Chapter Text
Sunday, 25th June 1972;
Freddie’s eyes glitter, that inner fire blazing with determination, want, and more than likely, ego. Brian smiles. Now there’s a look he’s missed.
“Where’re the boys?” he asks.
“Pottering about the van. Deacy had some whatsit or other he’s been fiddling with while we waited for Roger to come to his senses and the small child asked questions.” He waves an impatient hand. “What’s this maybe Tim’s pointing our way?”
“Some sort of concert, seems like. Few bands going up for a night, Humpy Bong included.”
Pursing his lips, Freddie looks as if he’s holding back a snitty retort. With effort, he instead says, “Kind of him to think of us.”
“Decent bloke,” Brian points out. That was never the issue between Tim and Freddie – any other life, they’d have gotten on perfectly fine and often do between the fireworks their musical aspirations create.
“Who’s a decent bloke?”
Turning as the younger pair of the group return, Brian holds up the little notepad he’d scrawled Tim’s information down upon. “Our former bassist’s come through for us again.”
“Has he?” John marvels. “Magic.”
“What’s he got?” Roger demands, heading across to take the notepad from Brian. Peering at the words, he frowns. “Who taught you how to write?”
Taking the pad back, Brian uses the convenience of it to lightly smack the teenager on the top of the head with it. “That, you uneducated whelp, is penmanship.”
“Whelp?” Roger grunts. “You just call me a mollusc?”
Helpfully, Freddie corrects, “That’s whelk, angel.”
“What the fuck’s a whelp, then?” Taking the notepad again, Roger once more scrutinises Brian’s writing. “That’s not penmanship, that’s a stroke happening on paper. S’got straight lines in it.”
“Penmanship,” Brian insists.
“What’s the penmanship say?” John enquires, picking his bass guitar back up and slinging the strap over his shoulder.
“Aside from telling us Blondie could do with another round or two in the classroom,” Freddie replies, “it’s a venue.”
“Looks more like a spider fell in some ink and danced a waltz,” Roger huffs, but his eyes are sparkling as he glances at Brian.
“As all good handwriting should,” Brian nods.
“Care to fill us in on the details?” Freddie directs, pushing them back to the important parts. “Since Tim went to the trouble to inform us of it.”
“It’s an opening,” Brian revels, feeling the old excitement bubbling up again. If all goes well, they could score a regular place out of it or begin to get a reputation as movers and shakers – a required booking if you want your place to have notice taken of it. Animated, he gestures with the notepad. “Could be good for us, this.”
“Naturally,” Freddie agrees, an edge of caustic bitterness touching his tone. “Anything at this point’ll be good for us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brian sees Roger’s shoulders curl slightly inwards. All the same, the thrill of getting back to working gigs outweighs any concerns.
“You old grump,” he tells his best friend.
“Sorry,” the frontman apologises, a little stiffly were Brian taking notes. “Well,” he quickly moves on. “I suppose we ought to make good on Deac’s early arrival and get cracking with our rehearsal.”
“Probably should,” Roger agrees, scuffing a hand through his hair. He flicks his eyes towards Freddie. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”
For a moment the singer stands frozen, before he smiles. “I wonder, darling, if we should perhaps sort a few items of clothing out for you first?”
“Clothing?” glancing down at himself, Roger looks momentarily put out. “I washed stuff.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Freddie trills. “All the same, pop into my room there and get some of the tee shirts.”
There’s another moment when Roger, this time, doesn’t move.
“We’ll pick out some nice stuff,” Freddie continues, “get you back to your old self in no time.”
Brian has the sense the boy wants to query that, the wording, but in the end he simply shrugs and does as he’s told.
“Right,” John nods, calling attention to himself. “Seem to recall something about some breakfast. Although it’s lunch now,” he adds in a little mutter.
“Plain old toast is about the best we can offer,” Brian tells him. He and Freddie haven’t really been in the mood for anything much recently, and besides, the flat’s been strapped for cash for quite a while now. Anything but the basics just hasn’t been on the shopping list.
