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Garden Lodge, October 1995
A deep, long-suffering sigh breaks the stillness of the room.
The first sign of life since Roger sat down in his armchair fifteen minutes ago. A cue, perhaps? He lowers his newspaper fractionally and clears his throat. “We could watch a film if you like." It’s a suggestion like a weathervane, hoisted cautiously to find out which way the wind is blowing.
The miserable heap on the sofa responds with a half-hearted shrug and another wistful sigh. It’s not much. But it is a response, so Roger gives it another try. “One of your favourites, where everyone wears fancy dress and swoons dramatically every five minutes.”
This time, Freddie doesn’t react at all. He’s lying on his back, still in the pyjamas he'd worn to bed and his oldest, softest dressing gown. He’s got one arm thrown over his face, looking very much like he’s recently had a swoon himself. There are loose pieces of paper strewn all around him, as if he had taken a whole stack and thrown them in the air in a fit of rage.
Which is probably exactly what happened.
One of those days then.
Roger lifts Ugly Bugger (their newest feline acquisition, a sharp-clawed elderly nuisance that Freddie insists is actually called Lulu) off his lap gets up from his armchair. He takes a sip from his mug of tea and then casually places it on the coffee table, just within Freddie's reach, but not so close that it’s actually implying he put it there for him specifically. In which case he’ll be guaranteed to let it go cold, just to show how serious his plight is.
Roger sits down on the arm of the sofa by Freddie’s feet, and drops a hand lightly onto his calf. Freddie immediately moves his leg away, but he doesn’t kick out, which means that Roger’s touch will be grudgingly permitted if he tries a second or third time.
And he better well try.
Roger suppresses a sigh of his own. The day had started so well, with Freddie still peacefully asleep beside him as he crept out of bed. He didn’t have much planned but there was some restless energy coursing through him, so he took the Aston Martin for a spin to catch the last rays of the autumn sun, stopping for a bit of lunch at a lovely little country-side pub, then returned just in time before the first drops of rain started falling. He’d been looking forward to a glass of whiskey by the fireside, perhaps listening to Freddie noodling away at the piano. Or maybe join him on the sofa for a drawn out, lazy Sunday afternoon snog.
“How about a game then,” he asks, when he’s finally been permitted to touch his partner through the blanket covering his legs. “Your choice.”
The whine he gets in response sounds so miserable that Roger starts worrying. Has he completely misread the situation? Has Freddie taken ill with a stomach bug or the flu perhaps? He doesn’t look or feel feverish, and surely Phoebe would have said more than just “Oh, we’re feeling a bit put-out today” when Roger met him in the garden. But he’s got to make sure. “Are you getting sick?”
“‘m fine,” Freddie grumbles.
Only A Mood then, although with Freddie that’s nothing to be trifled with. At least he’s said actual words, that’s progress.
“Want me to put on some music?”
“Hah!” Freddie exclaims, both bitter and triumphant, and throws a hand up into the air. “Music,” he gripes, as if their (alright, mostly Roger’s) record collection had personally offended him.
But they’re getting somewhere. “What about it,” Roger asks, giving Freddie’s leg a little squeeze.
“Look at me. Oh, no don’t.” Freddie holds up an outstretched hand towards Roger and turns his face away. “I’m old and useless.”
For fuck’s sake, if this whole episode has been brought on by Freddie finding another grey hair when he shaved this morning, Roger is going to personally smash every mirror in the house. And those damned scales - the other likely culprit - right along with them. “You’re neither of those things, you daft git.”
“I should be composing,” Freddie moans. “There is so much still inside me, but it’s…” He groans and presses his fists against his chest. “It’s all locked up in here, like… like Rapunzel in her tower.”
Roger bites back a smile. “I’m sorry, love.” He lifts both of Freddie’s legs and scoots onto the sofa, placing his feet in his lap. “How did Rapunzel get out then? I reckon a dashing prince got involved at some point?”
“He did, and he got himself blinded for his efforts.”
“Not like I got much to lose then.” Roger has been considering laser surgery, but hasn't been able to bring himself to do it yet. Also, Freddie adores his glasses, so there hasn’t been much of an incentive from that side either. “So tell me, what have I got to do? Face off against a dragon? Or a horrible witch? ”
“Oh, shut your mouth,” Freddie grumbles. “Your eyes are worth more than anything I’ve ever written or ever will.”
“I… thank you.” Roger wants to counter that with a witty comeback, but finds himself honestly touched by the brash sincerity in Freddie’s voice.
“But I do appreciate the gesture,” Freddie sniffs.
