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10th December, 3:20 p.m.
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“Maybe it's about a second movie?”
“For fuck’s sake Brian. I hope not!”
There is a ‘ding’ before the doors open and the two men walk out of the elevator towards Jim ‘Miami’ Beach’s office. His call earlier that week was unexpected, perturbing Brian’s & Roger’s preparations for the coming European Tour, but it did pique their curiosity. The remnant snow on their shoulders melting, Brian brushes the rest out of his white hair while Roger removes his scarf and rubs his nose with his thumb and forefinger, groaning quietly.
“It is Disney we are talking about Rog,” Brian continues and casts a glance over his bandmate who is still wearing sunglasses even in December. “They can do whatever they want. And without our approval.”
Roger rolls his eyes and snorts.
After a few more steps (and a few more cuss words from the drummer), the two men catch sight of Miami pacing back and forth in the corridor leading to his office. The producer spots them. “Hello, guys!”
“Hi Jim,” Brian answers with a smile, offering his hand, and Roger does the same.
“Hello, Jim.”
“Glad you could come even with the bad weather. Surprising for an early December, right? I know this invitation is unplanned but it's always a pleasure to see you both.” There is an unusual tension in the older man’s voice, and a smell of cigarette around him despite having quit years ago. “When was the last time?”
“For the celebration of… something?” Roger jokes.
“Exactly,” the guitarist nods with a smile, white curls following the movement.
“Really?” He asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hmm, please. Follow me.”
The three men pass by a receptionist, dozens of unknown faces and more gold albums hung on walls to finally reach the polished oak door of Jim’s office.
Without any warning, he stops and turns, Brian nearly running into him. “Look! I– it was not my idea, but I couldn’t really say no, you see.”
“Oh no,” Roger whispers under his breath as he takes his glasses off. “Brian, I think you were right.”
“What?” Jim frowns and shakes his head. “No, no. Look… Just, don’t hold it against me, alright?”
Their attentions are piqued once more.
The hinges creak lightly as the producer opens the door and the two musicians step into the office. This time, Roger is the one who nearly runs into the tall guitarist, all of sudden frozen. “What the…!” He looks up at his companion for a laugh but changes his mind when he sees Brian staring with intensity at something on the opposite side of the room. With interest, he follows the gaze. And he stops breathing.
There, standing across the table, a ghost.
“John.”
Brian’s voice is barely a whisper, but the name hangs in the air, out of place.
“Hello, Brian.” The reply is simple, short, almost absurd. Then, a light smile appears on his lips, and his eyes turn. “Hello, Roger.”
Silence is the answer from the drummer, who still doesn’t know the proper reaction to have. All Roger can manage is to bite the inside of his cheek, to prevent whatever feeling is about to come out.
In some way, Brian and Roger are not aware of the passage of time -their schedule relatively the same for 50 years (fewer parties tho), with concerts, rehearsals, tours, fans screaming their names… the pattern didn’t really change. And yet, now facing John, they feel the weight of those years in their very marrow. Their ex-bandmate looked the same, but oh-so different. John still has that smile and tooth gap, those unreadable greyish eyes surrounded by crow’s feet at their corners, that voice light like a cartoon character but sharp enough on its corners to cut you. However, he looks paler and shorter. The voice, raspier. No more hair, except on his temples. A little round belly and a weary face. Like theirs.
“This is a… surprise, to say the least.” Brian was always the diplomatic one, keeping his composure during interviews or answering questions when the other ones didn’t want to, and, well, he enjoys talking. So today, he decides once more to wear the UN Blue helmet.
John nods. “Nice euphemism Brian. I appreci-”
“I just remembered I have an important appointment,” Roger cuts John off, without sparing him a glance, “Like, right now actually.”
If eyes are truly the window to a person’s mind, then the drummer is literally reading in Brian’s eyes ‘What the actual bloody fuck Roger?!’ But instead, his older friend placidly asks: “An appointment?”
“Yeah, I can’t move it. Ophthalmologist,” he points at his eyes with a tattooed hand. “You know how long it takes to have a consultation.”
Behind Brian’s shoulder, Jim remains silent, way too familiar with Queen’s dramas to know when to step aside. The guitarist insists. “Seriously Rog’?”
“Yes, seriously Brian! I will call you later. Bye Miami.”
About to leave, his hand is on the door handle when he hears him.
“Roger.”
His good ear twitches at the sound and he turns to face his ex-colleague. “I have to leave your company, sorry. And maybe, oh I don’t know, you will never hear from me again,” Roger claims, a constricted grin on his lips, “But I imagine you are familiar with this concept, John.”
And then, he disappears, letting the door hiss quietly shut behind him. There is a moment of silence, a moment for the three other men to process what just happened. Once in a while, Brian too still tastes the sour vestiges of resentment and frustration, but he understands –oh yes, he understands so well why the younger musician decided to move away, and in all honesty, he has no right to judge him. “Sorry about that, John.” Brian talks first, and a wave of nostalgia hits him when he sees this old John shrugs nonchalantly.
“It’s okay. I expected such a reaction from him.”
“Well yeah… you know Roger.”
“No.” The pause after this word seems endless, “I don’t know him anymore.”
