Work Text:
Brian was in bed when the call came.
It was a Sunday afternoon in late June, the kids were playing in the back yard and Brian was in bed with the curtains closed. Why? Well, he had a head-splitting migraine, for one. These last few weeks, he'd been feeling like his life was falling apart at the seams a little bit. His music was uninspired, making him short and snappy with people who meant well, his marriage felt like it was on thin ice and the earth's atmosphere was heating up at an alarming rate. All in all, there wasn't much to rejoice about.
Also, he was worried sick about Freddie. Freddie, out there in bloody Munich with all its pitfalls and decadences, the siren call of the nightlife so irresistible to him.
Brian had no love for Munich. They'd recorded there before and gotten themselves into deep emotional turmoil, fighting constantly and skirting the edge of disaster so precariously that it was a miracle they managed to do their professional duty and finish the album. Their weakest, in Brian's opinion, and certainly one that had incredibly painful memories attached to it.
He wouldn't gladly go back there. And yet, the thought of Freddie out there by himself, living it up in the clubs with Prenter egging him on, kept Brian awake at night.
"You know what your problem is, Bri?" Roger had told him when Brian shared these concerns. "You're too fucking soft-hearted, that's what. Freddie made his bed, and I for one don't care if he falls flat on his face. Prenter can have him. Munich, too. I hope to God I never see his face again!"
Big words for sure, but Brian knew they hid a world of hurt underneath. Roger, like Brian, like John, missed his mate, and they all dealt with it in different ways. What made it all the more sad was that in a way, Freddie had been the glue that held the band together. He was the mediator, the diplomat, who usually found a way to keep a constructive atmosphere whenever there was a disagreement. And now that Freddie had walked out, it all fell apart like loose sand. Roger and Brian had gone into the studio to separately work on stuff and John had retreated into his own private world, barely keeping in contact.
Queen brought out the best in all of them, but without Freddie, there was no Queen. Now there was a bleak prospect for you.
Not that Brian wasn't hurt, too. On a professional level - it was one thing for Freddie to want to flex his creative muscle and dip his toe into some solo work, but the fact that he'd sprung a 4 million dollar deal on them after the fact was a low blow - as well as a personal one.
You would be Dr. Brian May.
Damn it, the mockery of those words still stung. Not because Brian was so full of himself that he couldn't take a joke at his expense - he wouldn't have survived in Queen if that were the case - but because one day, he would like to finish his abandoned thesis. For his Dad, most of all. And Freddie knew that, and yet he'd taken that cheap shot at Brian's Achilles' heel.
Well, with the future of Queen hanging by a thread, he may just be getting his chance to finish that thesis sooner than expected. If there was a silver lining somewhere in that thought, Brian failed to see it. And so instead of spending the day playing with his kids, he lay in bed and stewed in his misery. In his darkest moments, he wondered if it had all been worth it - the struggles in the studio every time they were putting an album together, the long months spent away from home and family, all of it. If he'd chosen academics and finished his education, at least he'd have that. Being in a failing band and a failing marriage, and feeling like a shit father on top of that, well - having a couple successful albums to his name suddenly didn't seem as important as it once did.
The bedroom door cracked open, letting a thin stripe of light in. "Brian? Phone call for you."
"Not now, Chrissy," he grunted morosely. "Take a message."
"It's Jim. Beach. He says it's important."
He was unimpressed. "Jim always says that."
She persisted, "I think you should take it, Brian. He sounded pretty fired up."
He gave a long sigh and kept quiet, hoping she'd give up and close the door. Even the small amount of light filtering into the room made his head hurt.
But the girl he'd married was no meek creature, and suddenly the door flung open and his wife marched into the room, skirt rustling about her legs. He threw his arm across his eyes, groaning pathetically. "Chrissy, what the f-"
"Brian." He could tell by her voice that she was pissed off. "I know you've been feeling under the weather, but it's your manager on the phone, calling about work. Take the damn call." She pressed the receiver into his hand and whirled out of the room again. He braced himself for the slam of the door but surprisingly, she made sure to close it gently. Somehow, that made him feel like an even bigger shit. Once he felt better, he'd have a lot to make up for.
"Brian? Jim." Jim's greeting was concise and painfully cheery, a dissonance slicing harshly into Brian's depressive bubble. "Guess who I just got off the phone with?"
"I'm really not in the mood for guessing games, Jim," Brian muttered. "Can you make this quick, please?"
"Freddie called. From Munich."
This gave Brian pause. "Really? Finally deigned to answer your calls then? What did he want? Can't have run out of money just yet."
"It isn't like you to be bitter, Brian."
"I'm not," Brian lied. "I wish him and his four million all the best. Truly."
"You miss him, Brian. I know you do. Which is why I think you'll be pleased with what he had to say. He wants to reconnect with the mother ship."
"He said that?"
"Direct quote. 'Tell them I just want to talk,' is what he said. Between you and me, I got the feeling he wants to make an apology to you all."
"Yeah, well, he owes us one. Did he say anything else?"
"Only that you're his family."
Brian closed his eyes and had to wait several moments for the pain in his chest to subside. As an only child, Brian had always felt in a sense that the brotherhood within the band meant a bit more to him than it did to the others. He truly thought of them as his soul brothers. Perhaps that was why Freddie's words had stung him so deeply. "I seem to recall him not feeling that way the last time we saw him, and telling us so loud and clear. That kinda hurt, Jim."
"I know, Brian." Jim's paternal tone was unmistakable. "So if I set up a meeting in my office, you'll be there?"
Brian sighed and rubbed his forehead to buy himself some time to think. If only thinking wasn't this painful. "What did Rog and Deacy say?"
"I haven't spoken to them yet. You're the first one I called."
"Why?"
"Because they're more likely to agree if I can tell them you already said yes."
Brian groaned. Jim had been incredibly good to them as a manager, but sometimes he hated how well he knew them all. He was certainly playing on his emotions like a virtuoso. "I'm kind of indisposed at the moment, Jim. Can I think about it?"
"I'm afraid not, no."
"Christ, you're driving a hard bargain." Brian couldn't help but chuckle, a dry, hollow sound.
"Only because I know that the band is more important to you than your bruised ego."
"Bloody hell, all right. Let me know when and where to show up, I'll come and hear the guy out. Only to get you off my back, mind."
"I'll take that. Oh and Brian, one more thing." There was a significant pause on the other end. "Make sure to clear your schedule for the 13th."
"Why? I thought they already announced all the bands playing at Live Aid. Queen's not on the bill." Hell, as far as he could tell, Queen wasn't even a functioning band at this point.
"Oh, Brian, how you underestimate me." Jim's smug little smile was almost palpable through the phone line. "Right, I'll get back to you with the details. Give Chrissy my love, okay? And feel better soon. I need you all in top form for Wembley - and the world."