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The afternoon sun is pouring in, thick as honey, and Roger slips on his shades so that he can turn his face to the window and bask in the warmth. At least he's not in London. If he has to isolate himself somewhere, at least he has quiet evenings with fresh air to waft away his cares.
It's a silly notion, "cares," when he's rich as Croesus and has a beautiful family who are all, thank Whoever, in good health.
Good health. Crap, there go his thoughts in twenty directions.
***
Sarina padded into the house from the garden, cell phone in hand, and he could tell right away that something was wrong.
"It's not Rory, she's not sick again, is she?"
"Rory's fine." Sarina sat next to him on the sofa and took a deep breath. "I need you to listen and not to panic, okay?"
Did that ever work, telling someone not to panic right before dropping a bomb?
"What is it?" His voice was high and tremulous. "Just tell me, whatever it is—"
"Brian's had a heart attack."
Roger wondered if he were having one as well.
***
Even now, with Brian home and on the mend, the concept just doesn't make sense. Brian? BRIAN? With the exercise bike and the fucking rabbit food?
And of course Brian had swanned off to hospital in his personal physician's Rolls Royce. A half-snort, half-giggle escapes Roger. It threatens to turn into something else, something reminiscent of the sickly smell of fever on a red-eye flight from New York to London. Something that reminds him of the way his hands clenched the steering wheel at the words "Don't bother coming..."
"Stop that," he tells himself firmly. Brian's not dead, not even dying, and they chat every single day now. There's no tour—Roger's not sure how he feels about that, but he shoves those warring emotions aside—and, with nothing to argue about, their conversations are more relaxed than they've been for years.
He's had Rory on the phone a dozen times and she reassures him each time that Brian will be FINE, that his overall health is excellent and there's no reason to think the procedure will cause problems down the road. Macca had a stent and went on tour. Surely Brian, competitive bastard that he is, will do him one better. Two tours. Three.
Roger's back aches at the very thought. They'll be another year older if and when they can pick up where they left off. On normal tours Roger only worries about Brian getting enough sleep and not changing the setlist forty-seven times. He can't imagine worrying about blood pressure and EKGs and MRIs and the rest of the medical alphabet soup his daughter knows so well.
Fuck. Does he dare suggest "Sheer Heart Attack" for next summer?
Too soon?
His sigh seems heavier than usual. He does need to pick a song, and quickly, and he needs to make some very uncomfortable phone calls.
***
Anita's voice sounded hoarse, her words almost slurring from utter exhaustion. "If you could've seen his poor face, Roger, it would've made you cry."
Dozens of Brian's friends had gotten together (virtually) to film a get-well video for him. "Driven By You" was about the most perfect of his songs that they could have chosen, and they did a great job. Even Tim, good lad, put in a bit.
Roger would have done, if only...
"Nobody asked me," he told Anita, gentling his tone so that his frustration wouldn't show. "I didn't know a thing about it until it was posted. I'm sorry if I let him down."
"Oh, that's not it, not really." Anita replied. Quickly. Too quickly.
"I'd have done it in a heartbeat—fuck, sorry, wrong word. But seriously, if they'd have just let me know, I'd have been happy to do whatever they needed. Clown wig, letting Taylor shove me off the drum stool..."
She giggled at that. "You always make me feel better, Roger. It's a gift you have. Brian just loves your texts and the FaceTime calls; he tells me all about them even when I was in the room and listening to the two of you chatter on. I can't tell you how much that means to us both."
Not in a million years would Roger have thought of himself as an angel of mercy.
"He just...the video...oh, Roger, he kept staring at all the people who turned up. He kept...he kept thinking he'd see John."
***
It's a painful notion. After so much time, after so many grievances and silences, Brian, REALLY?
If Sarina worries that Roger is spending so much time in the studio, she doesn't say a word about it. He's listened to the song a dozen times, made copious notes, and has practiced guitar, vocals, and drums until he nearly falls asleep over the kit. But there's something—someone—missing.
He hates disturbing Jim Beach when he's recovering from his own heart attack (is this shit contagious?), but Jim is cordial to a fault even when Roger expects the impossible.
Using his best tactics (probably something about finances, if Roger thinks about it) Jim gets John on the phone. His voice sounds thicker. Aged. Well, fuck, whose doesn't, these days? John is clearly just going through the motions when he asks how Jim is feeling and says he and Veronica send their love.
"Thank you," Jim replies. "I do have to tell you that we're not alone. Roger's in on the call, too."
"Why?" John inquires evenly and with no emotion whatsoever "Did Brian die?"
Jim has warned Roger over and over about not antagonising John, but this is beyond the pale. "What the fuck kind of question is that? Wanker. And no, he didn't die."
"Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
That little bastard.
"I'm sending you an audio file. You're gonna listen, and you're gonna play bass on it, and you're gonna send it back to me."
"Roger." This time John sounds more normal. Wistful. "My stuff's at the warehouse. I haven't touched my bass since...well, since I can't remember when."