“Welcome.” Roger slips his hands underneath the blanket and slowly starts massaging Freddie’s feet. Freddie doesn’t react at first, but after a couple of minutes, he sighs and relaxes a bit more into the cushions. Roger keeps up the alternating strokes for a while, listening to the soft patter of the rain against the windows. When they’ve both been silent long enough that Freddie might as well have fallen asleep, he asks softly, “What’s the matter, then?”
“I feel like shit,” comes the concise answer.
“Did someone bother you?”
“No, it’s just…” Freddie shakes his head. “Me. I am bothering me. I’m horrible.”
Roger tuts and runs his thumbs along the arch of Freddie’s foot. “It’s just the Sunday blues, love.”
“We’re rock stars, darling, it’s not like we have to be at the office Monday morning.”
Oh, dear. “Actually, we do have that meeting with the EMI people about the…”
Freddie wails and flops over onto his front, burying his face in a pillow.
“Alright, let me get the phone.” Roger tries to wiggle out from underneath Freddie’s legs, which are suddenly very heavy and difficult to dislodge. “I’ll tell Miami to tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“That’s very chivalrous of you, but I’ve already cancelled the last two times,” Freddie mumbles into the pillow. “Better just get it over with.” But he stays slumped on his stomach, looking thoroughly depleted.
Roger considers the figure sprawled out in front of him. Considers his original plans for the day, too. He drums his fingers against Freddie’s calf. “Come on, there’s got to be something we can do to cheer you up.”
Freddie just shakes his head into the pillow.
“Like…” Roger pretends to think long and hard about it. “Hey, you could blow me!”
Freddie lifts his head to scowl at Roger over his shoulder. “Using my misery for your gain, how lovely.”
“Might get your creative juices flowing.”
“Are you sure it’s my juices we’re talking about?”
Roger pouts and makes a show of being horribly vexed about it. “Alright then, I’ll blow you. There, satisfied?”
Freddie turns onto his side, not looking at Roger at all as he reaches for the tea. “Shouldn’t you be out there in your ridiculous sports car, looking for something younger and prettier?” He takes a dainty little sip before placing the mug back on the table.
Roger rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I haven’t tried, but apparently, all you get when you honk at pretty girls these days, is a “fuck of, grandpa’.”
Freddie gasps. “How rude!” There’s a bit of a sparkle in his eyes now, which pleases Roger extraordinarily.
“I know. Kids these days…”
“Roger, how old were those girls exactly?”
“Twenty-one, and not a day younger,” Roger responds automatically, before his brain catches up with the fact that he’s talking about an entirely fictional scenario. “Fuck off! I didn’t actually honk at anyone, you sod!”
Freddie snorts.
“Alright, except that absolute wanker that cut me off at Piccadilly. And a couple of arseholes who don’t have the cognitive capacity to understand the concept of a middle lane. Which is not the slow lane. Why would you stay in the middle lane if there is empty space in front of you for miles?”
Freddie takes another sip of the tea. “Yes, dearie.”
“Point is, I don’t honk at random girls to get a bloody date, Freddie.”
“No, I suppose you’re a bit more sophisticated about it.”
Roger bites his lower lip and cocks his head at Freddie, not bothering to hide exactly where his thoughts are going. “Not when I've got the hottest of all dates waiting for me at home.”
“I wasn’t aware Phoebe had bought dates,” Freddie sniffs, pursing his lips to keep a smile off his face. “Or that you were that keen on them.”
“Oh, I’m keen.” Roger slowly lets one hand wander up Freddie’s calf, sliding it towards his knee.
There’s a pleased smile chasing the frown off Freddie’s expression, but then he gently stops Roger’s hand when it reaches his thigh. “I appreciate the sentiment, darling, but…” He runs his thumb over Roger’s knuckles. “But would you just be old and miserable with me for a little while?”
Without hesitation, Roger crawls up on the sofa, motioning at Freddie to make some space for him. He wedges himself in between Freddie and the back of the sofa, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling his face against his neck. It’s a tight fit, the sofa being just wide enough to accommodate two middle-aged men. Roger closes his eyes and breathes deeply. God, Freddie smells lovely. He feels lovely too, all snug and warm in his arms. Freddie shifts back and forth for a while, trying to find a comfortable position. It’s a bit distracting, Roger must say.
After a few more seconds Freddie stills and clears his throat. “I’m flattered, darling, but could you stop pressing your keenness against my backside, just for the moment?”
Roger grins into Freddie’s lovely salt-and-pepper hair. “Where am I supposed to put it then?”
“Oh, stop being smart with me.”
“I will, when you stop being so lovely.” Roger breathes a kiss to the back of Freddie’s neck.
“Impossible,” Freddie mutters, wriggling his bum a bit more under the pretence of settling in.
The temptation to keep giving back as good as he gets, just to see where it might take them, is there, but in the end, Roger just smiles and pulls Freddie a little closer against him.
Later perhaps. They have all the time in the world, after all.