Chapter Text
1974
They felt like they’d finally made it. Touring America as the support for an established band was the break the boys had been looking for, as it was the first big step they needed to get their name out there. Freddie promised it every night before they went on: They were going to be big. Legendary.
Roger, Freddie, Brian, and John all quickly picked up the habit of celebrating at whatever local club they could get to in whatever area they were in each night. The cycle went: sleep til noon, sound check, dinner, show, party, repeat. Over and over they played to thousands of people and collectively poured their hearts and souls into each performance. The first time they had a day off it was as though all the exhaustion caught up with them and they were all almost too sore to move, especially Roger and Freddie, who as drummer and lead singer, respectively, both had the most physically taxing jobs during performances.
As the tour progressed, the boys found themselves monopolized by the rock and roll lifestyle, particularly during the week-long stint they had where every night for seven straight days they had a show in a different city. The boys didn’t even get the luxury of sharing hotel rooms with one another during this time, as after each afterparty they were crammed onto an old tour bus and shipped off to the next city.
It was the bed situation that Roger hated the most. The four bunks, two on each side, were extremely small, skinnier than even single-sized beds, and they lacked curtains so there was never any hint of privacy for any of them. Being the youngest two in the band, Roger and John were often booted out to get the leftovers from whatever Freddie and Brian wanted, and therefore were the two who were assigned the top bunks. John was okay with it, though he loathed cambering up and down from the bed, but Roger hated his bunk with a passion. Already a restless sleeper the blonde found it even more difficult to drift off to sleep in a bed that was constantly moving, jittering, and jolting. More than once he found himself pitched off the side and onto the floor when the bus rounded a corner too sharp. Every night he was exhausted beyond belief and could feel his muscles screaming for relaxation, but no matter how sleep deprived he was he never could get a full rest in those Godforsaken bunks. Needless to say, the drummer was miserable while they lived on the bus.
The exhaustion took its toll on the newbie rockstars, and soon tension rose in the cramped vehicle. They never had the opportunity to get away from each other, and like brothers the more they were forced to hang out the more they argued. Freddie’s scrabble tournaments quickly started to fail to lift spirits when the boys started feeling so tired they couldn’t think and so irritable they couldn’t handle the friendly competition. Roger and Brian were the worst with the bickering. Brian hadn’t been feeling well lately and Roger was in pain from all the strenuous drumming coupled with his lack of sleep and the uncomfortable bed, so interacting with either of them was like walking in a mine field, and together they were a recipe for disaster.
“Well fuck, Brian, it is a bloody word!” Roger shouted, his face heating in anger as he glared at the guitarist from across the tiny table in the minuscule kitchenette area of the bus. The band were having drinks and playing a round of scrabble to ride out the adrenalin of their show that had ended just an hour previous. According to management this would be a longer trip so they weren’t allowed to stay around for any post-concert clubbing.
“I’ve never heard or seen that word in my life, Roger,” Brian stated, fixing the blonde with an icy glare. “You can’t use it, it doesn’t count.”
“Oh excuse me I wasn’t aware you were a fucking dictionary!” Roger spat. “Its a bio word, of course you wouldn’t have heard it.”
“Well, since we don’t have a dictionary to verify and no one else here knows it, you can’t use it. We can’t even tell if it’s a proper noun or not.”
“Did Elizabeth die and make you Queen?” Roger waved his hands in an exasperated gesture as he began to shake with rage. “That’s not fair, Bri! The whole bloody point of the game is to outsmart your opponents!” God forbid someone know a word that future doctor Brian May didn’t know.
“Roger, I’m not accepting it. It looks completely made up.”
“You know what, Brian? Fuck. You.” In one swift movement Roger leapt to his feet and batted the game board across the table at the offending bandmate, where it skidded into the guitarist’s lap, tiles flying everywhere.
“Fucking grow up!” Brian retaliated quickly, sharply throwing a tile directly at the drummer’s face, where it hit his cheek, stinging him like a bee on impact.
“Oh, ya want to fight, do yeh?” Roger growled, his Cornish accent thickening in his anger much like it did when he was drunk. His fists tightened to the point where he could feel his nails digging into his calloused palms.
Brian leapt to his feet as well, his own fists balling up as the game board clattered to the floor below him. He raised one fist as though he were actually going to strike the drummer. Roger flinched violently away, but was luckily saved by the lead singer of the band.
“Children! Children, that is enough!” Freddie shouted, jumping to his own feet to hold up his hands between his quarreling bandmates, effectively stopping Brian from hitting Roger and quickly deescalating the fight. “Both of you calm the fuck down.”
