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ronniesshoes · 4 years

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Keep Yourself Alive

Here we are again! It’s been a very long wait but this chapter is both the longest yet and absolutely packed so I hope it’s worth it! Huge thanks to everyone who interacts, I love you & couldn’t do it without your support, patience and encouragement! And thanks to @theseasofrhye for your massive help and for being an inspiration every day 💛 Enjoy!

Brian doesn’t remember how or when he returns from the party, but when he wakes up the next morning, he almost wishes he hadn’t. His mouth tastes like something has crawled in there and died, and his head feels stuffy and achy, though whether it’s from his hangover or the cold he’s still nursing is anybody’s guess. The groan that leaves his abused throat sounds pitiful even to his own ears, and when he forces his sticky eyelids open, Freddie and John, curled up in Freddie’s bed, are looking at him with poorly concealed amusement.

The pair of them look annoyingly fresh-faced and impossibly cosy, and Brian sends them a hateful look before he forces his heavy body out of bed. He trips over his shoes and is momentarily confused as to what they’re doing in his room. His stomach lurches unpleasantly.

As quickly as his aching body allows him to, he gets to the loo, but when he crouches in front of the toilet, nothing comes up, and he settles for a morning piss instead. He winces when he catches sight of his pale reflection in the mirror as he reaches for his chewed up bamboo toothbrush in an attempt to remove the taste of death from his mouth.

He doesn’t think he can stomach breakfast so soon after waking up, but he gulps down two glasses of water and samples a vitamin from each of the bottles in the cupboard. Remembering Freddie’s warning on Solaray on an empty stomach, he returns the multivitamin to its proper bottle and swallows down the remaining five pills with a third glass of water. He can’t pretend to know what Damiana is good for, but he probably needs it.

Putting on the kettle, he leans against the worktop but jumps back when pain shoots down his thigh, and he tugs down the waistband of his boxers, revealing a dark bruise blooming over his hip. He carefully prods a finger at it, trying to recall an event from the night before that could have possibly led to it, but comes up short. Sighing, he picks out a mug and drops the last bag of English Breakfast in it, folds up the cardboard and throws it in the bin. He tugs at the sleeves of his jumper in a fruitless attempt to cover his freezing fingers. Now that Christmas and New Year’s are over, there’s nothing to distract him from the dull coldness that seems to have seeped into his bones, robbing him of the ability to concentrate on anything for long. If only it had been raining—or better yet, snowing—but the sky is overcast and mute, the ugly building on the other side of the street barely visible through the heavy fog.

The hiss of the kettle pulls him out of his thoughts, and he opens the fridge, his eyes stinging ridiculously as he discovers he’s out of oat milk. The two cartons of regular milk seem to mock him from their place on the shelf, and for a moment, he rests his head against the cool edge of the door. He could do with a proper cup of tea—black with milk and one sugar—but all the stores are closed today, and even if they weren’t, the thought of putting on clothes makes his head hurt. He stares at the milk until the fridge starts beeping and he peels his forehead off the door and closes it.

Nausea rolling in his stomach, he picks up the kettle and fills his mug with water, idly dunking the teabag with his spoon. Perhaps he really is uptight and in dire need of loosening up a little, but so far the consequences don’t seem to be worth it.

His chair is littered with crumbs when he brings his mug to the table so he opts for Freddie’s usual instead and tucks one foot beneath him. He puts his hands over his tea until they’re damp and warm, then wipes them on his jumper and gazes wearily out the window. He misses summer, misses being able to study in the sun outside uni or hop off the tube a stop earlier and walk the rest of the way. He misses dad and their annual one-day camping trip to go stargazing and he misses not being tired all the time. His thoughts skirt the topic of Tenerife; glittering Lonely Planet guides in Foyles and his bookmarked The World’s Best Stargazing Spots.

Mentally shaking himself, he wraps his hands around the hot ceramic of his mug and keeps them there until they sting. The decision has been made, and even entertaining the idea of changing his mind is a waste of time and energy. He has plenty on his mind as it is, and so does professor Harrison, he imagines—he’s not about to make a nuisance of himself just because he’s feeling a little hungover.

Through the slowly dissolving fog, Brian makes out the already sinking sun. It looks angry, Brian thinks; spilling sickly red over the paling horizon. He swallows down his tea, bitter without milk to sweeten it, and his heart suddenly aches for someone to talk to. He doesn’t want to go back to his room and disturb Freddie and John, and he doesn’t think he can handle the confusion that seems to be ever-present when he talks to Roger. On the outside they’re fine—Roger’s apology seemed genuine enough even though Brian suspects it was not offered entirely voluntarily, but sometimes he’ll look at Roger and remember his words, and petty anger will claw at his insides.

He knows Roger will never understand his relationship with his parents—the fact that he knows his mother had desperately wanted a daughter instead made it complicated from the beginning, but Brian supposes that's his cross to bear. His coming out was another blow, he thinks, and of course his sudden illness not five months later that almost cost him his life. He doesn’t blame his parents for their worrying and their aspirations on his behalf. They’ve always wanted what’s best for him.

Quelling the sting of loneliness, he reaches for his planner and begins flicking through it. Try as he might, he can’t force excitement when he looks at the handful of gigs spread over the months of January and February. And on the 23rd of February, penned in with more force than the others, the lines thick and graphite, the entry only says Tenerife. The rest of the month is empty.

He stares at the page for a long while, then reaches for a pen and slowly strikes it out, once, twice, keeps going until the word is illegible. He closes his planner with more force than necessary and stretches to steal a pink sticky note from Freddie’s pile of sketchbooks and stationery to write himself a reminder to plan his tutoring sessions with Liam, Ben, and Kate for the upcoming months.

Brian leans back in his chair with a sigh. A new year, and if anything, the prospect of dragging himself through it seems even more impossible than it did just a few weeks ago. He can’t for the life of him understand why he’s not feeling more optimistic, why he doesn’t have his resolutions in bold letters above his bed, why the prospect of going on tour fills him with dread. Tomorrow they’re going to evaluate, and Brian doesn’t know how to explain to them that he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about their performance yesterday, doesn’t care about the upcoming gigs, doesn’t care about anything other than catching a fucking break. If only time could stand still for a little while, give him an hour or two to pull himself together, to sort out his buzzing mind.

John’s laughter from the other side of the wall startles him out of his thoughts. He wonders if Roger is up yet because he fears that if he doesn’t talk to someone, he might genuinely lose the plot.

Filled with sudden determination, he pushes back his chair, cringing at the ugly scraping sound, and makes for Roger’s room.

Just as he passes the bathroom, the door swings open, and Brian almost jumps out of his skin. Roger’s laughter is loud in the empty living room, and Brian glares at him to distract himself from his racing heart.

“How long have you been out there?” he demands, determinedly not looking at the way the water beads on his shoulders or the hair plastered to his forehead, taking years off his face. He briefly wonders if being so caught up his own thoughts that he has failed to notice the water running should be a cause of concern, then decides it’s best not to dwell on it.

Roger shrugs, securing the towel that hangs indecently low on his hips. “40 minutes? Freddie taught me how to make a body scrub using sugar and coconut oil,” he says, holding out his arm to stroke the damp skin, “it’s supposed to scrub away the last year. Load of bollocks if you ask me, but satisfying all the same.”

He drops his arms and smiles up at him. Brian scowls.

“You did it on purpose.”

“What, scared you?” Roger asks, raising his eyebrows in question. Brian nods, not caring that he doesn’t make sense. “Yes, I’ve been standing here for ten minutes waiting specifically for you to pass just so I could scare you. Like I don’t have better things to do. The floor is wet.”

“Do you?” Brian wonders out loud, stepping back to allow Roger to pass.His feet leave wet prints on the floor.

Roger puts his hand on the door handle to his room but doesn’t enter. “Course, I have at least ten New Year’s resolutions I intend to break.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d made any,” Brian says, amused and secretly curious.

“Nothing I intend to keep,” Roger says dismissively, pushing down the door handle, “still, it’s tradition. Don’t let me keep you. Bathroom’s free.”

“Actually,” Brian says just as Roger disappears into his room. He pauses in the doorway. “I wanted to, um, chat. If you’re not too tired. Or busy. And when you’ve got dressed, obviously.”

“Oh,” Roger says, “come in, then.”

Brian hesitates but follows him inside, shutting the door behind him like Roger tells him to. The difference in temperature is staggering.

“Good to know where all the heat goes,” he comments drily. He attempts to determine which messy bed looks the least uninviting, and ends up on the edge of John’s.

“I’m sorry your king-sized beds and lush bedding can’t keep your skinny arses warm,” Roger shoots back, opening his closet doors wide.

Brian snorts softly and then almost chokes on his breath when Roger loses the towel around his waist and starts drying his hair while he studies the contents of his closet.

Roger turns around at the sound. “Alright?”

“I’m fine,” Brian says weakly, silently grateful that the closet door blocks most of the view. Still, that’s a lot of skin.

He shakes himself. It’s not like he’s attracted to Roger, or ever has been. There’s no reason he should be—Roger has plenty of flaws, and as he picks them out—his skinny legs, the dumb mole that’s shaped a bit like a small heart, and the tattoo he spies when Roger reaches for a shirt—Brian feels slightly better. It’s not about looks, anyway, and personality-wise, Roger is annoying at best and constantly driving him to the brink of insanity at worst. As for last week … well, he was just helping out a friend.

“Wouldn’t you say these two shirts are the exact same shade?” Roger asks. His wet towel lies forgotten on the floor and he is stepping out from behind the closet door holding two shorts.

“Uhm,” Brian says. His eyes hurt with the effort of not looking down.

“Freddie seems to think this one goes with my tat and the other doesn’t. I’m pretty sure he makes it up.”

“Roger.”

“What?”

“Please put some clothes on.”

“But I’m not dry yet,” Roger reasons.

Brian’s entire face hurts. “Underwear will do, just—please.”

“Keep forgetting how much of a prude you are,” Roger says, but he does put on a pair of boxers, and possibly the most garish pair Brian has ever seen; tiger-striped in pink and silver. He grins. “I believe you’ve seen it all already. On multiple occasions, in fact.”

“Can we not talk about that?” The question comes out a bit more harshly than intended, and Roger frowns.

He sits down on his bed opposite of Brian and looks him in the eye. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Brian's heart sinks. “No, Roger, it doesn’t bother me, it’s just—” He pauses to drag in a breath, then throws out the first thing that comes to mind in the tangle of confusion that seems to have taken permanent residence in his brain, “look, I know John and maybe Freddie made you apologise to me, and I don’t know if you even felt like you had anything to apologise for, and I just … I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.”

Roger looks slightly taken aback. “No hard feelings.”

Brian forces himself not to fiddle under his stare.”I just mean that … I shouldn’t have made you fool around with me, and I’m—”

“Hold on,” Roger interrupts him. He leans slightly forward, eyes pinning Brian to the spot. “You—I flirted with you for ages, you did not make me do anything. Come on, Brian, that’s ridiculous. Give me some credit.”

Brian’s mouth feels impossibly dry. His empty stomach aches. “I shouldn’t have said yes.”

“Didn’t you want to?” Roger throws back, and Brian knows he’s gonna regret everything he says in this room, but he presses on nonetheless.

“It doesn’t matter what I wanted or didn’t want at the time,” he says, hurrying to continue as Roger opens his mouth to argue, “it was not your fault and it won’t happen again, I promise. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I know you probably wish it didn’t happen and that’s fine, I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Brian,” Roger says, looking slightly bewildered, “relax. It’s just sex.”

“We didn’t have sex,” Brian reminds him.

Roger scrubs at his hair and grins. “Seemed pretty sexy to me.”

Brian rolls his eyes in an attempt to cover the wave of relief that crashes over him. “So you’re not upset?” he asks, just to make sure. He doesn’t look it, but if the roles were reversed, Brian’s not sure he’d be quite as forgiving.

“It’s fine,” Roger says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I’ve bedded a bloke now, I can cross that off the list.”

“Flatterer,” Brian says drily.

Roger tilts his head. “You said you didn’t fool around with friends, right. I had fun but I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.”

“Right.”

Roger rearranges himself on the bed so he’s lying on his side, head propped up on his elbow. He looks at Brian with drowsy eyes and a lazy smile. “So how’d you find the party last night?”

