Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘We’re going to America!’

Brian still remembers the flush of excitement on Roger’s face when he burst into the studio, clutching a handful of papers. He felt a rush of energy, something that he couldn’t imagine ever feeling again.

America?

Roger rushed in, wrapping his arms around Brian and John. Brian held back a hiss of pain and Roger slapped his arm.

‘It’s happening! It’s all here.’ He waved some official looking documents around.

The others were jumping around in excitement, and Brian threw in a few enthusiastic words, but the moments of energy he felt were long gone.

‘Shit, did I hurt your arm?’ Roger asked, watching Brian rub his arm absently.

‘No, it’s fine,’ he replied, frustrated that the others were still asking him about it. ‘America. We’re really making something.’

‘Bloody well right,’ Roger shouted. ‘I say we get a round and toast to Mr. Ian Hunter and his manager.’

‘What are we waiting for? Call George!’

George?

‘I finally got that old amp working for him,’ John said. ‘We’ll test it out with his guitar tomorrow.’

‘Who’s George?’

Roger exchanged a look with John. ‘He’s a guitarist.’

‘We meant to tell you…’

Freddie laid a hand on Brian’s back. ‘We’ve been talking, and we think it’s best for all of us if George goes on this tour.’

‘So you can rest.’

‘It’s just for this tour.’

‘We don’t want any mishaps, you know, like the Sunbury.’

‘Brian. Brian?’

“Brian!”

Brian’s eyes shot open, looking around as he tried to orient himself. The moving scenery. He was in the taxi.

“Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep.”

“Mmyeah,” he mumbled, shaking the curls from him face. “Jus’ dreaming.”

Roger smirked. “Dreaming of how we’re playing in New York?”

“Mmm.” He shut his eyes again, trying to ignore the jerking movements of the car.

“The crowd was crazy last night. Did you hear them? They weren’t clapping, they were rumbling.”

Brian hummed in agreement, but it sounded more like a groan.

“How are you feeling?” Freddie asked, passing a critical eye over Brian.

“Fine,” he replied a bit too quickly. “Tired.”

The truth was, he wasn’t fine. He was tired, that wasn’t a lie, but he was dreading getting out of the taxi. Because the moment he stood up, he knew he would feel that unbearable pain again and feel how stupidly weak his legs were. He’d blamed it on regular tiredness from travelling and playing so often, but the stomach pain wasn’t going away. In fact, it was getting worse.

“We were thinking of trying out one of those fancy restaurants,” Roger said, nudging Brian again. “Writing it off as band expenses.”

“I think I’ll just get some rest before tonight,” Brian said. “I’m still feeling a bit rough.”

Freddie turned around, concerned again. “You’re not still feeling sick from the food?”

“I think so,” Brian replied. “But I’ll be fine to play.”

“Maybe you should get yourself checked out again,” John said.

“There’s nothing wrong, I just haven’t had time to rest properly,” Brian replied. “I’ll sleep before Boston.”

They got out at the hotel and Brian insisted that the other head off for supper while he went to up to the hotel room. They had roughly two hours before soundcheck, and the others promised to wake him up.

Brian stumbled into his shared room, rushing to the bathroom as he heaved into the toilet. Nothing came up, only because he had been too nauseous to eat anything all day. His stomach pain was only getting worse now, not better like he knew it should when you had food poisoning. This was the worst part, the constant nausea. He should eat something before the gig tonight, but he didn’t know what would be more embarrassing: passing out or throwing up on stage. Probably the latter.

He sunk into the bed, twisting himself in the only position that relieved his stomach pain. They had worked so hard to get here and he wasn’t about to ruin it for them. He was tired of being the one who guilted the others into going home early.

Hey, we can’t go to the afterparty, someone needs to accompany this weak child of ours back to the hotel room.

We can’t eat here, Brian needs to have something light. God forbid he eat anything normal.

It was so frustrating, and it was more tiring to hide how much worse he was getting.

We should get another guitarist. Nobody wants to see some weak musician pass out on stage.

His stomach clenched and he let out a small cry. Maybe he should go see a doctor again. Nobody could find anything wrong with him, but he knew something wasn’t right. After Boston. He would give it a few more days. There was no point in alarming the others again over something that might be trivial. He stayed hunched there until John knocked at the door and let himself into the shared room.

“Brian,” he whispered, not wanting to startle him.

Brian rolled over, noticing the small container that he was holding.

“We brought you something. It’s just soup. There’s some crackers and stuff too,” John said, turning on one of the lamps. “Freddie says we should leave in twenty.”

Brian sat up slowly, taking the takeout bowl. “Thanks John.” His stomach sank as John waited for him to start eating. “I might wait until after to eat it. Need to get ready.”

He left the untouched bowl on the side table and got up, struggling to put on his flowing white shirt without stretching too much. He saw the state of his hair and concluded that he just didn’t have the energy to fight with it.

John emerged from the bathroom in his stage clothes, watching Brian hunched over on the bed, his head between his legs.

“If you’re not feeling well, we can-”

“I’m fine,” Brian snapped, instantly regretting it as he saw John’s face fall. “I’m sorry. I haven’t felt like myself since we started this tour.”

“I think you should get checked again. Roger had food poisoning last year, remember? And it lasted a few days.”

“But he didn’t eat the questionable prawn cocktails,” Brian said, trying to lighten the mood. “Listen, I’ll go to the doctor’s when we’re done with Boston. It might be a flu.”

“Don’t let Freddie hear you say that,” John joked. “Uh, don’t you want to shave?”

Brian ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I don’t think anyone will notice. I’d rather go onstage with a bit of a beard than the black eye that Fred and Rog will give us if we’re late.

****

Soundcheck was a nightmare for Brian. With each minute, his stomach was getting worse, and he was thankful he didn’t eat that soup. One of the roadies found him propped up behind his Vox amps and asked him if he was okay. That was the running theme. With every ‘Are you okay?’ Brian felt like he looked worse. Was he really so bad that everyone had to ask him if he was going to drop dead?

“There you are!” Roger exclaimed. “We’re opening soon, and we haven’t sound checked Red.”

“Right, well, you know where she is,” Brian snapped. “Get some roadie to do it.”

