Archive of Our Own

He could live with it, okay? The yearning, burning, tumultuous beast in his chest that wants nothing more than to gaze upon his best friend for all eternity, he could live with it.

And he could live with the awkwardness of dodging around Roger and John’s pointed glances, and he could live with the awkwardness of communicating with Brian in a way that didn’t immediately give away the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with him.

He could deal with it.

What he was having a little more trouble with was the fact that Brian had taken it upon himself to go ahead and get a girlfriend. The fact that he expected Freddie to keep up his not-flirting and was offended that he hadn’t felt too keen on hitting on his crush while he was dating a woman is also something of an issue.

Fucking Brian. Fucking Sharon.

It had all gone downhill alarmingly fast after he’d started dating her. Freddie has almost lost track of how it went wrong so quickly—almost. It’s hard to forget. One minute it had all been fine and Freddie had been carefully, respectfully keeping his distance. The next minute Brian had been offended by that. And now here they are.

More accurately, they’re in the living room. The day had started with Freddie waking up, stretching, coming to the kitchen for his morning cup of tea and then—and then he doesn’t know, he has no idea what went wrong, and these days that’s half the problem. One minute they’d been fine and the next…

Well, they pick fights readily and quickly these days. The frustration in it all bubbles over faster than any of Roger’s failed attempts at cooking ever have.

If he had his wits about him he’d resist, but as it is he can’t stop himself from hurling every single ugly thing he can think of Brian’s way, starting quite readily with the fact that Sharon isn’t even bloody good for him and seems to be determined toward pushing Queen to failure to boot, and the fact that Brian could do so much better isn’t lost on any of them—in fact, Brian could do quite better by simply dating Freddie, not that he lets that particular thought slip out—

“Well then you’ll be pleased to hear Sharon and I broke up,” Brian snaps, tone clipped and eyes hurt and angry, and the world stops.

“What?!” Freddie hisses.

Brian opens his mouth to retort when something collides with the wall on the far side of the room. A book, from the sound of the object clattering to the floor. They both freeze, properly cowed, but when no further sounds come from the other side of the wall they turn back to face each other, the tension in the room properly diffused.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Brian mutters. “I know you didn’t even like her. You don’t have to pretend.”

“Well—but Brimi,” he starts, and Brian turns quickly to face the window. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think it really mattered. I didn’t think you’d care,” he adds, and a huff of laughter leaves his lips as he does.

“Of course I care,” Freddie says, voice hushed. “God. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Fred.”

“You really cared about her.”

“It’s fine,” he says, turning around finally, eyes tired. “Just leave it, okay? It’s alright.”

Freddie studies him, brow furrowed. It doesn’t look alright, and that’s the thing. He looks exhausted, and the sadness that’s been lingering in him for the last month still has yet to dissipate. Everything Freddie’s tried to do to lift it has failed.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you a mocha. Take it as payback for all the times I’ve been an utter knob this last week.”

“You haven’t been,” Brian argues, but Freddie shakes his head.

“Don’t even start. Coffee, Brian.”

Brian nods once. “Alright, fine,” he murmurs. He slips his clogs on quickly and grabs his keys before opening the door as quietly as he can.

Freddie lingers for a moment, listening intently. When he hears a low murmur of voices coming from John and Roger’s room and contents himself with the knowledge that Roger most likely won’t be throwing any small kitchen appliances through the windows out of irritation for having been woken up, he follows Brian out the door.

They fall into step together easily, Brian’s strides short and meandering out of habit to allow Freddie to keep up. It’s hot out already, even so early in the morning. Another heat wave is no doubt about to descend upon the innocent people of London, and Freddie knows they’ll all suffer when it does.

“If we’re being honest,” Brian starts slowly, “I knew she wasn’t really right for me. Not because you guys kept pointing it out, or anything. I think sometimes you just know.”

“You just know?”

“Yeah. The same way you’d know if you’re in love with someone, I suppose.”

Freddie studies his profile, backlit by the rising sun and making his eyes seem greener than usual, and thinks that makes a lot of sense.

“I guess I just didn’t love her,” Brian continues slowly. “More than that, though, I knew that you either love someone or you don’t. I don’t think she was ever going to love me.”

Freddie frowns at him and kicks lightly at his ankle. “You’re very loveable.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It should be.”

Brian’s mouth quirks up and he shakes his head dismissively. “No, stop. The point is nothing was ever going to come of it, you know? I don’t think so, anyway. And there’s no purpose in piling on extra stress when we already have so much to deal with anyway.”

“So much to deal with?” Freddie echoes softly. This is finally it, then; this is whatever Brian has been so sore about for the last few weeks. Christ, what else could there be?

“You know what I mean,” Brian says. “Rent is hard, school is hard and this whole thing with Roger and John isn’t exactly making things easier.”

Freddie sighs, put-out. Maybe not, then. “I thought you wanted the two of them to work it out?”

“I do. Believe me, I do.” He hip-checks Freddie lightly in the direction of the coffee shop as they pass it, and Freddie starts before opening the door for him. “Thanks. I never said that I don’t think they should get together.”