“I had fun.” He’s lying, of course—he’d spent most of the night alone in a corner, surrounded by obnoxious art and literature students he didn’t care for and who most certainly did not care for him, but for some reason, he can’t tell Roger the truth. He’s not sure why it matters. “Got chatted up by this bloke.”

“Oh?” Roger says, looking at him with interest, and Brian wants to claw the lie back.

“Yes, in the loos,” he continues, at the same wondering what it’s going to take for him to shut up.

“Good place, the loos,” Roger says with a grin.

Brian nods. He’s not sure it looks convincing. “And did you have fun?” he asks tentatively.

“Was alright, wasn’t it? Good show, free drinks.” He sends Brian a sly smile. “Clean loos.”

The implication is not lost on Brian, and he forces a smile.

Before he can think of a suitable answer, Roger throws him off with a new topic. “I can’t believe Fred and Deaks are together.”

Brian shrugs. In all honesty, it annoys him a little—just knowing that the two of them are having a cuddle fest in his room makes him exhausted.

“I’m amazed I didn’t see it coming, really,” Roger continues, “makes sense when you think about it.”

Brian hasn’t. And it’s not that’s he’s not happy for John and Freddie—he is, definitely—but he can’t say he’s put much thought into their compatibility or been dying to congratulate the happy couple. “I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t kill you to show some enthusiasm,” Roger says with a wry smile.

“It might,” Brian says, “and I better not risk it.”

♛ ♛ ♛

He leaves Roger’s room feeling cautiously optimistic. So much in fact that he sits down next to his abandoned cup of tea and pulls a book from his bag.

It’s fine for the first few pages. Then his concentration starts to waver, and thoughts creep in between the words on the page, unbidden.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t feel better at all. Mortifying as his conversation with Roger was, he felt more at ease in his company, was able to forget himself for a few moments. Now that he’s alone again, he doubts they made any progress at all. He knows Roger is a big boy, that he can make decisions for himself, but Brian can’t quell the worry that lingers in the back of his mind. The whole mess is his own fault, and it doesn’t matter that Roger assures him it’s fine—it clearly isn’t.

He presses the heels of his hands against his dry, tired eyes, letting a groan slip out because he’s alone and there’s no one there to judge or pity him.

He just wants everything to go back to normal. He doesn’t like this new feeling he gets around Roger, this feeling of unease, the way his heart beats faster with fear of another argument. And all because he wanted to go to Tenerife. Because that’s the root of it, he thinks, that’s how it all started—suddenly everyone was afraid he would leave, give up the band, his friends.

There’s a tight ache in his chest, and he wants to gather them all and apologise. Tell them he never wanted to go, not really, that it was a stroke to his ego but no more than that. He knows he made the right decision, and he’s sure he would have come to that conclusion even if Roger and the rest had not expressed their concern. After all, the band is what he really wants, and his study … If they do make it, he can put it on the shelf. At least for a few years.

He pushes his chair back and lowers his forehead to his open book on the table. Unbidden, a memory of Freddie’s birthday all those months ago enters his mind. The weather had been unusually warm for September, and they had gone for drinks in a rooftop bar in Mayfair, pretending they could afford the overpriced drinks. He remembers the walk back from the station, the pleasant buzz and the silk-like fabric of Freddie’s jacket brushing against his bare forearm, John’s laughter and Roger’s smile, bright and pleased because he had made his friend laugh.

The liquor they consumed back at the flat had been cheap and dreadful, drunk out of mugs and water glasses, and the contrast between that and their first drinks of the evening had been almost comical, but Brian had thought to himself that he much preferred their own living room and Tesco’s cheapest vodka—there he could listen to the hum of the voices of the people he loved the most, his head pillowed on Roger’s thigh, deft fingers gently scratching his scalp.

For a fleeting moment, he is reminded of a similar occasion, but before he can catch the memory, it’s gone again.

Lifting his head from the table, he rolls his shoulders and gets up. He passes Ziggy who’s asleep in his favourite chair, and he pauses to stroke the soft fur. The cat makes a disgruntled sound, stretches, hops off the chair, and leaves.

The fridge is depressingly empty so he sits down again, drinks his cold tea. The sun has long gone down, but he feels disinclined to get up again and switch on the lights. He thinks about what Roger said, about their hookup not being a big deal. And Brian suspects it isn’t, but at the moment, everything kind of feels like a big deal, and he wonders what’s wrong with him, if this is how he’s going to feel for the rest of his life.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there in the darkness, but when the door to his room opens, he winces. He barely has time to adjust his eyes before they’re assaulted once again when Freddie switches on the overhead lights in the living room.

“Could you maybe warn me next time?” Brian asks, squinting at the pair.

“Sorry darling, didn’t mean to disturb your gloom.”

“Well, you did.”

“What are you doing here all by yourself anyway?” Freddie asks, briefly putting a hand on his shoulder as he passes. He instantly misses the touch.

“I was just thinking,” he says, watching John cross the living room to rap at the door to his own room.

“Terribly unhealthy for you, dear,” Freddie says, and Brian turns in his seat to look at him. “Are we all out of tea?”

“There’s some of your herbal stuff somewhere, I think.”

Freddie stands on his toes to rummage through the contents of the top shelf, letting out a small “ah!” when he finds the brightly patterned box. “Would you like a cup?”

“No, thanks,” Brian says, distracted by the reappearance of John, this time with Roger in tow, playfully draped all over him, arms around his neck.

“Alright, Bri?” Roger greets, and Brian feels his lips pull into an automatic smile. He lets go of John and throws himself on the couch, effectively startling Ziggy. “I’m starving!”

“We’re waiting for you to make the call, love,” Freddie says, pouring boiling water into two cups and releasing fragrant steam into the air.

“One day you three need to learn how to make a phone call,” Roger advises, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Why would we when you seem to enjoy it?” John asks, accepting the proffered cup from Freddie.

“We’re on first-name basis,” Roger says, but whether it’s supposed to be an argument for or against is unclear to Brian. “Fine. I’m going out for a smoke anyway. The usual?”

“Will you ask if there’s eggs in the noodles?” Brian asks.

“On it,” Roger says, shrugging into his jacket. “See you in a bit!”

Brian looks up at the sound of a chair being pulled out. John smiles at him. “How are you feeling?”

Brian doesn’t even know where to begin.

“You look a bit worn out is all,” John continues after a beat.

“I’m fine,” Brian says with a tight smile.

John says nothing, and Brian instantly feels bad. It’s not John’s fault he feels like he’s spiraling down into insanity, or that he’s fighting just to stay afloat. “Think I had a bit too much last night.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, expression unreadable. Brian decides it’s best ignored instead of attempting to find meaning behind it.

“I think I’m gonna go back to sleep, actually,” he says, scraping his chair back.

Freddie is behind him in an instant. “Oh no, you aren’t. We’re gonna sit down, have a meal, and discuss last night.”

Brian’s heart thuds. He searches his brain for anything he could have done last night that could possibly lead to an intervention from all three of them. “What happened last night?”

Freddie walks around his chair to look at him. “We played a concert,” he says slowly.

“Oh,” Brian says, “that.”

“Yes,” Freddie says, giving him a strange look. “And now we’re gonna evaluate, talk about what can be improved. Like we do every time we’ve played a concert.”

“Right.”

“But if you’ve got any stories, we’d love to hear them,” John chimes in.

“I don’t,” Brian says tonelessly.

He doesn’t miss John and Freddie’s exchanged glances. Annoyed, he pushes his chair back and leaves them to their looks and their being in love to sprawl on the couch.

A few minutes later, the front door bangs open, followed by a small crash and Roger’s shout of “I’m back.”

“We heard,” John says.

“Food should be here in about half an hour,” Roger says, appearing in the doorway, cheeks flushed with cold.

Brian is surprised and slightly alarmed when Roger steers towards him with impressive speed and a manic grin; he doesn’t have time to prepare himself, let alone get away, before pressed against him on the couch.

“Feel how cold my hands are,” Roger says, and before Brian can stop him, he has reached up to put his freezing hands on Brian’s neck. Brian jerks away. “You didn’t feel it.”

“I did,” Brian says, rubbing at the skin of his neck, “and it was highly unpleasant.”

“Are you not gonna help me warm them?” Roger asks, all faux innocence.

“No,” Brian says, edging away from him. “Were the noodles alright?”

“Totally egg-free,” Roger says, getting up to target John instead.

John rolls his eyes but obediently takes Roger’s hand between his own. Brian looks away.

“Should we watch a movie?” Roger asks.

“Depends on the movie,” Freddie says.

Brian tucks his feet under him. “Seconded.”

John lets go of Roger’s hands and gets up to crouch in front of their impressive DVD collection. “There’s Mamma Mia, of course.”

Roger puts down John’s tea. “I’m too straight to watch it twice within a month.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m with Roger,” Brian says, glancing at him where he’s seated next to Freddie, “not to the straight part, mind.”

“Rocky Horror? Titanic? Mr. Fantastic?”

“Which one is that?” Freddie asks.

“Viggo Mortensen lives in the woods with a bunch of children and teaches them to fight.”

“Isn’t that Lord of the Rings?”

John sends Brian a long-suffering look, and Brian hides a smile.

Freddie leans forward eagerly, almost knocking his tea off the table. “We should watch Harry Potter!”

“They’re so bad,” Brian says, “nothing like the books.”

“Go read a book, then,” Roger says.

Brian scowls. He knows Roger doesn’t like the movies either.

“How about a Disney movie?” John asks.

“No more Disney movies.”

“I think Harry Potter’s a good idea, actually,” Roger says, putting his feet in Freddie’s lap.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” John says, and Brian can’t help but feel just a little smug.

“Aladdin?”

Freddie covers a yawn. “Fine.”

“You should’ve seen my pull last night,” Roger says, “looked like Jasmin, actually.”

“Roger,” Freddie says, exasperated.

“What? I’m not being racist,” Roger insists. Pauses. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Freddie says bluntly. Brian’s skin crawls with discomfort.

Roger scrunches his nose up guiltily. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”

Freddie almost smiles. “Was there more to the story?”

“Not really,” Roger admits, moving past his mishap with an ease Brian could never match, “except she had these huge tits.” He cups his hands to illustrate.

Freddie’s eyes light up with intrigue. “Did you ask her?”

Roger frowns. "I just met her, I can't just ask her that."

"Why not?” Freddie asks, hooking his foot around the ankle of John, who has since given up on the movies and returned to his seat. “You shagged her."

"It's impolite to ask someone you've just met if you can fuck their tits," Roger opines.

John’s face is a picture of distress when he catches Brian’s eye. "Are your ears also bleeding?"

"The images in my mind are much, much worse," Brian says, trying valiantly to suppress the disturbing scenario.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Roger says knowingly.

Brian makes a face. “I think I will.”

♛ ♛ ♛

“I think it went alright,” Roger says between mouthfuls of egg rolls, “not terrible. I’m almost positive we were celebrating when Veronica drank me under the table. Just wish I hadn’t lost my shoe.”

Freddie folds his hands on his crossed legs. "The crowd seemed pretty receptive.”

"Really?" Roger swallows his mouthful. "Not from where I was sitting."

"It was a subtle eye contact thing," Freddie tells him.

"Bugger," Roger says with a grin, "can't believe I missed out on that!"

"Better than that concert we played in September," John says, looking up from where he’s inspecting a noodle, "at least there were no drunken offenses this time."

Brian hands Freddie his glass of water, pushes Roger’s feet off his chair, and reclaims his seat.

"So our audience wasn’t exactly successful," Freddie says, "that doesn't mean we weren’t."

"I thought they seemed to have a good time," John says, and Brian has to agree even though he can’t muster up much enthusiasm, "they made noise. Our friends did, at any rate."

"Ugh," Freddie says, "this truly is traumatising. I'll be glad once we make it and get to play for bigger crowds."

"Let's get signed first, eh?" Roger says, "self-publishing albums is all very well, but it'd be nice to have someone reach out to us."

"Well, they won't," Freddie snaps. Brian suppresses a sigh and pokes at his food. "We've got to put ourselves out there. Did you call that venue in Brixton?”

