Chapter Text
Monday, 29th May 1972;
“No.”
Freddie’s refutation turns Alfred’s head as it echoes in the empty pub, Crashers at a quiet point in The Who’s Baba O’Riley. The music swiftly picks back up earning Afred’s attention once more and Brian bites his lip as the landlord turns back to the stage. Reaching out, he tugs on Freddie’s sleeve.
“Outside.”
The frontman bites his tongue until they’re out of earshot, but as soon as he’s clear, Freddie lets loose. Rounding on John, following behind with Roger, he wags a finger in the bassist’s face.
“I refuse to believe it. Dinesh would never – he wouldn’t do that.”
“Probably not,” Roger grunts, shoving a hand into his hair. “Don’t mean the others wouldn’t.”
“But to go along with it,” Freddie continues, horror and confusion warring with friendship and loyalty. Sometimes the best of Freddie mingles with the worst of him, leaving the man spinning in circles. Almost as if aware, he reaches out to snag Brian’s forearm, the grip hard, seeking something to ground him.
“Don’t we make sacrifices?” John quietly asks. He grimaces at Freddie’s sharp glance, but pushes on. “To go along with our band, to reach the next step?”
“We do,” Brian nods, giving Freddie a sympathetic look even as he gently disentangles himself. “Against what we believe in, sometimes.”
“If you’re still banging on about giving Raymond our pay to get us bookings, now’s not the time for ‘I told you so’s.”
“I’m just saying, it happens. Sometimes a bad thing is for a good cause, right?”
“Not Dinesh.”
The conviction with which Freddie speaks of his not terribly close acquaintance makes Brian smile, if a little sadly. When Freddie chooses you, you are chosen. Belonging to a select few, favoured by his generous spirit, the people Freddie picks are swept into the tempest of the man’s great capacity to love. Briefly, Brian wonders how the singer thinks of him – with Roger and John it’s so evident he’s stepped into never had before older brother’s shoes, tugging the younger members of the band under his protective, playful wing without a moment’s hesitation, but Brian’s too close a peer for that.
All the same, no matter the form it takes for him, Brian's well aware he belongs to that elite group also, has felt the full force of his friendship for years now. He can do no less than accept Freddie for who he is in return. Doesn’t stop him resenting his needling and meddling on occasion, he rues.
“Perhaps he’s unaware just what’s happening,” he soothes, before nodding towards John. “Fact is, Raymond’s not got our cash anymore.”
“Right,” the bassist agrees, grey-green eyes serious and steady, face solemn for once. He gives a soft snort, about the angriest Brian’s seen him since he took Wilfred away from Harris’ studio. “Doesn’t look like there’s much we can do about it, either.”
“Surely –” Freddie protests hotly, only to be cut off.
“We signed nothing, remember?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Brian sighs. They’d only gone for an unsigned contract with the man because they’d been afraid of being burned a second time after the fiasco with the studio deal. A gentleman’s agreement until things were proved to be a good idea seemed the perfect solution.
“What bright spark came up with that plan?” Roger grumpily mutters, rhetorically. They’d all been so pleased with themselves over it, of course it was bound to come back and bite them on the bum. He shoves his hand through his hair again, peering up at his older bandmates. “We’re fucked, then? No coin coming in, right?”
“None,” John confirms.
It’s a grim thought. They’d been counting on getting something, anything back from Raymond. It leaves them in something of a pickle; any they’re making on the tour is being split between two bands for a start and whatever Smile are left with has a large portion sent back to Alan’s friend for the tour posters. The man had done them a decent deal, but it’s still needing paying.
Glancing at Freddie, Brian bites his cheek. “We’ve a couple of free nights coming up. Tomorrow, Thursday, some days early next week.”
“We’ll pick something up,” Freddie agrees, catching his drift.
Grimacing, John shakes his head. “Not me.”
“It’s all right, darling,” Freddie tells him. “We’ll manage. You go do your thing.”