John’s trademark. The naked truth of what he is thinking, no matter if it hurts him or the one in front of him.
“And what reaction were you expecting from me then?”
“I hoped you would stay Brian.”
“I am staying.”
“Good.”
It’s not like these two men have never cared or loved each other. They are, reciprocally, both part of an interlude of 25 crazy years in each other’s lives, through thick and thin. Sure, conversation between them was not always easy –it happens between similar personalities, even if none of them would admit that fact. But now, in their twilight years, it seems that John is more inclined and at ease to talk with Brian, and such unanticipated development makes him smile.
“Okay, since the storm passed, I suggest we all take a seat,” Jim says and walks behind his desk to sit down.
John is about to follow suit and sit around the meeting table, but he stops mid-motion, noticing Brian is walking towards him. Unexpectedly, the taller man leans forward and wraps an arm around his ex-bandmates’ shoulders, drawing him into a short hug that’s awkward but, to John’s surprise, welcome nonetheless. He reciprocates, one hand resting on his back. “Did we already hug before?”
They pull apart and Brian takes a few seconds to consider the question. “I think we did, yes. Many times!”
That prompts a giggle from John, and both men eventually sit down around the table.
“So?” the guitarist starts with interest, “I guess you are not here to make small talks about families and such. Not that I wouldn’t love to hear about them.”
“Am I that transparent?” he jokes. “You’re right. They are all good by the way! But no, no. Actually, I have a favour –well, that is not the right word. I have something I would like to do but I won’t without your approval,” John explains, fingers running over the edge of the round table.
“Yeah, sure Deaky,” the old nickname slips out like it was never confined into the archive of Brian’s mind.
“It’s about my royalties. And my part in Queen’s legacy.” The words make Brian frown curiously but John carries on. “I no longer want to be the beneficiary of it. I want Veronica to be the exclusive recipient of any future income. I want her name to appear on any legal paper concerning Queen instead of mine from now.”
Silence.
“Really?” Jim abruptly asks from behind his desk.
John nods. “Yes. Look –it won’t change a thing for the other beneficiaries, you know? This modification won’t interfere with your royalties. Or Roger’s. Or anyone else. It’s just about my piece of the cake you know? And, I want it to be Veronica’s from now.”
The atmosphere changes in the room, just as the light in Brian’s eyes. “Right…”
“Brian look, do not think this request is about me denying or repudiating all I did with you. No. You’re wrong,” he explains, “…once more,” and adds with a sardonic smile the guitarist knows too well –that same mocking smile which often provoked feelings of homicidal rage from Brian decades ago. The vision is oddly soothing.
Brian smiles back. “I know Deaky.”
“And, I won’t do anything without your approval. Or Roger’s.”
“Well… as you said it changes nothing for us. So, I don’t see why I would have objections. And I think Roger wouldn’t be against it either.” Brian looks over his shoulders. “Miami?”
The manager holds his palms up in a show of agreement. “Sure. If everybody agrees… I guess you can come back in a week John. I will ask the lawyers to prepare them and the papers will be ready. Your presence is needed for the signatures though. Your wife’s too.” Jim flipped his datebook, nodding to himself. “What about next Thursday in a week, same time?”
A nod. “Alright,” the former bassist consents, quite pleased by the unanimity. “In a week. We will be there.” It seems like he wants to add something else, but his gaze gets drawn to his fists, both clenched and resting on the table.
“May I be curious?” The older guitarist asks after seconds of silence, “Why such a decision? Did you find some kind of trick to pay fewer taxes or…?”
John laughs gently, his reputation of being practical with money or even tight with it not forgotten. “I wish. But no, no it’s just—”
The sentence ends with a gap, so uncharacteristic of John. The man, behind his mask of quietude and composure, has one of the sharpest mind and tongue Brian knows -a talent that can make you want to curl on the ground and cry in two seconds. So, if John has difficulties to finish a line, it means something is very wrong. Brian instinctively holds his breath.
“I have cancer. Pancreatic cancer.” John states. “A quite aggressive one.”
Everything becomes much too quiet around them, and the only sound heard is a gasp from Jim.
Brian blinks and his intellect starts working quickly, as always, connecting the dots to remember what he heard about the disease and its possible outcomes. And what comes to his mind looks more like a noisy alarm siren with red flashing light than a formal report: Low survival rate. Between one to three years. Terminal.
His voice is nearly a whine. “…what?”
John stares at him for a moment, speculating what exactly the ‘what’ stands for, and decides. “I am at stage 4 to be more specific. They gave me between ten months and one year. And that’s why I want Veronica to be the exclusive beneficiary. I want to settle things, to protect my family,” he explains with a displaced monotonous tone. “I was diagnosed a month ago.”
No. Brian blanches. He feels the blood leaves his face and rushes to form a knot in the center of his chest. “How– why– Deaky, I…” He starts but doesn’t finish. “John did… how long…”
With a small smile, the former bassist takes pity of the guitarist and cuts him off. “I was diagnosed a bit late. I didn’t read the early signs properly I guess.” There is finality in his voice. “Cigarettes didn’t help either.”
And John shrugs.
He shrugs.