Roger would never admit that there was anything more to his reaction to Brian’s impending right hook or that his swift duck away from Freddie’s outstretched hand was anything more than a normal instinct. It took a brief moment for him to ground himself once more and the drummer glanced around the table in discomfort, noticing the genuinely frightened expressions on John’s and Freddie’s faces as their eyes darted between their two angry bandmates. Immense guilt instantly washed over Roger like a tidal wave. He hadn’t meant to scare anyone, and his heart sank, thinking that they probably all thought he was horrible now, and all because of a stupid game. His rational mind shouted that it had been Brian who was the aggressor in this situation, but his exhausted, anxious, and vulnerable self-consciousness screamed that he himself was violent one, that he was obnoxious, and that he had ruined the game, that he ruined everything.
He shook his head willing the swirling thoughts to disappear as he cast his gaze to the floor, his cheeks heating in shame. He stretched open his hands, stretching them and squeezing them over and over to release the tension as, without another word, he slipped out of the cramped sitting area and padded down the two short meters to the bunks. Roger always felt white hot embarrassment after he lost his temper, which on occasion just made things worse, but this particular time the embarrassment just sent him off to hide. He needed to be alone or he felt like he would go crazy. He thought to himself that he’d rather be anywhere than stuck on this cramped tour bus.
With a tired groan the drummer pulled himself onto the right side top bunk where he had his own pillow and blanket from home. He snuggled in and inhaled his own scent that brought him some kind of vague comfort. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep especially since the others seemed to be staying up and chatting, but he was truly exhausted, angry, and didn’t want to face any of them again for the rest of the night. It was the wee hours of the morning anyhow, so there was nothing much better to do than to try to sleep.
As he dozed, Roger couldn’t help but notice that his body felt more run down than it ever had in his life. Touring had been exhausting with the show, party, hangover cycle they’d been of for the past solid week. He knew he needed to take better care of himself on the road if they were going to continue at this pace. They all needed more water, more sleep, less booze, less drugs, but Roger lived in the moment, and it wasn’t until those rare occasions where he laid his head down at night, relatively sober, that he felt how drained he was remembered the need to take care of himself. Roger was surprised to find himself drifting off to sleep to the white noise of the moving bus, and he didn’t put up a fight as the rare sweet release of sleep took him.
The other bandmates were rather surprised at how Roger had just up and walked away from them like that. It wasn’t like him at all to give up so easily, and Freddie gazed sadly toward the bunks as the drummer retreated.
“Oh, dear.” Freddie whispered as not to allow Roger to hear him worrying. “That’s not like him to just walk off. I do hope he’s alright.”
Brian snorted and rolled his eyes as he plopped back down and pulled the game board back up onto the table. “Come off it, Fred. He’s fine.”
“I think he’s just knackered like the rest of us,” John piped up with a yawn as he stretched his arms above his head. “You know how he gets. In fact, I think I’m going to turn in soon, too. No more scrabble for me, but I’ll stick around for a few.”
“I’m about done out here as well,” Freddie sighed solemnly, casting a wary look toward Brian. “Its been a long week.” The singer stretched before slipping away from the table and heading toward his own bunk directly beneath Roger’s.
John’s gray eyes flicked to Brian, and in them Brian sensed a prying curiosity. “What?” Brian snipped, thoroughly annoyed.
“Nothing, just thinking about the game.” John sighed, his voice low and his gaze searching.
“What about it? Roger’s cheating?”
“Oh come off it, Brian,” John grumbled, catching the guitarist off guard with his unsolicited attitude. “You know he doesn’t cheat. None of us do, and its offensive you’d think so. Just because he used a word you didn’t recognize doesn’t mean he cheated.” The bassist’s tone was starting to get heated as he continued. “He was right that the whole point was to use words others wouldn’t think of. He’s not a bloody imbecile and you shouldn’t treat him like that. You shouldn’t treat any of us like that, for that matter.”
“Oh” was all Brian’s scrambled mind could conjure in response. He wasn’t used to being called out so blatantly and he immediately felt like the worst person in the world. Crippling guilt clutched at his insides as he felt his heart break. “D-do I do that a lot?”
John’s eyes softened at hearing Brian’s upset reaction, but as he met his gaze some kind of resolve hardened behind his knowing gray eyes. “Yes, Bri. Not as much to me and Fred, but you treat Rog like shit. Quite often.”
“I— but—“ Brian was at a loss for words as he searched John’s expression for any sign of exaggeration. “How so?” He challenged, suddenly finding his voice, deciding that his bandmate’s words couldn’t be true.
“I feel like you have this air about you that you think you’re better than him. Smarter. Some of the things you say to him makes it sound like you think he’s dumb. But all that is just my observation. I don’t know what Freddie thinks or how Rog feels. It’s just what I see.”