Roger looked stunned. Brian didn’t look right; he was resting most of his weight against the amps and his skin was a sickly white. Brian was complaining about not feeling quite right but this was the first time Roger was finally seeing it. He looked awful.

“I’m going to the dressing room,” Brian muttered, pushing past Roger. As he watched him stumble away, he knew nothing good would come from tonight.

****

Brian made his way to the dressing room, passing by the stage to see one of the roadies testing out his Red. He felt tears start to well up in his eyes. He couldn’t lug her around anymore. He couldn’t even talk to anyone without losing his temper. Now he had one more night to pretend to be normal, maybe two, before the others found out how bad he really was feeling and before they found someone else.

Before he knew it, he was with the others, talking with Ian. He was gushing about how much he liked their act so far and invited them to come on for the encore. Great, Brian thought. Now this whole thing will drag out even longer.

Once he got on stage, under the blinding lights, with his Red, he felt comfortable for the first song. Then his stomach stabbed against his ribcage, and he closed his eyes, trying to focus all his energy on playing the right notes. He opened them again during Father to Son, wincing as he missed a flurry of notes. John was staring at him now, wondering how to fill in Brian’s parts if he was somehow forgetting them. But he wasn’t. He wandered closer to the amps, hoping to maybe lean against one but the others seemed puzzled by his change in choreography.

Sweat was rolling down his face now. It was some vicious cycle that continued the entire set. Stab of pain. Wave of nausea. Weak spell. He ignored the band cues, focusing on getting his fingers to work. Finally, the Jailhouse Rock medley that was usually the most fun of the evening, came and went and the four of them were giving their final bows.

Brian avoided the others, sliding backstage and preparing himself to wait for the encore. When it came, he whispered his backing part into the microphone, not wanting anyone to hear his weak voice. He caught John and Freddie exchanging worried glances his way. When the final bows were done, he rushed off stage, handing Red off to one of the roadies. The ground was wobbling beneath him, and his vision had gone strange.

“Brian!”

He heard rushed footsteps behind him.

“Brian, wait.” John.

Brian turned around to give one last excuse for his dismissal performance tonight. And then his stomach shot fire into his chest. His face twisted in pain and he grabbed at his side. The ground lurched again as he tried to grab at something to regain his balance.

“Bri? Oh my God.” John grabbed his arm, panic was evident in his voice.

His head wasn’t righting itself and all he could feel was the white-hot pain in his side, consuming him. It was too much, and his legs gave out.

John was much smaller than Brian and he was too surprised to stop his fall. He called out for help, but Brian’s cry of pain as he hit the floor drew several people over.

“Brian!” Roger rushed over, followed closely by Fred. “Fuck, what happened?”

“I- I don’t know, he just dropped,” John said, flustered. “I think he hit his head. Oh God, what if he hurt his head?”

“We need a medic,” Freddie called out to the surrounding roadies. “Don’t stand there, you damp sheets! Call someone!”

The voices around Brian were muffled, but he could see Roger’s face hovering over him.

“Bri, can you see me?”

“Yeah,” Brian’s voice cracked. He hissed with pain when someone touched his side, and his vision went dark around the edges.

Someone passed him some water, but he pushed it away, turning on his side as his stomach coiled into a knot. The shock from hitting the ground was making him sick.

“Bri, tell us what you need.”

“It hurts,” he whispered.

“Your arm?” Freddie’s blurry face popped up beside Roger’s.

“Stomach.” He gagged and someone pulled the hair from his face.

“Must be the food poisoning, right?” Roger.

“How long have you felt like this?” John asked, as if he didn’t know the answer.

“Too long,” Brian croaked. Another face entered the blurry part of his vision that wasn’t blacked out. He recognized the medic that Fred insisted follow them on tour. I guess this is why, Brian thought, as someone else raised his legs. The blurriness was starting to fade, and the sharp pain began to dull again. When he eventually sat up, the medic handed him something to eat.

“Is it still the same sort of pain?” he asked him, passing a critical eye over him.

“Yeah,” Brian replied, making an effort to eat the orange. “I got it all checked out a week ago and nobody could find anything.”

“Appendix?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not normal to be in this much pain.”

“He’s been sleeping a lot,” Freddie said. “Are you feeling tired, darling?”

“I think it’s the stress,” Brian said, as Roger helped him stand up. Don’t you dare, he warned his legs as they struggled to work. But they behaved and he managed to get back to the hotel room.

****

Brian took every opportunity to rest on the way to Boston.  He ignored the constant questions rom his bandmates, ate every meal that was brought to him and tried his best to join in when the others played Scrabble.

He was somehow deluding himself into thinking he was getting better. He had to. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin it for the others. When they got to Boston, he knew he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t picked up his guitar once since New York and he spent more time curled up sleeping than thinking about the tour. He was thankful that he shared a hotel room with Roger this time since he was often out and wasn’t asking him a million questions.

The morning of the Boston gig came. Brian groaned as Roger shook him awake.

“You’ve gotta hear this, Freddie found this little shop that sells bizarre American trinkets.”

“Rog, I could hardly sleep through your snoring, so I’m going to get all the sleep I can get,” Brian mumbled, pulling the covers out of his face.

“I don’t snore, I’m insulted that-”

Roger’s mouth opened wide as he saw Brian’s face.

“What?” Brian asked, puzzled by his strange expression.

Roger stammered some unintelligible answer.

“Rog, you’re scaring me,” Brian said, sitting up.

“You’re, you’re YELLOW,” he shrieked.

“Real funny, Rog. Did you wake me up to share that quality joke with me?”

“No, Brian, I’m dead serious. God, what’s wrong with you?”

Brian sat up. “Roger, I swear, if you’re-”

“Look!” Roger grabbed Brian’s arm.

Brian stared in horror as he saw the bright yellow tint that clung to his skin. “That can’t be right,” he murmured.

“You think? I’m going to get Fred,” Roger said, rushing out of the room.

Brian sat in bed, waiting for him to return, feeling very much like a toddler had used him as a fingerpainting canvas.

“BRIAN!” Fred shouted, rushing into the room.

“Oh my God,” John whispered. “You’re really yellow.”

“I’ve noticed,” Brian replied, sounding dejected. Great. Now he was the weak guitarist who couldn’t stomach anything AND he was yellow.