As if this didn’t really matter, as if he was talking about some restaurant that he didn’t like, and Brian only wants to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him like he did a couple of times decades ago. Because no no no no no no it can’t be happening. Not again. In Brian’s rational mind, he is supposed to be the one dying next. The natural order. The oldest one. Not the youngest one!
“There is only a five percent chance of survival with surgery and very brutal chemo. And the survival is only of a few more months,” John continues steadily, “So I decided: no surgery or chemo.”
“Deaky! You can’t-”
“Don’t worry, I am not irresponsible,” he interrupts. “I have medication.”
Brian stares John over, lingering on his face, on how his hands rest on the table, rubbing his right thumb over the left hand’s knuckles; and maybe it’s cliché or not even true, but he’s now noticing how thinner and paler he looks. Not obvious signs, but there anyway.
“I had a very great life. I couldn’t have asked for anything more,” John continues, “Well, maybe the tiny regret for not having spent more time with a couple of friends,” he adds, chuckling humourlessly.
A blow in the guts would have been less painful, and Brian takes a deep, measured breath. “H-how has your family handled it?” The question sounds hollow, even to him.
“They have no real choice actually. The kids are dealing with it as best as they can. And Ronnie–” John pauses, feeling like a stone got stuck in his throat, and he swallows down. “–she has always been the strongest one. The rock of this family. I know she will endure and survive.”
“And you?”
“I am surprisingly fine. Tired, yes. But that’s all for now. The upcoming months… are going to be the hardest ones.” Again, a shrug. “Yeah, you really don’t need the details.”
They’ve gone from radio silence to nostalgic normalcy in the span of just ten minutes, and while they’ve been through too much to ever truly become strangers, Brian doesn’t expect to play the confidant yet.
“John--”
“It’s okay Brian. Look, I am not here to ask you or Rog or Jim anything, you know?” he says while observing the manager who is still hopelessly silent behind his desk and turns his attention back on his ex-bandmate. “I just thought that after everything we went through, the good and the bad, during years —I felt that I owed you that. I had to tell you, face to face.”
Loyalty. John decided to come out of loyalty. A hackneyed word nowadays, twisted and perverted in many discourses or ideas, but a word the three aging men understand at their very core.
“Could you tell Roger?”
“Deaky, I think… you should be the one telling him.”
“Well, I just tried,” John retorts with a tightening in his throat. “And I know you will handle him better than I, so… Could you tell him for me please?”
Brian nods, white curls bouncing around his shoulders, and John smiles. “Thank you.”
In a need of contact, the older man puts his hand on the younger one’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. Hazel and grey eyes meet and the moment lingers comfortably.
Eventually, John clears his throat, in fear that his voice would break the next time he opens his mouth, and speaks: “Okay, huh, that’s enough attention on my insignificant self for one day,” he says, hands on the armrests to stand. “I have to go anyway. A doctor’s appointment at the hospital.”
John gets on his feet. At the same time, Brian moves forward and before John can escape it, wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace. The youngest of the old men stands stiffly but relaxes eventually, his hands finding the guitarist’s back to return the hug. He tries to remember the last time they held each other like this, and the memory of Freddie’s death comes to John’s mind. It makes his full body contracts, and Brian pulls him closer.
“I can’t remember if I’ve ever said it—”
“Don’t,” John warns, aware of what is coming. “No Brian. You really don’t have to.”
“—I love you Deaky,” Brian finishes, his voice trembling from suppressed sobs.
They don’t say anything during the next seconds, words pointless. Too many years and too much practice of silence between them taught the two men when there isn’t really anything to add. John bites down on the inside of his cheek to prevent tears from falling down, but the grey eyes are already glassy.
“I was- I am an awful friend,” he confesses against Brian’s shoulder.
Tightening his arms around John one last time, the guitarist pulls back.
“Of course you are!” He smiles. “It’s because you’re not a simple friend Deaky. You are a brother. You are family. And family can be such a pain in the ass!”
The two men giggle and take advantage of this interlude to wipe away what remains on their moist cheeks.
“I –it never was my intention, to hurt you or Roger, you know?” John whispers, and Brian’s only reaction is his hand finding his friend’s shoulder again. “Never. And if I did with my distance or silence. I am very sorry. It’s just— I had to.”
“We know that.”
“Sorry.”
“No. Don’t.”
“Okay.” Another shrug, and if it is not from the red in his eyes, it would be hard to guess the tears John shed seconds ago.
“I would like to see you again,” Brian says with hesitation. “If you are okay with that of course.”
“Don’t feel obligated Brian. You and Roger own me nothing, and I don’t want to be a bother.”
“What? No. Of course you’re not. Look, I am not suggesting deep and long conversations –unless you want it– but, I don’t know… maybe next week, after you signed the papers with Veronica, you could both come for tea time at my place? Or maybe for dinner?”
The slight frown that appears on John’s face convince Brian to be more specific. “It will be just you, Veronica, me, and Anita. She will be pleased to see you both. Just a simple dinner. Nothing fancy. The four of us.”
And at his own words, the guitarist turns to the manager, remembering his presence. “Sorry, Jim.”
“No problem.” he replies and raises his hands in a sign of support.
