Work Text:
1970 - Imperial College London
"Fred, for Christ's sake, we can't call him now."
"Oh, of course we can. Only you'll have to stop with the blasphemy, he's Catholic."
"How the bloody hell can you tell-"
"Just can, now go and find his number like a good boy."
Roger watched in amusement as Brian sighed and obediently sloped out of the room, while muttering something about, "not a fucking dog" under his breath. He was reclined on the threadbare sofa with his feet in Freddie's lap and his head rested on a pile of papers as dense with the word 'dust' (keeping the company of words like 'zodiacal' and 'planetary') as their physical space was with actual dust. He stubbed out his cigarette on the nose of poor Queen Elizabeth that was printed on a delightfully tacky coronation ash tray and lifted his foot to nudge Freddie in the cheek with his toe.
"He wasn't all that impressed with us, you know."
Roger had half expected Freddie - who wore self confidence verging on arrogance like clerical robes - to reply with indigence or denial, but he just chuckled as he batted Roger's foot away from his face.
"No, he wasn't at all, was he. God, that delightful little face - positively angelic, don't you think - all screwed up in terribly veiled disappointment. I thought it was thrilling."
Roger grimaced.
"Why thrilling? Bloody embarrassing is what I would have gone for."
Freddie smiled a smile that was somewhere between smug and quietly anticipatory - slightly pursed lips, glittering eyes directed to the floor.
"I could see the cogs working." He tapped his temple. "He was thinking of how to make us better. He's the missing puzzle piece love, I'm telling you."
"If you say so." He languidly reached for the packet of cigarettes that had nestled under the sofa and and plucked a match from his matchbox. "He is good. Really good."
"We all are." Freddie craned his neck towards the kitchen and raised his voice pointedly. "Or at least we will be IF WE EVER GET AROUND TO TELLING HIM-"
"Yes, alright, alright I've got it," Brian said, shuffling into the room wafting a piece of lined paper in the air like an Edwardian lady's token, "S'not my fault Rog keeps so much crap in his pockets."
He balled up the paper and chucked it at Freddie's head, where it made a satisfying smacking sound before landing rather neatly in his lap. He took the liberty of throwing it right back. It bounced off Brian's nose and landed at his feet. He sighed heavily before bending down to pick it up.
"So I'm making the call, am I?"
"You're on your feet."
"You are on your feet, Bri," Roger said through a smirk, flicking some black ash onto Liz's left cheekbone.
"I suppose I am," he said through yet another sigh, defeatedly dragging his feet over to the phone. As he was punching in the numbers on the paper, he mumbled, "I still maintain that we should wait until morning."
"He needs to know what he's getting into, darling."
"Yeah, you two being a bloody nightmare."
"Oh, don't pretend you're any better," Roger chimed in with a laugh, "You self-righteous, pedantic-"
"Shh, I'm on the phone you prick!"
Roger held up his hands in surrender, then lifted his feet off Freddie's lap and folded them under his legs so that he could see the conversation take place. He stuck his tongue out at Brian, who returned the favour and also offered him the middle finger for his trouble. The receiver beeped loudly a few times, then Brian blinked in surprise, apparently having forgotten that he was waiting for someone to pick up.
"Hi, John. It's Brian. Brian from the... May, yeah... From the... Yeah. Yeah."
Roger snorted a laugh. Freddie grinned at him and mouthed, 'I love watching Brian on the phone.'
"Yeah, it's late... Early... I know. Just wanted to let you know... Well I didn't actually, Roger and Freddie did... Well I did, just not now, anyway, uh... We'd like to offer you the bassist position in the band. If you want it. Yeah. Yeah, great."
Freddie punched air in triumph.
"Welcome aboard."
***
1974 - Boeing 737-200
"Brian? Brian, wake up for me sweetheart."
The voice sounded like tubular bells, but was anything but a siren call to the land of the living. He felt a set of warm fingers tap him lightly on the cheek and let out a strangled whine from the back of his throat. He tried to reach up to bat them away, but gravity had apparently experienced a sudden inexplicable increase and his hand just fell back into his own lap with a heavy slap. Increased gravity would be a good research topic, he thought faintly and took an alarmingly long moment before remembering that he wasn't an astrophysicist anymore.
