Chapter Text
The crowd’s still screaming as they stumble off the stage into the dark. The dressing room’s somewhere up ahead, not that any of them can really tell where they’re going after the glare of stage lights and cell phone cameras pointed in their eyes.
This was actually probably the best show they’ve ever had. There had been absolutely no technical problems and the public had been adorable, singing along to most songs and cheering like crazy. Freddie’s voice was the best it had been in weeks, probably because of how relaxed and confident he felt that night. Roger hadn’t missed a beat of any songs, followed by John’s incredible bass skills that impressed everyone. Brian had played his guitar that night like he was born with it in his hands, his fingers made to move on the strings of Red Special. None of them could think of a better night, gleeful glances shared mid-song communicating this more clearly than words ever could.
But their opinion doesn’t seem to be shared by everyone.
They’re in the dressing room when everything goes wrong. The atmosphere is amazing, celebratory, all of them still riding high from the amazing energy on stage. Freddie actually accepts a high-five from Roger, too pleased to be self-conscious at how dorky he probably looks, and he’s just settled in front of the tiny room’s single mirror when John speaks up.
“Well, shit,” he says plainly. He’s calm as always—no hint of the catastrophe to come, no way for Freddie to brace himself.
“What is it, dear?” Freddie gropes through the mess on the table for the makeup remover. His eyeliner is a tad smudged, but even that’s not enough to upset him. Not yet.
“You remember that bloke from the press who came up to us before the show, yeah?”
And Freddie’s heart sinks. He knows, somehow, what’s coming next, even before John, who he now sees is holding his phone, reads out what the man has commented:
“Just saw @QueenOfficial. Two-second review: totally lame, singer is a ponce, do NOT recommend.”
“Prick,” Roger mutters into the ensuing silence.
Suddenly, Freddie doesn’t feel as happy and proud. He stares a back in the mirror and now wants to get mad at the smudged eyeliner. He can’t believe he let himself think this time it was good enough. That what he does on that stage is what the people want, what makes them buy those tickets.
He can barely hear what’s happening around him as he stares in his own eyes through the mirror, the usual self-deprecating looks he gives himself coming back. He doesn’t want to cry; he really doesn’t. He’s mad, at himself, for being who he is. For being a ponce . That’s what he is; that’s what he’s always been.
There’s a laugh that erupts from behind him, he doesn’t bother trying to find out what’s happening, he just wants to look back in the mirror, and then look at himself, with everything he’s ever hated about himself, fixed. He wants everything fixed, everything too much removed. He just wants to be as perfect as everyone else seems to be.
“Look, we still deserve to go out and have some fun!” Roger is saying loudly. Roger is hard to ignore, especially when he raises his voice. He doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but Freddie cringes back automatically, then tries to turn the movement into an exaggerated reach for his towel. He almost can’t bear to hear what Roger has to say next, because what if it’s about him, about how they could do so much better if only—
But Roger only says, “The press have always been assholes to us. I still want a drink!”
“Hear, hear,” Deaky says dryly. By his tone, Roger has been rambling on about this for some time.
“That’s all right by me,” Brian pipes up. He’s settled his beloved guitar in her case, lovingly locked her away, safe as could be. He’s also changed clothes, which is much more than Freddie has yet managed. “What about you, Fred? You up for a pint?” he asks, and smiles.
Freddie turns away. That smile is dangerous for the longing it sparks inside him, and he can’t think about that right now. “Of course, darling, you know me!” he says, forcing cheer into his voice. If the others don’t suspect anything, he doesn’t want to plant the seed of doubt in their minds--or water the seed that’s already there, that must be there, after the performance he gave tonight.
Irritably, he shakes the thoughts away. Not now, not now . He focuses very precisely on wiping off his stage makeup—smudged and too gaudy—then changing into his everyday clothes—still too flouncy, probably, even if they aren’t made of satin—and brushing out his hair—which is, as always, impossible and unruly.
He slams the hairbrush down with unnecessary force. “Come on , darlings, I thought we were getting a drink?” he calls to the room at large.
“Just waiting on you, Freddie!” Roger calls back, to laughter from most people crammed into the tiny space.
He wants to go home. The thought of being in a pub right now doesn’t seem appealing. People looking at him, sneering at him. Won’t it bother the boys? They just want a fun night, not a night with him being an emotional wreck. They can have fun without him, maybe they’ll have more fun without him, not having to worry if he’s gonna jump on them at any moment. Not having to hear him talk stupidly and look idiotic. But they’ll notice something’s wrong, at least Brian will. And he doesn’t want to talk about how much of a burden he feels like.
But still, he puts on a smile, bows graciously, and lets the laughter cover up the moment when he has to figure out what to say. He does have to go, he knows that, but now Roger’s made a joke and he has to respond to that too .
“Being this perfect takes work, dear,” he says as he straightens, stomach clenching horribly at the lie. “And now you’re the one holding us up!”
The laughter, mercifully, turns on Roger then, who accepts the ribbing with good grace. But that’s Roger—nothing ever seems to get to him.
Freddie wishes with all his heart that he could be the same way.