“That’s it, we’re going to a hospital right away,” Freddie said, grabbing Brian’s arm and trying to rub the strange tint off. “What did you eat?”
“Nothing,” Brian said.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel awful Fred,” Brian replied. “Like I’ve felt for months now. I can’t tell if I’m feeling better or just getting used to how bloody terrible I feel.”

The others stared at him. Brian knew nothing good would come from hiding how he felt, but he had no idea he would turn a bloody shade of yellow.

“Can you walk?” Fred asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“Yes, I can walk,” Brian huffed. “I haven’t lost my legs.”

“I didn’t know someone could turn yellow,” John said, still staring at him in awe.

Once the initial anger wore off, Brian was scared. He felt even weaker this morning, as he leaned against Roger and Fred.

“John, call management and tell them what happened. Roger, get the front desk to call a taxi.” Fred got Brian to one of the chairs in the lobby. A few people passed by, staring at Brian as they did. “Who are you looking at?” Fred demanded. “Bugger off.”

The taxi ride was the worst one Brian had ever taken. He winced with each sharp turn and stop, and he was certain if he had eaten something for breakfast, he would have been sick.

“I think you look less yellow,” John said, patting Brian’s shoulder.

“Really?” he croaked.

They pulled up to the hospital and breezed through the emergency room, ignoring the strange looks. Who could blame them? Three Englishmen dragging a strikingly yellow friend.

“Do you have your insurance information with you?” the nurse at the desk asked.

“My mate is the shade of a sunflower, we just need to see somebody,” Roger replied.

“Unless there’s insurance, there will be a fee that needs to be-”

“Listen love, can we see a doctor or not?”

The nurse ushered them into a tiny doctor’s office without another word. Brian slumped down in the chair, wishing he could vanish from the others’ concerned looks.

“Do you want any water, Bri?” Roger asked.

“No.”

He knew the others could see him shivering and he didn’t protest when John gave him his coat. You’re so fucking weak, his mind screamed at him.

When a doctor finally came in to see him, the whole visit was a blur.

Jaundice.

Kidney disease.

Do you drink excessively?

Hepatitis.

Costly tests if you don’t have insurance.

I don’t recommend flying.

Management says we need to fly back.

Dangerous risk if you wait too long before treatment.

Tight-fisted wankers.

Advanced stage.

Brian wanted to curl up in bed. At one point, he let his head fall on John’s shoulder, who made no effort to move it. The other shook him awake, half-dragging him into another taxi.

“Where are we going now?” Brian asked.

“To the JFK airport,” Roger said. “Management told us to fly you back from there and we’ll get you into a hospital there.”

“Imagine, with you so sick, they want us to go back because it’s cheaper.” Freddie’s voice was filled with anger. “I told them to shove their money up their fat asses.”

“It is a lot of money,” John said. “I thought America was cheap.”

“It’s fine, I’ll manage,” Brian said, forcing a weak smile on his face.

“Yeah, and I’ll manage to cave their faces in,” Freddie continued. “Imagine, berating us for taking you to a hospital before their approval.”

As they got on the tour bus, Brian fell deeper and deeper into himself. He gave in to an unsteady slumber, left only with crippling fear and pain.

Chapter Text

‘I don’t recommend flying him back, not when he’s this sick. It’s a dangerous risk and the longer it’s left untreated, the rougher things will be for him in the long run.’

‘You’ll have to fly him back. Insurance won’t cover it over there. Not the long hospital stay and once he’s admitted, they won’t release him. We’ll book a flight for tomorrow to get him back.’

‘Tomorrow? He needs help now!’

Fuck.

Roger watched as Brian’s chest rose and fell. This was serious. Management was busy cancelling shows and saving money while their friend was sitting here, dying. Isn’t that what the doctor had said? Something about his liver or kidneys or some other important thing. 

Freddie had booked a late flight back with his own money, after a screaming match with management. They wanted to fly them back tomorrow to save money, but Fred had soon brought them to the airport and had gotten some last minute tickets. John had shooed away some people to clear a seat for them and now all they could do was wait for the gate to open.

Brian had given up on hiding how bad things were. Something about him dropping the pretense of things being normal scared Roger. Brian was always stoic, composed. Seeing him scrunched up on two dingy airport seats, using John’s leather coat as a pillow was startling.

He wandered over to John, holding two disposable cups of tea. “How is he?”

“Same.” John took one of the cups. “I don’t know how we’ll get through immigration and the security checks.”

“Fred…?”

“Gone to get some food.”

Brian stirred, opening his eyes.

“Hey mate, do you want anything?”

He shook his head, slowly sitting up.

“Well, it seems like we’ll be able to board soon,” John remarked, as he saw Freddie rushing towards them.

“Go, go, go, go,” Freddie said, dragging them to their feet. “We need to change gates. It’s 86A, not 36A, would you believe it? The printing on these passes is ridiculous. Smaller than management's budget. We need to get to Immigration this instant and I think I heard a boarding call.”

“Shit,” John mumbled. “Fred, you’d better grab the cases.”

Brian tried to stand and help, but promptly sat back down when he felt the ground tilting again.

Roger stood beside him. “We’ve got you. Just hang tight.” John grabbed his other arm and they rushed as best as they could towards the other gate.

We’re never going to make it.

Roger wished he could scream at the voice in his head.

SHUT UP. We fucking have to.

They half-dragged Brian to the next gate, but Roger’s stomach dropped into his shoes as he saw the line.

“Sit,” Fred ordered, stacking two cases. Brian didn’t protest, still leaning against Roger as he sat.

The man in front of them watched them suspiciously. 

“Can I help you?” John asked, his voice hard.

“Your friend doesn’t look too well,” he said, his voice stern.

“Thanks for the observation. We hadn’t noticed.”

“We have to get him home,” Freddie said. “He’s sick.”

The man pushed past a few people in front, ignoring the angry sounds.

“Wanker,” Roger hissed. “You’d think people would show some heart.”

“Leave it,” Brian muttered, sounding absolutely exhausted. “When does this flight leave?”

“In… forty minutes,” Freddie said, consulting his watch.

“We’re not going to make it,” John said.

“That’s not helping John.”

“Well, it’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?”

“Ahem.” The three of them turned to see the man from before. His suit was tailored within an inch of his life, but his previous stern expression was gone. “You boys flying to London?”

Three of them nodded.

