Work Text:
“Deacy, how are you comfortable?”
Roger stares in wonder at the splayed figure of the bassist. His airplane seat is in a reclined position, his body slumped down with only a tiny pillow as cushion, both legs across Brian’s lap, feet dangling in the aisle.
“Pfft,” John classily responds. “This is fine. I’d be better if Brian would stop being so posh and let me lie completely upside down and hang my legs over the back of the seat.”
“Are you 12, Deacy? I know this is a long flight, but we’re in first class. If I’m comfortable with the leg room, then you should be too.”
Freddie turns around in his seat next to Roger. “Darling, only you would rationalize a way for your boyfriend to not practically be in your lap the entire flight.”
Brian furrows his brow in confusion, looking over to a smirking Deacy confirming Freddie’s assumption. “Oh,” he says, understanding finally hitting him. He holds the legs in his lap a little more firmly then.
“You won’t have to endure such hardship much longer, Bri,” Roger says. “We should be landing any moment.”
Brian reflexively peers out the window at the mention of landing. They’ve broken through the clouds, and the tall buildings of Tokyo have become more distinguishable. “What do you suppose awaits us?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Freddie says. “The promoter has made it sound like we’re going to be playing to a sleeping audience. ‘The Japanese are a quiet people,’ he says. ‘The Japanese aren’t demonstrative.’ ” He rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Our fans cannot possibly be that dull. I don’t care where they’re from.”
“Do you all get the feeling we’ve not been fully prepared,” John wonders. “If the Japanese are so unenthusiastic, then why have the promoters gone to such expense for us? First class flight and accommodations, sold-out shows, a press conference, a full tourist’s experience of Tokyo,” he trails off.
Brian nods. “We’ve never gotten this treatment before. We’re lucky if we get hot water for baths at most places we stay.”
“Just be grateful that we actually get some money and comfortable lodging,” Roger reasons. “What are you all so worried about? What could possibly be so different about Japan from any other place we’ve performed?”
A bell goes off in the tiny speakers and the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign with instructions given in English and Japanese by the stewardess informs them (and mostly still-sprawling John) to stay sat properly and prepare for landing.
Once they’ve touched down, the bandmates all stare out the windows once again. They notice a large crowd cordoned off near their gate.
“Have we shown up on some special occasion?” Freddie wonders. “Are there dignitaries landing today as well?”
Roger pushes his prescription spectacles as close to his eyes as possible. “There seems to be a lot of girls out there. Some signs in Japanese, but-”
“There’s definitely a huge drawing of Brian on that one sign there,” John interjects.
“What?!” Brian shoves his face into the window.
“It’s a good likeness,” Freddie can’t help but comment on the artistry. “Oh, there’s quite a few large drawings of the four of us.”
As the airplane slows to a stop, they get to really focus on all the banners and signs, which have “Queen” or one of their names on them mixed in with the Japanese writing.
Once the aircraft’s engines cut off, the four men realize there’s still some sort of sound. It’s chanting and cheering.
For Queen.
Freddie huffs in disbelief. “ ‘A quiet people,’ my ass!”
||
The four musicians are practically carried through the airport in a wave of people, and these are just the people meant to be protecting them and chauffeuring them. The fans, they quickly realized, went beyond the throng awaiting them on the Tarmac.
They’re everywhere.
There are fans in the baggage claim. There are fans in customs. There are fans on the fucking roof of the airport.
When they make it to the press room for their conference, there’s barely room to breathe and the flash bulbs are blinding.
The four of them look at each other as they sit behind the table at the front of the room. All have looks on their faces that are equal parts terror and wonder.
The mics don’t seem to be turned on yet, but Roger doesn’t care much either way because he can’t help exclaim to his bandmates: “We’re proper rock stars, boys!”
||
It’s a common misconception that long legs mean faster running because of a wider stride. Brian thinks he’s been aware of how wrong the notion is since he could toddle. He was never much of a runner, more likely to trip over his own feet than get anywhere with any amount of swiftness.
This fact hasn’t been too much of a burden on him through his life — until now.
“They’re gaining on us!” Roger screams.
Young women in Japan, turns out, are extremely fast runners. The bandmates are barely outpacing their fans in the very tall building that contains their hotel suites.
After the concert, they were whisked away to their car and managed to get past the crowds and weave through traffic to the building. Diehard fans who couldn’t manage tickets for the show were standing outside waiting for them, but they seemed to be relatively manageable, cheering and waving at them. Then the concert crowd caught up to them, and the band’s handlers practically shoved them onto a lift and wished them the best of luck reaching their suite.