“Thing,” Brian snorts, relieved to find some levity, even if it’s only Freddie forgetting exactly what course John’s been slaving away on for the past few years and the finishing bit he’s doing now.
“Can’t believe it’s nearly over,” John muses and Brian tries not to feel the accompanying ache of regret.
While he’s not unhappy with his decision to focus on Smile at the expense of his academic studies, he does wish he’d been able to time it better to complete his PhD. Doubtless, it’d have still come as a blow to his parents when he then turned his attention to his band rather than the career expected, but at least he’d not have this gap in himself where the completion of his university courses sits.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Freddie advises. “Because once we have you completely –”
“There’s no escaping,” Brian cuts in, smiling.
“Oh, hush you. Instead of making snide remarks, perhaps you could put that mind to better use.”
“Oh? What use would that be?”
“Coming up with a plan to reclaim our cash from those ungrateful bastards.”
“Criminally Underrated?”
“Who else? Unless The Rolling Stones have also stolen our pay without me noticing?”
Taken aback, Brian struggles for a moment. Pushing aside the sarcasm, he focuses on the other part. “Fred, mate, what do you think we’ll be able to do? They probably don’t have a clue how much Raymond’s fucked us over.”
“Better off trying to find some work,” Roger grunts, for once not going along with Freddie’s far-fetched scheme. He lifts large blue eyes towards John. “Without our bassist.”
“Done it before,” Brian shrugs, giving the younger man a reassuring smile.
Roger perks up. “Wonder if Francis’ free?”
“Now there’s a thought.” Fishing in his pocket, Freddie pulls out a coin. “Go find a telephone, Blondie, give him a bell.”
“How? Ain’t got his flipping number printed on the inside of my eyelids, have I?”
Disappointed, Freddie tsks. “I’d have thought you’d have the thing memorised, what with how you like playing with him.”
“Don’t mind me,” John says, eyebrow arched in amusement. “I’ll just stand here and pretend I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Don’t be like that,” Roger tells him. “We like you best.”
“We do,” Freddie agrees and Brian’s pleased to see a bit of the usual playful manner about his old friend surface. “You’re the only bassist for us.”
“Until we need someone else,” Brian smiles serenely, earning himself a wry twitch of John’s lips.
“Magic.”
“Them posters,” Roger interjects, nudging John to get his attention. “We owing for the sodding things still?”
The question makes John wince. “Yes.”
“How?” Freddie demands. “We’re skint because of the thieving knobend as it is.”
“Seems that’s a separate issue.”
“In what world?” Brian wonders, genuinely surprised their money woes are deeper than previously thought, and a bit nonplussed John hadn’t brought it up sooner.
“In the one where we didn’t sign a cocking contract,” John tells him. “And the one where Kit has a signed one instead.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Roger growls. “We din’t sign that.”
“Didn’t,” Freddie corrects absently.
“Did not,” Brian one ups, because sometimes he’s like that.
“Din’t what?”
“Whatever word you want to use, fact is, our name is on that bloody piece of paper,” John elaborates. “Raymond, as our manager, apparently was able to drag us into it. Seeing as how it was for our use, after all.”
“So now we’ve creditors breathing down our necks,” Freddie seethes.
“Our name’ll be mud with Kit if this drags on much longer,” John adds. “If we want to work with him again someday, we need to get this fixed pronto.”
“Terrific,” Brian sighs, before noticing Roger’s expression. “Don’t,” he advises sternly. “Not your fault, and not your job to fix it.”
“Could do with pulling in some more cash,” the teenager grunts, blue eyes hard as he returns Brian’s stare.
“The story of our lives,” Freddie mutters. Glancing at the pub, he narrows his eyes. “For now, let’s do what we can to ensure this pays off.”
“Every little helps,” John nods, letting Freddie and Roger go ahead of him. As Brian draws beside him, he offers an apologetic twist of his lips. “Shouldn’t have said anything until this was over.”
“As if Freddie’d have let you stay silent,” Brian shrugs and gently pushes the younger man into the building.