John raises an eyebrow. “Mouldy bread aside, I’ve got something that might spice it up some.”
“Oh fuck,” Freddie whispers loudly. To Brian he moans, “He’s going to suggest something dreadful. Fish paste, perhaps.”
“Don’t knock it,” John tells him, before turning back to the bag he’d brought in with him. Triumphantly, he pulls out a half-eaten jar of jam.
“Worse,” Brian whispers back to his flatmate. “He’s brought leavings. Scrapings. A do-dad or a flibbertigibbet. Possibly even a thingamabob.”
“The horrors.”
“Here,” John says, proffering the jam and out and out ignoring Brian and his nonsense. Sort of. “In all the excitement, I forgot this. And flibbertigibbet doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
Brian takes the jar gingerly. As with all good jams, the top and lid are somewhat sticky from use, and the sides are questionable as well. He peers at the label. The word ‘Blackcurrant’ is barely visible through the smears, the image nothing more than a blob. He supposes it must have been a handful of the fruit and tries to see if any made it through John’s morning routines unscathed.
From what he can tell, they’ve all met the same squashed looking end.
“What’d you do? Rub the jar on your toast? Deacs, mate, you’re supposed to dig the contents out with a knife.”
“Lasts longer my way,” John smiles, unperturbed by the teasing.
“There’s that,” Brian shrugs. Lifting the jar, he waves it at Freddie. “We’ve a donation.”
“Marvellous. How thoughtful of you, Deacy.”
“Couldn’t stand by and let your toast go unsweetened,” John tells the singer affably. “Poor, jamless fuckers that you are.”
“Jamless no longer,” Brian declares, before searching for Roger. “Where’s the small child got to?”
“Here,” Roger calls, emerging from Freddie’s bedroom with the items he’d requested. “Now what?”
“Jam,” John tells him proudly.
“Jam what needs toast,” Brian hints and with an eyeroll and no care for the sticky residue of the glass, the teenager takes the jar from him.
“Fine. Don’t say I never do anything.”
“Who’d be brave enough?” Freddie wonders.
“Suppose I should put the kettle on too, should I?”
“Always said he was a bright boy,” Brian tells John.
Freddie, meanwhile, has more important things on his mind. Sorting through the few bits Roger had selected from his clothing, he straightens, folding his arms over his chest and raising one hand to tap thoughtfully at his chin.
“This isn’t what I’d meant,” he says, catching himself as Roger moves out of the kitchen with the first round of toast, the kettle beginning to do its magic in the background. As those big blue eyes swing his way, he smiles. “Nevermind, we can work with this.”
It occurs to Brian, as John’s given the plate, that the pair aren’t quite back in the hivemind they usually operate upon. Rehearsal had been tentative at best and he thinks they both know it also; Roger glances at Freddie uncertainly while the singer forces another smile.
“Sorry,” Roger says huskily.
“It’s nothing, darling,” Freddie sings, a hand waved expansively and a bit hurriedly. “You can borrow whatever your heart desires.”
With a little nod, Roger retreats to the kitchen once more. Raising an eyebrow, Brian turns to his old friend and silently insists he get his act together. With a small frown, Freddie glares back. What more am I supposed to do? he seems to ask and Brian’s hard pressed not to groan in frustration.
They’ll just have to work it out. With any luck, once they get into the normal routine of rehearsal and the jokes and taunts that flow with it, things’ll be back as they were.
He’d very much like a return to things as they were, he thinks, noticing a distinct lack of kitchen solo drumming. With another held back sigh, he slips into the kitchen beside Roger.
“Thought you might like a hand.”
“Can manage.”
“I know,” Brian agrees softly. That’s something they’d learnt about the teenager early on; he managed. A lot. On his own. “Thought I’d help anyway.”
A glance tells Brian his little drummer’s getting his last nerve trod upon but with a sharp little nod, Roger catches himself. “Cheers.”
“Breathe,” Brian advises in the same soft tone. “Just breathe, Rog.”