As the four bandmates stepped out on their floor, the vibration of a crowd running could be felt. The unmistakable squeal of young people was getting louder. Instinct took them over, and they simply ran in the opposite direction without knowing if it was the right one for their suite.
“Shit, we lost Deacy, darlings!” Freddie vocalizes a fact both Brian and Roger had realized upon looking back on the quickly gaining horde.
Brian wills his stupidly lanky lower extremities to bolt ahead and thanks whatever higher power for the fact that their suite seems to be at the end of this part of the floor if the banner above the door with “Queen” on it is to be trusted. With his momentum, he practically slams into the door and prepared with key in hand efficiently opens the door for his bandmates. He hopes he doesn’t break any noses when he whips the door shut on those at the frontlines of the fandom mob chasing them.
The three bandmates crumple to the floor, catching their breaths.
“How did we lose Deacy?” Brian wonders amid panting. “He was right behind me.”
“He’s gonna be devoured by that lot,” Roger so helpfully adds to the worries.
“Brian, go back out there and get your man!” Freddie insists. “We cannot possibly lose yet another bassist!”
Brian scoffs at Freddie’s reasoning. “Fred, I would, of course, try to go back out there to find John, but there’s no way to get through,” some heavy thuds shake the walls, and they jolt in surprise, “uh, that!”
They startle again when they hear some other noise from somewhere above them, through the ceiling, prompting them to get up from the floor.
“What the hell is that?” Roger asks.
“It sounds like … scurrying,” Brian says.
“Oh, no,” Freddie gasps, “the fans must be trying to get in here through the ventilation.”
They look up at the large grate in the ceiling with fear and dread.
“It’s just me, Freddie,” a familiar voice softly greets them.
Brian can’t believe it. “Deacy?”
John gives a wave that can be made out through the slots of the grate. “Hi, babe.”
Brian grabs a chair and steps up to reach the grate’s fasteners, which luckily don’t require a tool of some sort to undo. He removes the grate, revealing his boyfriend’s impish smile.
Brian steps off the chair so he has sure footing to help John out of the ventilation. Once the legs are out, he grabs hold as support, and as John is almost completely out, instead of planting his feet to the floor, the bassist wraps his legs around Brian’s waist so he’s being held by his boyfriend.
Brian grins at his antics. “Nice of you to drop in,” he cheekily comments.
“You know how spontaneous I can be,” John replies, deadpan as always, and goes in for a kiss, which Brian happily indulges.
Roger interrupts. “Oh, no you two don’t. Down, boy!” He tugs on a bell-bottom trouser leg to further encourage John to release Brian. “Mate, what happened to you? How the hell did you end up … up there?!”
“First off,” John points at his feet, “these platform shoes may be the height of fashion, but there is no way I can properly run in them!”
“See,” Brian crosses his arms in judgment, “I keep telling you all clogs are the way to go.”
“NO!” his three bandmates immediately shout back at him. Freddie even gags a little.
“Anyway,” John presses on, “I knew there was no way to keep running, so I ducked and rolled into a decorative alcove and huddled there until the crowd passed. It seemed I was safe until a couple of girls practically exploded out from drapery a little farther down the hall. There was a window behind me, and for just a split moment, I contemplated escaping onto the ledge, but if I fell to my death, you all would have to find another bass player, and I couldn’t do that to Freddie.”
“Thank you, dear,” Freddie nods solemnly. “You’re always thinking of the greater good.”
Brian clears his throat. “You know, your death would also mean putting me through mourning the loss of my soulmate.”
John waves dismissively. “You’ll end up writing numerous beautiful, angst-filled songs because of it.”
“He’s got a point,” Roger nods, as if what John said truly was a legitimate consolation.
Brian covers his face with his hands in an attempt to summon any amount of patience he might have on reserve.
John simply grabs one of his hands to hold as he continues his story. “Luckily, there was no need to go out the window and fall to my tragic, song-inspiring death because I noticed a large ventilation grate right above me and hopped onto a conveniently located table to climb up into it. I was willing to just hide there until the girls went away, but I found the passages to be large enough for me to crawl through, so I simply followed Roger’s screams to find you all.”
Freddie and Roger give polite applause at the conclusion of John’s harrowing tale.
Brian rolls his eyes but kisses his boyfriend’s cheek in recognition of his resourcefulness. He takes in their surroundings then. There are gifts and a multitiered cake with a crown on top. “Not to diminish our talents and years of toil, but how are we so popular here?”
