Work Text:
Freddie was late. Fashionably so, if you asked him. But still, late.
The driver parked the car right in front of the back entrance of the studios and Freddie went inside, his feet quickly taking him down the corridor and toward the room where surely his band mates were already waiting for him alongside with their sound engineering and maybe a few technicians. Freddie had no doubt that they would be a bit irritated by his lateness but, never one to worry too much about menial stuff like this, he made a point to essentially waltz into the room as he opened the door.
“Here I am darlings, sorry to have kept you waiting,” he all but singsonged.
But, surprisingly, instead of the usual chorus of finally and oh so you didn't fall into a manhole and would it kill you to be on time for once?, only a couple of quiet hi and hello greeted him. Freddie removed the dark shades from his face and took in the recording space, trying to pinpoint what was the cause of such a subdued collective mood. And it wasn't all that difficult to identify it.
Roger was like summer, personified. If one were to ask Freddie to describe his friend and band mate, he would use those words precisely. Personified summer. Roger was bright, generally merry, lighthearted, a bit crazy, always ready to cause a bit of mischief; he was incapable of avoiding troubles and was more than happy to actively promote whatever crazy idea any of them happened to have. When he was in the room, people tended to smile; it was a sort of pavlovian response to his presence, and Freddie loved him for it. His laugh was loud and his jokes always a bit dirty. If you were feeling down, you could always count on Roger for a very last-minute trip to the nearest pub, where you would find yourself spilling whatever was troubling you to a surprisingly good listener.
That wasn't to say that Roger's behaviors were all and always pleasant. He had his moody moments, like everyone else. His rages tended to be quite strong and his temper tantrums rivaled those of an incredibly stubborn child. He could – and would, if the situation suited him – be insufferable. But the truth was, that those foul moods were always momentary; they lasted a few hours at worst, and then the drummer was always back to being his mirthful self. Even in that respect, Freddie reflected, Roger was like summer personified: a thunderstorm sweeping through the sunny coasts of the south of France, dark and powerful clouds, and sometimes scary bolts and thunders, but always fast to leave and let the sun shine brightly again.
Which is why the dark cloud that seemed to envelope the drums and the blond sitting behind them today immediately stood out. Because Roger's moments of anger were always caused by something well defined and were absolutely never misdirected towards someone different from the person that had contributed to cause them in the first place. Judging by the tense set of John's jaw and the careful looks that Brian kept throwing him, Freddie would say that none of them had done anything to warrant the drummer's ire – if that's what the dark cloud was.
On the other side of the glass, their sound engineer was carefully and very pointedly staring at the myriad of buttons and levers on the console in front of him. Poor sod. Freddie didn't envy him.
Plastering a forced smile on his face and injecting it in his voice, Freddie carelessly walked to the microphone. “Are we ready to record something, darlings?” he asked.
Sometimes, Freddie liked to adhere to the saying fake it till you make it; today was one of those days. He hoped that venting his frustrations, worries, or whatever it was that had Roger stare unseeingly straight ahead on the drums would help them all. Apparently, Brian and John shared his same thought, because they were quick to agree and embrace their instruments.
“You ready, Rog?” Freddie asked again for the drummer's sake: he had given no indication that he'd heard him the first time around.
Big blue eyes turned in his direction suddenly, finally focusing on the reality in front of him. Freddie didn't have time enough to take in all that he could read on Roger's face – the tense muscles, the tired bags under his eyes, he frown of his brows – before the drummer gave a curt nod without uttering any word. Freddie chose to count his blessing: safter all, Roger had acknowledged him and his proposal and that would have to be enough for now, so instead Freddie called out the title of the song that he wanted to start with.