Taking a small, shuddering inhale, the boy nods again. In silence, the pair finish making breakfast, Brian letting Roger take a moment to gather himself again.
“Nice spot of jam, this,” Brian comments once everyone’s suitably fed.
“Fond of it myself,” John agrees and there’s an odd, uncomfortable silence where neither Roger nor Freddie – the band’s chatterbox’s usually – have anything to say.
“Right,” Brian brightly nods, putting his plate on the table alongside everyone else’s. “What about that practice, eh?”
“Started it,” Roger reminds him, bouncing up from the arm of the sofa where he’d perched for breakfast. “Deacs interrupted me.”
“Some people call that arriving,” the bassist points out, eyebrow twitching upwards as his grey-green eyes dance with the inner amusement that never seems far from him.
“Go on,” Brian snorts in Roger’s direction. “Get back behind the kit.”
“And watch your hands,” Freddie adds as he stands from the sofa. “The last thing we need is to attempt an audition with you in bandages.”
“M’fine,” Roger protests, but he’s clearly holding back from the usual fiery response. His eyes, Brian is dismayed to notice, are cautious, carefully watching Freddie’s reaction.
“And we’d like for you to stay that way, darling.” To the rest of them, the singer waves a hand. “Come along then, or the day’ll get away from us.”
The seemingly casual comments appear to relax Roger somewhat and with a bounce Brian hasn’t noticed in a bit, the small drummer heads for his kit. Settling on his stool, he treats the rest of them, each embroiled with his own task of checking things are plugged in and set to the right levels, with a little flair of a solo. It’s not something Brian immediately recognises.
“Nice, that is,” John tells the teenager, who glances up with that large, bright smile they’ve been missing about the place.
“One of yours?” Brian asks.
“Jus’ summat I was thinking ‘bout.”
“Magic. Should see about putting it somewhere,” John suggests.
“Perhaps Brian can make use of it,” Freddie nods. He darts a sharp glance his way. “It might be the missing bit that enables us to finally play it.”
“Perhaps,” Brian replies, refusing to rise to the bait. “How about for now though, we take a swing through our set?”
“S’it time for a change?” Roger asks, sticks lightly rapping the edge of the medium tom and denoting the bubbling energy he’s barely keeping in control of. “Switch some bits out?”
“Now might not be the right time,” Freddie cautions. “No, angel, I think it’d be best if we stuck with what we’ve got for the moment.”
With a little shrug, Roger backs down. “All right.”
Biting his lip, Brian glances in his old friend’s direction. Saying nothing, he wonders if Freddie’s concerned they’ve forgotten what they’re about during Roger’s absence – if he’s of the opinion they need to start nearly from scratch to ensure they don’t come crashing down in a mess of ill-timed beats and missed notes. It’s only been a few weeks, nothing monumental in terms of their music memory. Perhaps the few moments of being out of synch with the fifteen-year-old has rattled him, already shaken from Roger’s disappearance.
Shaking off his misgivings over the frontman, Brian settles his own guitar over his shoulder once more. “Ready for the off?”
“One, two –”
“One – oh.”
Both Roger and Freddie come to awkward halts.
“Count us in, Rog,” Brian directs, pretending nothing’s out of the ordinary. All the same, as the young drummer does so, he happens to glance in John’s direction and notices the troubled expression linger in his eyes.
Perfect.
The song, Freddie’s favourite and still their opening number, is a bit creaky, lumbering along at an odd pace as Roger attempts to settle himself into the rhythm and Freddie sets his own. Behind them, John and Brian do their best to remind the others of where they’re supposed to be, but it’s not too unusual for a first song of a rehearsal; Roger has a tendency to rush it a bit when he’s first behind the drums – not to mention a liking for speeding their songs up anyway. They’ve all gotten used to him, to adjusting to what’s happening and, if necessary, bringing him back in line.
Brian tells himself it just feels odd this morning because Freddie’s going his own way for some reason.