Melting. His brain was melting.
"I know love, I'm sorry, but Roger wants to have a look at you."
He was right there, wasn't he? Roger could look all he wanted. Unless - oh God - unless someone had taken his body while he was asleep, done away with it because it was useless and left his brain to rot by itself, independent of its dead shell so to speak. The thought sent a surge of panic running through him and he cracked open his eyes, in the process realising that he had eyes to crack open and his dormant body wasn't in fact six feet under. He wasn't all that reassured though, the genuine terror brought forth by the irrational thought solidifying the notion that yes. I'm losing my mind.
His vision focused on a face about five inches from his own, wearing a soft smile on his lips but grave concern in his eyes. Freddie. He was kneeling up on the next seat, the armrest shoved up and out of the way. The overhead reading lamp provided the only light, and was bathing him in an otherworldly glow.
"There you are," he said softly, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Brian's head flopped against the touch, and was left lolling on his shoulder when Freddie shuffled out of his seat to let Roger in.
Roger looked even paler under the eerie blue glow and his bottom lip was red-raw from having been nibbled. Brian watched sluggishly as he carried out his silent, methodical assessment. He noticed a grimace when he checked his temperature with the back of his hand, a frown when he peered into his eyes and an even bigger frown when he prodded the bandaged section of his right upper-arm and got no response. It didn't hurt half as much as it did earlier, which was surely a good thing. Right?
When he'd finished, he sighed heavily. He sat back in his seat and pulled Brian gently into his side so that he was half-curled up with his head resting on his shoulder. Brian had no choice but to floppily comply, emitting only a weak groan of protest at having been jostled. He felt the vibrations of Roger's voice as he spoke to whoever was in the seat next to him.
"The light isn't good enough to get a proper look at his skin, but his eyes are definitely yellow."
"Meaning..?" John.
"Meaning bad. Meaning liver. Meaning I'm tempted to burst into the cockpit to see if there's a nice big red button labelled 'overdrive' that I could press." He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.
Brian didn't like that one bit. He shut his eyes, then opened them again with a huff of discomfort when turbulence rattled beneath him and Roger tightened his grip to keep him in place.
"...anything else?" John asked tentatively.
Roger bit his lip. "I'm worried about the arm. There seems to be barely any feeling in it," he said lowly.
Brian frowned into Roger's shoulder, then lifted his head to look him right in the eye.
"But... Guitar?" he whispered.
Roger shifted in his seat and smiled uncomfortably. He nudged Brian's head back into place and draped his arm over his shoulder. "What about it?" he said, in an attempt to be flippant that even Brian's fever-saturated brain could discern was poor. "We didn't have time to grab it, we had to leave in a hurry. Someone'll send it later, you'll get it back soon."
"You'll get it back soon," John repeated quietly.
"...promise?"
"...yeah."
***
1978 - New Orleans
shining. everything is gold plated. everyone is gold plated.
people to the left, people to the right, people dancing on the ceiling and swinging from chandeliers.
crystal chandeliers and other types of crystal, crystal champagne and crystal on noses and crystal mixed with vodka splashed on the furniture.
a balcony offering a window to the stars.
a balcony offering a scene for a shakesperian lament, "wherefore art thou you bastard, i want to dance with you."
dancing. people dancing. strangers and loved ones and strangers who have become loved ones while drinking whiskey in the bathroom.
vomit on the floor, vomit on the sides of mouths.
mouths that wanted kisses, mouths that got kisses, mouths that kept talking louder, louder, louder as the music got louder, louder, louder.
a tiny voice in the back of the head saying, "i'm confused and I want to go home."
a shot of vodka to shut it up.
"don't stop me nooooooow, i'm having such a good time, i'm having a baaaall."
***
1985 - John Deacon's Garden Shed
"Of course you have a mini-bar in your shed, of fucking course you do."