It became quickly clear that not even music would be an effective distraction for Roger. Much to everyone's vexation and frustration, he kept falling behind on the rhythm, which was worrying: Roger had an internal metronome whose time-keeping precision competed with Swiss watches. John was quick to adjust of course, Brian also did his best, and Freddie tried to slow down a bit himself, but they sounded like shit and they all were aware of it. Hell, even their engineer looked pained as he heard them, if the set of his mouth was anything to go by. Either that, or he'd sucked on a lemon for no other reason than being a masochistic idiot, but Freddie doubted it. Reaching the end on the song, Brian locked eyes with Freddie and shrugged, as perplexed as he felt.
“Again,” Freddie called with some force, trying to coax Roger out of whatever seemed to be eating at him, and the first notes of Brian's guitar sounded once again.
And again, after the first minute or so, Roger began to slow down, a dazed expression on his face. He was playing by muscle memory only, but his head was clearly somewhere else. John walked closer to the drums, trying and failing to catch his attention; he swirled back and shook his head, locking eyes with both Freddie and Brian. This wasn't going to go anywhere, he wanted to say. Brian sighed and Freddie nodded at their bassist.
During Brian's short solo mid-song – which still needed to be perfected, the singer was sure, because it didn't flow at all with the rest of the melody and he absolutely refused to record something like that on their next album – Freddie approached John. “Go talk to the engineer, ask him to leave darling, please,” he muttered.
At the end of the song, John indeed put his bass on its stand with all the care of this world and did just that, while Brian quietly walked over to Freddie.
“What's going on?”
“I asked John to tell the engineer to leave. We're not gonna do any recording today anyway, and whatever it is that's bothering him,” Freddie glanced at Roger, “I'm sure he wouldn't want to talk about it in front of a stranger. You know how private he can be.”
“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
Freddie patted Brian's arm just as John walked back in and the door that gave on the corridor shut close; the engineer had indeed left them alone for the day. The three of them exchanged silent helpless looks and Freddie chose to take the matter into his own hands. He crossed the room and went to stand next to Roger; the drummer's gaze was still lost somewhere else as he tapped one of his sticks on his thigh rhythmically, as he was used to do from time to time.
“Roger?” Freddie called him. “Rog?”
It wasn't enough to snap him out of it, so Freddie reached out and gently plucked the stick from Roger's limp fingers. The drummer's wrist snapped a couple of times more, before his brain caught up with the lack of oblong wood in his grasp and Roger finally made a questioning sound, turning to look at Freddie. The singer made sure to have a warm smile on his face, hiding his worry despite how concerned he felt.
“What?” Roger asked, voice rough. It was the first word he'd uttered that day to any of them.
“Practice's over for today, darling.”
Roger frowned. “Oh.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie saw Brian staring at the blond with extreme concern, while John, seemingly uncomfortable as well as confused, kept shuffling from foot to foot.
“I thought maybe we could take it easy, relax a bit. Recording's getting pretty stressful lately, don't you think dear?” Freddie asked with forced cheerfulness, reaching out to firmly grab Roger's forearm and tugging him on his feet. “Why don't we just sit down on the sofa and chat for a bit?”
Freddie, always a tactile kind of person, didn't take too long to guide Roger by his hand to said sofa, a red loveseat in the far corner of the room, with a low table right in front of it and a mini fridge with some drinks not far. He sat down and had Roger do the same, never letting go of his hand. The drummers fingers were callused, like every musicians'. Freddie passed his fingertips on his knuckles and massaged them delicately, all the while staring at his friend, wondering what could've dampened his cheerfulness to such an extent and knowing that, whatever it was, he would do all he could to help him and support him. But, for now, lacking a better plan, Freddie simply provided some silent comfort, allowing Roger to speak on his own accord when he felt ready to.
John walked to the small fridge and took out a coke; he passed it to Brian without even asking and grabbed a soda for himself. It was late morning, and even rockstars like them had to try and control themselves a bit.
“You want something Fred? Rog?”
“Some water, darling, thank you so much.”
Roger simply shook his head in denial.
John, sensible, observant, thoughtful John, uncapped the bottle for him, so that Freddie didn't have to completely let go of Roger as he gulped down some water. Singling always made him predictably thirsty.