"I did, yeah," Roger says, stealing a spring roll from John's box. Brian makes sure his own is well out of reach. "I'm not gonna repeat what they said because they were not very polite."

Brian lets out a snort, and Roger grins at him.

"There must be something else we can do," Freddie muses, "all this waiting around is not good for my health."

"These next few concerts will probably help," John says. He's not usually one to offer empty platitudes, and Freddie looks at him with suspicion.

"Why would you say that?"

"The concert went well. If we keep playing like that, it's just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Someone will discover us, and soon."

"That's not you," Freddie says with narrowed eyes, "that's one of those horrible women speaking!"

"Chrissie told me the same thing," Roger says, "but I was, er, a bit busy. Or about to be."

John groans.

"What did you say to her?" Freddie wants to know.

"That she could maybe come back later."

"Not you! John, what did you say to her?"

"I didn't say anything," John murmurs. He taps his fingers against his can of coke, then admits, "I just told Veronica it was frustrating, a bit. That we all feel it. We're so close."

"I heard her and Chrissie talk," Brian offers, "I think it's Chrissie’s project."

"That little minx," Freddie groans, "the last thing we need is someone trying to cheer us up when what we need to do is work."

“Jesus,” John mumbles.

"I think it's nice they support us," Roger offers.

"Do you know how many times I've heard this from Mary? We wouldn’t be where we are if we’d listened to useless shit like that."

"Alright, Fred," Brian sighs, “what do you suggest we do, then?"

"We'll keep practicing, keep making music, keep reaching out," Freddie says, moving his food far enough out of reach that Roger can't get it. John steals a spring roll and sticks out his tongue at Roger. Brian pushes his leftovers towards him. "We have a decent following on SoundCloud, and we got around 30 new likes on Facebook since last night. Did we have some video we can put up?"

"That's pretty good," Roger says, putting his feet in Brian's lap. Brian shoves them away, ignoring Roger’s pout.

“We do have a few videos,” John says, “but I haven’t received them yet.”

"We need to get into the spotlight," Freddie says, apparently too caught up in his vision to hear the answer. Brian and John trade glances. "We need to really utilise this next month where we don’t have classes."

Brian doesn't think now is the time to mention he's already picked up some extra shifts at the bookstore.

"I watched these classes on skillshare this morning," Freddie continues, “and—”

"Morning," Roger interrupts with a groan, "you went home half-past three."

"And I still got six hours of sleep.”

Roger gives him a long-suffering look.

"We seem to be doing much of it already, " Freddie continues, "of course these people are nobodies and we'll surely surpass them once we get going, but some of their tips did stand out to me."

"Let’s hear it," Brian says, failing to put much enthusiasm into his voice.

"Right," Freddie says, launching into a lengthy monologue.

Brian nods along in an attempt to look like he cares, but he’s distracted by Roger picking up a banana fritter, spilling powdered sugar over his trousers. Brian gazes at him warily as he attempts to brush it off, only succeeding in spreading it further, then shrugs it off and looks back at Freddie. He can’t understand how Roger’s got the energy or attention to be listening, and he watches him as he eats the last of his dessert, tongue flicking out to clean no doubt sticky lips. Brian swallows in an attempt to lubricate his dry mouth, forcing himself to look away when Roger licks his fingers.

"Sounds doable," Roger says, effectively reclaiming Brian’s attention. "I can get Instagram."

"Watch out," John whispers, catching Brian’s eye and smiling. Brian weakly returns it.

"Unfortunately their guidelines prevent too much nudity,” Freddie says, “but I think we should still be able to post our new pictures."

"What a shame," John comments and receives an elbow in the side for his trouble.

"If only we could warm up for someone," Roger says, leaning his elbows on the table, "someone who's good, who knows what they're doing."

"No one cares about the warm-up act," Brian says, beginning to tear up a piece of kitchen roll.

"It’s still exposure," Roger says. "I always check out the band afterward, unless they're shit of course."

"Most bands are," John opines.

"So we want to warm up for a real band so people can talk about how shit we are?" Brian wonders aloud.

"We're different, darling," Freddie says, "you know we are. We have something no one else has. And I think the world is ready for glam again. Just look at people like Adam Lambert and Harry Styles—it's finally in to be fab."

Brian wishes he believed him.

♛ ♛ ♛

Despite the exhaustion weighing his body down, Brian lies awake for long, lonely hours. He can’t seem to quiet the whirring in his mind, and pillow he’s wrapped himself around is cold and shapeless.

At last, he slips out from under his covers and pads across the room, careful to mind the squeaking door handle.

He’s surprised he can’t see his own breath when he enters the living room, and he has his hand on the radiator before he remembers last month’s bill and lets it go with a shudder. There’s a threadbare blanket carelessly thrown over the arm of the couch which he hasn’t seen before, and he picks it up and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s got a bit of a weird smell, but he figures it’ll do.

Not fancying Freddie’s herbal tea, he rummages through the cupboards and after a bit of a search, he finds a beat-up pack of strawberry tea whose origins are dubious to say the least. At least it’s warm, he thinks as he pours hot water in his cup and a sickly sweet scent arises.

He brings the cup with him to the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. It's not three hours since they all sat there, the living room filled with chatter and brightly lit. Now it's cold and dark, the single lamp he's switched on making the room appear more gloomy than cosy, and he wishes he’d appreciated the company while he had it.

Drawing his knees up, he takes a sip of his scalding tea, lets the too-sweet liquid warm him up from the inside. This day has been so fucking long, he thinks, just one long train loaded with dread and disappointment and a loneliness he just can’t seem to shake. He doesn’t remember feeling this when they were on stage 30 hours prior; he remembers a thrill and a sense of purpose, of unity, but it seems to achingly far away; a vague, glittering dream.

A door opens, and Brian spills tea all over himself, wets his tee and the front of his pants. He scrubs at his thigh and wipes his hand on the armrest, looking up to see Roger, ruffled and sleepy, eyes squinting against the light. He smiles faintly and yawns, playfully tugging at Brian’s hair as he passes him on the way to the bathroom.

He doesn’t bother closing the door; Brian hears the clang of the toilet seat and the sound of piss hitting the bowl.

Brian puts his empty cup on the coffee table and sinks deeper into the couch until his spine and shoulders create a C shape that hurts his neck. The toilet flushes, the sound so loud in his ears he’s amazed it doesn’t wake up Freddie and John.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" Roger asks as he reappears to settle on the couch, close to Brian but not quite touching. Brian wishes he would.

"Couldn't sleep."

"I think Freddie's got some supplements, some kind of herb," Roger says, picking at his too-big ABBA shirt. Brian is not sure if he's joking.

“Good to know.”

He wishes he were brave enough to ask for a hug or fingers in his hair, even brave enough to move that inch closer so their arms press together, but he isn’t, is too afraid of what will happen if he gives in again. He’d hoped their trading of orgasms would satisfy his need for touch for a few days at least, but if anything, it has just made it worse, and he wonders if it’ll ever go away.

Roger yawns, wide and obnoxious, sticking a hand inside his collar to rub his shoulder. He looks at Brian with eyes that are more heavy-lidded than usual, lips curving into a smile. “Bored tonight?”

“Tired,” Brian says, and it’s not a lie.

“Not used to you being so quiet.”

Brian forces a smile. “Exhausted.”

“Bit silly to sit out here, then,” Roger says, blinking slowly like he can barely keep his eyes open. “Especially when you’re sick.”

Brian sits up, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his hands around his freezing feet. He closes his eyes. “Going back in a minute.”

“‘kay,” Roger says softly. Brian feels the cushion move when Roger gets up, but he keeps his eyes closed, waiting for a parting touch that never comes. “I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Brian whispers, opening his eyes only when he hears the door handle being pushed down.

His spilled tea has cooled but not dried, and Brian shivers every time he inhales and his stomach touches the wet fabric.

At last, he gets up, folds the ratty blanket, brings his cup to the sink, and switches off the lamp. The walk to his bedroom is too short; too soon he’s standing in the doorway gazing at his huge bed, the one mum had lovingly presented him just before he moved out because he was an adult now, and that even though his moving out was to a soon to be messy flat with three other blokes. He’s grateful for it, of course, but sometimes he feels lost there, misses the solid presence of a wall to knock a knee into.

He can’t go back to bed. A knot of fear pulls tight at his chest, and before he can stop himself, he’s grabbing a warm shoulder and shaking Freddie awake.

A soft groan issues, then Freddie pushes himself up on one elbow and squints up at him. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice soft and confused.

The knot tightens in Brian’s chest. “I can’t get out of my head.”

Freddie lowers himself back onto the mattress and scoots back. “Come lie down, hon.”

Brian does as he’s told, crawling into a bed that’s warm and comfortable and smells like home.

“Just give me a minute,” Freddie whispers, closing his eyes. The words come out slow and thick, like spoken through syrup, and Brian wishes he’d let him sleep.

He tightens his hold of the duvet around him, relishing the heat Freddie’s body radiates. It’s the first time he’s been in Freddie’s bed like this, he thinks, Wonders if it would have made a difference if it wasn’t.

Freddie sighs, brings up a hand to rub at his eyes, and rolls over to face Brian. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m here.”

Brian looks at him, picks out the familiar features in the dark. “It’s all too much,” he whispers, surprised by how easily the words come, “nothing excites me, the band … I don’t care, or I do, just not—what if I’ll feel this way forever?”

“It’s okay,” Freddie says, scooting closer to run fingers through his hair. Brian shivers with pleasure. “You’re working yourself too hard, love.”

“I’m not,” Brian insists, turning away to cough into the crook of his elbow. When he’s settled, Freddie’s fingers return to his hair. “I just need more time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to think,” Brian says, closing his eyes, “to sort myself out.”

“You don’t need more time to think,” Freddie says softly, “you need to ask for help.”

“I’m not very good at that.”

“I know.”

Freddie is studying him when he opens his eyes again, but it doesn’t feel intrusive. He just feels cared for. Safe, for once.

“Do you think I made a mistake in hooking up with Roger?”

Freddie’s lips curl into a small smile. “No,” he says, “I think the mistake was all that happened afterward.”

Brian sighs. “I wish everything would go back to normal. I shouldn’t have dragged him into all of this.”

“Brian, I say this with love only, but sometimes you are tragically clueless.”

“Thanks,” Brian murmurs. The touch and proximity are making him feel wonderfully drowsy.

“You need to focus on one thing,” Freddie says, “then the rest will follow.”

“And what do you suggest I focus on?”

Freddie smiles again. “Come on, Brian, you’re smarter than that. You know this already.”

Brian suspects he’s beginning to.

♛ ♛ ♛

The next day, it clear to him that he definitely does not know what he should be focusing on.

One thing he does know—it’s not work. He supposes he should be grateful for that realisation.

It’s getting dark when he steps outside the second-hand book store to trudge through the slush filled London streets to the Tube. The Christmas decorations have long since been taken down, but fairy lights still glitter overhead, and a few places patches of white snow stubbornly cling to eaves.

At the station, he waits nine long minutes for Circle, blowing at his hands and thinking about his earlier interaction with a particularly difficult customer. He hopes John is home—when it comes to complaints about customers, he can always count on him to listen with sympathy and eye rolls in abundance.

He’s lucky enough to find a seat on the Tube, but drops his bag on the floor so all his stuff falls out. Bending down to pick it up again, he accidentally steps on his book, his boot leaving a streak of dirt on the front cover. Embarrassed, he picks it up and wipes it with the sleeve of his jacket before quickly stuffing the rest of it in his bag, watching as the apple he forgot to eat rolls away from him to disappear under the seat in front of him. His earphones are a tangle of black at the bottom of his back, and when he eventually untangles them, he finds that only one ear is working.

He's quietly relieved when he steps inside the flat and lets his boots join the pile of shoes on the floor. The flat is unusually quiet, and when he enters the living room, only John is there, sprawled in the armchair, Winnie the Pooh socked foot bopping along to the beat of the record he’s put on.

"Hi, Brian," he greets with a warm smile. "Wanna play a round of Mario Kart?"

"Not really," Brian says, picking up a stack of window envelopes from the kitchen table. "Does anyone have plans for dinner?"

"Freddie and Roger are out," John says, "but if you want to, we can make some together."

