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October 31st 1978
Fairmont Hotel, New Orleans
Freddie leaned back in his seat, letting his head loll to stare up at the ceiling, where the dark and spindly branches of dead trees criss-crossed. He felt the familiar bitter drip in his throat, inhaling sharply through his mouth and then grinning, head snapping back when raucous laughter overwhelmed the table.
He’d missed the joke but he laughed along, simply out of a delight for the buzz and the beautiful faces and the warmth of the cocaine bleeding through his body. They’d played an electric show at the Municipal Auditorium and the wattage of the night seemed to increase from there by the minute. God, Freddie was sparkling. His grin broadened as the high hit, jiggling his legs absently.
There was something about the heavy thrum of the bodies, the swell of them all in the Imperial Ballroom, swaying around all fifty of those goddamn trees. The air smelling like new money. Freddie cackled to himself, thinking of those among them, the fairies and dwarves and giants and ogres and nymphs and genies and goblins and angels. And Freddie—Freddie was a siren. He cackled again, glancing around. He had lured them all here, entranced by the power of his voice.
(The power of his voice and the wealth from his records, mind.)
Their records. Freddie could see Roger approaching from the other side of the room, stumbling between glittering strippers and almost toppling over a stray dwarf. He grinned as Roger came closer, sweeping his glass off the table and standing to greet him.
“Shitfaced, darling?” he inquired, lips twitching over his teeth.
“Not nearly enough,” Roger admitted, smirking, swaying. Freddie laughed, slinging an arm around the other.
“Then will it be champagne or snow, my dear?” he pulled lightly at Roger’s tie. Some unplaceable emotion came over Roger’s face, but only for a split second. Freddie wouldn’t have even noticed were it not for Roger’s strange response.
“A smoke?”
Freddie grinned widely at first. “Going to perform a trick for us, Rog?” He hadn’t seen it himself, but rumours of talented sorceresses who could use their vaginas just as well as they could their mouths were more than abound.
“Fuck off,” Roger’s laughter betrayed him. “A smoke. A regular one. Outside.”
Freddie’s brow furrowed of its own accord. “Outside?”
“Fuck. For some air, Freddie.”
“Roger—”
Roger cut him off with spat, nervous laughter. Freddie had dropped Roger’s tie and leaned in when he spoke again, “I need, uh, to talk. To you.”
Freddie studied him in silence, eyes flickering over his form. He admittedly had an urge to brush off the idea, to return to his table and his coke and his fire-eaters, but perhaps he could spare a moment for Roger’s talk. The night still had a youthful coherence, and he couldn’t determine whether their drummer had become drunk with unusual speed, or was still entirely too sober.
“God, maybe I am already shitfaced. Fuck. Quick, before I change my mind,” joked Roger, lukewarm. Freddie was beyond curious now. He took a gulp from his glass and set it down, offering Roger a smile.
“Ten minutes then, dear.”
It probably took them about seven of those to get out of the doors. Freddie was wheedled into signing at least three pairs of tits on the way while Roger was thoroughly traumatised by a man covered in cold cuts. These distractions were not unwelcome, but were perhaps a tad unfortunate, because the way Roger slumped against the outside wall and took a drag of his cigarette made Freddie realise all of a sudden that this wasn’t really a three-minute sort of conversation.
“Shit,” Roger muttered, “or maybe I’m more sober than I thought. Is it too late to go back in?”
“Roger, I could be right now seeking out someone with much more interesting uses for that cigarette,” quipped Freddie, “You had better deliver the goods. I’m absolutely dying of curiosity.” He wasn’t lying. The longer they stood, the more he itched with the need to know whatever it was that had compelled Roger to drag him out of their most extravagant party.
Roger snorted. “I can’t imagine what the logistics for that cigarette thing are.”
“Time is ticking, Roger!”
Fidgeting, Roger said nothing, lifting his hand to his mouth once more. Freddie let out a barely audible sigh and leaned against the wall next to the other, lighting his own cigarette. Whatever it was, Freddie resigned himself to wait for Roger to feel ready to speak. The warmth of his high was enough against the chill of the October night air for now.
“I’m gay.”
Freddie’s head snapped up at Roger’s voice and his stomach absolutely dropped with shock. There was silence for a good few seconds before Freddie found his own voice somewhere in his whirling mind.
“Roger?”
“Gay, or—well, no, just. Not, n-not straight.” said Roger. His brow was furrowed when Freddie looked at him, his eyes trained on the gravel.
Freddie could feel his heartbeat quickening and his brain thrumming in a way the cocaine could not account for. He tried to stop the spread of the smile across his face, to no avail.
“Me too,” he said.
In all honesty, Freddie all of a sudden didn’t know how he hadn’t figured it out sooner. The disappearance of the groupies. All the weird little reactions Roger had had in countless situations—god. There was so much that made so much sense, and as his brain joined up more and more of the dots he couldn’t help his smile broadening.