Crashers have just come to the end of the audition, evidently, as Alfred’s up on stage with them. Brian takes that as a good sign.
“Looks good,” John notes quietly beside him.
“At least one thing’s going right,” Freddie tuts, before tossing his hair over his shoulder and heading towards the stage. A false brightness in his tone, he calls out, “Don’t you look thick as thieves?”
“Poor choice of words,” Brian notes, wincing.
“Robbery’s on his mind,” John agrees. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s your criminal past,” Brian nods sagely. “Come back to haunt you.”
“Once nicked a Curly Wurly,” Roger offers. “Think I should go back and pay for it?”
“You’ve nicked headphones too,” Brian points out.
“Fuck. This my fault, then?”
“Nah,” John shrugs, as the three of them continue to watch Freddie insert himself into discussions for the pay earned on the tour date Alfred’s apparently content to honour. “That was justified, right?”
“Tossers,” Roger agrees defiantly, chin tilting up. Smiling, Brian relaxes a little. It’d been a shitty night at The Den, but it’d worked out in the end and got them what they needed at the time. Regretfully, he wonders if another night there is on the cards and crosses his fingers that they can find something else.
“We’ll try The Thatcher’s Arms,” he offers.
Roger nods. “Owe us for not joining this, don’t he?” He glances to the side, giving Brian and John a glimpse of a small, wicked smile. “Ain’t got Crashers getting in the way, either.”
“There’s a reason Freddie loves you so much,” Brian chuckles. Noticing things wrapping up on stage, he nods at the singer, lifting his voice so it carries to where Freddie’s coming down the steps to ground level. “All set?”
“Done and dusted.”
Looking at his watch, John smiles. “Smashing. In plenty of time for The Crown, too.”
“I want to get there early,” Freddie announces.
“Oh?”
“It’s about time we had a night go our way on this blasted tour.”
“For a start,” Brian points out as they collectively give a lazy wave to the younger band fussing about with getting their stuff off stage, “we’re on last. How’s getting there early going to do anything?”
“It can’t possibly hurt, can it?”
“Knowing our luck,” John muses, “we’ll be in time to have the roof fall on our heads.”
“Oh, hush, you. We’ll send the small child up into the rafters to check for faults before we do anything.”
“Oi!”
“You’re very small,” Freddie explains earnestly. “And wonderfully blessed with the fortunes of youth.”
“What?”
“You’re the perfect choice for clambering amongst the beams. Aren’t you always telling us we’re so decrepit it’s a marvel we make it down the street without coming a cropper?”
“Not sure I have done, actually,” Roger glowers. Still, that seems not to stop him from commenting, “S’true, though. You lot are old.”
“Just when I thought my day couldn’t get worse,” John says, amusement arching an eyebrow. “Here, we leaving them lot to it?”
“Yes,” Freddie nods emphatically, pushing open the door to the back of the pub. “I could do with a break from dealing with the bloody usurpers.”
Sharing a smile with Roger, Brian wonders, “Alfred say nice things about them?”
“Fickle old fool,” Freddie retorts bitterly. With what looks like an effort, he waves his band on towards where John left the Green Beast. “Do you suppose there’s time to go through our set?”
“Depends on when you want to get to The Crown.”
“How early is ‘early’?” Brian agrees.
It turns out Freddie isn’t particularly able to do ‘early’, even when he’s given himself the timescale. They do arrive with enough of a cushion to enable them to settle in at the bar before Crashers are due, which gives Trish all she needs to have a moan.
“There’s a bloke on my doorstep stopping people coming in.” She settles a pointed look at the four of them, each attempting to appear inconspicuous. “That your doing, is it?”
“We’re trying to sell tickets.”
“I’m trying to sell drinks. Can’t very well do that with some twit waving a ticket book in people’s faces and telling them to sod off.”
“He’s a bit eager,” Freddie offers, twisting to see the door where, on the other side, stands a man they don’t know, working very hard for them.
“He’s a bloody nuisance. You don’t get shot of him, you don’t play tonight.”