Finding that none of the letters are addressed to him, Brian puts them down again. "Yeah, that sounds great."

"Great! Let's play Mario Kart first."

Brian makes a face, but he doesn’t really mind. "Fine, just let me make a cup of tea."

He hums along to the record as he walks into the kitchen, trying to remember the name of the song. Without thinking, he opens the fridge and is just about to close it again when he notices an unopened carton of oat milk. Mouth dry, he looks over at John, who’s setting up the Wii.

“Did you—?” He asks, gesturing uselessly to the open fridge.

John looks up. “Yeah. Is it not the right brand?”

Brian nods slowly, words stolen by the ridiculous surge of affection he feels for his friend. John quirks an eyebrow and turns back to the Wii, one corner of his mouth turned up in amusement, and Brian sets about making his cup of tea, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

Later, when they're sitting on the couch with steaming plates of pasta, the initial exhaustion he’d carried with him from yesterday and his trying day at work has seeped out of Brian. He’s lost two rounds of Mario Kart to John, which came as no surprise, but his competitive streak ensured he didn’t have time to think about anything but winning the game.

He’s looking at John now, licking tomato sauce from his lip, and he looks so relaxed and at ease. He’s wearing one of Freddie’s shirts, and Brian can’t believe how uncomplicated their relationship seems to be—he knows Freddie still blames himself for what happened to Jim, knows there’s a hurt there that never healed, how Freddie for years has engaged in casual sex in an attempt to make the pain go away, much like Brian himself, but perhaps Roger is right. Perhaps it does make sense, the two of them being together. Perhaps John makes Freddie feel anchored.

Brian wonders if he will ever find someone who makes him feel that way. “John?”

"Hm?"

He doesn't have much more to say that that, doesn't know how to put words to his feelings, wonders if his questions are too intrusive. “Nevermind.”

"How was work?" John asks instead.

"It was quite eventful today actually," Brian says, spearing a piece of pasta on his fork. "Not in a good way of course."

"Never in a good way," John supplies with a grave expression. "What happened?"

"A customer," Brian says, punctuating the air with his fork, "came in today to complain about the fact that the copy she'd bought yesterday appeared to be creased."

"Right," John says, "hate when that happens. Don't want my used books to have been used by anyone before me."

"It gets worse," Brian says, "because this was a first edition, not a book I was familiar with but of course it'd been quite expensive still. Usually we check the books beforehand and price accordingly but she was very adamant about this apparent crease."

John nods, a painful expression on his face. God, how he loves John sometimes. No one seems to get it quite like John.

"So I asked her where the crease was, and lo and behold, when she opens up the book, there was nothing. I swear, not a single crease, no spots, no nothing. So I ask her very politely what the problem is—"

"I would've told her to fuck off," John interrupts.

"That's why you don't work behind the counter."

"No, thank fuck for that."

Brian laughs. "Anyway, this lady is really insistent now, you know how you can just feel when a customer is about to throw a fit? And she points to, and by God, I wish I were kidding, she points to the stitching."

John buries his head in his hands.

"She points to the stitching," Brian repeats, unable to hold back a smile at the absurdity of it all, "and she tells me she hasn't paid for these to be here, that it makes a crease appear, and I tell her that this is what holds the book together, and she gets offended! She wants me to remove them because she thinks they're ugly. Honest to God, John, I'm quitting."

"Oh I would've," John says, “I hate customers so much, but this might just be the worst."

"Worse than 5 pence Petra?"

John drags his hands away from his face, helplessly laughing. "How could I forget 5 pence Petra?"

"Didn't she ask you out once?"

John groans. "You promised you would never mention it again!"

"Don’t tell me if you don't want me to remind you," Brian says with a shrug-

"I should probably take your advice, but at the same time, I need to share with someone who understands the pain. Freddie claims he’s never had an annoying customer, can you believe that?” John says, and Brian looks at him in disbelief. “By the way, did I tell you what happened last week?"

"No, what happened?" Brian asks, curious. He scrapes the last of the sauce onto his fork.

"This very drunk lady, she was Scandinavian I think, came in, bought a birthday card and asked if I could keep an eye on her plastic bag which contained at least a dozen bottles, and tried to pay me in cigars."

"You're joking.”

"Oh I wish," John says, putting his plate down.

“Did you accept it, then?”

“God, no. Might have if she’d offered one of the bottles instead.”

“She sounds like someone who’d be open for negotiation, I’m sure you could’ve just asked,” Brian says with a grin.

“Always miss my chance with those ladies,” John sighs.

Brian kicks him lightly, and John smiles wryly. “Better luck next time.”

♛ ♛ ♛

He's stretched out on the couch a few days later, still caught up in the disappointing ending of the book he just finished, when the front door opens followed by a shout of “busy?”

Brian twists around to watch Roger kick off his boots and step out of his snowsuit. "Not at all," he says, "why?"

"I've had this riff in my head all day,” Roger says, kicking the snowsuit closer to the wall. When he steps into the living room, he’s red-cheeked and slightly out of breath. “I want to use it for one of my songs."

"Oh," Brian says, interest piqued, "sure, let's see what we can make of it."

"Great," Roger enthuses, "now?"

"You're very energetic," Brian says, stretching lazily.

"I'm afraid I'll forget it! Do you know how difficult it is to keep a song in your head when you're trying to make people care about human rights?"

"No," Brian says, amused, "but do tell me."

Roger sticks his tongue out at him.

“Have you done something with your hair?” he asks, thinking Roger looks different somehow.

“No,” Roger says, looking puzzled.

“Oh,” Brian says. He studies him for a moment—the fringe that falls into his eyes in quite a charming way and the hair at the back of his neck that brushes the hood of his hoodie—and wonders how he has failed to notice how much his hair has grown in less than two months. “Nevermind.”

Roger sends him a curious look, so Brian gets up from the couch and opens the door to their makeshift studio. “Coming?”

The smile Roger sends him is strange, and Brian hides his confusion by leaving Roger to himself and going inside.

Roger follows shortly, starting to rifle through a pile of loose sheets on top of his drums. Brian picks up his guitar to tune it but finds that he can’t help glancing at Roger.

"Right," Roger says, stepping closer with a piece of paper in hand. Brian instantly spots one of his trademark Ys. “These are the lyrics so far. Could use some improvement, but here's so you get the idea."

Brian looks at him, surprised. Roger never shows anyone his lyrics before they're done—Brian knows he scraps double the amount of songs than he ever shows them.

He looks back at the sheet in Roger's hand, scans over the lyrics. Tries to ignore the warmth from Roger's shoulder pressed against his.

"The melody is quite simple," Roger says, handing him the paper to plug in the keyboard, "well, at least until the middle part."

Before Brian can think of anything to say, Roger has sat down in front of the keyboard and started playing. The words on the page swim before Brian’s eyes.

“It’s nice,” Brian croaks when he’s done. He clears his throat, musing that this cold may never leave him. "What are you thinking with the drums?".

"Quite energetic," Roger says, twisting in his seat to look around the cramped room. "Where'd I put my sticks?"

Brian looks at him wordlessly. He really does look … quite handsome today.

“Oh, here's one," Roger says, getting up to collect a drumstick from behind his kit. "Where's the—oh, it's behind you."

"What?"

"My drumstick. Right behind you. Chuck it over here?"

Bewildered, Brian turns around, and there it is, next to John’s bass. Not trusting Roger's ability to catch it he steps over to where he has settled behind his kit. Their hands brush when he hands it over, and there's an odd tingly sensation in his hand afterward. He wipes it on his trouser leg.

Roger starts a quick beat, and Brian forces himself to join. It doesn’t sound right. When Roger stops, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

"So for the riff, "Roger says, "it would sound something like this."

He vocalises the riff, and Brian tries to copy it, but he can see it’s not what Roger’s after. Brian feels warm—usually he prides himself in being able to catch on quickly, to be so in tune with the other three that he can easily translate their ideas; after all, that’s what makes their playing together so special.

"Bugger,” Roger says, wiping his brow. “Wish I had my guitar."

Brian hesitates, swallows the annoying lump in his throat. He pulls the strap off his shoulder. "You, uh. You can borrow mine."

Roger looks at him, surprised. His fringe gets in his eyes, and he pushes it away. "What?"

"You can use it," Brian says, feeling silly, "I mean, if you want to."

He hands it over to Roger, who wordlessly accepts it. He looks up at Brian, eyes searching, and something tugs painfully at his heart. Has he been so distant that his best friend is surprised he hands over his guitar willingly? Ridiculously, he wants to reach out to touch Roger, but then Roger is smiling and pulling the strap over his shoulder, adjusting it a little before he experimentally runs his fingers over the fretboard.

Brian watches him, face a picture of concentration, and suddenly, it makes sense; he gets it now, anticipates each note almost before it’s played. Every once in a while, Roger looks up as if to check in with Brian, and each time, it startles him just as much. He tries to remember the lyrics, but can’t bring himself to look down at where he’s holding them in a too-tight grip, can’t look away from Roger.

He breathes in deeply, desperate to get air into his lungs.

"What do you think?" Roger asks.

The question startles him. He can’t recall a time those words have ever been directed at him inside this room—he knows the others talk about him when he's not there, knows they think he's being a pain, and Roger in particular is not afraid to voice it. Freddie will ask for his opinion occasionally, but not the other two. Never Roger.

He could tear him down if he wanted to, Brian realises. He's asking for it, almost. But the way Roger looks at him, guarded but with a glimmer of hope, makes something expand inside his chest, press against his insides until he forgets to breathe.

He breathes in deeply, exhales messily. Smiles tentatively. “It definitely has potential.”

♛ ♛ ♛

Inspired by their jamming session, Brian sits down after dinner with pen, paper, and a vague idea he hopes to turn into a song. Freddie is making his own dinner and John and Roger are in their room so it's quiet enough, and the dining table has much better lighting than their small shared desk in their room.

The melody he gets down quickly enough, but he struggles to find words to go along with it, and pauses to chew at the end of his pencil. He watches Freddie put his instant soup—organic and supposedly healthy, but instant soup nonetheless—in the microwave, then stares hard at his sheet of paper in an attempt to force the words.

A moment later, Roger and John appear, and Brian listens with half an ear to their discussion about garlic bread until suddenly, inspiration strikes him, and his handwriting becomes a messy scrawl as he attempts to keep up with his brain.

When he looks up again, hand cramping from the tight hold on his pen, the others have gathered around the dining table as well and seem to be halfway through their meal.

”You're quite a good kisser, though," Freddie says, removing his elbows from the table so John can reach over to clean his empty soup bowl with a piece of garlic bread.

“How can you tell, you’ve been piss drunk every time,” Roger says, “but you’re right, I am a good kisser. Years of practice, kids.”

“You make me sound so unromantic,” Freddie says. John snorts softly.

Brian looks between them, trying to process what he’s just heard."What?"

Roger glances at him. "Hm?"

"Did you—” He starts, then catches Freddie’s eye. “How do you ... How would you know?”

"I talk from experience, darling,” Freddie says, “I would never make guesswork of something as serious as that."

Roger lets out a soft snort.

"You've—Freddie and you? You’ve kissed?”

"Er," Roger says. “Yeah?”

"How can you—doesn't this bother you?" he demands, turning to John.

John shrugs. "Not really. I already knew."

"You knew?"

"Brian, they're not exactly subtle. Surely you've seen them kiss before?"

Brian sits back. "When?"

“It’s not like I stuck my tongue down his throat just yesterday,” Roger says, “it’s months ago.”

Brian stares at him, trying to formulate a response. He can’t picture Roger and Freddie together; it’s not right. His brain won’t go there.

“Still,” he says, mind whirring, "how can you talk so casually about this in front of John? That's bad form."

Roger glances at Freddie and John. “He just told you he doesn't care. It didn't mean anything. We were drunk."

Three pairs of eyes turn to Brian, and he glares back.

"Have you really never seen us kiss?" Freddie asks, looking at him with a curious gaze.

"No," Brian says, crossing his arms. "When?"

Roger shrugs. "At parties and such.”

"So what else has happened? John performs strip teases in public?"

"Didn't the last time checked, but he's got the body for it," Roger says. Freddie nods energetically.

"These hips don't lie," John deadpans.