“Sorry,” Roger sighs, shoving his hand in into his hair, two fingers still curled about his stick.
“Cobwebs,” Brian reminds him with a shrug. They’ve all got them; once the tour had come to its quiet close, the remaining Smile members hadn’t gotten through much of a rehearsal without Roger despite their best intentions.
He turns to Freddie, whom he notices hasn’t apologised. So far, every time something’s gone a bit squiffy, Roger’s made the first step and the singer’s waved it off with a bright smile. Magnanimous, as it were, ever forgiving.
“We’ll go again,” Freddie declares, an easy shrug on his shoulders and a smile on his lips.
Brian bites his own. He might not be aware he’s doing it, conscious only that he needs to excuse the mistakes and likely telling himself he’s being a good friend for it, but he’s placing the fuckups firmly at Roger’s feet.
Glancing at the little drummer, it’s hard to tell what the boy thinks about that; head turned and hair swinging, Roger’s testing out his kit’s cymbals and hi-hat positionings. To all intents and purposes, he appears fully accepting of any hiccups; just another rehearsal with all its bumps and irritations.
“On three?” the teenager asks and sets them off again.
It’s not as bad this time and Brian allows himself to relax into the familiarity of the work, the piece one he’s played countless times – with and without the currant line up of Smile. It’s only when he finds his solo a touch out of sync and pays attention to his bandmates that he realises what a mess they’re in; Roger’s staring hard at Freddie, seemingly determined not to mis a cue for any upcoming change the frontman might make; playing well but in a manner not like his own as he focuses on the man and not his own job. John, meanwhile, is adjusting his own style to match the boy and keep the rhythm section in harmony without Roger’s input.
“All right, hang on,” he calls, abruptly halting.
Tsking, Freddie turns a raised eyebrow on him. “Now what?”
“Shake it off,” Brian advises. Including each of the others in his gaze, he shakes his head. “Whatever it is, shake it off.”
“What’re you banging on about?” Freddie wonders, just as Roger huffs in Brian’s direction.
“We are,” the boy tells him. “Fucking numpty.”
“You’re not loose at all,” Brian contends. “Get any tighter, we’ll have to defreeze you.”
“M’fine. Let’s jus’ go again.”
“Your breathing’s out,” John tells him mildly. “If you hadn’t noticed.”
“Fine,” Freddie sighs. “Blondie, wriggle and breathe, if you wouldn’t mind. The rest of you, stop playing silly buggers and let’s get on with this.”
And so it goes. Both Roger and Freddie get increasingly frustrated as the sound of their songs goes down the swanny more and more as time wears on, while John and Brian do their best to smooth out any of the bumps through adjusting to meet the unexpected wherever possible. Brian only just slips out of the way as a drumstick sails through the flat as Roger expresses his displeasure with a throaty growl.
“Fuck’s sake.”
As their gazes travel to him, Roger’s belligerence and temper slides into a dawning realisation he’s done something he likely shouldn’t have.
“Well,” Freddie says bracingly as the boy’s expression flicks between something close to fear and regret. “I think we might as well call it here.”
“M’sorry,” Roger says, husk and low with sorrow. Brian’s about to joke that it’s good to have him back to his old self, but Freddie brushes the words aside swiftly.
“We’re all a bit tired,” he says simply, another smile directed towards the small drummer. “It’s a good stopping point.”
“Pick it up tomorrow,” John agrees, as if it’s just another day, another rehearsal and they’ve got a solid bit of work done. Brian wonders if he’s just imaging how rotten it all feels, or if the others are doing their best to soothe the disquiet. Unplugging the bass guitar, John gives them a little look. “Might slope off, in that case.”
“Yes, I’ve one or two things I’d like to do,” Freddie announces. Hastily putting aside the mic stand, placing it beside Roger’s drums without coiling the lead for it, he offers another of those smiles. “I’d like to have a chat with Maurice.”
“What about?” Brian frowns.
“Always got his ear to the ground, doesn’t he?” Freddie points out. “Might well have some inside knowledge of this new place.”