“Trish!” Roger pleads. “It’s for a good cause.”
“I don’t care if you’re down to selling your organs,” she tells him tartly. “You’re not doing it on my doorstep, and you most certainly are not interfering with my pub.”
“It’s just one night,” Freddie wheedles.
Pinning him with the hardest look she possesses, which to Brian’s mind only serves to highlight her full lips as she presses them tight, Trish says in a low voice, “If he’s not shifted his arse in the next minute, Mick’ll do it for him.”
“Now Trish, lovely, there’s no need to go that far,” Freddie gasps.
“Come on,” Brian chuckles, slapping Roger on the shoulder. “Better have a word, eh?”
“Gone, Brian,” Trish insists as they head off. “Not moved to one side, not set up down the street, gone.”
“She’s not happy,” Roger remarks as they reach the door.
Opening it, Brian can’t really blame her. Perhaps, on reflection, they were being a bit ambitious with the tickets.
“Look, my uncle tells me to get tickets,” the poor man almost whines when Brian gets done telling him what he’s about. “So I stand here, getting all sorts of things -”
“I know, we’re sorry,” Brian commiserates. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s not really working out.”
“There’s always the pool hall,” Roger offers brightly. “Here, you got one of the posters on you?”
“’Course I bloody have. Uncle Vin said to point out upcoming dates.”
“Your uncle Vin’s thought of everything, hasn’t he?” Brian notes.
“Mum says he’s a timewasting layabout,” the man reveals, pulling out a crumpled and somewhat torn piece of paper. It had, once upon a time, been an advert for their tour but now seems to have become a repository for all manner of stains and crumbs. “But he’s got his own shop, see, so I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Roger, employed at Vin’s second-hand record shop, says nothing but Brian can see him biting his lip. Good man, he encourages silently. Be strong.
“Right, well, this here’s the night we mean,” Brian manages, indicating one of the final gigs listed. “Let me give you address, we definitely want you on this night.”
“What’m I gonna do with the other tickets?”
“They sold much?” Roger wonders hopefully.
“Some.”
“We’ll handle it,” Brian decides swiftly. Who knows who’s going to be all right with a ticket counter standing outside their pub, apparently hounding people who haven’t had the forethought to spend coin on a way in. It’s amazing Marion and Geoff down at The Gate had allowed it the other night. Like most of Freddie’s hastily thought-out plans, there’s a big element of cheek involved.
Seeing Vin’s apparent nephew off, they’re about to turn back to the pub when Roger pauses.
“’Bout time.”
Noticing what’s caught the boy’s attention, Brian smiles. Ambling up the street are the other teenagers he’s friendly with, dressed in casual clothes with just that certain amount of effort to make them appropriate for going out.
“At least you won’t have to sneak them in tonight,” he jokes. Clapping his young drummer on the shoulder, he smiles. “I’ll leave you to it.”
With any luck, there’s a pint waiting for him on the bar, and he should probably greet Crashers when they turn up also. Not looking forward to it, Morrigan’s earlier in the day being almost as much as he could handle, he nevertheless resolves to be on his best behaviour. It’s not their fault he got his heart stomped on, after all.
It’s not really Becky’s either, but it’s easier to think so rather than acknowledge it was all one way in the first place and that his own shortcomings in accepting that led to the pain he’s now experiencing.
There is, in fact, a nice pint with his name on it when he gets in. Crashers have also arrived and are in the process of getting their stuff set up. There’s a twist, deep in his chest, when he spots Becky adjusting her bass’ amp with Stuart’s undivided attention.
“What took you so long?” Freddie asks, pulling his gaze away from the pair. Not bothering to wait for a reply, he eyes the other band. “Good grief what’ve they done to themselves?”
Looking again, this time paying attention to Alan and Graham, Brian blinks. They’d given the makeup a go it seems; where Graham’s just about pulled off his sister’s dark eyeliner, Alan unfortunately appears to have lost a fight. Or a bet.
“Your influence at work,” he notes to his best friend.