"I just didn't know you were that kind of friends," Brian says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"Ah, he's jealous!" Freddie says. "Are you sad you're the only one who hasn't got a taste of the famous Freddie Bulsara, darling?"

John dissolves into helpless laughter.

Brian rolls his eyes and says, with as much dignity as he can muster, "I was just surprised, is all.”

"Aw, darling, don't be like that,” Freddie says, leaning forward, “we're only joking!"

Brian frowns, then makes a show of ignoring them as he stares sullenly at his paper. He can’t say he cares too much about John’s feelings on the matter, but hearing them talk so casually about it makes something bitter and unpleasant rise in his throat.

He knows there’s no such thing as a casual kiss, and it’s not that he’s jealous, but he thinks Roger could have told him that he was into kissing other men—a public service announcement, really, so Brian doesn’t end up looking like an utter tit when it’s inevitably sprung on him.

A light kick to his ankle makes him look up. Roger’s smile is tentative, and something like confusion bubbles in his chest.

"Alright?"

Brian nods slowly.

Roger drags his chair closer and pokes him in the side. "You're all quiet."

"I was just thinking," Brian says, squirming away from Roger's prodding finger.

"We were just having fun," Roger says, letting his hand fall to his side. "You're not gonna leave, are you?"

Brian glances at Freddie and John, but they seem to be deep in conversation and are not paying attention to him at all. He lowers his voice. "I’m not leaving. It was just a surprise."

"What, me and Freddie?"

"Yeah," Brian says, hating the way Roger says it so casually. "I didn't know."

"It didn't mean anything," Roger says, expression earnest. "We were drunk and silly. You know how it is"

"I'm not sure I do,” Brian says, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to kiss his friends, drunk or not.

Roger smiles. "Hm, no, I can see that. But you gotta admit kissing is nice."

Brian's eyes drop to Roger's mouth entirely without his permission. He swallows. "Perhaps," he allows, "if one is into that sort of thing."

Roger puts his elbow on the dining table and rests his chin in hand. "You never told me why."

Brian looks away. "I did."

"Remind me again?"

"It makes me become attached."

"And is that so bad?" Roger asks, eyes searching Brian’s face.

Brian laughs, a strangled, bitter sound. "Are you never afraid to burn your fingers?"

"Sucks the fun out of life, doesn’t it? Being afraid."

He’s suddenly very aware that Freddie and John have fallen silent, and when he glances at them, they are watching their conversation with interest.

“Do you mind?” he asks them. When he turns back to Roger, he’s gazing calmly at him, and Brian takes in the familiar features, lets the trust and safety that come with years of friendship wrap around him. His voice is weak when he says, “I don’t know.”

Roger’s eyes soften. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

Brian closes his hot, stinging eyes. He wishes he could believe him.

♛ ♛ ♛

Despite the light from his bedside lamp, a soft blue glow still emits from the bottom drawer of his nightstand when he sits down on his bed and opens it. He can’t help but let out a soft snort—he’d almost forgot about it.

The cock ring is smooth and cool in his palm when he picks it up, and he turns it in his hands as he thinks back on how angry and, for a second, humiliated, he’d felt when he unwrapped it in front of Freddie and Roger. Perhaps he should’ve seen it coming—Roger’s like that, he knows, always taking his jokes too far—but right after their awful hookup? If touching him hadn’t been the last thing he wanted at that moment, Brian would have strangled him. And then his eyes had dropped to the certificate, and he’d hated Roger, hated how he couldn’t even stay angry with him because he wasn’t just a regular prick, he had to be a thoughtful prick.

Brian puts the cock ring down on his nightstand and reaches for the certificate, scanning the coordinates and his name in big letters on a glittering, starry background. He hasn’t visited his parents since Christmas, but when he does, he’ll have to set up his telescope and see if he can find his star.

No one but Roger could come up with something so at once ridiculous and thoughtful, and it makes Brian ache when he thinks about it, so it’s rare that he does. He can’t help it now, and he unbuttons and pulls off his trousers and crawls into bed.

He thinks about their time in the studio earlier, how it had felt like a punch in the stomach when he’d watched Roger play, the strange feeling in his chest that’s been there all day. And he thinks that maybe he wants Roger, and the thought makes him feel warm and prickly. He can’t recall the last time he’s allowed himself to want something and he’s not about to start now, not when his friendship with Roger is at stake, not when he knows Roger’s only looking to experiment.

He thinks Roger’s curiosity has been sated, that those two times were more than enough, but maybe he’ll decide he wants to go further one day, and Brian can’t bear the thought of it, is afraid he’s going to hook up with a stranger in a club, somebody who doesn’t care he hasn’t been with man, who doesn’t know him like Brian does.

Stomach tightening with sudden anxiety, Brian is halfway out of bed before he remembers himself. He can’t just go in there and tell Roger not to hook up with other men. He’s a big boy, Brian knows that, but he’s also chaotic and reckless and far too nice.

If only he didn’t care—it’s not like Roger cares about Brian’s hookups, and maybe if Brian put more energy into finding someone to blow off steam with, he wouldn’t have to think about any of this.

By the time Freddie lets himself into their bedroom and starts undressing, Brian has almost calmed down enough to go to sleep.

He closes his eyes, returns Freddie’s goodnight, and listens to the sounds of Freddie crawling into bed; the rustle of the sheets and the click of the lamp.

It’s quiet for a moment, then comes Freddie’s “where the fuck does that light come from?”

Brian opens his eyes, momentarily confused by the soft, blue light coming from his nightstand, before he suddenly realises what it is. Struck by horror, he grabs the cock ring, throws it into the still open drawer, and forcefully closes it.

“Was that—?” Freddie says, losing a splutter of amusement.

Brian’s cheeks burn, and he turns to his other side. “Goodnight, Freddie.”

♛ ♛ ♛

The next morning, Brian wakes up from a vague dream that leaves him confused and impossibly horny, mind whirring and dick aching.

It’s inconvenient, to say the least—he doesn’t have time to be horny, nor does he have time to analyse why his subconscious thought it a good idea to put him in weird, uncomfortable lingerie at Roger’s request.

Quietly horrified with himself, he gets out of bed and puts on his robe. He fully blames the unfortunate incident—trauma—last night for his fucked up dream, but he’s still hard, and finding the cause does nothing to soften it.

Securing his robe, he slips out of his bedroom, mind filled with strong hands in his hair and a bright smile that makes him ache. He’s disappointed to hear John dueting with Bonnie Tyler in the bathroom, and is just about to go back to his bedroom for a long, luxurious wank, when a door opens and Roger appears in old man slippers and the Marlboro windbreaker John got him for Christmas, eyes small with sleep.

"Are you heading out?" Brian asks, even though the question is quite obviously yes.

Roger nods, holding up his lighter and pack of cigarettes as a way of explanation.

"Mind if I go with you? I could do with some fresh air."

"Sure," Roger says, throwing glances at him like he's grown an extra head. Brian doesn't blame him; if he's not going to work or uni, he prefers to stay inside.

“Let me just put on some trousers,” he says, hurrying back to his bedroom to pull on trousers and two woolen jumpers.

Logically, he knows no good can come out of this, and he almost pauses, but then he remembers Roger’s words from the night before, and he doesn’t want to be afraid, not anymore.

And if he’s rejected, well. At least he’ll know.

Outside, Roger shakes out a cigarette and puts it between his lips, turning toward Brian to shield the flame from the wind. There’s a small furrow between his eyebrows as he flicks the lighter and his eyelashes seem impossibly long. Brian can't help but stare.

"Slept well?" Roger asks conversely, rubbing the crust out of his eyes.

"Um," Brian says, distracted by Roger’s eyes on him. He really needs to just go for it. "I did, thanks. Listen—"

He takes a fortifying breath, racking his brain for a way to word his proposal that doesn’t make him sound like a loon. Considering that he hasn’t spent a minute thinking it through, he’s not too optimistic.

"What's up?" Roger prompts.

"Right," Brian says, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, "I've been thinking and ... I'm sorry if this is blunt, but ... I was wondering ... Do you maybe want to fool around?"

"What?" Roger lets out a laugh, and when Brian looks at him, his face is a picture of disbelief.

"Do you want to shag?" He's not sure that's much better, but at least now it's out in the open.

Roger rubs his face with the hand holding his cigarette. It makes Brian nervous. “Uhm,” he says. “I suppose..?”

“Right,” Brian says, stomach dropping, “convincing.”

“No, I just—I suppose I don’t need to remind you of last time. I’m a little apprehensive. I don’t know what you want.”

“You,” he says before he can stop himself, “for real this time.”

Roger swallows. “Why? I mean … I thought you didn’t—”

“I do,” Brian urges. He pauses, scratches the side of his nose with his middle finger. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.”

Roger takes a long drag of his cigarette. “It’s unlike you to make a decision so fast.”

“I know,” Brian says. The conversation feels surreal. “It’s been a long time coming, I think.”

“You want to have sex,” Roger says, “with me.”

Brian chances a step closer. He reaches out to brush his thumb over the back of Roger’s hand. Roger looks down, then his eyes snap to Brian’s.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Brian admits. “I want to know what it feels like when you fuck me.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the hitch of Roger’s breath. “That’s a lot to process this early in the morning.”

“You don’t have to decide yet,” he says, touching Roger’s arm and wondering just when he became this fucking bold. He steps back. “I’m going back inside. See you in there?”

Roger’s voice is hoarse when he replies, “see you.”

Brian turns around and walks inside, mind spinning. He doesn’t think he’s ever been that blatant before, but as he replays their conversation in his mind, he has a sneaking suspicion that he might have been missing out.

♛ ♛ ♛

As it turns out, Roger is quick to decide.

"Please, John," Roger is saying not 10 minutes later, "it's a tiny favour I'm asking you."

"I'm not doing it," John says, hanging his wet towel over the back of a chair. "It's freezing outside, and besides, it's your crap."

"John!" Roger's voice has taken on a decidedly whiny tone, "just this once."

John folds his arms over his chest. "Give me one reason."

"You'd get to spend the entire day with your boyfriend!”

"No, give me a reason why you want me to do it."

"I'm—" Roger's eyes flick to Brian. "I'm getting a cold."

"You're never sick," John says with narrowed eyes. "Though God knows you should be suffering from horrible vitamin C deficiency."

"Well, you go out for a smoke in your underwear, see how you fare," Roger says, adding a sniff at the end of his sentence.

“He does look a bit pale,” Brian says, thinking he should probably attempt to help.

John ignores him. "Unless you have a fever, I'm not even gonna consider it," he says, picking up his tangle of earphones from the dining table and walking into the kitchen to start on the dishes.

"I do have a fever," Roger insists, "come, feel my forehead, I'm burning up!"

"I'm not gonna feel your forehead," John says, "take a couple of paracetamols if it's so bad or talk to Freddie, I'm not going."

"I can't believe you hate me," Roger says sullenly.

John puts his earphones in.

Roger turns to Brian, an exasperated look on his face. He does a little toss of his head towards his room. Brian follows him.

"Sorry, really thought he'd go," Roger says when they’re inside and he’s closed the door behind them.

“It’s okay,” Brian lies, disappointment mingling with the slow slide of arousal in the pit of his stomach. "We'll do it some other time."

Roger steps closer until Brian is pressed against the door. He lifts his hand to trace Brian’s jaw, then latches a soft mouth over his pulse point.

Brian closes his eyes, greedily inhales the sweet scent of Roger’s hair. He wants to say something, but no words leave his mouth.

“Really want you,” Roger murmurs into the skin of his neck, his hands low and tight on Brian’s hips.

Surprise unsticks his throat. “Really?”

“You’re funny,” Roger says, looking up at him as he presses closer, a delicious hardness against Brian’s thigh. “Wanted you for so long, I don’t think I can—please don’t change your mind again, I can’t—”

“I won’t,” Brian promises, gasping as Roger smiles and sucks a line of kisses up the column of his throat.

“Good,” Roger says, breath catching as Brian grinds against him. “I wanna fuck you.”

“Don’t,” Brian groans, his hands coming up to push against Roger's shoulders. "If you don't stop, we'll do it here, I don't care. Freddie and John can watch."

“Kinky,” Roger says, smiling up at him. His hands stroke Brian’s sides, and Brian’s exhale is messy. He wonders if Roger can feel it on his face.