They’ve played this venue before, so they end up at a pub nearby that they’re all familiar with. At least it isn’t somewhere brand new, at least there isn’t that anxiety on top of everything else, but the place is small. In a good mood, Freddie would call it homey . Like this, he thinks it’s cramped—most especially when he’s given the task of buying the first round and comes back to their booth to find that Roger and Deaky have their heads together over Roger’s phone on one side, leaving Freddie to sit next to Brian on the other. And the booths, even for Freddie in a good mood, are small .
He sets the pints down, smiling as best he can over the anxious pounding of his heart, all the while keeping his lips nervously pinched closed. Brian’s watching the other two, brow furrowed in that way he has when he’s really thinking, his curls even more flyaway than usual after two hours on stage. He’s beautiful ; he’s always been beautiful.
“What are you looking at, Rog?” Freddie asks, seeking to distract himself. He selects one of the glasses and slides in next to Brian, given no choice but to press himself right up against him.
“Our Twitter feed,” Roger replies, and now he is angry. “Bunch of fucking ungrateful assholes .”
“Don’t take it so personally, Rog,” Deaky says. He seizes a free pint, fast, and gulps down a sizeable amount.
“I’m not! I’m just fucking pissed that they paid to come to our concert—our awesome concert, might I add!—and they’re only now complaining about it!”
John’s mumbling something about how they already have the money for the night, it hardly matters anymore what these people say, but Freddie, his heart sinking into his toes, can’t stop himself from pulling his own phone out of his pocket. He opens up the Twitter app, uselessly trying to brace himself, and it’s like a punch to the face when he doesn’t even have to navigate to the @QueenOfficial page to see what these “assholes” are saying.
Because right there, on his own account, are a string of very clear comments, addressed just to him.
lmao just saw @FreddieMercury in concert, who does this prat think he is??
tbf I didn’t see tonite’s @QueenOfficial gig but @FreddieMercury belongs in a balet studio not in a rock band, jarring to say the least
@FreddieMercury get your teeth fixed, mate!
There are others—some are even complimentary, though how anyone could see anything good in Freddie or his work he doesn’t understand—but he’s stuck sitting here, staring down at the bright screen in his palm, blinking back tears. No, he can’t cry, not here.
“Freddie?” Brian’s voice, beside him.
Freddie waves a dismissive hand, swallowing hard, fighting to control himself. “Oh, you know, the perils of stardom, dear.”
“They have been saying some dreadful things,” Brian says, subdued. He swivels his own phone on the table in front of him.
“They’re just uncultured assholes, Brian. It’s not like they even know what they’re talking about,” Freddie says with a small shrug and a smirk on his face that is so painful to do.
He swallows hard to make sure his voice doesn’t sound choked up, because he knows the tears are close and he absolutely doesn’t want them to get out, not in front of the others. They can’t know that he’s so weak, especially Brian. What will he think of him then? He’s already ruining everything good of the band, he has to at least look like he doesn’t care about it. Like he doesn’t think maybe they should have stayed with Tim instead, that maybe they wish they stayed with Tim. Wasn’t everything working out so much better before he started changing everything?
There were no shows cut off by someone yelling homophobic slurs before. There were no people coming to their show just to tell others how bad it is afterwards, how much of a faggot the singer is. He’s scared that maybe the boys wish he’d just leave the band. He’s scared that they hate him for making the public hate them. Maybe, he thinks wildly, he should stop running around like a kid in every show. Maybe then they won’t want him gone.
He goes to the @QueenOfficial page a last time before closing his phone, more insults tweeted every few minutes. He put his phone on the table beside Brian’s, praying he can’t notice how much it’s absolutely killing him how much people hate him. Praying that he doesn’t also notice the shivers on Freddie’s whole body when their arms accidentally brush against each other. If the guitarist ever finds out about this thing Freddie feels for him, they definitely won’t want him anymore. He can’t imagine Brian feeling a fraction of what Freddie feels for him. Who would love someone like him?
Nobody, and he knows it. Nobody can love someone like him. He’s the type of person that doesn’t live to see the day when someone finally loves him. He’s the type of person that stays alone all their life while they watch others build families and get married. It’s better if it stays like that, secretly loving his best friend while he watches him eventually finding someone else, finding someone better than him, which isn’t really hard.
“Right,” Brian says, cheerfully enough that whatever he’s read must not have affected him too much. “You’re right, Fred, of course.” He smiles and takes a pint for himself. “Oi, Rog, you’re falling behind,” he says, and Freddie can feel him kick Roger under the table.
Roger looks up from his phone. “Huh? Oh, drinks are here!” he exclaims. He immediately turns his phone off, cruel tweets forgotten with an ease that Freddie envies, and holds up his glass. “Cheers, mates! We rocked ‘em deaf and blind and I say that’s worth celebrating!”
Freddie makes himself laugh and hopes that, under the sound of glasses clinking and the general hubbub of the pub, it sounds genuine. “Cheers, darlings! To a fabulous night!”
If only, he reflects, sitting back to drink, it could have stayed as fabulous as it started.