“So… is it that okay with you John?”
The former bassist manages only a one-sided grin, sort of crooked and almost a frown but his features eventually soften. “Yes, why not? A simple dinner.”
“The simplest one, yeah,” Brian confirms with a reassuring smile and his hand leaves John’s shoulder. “Great.”
As the meeting is clearly coming to an end, Jim coughs and joins the two other men standing by the table. He offers his hand to John, who takes it happily. “So, John, you can come back in a week. Same day, same hour. Or anytime, really!” he specifies. “But in a week, everything will be ready for you and Veronica: papers, contracts, ink…”
“Thank you, Miami.” The man smiles and Jim returns it, before walking towards the door to open it.
“I promise I will make an effort for the menu.”
John looks at Brian as they walk to the exit and he shakes his head with that smirk. “Meat?”
“Well…” A pause. “I will find something. It will be edible. I assure you. Pizzas maybe?”
“Finally! I was running out of battery.”
The way the three men freeze on the threshold and turn in synch is almost funny to Roger. Almost.
Brian’s hazel eyes widen slightly. “Rog’.”
“You stayed?” Jim continues.
“As you can see Miami! But don’t worry, I was not eavesdropping at your door,” he says and points at the red leather sofa behind him, “I was just there, on this very uncomfortable couch, reading magazines or the news on my phone, waiting patiently.” He crosses his arms over his chest: “Your door is too thick anyway…”
“And your appointment?” Brian asks only to unsettle the drummer
“Well, I mixed the days. Blame my poor old brain.”
“You could have joined us.”
“Oh no, I didn’t want to trouble this heart-warming reunion between you,” he turns, casting a side glance at John. “To be honest I am stunned that you stayed and didn’t vanish in the middle of this reunion to disappear, as you know how to do so well.”
“Roger.” Brian snaps.
“It’s okay,” John cuts him off, “I guess I deserve it.”
Such a reaction was unanticipated, and Roger’s answer is silence, disbelief written all over his face.
John steps closer but doesn’t extend his hand, preferring to look rude and impolite than endure another rejection. He stands still and presses his lips together, weary eyes lingering on his ex-bandmate, silently trying to sear into his memory a last glimpse of Roger.
This is it. As simple words as they are, his throat tightens up around them.
“It was good to see you, Roger.” A silent beat. “Goodbye then.”
He gives a smile and a nod, and turns away.
A tiny voice in Roger’s head tells him to stop John, to ignore the last decade, to offer him a pint of Fullers and to catch up the time wasted. But a much bigger voice starts to list the ignored messages, the months and years of silence, the distance he unilaterally chose to put between them… After deciding to turn his back on what they created, Roger knows he won the right to do the same now. A fair giving-back. Right?
“Can we get inside?” the drummer heads to the office without waiting for an answer.
Jim follows, and Brian doesn’t move, wearing an unreadable expression on his face as his eyes are still lingering on the now-empty corridor. “Sure Rog’…”
The three men enter the office: Jim finds again his place behind his desk, Brian prefers to stay up, looking outside the window, and Roger, without knowing it, sits down on the chair formerly occupied by John.
“So,” he begins with irritation, “it’s not that I am curious, but what did he want? He was there to ask something, right? So?” Only silence follows. “Hmm, Miami?”
The direct inquiry startles the manager and he straightens up on his chair. “He –wanted to talk about his royalties.”
“What? Why?”
“He, huh, wants his wife to be the exclusive recipient of them,” he explains, fiddling with the edges of his notebook. “He said that it changes nothing for you or Brian or anyone else. And he is right! But he wants your approval. Both of you.”
Roger shifts slightly in surprise and his stare searches for Brian for clarification but his friend is still by the window, his back to him.
“Yeah… yeah,” he pauses. “Right. It changes nothing actually. So, yes, I have nothing against that. He can do as he wants. I don’t care. But why though?”
“You should have been there,” Brian whispers, looking outside as melted snowflakes cling to the glass.
There is a hint of something in his old friend’s voice that Roger doesn’t like. Steadily, he turns in his chair to look up at him who still staring at the cotton wool clouds.
“Well, I wasn’t Brian.” And it is not even an excuse. “So… that’s it? He only wanted to talk about business and cash?”
After years of distance and silence, John decided to return into their lives to talk about money? Incredible. Out of frustration, Roger releases a sigh despite himself.
“He wanted to say goodbye.”
A frown flickers across the drummer’s face.
“Goodbye?”
After seconds in which Brian seems to debate his options, he turns around, facing now his bandmate. “He is ill. Very ill.”
Roger stares at him blankly.
“Pancreatic cancer. Stage 4.”
And something like ice floods Roger’s veins.
“You know what it means Rog’.”
Yes, he knows what it means.
He looks up at Brian, then back to Jim, then back at Brian and –his brain may have short-circuited a little, the only thought crossing it being ‘not again’. He can’t follow the shape of his own thought, can’t understand what he heard. It makes no sense! John was standing in front of him one minute ago. He looked perfectly fine! “You… must have heard wrong.”
“I was there,” Brian says.
“So was I,” Jim confirms.
And Roger was not.