His eyes drop to Roger’s mouth entirely without his permission, and he wants to give in so, so badly. He wonders what he tastes like, wonders how their mouths fit together, but he can’t, knows that if this is going to end well, he has to keep himself in check—Roger clearly doesn’t have any qualms about tempting him into things he’s surely going to regret later.

“Freddie will wonder where you are,” he whispers, hands sliding down to rest on Roger’s upper arms.

The disappointment he expects on Roger’s face doesn’t come, and Brian feels a strange drop of his stomach when he merely squeezes his sides and steps back.

Brian thinks he should be able to breathe again but for some reason, it’s harder without Roger pressed against him.

"Are you gonna think about me?" Roger asks, annoyingly charming grin in place as he puts his hand on the door handle when Brian steps away.

Brian swallows. He doesn’t trust his voice to lie so he says nothing.

Roger presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

The blood in Brian’s veins thrums in approval.

♛ ♛ ♛

When the front door slams a few minutes later, Brian unpeels himself from the door and slips into his bedroom to collect a towel. He sends a weak smile John’s way when he passes him in the living room and tries not to look like he’s up to something when he hurries to the bathroom.

Making sure to lock the door, he strips off his clothes, giving his cock a quick squeeze as he waits for the shower to warm. He doesn’t think—he lets out his breath when he steps under the spray, lets the water warm him up as he reaches for his shower gel. Catching sight of the bottles, he hesitates, and then, quelling the spike of guilt, takes Roger’s instead.

He has a vague memory of Roger saying he'd stolen it somewhere because it smelt so good, but Brian is not sure he believes it, and if it is, he really doesn’t want to know. His soapy hands slide easily over his skin, the honeyed scent of the lather flooding his senses with images of Roger pressed against him, of strong hands on his hips. Closing his eyes, he trails a hand down his torso and closes a fist around his cock and groans, recalling Roger's expression as he'd sucked him off, the sounds he’d made, the quiet inhalation. The tiles are shockingly cold against his back, and he wonders what would have happened if Roger had convinced John to go, if he'd been on his stomach right this moment, and he can't stop the stuttering moan that leaves his mouth. His hand speeding up, he grinds back against the wall, needing to feel the solidity of it, and wishing it was warm and soft flesh instead of cold, wet tiles.

Roger's words run through his head; of want and need and wanna fuck you, and Brian feels the build in his groin, lets his head fall back against the tiles while he slows his hand, panting softly. He looks down as he comes, on his flushed cock, on the come that is quickly rinsed away by the spray of the shower, and he can barely believe what he’s just done.

He waits for the guilt to come but oddly, it doesn’t. Catching his breath, he pushes himself away from the wall, uncaps his shampoo and works it into his hair, thinking about Roger and Freddie at the stall and wondering whether Roger has thought about him at all.

It scares him how much he wants now that he's allowed himself to, but he does, and he supposes there's no use in denying it anymore. He wants to feel Roger's mouth on him, wants to get fucked into the mattress, wants a lot of other things he's not allowed to think about yet.

He can't stop picturing Roger's smile, can't stop thinking about his words. He thinks about it as he rinses the shampoo out of his hair, thinks about it as he dries off and puts on clothes. He's still thinking about it when he waits at the bus stop, is reminded of it again when he opens a message from Roger after his tutoring, thinks about it when he goes to bed at night.

When three days have passed, Brian thinks he might actually, genuinely go insane. He can’t pretend he’s not bothered, not when Roger is there, not when he knows, when he uses every excuse he can to touch or brush against him. The whole thing is endlessly frustrating, and Brian has resorted to wanks in the shower—he might’ve worried about using too much water, but has found that he finishes embarrassingly quickly lately.

His cock stirs at the thought, and he shifts on the couch; the movement causes Roger to look away from the television screen and up at Brian, a soft smile on his lips.

Glancing at Freddie and John curled up in the armchair and finding that their attention is on the screen, Brian slides his fingers into Roger's hair and doesn’t think he imagines the sound of Roger's breath hitching a little. Unthinkingly, he scratches his scalp lightly, and Roger presses into the touch, cheek pressing against Brian’s thigh.

Heart in his throat, Brian extends his thumb and tentatively brushes over the shell of Roger's ear, causing him to still. He turns slowly, enough to look Brian in the eye, and Brian feels suddenly shaky with want. Mouth twisting, Roger turns back to look at the screen, and Brian tries to relax, to enjoy the movie and the company of his friends, but the only thing he can think about is how close his cock is to Roger's head, and how good his mouth felt around him.

"Right," John says half an hour later, getting to his feet with impressive ease considering the depth of the chair and the fact that he’s got one Freddie Bulsara wrapped around him, "I should be going."

"What time is it?" Freddie asks, following John with his eyes and hugging a pillow to his chest.

"A quarter past, and my shift starts at noon."

Freddie pouts. "I'll miss you."

John smiles. "I'll keep that thought for when I'm about to commit arson."

"You're exaggerating," Freddie says, getting up to follow him to the door. Brian knows he most likely isn't.

He listens to their quiet bickering in the hallway, trying his best not to squirm, but Roger’s head seems to have moved from his thigh to his crotch, and his dick has unfortunately taken an interest.

The front door clicks open, and Roger waves in the direction of the hallway even though Brian doubts he can see anything from his reclining position. "Bye, John," he shouts, "don't kill anyone!"

"I make no promises," John yells back. The door slams, and they both listen for a while for Freddie to return, but he appears to have followed John outside.

"You've got to move," Brian whispers, "you're driving me nuts."

Roger smiles, slow and sly. "I'm driving you nuts now?"

"Stop it," Brian says, pushing at his shoulder, but Roger just grins, easily resisting.

“Am I turning you on?” he asks, looking very, very pleased.

Brian scoffs. “Of course not.”

“Liar,” Roger whispers and grabs his wrist.

Brian’s pulse thrums against Roger’s fingers.

“You’re not—” Roger begins, but Brian doesn’t get to find out what he isn’t, because just then, the door opens, and a moment later, Freddie enters the living room.

“Don’t the two of you look cosy,” he comments, picking up his iPad from the dining table.

Brian flushes.

“Oh, we are,” Roger says, stretching out on the couch.

“I’ll let you get on with it, then,” Freddie says, an amused glint in his eyes.

Brian swallows. "Don't you wanna stay and watch the movie?"

Freddie wrinkles his nose. "It's dreadful."

Roger snorts. "See you later, Fred."

The second the door to their room has closed behind Freddie, Roger sits up, bringing his face close to Brian’s. "Wanna come to my room for a cuddle?"

Brian swallows. He can only think of one way this could possibly go, and suddenly he's afraid. Roger leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. His skin tingles.

"Okay," Brian whispers, and follows him into Roger's room.

He almost regrets it when he discovers the floor is barely visible underneath clothes and uni books, but then Roger is bouncing on his bed and gesturing for Brian to lie down.

Brian does, stepping over piles of clothes to press their bodies together, to line kisses up Roger's throat. Roger sighs and Brian reaches for his belt.

“No,” Roger says, and Brian stills, almost thinks he’s misheard.

"What's wrong?"

"Not in here."

Brian stares at him, uncertain. "What's wrong with in here?"

Roger picks at a loose thread on Brian’s jumper. "It's not fair to John."

"That we have sex and he doesn't?" Brian ascertains, just so Roger can hear how ridiculous it sounds.

"No, that he'll have to start thinking about whether he can enter his own room or not. I promised him long ago I wouldn't bring people home."

"It's not like we're doing it on his bed,” Brian says, desperate now, “he’s not even home.”

Roger shakes his head. "Brian, I don't want to do it in here."

Brian suppresses a groan. Where else can they go? Rent a hotel room? "We might not get the chance again."

"I promise you we will," Roger says, brushing his hand over Brian’s cheek.

Brian closes his eyes. He can’t stand Roger this close, can feel the pull of his lips and is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to lean in and kiss him, and it startles him a little. He wonders if it would make Roger change his mind.

He opens his eyes again, presses his cheek against Roger’s palm. “Okay,” he says. Sighs, knowing he can’t possibly stay. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

♛ ♛ ♛

On Thursday afternoon, it finally happens. There’s a gorgeous sunset outside their window, shining large blocks of golden orange on the couch Roger’s stretched out on, and Brian is sitting at the kitchen table, valiantly trying to pay attention to the book he’s reading. So far he’s not succeeding.

The door to his room opens, and Freddie appears with John in tow, both heading straight for the hallway. Roger looks up from his phone to peer curiously at them.

"Behave, darlings," Freddie says, popping his head in again a moment later, now dressed in fur coat and heeled boots. John appears behind him in a charming windbreaker in pink and blue.

"Are you leaving?"

Freddie lets out an exaggerated sigh. "We told you this, dear. Remember that play Chrissie’s in? Or not in, she works there. I’d wanted to go anyway, but then she invited me along, and Deaky darling was kind enough to offer his delightful company."

"That's very kind of you, John," Brian says, remembering absolutely no such thing and deciding to focus on the one thing he understands. John's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "Are you gonna be home for dinner?" He aims for casual, but his heart is beating fast suddenly.

Freddie looks to John. "I think we're eating at theirs, yes."

"Right," Brian says, voice faint.

He doesn't dare look at Roger. Thinks he might combust if he does.

"Say hello to Chrissie from me," Roger says, sounding decidedly cheerful, "and Veronica if she's around."

"We will," Freddie promises, waving at them over his shoulder. John grins at them and follows.

For long, painful seconds, neither of them move. The front door closes, and Brian listens as two pairs of feet descend the stairs, then hears the creak and slam of the other door. His heart thrums painfully as he reads the same sentence over and over, his body tense and alert.

The couch creaks when Roger shifts, but Brian keeps reading, more desperately now. He tries to ignore the soft padding of Roger's feet on the hardwood floors, tries to control his breathing, but it's not until Roger is standing next to him, warm hand on the back of his neck, thumb lightly caressing the skin until the fine hairs stand on end that he stops pretending.

He exhales long and slow, closes his eyes against the caress. It's like warmth spreads from that touch, leaving his whole body tingling and desperate for more. Roger kicks out a chair, lets his hand slide off.

Brian looks at him.

"Do you still want this?" Roger asks, expression open and genuine.

Brian swallows. "Yes."

A gorgeous smile spreads on Roger's lips, one that makes his heart beat faster in his chest. His lips feel heavy and hot.

"I don't know what to do now," Roger admits, scrubbing at his hair.

This makes Brian snap out of it. Sex is something he knows, something he can relax into, and that no matter if it's a stranger or his unfairly good looking friend.

He grabs Roger’s wrist, thumb brushing over the inked skin. His pulse thrums.

"My suggestion would be the bedroom," he says, "depending on how adventurous you're feeling."

Roger laughs, a bright, startling sound. "Not very. I prefer the bed."

Brian smiles. "Me too."

When they enter his room, he’s embarrassed to note that his bed is unmade and there’s a pair of boxers that didn’t quite make the hamper, and he casts an envious glance on Freddie’s half of the room, on his huge, pristine bed. He opens his mouth to apologise, but before the words come out, a gentle push from Roger makes him sit down on the bed.

“Don’t apologise,” Roger says, looking down at him with amusement.

“I wasn’t going to,” Brian lies, his hands moving to Roger’s hips on their own accord. He can scarcely believe he’s allowed to touch now, and he experimentally lets them slide down further, over Roger's backside.

The hitch of Roger’s breath makes his own stutter in his throat, and his fingers are clumsy and uncooperative as he reaches for Roger’s zipper. Warm hands on his face steady him, and he pushes Roger’s trousers down, runs his hands up his thighs, stares, dry-mouthed, at the semi visible through the thin cotton fabric.

Roger's fingers caress his cheek, run over his lips. He smiles.

Lowering his gaze, Brian pushes his hands under the hem of Roger's jumper, lets his hands slide over the warm skin. He presses kisses to Roger's stomach, mouths at the edge of his boxers. Roger's hands slide into his hair, and Brian doubles his efforts, kisses the visible bulge, and Roger cants his hips forward, exhaling messily. Brian's own cock twitches at the sound, at the thought of taking him into his mouth, of finally getting fucked, and he has to force himself to remain seated, to not let Roger take him right then and there.