“Well, you’ll miss your flight in this line.” He watched Brian carefully. “Can your friend walk?”

“He’ll get to where he needs to,” Roger replied defensively.

“You’d better follow me.” The man gestured towards the immigration desks.

When they didn’t follow, he waved them on. “I’ve told them to open a desk for you. Don’t leave them hanging.”

“What a load of crock,” Roger said. “Opened a desk.”

The stern expression returned. “Yes, well, I work for the airlines. I have a certain amount of authority around here. Do you want to make your flight or not?”

Roger’s jaw dropped open. “I-”

“What he means to say, is thank you,” John said, grabbing Brian’s arm.

“Well, us English folk need to stick together.” He helped Freddie carry their cases, pushing forward through the line.

****

Brian was sick of people looking at him like he was going to shatter apart. It was bad enough that he had to drag himself around. The immigration queue had been a nightmare but at least they were headed closer to home. Some businessman seemed to have taken it upon him to get them on the plane, for whatever reason.

He was grateful to have Roger and John because he wasn’t sure how well he could walk on his own. But he couldn’t shake the guilt that everyone was banding together all for his sake.

“Anything to declare?”

The others emptied their pockets with ease, shedding extra layers, belts, and keys. Brian’s limbs felt like weights as he tried to match their speed.

“Hurry along,” one of the officers said, staring at Brian for a heartbeat too long.

Somehow, they managed to make it through, though not without strange looks. Brian needed to sit down somewhere. As much as he tried to hold his own weight, he knew he was leaning more and more on the others.

“This is the final boarding call for Flight 232 to Heathrow,” a crackly voice announced.

“I’ll run ahead,” Freddie said, determination glowing in his eyes. “They aren’t leaving without us.”

“Just a bit further,” Roger said. Brian didn’t have the energy to reply, he just nodded.

After what seemed like an eternity, they made it to the boarding gate, presenting their passes.

“Is he alright?” one of the flight attendants asked as they maneuvered their way onto the plane, taking in Brian’s strange tint.

“Yes,” John said, exasperated. The others were getting annoyed at the endless questions too, it appeared.

Planes were an issue in the best of times for Brian. Tiny, cramped spaces were not ideal for a tall person and now John and Roger were trying their best to help him squeeze into one of the seats near the window. He finally sank down in the worn seat, trying to catch his breath.

I’ve never felt so bad.

One glance at his friends told him that they had never seen him in such a state either. He could feel sweat matting his hair even though he was freezing through his light jacket. He closed his eyes, shutting out the outside world, willing it all to go away. The pain, the nausea, the headache, the fear. Someone was asking him something, but he didn’t have the energy to answer anymore as he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

****

“Try to get him to drink something.” Freddie handed John a cup of water, twisting over the seat to get a better look at Brian. “Is he sweating?”

John glanced at him, noticing the thin sheen on the other man’s forehead. “He’s been cold most of the flight.” Roger had draped his coat over him near the start of the flight.

Roger craned over the seat too, concern evident on his face. “Can we switch seats Deaky?”

John lightly shook Brian, whose eyes were shining with fever. “Fred got you some water.”

Brian only mumbled, before curling back up against the window.

“I’ll get him to drink some, let me in,” Roger demanded, pulling John from his seat.

“Hey!” He said, pushing back. “I’m fine, I can watch him-”

He let Roger by once he caught the look in Freddie’s eyes. They were all concerned, but Roger had been Brian’s friend for far longer and he needed to feel like he was doing something.

“Hey Brimi, you need to drink something,” Roger said, pulling Brian away from the window. “Are you too hot?”

“No,” Brian whispered. “It’s cold.” He took the cup that John held out and took a few sips, spilling some of it on Roger’s suede coat. “Oh shit,” he said. "I'm sorry."

“It’s alright,” Roger reassured him. He leaned against Brian, who slowly let his head fall on his shoulder. He was quiet most of the flight, unusually so. John turned around again when they were roughly an hour away to see quiet tears rolling down Roger’s face.

“Roger?”

The blond looked up at John, with fear in his eyes. “Why didn’t we see it earlier Deaks?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody gets this sick without warning. I should have forced him to get checked after that concert. I knew something was up. Or before, when he said he wasn’t feeling well. He should have kept getting tests until they found out what was wrong. Or when-”

“Rog.” John’s voice was stern. “It’s not our fault.”

“He’s shaking like a leaf but he’s so bloody hot. That doctor said we were taking a risk. What if he doesn’t make it?”

“He’s going to make it. We’re almost there.”

“What if we get there and, and he doesn’t wake up?”

John reached around, laying a hand on Roger’s knee. “He’ll be fine. You don’t want him to see you like that, do you?”

Roger rubbed the tears from his face as Brian stirred, mumbling in his sleep. “I think…” he whispered, his voice trailing off, “I think it would kill me if I ever lost him.” The plane lurched, causing even John to gasp. Fred muttered something, still fast asleep.

“Mmm,” Brian whimpered as he woke up. “I’m going to be sick.”

Roger reached for one of bags in the seat pocket. “Here. You’re fine, breathe mate.” He ran a hand down Brian’s back, knowing how much he hated being sick in front of anyone. Being sick on a full plane must be one of his worst nightmares.

“I think Fred has some nausea stuff,” John said, turning back to dig through the bags.

“Do you want to go to the-?” Roger was interrupted as Brian made a pitiful heaving noise.

“Is everything alright here?” the flight attendant asked.

Roger glared at her. “No, nothing is fucking alright, and if one more person asks us if-”

“He’s not a great flyer,” John interrupted, passing Roger a bottle of Dramamine.

“Might I suggest some ginger ale?”

“Sure,” John said, hoping to give them a few moments of calm.

“Sorry,” Brian whispered, tears threatening to fall. People were looking their way again.

“Ignore them,” Roger said, passing over a tablet and a half-empty water bottle. “Do you think you can manage this?”

The attendant returned, holding a tiny cup of ginger ale.

“We’ve got it,” John said, taking the cup. The attendant seemed reluctant to leave but there wasn’t much else she could do.

Brian’s chest convulsed again, as Roger rubbed circles into his back. Once another wave of nausea passed, Brian slumped back into John’s bundled coat against the window. As hard as Roger and John tried, he refused to drink another drop of water, preferring to take the nausea medication dry. He slept deeper than before, not twitching restlessly in a fevered state but rather like a corpse.