“I do not think he’s dumb!” Brian whimpered, his voice rising slightly in distress.
“Then why did you accuse him of making that word up?” John hissed, still keeping his voice low. He was standing now, annoyance boarding on anger flashing bright in his eyes. “Its inconceivable to you that any of us could know anything that you don’t, isn’t it?”
Brian had had no idea that John felt so strongly about his friendship dynamic with Roger until that moment, and he wondered if Roger had just been suffering through their friendship all these years. Was it really how John perceived it? His voice came out as a pathetic whisper as he responded, “John, that’s not at all what I think.”
“Well, I just wanted to make you aware of how shitty you just were to him. It’s his business though, so I won’t meddle any longer. I’m tired. Night, Bri.” John was the third band member to retreat to the bunks, leaving Brian to his thoughts at the tiny table where only 10 minutes ago the whole band had been seated, having a well and good time together.
Brian grabbed a beer from the mini fridge under the table and brooded over what he’d just learned about the way he was perceived by his bandmate. Guilt overcame him as he thought over how the game had ended, remembering the flash of hurt that had lit Roger’s baby blue eyes when he’d accused him of making the word up. Brian painfully remembered the rage he’d felt when Roger had argued with him. He’d genuinely believed that Rog had been cheating, but now that he thought it over he realized how awful he’d been, and that he was probably wrong all along. After all, Brian being interested in astrophysics knew first hand that there were some weird words in every scientific discipline. It was just a dumb game and he’d hurt his best friend’s feelings and made an ass of himself for nothing.
After sulking for a while Brian took the last gulp of his beer before he started scooping up the abandoned game pieces and dumping them into the little velvet bag. The box was long gone, so he gently tied the bag and simply set it atop the board before getting up and retreating ruefully to the bunk area. He flipped off the small light over the table, casting the interior of the bus into darkness, lit only by tasing headlights shining in the windows.
He was surprised to hear three different deep breathing patterns, and smiled to himself, glad that it seemed as though everyone was actually asleep for once. God knew they all needed it. Before ducking into his own bunk, Brian’s eyes swept over each of his sleeping bandmates in the glow from whatever highway they were on and landed on the pretty face of their drummer. The blond was out like a light, deeper asleep than Brian reckoned he’d ever seen him. He was lying on his stomach with his face turned toward the middle of the bus and his cheek smooshed into his pillow. His eyes were closed peacefully, his long lashes contrasted sweetly on his full cheeks, and his lips were parted enough to let a tiny stream of drool escape to soak the pillowcase underneath him. His breathing was deep and even, the most steady it had seemed in weeks, now that Brian noticed it.
Brian resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the drummer’s cheek fondly, and instead just smiled softly at the peaceful sight and ducked into his own bunk. He tried to put the argument they’d had out of his mind, as they had a dozen like it every day. He couldn’t beat himself up over one little spat. When they woke up in the morning it would all be forgotten, so Brian chose to think of anything else instead, like a new riff he could play on Red. He settled down and found himself already feeling sleep grasping at his frayed nerves…
Brian awoke with a start, cursing to himself and sitting up to rub his eyes. The bus was still dark as the dead of night, it couldn’t have been more than an hour since he’d gone to bed. He sat up with a groan and rubbed his eyes, looking around blearily for whatever had awoken him, and was met with the startlingly owlish appearance of Freddie as the singer peered out at him from the blackness of his bunk.
“Freddie what—“ Brian began, but the singer cut him off with an aggressive “shh” as he pressed his fingers to his lips.
A small murmur suddenly cut through the white noise of the bus, and Brian looked around in bewilderment, his eyes landing on the source as another, more desperate sounding whine reached his ears. It was Roger. The blond had shifted to his back, his blanket cast away to the floor and his pillow teetering on the edge. Brian couldn’t see his face from where he sat in his own bed, so he slowly and silently slipped into the aisle and stood so he could check on him.
“Brian” Freddie hissed, “Don’t wake him!”
It was then that Brian could see the state their drummer was in. Roger had broken out into a cold sweat, his face was ghostly pale, and his brows knitted together. His eyes were still closed, but much tighter than they had been earlier, and Brian could see the rapid eye movements beneath his lids. The drummer’s scarred knuckles were translucent as he gripped the sheets for dear life.
Suddenly, a loud cry from the blond sent Brian nearly jumping out of his skin and effectively cleared up the mystery of what had woken him up.
“I’m sorry!” Roger cried amongst other indecipherable pleadings. Tears were squeezing their way out of his closed eyes and Brian felt his heart break a little bit at the sight.
“Remind me why we shouldn’t wake him, Fred?” Asked John from behind, causing Brian to jump once again, having been unaware that the bassist had been awake.
