t necessarily based on true facts. He reaches for a slice of bread, opens the tin of sardines and begins piling them on.
Freddie hums. “Well, I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found someone to settle down with, darling. Things were really getting out of hand a bit.” He gives Roger a mock-stern look that quickly turns into a grin.
“Oh, you’re one to talk, Fred,” Roger laughs. True, the sanctity of marriage isn’t always the first thing on his mind after a six-hour recording session culminating in a six-hour drinking session at the pub next door, as Freddie well knows. The press, however, seem to see only Freddie’s revolving door of partners, which really seems quite unfair. Vultures, Roger thinks with disgust, as he holds out the knife covered in sardine scales for one of the cats to lick clean.
“You should bring Dominique next time you come round. When I’ve decorated the place…” he takes in the room with a sweep of his arm, “it’ll be one big never-ending party… full of dark corners for dark deeds, of course.” His grin borders on a leer.
And you want me to bring my wife? Roger thinks, but he gives Freddie a smile. “Will do.” He watches as Freddie fawns over the cat, chewing his sardines on toast. His bum is beginning to hurt despite the rug.
“Do you really think the moustache makes me look gayer?” Freddie asks him suddenly. Roger looks at him and squints.
“Yeah, you do.”
“But why?” Freddie muses, more to himself than to Roger. Somehow, whatever he wears, Freddie always looks right at home – overdressed, yes, but completely at ease. Like a chameleon. Roger admires that about him. He hasn’t felt the need yet to cut off his blond mane, or stop wearing shirts with the chest unbuttoned. He’s only thirty and still, he knows, as Freddie said, a dish. Why change his uniform?
“How can something as simple as facial hair carry out the message that I like cock?”
Roger laughs at his blunt phrasing. “Well, it’s not just the moustache, is it, Fred? It’s also the clothes, and the hair, and… the fact that you like cock.”
Freddie smiles, his chin resting on his folded hands. “Still… isn’t it odd that people associate dresses, moustaches, glittery scarves only with certain people… I wish they’d let everybody just wear what they want.” He pauses, then adds, “And love who they want.”
Roger doesn’t know how to answer that. To him, Freddie always embodied exactly that – no shame, no doubts about who he was. He remembers the afternoon when they were over at the Bulsaras’ and Freddie announced his name was now Mercury – just as if he’d said the greengrocer’s was out of carrots, by the way.
“How’s your sister?” he asks, abruptly.
Freddie laughs. “Oh, bloody hell. You’re not still after her, are you, Rog?”
Roger grins. “I’m not, I promise. I was just thinking of that afternoon where you… became Freddie Mercury.”
“Ah, but I didn’t become Freddie Mercury, darling. I was born Freddie Mercury. I just didn’t know it yet.” Freddie reaches for his champagne again. Roger, still holding his, smiles. Even after all these years, he still can’t quite separate Freddie the man from Freddie the singer of Queen. It seems only his lyrics say what really goes on in his mind – and even those are often impenetrable. Somebody to Love, not a mystery – but Bohemian Rhapsody?
Freddie says, “Could you imagine if you’d become a dentist?”
“I think about it sometimes,” Roger says. “Probably wouldn’t be dressing like this, then.”
Freddie laughs. “Now, that’s a dentist I wouldn’t mind going to. Even if I am terrified of them.”
Roger frowns. “You’re afraid of dentists?”
“Obviously.” Freddie gestures to his teeth. “I’m afraid that after one look at my choppers they’ll strap me down and submit me to excruciating torture.”
“Well, they might,” Roger says, a teasing note creeping into his voice, “if they know you like that sort of thing.” Freddie throws his head back and laughs. The tension seems to seep from his body.
“Oh, you would, Rog.” He grins.
It’s always like this with Freddie. A pat on the bum, a kiss blown, a suggestive eyebrow waggle. Always flirting. He remembers being puzzled for a good deal of the time after they’d just met about whether Freddie was genuinely making a pass at him, or simply felt free to be himself at last.
As the echoes of Freddie’s laughter die away among the plasterwork, it dawns on Roger how lonely Freddie must be. Mary is close by, yes, but she will surely want to live her own life. He has his cats, he tells himself. And he’s been pretty close with Paul…
The cat knocks over his glass of champagne, which quickly disappears into the fibres of the rug. Freddie gasps. “Romeo, mind your step!” He gathers up the cat to his chest and gets up to get a towel.
When he returns, Roger has got to his feet and is tying his shoes. He straightens and puts his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Fred, you’re always welcome to drop by my house, you know that, don’t you? Any time?”
Freddie places his warm hand over Roger’s and pats it with the other. “Of course, Rog. Just as you’re always welcome here.” He kneels down and begins to scrub at the stain. The red jelly quivers on its dish.
Roger stares down at his back. He feels like he should say something about Paul, about the bad feeling he and Brian both have about him, but Freddie seems so happy to see him, and Paul’s very name seems enough to call up his ghost into the empty room – and even his ghost is something he’d rather not leave Freddie alone with. But then he thinks, He’ll figure it out, won’t he? Freddie’s not one to let himself be cheated.
He clears his throat.
“Um, I should go. Thanks for dinner, Fred.” Freddie gets up again and grasps Roger’s extended hand. His wide, champagne-blurred eyes seem to search his face for something, but he only offers him a slow, genuine smile.
“Thanks so much for stopping by, Rog. It means a lot to me.”
Freddie rests his arm on his shoulder as he walks him to the door. Roger’s car is parked in front of the house, a bright red Jaguar E-type, and Freddie whistles when he sees it.
“Now, that’s the sort of car a man could fall in love with.” Roger rolls his eyes and Freddie lets out a peal of laughter, slapping him on the bum as he descends the steps.
“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” Roger calls over his shoulder.
“I promise you won’t,” Freddie calls back, still giggling, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame.
“I’ll take you for a ride some time,” Roger promises, opening the door. He can’t hear Freddie’s reply over the starting engine. He drives off, waving at Freddie, and as he speeds down the street he sees him still in his rear view mirror, waving.