Fuck off.

Roger pushed his thoughts aside, keeping a close eye on him. When they finally landed, and Freddie woke up to find out about the rough patch.

“You could have woken me up,” he said, concerned. The three of them watched Brian sleep, wondering how they would get him off the plane.

“Well, we made it,” John said.

“I don’t know how the hell we did, but we did,” Freddie replied.

Roger nudged Brian. “We’re home. We just need to get off and then you can rest.” The plane slowly emptied as they slowly got Brian to his feet. Freddie grabbed the cases again and as they got to the gate exit, they spotted the businessman again.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine,” John said. “Thanks again for the help.”

“No trouble. You boys need a ride anywhere?”

They sat down beside Brian, who winced as Roger accidentally bumped his side. “We’re taking him to the hospital. He’s not doing great,” Roger said.

“Sit tight, I’ll call you a taxi.” He strode off and John rushed to follow him. He spun around as John grabbed his arm.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The other man’s face softened. “That’s not important.”

“It is,” John insisted. “I’ve seen enough to know not to trust people who seem too nice.”

“Your friend reminded me of my son. Spitting image.” The man shifted uncomfortably. “I know there’s no time to waste when someone is sick. I wish I knew that back then.”

John fell silent. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Let’s get that taxi here and while we’re at it, I’ll find a wheelchair.” He walked up to one of the service desks and with terrifying authority, ordered to have a wheelchair brought out. “Bring that to your friend and get him to the southern entrance.” He slapped John on the shoulder. “And, by God, get him to a hospital.”

That was the last the others ever saw of him. John wasn’t entirely convinced that they hadn’t dreamt the entire thing.

Chapter Text

‘They wouldn’t let us in!’ Freddie sounded more furious than usual. ‘Thought we might be sick too, as if you would have gotten us sick.’

‘I mean, it was possible,’ Roger said. ‘Trust us mate, we wouldn’t have waited this long to see you if we could help it.’

‘I figured you would have gotten a guitarist to fill in my parts-’

‘Nonsense,’ Freddie said. ‘As if anyone could imitate you. I’m afraid you’re stuck with us for the long run.’

‘You did miss a lot,’ John said. ‘A lot of arguing. Roger tried to push me out the studio window.’

‘That was an ACCIDENT,’ Roger shouted. ‘I didn’t actually push you out the window. Not really.’

‘And there was a new song called ‘I’m Going To Marry My Automobile’…’

‘Ohhhhkay, now you’re just making things up-’

‘Take it easy,’ Freddie said, ‘and we’ll be waiting for you in the studio. With plenty of tracks open for Red to play on.’

“Take ten,” a scratchy voice announced over the PA. “Then we’ll break for lunch.”

“Three, four,” Roger said, breaking into the rhythm of Stone Cold Crazy. The others are tight, too tight for Brian to keep up and he feels his playing slip again.

Stupid, bloody idiot.

He groans with frustration when all the wrong strings ring out, muddying his guitar part. His mind won’t let him focus enough and when it does, it kindly reminds him that his stomach would like to throw up everything he’s eaten today. Which isn’t much.

“Well, that’s lunch,” John said, putting his bass aside, not seeming to care that Brian had been the only reason for every new take.

“Deli or that new fish and chips place?” Roger asked. “Thoughts, Brian?”

“Whatever you want,” he muttered, shoving his guitar in the case. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.” John’s voice was serious now. “Do you want to take a longer break?”

“It’s fine,” Brian said. “My head’s not following my fingers. I knew it would be a mess if I didn’t practice.”

“Let us know what you need, love,” Freddie said, walking up to him. “The last thing we want is for you to push yourself.”

A bit too fucking late for that.

“Yeah, I’ll just work on my part while you guys go out. Try and sort it all out.” He watched as the others analyzed him. “I’m fine. Look, I’ll sit down, and rest.” He made a big show of slumping down in the worn sofa in the corner of the studio.

“Well, I’m bringing you soup and we’re going to watch you eat it,” Roger said, grabbing his coat. “You’re too thin, Brimi.”

Of course he was too thin. Hospital food hadn’t been the best thing to get him back on his feet. And as soon as he got out of the hell that was his hospital stay, he started getting the nausea again. He ate normally for a week before, slowly, his meals dwindled down to single food items. Now, eating was hardly possible. Even if he didn’t eat, his body seemed to be constantly rejecting some invisible meal.

Brian wasn’t dumb, he knew that someone couldn’t go without food forever. But he would rather die than face another hospital visit. So, he did what he always did. Deluded himself into thinking it was normal.

I’m recovering.

He repeated that like a mantra. Recovery took time, this was part of the process. At least he wasn’t in nearly as much pain as before. He would figure out this bloody guitar part, focus and-

Not again.

He got up, rushing towards the studio bathroom. This had become a familiar routine now, as he pushed his way into the furthest stall, kneeling down over the cold porcelain.

I’m

He winced as acid burned the back of his throat.

Recovering.

“Brian?”

His eyes shot open as he heard John’s voice.

Someone knocked on the stall door. “Are you sick?”

He tried to hold back another wave of nausea, feeling his tired stomach muscles tense up. “ ‘m fine John.” Silence. “Please leave me alone.”

He heard the bathroom door close, but somehow, he wasn’t relieved because he knew the others would soon hear about it.

His body shivered, somehow still not used to it all. Rushing to the bathroom, throwing up every day and his body still treated it like an enormous shock.

What the hell do you want from me? I’m eating, I’m not eating and-

Shit.

He looked down to see red droplets floating around in the water. That was new and definitely NOT normal. For a few moments, all he could do was stare in horror, as a wave of panic passed over him.

I can’t go to the hospital again, it’s going to kill me and even if I do, there’s no way that we can hold off the album for longer than-

“Brian?” A knock sounded at the door, followed by muffle whispers.

He flushed the toilet, rushing to wash up before anyone came in again. He opened the door to find his bandmates waiting for him.

“What the hell, Brimi?” Roger sounded seriously angry. “You promised you’d tell us if you needed time off.”

“I don’t,” Brian said. “I’m still getting used to eating-”

“What did you eat?” John demanded.

“Er… eggs.”