“Fuck,” Roger breathes, pulling at his hair. Brian’s breath catches. “Been thinking about your mouth.”

Brian removes his mouth from the damp fabric and looks up at him, at his flushed cheeks and blown pupils. He can't stand it much longer.

"Yes," he rasps, and Roger's hands slide down his neck; a warm, solid weight there that sends shivers down Brian's spine.

Mouth filling with saliva, Brian swallows and lets go of him, unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down over his hips along with his underwear. Pulling off his socks, he glances up at Roger again, stilling when he finds he’s just standing there, staring. It makes Brian feel warm all over, and he’s quick to scoot back on the bed, pulling off his jumper and his tee and shivering slightly as he’s exposed to the cool air.

As their eyes meet again, Roger seems to shake himself and follows quickly, ridding himself of socks, jumper and boxers. Once he’s naked, he slowly lowers himself onto the mattress, and lifts a hand to skim down Brian's side. Brian suppresses a shiver as it follows the curve of his arse.

A faint smile on his lips, Roger dips down his mouth to kiss him, and Brian is just about to jerk away when he stops himself, places an apologetic hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” Roger says, “it’s just—I don’t know how to go about this without kissing. It’s so impersonal.”

Brian scoots back to look at him properly. “Does it have to be? It’s not a problem if we don’t make it one.”

Roger looks like he’s going to argue, and Brian feels a spike of annoyance. Then Roger idly swats his arm. “You’re such a prostitute.”

Brian relaxes. “You couldn’t afford me if I were.” He imagines it’s the kind of thing Freddie would say, and feels a bit silly, but it has the desired effect when Roger laughs.

“Because I’m dirt poor or because you’re that good?”

“Because I’m that good, of course.”

Roger runs a hand up his thigh. “Sounds very promising.”

Hiding a smile, Brian turns to his nightstand to retrieve lube, condoms, and baby wipes. The condoms and wipes he carelessly throws on the bed, but the lube he uncaps and squeezes onto his palm before passing the nearly empty bottle to Roger.

“So you do this a lot, then?” Roger asks as Brian is slicking up his fingers, turning the bottle in his hand.

Brian snorts gently. “Have sex? Occasionally.”

“No, I mean—” Roger waves the bottle uselessly.

“I didn’t know you were so prissy.”

“Shut up,” Roger says with an embarrassed grin. It’s a good look on him.

“Hurry up, then—no, grab me a pillow first.”

“I have tried anal before, you know,” Roger says. Brian looks at him doubtfully.

“With girls,” he clarifies.

"Hopefully this will feel a bit better for both parts,” Brian says, suppressing a laugh when he sees Roger’s put-out expression.

He takes the pillow from Roger and lies down on the bed, lifting his hips to push it underneath him. When he’s settled, Roger scoots closer to sit between his bent legs.

“Move,” Brian says, slick fingers hovering over his entrance, “I need more room if I don’t want to bump my hand into you every time.”

“Sorry,” Roger says, scooting back a bit, “I’m not wearing my contacts.”

This strikes Brian as terribly funny, and he can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. The expression on Roger’s face doesn’t help matters, and Brian dissolves into helpless laughter.

“Have you quite finished?” Roger asks, going for unimpressed but ending up with a grin stretching his lips.

“Sorry,” Brian says, even though he doesn’t feel sorry at all. Then his eyes drop to Roger’s erection, and, inhaling deeply through his nose, he slowly works himself open.

Roger watches him, enthralled, and a warm hand drops to Brian’s thigh, the other wrapping around his own flushed cock. It’s intense and impossibly arousing, the way Roger is looking at him like he’s a delectable treat while he fingers himself open.

“God,” Roger breathes, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. Can barely contain myself.”

The words make Brian’s head spin, and he chokes out a moan as his fingers press against his prostate. He feels desperate to be filled, and the fact that he can see the tight fist around Roger’s cock doesn’t help matters.

Carefully, he removes his fingers, and Roger drops a kiss to his bent knee. Brian returns the caress with his dry hand and rolls over on his stomach.

"What are you doing?"

Brian twists his neck to look at him, surprised. "I'm getting ready for you to fuck me."

"No."

"No?" Brian repeats, incredulous. He suppresses the urge to grab Roger by the shoulders and shake him.

"I don't want you on your stomach," Roger says, flushed but determined.

Brian sits up again. "It's much easier this way," he says, aware that “pull yourself together and fuck me” probably isn’t the best way to go about it in a situation like this.

"No."

"Roger, come on."

"No."

"Stop repeating yourself and give me a proper answer," Brian says, losing patience. "Why don't you want me on my stomach?"

"It's too impersonal," Roger says, "we're not strangers, are we?"

"You're putting too much into this."

"If it doesn't matter to you, why don't you want to be on your back?" Roger says, crossing his arms. Brian thinks he looks ridiculous.

"Because it really isn't the ideal position for anal sex!" he says, and it's no lie. Missionary is just weird, besides.

Roger picks up the pillow he used before. "Let's just use a pillow underneath your hips."

"You can tie me up if you want to," Brian says instead.

"I don't want to tie you up! Why are you being so weird?"

"Why are you so stubborn?" Brian snaps, stung.

"I'm not doing it if you're on your stomach," Roger says, face set.

"Christ," Brian says, dragging a hand over his face. "You lie down, then."

Surprise flickers across Roger's face. "What?"

"On your back," he says, pushing gently at Roger's chest, "I'll be on top."

"I—"

"I'll ride you, alright?" he says, "Christ, you do know how to kill the mood."

"What, because I want to see your face?" Roger says, but he scoots back on the mattress, his hands skimming over Brian's sides as he climbs on top of him.

"You really are a sap," Brian says.

"And you're impossible," Roger says, but his hands are warm and sure on Brian's hips. "Not complaining about the view, though. Or the fact than I can just lie back and watch."

Brian lets out a snort. "Of course you don't."

He grabs hold of Roger's cock then, and Roger inhales sharply through his nose. He lifts his hips and guides the tip to prod at his entrance, balancing precariously on his knees on the mattress.

Roger’s eyes flick over his face. Brian pauses. "Are you alright?"

Roger shakes his head, tightens his hands on Brian's hips. "A little nervous. You look so fucking good."

Brian’s not sure what to say—he can't imagine Roger being nervous about anything, and especially not something as simple as sex. Concerts, maybe, in the form of an obnoxious amount of jokes and tapping on every available surface, but sex?

"No need to be," he says, and impales himself on Roger's cock, slowly, and God, how good it feels to be filled.

"Fuck," Roger says, stroking his sides with strong, sure hands.

Brian stills for a long moment, reveling in the light touch and the feeling of fullness. It feels like he can breathe again, like he can finally relax, which is ridiculous when he thinks about what they’re about to do.

Once he’s adjusted, he experimentally lifts his hips, and the hard flesh of Roger’s cock slides deliciously against his sensitive inner walls.

“Gorgeous,” Roger says as Brian lets him fill him up again.

It’s not long before Brian’s panting and his thighs are starting to ache, and he folds himself over to catch his breath. He's almost forgotten how much work it is.

"Your hair is getting long," Roger says, brushing it away from his face, and Brian’s heart squirms uncomfortably in his chest.

As if feeling Brian’s discomfort, Roger starts kissing up his neck, along his jaw, presses a kiss to his chin, to his cheek. Brian jerks away.

"Relax,” Roger mumbles, “I’m not doing anything." He lifts his hips, thrusts into him slow and shallow.

Brian moans and grinds into it, causing Roger to swear. He's panting already, and Brian doesn't think he's ever looked better. His chest is flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, and his pupils are blown. He's also smiling, and really he shouldn't look that good when fucking someone, and Brian tightens around him just to have his face contort.

"Fuck, do that again," Roger says. His hands tighten on Brian's hips, run up his back to lay possessively behind his shoulder blades.

Brian does as he’s told and is rewarded with a particularly deep series of thrusts that steal his breath away. He's awash with sensation, and he has to slow down, save his thighs and the orgasm that is nearing with alarming speed.

Sliding his hands up Roger’s chest, he rocks gently back and forth, leans forward to suck kisses up the line of Roger's throat, to the corner of his jaw. There he pauses, nose almost touching Roger's. He can feel his breath on his face, and he wants to lean in, he really does, but knows he can't let it happen if he wants this to stay a one-time thing. Chest tight, he slowly straightens, starts a slow roll of his hips in an effort to coax grunts and swears out of Roger to distract him from the tangle of feelings that seems to have taken permanent residence in his stomach.

“Hold on,” Roger says, hands tight on his hips. “Let me sit up.”

Brian’s heart hammers. He knows what it means, and he doesn’t think he can contain himself if he does. He shakes his head, puts on a smile he hopes looks sexy. “I think I rather like you on your back.”

Roger frowns slightly. Not so sexy, then.

He hates that Roger has this much power over him, that he makes Brian doubt what he wants, and it almost makes him want to start a fight.

Focusing on that frown, he opens his mouth to snarl at him, but then Roger grins, almost embarrassed, and the irritation seeps out of him at once. “Yeah?”

Brian trails his fingers over Roger’s chest, brush over a peaked nipple. “Very much so.”

“I don’t think I’ll last long,” Roger admits, “but I want to, because God, you’re so lovely.”

Brian thinks they both deserve for it to last if this is going to be a one-time thing, but he’s impatient, has wanted this for days now.

“Me neither,” he whispers, “but it’s alright, isn’t it?”

Roger nods, strokes his sides, and Brian thinks he’ll miss it. He lifts his hips again, this time aiming for his prostate, and moans thinly when he hits it.

Roger meets him halfway, hits his prostate with pinpoint accuracy, and Brian hurls towards his orgasm with alarming speed.

It’s rare that he’s on top, and this time, there’s a chance he gets to come first. The thought spurs him on, and he wraps a hand around his cock, making Roger swear and his mouth falls open.

“Brian—” “No, don’t come, don’t come,” he chants, one hand braced against Roger’s chest, the other tugging at his cock. He’s so close, his orgasm within a hair’s reach, and he so badly wants it, just this one time—

His hips come down again, and he chokes out a moan, the double stimulation too much, and then he’s bending over, spilling his load over his hand and Roger’s stomach.

Completely spent, he rolls off him and lets himself fall back on the bed. He doesn’t want to move in a million years. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Roger pull off the condom and throw it in the waste bin. Brian lies still, heart slamming against his ribcage, and Roger settles next to him, one leg thrown over Brian’s hips.

“Brian,” Roger whispers between kisses to his neck. He starts a slow grind against Brian’s side. “Brian.”

“In a second,” Brian says, sighing as Roger nips at his earlobe.

“No,” Roger says, getting up to straddle his chest. He nudges his cock towards Brian’s mouth. Brian laughs tiredly and bats him away.

“Alright,” he says, sliding his hands over Roger’s arse. “Wanna try something fun?”

“Are you joking?” Roger says, crawling off him to give space to get up.

“Lie back, then,” Brian instructs, searching between the sheets for the bottle of lube, “where’d you put the lube?”

Roger stills, his eyes searching Brian’s, and Brian is reminded of his own first time, of the reassurance he needed but never got.

“Relax,” he soothes, briefly touching Roger’s arm before uncapping the found bottle. “You remember how much I was into it, don’t you?”

“I doubt I’ll ever forget that!”

Brian slicks up his fingers. “You won’t forget this either.”

Nodding his head once, Roger grabs a pillow and places it under his hips. His legs instantly fall open, and Brian kneels between them.

“I know it feels weird at first, but try to relax,” he says, rubbing a slick thumb over Roger’s entrance to test how tight he is. Roger lets out an appreciative moan. “Feels good?”

“Mhm.”

Brian pushes his finger past the ring of muscle. Roger stills.

“Okay?”

Roger looks like he’s not sure what to think. He meets Brian’s eyes and huffs out a laugh. “It does feel weird, a bit. But in a good way. You can go on.”

Surprisingly, Roger doesn’t tense up, and Brian slides his finger in easily. It’s been a long time since he’s had a finger up somebody’s arse, and it’s gloriously hot and tight. He checks Roger’s face for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he slowly fucks him with his finger.