Once the computer error in his brain fixed, he opens his mouth but no sound comes out, a solid weight in his stomach making him want to curl.
“What—” his big blue eyes take a look up at the guitarist to find some support. “What did he say?”
Brian exhales, taking a few steps to pull out a chair, and sits down by his friend’s side.
“He talked about his illness. He said that he was diagnosed a month ago, that… there is zero to five percent of chance of survival with a very damaging treatment, so he won’t do it,” he explains carefully, and Roger doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head all along. “He has between 10 months and one year. More or less.”
It feels like every last nerve in Roger’s body is white-hot as his blood runs cold.
Brian goes on. “He said that after all the things we went through together, he owed you a face to face conversation. He is not asking for anything… he just wanted us to know.”
Another deep breath and the guitarist rests his elbows on his knees, hands together as if he is about to start praying at any moment. “He said that he regrets to not have spent more time with us. He said that he didn’t want to cause us any hurt. He said that he was an awful friend.” With each additional assertion, a new wisp of hurt flashes into his voice.
“He said that he was sorry,” he whispers now. “You… you should have been there Rog’.”
Yes. He should have been there. Another bad decision he can add to the list of bad decisions taken in the haste of extreme feelings. Roger’s face remains stoic, and if it weren’t for his eyes growing slowly reddish and glassy, you’d almost think he hadn’t heard a word.
He feels dazed.
“I must see him.”
“Not today,” is Brian’s response, and Jim nods silently along. “He has an appointment at the hospital.”
The drummer sighs out at last and looks down at his hands. They are shaking.
“Call him tomorrow. I know you, Roger… You need a night to sleep on it, before you decide what to do or to say, without regrets.”
This paternalistic tone is really not what Roger needs to hear right now. He rises, muttering something under his breath, and starts pacing around the table like a caged lion, until he stops, and is, in turn, the one at the window. No doubt that all the eyes in the room are on his back.
“I was wondering,” the guitarist breaks the silence, “Our coming tour is—”
Roger’s whole body instantaneously spins. “Are you really thinking about the tour right now Brian?!”
“Yes, I am Roger!” he retorts as fast. “Because if I count properly, and I know I do, we will be on tour when he will—”
The line remains incomplete in his mouth, too consequential to finish it, and Brian grimaces at his own words. Roger feels nauseous.
The two friends held a silent conversation, eyes locked, and neither looked away until there is a tiny, choked gasp from the drummer. “I have to get out there. I need a walk…”, he mumbles. “To clear my head.”
Brian stands up, looking over his shoulder at Jim who nods, and starts to pull on his coat. “Yeah me too. I’ll come with you.”
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11th December, 4:37 p.m.
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The snow is falling in heavy clumps and the house is quiet. Veronica is having lunch with a distant cousin, the kids are out for christmas shopping and John listens to the rare silence. He likes silence.
Then a clatter of metal and the man sighs. Walking the few paces to the couch where he previously left it, he picks up his phone, and read the name of the caller. Roger. He looks at the screen again, almost seeming to ignore the call and to let Roger leaves a message to a metallic voicemail. Knowing his reluctance to anything hi-tech, this prospect sounds truly tempting -but John decides to slide the green button.
“Yes?”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a long silence. “Hello. I–”
Silence again, and John furrows his brow. “Yes?”
“This… this isn’t easy.” Neither is this conversation. “I mean, I– I’ve always preferred face to face exchanges.”
“I imagine.” It’s so…diplomatic. Roger is a lot of things in the memory of the former-bassist, and diplomatic is not one of them. But people change.
John makes his way to the bay window. Snow swirls in the air, smothering the flowers on the house’s facade with a blanket. But a navy blue form against the white stands still by the house’s doorstep and catches John’s attention. The sides of his lips tilt upwards.
“Sorry Rog’, I have to hang up. There is a Jehovah’s witness at my doorstep.”
Without waiting for an answer, he ends the conversation and pulls back the curtains of the window to enjoy the scenery..
Outside, standing immobile at the front door, Roger’s expression passes from surprise to confusion and then pure irritation in a matter of seconds. John even read along ‘what the fuck? what the fuck?’ on his lips. It is hard to say exactly how long he has been out, in front John’s place, waiting for the right moment, but by the substantial amount of snow on his hat, a good 10 minutes.
Roger’s vindictive monologue with the door is interrupted by a tapping on the window. He turns his face and finds John’s amused one through the pane. Oh shit… He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve lied. No! He shouldn’t have called John in the first place. After decades of crazy decisions taken in hast, Roger seems to have learned nothing from them.
But the front door opens too quickly to turn around.
Roger straightens up his stand. “Huh. John.”
“Roger.”
“Can I come in?”
Stepping aside, John lifts one hand in the air to emphasis his point, “After you,” and closes the door behind the unexpected-guest,
Prudently, Roger makes his way in the entrance, shaking the snow from his hat and shoulders, and unwraps the scarf from his neck. He’s clearly tense, blue eyes darting around constantly as if to ensure he is in the right house. And he is, the moments he once spent here bursting in his memory through a vault he thought locked tight.
“This place didn’t change. At all.”