“Well, we’re taking the rest of the day off,” Freddie said. “To hell with the bloody budget.”

“No,” Brian said, his voice cracking. He couldn’t go back home to his panicked thoughts. “It’s helping to be in the studio.”

“Fred’s going to do a lunch run and if you’re still feeling bad after lunch, we’ll call it there,” Roger said. “You’re gonna eat the soup that he brings or-”

“Good luck,” Brian muttered.

“What?”

“I’m sick of bloody soup,” he said, raising his voice. “And rest. I don’t need to rest. What I need is a new fucking body.”

“What do you want for lunch?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.” The others watched him expectantly. “I’ll have the same as yesterday. And you can all go out. I don’t need someone watching me.” He pushed past them, intent on spending some time with his guitar and getting a decent take in today. His stomach growled unpleasantly, but he pushed it aside as he took out some ideas he was working on.

****

Brian jumped as Roger’s voice rang out over the PA. “Lunch is here.”

His stomach coiled in a knot at the thought of food, knowing he couldn’t avoid eating this time. Gently balancing Red against the sofa, he went to join the others. John was already digging into what appeared to be a full fish and chip platter and Freddie was picking through a massive deli sandwich. They had brought him the least offensive food item: a bowl of chicken vegetable soup.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice flat.

“We were thinking, if we can get the main rhythm part of Stone Cold Crazy finalized, then we could bounce a few ideas around about other songs and then call it,” Freddie said. “And come in fresh tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “That sounds good.” He ate a bit of the soup and was already feeling full.

“We could take a few days off,” John said, his mouth full. “You might feel better if you rest. We’ve been coming in every day.”

Nobody had to say anything to know who the comment was directed towards.

“The best thing for me is to get back into things,” Brian said, pushing the rest of his meal away. “I need to be here. I don’t think you understand what it was like, spending six weeks locked away.”

Freddie rested a hand on Brian’s arm. “Promise us you’ll say something if you need a break. The last thing we want is for you to get sick again and to push everything even further back.”

He knows.

Something in Freddie’s voice sent panic through Brian’s body again. “O-of course.”

The rest of the meal was normal, with plenty of light-hearted banter. Brian forced himself to eat the rest of his lunch to avoid further questioning, but as soon as he got up, he regretted it. His stomach was burning now, and he knew that it would override his focus.

“Take eleven.” Roger’s impeccable beat took over and Brian put all of his energy and focus into this take, playing until he noticed that the others had stopped.

“Er… you need to stop after that intro,” John said. “Fred sings at some point, remember?”

Brian’s face burned. “Right.”

“That was good though,” Roger said. “Maybe we can use the take as an extra track.”

“I- sorry,” Brian interrupts, setting Red on the floor and rushing towards the door.

No no no no no

He almost made it to the door before his lunch came back up again. He ignored the clattering drumsticks and gasps from the others as he tried to compose himself again.

Maybe it’s a sign. I’m not meant to be a guitarist. They deserve so much better than this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as John led him towards the sofa and Roger handed him a garbage can.

“It’s just carpet,” Roger said. Brian didn’t miss the look that the other three shared. “We should get you home.”

I don’t know why I’m still sick,” Brian said, his voice hoarse. “I should-” He was interrupted by another wave of nausea.

“Jesus,” John said. Brian looked down to see flecks of blood.

“Brimi,” Roger whispered, horrified. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m not doing this again,” Brian moaned. “It’s going to kill me.”

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think that’s worth getting checked out,” John said.

“We’ll go with you, love,” Freddie said, trying to keep his voice calm. “It might be normal. Maybe this is to be expected.”

“I think they would have mentioned it,” Brian said miserably. “You might as well drop me off at home and hire some session guitarist to finish my parts.”

“John is going to drive you home and keep you company and-”

“I am?” John asked. “I mean, I am.”

“I have half the mind to think the hospital has no idea what they’re doing. You should probably go to a specialist.”

“Fred, I-”

“I’ll find someone, and we’ll get you there.” Freddie had that look of stubborn determination on his face that Brian knew would not go away until he got his way.

“Shouldn’t we take him to the emergency room?”

“No,” Brian said. “I won’t go there.” All he wanted to do now was go home and curl up in his bed for a week.

“I’ll be at your place for 9:00 sharp,” Freddie said. “And we’ll get you to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

No, I can’t go back, I can’t do this again, I’m too scared, what if I don’t wake up, what if I do wake up and have to face this every day for the rest of my life-

Roger pulled John aside. “If he gets worse, you take him to the emergency room.”

“Of course.” John grabbed his and Brian’s jacket, waiting for Brian to get up. “I’ll pull up in front of the studio.”

“I can walk,” Brian said. He tried to grab Red from Roger, who was insisting that he carry it for him.

“Let him have his guitar, Rog,” John said.

“I’m not letting him carry-”

“It’s my bloody guitar.”

John snatched it away from Roger, passing it to Brian, who gave him a nod of thanks. At least Deaky wasn’t treating him like fragile glass.

As they left the studio, John piled their instruments in the back of his car, clearing the front seat for Brian.

“You know, you don’t have to stay at my place,” Brian said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Roger’ll kill me if I don’t,” John said. “He’s really quite worried about you.”

“It’s not like I haven’t been sick before.”

“I think that’s it.” John turned onto the main road, weaving through traffic. “We’ve all noticed how, erm, how thin you’ve gotten. I mean, even after you got out of the hospital. You need to eat.”

“Trust me, I’m trying,” Brian said. “I feel so damned sick when I do.” Even talking about food was making his stomach twitch.

“I’m sure Freddie will find someone who can help. No more of that ‘there’s nothing wrong’ business at the hospital.”

John turned on the little stretch leading to Brian’s flat, pulling past the giant oak that he loved so dearly. They both got out, John carrying his guitar to the door. “If I slip away to grab a few things, do you think you can manage to not die?”

“I’ll try,” Brian replied, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t have much to eat here, so you might want to pick up some food for you.”

****

Brian was sitting at his dining table, head in his hands when John came in. He was so quiet he didn’t hear him until he started unpacking some things in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Brian said, looking up.

John raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“For another wasted day. I’m not daft, I know there wasn’t a single good take in that session.”

The other man sighed. “Look, none of us really care about recording right now. We’re worried about our friend. You.”