“Turns up to the opening of an envelope, does he?” John wonders and earns himself a tut.
“You be nice to Maurice, he’s done a lot for us.”
“I’m nice,” John tells him, eyes beginning to shine in amusement.
“Nicest out of us,” Brian agrees. “Barely a temper and too decent to pull us up on ours.”
“I’m saving it for a special occasion,” John reveals, making Brian snort.
“Always said you want watching.”
“It’s the quiet ones,” Freddie nods. “Always. Right, on that note, I think I’ll take my leave, darlings. Do be good, won’t you?”
“Hang about, you want a lift?” John offers, picking up his guitar case.
“Thank you, no. I fancy stretching my legs. You pop off home, Deacy.”
“Right you are, then. Lads,” John nods towards Brian and Roger, the latter not having left the stool behind the drums yet.
“See you, Deacs,” Brian calls back, while the teenager simply nods a farewell. Hauling his amp with him, the bassist departs after Freddie and Brian, helpfully manning the door, shuts it behind him.
Turning to his remaining bandmate, Brian offers a little smile in lieu of something better. “Just us, then.”
“Bloody hell,” the boy moans softly. Lifting anguished eyes up, he asks, “Fucked off with me, ain’t he?”
“Freddie? Just a man on a mission, as usual.”
Shaking his head, Roger finally removes himself from the kit. “Ain’t happy with me.”
“He’s getting through it,” Brian promises and hopes Roger remembers he doesn’t do such a thing lightly.
Still those eyes search his own for answers. “Ain’t a lost cause then?”
“Not a bit,” Brian nods. “Come on, go for a shower and wash today off and we’ll find something to occupy us while we wait for Fred to get back.”
With a sad little shrug, Roger slides towards the sofa. He’s yet to unpack the big rucksack and Brian bites his cheek. Perhaps, for the fifteen-year-old at least, that’s adding to things not feeling quite right yet.
“Get that stuff put away,” he advises, in a tone that he hopes suggests he’s got no ulterior motives for having Roger return his clothes to Brian’s bottom drawer. “Messy thing, you.”
Roger gives him a little smile and, instead of selecting fresh clothing as he was going to, hauls the large bag into Brian’s room as directed. Brian leaves him to it, giving Roger a bit of space to return to how they were and himself a moment to frantically cast his gaze about the front room and kitchen for inspiration. What he supposes they might do while they wait for Freddie, he’s got no ideas presently.
It's not until Roger departs for the advised wash that Brian hits on something; they’ve not gone through the photographs in quite some time. For a start, it’s a great time waster, and secondly, it might help Roger remember his place amongst them. Hopefully, Brian adds as he seeks out the various envelopes of pictures he’s been amassing, it won’t remind Roger of his mistake, only happy times that are most definitely within reach again.
When Roger rejoins him, wet hair dripping onto his top and bare toes curling into the thin, threadbare carpet beneath the table, Brian smiles up brightly at his friend.
“Remember this?” he asks, selecting one of the photographs he’s been particularly taken with. It’s an amazingly dark image to be fair, but it’s captured Freddie strikingly all the same. There’s only one light source, on the stage and to the side, highlighting the frontman as he stands, legs spread, fist pushed forwards and mouth wide; a true belt of a note if Brian’s ever seen one.
“The underground thing,” Roger murmurs, taking the image from him.
“Was a fucking good night,” Brian recalls, chuckling. “Despite all the nonsense going along with it.” He eyes his small drummer. “Very us, all that nonsense.”
Roger doesn’t reply. Staring at the picture in his hand he looks lost in thought. “Is, ain’t it?” he murmurs slowly. Determination shines bright in his gaze as he lifts his eyes from the photograph to Brian. Firmer now, he says, “Think I know what to do to make it right.”
“Rog, mate, you don’t –”
“I gotta show Freddie m’serious ‘bout Smile. An’ this’ll do it.”
Staring at the picture Roger thrusts under his nose, Brian wonders how it’ll help.