“Think we should use their gear again?”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a bit of an arse ache dragging everything on and off the stage, isn’t it?”
“Rog won’t be happy if you take his drums away from him,” John notes, sipping his drink.
“A drum’s a drum, surely.”
“He’s the only one I know that actually tunes the damn things,” Brian counters. He shakes his head. “Best not.”
Pursing his lips, Freddie looks set to argue. “I’d imagine –”
“Builds whatsit, doesn’t it?” John asks mildly. He nods towards Crashers, milling about the small space set apart for their performance. “Suspense, like.”
“That’s true,” Brian agrees, hastily latching onto the idea since it’s likely to appeal to Freddie more than Roger’s attachment to the drums they’d all but given him. “Bit of anticipation’s good for a crowd, isn’t it?”
Watching the edges of the small crowd gathering for tonight’s gig, Freddie relents. “I suppose so.” Glancing back towards Brian, he raises an eyebrow. “The small child’s gone walkabout, has he?”
“His mates turned up,” Brian shrugs.
“Smile’s only loyal fans,” Freddie muses, once again eyeing the crowd.
“Who knows,” John smiles. “Some of them could have been at other gigs. How’d you know the difference?”
“As long as they’re not here for Crashers,” Freddie reminds them.
One eye on the door to lookout for Roger, Brian’s in prime position to crush that fervent hope. “Crap. They are.”
“Who are?” Freddie demands, just as Jevaun and a few others saunter through the pub towards the other band. “Them?”
“Them.”
There’s a sizeable group, which is quite nice in fairness. It seems Jevaun did the tour a favour, spreading the word amongst his friends and apparently picking a night for them to all go together to a gig. If only he wasn’t so friendly with Becky, Brian muses ruefully. While they might enjoy what Smile have to offer, clearly they’re here to support Crashers first and foremost.
“You’d like him,” he offers. “Nice bloke.” Not in the mood to put himself into close proximity to Becky, Brian nudges Freddie. “Go introduce yourself,” he suggests.
“Think they can be converted?” John wonders.
“Anything’s possible,” Brian tells him, “when Freddie gets going.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the singer asks suspiciously.
“Go make friends,” Brian chuckles, settling his back to the bar counter.
Noticing his position, John arches an eyebrow. “Not coming?”
“Think I might hang back and wait for Roger.”
“Wish us luck,” Freddie instructs, settling his hair over his shoulder.
Brian doubts they’ll need it. Despite his griping, Freddie likes people and rarely comes away without having made an impression. Occasionally, as with Rich, things get a little tense but on the whole the man’s a charming socialite with the enviable talent of making you feel like the most important person in the room – despite his ego. Shaking his head with a soft smile, Brian returns to watching the door.
He’s surprised to see Jean and one her friends enter, without Lawrence or Roger. Straightening, he watches as the girl pauses just inside, searching the room. Spotting him, she doesn’t hesitate to hurry forwards.
“Go outside,” she tells him earnestly. “Roger says it’s all right, but that man is back.”
“What man?” Brian demands and knows instantly. “Fuck.”
Not sparing the girls another glance, Brian sets his pint down and makes once more for the front of the pub. Pushing the door open, he spots Roger and Raymond immediately. Lawrence, this time, hasn’t heeded Roger’s assertions he doesn’t need anyone with him and has stayed next to the younger boy, but looks to be keeping quiet while the pair talk.
“Thought we told you to bugger off,” Brian says as he draws near.
“This is a private matter,” Raymond replies, eyeing him balefully.
Looking him over, Brian frowns. While that icy exterior is fully present, and the words crisply spoken with tight control, there’s a slight air of frustration and desperation about the man. Lifting his hand to pass it along his slicked hair, Raymond glowers back at him, the sharpness of his glasses frames adding to the glare.
“Bollocks,” Brian tells him, before turning to Roger. “Come on, let’s get back inside.”
“S’all right,” the fifteen-year-old says, eyes not quite lifting enough to meet Brian’s. “You go. I wanna hear it.”