“You don’t deserve to have your time wasted like-”

“Brian. The album can wait. If the record company doesn’t like it, they can drop us. None of it matters if you drive yourself into the ground.” He laughed, a lighthearted, rare occurrence that always brought up Brian’s mood. “I don’t know why you think we’d drop you. I think Freddie and Roger would rather disband than get another guitarist.”

“Not much of a guitarist now, am I?” Brian muttered.

“It can’t be easy when you’re not feeling well. Remember when Roger was sick, and he complained about everything? He could barely lift a drumstick.” John voice grew soft. “We didn’t know you were still that sick. You could have told us.”

“Well…” Brian’s thought was interrupted by his nausea again.  John seeing the troubled look on his face stopped what he was working on.

“You don’t have to keep me company, you should lie down,” he said. “Roger would cave my face in if he finds out that you passed out again and I didn’t do anything about it.”

The stress of the day was starting to catch up to him, so he didn’t protest when John led him to his bed. He had forgotten how messy his room had grown over the month and as polite as John was, he knew that the other man was dying to ask questions. Piles of clothing lined his bed, spilling down onto the floor. Brian pushed a corner clear, trying to hide some of the mess under his bed. “I haven’t gotten around to laundry,” Brian admitted. As if he had the energy to haul his clothes to get them cleaned.

John didn’t say much, lingering by the door as if waiting for Brian to send him off. “Do you want anything? Water? I brought some tea if you want. And some broth.”

“Broth?”

“It’s all Roger will eat when he’s sick. If you’ve been eating like you say you have, it’s no wonder you’re feeling so tired.”

“I guess I can try,” Brian said, not sounding too hopeful. He settled under the sheets, sighing as the pain in his stomach subsided a little. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was glad to have someone else moving around in the house, if only to distract himself from the silence.

John returned with a steaming bowl, setting it down beside Brian. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing,” he said, watching Brian sit up.

“Thanks.” The last thing he wanted to do was eat, but John didn’t look like he was moving anytime soon. He ate a few mouthfuls, his stomach surprisingly quiet but once he felt uncomfortable, he set the rest aside, remembering his previous mistake. “It’s good, I just…”

“Don’t make yourself sick,” John said. He watched Brian slump back down. “You haven’t been eating anything, have you?”

“I have,” he protested.

John raised an eyebrow.

“When I can. I have some days that are better than others.”

John sighed. “I wish you had told us. You don’t have to sit there and suffer in silence. You did that once already.”

“You have enough to worry about without-”

“I don’t know how much of the final America concerts you remember,” John interrupted. “But we all knew something was up. Roger kept bringing it up when you went off to ‘rest’ and that plane back home… We were all worried. Sure, the tour was cancelled, that was disappointing. But we were too busy worrying about how things would turn out with you.”

“That’s what I mean,” Brian said.

“What I mean is that you worry us more when you say you’re fine and then pass out. Or that you’re eating when you’re not.”

“I’m scared.”

Brian’s voice sounded smaller than ever as the words slipped out. He hadn’t intended to go there with John, to pile more on top of the stress he’d already caused the other man.

“That’s okay.” John’s voice was soft, reassuring. He laid a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “We’ll get through this.”

“What if they find something else is wrong? And I have to live like this for the rest of my life?”

“Then we’ll figure it out.” John took the bowl of broth, slowly getting up. “I can promise you that Fred or Rog or myself… we won’t let you go through this alone. Not like last time.” Turning back, he smiled. “Get some rest. God knows what Freddie will have arranged for tomorrow. He’ll have hunted down the best specialist in all of London.”

With that, Brian rolled over on his side as sleep overtook him. Through his restless dreams, fueled by rampant anxiety, he heard John’s words echoing in his mind.

We won’t let you go through this alone.

Chapter Text

‘Now, if you’ll step this way Mr. May.’

More bloodwork. He got up, feeling Roger’s reassuring hand on his arm. He opened his mouth to tell him that he could walk without being supported with every step, but that quickly became a lie as the room spun around him. A cloud of darkness washed into his field of view and the last thing he saw was worry clouding Roger’s face.

‘I need assistance in 308,’ a voice called out and someone was tugging his arm. Brian fought to open his eyes, but everything felt like it was made of wood. ‘Mr. May, can you hear me?’

‘Brian? Brimi? He just fell, I didn’t-’

‘-have to get an IV hooked up-’

His eyes shot open, taking in his surroundings. A hospital bed. Cheap ceiling tiles, wires.

“Brian!” He turned over to see Roger with suspiciously red eyes. Freddie was there and John, who appeared to be sleeping in a cramped visitor’s chair. His head felt full, muffled even. Roger wrapped his arms around him, until Freddie pulled him off.

“Let the man breathe, you buffoon.”

“He’s fine,” Roger retorted. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Brian whispered, his throat almost too dry to talk.

“John!” Roger practically shoved the younger man off the chair. “He’s awake.”

John’s groggy face lit up as he saw Brian.

Brian tried to sit up, wincing as something pinched his side.

“No, no, love,” Freddie said, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t strain yourself.” He slumped back down.

“What happened?”

“Well, you scared the living daylights out of me,” Roger said. “You passed out.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Brian asked, his voice hoarse.

“Stomach ulcer,” John said. “It’s been there for a while. They think the hepatitis made it worse and that’s why you were having such a rough go.”

“They had to operate.”

Brian vaguely remembered discussing something with the doctor after waking up in a hospital wing. He mostly remembered the astonishment on the doctor’s face when he explained his recent eating habits.

‘Let me get this straight. You haven’t been eating anything?’

‘I have,’ Brian protested. ‘Just... not successfully.’

‘How often in a week have you been sick?’

Constantly. ‘Often.’

‘Often as in every few days? Every day?’

Brian mumbled something, hoping that the others wouldn’t hear.

‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘Every time I ate. Unless it was something ridiculously small.’ His stomach cramped up as he saw the shock on his friends’ faces.

An operation. So that’s why he felt strange. He was impossibly tired, and his side felt not quite painful, but…

“How long am I going to be here?” he whispered.

“As long as you need to,” Freddie replied. “None of this rushing back to the studio. Or isolation. We’ve made it very clear that we’re going to show up as often as we please.”