He had just put the bottle on the loveseat behind himself on precarious balance, when Roger opened his mouth.
“Dom's pregnant,” he said, emotionless.
Freddie's eyes widened in surprise; he didn't think that, of all things, this would be something that would trouble Roger to such an extent. He and Dominique had been going steady for a while after all, even when Roger was on tour with the band – and what happened on tour stayed on tour, they all agreed, even Brian and John who were married and had kids of their own knew that on tour they all changed, somehow, but Roger's womanizing had toned down a notch, which had to count for something, hadn't it? – and Freddie doubted that Roger had never considered that procreation would eventually happen, with such an active love life as his and Dominique's, not to mention his couple of years of medical studies and his bachelor degree in biology.
“Well- congratulations, Rog!”
Brian, sweet Brian, could sometimes be totally self absorbed and oblivious to the point of causing second-hand embarrassment to everyone surrounding him, which is exactly what happened now as soon as the well meaning but extremely bad timed words left his mouth. Freddie gave him an incredulous look, because, really, how could such a clever man be so utterly dense? John, a sour look on his face, actually smacked him behind his head.
“What the-” the guitarist exclaimed.
“Shut up, Brian, God!” John muttered, the tips of his ears red.
Finally catching up on his blunder, Brian blushed and apologized quietly.
Freddie rubbed Roger's arm up and down a couple of times before Roger pulled himself free from his grip and bent forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands covering half of his face. Freddie, at a loss, patted his lower back gently.
“What's wrong, love? You don't want it?” he asked gently.
“Of course I do,” Roger whispered, his voice trembling alarmingly.
Freddie had never heard him sound so troubled and insecure. He bit his lip nervously. “So?”
“What if- What if I'm just like my father?”
If one were to ask Freddie to describe the sound of a heart breaking, he would without hesitation say, the way Roger's voice creaked and broke as he said the word 'father'. He'd never known before, that a broken heart could have a distinctive sound. Now he wished he never had to discover such thing in the first place.
“Oh Rog,” John sighed sadly.
And just like that, Roger was off. He broke down like never before, sobbing, face hidden behind his hands and the curtain of shortened blond hair that were still long enough to provide him with a little privacy, a flimsy barrier against the rest of the world. His shoulders shook and broken whimpers came from him.
Freddie didn't think twice, leaning forward on the sofa, wrapping himself around Roger's side, hugging him in his arms and holding him close. He felt the tension radiating from his shoulders as Roger leaned against him, angling his face so that it was partially pressed against Freddie's chest. John crouched in front of them, with a hand on Roger's knee for comfort and another on Freddie's for stability. Brian, more hesitant, perched himself awkwardly on the coffee table, long limbs folded on themselves, fingers nervously gripping the fabric of his trousers. Freddie lowered his head and placed his lips on top of the mop of blond hair that was all he could now see of Roger's head from their position; he closed his eyes, which were misty and dark with sadness and rage, and took in a deep breath, feeling sorry for his dear bright ray of sunshine.
The subject of Roger's upbringing had never been discussed in ten years and counting of friendship. Not once the drummer had specified what his father had done to him. They knew that something had happened in the first place only because sometimes, when totally, black-out drunk, or when triggered by certain stressors, Roger would get jittery and mutter hermetic sentences that gave away just barely enough. Despite their curiosity, they'd always respected his wish for privacy; when, after the first couple of times, they'd tried to ask him about it, Roger had shut them down completely and clearly expressed his wish to leave the subject alone.
Some people wrote cryptic songs about their own traumas and fears and only explained them to their most rambunctious, noisy, chaotic yet incredibly soft and sensible friends, Freddie reflected; others kept them carefully locked up in a small corner of their heart, never to see the light of the day again, never to be voiced and shared out loud, hoping that time would make the world forget that those traumas even existed. Wishing that time would heal their wounds. And usually it was enough. Sometimes, it was not.