“I should hope not. With the way Roger’s been drooling over him I really don’t see much of an alternative.”

Brian huffs out his first laugh of the day. “I want them to get it together, Fred. I’m just not quite sure that it’s going to happen anymore.”

“That’s awfully pessimistic of you, darling,” Freddie says dryly.

“Can I help you?” the girl at the register says with a smile.

“Yes,” Freddie says, putting on a charming smile of his own. “Grumpy over here will have a mocha to level out the sourness of his soul. I’ll have a latte. Oh, two muffins as well. Four, actually. Uh, two blueberry—”

“Roger likes the apple ones,” Brian murmurs, close to his ear.

Freddie suppresses a shiver. “One apple and a chocolate. Does John like chocolate?”

“Two chocolate,” Brian says a little louder.

“Two chocolate, one blueberry. I swear Roger’s rubbing off on him with that sweet tooth of his.”

“I’ll refrain from making a rubbing off joke there.”

“Oh, stop it,” Freddie says, tamping down on a grin. He passes a note across the counter and the two of them drift over to wait at a table. “What were you saying about the two of them, then?”

Brian sighs. “I just—I don’t know. I don’t know anymore if any of this is meant to be, you know?”

“Oh, that’s general.”

“I’ll rephrase, then. I don’t know if they’re going to work out anymore. They used to be such a sure thing, but now I don’t know that anything is going to work out.”

“Surely you don’t mean us, do you?” Freddie asks softly with a broad gesture. “You know. I mean—Queen is a sure thing. It always will be. I hope you’re not doubting that.”

“I’m not. Of course I’m not,” he says seriously, eyes wide and earnest.

They’re all too easy to fall into when he’s like this, the calm peace of his gaze hypnotizing, and Freddie sighs and leans closer as the rest of the room fades away. He has half a mind to take Brian’s hand where it’s resting on the table, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm, alternating triads and suspended fourths—it’s easy to forget sometimes that he was a pianist before he was anything else. They’re cut from similar cloth that way.

Then the girl behind the counter calls their order, and Freddie catches himself. He gets up quickly and retrieves their bag, passing Brian his cup as the two of them walk out of the bakery.

“It’ll work out, darling,” he says as they reach the street. The sun is officially up and the heat of it is dancing wonderfully across his face. He shuts his eyes for a few paces, content. “Don’t you worry. Say this crush Roger’s been harvesting never comes to fruition. That’s just one less bit of strain on everything else.”

“I suppose so,” Brian says, unconvinced. “I’m sorry for any strain I’ve caused, if that’s what you mean. Obviously there’s shortage of stress in our lives, but I hate that I’ve added to it at all. I know with everything going around—”

“Oh, none of that now, Brimi,” Freddie replies quickly. “Come on. I’m sorry. You know I’ve been just as bad. God knows you have enough on your plate without me getting on you about your love life, of all things.”

“If there’s such a thing to speak of,” Brian mutters darkly. Freddie snorts and comes to a stop on the stoop of their building, digging through his keyring. He stops short when he feels a hand on his elbow. “Listen,” Brian murmurs, eyes serious again. He bites his lip thoughtfully for a moment, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly in uncertainty. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you and me.”

Freddie feels his heart palpitate and roll over dead. This is it. This has to be it. “Oh?” he says, voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” Brian says. “About the way things used to be. I miss you, Fred. I miss the way we were.”

The way we were. Of course. Freddie and Brimi against the world, best of friends.

“I just want us to go back to that. Do you think we could maybe do that? Pretend the last few weeks never happened? I don’t know what went wrong but we’ve gone somehow astray.”

Of course. “Of course we can, Brian,” Freddie replies. “Of course. Yes. I don’t know when we stopped talking things through but—let’s make an effort, alright? The both of us.”

“Thank you,” Brian all but whispers, eyes bright. “Yes, alright. Thank you.”

Freddie breathes out a laugh and shakes his head wryly. If a best friend is what Brian needs then he can be that for him—he can be anything Brian wants at the drop of a hat, god help them both—but. Well.

It’s fine.

“I guess it’s back to us being a bachelor pad, huh?” he says lightly, unlocking the door and bouncing up the stairs, Brian jogging after him. “Just four single musicians taking over the heart of London?”

“Taking over the hearts of London, more like,” Brian replies. “Or I’d hope, anyway.”

“Oh, just you wait,” Freddie replies. He pushes open the door to their flat, throwing his words over his shoulder as he goes. “The world won’t know what to do with the four of us when we hit the prowl.”

And then he turns and nearly drops his three-pound latte in surprise.

For all that John can tower above him in height if he wants to, Roger somehow has him pressed up against the counter, arms caging him in. John doesn’t seem to mind by the way he’s grinning against Roger’s mouth, hands slung low on Roger’s hips, their lips still brushing even as Roger pulls away to murmur something that somehow makes John smile even harder. They’re both haphazardly dressed, clothes slightly water-stained and hair haphazardly dried, still dripping from what was probably a haphazard shower. From the looks of the kettle boiling over they’re now in the process of haphazardly making tea.