“I like that,” John says as he steps into the living room, where Roger already laid his coat on an empty chair. “It is reassuring to have the same stable foundatio— ”
“Were you really not going to tell me?” Roger interrupted.
“I tried to tell you.”
“Well, you should have insisted more!”
Everything is quiet around them. Not a sound comes from the house or the street, every noise muffled by the snow, and all both men can hear for a moment is Roger’s breath.
John sighs. “Look… if you came here only to be angry at me or to expound the many reasons for your hate for me, you should leave.”
“Hate?!” Roger face twitches like he’s trying hard to hold in a sneeze. “I don’t hate you! I wish I did though.”
“Okay… I guess?” To be honest, nothing is going on particularly okay. “So, huh, do you want to drink anything? Scotch? Water? Hemlock?” A white eyebrow raises at him. “Come on, you’re a biologist. It’s funny!”
“I’ve never b—” Roger suppresses a groan and John, a laugh. “Water would be fine for me.”
His answer is a smile and John disappears into the kitchen.
Hands in pockets, the old drummer shuffles alone into the living room, and he seems unsure how to proceed. He feels like an intruder. Out of place. Christ, this is awkward. The room is pleasant, elegant, and the furniture of good quality yet simple. Nothing too fancy or too modern -definitely not decorated by John. There is a table large enough to seat eight near the windows, and a corner sofa by the veranda, most likely placed there to take advantage of the light. He catches what he thinks is a dog bowl in the garden but John never has been very fond of pets, right? Or maybe his old eyes are playing tricks on him once more. And, in a corner, a Christmas tree with lace ribbons and ornaments.
“There is nothing in this living room indicating you were in a band,” Roger claims loud enough for John, a very slight tone of blame in his voice. “Or that you are even a musician.”
“There is a piano in the veranda,” he answers from the kitchen, “but it is Ronnie’s.”
“Hm.”
John returns in the living room, two glasses of water in hands. “You know, I keep one picture with the four of us, in what I consider my office.” Roger’s eyes narrow a fraction at these words. “My basement-slash-garage, where I tinker with my electronic clutter or do my correspondence. And, yeah? I think there are an acoustic and a Fender as well? Somewhere?” John hands the glass to his guest, who seems unable to tell if the last statement is a hoax or the truth. “Your water.”
Silence again, and John tilts his head to look at Roger like he’s actually waiting for something.
“Huh…thank you.”
“It must be hard.” The words come out with amusement but the jab is ignored. John sips, observing Roger over his glass’ rim. “Why are you here Roger?”
“Brian told me.”
“I already guessed that.”
Why is he here? No evident answer crosses his mind. He just felt that he had to come, something in his guts. Like when salmons swim back to the upper reaches of the river where they began their existence only to die there. Nothing logical. Only instinct.
“You cannot die!” Roger shouts, almost a command, and it rings almost comical.
“Why’s that?”
“You are the youngest one. You should be the one burying us all!” His voice is getting angrier with every word, and this is absolutely not what he planned to sound like.
John wants to be mad. He wants to abhor Roger’s presence for just showing up out of nowhere to yell at him -or worse, for coming to give his pity. But, he can’t. Disliking Roger always has been impossible.
He smiles. “Don’t be that pessimistic Rog’. We have a few months ahead before I’m gone. You may traverse the street tomorrow and be run over by a car?”
“Oh shut up Deaky,” he snaps, the affectionate nickname escaping his lips and Roger regrets this weakness right away. He closes his eyes… “It is your fault, you know.”
“The cancer?”
… and opens them again only to roll them in an excellent imitation of an exasperated teenager. “No, John! Not the cancer. The silence. The distance. The time wasted. The rest!”
It isn’t graceful, or polite, or remotely empathetic. The words are brash and a bit shaken, and John almost grimaces when he hears them. Decades ago, this could have been ignored with a ‘We all make mistakes!’ or ‘Shit happens…’ or ‘Fuck you Rog!’, and it would have ended with pints of beer –they threw at each other much worse insults. But after years of silence, and distance, and time wasted, John isn’t so sure anymore how to read Roger’s remarks, and Roger doesn’t know how to talk to John anymore.
Greyish eyes stare back into blue ones, before they fall on the glass he is still holding in his hands.
“Okay,” John says, “I really don’t need that right now, so…I will ask you to leave Roger.”
Without a sound, he passes by the drummer, walks towards the armchair in front of the coffee table, and sits down there. As his demand remains ignored, he reiterates it, pointing at the front door. “Please?”
Roger is a lot of things, but he has never been a coward –he’s never stepped back from responsibilities or desire or crazy ideas. Sure, fear has been there often, but never sufficient to make him flee, particularly for a friend. His fists clench. A friend.
Time seems to stand still as the two old men stare defiantly at each other, until Roger, notably, is the first to give up and to look at his feet. His breath comes out with a rare measure of apprehension and he decides to move, yet not towards the front door.
A half dozen steps and he is in front of John. He eventually sits down on the coffee table and opens his mouth only to close it, bearing a striking resemblance to a goldfish.
The two men barely spoke or interacted in the last decade, with the exception of small talks about business and money. It seems Roger has no idea how to start what it seems a difficult conversation and John can see his mind working towards some sort of complex solution.