Freddie rubbed soothing circles on Roger's back, his mind frantically searching for something to say. He opened his eyes once again and turned them to John and Brian, silently asking for their help. Even a great pretender like Freddie Mercury didn't know how to deal with something like this all on his own.
The other half of the band looked just as broken as Freddie was feeling. They both had troubled expressions and misty eyes. Under the bush that were Brian's hair today, his eyes often so pensive were now full to the brim with sympathy. The grip of his fingers was nearly enough to tear up the fabric of his trousers, while John had removed his hand from Freddie's knee in order to rub his temple as he oftentimes did when upset, biting his lip an angry red.
Finally, Roger seemed to calm down a bit on his own. His sobs and whimpers quietened, his shoulders slowly stopped shaking; his breathing evened out, even if he kept his face down. He rubbed his cheeks with the back of his hand, and then with the paper tissue that Brian – reliable, smart Brian – all but thrust under his nose without too much ceremony. Freddie gently gave him the time to collect himself, then put his fingers under the blond's chin and with a bit of pressure coaxed their drummer to raise his head a bit, revealing red eyes and damp lashes.
“You won't be like him Roger. I just know it, dear. You will never, ever, be even remotely like your father.”
Roger took in a shaky breath.
“How can you know?” he asked with a raw, broken voice.
“Oh dear! Because I know you,” Freddie replied with a warm, sincere smile, caressing the other man's neck. “You're many things Roger, but cruel is not one of them.”
Roger's eyes fixed themselves somewhere behind Freddie. “What if I am? What if- if I become like that? I mean that's how I grew up. That's- that's my idea of fatherhood. I don't know any different.”
Freddie's free hand clenched into a tight fist. What he wouldn't give, to spend just an hour with Roger's father! He forced himself to take a calming breath through his nose.
“But you do, Rog.”
Freddie turned surprised eyes on Brian, who had just spoken, his words laced with stubborn assurance. The guitarist was staring at the blond with a fierceness in his eyes that rivaled the one he showed when he found a willing audience to talk to about his beloved stars.
“You do,” he reiterated. “You've met Freddie's father, and mine. You've had dinners with them, with all of us, on birthdays and such occasions. You've spoken with them and shared jokes and actually made a good impression. My father was calling you son within an hour of knowing you.”
“Mine, too. Bomi was utterly charmed by your personality from the first time he met you, darling. I don't know how that's possible, but he actually believed that you were the most responsible, respectful roommate his son could ask for, and he made me promise to treat you well and not cause you too much trouble,” Freddie joked.
Roger's lips twitched fondly at the memory.
“And they're not the only examples of positive paternal figures you know, dear. There's also Brian, and of course our John,” Freddie added. He saw Roger's eyes focus back on himself and his eyebrows shoot upward. Freddie smiled kindly.
“Have you ever seen them be anything but endlessly loving and patient with their children?”
Roger shook his head.
“Even when they're little rascals, I don't think they'd ever raise anything but their voices, right?”
Roger nodded firmly. He sniffled once more and seemed finally more centered.
“There's also you, Rog,” John said, starling Freddie slightly and making Roger's head whip around at the speed of sound with a stunned expression that, in any other moment, would've been endearing in its unguarded state.
“Me?” Roger asked, his voice wet and thick, the roundness of the vocal more pronounced than ever, as it often happened when the blond was feeling particularly emotional for whatever reason.
Freddie himself turned to look curiously at John, whose expression was one of placid triumph, the contentedness of a man who knows he has the winning argument in a discussion and is in fact going to use it readily. Intrigued, the singer stayed quiet, wondering what conclusions John's magnificent brain had managed to reach before any of them could. The shy, usually quiet engineer was one of the smartest men Freddie'd ever know, and would show an inordinate level of self assurance once an idea popped in his mind.
Now, safe in his certainty, John nodded.