Brian runs into Freddie’s back. “Oh,” he says succinctly.

Roger pulls away in surprise to look at them. He seems to forget that he’s still in an incriminating position as it is; John remembers and tries to push him away by his hips, not that it works. With the way their looks of shock are replaced quickly by innocent schoolboy grins neither of them seem to care.

“’Ello,” John says with an honest-to-god giggle.

Freddie gestures between the two of them. Behind him he feels Brian cross his arms. “So you two,” he starts.

“Uh-huh,” Roger says, puffing up his chest proudly. John hip-checks him.

“Ah,” Brian says.

“Yeah,” John replies.

“Well.” Freddie smiles. “I believe congratulations are in order. We have muffins.”

Brian clears his throat as he passes him and doesn’t meet his eyes.

And somehow that’s that.

He asks John about it the first chance he gets. Of course he does.

The day is defined by John and Roger being essentially glued at the hip. If Freddie’s being honest it isn’t a far cry from how they usually act, and that’s the oddest thing to realize. Of course nothing would really change, not really; they’d been in love long enough, anyway.

He wonders what that means for he and Brian—if this is really love then it would stand to reason that were they to suddenly become a couple nothing would change with them, either. He isn’t quite sure that he’s ready to face the reality of that: this being the best it gets.

It’s not a weighty kind of disappointment. It’s difficult to even examine, rooted around the indescribable nature of love as it is. And how can he describe it? How can he even begin to approach describing love as he feels it?

It’s nearly impossible to. He sees himself in Roger sometimes, in glimpses; sees blue eyes light up at the sight of their youngest flat mate wandering into a room and remembers a time not long ago when he himself would do the same.

But this is old love now, aged rapidly beyond his years to something which makes him feel much more grown up than he is. This has worked itself deep into his bones and settled there comfortably, warmly. It’s not reigned by attraction; physical, tactile, emotional; it isn’t controlled by that.

When Brian smiles he can think about things other than what the curve of his mouth would feel like pressed against his own. No; now he just wants to bask in it instead. Now he just wants to look; to listen; to share. He does not crave. He simply loves, and that’s almost enough.

It’s almost enough.

Because were they to take that final step and become a couple—were they to take one last jump off the precipice, hand in hand—theoretically nothing would change. He can’t face the reality of that. He can’t face the fact that this feeling—this deep, warm weight in his chest which can twist so easily into an ache that brings tears to his eyes—he can’t face that this is the reality of love in its barest form.

Nonetheless John and Roger glow like stars all afternoon. Brian would know.

Brian and Roger are in charge of cooking, which means John and Freddie end up cleaning up. Freddie waits until John is forearm-deep in soapy water and handing off clean dishes for him to dry at a steady rate, Brian and Roger bickering in the next room over, before he elbows him lightly.

John looks at him, eyebrows raised in question, a smile already half-formed on his lips.

“Are you happy?” Freddie asks him.

The smile grows. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just wanted to be sure,” Freddie murmurs.

John focuses on his scrubbing for a moment. Freddie appreciates that—no matter how silly the question he always gives it at least a full moment’s thought. He can’t stop smiling though, and Freddie can see that easily enough. “I’m happy, Fred,” he says finally. “I almost can’t believe it. I feel like I haven’t stopped smiling since this morning. It’s probably the honeymoon phase.”

“Don’t worry,” Freddie says dryly. “Soon enough you’ll remember exactly how vile he is, and then you’ll be well and truly stuck with him.”

“I look forward to it,” John says, smiling into the dishes.

And that’s that question answered.

He doesn’t bring it up to Brian until later. The two of them completed their nightly ritual of weaving silently around each other in the bathroom and fighting for room at the sink and are now laying in beds on opposite sides of the room, waiting in the darkness for sleep to come.

It isn’t coming easily. Freddie feels like he’s been trying to make out shapes on the ceiling through the gloom for twenty minutes now. Across the room Brian’s breathing is slowly evening out, but Freddie can tell he isn’t quite asleep yet.

“They say they’re happy,” Freddie whispers.

He doesn’t even expect a response, not really. It takes a long moment before Brian shifts, turning over in bed. “They seem happy,” he murmurs back.

Freddie blinks up at the ceiling. They really do.

When he rolls over he can barely make out Brian’s silhouette in the darkness, but he can tell he’s being watched. “You don’t think it will backfire horribly?”

Brian heaves a sigh, soft but heavy. “I don’t know, Fred,” he murmurs.

They’re both silent for a beat.

“What happens if it does?” Freddie whispers.

He thinks Brian didn’t hear him. The other side of the room is silent. Freddie is about to shut his eyes and make an attempt at sleep himself when he hears Brian roll over in the darkness. “I don’t know,” he says again.

The silence is heavier this time.

“I don’t know,” Brian tries again, “but either way we’ll make it through. I don’t care about anything beyond that.”