"I take great issue with the 'mini,' Roger. It's fairly substantial I think you'll find." John vaulted over the (yes, not actually all that mini) bar like a gymnast, apparently still riding the wave of putting on... Well... A very very good performance. "Right, let's make this quick. I have it on good authority that David was going to try and get Brian to dance and I am not missing that for the world."
"Oh god," Brian groaned, "I'll look like a palm tree in a bloody tornado."
"You can look as much like a palm tree as you like, love." Freddie said, swaggering forwards with a smile on his face. "For now and the rest of time, none of us need answer to anyone ever again. You know why?" he put his hands on the back of Roger and Brian's backs respectively and guided them to lean over the bar, so that the four of them were collected into a little huddle. "We just put on the greatest rock and roll performance of all time."
There were a few seconds of crystalline silence, then Roger broke away from the huddle with a chuckle. "Yeah. Alright Fred."
"It's true!"
"We were bloody good alright, but that's a very bold claim."
"I'm telling you. Greatest of all time."
"Modesty never did help us," Brian smirked.
"Didn't you feel it though?" Freddie sprung up onto the bar, letting his legs dangle like pendulums. "It was electric, completely and utterly electric. Every single person in that arena was ours, for every fucking millisecond that we were on stage. Every audience member, every techie, every photographer, even every single other bloody arrogant performer - Elton told me as much, now isn't that a remarkable thing! Come on, tell me you felt it. Tell me you still feel it."
Freddie's eyes flitted between them all expectantly.
"...I felt it." John.
"And me." Roger.
"Me too." Brian.
Freddie grinned. "Excellent."
"Right," Roger said, clapping his hands together. "Now that we're all on the same page, why are we in your shed of sins, Deaks?"
It was his turn to grin. "Thought we deserved a toast." He crouched down and began rooting underneath the bar. "Oi!" he shouted indignantly when the three of them peered over it inquisitively. "Close your eyes."
They all huffed and complied.
"Do you think he's going to take this opportunity to lock us all in and take all the glory," Freddie muttered. Roger chuckled.
There was the telltale hollow din of a glass bottle on the counter then four clinks of wine glasses.
"Alright, open."
Standing tall and proud on the bar was a large bottle of Moët et Chandon.
Freddie let out a hearty laugh that rattled right through his body. He cupped John's face with his hand. "Oh Deaky, you absolute gem."
"I didn't have any champagne flutes," he said with a sheepish smile, feeling red creep into his cheeks.
Brian laughed. "I think we can forgive that, mate. You pouring, then?"
Freddie released him from the affectionate death-grip and watched as the bubbles danced in their glasses. When Roger took his, he examined it with a smirk.
"This would have been a month's wages when we started out."
"Two in fact," Brian added.
Freddie smiled.
"That's what we'll toast to."
"What?"
"How far we've come."
Approving nods accompanied their rearrangement into a circle. Four voices in unison, as they always should be.
"To how far we've come."
***
1991 - Garden Lodge
Six rings, and then a voice thick with sleep.
"Hello?"
"Hello John, darling."
"Freddie?"
"The very same. Look, I couldn't sleep, and I just wanted to tell you that I love you."
"...Freddie, why are you telling me that? Why are you-"
"I just wanted to tell you."
Click.
-
Seven rings, and then a slurred voice.
"'Lo?"
"Hi, Rog."
"Oh, Freddie. It is Freddie, right?"
"Yes dear, it's me. Just calling to say I love you."
"..."
"Goodnight."
"No, Freddie, don't-"
Click.
-
Two rings, then a scratchy voice that hadn't been to bed yet.
"Hello?"
"Hello, sweetheart."
"Fred? What's going on, are you okay? Do you need me to-"
"Stop fretting, love. I just thought I'd call to say I love you."
"...I love you too Fred, so much. But you're scaring me, why-"
"Just because it's true."
Click.
-
Freddie gazed at the glowing neon numbers on the digital clock. 2:46am.
"They'll be alright."
~ fin ~