“The album-”

“Can wait.” This time it was Roger who chimed in. “This isn’t some tiny live album, mate. There’s layering, production, more writing. Deacy hasn’t even written half of his bass parts yet.”

“Actually, I have-”

“AND,” Roger continued, “we can layer the guitars after. Throw in ten tracks and bury us all in the mix.”

What if they wait for me and I get sick again? What if my life becomes a never-ending stream of problems-

“We’ve notified the manager,” Freddie added. “And made it very clear that this album gets done with Brian May as guitarist.”

“We couldn’t work with anyone else,” John said.

“We could,” Roger quipped. “We could choose someone who does constantly argue about his parts, or the tempo, or repeating a take because his string slipped too far in the bend.”

The others glared at him.

“But, we wouldn’t be Queen then, would we? We would be… something less.”

Freddie nodded in agreement. “He’s right. Without you, we’d be something boring.”

“Might as well call ourselves the Serfs.”

John and Roger tossed names back and forth, trying to outdo one another with some witty new band name.

Brian jerked out of his thoughts as he felt Freddie lay a hand on his arm. “We’ll wait for you. If it takes weeks, months, that’s what it takes.” He straightened up, clapping his hands together. “Now. Where’s that nurse? I want to discuss what food they’ll be serving you. I won’t allow that horrible hospital mash to be served to our guitarist.”

****

Freddie had little say in the hospital food, but he was right about frequent hospital visits. His bandmates stopped by often to update him on every studio update and, in Roger’s case, to try and settle debates. John brought him a steady stream of paperbacks from a store down the street and one day Roger hauled in a videogame console. Brian had to admit that the constant distractions helped occupy his mind.

At first, the fear of never being able to eat again stopped him from eating. Eventually, the twisting anxiety loosened up and he slowly rebuilt his appetite. Roger made a habit of showing up for diner.

“It’s depressing to eat alone,” Roger said, eating a massive hamburger.

Brian knew the real reason for his nightly visits. He refused to let Brian hide any eating issues from him. “I don’t mind.”

“Aren’t you going to finish that?” Roger asked, pointing to the singular bite left on his plate.

Brian’s mouth was full as he stared back at him. “’m not even done.”

“And you’re feeling alright?”

He sighed. “Yes, Roger. I don’t have any glaring issues.”

“Well, you’ll have some if you don’t tell me. I mean it.”

“I’m just… tired.” And he was. His recovery was going well, but some days he wondered if things would ever be back to normal after the stream of problems.

Roger wiped his hands on his pants. “Good. I’ll let you get some sleep then.”

****

‘Wake up lad.’

Firm hands gripped his shoulder, tugging him awake. He tried to pull away from the ragged figure hunched over him but his limbs felt sluggish. ‘Please, I don’t want to-’

‘Do you feel it?’

‘I don’t know-’

‘There’s a storm coming lad, a storm that will swallow every man whole. Every man who has pushed away his neighbour, who has rejected a life of goodness.’

The room around him grew dark as shadows swirled along the walls.

‘Can you hear me? Listen lad. Listen!’

Leave me alone.

‘Death all around, around, around…’

The sudden rush of water filled his ears, and he was no longer in the hospital. He was sitting at the dining room table in his childhood home.

‘Mum?’

The house was empty, deathly quiet asides from a steady dripping.

‘Did you hear?’ Brian spun around to see a strange man holding a briefcase. ‘Us English folk need to stick together.’ He strode forward, setting the case on the table. ‘We all must stick together. You’d be best to listen.’

‘Who are you? Where-?’

‘The wise man. The mad man. They are one in the same. Sometimes one speaks but sometimes the other speaks and you never know which is wise and which is mad.’ He flipped open the case and water began spilling out, cascading down the table, rising around Brian’s legs at an impossible speed.

Listen to the wise man.

‘Death is coming, one that you cannot escape, one that you cannot rise unchanged from.’

His legs wouldn’t move no matter how hard he tried.

Listen to the mad man.

‘My human zoo!’

The water soaked though his shirt, as Brian struggled to move. Higher. It was lapping at his chin now as he desperately reached for the floating briefcase in front of him. He watched as bits of dishes drifted past him. He saw a familiar shirt bobbing ahead.

‘Roger!’

His voice barely carried through the room, and the more he tried to swim towards it, the further he seemed to drift.

‘Roger, take my hand,’ he screamed out. ‘Take it!’

“Brian!”

He shot up, feeling the water pushing against his chest, staring directly into John’s eyes.

“Hey, are you alright?”

His breath was still catching in his chest as the terrible voice in his head seemed to fade away. His shirt was drenched, not with water, but with sweat.

“What’s wrong?” Roger’s voice called out from the door.

“Just… some weird dream,” Brian mumbled, pushing the matted hair from his face.

“Not surprising,” John said, holding up the science fiction book he had been reading the night before. “You wouldn’t catch me going to sleep with this on my mind.”

“No, it was weird. Some flood. And there was this old man there.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Roger said, his voice light. “Old men are some of the scariest things you’ll see.”

“You know what, never mind,” Brian said.

“No, go on, I’m quite interested in this old man. Was he trying to sell you something?”

“Forget it?”

“Because there’s nothing scarier than an old man showing up on your doorstep trying to sell you something.”

Brian sighed, but the dream was still clear in his memory.

Still I fear, still I dare not laugh at the madman.

****

The day Brian stepped back in the studio, it was bliss. John was in the corner fiddling with a loose knob on his amp. The lights gleaming off the microphone stands. Roger talking with Freddie in the control room as a studio technician loaded up a reel. The way Freddie’s eyes lit up when he saw Brian walk in with his guitar.

“Brian love, we were just about to start warming up.” He pulled him into his arms, holding him tight.

Roger smiled at him, as if they weren’t about to have ten arguments about the tempo every day. “It’s great to have you back mate.”

“So, what are we going to start with?” John asked, wandering into the control room.

“What do you want to start with?” Freddie asked Brian.

“Well,” he said, setting down his Red. “I’m here to play guitar. Whatever needs to be done.”

“Right, well it’s about time you picked up the slack,” Roger joked, bumping Brian’s shoulder.

As he slid his guitar strap over his shoulder and ran a hand along his guitar neck, he smiled. This was it. This was what he was. Brian May. The Queen guitarist.