Freddie doesn’t reply. A few minutes later he hears Brian’s breathing even out as he drifts into sleep. He finds that he can’t follow, not immediately, and he stares into the gloom of their ceiling for hours on end until not even he can keep his eyes open anymore.

Morning light is gentle on Brian. He's made for them, somehow. That's one of the many things Freddie knows. 

The list is long. Brian takes milk in his tea and drinks it from sunrise to sunset to beyond. He can sleep eight, ten, twelve hours a day and usually mumbles to himself as he does. He's a night owl, made for long work sessions in that infinite between-time where the rest of the world is asleep and the only things in existence are Brian May and the endless abyss of the sky above him. And then morning comes and Freddie wakes to find him drooling on his notes, dead to the world until he manages to shuffle into wakefulness once more. 

And somehow, despite his exhaustion, the morning light is gentle on him. 

Freddie tries not to wake him as he gets ready for the day. He's practically snoring, completely cocooned in five or so blankets, and Freddie knows he brings it on himself with all the late nights but it's hard to blame him for it when he looks so cute. He has his own hair in his mouth. It flutters as he breathes. It's adorable. 

Nonetheless Freddie has the early shift at the stall today, filling in for Roger’s morning class. He really needs to get a move on if he doesn't want to be late, and that alone has him rushing to get ready. 

He's nearly done, just leaning closer to the mirror to apply an even layer of lotion, when Brian stirs behind him. “Freddie,” he murmurs. 

Shit. He didn't think he'd been that loud. 

When he turns Brian isn't looking at him, though. He doesn't even appear to be awake. He rolls over slowly, brow furrowing and hair entering an even more distressed state. 

Freddie raises an eyebrow. “Yes, dear?”

Brian sighs contentedly, face smoothing out. He lets out a happy hum before sinking deeper into his blankets and falling silent once more. 

Huh. 

Freddie shakes his head and gathers the last of his things before leaving the room. 

John is sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space, a blank sheet of paper before him and a mug of tea practically untouched. Freddie clears his throat and he jumps.

“Are you alright, darling?” Freddie asks softly. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

John shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“If it comes to anything I’ll let you know.”

Freddie studies him for a beat longer. John doesn’t look any worse for wear though, and that’s the thing. He looks well-rested, and what’s now become a constant glow of happiness is still clinging readily to his cheeks. Those facts alone keep Freddie from worrying.

Roger comes tumbling into the kitchen in all his half-rushed splendor, jacket only half zipped and necklaces tangling around his neck. “Late,” he pants, blowing through the room.

“Your shift is at three. Don’t forget,” Freddie calls.

Roger picks up John’s tea and chugs half of it in one go, then winces. “Cold.”

“I’ve been up a while. Don’t forget your—”

“Already got it,” Roger says. He makes it halfway to the door, turns around and rushes back to kiss John solidly on the mouth, and then turns and runs back through the living room. “Love you!” he calls. The door slams shut behind him.

John stares at the door for a moment, lips twitching upward and a blush spreading steadily across his cheeks.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” Freddie teases. “It’ll grow his ego if he sees it.”

“He already has a massive ego,” John says.

“Among other things, I’m sure.”

Instead of the stammer and blush Freddie expected John just licks his lips suggestively, eyebrows waggling, and Freddie retches dramatically.

“Stop! I didn’t need to know that!”

“You were the one who brought it up,” John laughs.

“Brought what up?” Brian asks as he wanders through the doorway, beelining for the kettle.

“Roger’s dick, apparently,” John replies.

“Oh. John, I thought that was your job.”

“I hate both of you,” Freddie says as John cackles. “Fuck you very much.”

He retreats quickly back to his room. The last thing he sees is Brian, sleep-rumpled, smiling into a cup of tea, and the image sticks with him.

All of this is very foolish. It clouds his thoughts as he gets ready, blusters out of the apartment, descends into the tube and mourns the straightness of his hair as it’s blown back by a gust of humid, sooty air.

Freddie has a type, and that type is risk-free. 

When he’d first come to London he felt like he fell in love every day: boys on the train, boys at the coffee shop, boys on the street. Risk-free boys are boys he’ll likely never see again if he doesn't make an effort to. If it doesn't work out there is no chance of having to run into them or work with them. No risk. 

But that's the stupid thing about love. Love doesn't follow patterns. Love is rash. It's uncontrollable. He can't always choose risk-free, and sometimes he doesn't even want to. 

He can't want to, when he’s already in love with one big flashing sign reading Do Not Touch. 

Brian is the epitome of a risk. Brian is not someone he can fuck just to get it out of his system. Brian is not a one-time thing, because that would hurt Brian which would then kill Freddie and in the meantime Queen would be destroyed, and he can't have that. He can't even tell him, because it'll be something they live with for the rest of their lives. They'll either be living under the weight of his love or else exist in the knowledge that he fell out of love with the one person who means everything to him. 

He thinks about it anyway. 