“Because,” the singer sighed sadly as he stood from his bed, coming to stand beside the guitarist. “Sometimes if he’s woken forcibly he thinks he’s still in the nightmare for a moment. It could be dangerous for both him and the person waking him—“
Another desperate cry cut the singer’s explanation short and now Roger was thrashing about in his bunk, kicking his feet at the wall and turning his head side to side rapidly as his whimpers increased in frequency. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” The pillow finally fell victim to gravity with one too many wriggles from it’s upset owner.
“Freddie, we have to wake him!” Brian whimpered. He couldn’t take this. The guitarist stepped closer to the drummer and hesitated, images of how this could go wrong flicking through his head. “Roger,” he called quietly, “Roger, come on, wake up mate, it’s only a dream.” He slowly and gently placed his hand on the drummer’s shoulder. He was taken aback by the speed at which Roger’s hand came up to capture Brian’s wrist in a vice grip. “Bloody hell, Rog,” Brian hissed in alarm, bringing up his other hand to stroke the drummer’s forearm in hopes he would relax his grip and wake up. “Come on, Roggie. You’re alright.” He cooed softly.
Roger then awoke with a gasp, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes flew open to reveal bright irises enhanced by fear and exhaustion. He sprung into a sitting position causing both Freddie and Brian to jump back in surprise.
Roger’s shockingly blue orbs darted around first to check his surroundings, then to the faces of each of his bandmates. The only word Brian could come up with to describe the look in Roger’s eyes was terror. It was unnerving to see someone so stubborn and self-reliant looking so frightened and vulnerable. The blond was shaking like a leaf.
“Roger—“ Brian began cautiously, but he was cut off.
“I’m sorry,” the drummer interrupted, uttering the apology for the dozenth time that night, though for the first time consciously. “Did— did I wake you all?” His eyes darted to each of their faces once more before dropping to his lap, tears leaking down his full cheeks. His voice was so small and frail he sounded like a small child who had just deeply disappointed his parents. It broke all his bandmates’ hearts.
“Rog, love, are you alright?” Freddie asked gently, placing a hand lightly on Roger’s knee.
The blond took a shuddering breath, “Yeah, Fred. ‘M alright.”
“That’s it, love,” Freddie hummed in encouragement as he gently took hold of Roger’s arm in order to help him down off the top bunk. “You’re alright.”
Freddie had lived with Roger for quite some time and had even shared a room with him at one point, so he was very practiced in the art of taking care of Roger Taylor: a feat not many could even attempt. Roger was physically clingy as all getup but when it came to emotional vulnerability there were very few people with the ability to crack through his tough shell. Living and working in constant close quarters with Freddie for so long had given the drummer no choice but to become emotionally vulnerable to him. What else was he supposed to do when he woke up crying in the middle of the night several times a month? He’d had to be honest with him, he’d had to let him in. And in turn, of course, Freddie quickly figured out how to soothe the drummer.
Freddie was ever so careful as he nudged Roger into the lower bunk and clambered in after him, collecting the blond’s blanket and pillow to burrow him with on the way in. Cuddles, closeness, the like were what Roger needed to feel safe. He needed to be grounded by having a way to remember where he was and who he was with. He needed to not feel so alone.
Brian and John both watched on in amazement at how gentle Freddie was with him and how the normally volatile drummer just accepted it. Freddie settled in beside Roger and brought him into his arms. “Would you like to talk about it?” He cooed as he began to stroke the blond strands out of Roger’s face.
Roger shook his head, his still fearful eyes darting past Freddie to Brian and John before meeting Freddie’s once more. Brian and John both felt their hearts break a little more seeing the unmistakeable guard going up over their drummer’s soul.
They weren’t trusted.
“Rog, I don’t want to pressure you, love, but could we at least let them know in the morning what all this is about?” Freddie’s eyes never left Roger’s as he tried to reason with him. “We’re in close quarters, it’s only fair. Look how shaken they are!”
A heavy sigh escaped the drummer’s lips as he snuggled deeper into the pillows, seeking refuge. He just wanted to be consumed by them and disappear. “Alright Fred. I just don’t want to talk about it right now, is all. It was a bad one and I have a headache now.”
“Alright.” Freddie accepted, remembering that the drummer always got headaches every single time he cried. The singer then twisted around to look at the other half of the band and offered them a reassuring smile, “I got him, boys, we’re all good here. Get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning, yeah?”
Brian and John both muttered their assent and retreated into their bunks as Freddie returned his attention to Roger. He continued running his fingers in soothing patters through Roger’s hair and kept an arm wrapped protectively over his thin shoulders. In the softest whisper he could muster Freddie breathed: “I got you. You’re safe.”