“Roger?”
“Wait! I-” his index raises between them. “I’m thinking.”
“Okay.”
And they go awkwardly quiet again.
Roger leans forward to relieve some of his weight from the table, his fingers drumming nervously against its edge, and big blue eyes glance around as though the words may come from mid-air. By the fifth minute of silence, John comes to the conclusion that the duty to open the discussion falls on his shoulders.
“Look Rog’, you owe me nothing,” he starts, calmly. “If you don’t want to be there, then just go. Do not feel obligated to do or to say anything. I don’t need your pity. And to be honest, I would really prefer your hate.” A faint smile lifts the corner of his lips. How typical.
“I could nev-”
Roger stops immediately. Another round of silence stretches into the air and he stiffens.
“Years ago, I… made a promise, Brian too, to someone very dear to me. And very dear to you. He has always known that you were the most fragile one. And even during his last moments he—”
He can’t finish the line, because even after almost 30 years, it is still impossible to wrap his tongue around any sentence involving Freddie and Death at the same time. He sighs through his nose and slams his eyes shut before reopening them. “I made the promise to look after you. To look after our little brother. And I… it feels like I didn’t keep this promise.”
The concept makes John frown. “Roger, there is nothing you could have done for what is happening to me.”
“I am not talking about that. I am talking about the rest. I…” Roger’s demeanour faintly eases, eyes finally showing something other than the sourness that filled them from the moment he stepped across the threshold. “We lost you.”
He clears his throat, another nervous reflex. “John, look! I know, I know, you needed that. You needed distance and time and to step away. Yes! And we accepted it. But in the end, it… it felt like we lost you. We lost another brother.”
A sincere, even affectionate, look begins to steal over his face. “And, and, and, maybe I am wrong, but I have the feeling you lost a tiny part of yourself as well with this silence. I don’t know… perhaps it is selfish! Maybe, I’m overthinking, it’s just---”
He pauses to choose his words carefully. “I miss you. Not all the time! Not every day, but... I do. From time to time, I think ‘Oh I wish Deaky was there’.”
There’s a long break during which they just stare at each other. John smiles, close-mouthed but genuine, eyes dangerously glassy: “I miss you too you know? From time to time. Hell –I even miss Brian!” He jokes and swallows hard before breathing again.
There is the ghost of a grin on Roger’s lips. “It’s silly but, even if I know you retired, that you didn’t want to play anymore, that you put Queen and music behind you… I still had, deep down, hidden under tons of concrete made of facts and realism, I still had this insignificant, senseless, ridiculous hope that, maybe one day, you would want to play with us again. And now—” This is risky territory, and he knows it by the tremor in his voice. “—now this tiny hope is gone. For good.”
His eyes burn hot, and a sob tears from his lips but he isn’t crying. He isn’t. It’s like all his tension, all his resentment, all of his love is trying to escape him at once. It’s too much for tears. Roger just wants to bloody scream.
“Fuck, I… I don’t want you to die!”
John snorts at the request. “Me neither.” Without thinking about it, he places a wrinkly hand on his chest, like if trying to catch this failure, trying to control this bomb inside of him. “I am terrified.”
The unforeseen vulnerability of this confession deflates Roger’s composure. And tears finally start to spill out.
Christ, they are both fucking idiots.
“Why did we have to wait for such an event to talk to each other again?”
“I don’t know, really,” John breathes and wipes his nose with the back of his fist. “A few months ago, I wanted to see you, you know? I thought ‘maybe I could write to Brian? Or call Roger? Just like that!’. But yeah, I changed my mind I guess.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know… I thought, with everything happening to both of you now, maybe you didn’t c–” he stops, mid-sentence, like it’s getting too weighty for him to deliver another word.
The drummer remains still, quietly sniffing, until it dawns on him.
“–maybe we didn’t care?”
The only answer from John is a shrug. And Roger’s heart drops.
For a second, he wants to be angry again. How hard is a phone call, or an email, or a card to confirm if they indeed do not care about him? Hell, he was the one who stepped away, the one who said he w— This doesn’t matter. Something restrains those feelings: the idea that John imagined Roger and Brian ceased to care about him is devastating.
His lips part, grasping for words, and as they find they have none, Roger pulls himself to his feet. The move is fast, making John lean backward in the armchair to look up at him.
“Get up Deaky.”
A frown. “Are you going to punch me?”
“For fuck’s sa… I’m gonna hug you! And I can’t do it with you in this armchair without throwing my back out.”
“Look, you really don’t have to. Brian already hugged me twice yesterday.”
“Precisely. Up.”
After a sigh, John obeys.
The pair face each other until Roger moves forward and gathers the other man in a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around him. Chin on his ex-bandmate’s shoulder, John stands stiff. It is easy to let Roger envelop him with his affection and natural cheer, for he always had this mysterious gift to get people comfortable and warm, to drag them in his welcoming aura like a giant sun.
They’re still for a moment until John slowly places his arms around him in return. All the feelings rise again dangerously to the surface and threaten to pour out of him in a tidal wave of emotions.
Imperceptibly, Roger tightens his embrace. “No matter what,” —he hates how his voice sounds watery— “You’re my little brother. The only one I will ever have.”