“It's so easy to fall in love with you, Brimi,” he'd breathe. Brian's eyes would widen. “I tried not to but I couldn't help it. I love you so much. It doesn't have to mean anything. I'll keep my distance until maybe someday it goes away, alright?”

In his head Brian breathes a sigh. “No, don't,” he’d murmur. 

He’d kiss Freddie, then. 

The train rattles toward the platform, and he’s snapped out of his thoughts.

That's just a dream. He can't tell him, in reality. He can’t ever tell him. He's so ready to do it it doesn't make him nervous anymore. He's rehearsed it in his head a million times and it's always ready to burst, just a few breaths away—but he can't.

He lets his mind drift, still sleepy and malleable, and lets dreams carry him through his commute.

They’d met in sophomore year, Brian a year younger but ahead because of a ridiculous amounts of credits he’d accrued through hard work and foresight or something along those lines, but school had been the furthest thing from their mind. It was a pub show.

Freddie doesn’t remember it. He’d been spectacularly wasted.

Well, he remembers some things. He remembers the stage lights catching on Red Special’s sharp edges, for one. He remembers them making a haloed mess of Brian’s straightened hair.

He’d been told later that Roger was there as well. It was Smile. Of course he was. He doesn’t remember.

No, what he really remembers is that his heart had felt like it was in his throat and he’d been giddy. Fuck’s sake, but he hadn’t felt that way since he was thirteen years old with a crush he didn’t know how to handle and it had been good. It had felt immature and fresh and unrestrained and good.

And Smile was good. Smile was quite something.

He gets off at his stop, makes it into class, sits down in the lecture hall, and listens to absolutely nothing of what his professor is telling him. Just like sophomore year, honestly.

Because that was the thing. Once he’d fallen in with Smile nothing else had really mattered. That’d been it; that had been what he’d been missing all this time. No group was right and no group ever would be quite perfect—hell, not a single band he’d ever been a part of was—but Brian and Roger, they had something. They had something he’d been searching his whole life for.

And Brian had something else; something unique. All his life he’d been searching for that, too.

I know I can’t really sing quite that high, Brian murmured to him in the dead of night, the two of them side-by-side in the dark apartment, legs pressed together, Freddie on his left so Brian’s guitar neck didn’t hit him in the face. It’s alright, though. I’d rather you sing it anyway.

And Freddie had breathed in sharply, because thus far that wasn’t really the way their burgeoning little band did things. Darling, it’s your song. I’m sure you can sing it beau—

Freddie, please. I wrote it for you. For your voice.

They were no strangers to that, now. Brian pulled that move frequently and hell, Freddie did too, because Brian was nothing if not the duet partner Freddie had never expected he’d need. Somewhere in the notebook crammed into the bottom of his bag the very lines were written, love of my life can’t you see, scrawled there and waiting for everyone and their mother to hear but only for Brian to really understand, if he chose to. Through all this gloom life will start anew, like it means something to anyone, like Brian would ever understand it for what it is. Like any of them would.

He starts as the students around him begin packing up. A moment later his phone buzzes.

Zandra tonight, it reads, Brian’s name displayed above it. Noon. I just remembered.

Shit. Well.

He makes his way to the library just for the sake of killing time and parks there far longer than he’d care to admit, that same notebook open in front of him on the table, the lines growing and growing as he thinks of Brian and Sharon and a band called Smile, and all the things in between.

He’s sure they’ll be fine if everything goes wrong. He’s sure nothing will change. He’s sure of it, and that almost scares him more than anything else.

What’s wrong with a little change, after all?

But the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky, and soon enough he feels more and more pathetic just sitting there. He packs up his things and heads quickly for the tube.

Zandra is a like-minded spirit, and honestly Freddie could kiss her for it.

“Has he tried on anything fuchsia yet?”

“I doubt he could be persuaded into it.”

She hums noncommittedly. “There’s still time.”

He almost dreads the day she and Roger are introduced. Between her flowy silks and his loud color palette they’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m sure you could get him to try it out,” she continues. “He’d do practically anything for you.”

“Anything is a strong word,” he says dryly.

She hums again. “Strong, maybe. Inaccurate? Not so much. Besides, it’s practically meant to be.”

“Now I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Please,” she purrs, then smiles slowly. “Really? You don’t think the rest of the world sees it?”

“Sees what? If you think I’m shocked to know you’ve picked up on the fact that I have a crush you’ll be sorely disappointed,” he drawls, chin raised high enough to be debonair yet flippant. That move always makes Brian laugh. “It’s news to practically no one, at this point.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she says, tone amused.

“Oh?”

“I’m referring to the fact the two of you are treading in the footsteps of giants. The Page to your Plant, no? The McCartney to your Lennon. The…eh, you know. Who was that lad Elton John used to work with?”

“That’s quite enough,” he says dryly.

“So you get my point, then?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Oh, Mr. Mercury. That sounds like a lie to me.”

“Freddie?” Brian calls from inside the dressing room. “I don’t know that this fits me.”

“It should,” Freddie calls back. “It’s in your size.”

“I can’t get it tied up.”