“I know,” said Roger, but his voice cracked. And suddenly he was swaying, sobbing, pushing up his red-tinted glasses to swipe at his eyes with exasperation. “Fuck,” he spluttered out. “Oh, fuck.”
Freddie’s heart clenched. The tears were watering something deep inside him, something insidious with thorns that he liked to clip back but now began to unfurl in his stomach. All he knew was to move forward to collect Roger, shaking and cursing, in his arms. “It’s okay, Rog. Rog? I understand. I understand, dear.”
Roger soon pulled away, breathing heavily and tears slowed. “Sorry. Sorry. Fuck—urgh.”
Tears began to press against the back of Freddie’s own eyes and he reeled off a litany of curses and spells in his head to suppress the urge to let them spill, to collapse back into Roger. “Me too,” he repeated instead, giving Roger the most reassuring smile he could muster.
Roger nodded slow, swallowing and lifting one shaking hand to take another drag of his forgotten cigarette. Freddie let them stand in silence for a little while, hopeful the quiet would calm Roger’s clearly overwhelmed nerves. It felt like perhaps days and nights passed before Roger finally spoke again, very quietly. “That’s not all.”
Freddie turned to blow cigarette smoke towards where they overlooked the distant, sparkling street. The night was beginning to grow quite cold. He glanced back towards Roger when the other inhaled sharply.
“John… John lives with me.”
The frown crossed Freddie’s face without his permission. But Roger seemed to have lost his voice once more, and so Freddie had to prompt the other to help him from the clutches of hopeless confusion. “John? Our Deaky? What do you mean by that?”
But Roger delayed proceedings further by taking another drag before responding. When he finally did, he was staring at the ground and it was in a voice quiet like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “We’re, well. I suppose you’d say… he’s my. My b-boyfriend.”
The emotions that warred inside Freddie included some of shock and many of joy, but overwhelming were the ones that made his face fall and his blood suddenly run cold. Taken by the chill of dread he grasped Roger’s jaw in both hands, forcing him to look up once more. “You should have told me, dear,” he said. His voice was low and he could hear it tremble despite his best efforts. “I should have known.”
So many emotions passed over Roger’s face that Freddie was almost glad for the sunglasses, separating him from whatever turmoil was probably festering in those baby blues. Roger opened his mouth but Freddie didn’t let him speak, instead wrapping his arms around the other man and pulling him tight.
“I’m so happy for you, darling,” he murmured.
For a moment Roger was stiff, but then Freddie felt the palms on his back and the face pressed into his shoulder. The spells had only held off the tears for so long, and Freddie felt their insistency in his throat, their sharpness in his eyes. Still clutching Roger, he spoke again, laughingly, “God, how on earth did you both manage to hide this from me, you sly bastards?”
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Roger into Freddie’s shoulder, not laughing. Freddie sucked in a great gulp of air, trying to minimize the spluttering as the first tears came spilling out. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he let go of Roger, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter when Roger pulled away. His face was softened with something Freddie couldn’t quite identify.
Freddie clapped a hand over his own mouth, blinking rapidly as he tried to find composure. Recited more spells. Rolled his cigarette between his fingers. He flinched when Roger placed a hand on his shoulder, and then swallowed, offering him an uneasy smile.
“I daresay I could use another line after that,” he said, relieved when his voice came out relatively level.
Roger laughed a little, taking Freddie into a one-armed hug. “I’m sorry, Fred,” he said again.
“Enough of that, dear,” Freddie said, brisk, extinguishing his cigarette on the wall behind them. He inhaled somewhat shakily. “Let’s go back in. I’m sure after the rest of tonight we’ll have forgotten about all this blubbering.”
Nodding and turning around, snuffing out his own cigarette, Roger replied jokingly, “God, as long as you don’t forget everything that just happened. I’m not bloody doing that again.”
Freddie laughed, and though there was something pleasant and bubbling in his stomach, there was also a dull ache. “I would never,” he said, placing a hand on Roger’s shoulder to guide them both back inside.
Inside was so dark, so grand and boisterous, that there was no chance for a single tear to escape. Freddie felt the thorns shrink back inside him, felt the ache subside. He turned and saw John in that strange unbefitting patterned sweater, his drink sloshing as he swivelled. Roger was touching his forearm gently, leaning in to speak.
He stood there until John looked up and their eyes met with difficulty across the crowds. The smile that came over his face was so warm that Freddie couldn’t help but smile back. And then John was turning back to Roger, nodding and smiling broader still, until he leant in to give the other a half-hug with his free arm.
Freddie turned away then, because his heart felt so full and he suddenly wasn’t so convinced of the power this room had over his tear ducts. He pulled his upper lip down over his teeth, swinging around with the intent to greet every one of the guests—to get absolutely plastered—and vowed to remember.
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