They move over to the pile of gifts. Freddie is immediately drawn to the four kimono sets draped for display on the couch. He puts his choice on and does a showy twirl for his friends. It encourages them all to go ahead and wear theirs.
Roger finds adorable handmade dolls depicting each of them with their respective instruments. He plays with his doll, making mini-Rog’s plush hands holding drumsticks bang soundlessly on the equally plushy, small drum. “I know why we’re popular.”
The bandmates look at him expectantly.
“Let’s start with me.” He holds up mini-Rog as corroborating evidence for what he’s about to say. “I am basically a living Western doll to the Japanese.”
“What?” Brian asks.
“I’m a pretty blond with a husky voice,” Roger explains. “My attractiveness transcends cultural differences. It’s a heavy burden I carry. Practically a curse.”
“Oh, my,” John drawls, “such a hard lot in life.”
Roger remains serious. “Just be grateful that I’m a professional, Deacy. I endure the constant attention and adoration for the good of the band.”
John huffs. “Ohhkay, that explains your popularity. What about the rest of us?”
Roger picks up John’s doll and hands it to him. “You are the youngest, and by default, the cutest. You’re the pwecious baybee.” He reaches out to squeeze a cheek, but John swats the hand, having none of that.
“You’re saying teenagers think I’m cute only because I’m the youngest?”
“Oi,” Brian’s outraged for his boyfriend, “there are plenty of other reasons he’s cute.”
“Like his ass,” Freddie submits as an example.
“Yes!” Brian automatically agrees before he can think better of it. John smacks him on the shoulder. “Um, well, it’s a very cute bum, Deacy. It’s not a primary aspect, but it’s probably 40 percent of the whole of your cute … ness.” He lamely finishes his explanation. “Christ, no wonder I haven't successfully defended my bleeding doctoral thesis yet. I can't even defend how inherently adorable my boyfriend is.”
“They’re not the same, love,” John soothes, used to Brian’s dramatics, "and your defense of me was perfect. I'm quite proud of my bum.” He shimmies and shakes the backside of mini-Deacy and gives Brian the doll as reward, much to his boyfriend’s amusement.
Roger smooshes mini-Bri against mini-Deacy and makes kissy noises while doing so. Brian grabs the doll in annoyance but keeps the two dolls hugged together in his hands. "Bri," Roger continues his assessment of their popularity, "you are so very popular because you are a fantasy come to life."
The guitarist opens his eyes wide in shock. "Um, wow. Thank you, Rog. I'm flattered."
"A fantasy in that you must seem like an oddly skinny, fluffy-haired giant from a storybook," Roger further explains. "Some people really dig weird."
Brian is not amused. John lightly kicks the drummer in the shin with a platform heel.
And Freddie cackles in delight. "Oh, Lord, Rog! I can't wait to hear what you have to say about me."
Roger has mini-Fred in one hand and mini-Rog in the other. Mini-Rog drums while Roger provides the singing for mini-Fred. “Keep yourself alive, keep yourself alive! All you people, keep yourself alive! Take you all your time and money honey, you will survive!”
Freddie’s entranced by his friend’s mimicry of their stage antics. He can’t help his unguarded smile.
“You, our fearless lead singer,” Roger hands the doll to its real-life inspiration, “are the main reason we are so very popular here.”
“What do you mean?”
“We make incredible music. We’re all brilliant with our instruments, but it is that voice of yours, Freddie, that is the greatest instrument Queen has.”
Freddie studies the gift, pets the dark yarn meant to be his hair, carefully straightens the piping that makes his half mic stand.
“It wouldn’t matter what language you sang,” Roger explains, “the sentiment of any song could be translated and felt with the power of your voice.”
The singer is breathless with the lovely sentiment from his friend.
“Plus, your tight jumpsuits leave nothing to the imagination. Utter shamelessness wins fans. Trust me,” Roger winks, “I know.”
There’s Freddie’s Rog. He kisses him on the cheek, heart full.
The lull in conversation reminds them all of the crowd that still murmurs and taps on the walls outside their suite.
“We have to do something about them,” Brian says.
Roger nods. “They just want to show us their appreciation. It would be cruel of us to simply ignore them.”
“We can’t just open the door though,” John warns. “It would be chaos.”
John speaking reminds Freddie of another option. “Oh, Brian, dear, could you give me a lift?”
“We don’t have our own car here, Fred.”
“Not what I mean,” he huffs, amused. “Up there,” he points to the vent from which John entered the room.