“Oh, I’m sure Zandra can help you.”

“You help him, Freddie,” Zandra says loudly, winking. “I’ve got my hands full.”

He eyes her. She stands before him, smiling back, very clearly not busy in the slightest.

“Freddie?” Brian calls again.

He rolls his eyes one last time and steps quickly behind the curtain serving as a changing room.

Brian is standing there, his back to Freddie, eyes finding his in the mirror. “It’s like some sort of corset. I can’t get it tied,” he explains.

Ribbons are crossing his back in loose arcs, the white of them glowing against his pale skin. The sleeves hang loose around his wrists, rippled and ethereal, extending out like the wings of some great bird. Freddie isn’t sure he’s seen anyone more beautiful in his life.

“Fred?” Brian prompts, quietly.

Freddie starts. “Yeah. You’ve got it all tangled up, love.”

“It’s a right mess to try to get on,” Brian murmurs.

Freddie carefully sorts out the various ribbons, the fabric soft beneath his fingertips and the skin of Brian’s back warm every time he brushes it with his knuckles. He pulls away carefully when Brian shivers and tuts at himself. “Sorry. My hands have been cold all day.”

“They’re not cold,” Brian says softly.

Freddie tugs the rows of ribbons taught, moving even more carefully when Brian gasps. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“It’s not.”

“No, but tell me if it is,” Freddie says, tugging one of the ribbons playfully.

Brian grins at him shyly in the mirror. “You can go harder. I can take it.”

He’s lucky Brian is so tall. He ducks behind his frame completely to hide the blush he knows is creeping up his cheeks. Brian doesn’t say anything and makes no sound as Freddie finishes up, other than a soft sigh as Freddie moves his hair out of the way to tie the ribbons in a loose bow.

“There,” Freddie says finally, smoothing his hands down Brian’s shoulders. “It fits you rather well, I’d say.”

Brian smiles, flapping his arms experimentally and watching the silk fall gracefully back into place. “Quite glam, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t that the idea?”

They sit there for a long moment, just grinning at each other’s reflection like a couple of fools. Freddie has half a mind to let it all out right here, his most secret thoughts. If he tells Brian’s reflection maybe it won’t mean anything if Brian turns him down. It won’t technically be real.

He can’t get up the nerve.

“You look very pretty,” he says instead, and Brian blushes all the way down to where his collarbones disappear beneath the white silk.

And then there’s a crash from outside, and then Zandra begins cursing, and the moment is broken.

Freddie retreats from behind the curtain quickly to find Zandra’s desk surrounded by fallen pens and markers. “Need a hand with that?” he asks, though he already no the answers.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Organization and all. You’re an artist, you know. One minute it’ll all be in top shape and then two days later I won’t be able to locate a thing. Don’t worry about it.”

He nods and returns to sorting through the racks of clothing idly.

They head out not long after, climbing onto the bus thoroughly laden with shopping bags. Ronnie is covering their stall today, and thank god for that. It’s the only way the four of them find time to spend together anymore, other than gigs and late nights. Their days have become horribly busy.

Brian looks a little worse for wear for it. Tiredness has been lingering on him recently, and Freddie wishes he could do something to relieve it. He tells Brian as much and gets a smile in return.

“Just typical uni stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

“You astrophysicists,” Freddie tuts.

“I know, I know. Barely a minute to myself with this schedule.”

“We can postpone practice today,” Freddie says seriously.

Brian snorts. “Not on my life.”

“If you need a break—”

“You know it’s the opposite of a break.”

Freddie doesn’t say anything. That’s fair. Music has always been a release for them rather than a source of stress. He should know.

“I just don’t want to be adding extra things to your plate,” he tries. “Come on, Brimi. You’re too pretty for premature greying and wrinkles and you know it.”

“Trying to protect my vanity?”

Freddie huffs. “Trying to save it.”

Brian’s lips quirk up, and he sinks further into his seat until he’s even shorter than Freddie is. “Music is never going to be considered an ‘extra thing’ for me. Music with you is never going to be something that adds stress into my life.”

Freddie raises his eyebrows. “Half our time in the studio is spent arguing.”

“Okay, it might be a stressful thing. Sometimes.”

“Half the time.”

“I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” Brian says as if he’d never spoken. “Besides, if I weren’t around who would provide the guitar playing and criticism?”

Freddie frowns at him. “You’re right. We’d have to go—go steal someone from Humpy Bong or something,” he says seriously, and smiles as Brian laughs so hard he snorts.

They make it off the bus and shuffle into their flat side-by-side. Freddie himself is tired enough that all he can think of is a nice rest before rehearsal, but they’re ambushed practically on-entry.  

“Rehearsal time,” John says with a grin. “Come on, come on.”

“Let me take my shoes off, at least,” Freddie grumbles. John just takes his bag from him and sets it on a kitchen chair before following him into the studio and closing the door behind himself.

Brian and Roger are both already there, each wearing bemused smiles. Brian raises his eyebrows at Freddie, who just shrugs back. He doesn’t know what’s going on any better than the other two. “What’s all this about, darling?” he asks John. “I thought we weren’t practicing until four.”

