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We were talking about the love we all could share
When we find it, to try our best to hold it there with our love
With our love, we could save the world, if they only knew
– Within You Without You, The Beatles
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This moment, Freddie thinks, is good and sweet enough to condense into scent or to paint in bright daffodil yellow—happiness, warmth. All gathered in the small and cramped flat, somehow congregating in the way they have come to in recent days—to talk (on the pretense of seriousness) about the band, about strategy and image, about the logistics of success. Really, they sit and smoke and throw out ideas and laugh softly, all dampened slightly by dreary London in winter, empty stomachs, and heads longing to be all in the clouds, realism keeping them tied down slightly, life like the string on a balloon.
Roger is laughing. He laughs quite a lot of the time, Freddie reflects with a small smile, observing as the drummer taps his fingers unconsciously on his knee to the beat of the song playing on the record. There is something intrinsic in these two, Roger and Brian, some inherent talent, some natural reaching for the stars, eyes alternately clear with deep thought of feeling and warm with merry amusement, pure mirth.
“I’m just saying, Freddie, if you ever do a thing like that – “
Freddie shakes his head, laughing, “Oh dearie me, never! Rather die first! Oh goodness, I wish I’d been there!”
“Wasn’t so funny at the time, though,” Brian grouses, semi-unhappy at being the butt of the joke.
“Oh Brimi, I’ll just keep an eye on you, don't you worry. Make sure you don't forget your trousers or something!”
This, of course, sets both he and Roger off on another fit of laughter that has Brian rolling his eyes. The man is only trying to hide his own amusement, this given away by the slight upturn of his lips, the shaking of his head he does when he laughs (or is trying exceedingly hard not to).
They are getting on as famously as ever. The shadow of Tim leaving has passed, replaced by Freddie’s advance and insistence to get on with it, sun bright in his encouragement to reassemble the band, to keep on, because they mustn't lose any more steam than they already have. So, they regroup and he learns the repertoire. Really, though, they’ve agreed to throw most of it out and start afresh. New ideas, new envisionings, new sound. The crux, of course, is that they haven’t got much. A twenty minute set at most and that gets you nowhere. They must get to work and yet… they don’t.
There is something to be said for getting acquainted with each other, especially for a new band. Look at The Beatles, though that didn’t end so well… the point still stands. Good teamwork requires extensive and intimate familiarity. It really isn't an excuse, just professional practicality.
“Look, I was rushing the day I forgot it.” Brian puts in, reaching over to pluck the cigarette out of Roger's hand and stub it out, (no harm done—it was nearly burned out anyways).
“Yeah, but on a bridge?” Roger goads, lips in an amused smirk.
“Well, do you want to talk about the girl in the garage and in the –“
“I’m proud of that Mr. May,”
“‘Course you are, but what about the time your mother came –“
“Don’t even think about –“
“Alright, dears, you’ve beat each other out, settle down,” he puts in before this can really escalate. A bit of fun can stay fun for quite a long time, but can also change in a second. Best keep that from happening. They are having such a lovely afternoon.
Brian and Roger relax back into their seats, each reaching out for their mug of tea. They’re still shooting glances at each other, looking alternatively amused and challenging, but that’s acceptable.
These two, goodness! What luck he’s had. They call him ‘mate’ and put up with all his insistences about style and image. They laugh at his jokes (and not at him), mindful of ducking if he gets a bit enthusiastic and nearly swats them in the face, as sometimes happens; they know him, much more than he could imagine anyone could. What a difference from school, what a turn! This is what friendship is then? A sweet and curious realisation, he smiles to himself, right down into his mug of tea.
“Freddie,” says Roger as he gets up, crosses the room to open the window before Brian nags them about the amount of smoke smell in the room.
“Hmm?”
“How do you suppose we’ll get another bassist?”
“We’ll find one eventually.”
“Will we, because so far –” Brian puts in, the tone of his voice edging on worry.
“There’s really not been much luck and we’re stalled. It's slowing us down,” Roger says, relocating to sit down on the sofa besides Brian, assuming a serious expression: down to band business then, it seems.
“We can’t keep teaching them every time, we’ll never get anything done.”
“I know, but there's not much we can do until we get a competent bassist,” he says reasonably, “Look, until we do, we’ll just keep writing.”
None of them really wanted to hear that, even if it is reasonable. He knows they were looking only to grouse about the state of the band, but there's not much use, in the long or short term, in doing that. The point stands, though: how can you do anything without a backbone? Brian has a certain insistence about the band being a unit the whole way, creating everything all together right from the start. This is patently ridiculous, of course, and even Brian himself will steamroll past this picturesque ideal when he’s got an idea he wants them to try. Roger himself just wants them to get somewhere, he doesn't particularly care how. Freddie finds himself wanting the same thing. He is growing impatient for the future, for their guaranteed success.
Roger sighs, “Yeah, and how do we book gigs without a bassist? How do we get noticed without a bassist? These infrequent shows aren't going to do it. We have to get a steady audience.”
He has a point and Freddie can't find a way of making that fact any brighter. They're stalled and everyone's fingers are tapping impatiently on the door to future success.
“We’ll get there, darlings,” he sighs and in an attempt to get the gloom out of his friends exclaims with an over-the-top enthusiasm, “Listen! I've got an idea for a song…”