“Yes Rog, you. The guy who decided to swing by unannounced three days after Ronnie came home with little Robert because he's already a week old and I've yet to meet him Deaky, took in stride the smell of dirty diapers and the bloody screams of an infant who hadn't slept more than 40 minutes intervals in a week, his exhausted parents and the general mess of the house, then took the child in his arms, heroically changed a diaper without smearing shite all over his own hands – and that, that's why you'll be a great dad, I tell you that's no small feat – then walked to the sofa and rocked him for three hours straight while Ronnie and I collapsed in the first real sleep we'd had ever since the birth,” John animatedly said, without pauses to breathe in, spirited in the fondness of his memories.
Freddie chuckled. Yes. That would be the winning argument indeed, he just knew. And, if Roger's wide eyes and slightly parted lips were anything to go by, the singer would say that the drummer knew, too. He smirked at John, exchanging a nod with Brian.
Roger would be alright. Freddie just knew.
“I- I mean. It really wasn't that difficult?”
John laughed, showing off that endearing small gap between his front teeth, shaking his head lovingly.
“You're the guy all of the children go crazy for. The favorite uncle – as much as I loathe to admit it, darling, but you really are – who spoils them all rotten,” Freddie smiled.
“The one who always manages to sneak them sweets – even when their parents said they can't have them. Yes Roger, we do know about that,” John smirked at Roger's crestfallen expression and clumsy attempts at protesting.
Brian, behind him, was smiling too, nodding along. “You're not as subtle as you think you are, and James actually trotted up to Chrissie to proudly show off the chocolates uncle Roger gave him yesterday, you know?”
“As if the dark spots all over the trousers, hands and faces aren't usually telling enough!” John laughed, amused at their children's antics.
Freddie couldn't help it, he snorted inelegantly, patting Roger's back as he laughed deeply and freely. Trust Roger to buddy up with the children to cause mischief. But, thinking about it, Roger was all but a big child himself, so that wasn't all that surprising.
The blond too was smirking a bit, an embarrassed blush spreading on his face. “Ah. I- I didn't think you knew about that.”
“We do, Rog. And, I know I'll regret saying this as soon as James develops his first cavities, but please keep bringing him the sweets even if he really shouldn't eat them. He's always so happy when he sees you!” Brian said.
Roger chuckled. “That's what uncles are for.”
“Yes, darling. Exactly!”
Freddie smiled softly, so elated to finally see his friend free from his troublesome thoughts and dark fears. This was the Roger he knew and loved like a brother, this unrepentant man that brought smiles and laughter wherever he went. Freddie reached out to take Roger's hand in his, and squeezed it firmly. Roger, turning his face to look at him, smiled a radiant smile that eclipsed the red rimmed eyes and the blotchy cheeks. He shook his hand free and instead hugged Freddie tightly. The singer, of course, was only too happy to hug him back, in a silent I love you and you're alright that he didn't need to voice for Roger to hear, just as he could feel Roger's thank you in the way his arms squeezed him a tad tighter before the drummer let go of him.
“You know what, loves? Let's all go to the nearest restaurant and eat and drink the most expensive champagne they have to the beautiful child that will soon be the next spoiled prince or princess!” Freddie exclaimed, his proposal immediately met with the enthusiastic approval of his band mates.
“Let's try the French place down the street.”
“Good idea, Bri.”
“Yes, I've been wanting to go there for a while.”
“John, is that your jacket on the chair?”
“Oh, right! Thanks Rog.”
Freddie watched as John put his arm over the blond's shoulders as Brian preceded them through the door and down the corridor. He took the dark shades he'd left on the table and put them on, ready to follow them all out, reinvigorated and carefree as he'd been a few hours before, when he'd entered the studio without the first clue of the roller-coaster of emotion that would be that morning. Seeing Roger laugh, aloud and unconcerned, with a dreamy look in his eyes, at the outrageous names that Brian and John were now proposing for his unborn child made it all worth it.