“It almost is four, Fred.”

“Barely.”

“We’re starting early, then. I had an idea to run by you and this way it won’t eat into actual practice time.”

That has understanding dawning in Brian’s eyes. “Oh,” he says.

John looks at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I was wondering what you’ve been up to.”

“You know, then?”

“Know what?” Roger asks with a frown. He’s always hated being left out.

“I mean, not really,” Brian replies. “I just had an idea. You get really quiet and spacey when you’re writing.”

“Writing?” Roger asks. “John, did you write something?”

A flush spreads across the tips of John’s ears. “Maybe,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like the kind of stuff you guys typically write. I think it’s alright, though.”

“Are you gonna let us hear it?” Freddie asks, amused. Roger is practically bouncing off his stool.

“Yeah,” John says quietly. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt for a minute. “I was gonna bring it to you first. So you could sing it, you know? I’m not much of a singer.”

“I can’t learn it unless you sing it for me,” Freddie murmurs to him. He eyes Roger again, who’s practically trembling trying to keep his enthusiasm contained.

“Sing it for us, Deaks,” Roger says. “Please? I know it’ll be great. Stop worrying about your voice. You sound fantastic.”

“You’re a liar,” John says, though the blush spreads to his cheeks now, too. He moves over to the shitty electric keyboard Freddie discarded in the corner not long after his purchase of it from a thrift store—too tinny and the keys are too light beneath his fingers, though John and Brian never have problems fiddling with the thing—and rubs his fingers together harshly. “It’s just got a piano part for now,” he explains.

Freddie nods. “Do you want us to—”

“No, no. I’ve got it. I’m getting better.” He clears his throat before laying down a simple piano line, upbeat and boppy.

And then he starts singing.

As soon as the lyrics register in his brain his eyes drift to Roger. He watches as his fond smile is replaced by a grin, eyes growing suspiciously wet before he covers his mouth with his hands. He doesn’t blame him, really. If someone ever wrote something as sweet for him—if any of Brian’s sweeter love songs were ever directed at him—he doesn’t know what he’d do.

“You’re my sunshine, and I want you to know that my feelings are true,” John sings, voice raspy and thin but words honest, and Freddie isn’t sure if the sound Roger lets out is a laugh or a sob.

He looks away then, looks to Brian, and finds that Brian is already looking back at him.

He can’t look away. Brian doesn’t seem to be able to, either, and Freddie can’t decipher the look on his face: maybe grief, maybe regret, pride and amazement, maybe something like fear. He looks back at him, his walls completely lowered. He can’t break eye contact even as John finishes singing, even as Brian’s jaw tightens with something like resolve, even as he hears Roger’s stool scrape back as he stumbles to John’s side, gushing uncharacteristically shyly about how beautiful it was.

He doesn’t look away even as Brian licks his lips. “That was lovely, John,” he says, voice tight and carefully neutral. “We should start running through it later today. Freddie, can I speak to you outside for a moment?”

Freddie nods, heart thudding hard against his ribs all at once. Roger and John fall silent as he stands, dazed as he follows Brian into the living room.

Brian shuts the door and leans against it. He couldn’t seem to stop looking at Freddie before, but he doesn’t seem able to bring himself to now.

“Brian, you’re scaring me,” Freddie murmurs.  “What is it?”

Brian shakes his head and then starts, pushing himself away from the door and pacing closer to where Freddie is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “They’re in love,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Freddie blinks. “Yeah. I know.”

“No, they’re in love,” Brian says again. His eyes are starting to look a bit manic the way they do when he’s been studying too long, the information not quite seeping into his brain right anymore.

“I know.”

“They’re in love, Fred. Really, actually, hopelessly in love. Writing songs and—”

“This isn’t anything new, Brimi,” Freddie says quickly. “You said yourself. You knew that John was writing something.”

“It’s good.”

“It’s really good.”

“Freddie,” Brian says pleadingly, trying to make him understand. “It’s good. They’re good. They’re both inspired and better than ever—and Queen! Queen isn’t failing!”

“I don’t understand.”

“The band is thriving and they’re in love! They’re writing music for each other—”

“I don’t see how this is such a big deal,” Freddie says slowly. “Brian, we write songs for each other all the time—”

And then it hits him.

Oh.

Brian is still staring at him half-desperate, eyes pleading and chest heaving as if he’s finished running a marathon.

Oh.

“We could be good,” Brian whispers. “All four of us. We won’t destroy anything. We’ll only be better.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This whole time I was worried that change will kill all of us—that love will change everything too severely. It won’t, will it? If they change—if you and I were to change—"

“You and I aren’t them,” Freddie breathes back.

“No. We’ve been doing what they’ve been doing for a long time now.”

Freddie licks his lips, and Brian’s eyes fix immediately on the movement. “You—are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Please,” Brian whispers. He moves hesitantly into Freddie’s space, and the rest of the world fades away. “Please.”