"Tough shit." Roger takes a deep breath. "A lot of people did one of Brian's songs for him to cheer him up. Tim even recorded stuff for them. Anyway, Brian was sad that you and I weren't there. YOU, specifically, although God only knows why."
Roger hears a click and for a horrible instant he thinks John has hung up. But it must have been Jim giving them some privacy, because John speaks again. "I haven't seen or talked to Brian in decades. Haven't given him a thought in almost as long except for all the news this week salivating over his heart attack. So why do you think I'm going to send someone for the Fender, do a recording - where, by the way, in my bloody bathroom? - and let you mix it together, for BRIAN?"
Roger has rehearsed this part, over and over, but the words still make his throat tighten. "Because it could've been too late and you don't want to go through that again, do you?"
Silence. A chasm between two men who were once so, so close.
Please, Roger doesn't say. Please help me bring him back. Because you're not there, and Freddie's been gone almost thirty years, and I'm afraid to be alone.
More silence. Roger tries to think of something to say and is still tripping over the words in his head when John suddenly asks, "What's the song, then?"
"It's not a Queen song," Roger puts in, nearly dizzy with relief. "It's 'Nothin' But Blue.' You played on it, remember? On Brian's 'Back to the Light' album?"
"In some ancient days, possibly." John's typing something on a laptop; Roger can hear the click of keys. "I'm sending Luke to the warehouse to get equipment. And, possibly, to teach me how to play bass again."
Roger can't help a laugh at that. "Let's give the original a listen. You'll pick it up again, right enough."
But, as it turns out, John doesn't get back into the swing right away. He grumbles that he doesn't remember the song and that he doesn't recognise his own playing.
"I'll do it, but I honestly don't know why."
"Perhaps it's because somewhere, under all that hostility, you have a heart?"
John snorts. "This doesn't mean I want to have drinks and catch up."
It's a shock when Roger's hopes shatter, hopes he wasn't conscious of experiencing.
"Just do the track." This time, he says it. "Please."
***
It takes a week for John to make the recording.
Roger sends it back in an e-mail with the message, "Not good enough. Try again."
***
The second version is flawless.
***
"You'll need your laptop," Roger tells Brian.
It's a struggle to keep his voice nonchalant, but he doesn't want any tells to give him away. Not when he worked so hard to do this, had to pull so many strings, had to put his heart on his sleeve..
Brian fumbles for a moment before the familiar chime of a Mac comes across the connection. "What're you up to, Rog?" he asks.
Roger smirks and shrugs. "Got a track I want you to hear."
Does he ever.
"So, this track," Brian reminds him, one eyebrow raised.
Roger emerges from his reverie, surprised that his fingers are tapping rhythms on the desk. Compound time, his favourite, and a sure sign that he's anxious. He shakes it off and quickly types an email to Brian. "Check your inbox. Click the link."
"If you're Rickrolling me, Roger, I swear to God..."
There, that sounds like the Brian of old. Roger grins at him. "You'll have to click to find out."
Brian mumbles something that sounds like "You little shit," but he eventually leans toward his laptop and opens his email. "Okay, playing...now."
To his surprise, Roger feels a little frisson of nervousness. He usually doesn't mind playing guitar or singing in front of Brian, but this is different.
Upon hearing the opening strains of "Nothin' But Blue," Brian blinks rapidly and glances at his phone. "You sound really good."
"I practiced and everything."
Brian swallows, his eyes glistening a little bit. He listens to the end, nodding at a particularly tasty guitar lick. "Did you mix in John's track from the album? Because it sounds exactly like him!"
Then it happens.
A little shuffling of feet, a couple of notes of "Another One Bites The Dust," and finally, out of the blue, someone whispering "Get well soon."
Someone.
John.
"Oh, my God," Brian gasps. "You got...how?"
"Jim Beach pulled it off - John would never have taken the call if he'd thought it was ME. It took some coercion but ultimately he caved to my charms." Roger grins, but Brian is too moved, too stunned to smile.
"Oh. He sounds...you did..."
Or to finish a sentence, apparently.
"Brian, before you hang up on me and try to call him...well, just don't."
"I should thank him, that was—"
"Brian. He's not looking to make amends. He doesn't want us in his life. This was his way of saying goodbye, and we have to accept that and move forward."
"I know. Oh, God, Roger..." Brian is crying full-out now, big gulping sobs that ring through the phone.
Sentimental old fool that he is, Roger traces Brian's face on the screen. He knows that the tears are mostly happy ones. He'd shed a few of his own from time to time in the last two weeks. Best let him cry it out, he thinks as he watches Brian start the MP4 a second time. And a third. And a fourth, until Brian finally, finally smiles and Roger knows exactly what lyric he's thinking about, because he's thinking it as well.
"We'll just keep on fighting through, Bri," he promises, and Brian's answering grin is the seal upon that vow.