They look up at the open hole in the ceiling.
“You’re joking?” but Roger’s smile betrays any skepticism his question implies. He’s totally on board with Freddie’s plan and so are the others.
||
My goodness, Freddie thinks, Deacy’s got a pair on him for braving this square tube in pitch darkness like he did.
He’s relieved when he can make out the light more strongly from the grate left open by John where he began his journey to their suites.
Freddie sticks his head out to see if there is anyone nearby. With the coast apparently clear, he drops onto the table below and reaches the floor.
The fans are still crammed in front of the doors to their suite, which is around the corner.
"Hello, dearies!" Freddie projects over the crowd murmur. "Over here!"
In sync, the fans whip their heads around to see the source of the voice. They start squealing instantly and move toward Freddie.
"None of that!" He forcefully raises his hands demanding they halt. "Now, who here speaks English?"
A hand slowly raises in the crowd.
"Okay, darling. What's your name?"
"Mako."
"Mako, can you translate for me?"
"Yes, anything for you, Freddie. I love you."
"Oh, precious thing, thank you. Now, tell everyone that the band appreciates and adores you all." He pauses to let her begin translating. "But this can't continue. We are here in Japan for a few days. There are a couple more shows to perform, and we will be touring and greeting people throughout the days in the public. You can see us more later. For now, however, here at our hotel, we need rest, lovies."
When Mako has caught up with translating, Freddie hears murmurs in Japanese that sound like assent and apologies, and also a few “sorry”s and “okay”s in English.
"Don't be so sad though. If you promise to be good, I'll tell the band to open the door, and you can all greet them and wave before you go."
That perks up the crowd, and they all nod and promise.
"All right, boys! You can open the door!"
The door slowly swings backward enough for John to peek his head out first. The crowd collectively “aww” and giggle. Everyone seems to be saying the same phrases in a high-pitched voice. “Kawaiidesu! Kawaiidesu!” and some other words.
Mako must notice his need for translation. “They say you are cute. You are cute like baby.”
“Haahahaha!” Roger’s unmistakable laughter roars from behind the door.
“Um, right,” John makes himself say after pushing past the embarrassment and his instinctual shyness. “Hello, all.” He gives a tiny wave. “Thank you for everything. We are very excited to be here.”
He quickly opens the door all the way to shift the attention to Brian and Roger. The fans cheer and applaud their unveiling.
Roger gives them all a blinding smile. “Konnichiwa, lads and ladies!”
The standard “Woo!!!” is unleashed by the crowd, along with quite a few flirty “Hi, pretty Rogah”s, which isn’t surprising. He really wasn’t exaggerating about the transcendental nature of his hotness.
Brian waves at the crowd. “Thank you so much for the warm welcome. We won’t ever forget this.”
The fans clap and cheer him, with various things being shouted. One girl is quite loud with her proclamation. Brian looks at Mako for help understanding.
“Um, she say you are sexy crane and wish she can live in your hair.”
Roger has to turn around and choke on his laughter so he doesn’t make the girl who said that feel bad. Oh, God, it’s too good; he’s in tears. His storybook giant theory just can’t compare. Japan is fucking awesome.
The girl whispers something else to Mako. “Also, she want you to know when night is quiet and long, she cling to your music. It warm her heart and help her dream.”
“Oh,” Brian breathes, his lips bloom into a soft smile. He can appreciate the girl’s beautiful, awkward sentiments. He relates. “Arigato gozaimasu.” He says thank you with as much genuine feeling as he can manage with the unfamiliar words.
“Okay, dearies. On that lovely note, I think it’s time for all of you to go home.”
The fans give sullen “aww”s, and requests for Freddie to sing are called out.
The singer can’t resist. “Very well. A short one for you all because ... I live my life for youuu (Freddie points at Mako in thanks for her help tonight.)
“Think all my thoughts with you and only you
Anything you ask, I do, for you
“I touch your lips with mine (He blows a kiss to the crowd.)
But in the end
I leave it to the lords
Leave it in the lap of the gods
What more can I do?
The bandmates sing their harmonies with Freddie to the end of the song.
“Leave it in the lap of the gods
I leave it to you
Leave it in the lap of the gods
Leave it in the lap of the gods
I want you to
Leave it in the lap of the gods
“Lap of the gods”
Roger provides particularly enthusiastic falsettos for their impromptu show (it’s his way of thanking the fans). Something soft sails at him after they finish — it’s knickers.
Fuck, he loves Japan.
-end-