And that’s it. That’s what he’d been missing his whole life.

He feels it before their lips even touch. It’s feelings returned, and it rolls through him in a wave so slow and sure it felt as though it’d been there all along. Brian wants him too. He could die happy. Brian wants him too, and he doesn’t need a single thing else in his life. Brian wants him too. He could spend his days satisfied knowing it, feeling it, without ever having even touched him or confessed his love. This is all he needs.

But then he realizes he could have more, and he leans forward as carefully as he can, calves stretching as he stands slightly on his tip-toes to press their lips together.

Brian sighs into the kiss. His lips tremble against Freddie’s own. That’s as long as it stays chaste.

And then Brian lets out a kind of whimper and Freddie feels himself gasp, and then he isn’t sure whether he’s being guided backward or whether he’s dragging Brian forward with the hands fisted in his t-shirt but all of a sudden he’s pressed up against the kitchen sink, and then all he can really do is throw an arm around Brian’s shoulders and cling on for dear life as he is kissed as slow and deep as anything and dear god he wasn’t ready for this and might potentially die.

All he can register is the porcelain digging into his lower back and the warm line of Brian’s body pressed against his own and the heat of his mouth and the feeling of rightness coursing through his veins. That’s one of the few real thoughts he can drag together: this is right. This is comfortable and mind-melting and it feels like no hookup or mid-club make out session he’s ever even imagined, and blood is rushing straight to his head and making him see stars, and it’s good and so, so right.

Brian pulls away finally to leave careful, reverent kisses down his jaw, and Freddie has to focus hard for a few seconds to even understand the words he’s murmuring. “I’ve wanted this,” he gets out before his mouth gets momentarily distracted, “so long. Do you know how long I’ve waited?”

“You could have had me,” Freddie gasps. “Fuck. You could’ve any time.”

Brian pulls away then to look at him, eyes shadowed. “You’re serious?”

“Of course. All this time, every day. I thought I’d made it obvious.” It would’ve been hard to miss, anyway. Freddie’s always worn his heart on his sleeve.

Apparently not. When Brian leans in to rest their foreheads together he looks devastated. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I should try to move on from it.”

Freddie thinks briefly of Sharon. And then he thinks of all of his own halfhearted attempts at dating and idle conversations with strangers in bars, and he gets it. “I tried, too.”

“God, we’ve been absolute fools about this. I didn’t know I could hide how hopelessly in love with you I am.”

He can feel his heart skip a beat at that, and he gasps. Old love maybe, but it feels new again all of a sudden. He thought he’d spent the honey-soaked phase of the beginning of love simply pining away, but it’s back. They’ll still have this after all.

Brian’s lips quirk up like he knows what he’s doing, and he pulls Freddie closer. “I love you so much, Freddie,” he whispers against Freddie’s mouth.

Freddie doesn’t hesitate before dragging him forward and closing the distance between them, Brian’s arm slipping around his waist as he feels his knees go weak. He knows he has the upper hand this time, knows in the way Brian’s breath is coming ragged. They’re going to tear each other apart.

Made for each other, truly.

He reaches for support against the counter and barely even registers when his hand makes contact with the dish rack and sends a few spoons clattering against the linoleum. He can’t lend any attention much to the way Brian is pressing their bodies together.

Almost. It takes his brain a minute to catch up, but he’s pretty sure he recognizes the sound of a voice being cleared behind them.

They spring apart at the same time, and his cheeks go hot as he catches sight of John leaning against the doorway, Roger’s arm stretched at an awkward angle to rest his elbow against John’s shoulder. “Has a certain sense of Vegas Two to it, no?” Roger asks him smugly.

Brian sends him a tired look even as he makes a desperate attempt not to look swollen-lipped and kiss-rumpled. Freddie is pleased to note it isn’t working in the slightest. “It’s déjà vu, Roger,” he says.

“Eh. Right either way, I reckon.”

“I do think you’re right,” John says.

“Thanks, babe.”

Freddie looks between the two of them incredulously. “Don’t you two have better places to be?”

“Than our shared kitchen?” Roger complains.

“Out,” Brian says succinctly.

“Does this mean my song is going on the album?” John asks as Roger drags him away.

“Yes! Fine! Sure!” Freddie calls. He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

Awkward silence lingers for a long moment. The door to Roger and John’s room slams shut down the hall, giggles still audible through the thin wood.

Freddie glances sideways, makes eye contact with Brian, and the two of them burst into laughter.

They push their beds together that night and make a plan to go scrounge up a larger bed frame and mattress the following week, just to make it a more permanent fixture in their life. John and Roger tut at the extra work they’ve carved out for themselves.

Extra work, maybe.

They sleep curled around each other for the first time that night, and finally the deep ache that’s taken near permanent residence in Freddie’s chest blossoms into something delicate and warm. It’s old love, but even old love feels fresh and new when it’s returned. Even now, about to drift off to sleep, Freddie feels awake and alight in a way he’s never felt before.

More work indeed. Getting here at all had been damn hard work. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.