Shock robs John’s senses for he isn’t sure if he imagined these words or not. He swallows and presses closer, clinging on tight as tears start to run over his cheeks. Maybe with this embrace, he will make clear that his distance was never against him or Brian. That he masks all his fears and hurt with spikes of silence and sarcasm because it’s easier for him to handle.
They remain locked in their embrace a few seconds longer. Looking at it from the exterior the scene may be strange, but these two weepy old men really don’t care.
They eventually pull back, both red-faced, cheeks tearstained.
Roger mumbles: “We’re too old for that.”
“Particularly you.”
“Please.” Despite the gravity of their prior conversation, the drummer can’t help but smile, and the knot in his chest starts to untie itself. He rubs his nose with his palm. “You know what? I could really use a scotch now.”
“Okay.”
Promptly, John walks across the room to reach a small cupboard and takes out a bottle of scotch. “Directly from Scotland,” he explains, the voice is still unsteady, and pours the liquor in Roger’s glass. “My son sent it to us. Be my guest.”
An offer hard to refuse. Roger lifts the glass and sniffs the sweet perfume before taking a sip: “Hmm, you don’t want to join me?”
“No. I quit.”
The drummer’s (still red) eyes widen slightly, for this is the farthest thing he expected. It is not a secret that John went through tumultuous and self-destructive phases, with excessive boozing and partying leaving him feeling depressed or hollow. But people change, for good or bad reasons. And the decision to quit alcohol seems to definitely be part of the good ones.
Even though there is this lethal sword of Damocles hanging over his head, John looks fine. Appeased. With a smile, Roger places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder to squeeze it slightly before pulling away.
His glass now empty, he places it on the coffee table. “So, Brian told me he invited you and Veronica for dinner, next week.”
“Indeed.”
“I was wondering… can I come too?”
“You are asking for my permission?”
“I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Roger admits. “If a dinner for six is too much, I would understand.”
His face is impossibly affectionate –to the point where John frowns, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. He has the impression that if he said ‘no’, Roger wouldn’t argue, would just accept the verdict without raising his white eyebrows or his voice.
“Are you sure you want to come?” John questions with a grin, and the drummer looks over at him with an expression clouded by anxiety. “I mean, who wants to have dinner with a sociopath?”
All the air leaves Roger’s lungs. “What?! No no no John, I’ve never…Well, I did but –Look! This wasn’t my intention. I-I was just–” he stammers, and the more he does, the more John’s smile grows, until a laugh bubbles out of his throat.
“It’s okay Rog’,” he says to save his friend from his ramblings. “I mean; I call you ‘that blonde blind bitch’ daily.”
“Oh shut up Deaky.” Again.
And with that, all the pressure in the room fades away.
“Of course you can come,” John speaks, “I think I can survive a diner of six, but… please Rog, could you both not talk about music the whole time?”
“Fine! I will let Brian make the conversation,” he retorts and crosses his arms over his chest in a scornful way that doesn’t augur any good outcome. “Prepare yourself for hours of ecological issues and useless details about wild animals.”
A laugh, this time shared by both men, and a weight lifts from their shoulders the exact second they reach this familiar territory of jokes and comfortable bantering. It is like coming back to a favourite place you were gone from for so long, but never truly forgetting which parquet-floor boards creaked.
“Alright, since we’re having this heart to heart conversation, I need to ask you the real question.”
The frisky tone makes John curious.
“Did you see the movie?”
He nods. “I did.”
“And? What did you think?”
Greyish eyes narrow a fraction, and Roger fights back a smile. Simply because that irritated look John is currently giving him is so John.
“Well,” John pauses, “The music was good.”
A short but genuine laugh escapes Roger. “Yes, yeah… the music was okay I guess.”
“Barely decent, actually.”
They keep talking like this for about an hour, exchanging anecdotes or little jokes. So many things happened during the last decades that functioning in a normal friendship is a back and forth struggle between small talks and unintended reminders of the past.
But they both believe that they are at the middle ground, and Roger is silently hoping that during the coming weeks, John will permit him to gain back a place in his life. But he has his doubts.
Only when John's phone buzzes, that he checks the time. “Ronnie,” he says, looking at the message with a soft expression. “She’s asking me what I would like for dinner.”
John seems to think over his options as he quizzically stares up at Roger. Then, a frown, but a slightly annoyed one. “Huh... would you like to stay?”
It's an innocuous sort of question but asked only out of politeness. And Roger knows it. No matter what, John is well aware of the social conventions when you have a guest -thanks to the 50's strict upbringing- so he asks, because he had to, not because he wants to.
Roger shakes his head and grins.
“Thanks, but no thanks... I have a life you know?” The jest is light but true. Two of his children and Sarina are waiting for him at home, and he knows that he will need their love after the draining afternoon he went through. “And, we have a dinner planned soon, right?”
“Right.”
Both men stood in the vestibule; the drummer pulls on his coat carefully, then ties a scarf around his neck, and John remains silent, those inscrutable grey eyes observing his ex-bandmate.
“See you next week Rog'.”
With his hand on the door handle, Roger's face turns with a smile. “Next week Deaky.”
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