“Uhh,” Roger breathes. Brian lightly tugs at his balls. “Feels so good.”

Brian’s cock twitches. Roger bites his lip.

"More," he says, and Brian adds another finger.

He can't stop watching him; the light lashes and colour high on his cheeks, the twist of his mouth and how he rocks into it, and it scares Brian how easily he gives into it, how open and trusting he is.

He keeps his pace achingly slow, longs to prolong the moment even if it feels like something is breaking inside of him. Roger's knuckles go white around the sheets.

"Do you want lube?" Brian asks, voice dropped low, hand already hovering over the bottle.

"Please," Roger says, gasping and empty when Brian removes his fingers. Brian knows how he feels.

He squirts a bit of lube out in Roger's outstretched hand, and Roger envelopes his dick in a loose fist.

"I've never been this strung up," he says around a breathless laugh. Brian runs a thumb over his twitching opening. "I feel like I'm falling apart."

Brian looks at him then, really looks as they begin a slow rhythm. Roger is hot and tight around his fingers, his cock heavy and glistening in his hand, but it's his eyes that draw him in, and Brian can't look away.

Roger falls to pieces with a quiet noise, and Brian helps him through it until he receives an accidental knee in the side and Roger slumps back into the sheets, completely spent.

Brian very carefully removes his fingers and locates a box of baby wipes from his bedside drawer, cleaning first himself and then Roger. He feels slightly dazed which he thinks is good because otherwise, his emotions would threaten to overflow. Discarding the used baby wipes in the wastebasket, he carefully lowers himself onto the spot next to Roger.

Roger's chest is still moving a little too fast but his eyes are drowsy and his smile looks like it could give way to laughter at any second.

Brian leans in and kisses him.

Roger stunned noise gets lost between their mouths, but Brian feels the vibrations in his throat where his hand has moved to on its own accord, feels the slide of Roger's thigh against his own, the chapped lips and a tease of tongue.

Roger smiles into the kiss, which is a ridiculous thing to do, and one that Brian can’t help but mirror.

"So you do kiss on the lips," Roger says when they break apart, followed by the less romantic, "I would murder for a smoke right now."

Brian skims a hand down his side, buries his nose in Roger's shoulder. "You're so dramatic," he murmurs against warm skin. "Crack the window open."

Roger lets out a soft snort and slides out of his embrace. Brian watches him as he saunters towards the door, completely unbothered by his state of undress. He throws a pillow after him.

"Put something on," he says, "it worries me how comfortable you are walking around naked. Idiot."

Roger sticks out his tongue and slips out the door.

When he reappears a moment later to settle in the windowsill with his smoke, Brian has curled up in bed. There's a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach, and he knows he should have thought this through, knows he shouldn't have rushed into having sex with Roger, and he definitely shouldn't have kissed him. It's not like Roger hasn't had girlfriends before, but Brian knows he loves being single, loves the freedom and the adventure of it, loves knowing he can get anyone he wants. That Roger has decided to live out a fantasy with Brian is lovely, is a stroke to his ego, but no more than that, and he thinks he needs to hear that, even if it hurts.

"Roger?"

Roger looks down at him, eyes warm. The winter sunshine spills over his naked, goosebumped skin.

Brian just looks for a moment, tries to find comfort in the familiar features of his friend. He doesn't know what to say—he feels like he should apologise, or ask what this all means.

"It was a really shitty thing to say about my parents," is what leaves his mouth instead.

Roger’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He takes a drag of his smoke and looks out the window, shivering slightly in the cold. Glances back at Brian. "I know," he says.

"I was pretty shitty, too."

"Is that an apology?"

"I don't know how to navigate this,” Brian says, smoothing a hand over the duvet. “I know you were only looking to experiment, but—”

“What?” Roger lets out a sound of disbelief. “I never said that.”

Brian looks up, surprised. “You did. Before Christmas. We were in my room, you asked if I knew someone.”

Roger stares at him. Then he drags a hand over his face and lets out a small groan. “That was a come on, Brian.”

Brian looks down at his hands. “Oh.”

He’d suspected, of course, that it might be, but it’d felt good to have the upper hand for once, to tease, and he hadn’t put much thought into it. Still, now that they have slept together and Roger has surely had his fill of experimentation, Brian can’t think of anything more he can give. He takes a fortifying breath. He might as well ask.

“Will you want more?"

Roger looks out the window again. Brian’s hand tightens on the duvet.

There's silence for a while. Roger takes a last drag and stubs out his cigarette, depositing the butt on the pavement. "I do."

Brian’s heart thrums madly in his chest. "What sort of things?"

"Whatever you want to give me." Roger hops down from the windowsill. “Just don’t shut me out again.”

Brian lifts the duvet so Roger can crawl in. The smell of fresh smoke hits his nostrils and he wrinkles his nose.

“Sorry,” Roger says, “I smell.”

“It’s okay,” Brian says, allowing Roger’s freezing, heat-seeking limbs to wrap around him. He shivers. “I won’t shut you out. But I’m scared.”

“What for?”

"If I become attached and it doesn’t work out, what’s gonna happen then?”

Roger rubs his thumb over Brian’s spine. “You’re so much in your head,” he says softly. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“Of course it would,” Brian snaps, frustrated that Roger doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of his concerns. “It’ll ruin our friendship, it’ll break up the band—”

“Freddie and John seem to be doing alright.”

“Freddie and John are very different people,” Brian says. “Come on, Rog, you’ve got to admit this would never work. We’re too different, we don’t have time to make this work. I have my work and my studies and you have yours, and besides, you love single life. And I couldn’t—we should stop this now. It’s gonna be a mess, I know it will.”

“You don’t know anything,” Roger says, but his voice is soft. He removes his hand from Brian’s back to thread their fingers together. “You’re getting ahead of yourself again. I want this, and I think you do, too. We’ll find a way to work through it.”

“You’ll get bored with me,” Brian whispers, shutting his eyes briefly, “you’ll miss being single, you’ll miss women, you’ll—”

“Stop telling me how I feel,” Roger interrupts. “You don’t know. Just relax. Why are you so afraid of getting hurt?”

Brian withdraws his hand and shifts onto his back, eyes finding the ceiling. “I don’t know. Suppose I’ve always feared it.”

“Inevitable, isn’t it? Getting hurt,” Roger says, voice soft. “What is it you think will hurt you?”

“Losing people.” Roger slides a hand over his stomach, pauses to trace the scar there. “It only got worse after what happened to Freddie.”

“That was a terrible, terrible accident,” Roger says, “but the risk of something like that happening is practically non-existent.”

Brian knows that’s not true, but he doesn’t argue. “I wonder how he’s doing,” he says instead, thinking of the many months after the accident where Freddie had been almost unrecognisable, guilt eating him up like poison. “Does John even know?”

Roger’s hand stills. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you think he’ll tell him?” Brian doesn’t blame him for keeping it a secret—he’s certain he would, too.

“Eventually.”

They’re silent for a while. Roger resumes his idle caress, and Brian looks at the ceiling, mind wonderfully silent even though he has thousands of things to think about. Then Roger speaks.

“Brian,” he starts, clearly hesitant.

Brian turns his head. “What?”

“Have you thought about … have you ever considered therapy?”

Brian’s stomach tightens. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He’s not sure what there is to say.

“I just don’t want you to feel this way,” Roger says softly, “I worry about you, and—maybe if we’re gonna try this, now would be a good time to start. Might help you with your worries.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian whispers, shutting his eyes to avoid Roger’s concerned expression.

“Why are you sorry?” Roger says, lips brushing over his jaw.

“I’m sorry I’m like this—God, even talking about this is …” He trails into silence.

“I care so much about you,” Roger whispers, pressing himself impossibly closer. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

“I know,” Brian says, and almost means it.

“Just think about it,” Roger says, taking his face in his hands and gently tipping it so he can press a kiss to his lips.

Brian’s heart stutters, and he opens his mouth around Roger’s, kisses him long and indulgent.

“Do you really want this?” he asks when they break away. His whole body is thrumming, and he wants nothing more to press their mouths together again, to reach for Roger’s hardening cock, but he knows that this conversation is an important one.

“I do.” Roger’s eyes are bright and honest. “But keep in mind that it’s all new for me, this. You did say I’m comfortable enough with my sexuality to fool around with whoever takes my fancy, but I do have feelings, too.”

Brian winces. “I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re not wrong per se,” Roger says. “But there’s more to it this time, isn’t there?”

Brian looks into pale blue eyes. “We'll fight a lot."

Roger cracks a smile. "I think we'll fight no matter what." He works a hand into Brian’s hair, and Brian closes his eyes and hums. “I don’t want us to, though. Not about the important stuff.”

“Me neither,” Brian says. He’s not sure it can be avoided, no matter their intentions, but he keeps that to himself. “Don’t you think it’s too easy, though? This?”

Roger’s hand stills. “It took me two months to get you in bed and you think taking it further is too easy?”

He sounds so incredulous that Brian can’t help but laugh. He opens his eyes and draws Roger in for another kiss.

“We don’t have to rush,” Roger speaks between their mingling breaths. He finds the inside of Brian’s wrist. “But I think this could work.”

“Yeah,” Brian whispers and brings his hand up to cup Roger’s face.

♛ ♛ ♛

The next morning, Brian gets up early to take a detour to uni before work. A recent graduate agreed to meet up and sell their used books for the upcoming semester for cheap, and by the time he stops by one of the coffee vending machines, books secured under one arm, Brian feels wonderfully accomplished.

He's just put his coin in when someone taps him on the shoulder, and he turns around to find Tim looking slightly harassed but with a friendly smile on his face.

Brian instantly returns his smile. "Tim! What are you doing here?"

Tim's smile turns wry. "Study group."

"Already?" He's not even surprised. Where university is concerned, Tim's work ethic has always impressed him. Brian feels a spike of worry—classes are still four weeks away, but the upcoming semester is going to be a tough one from what he’s heard. He suddenly feels stupid for not having begun studying yet.

Tim shrugs. "I like to get ahead, you know." He peers at the books under Brian's arm. "New books?"

Brian punches the button for a cappuccino. He suspects it doesn't make much of a difference—all the variants contain too much milk sugar and a minimal amount of actual coffee. "Yeah, got them pretty cheap. Got time for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure.”

The machine is unusually slow today. Brian pushes the button again.

“How’s Freddie?” Tim asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And … everyone else?”

“Good,” Brian says distractedly, pushing buttons at random now, “they’re good—the machine took my coin!”

“There’s a Starbucks nearby,” Tim offers, drumming his fingers on the side of the coffee vending machine.

Brian resists the urge to kick it. “I’m not gonna pay 6 pounds for a coffee when I can get it for 50 pence here!”

“Right,” Tim says.

“What’s wrong with it?” Brian asks, getting increasingly frustrated. He’s paid for it, god damn it.

“You know what?” Tim has pulled out his phone. “On second thought, I am in a bit of a hurry.” He claps Brian on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around. And, eh … good luck with your coffee.”

When Tim has turned the corner, Brian gives into the urge and kicks the machine.

♛ ♛ ♛

“Hey, babe."

Brian looks up at the sound of Roger's voice and finds a warm smile for him. He closes the door to the store behind him. "What are you doing here?"

Roger smiles brightly. "Thought you might need some company on the way home." He holds up the two to-go cups he’s holding. "I brought you coffee!"

Brian feels warm with gratefulness. Then a thought strikes him, and he hesitates.

He doesn’t want to be rude, he really, really doesn’t, and it’s not Roger’s fault, but he thought of drinking milk again makes him sick. He can’t do it. But at the same time, he can’t not drink it when Roger’s gone through the trouble of buying and bringing it.

“You look like I just handed you a cup of poison,” Roger says. “It’s just coffee, don’t worry. I got it with soya for you. No animals harmed, I promise. Look, the cup is even made from recycled cardboard!”

“Thank you,” Brian says, weak with relief and suddenly shy. Their fingers brush when Roger hands the cup over.

“Do I get a kiss for the trouble?” Roger grins. “When we get home?”

Brian rolls his eyes, doing his utmost to control the smile that tugs at his lips. He covers it with a sip from his coffee, which is scalding hot and foamless, just as he likes it.

“Maybe,” he allows, starting to walk towards the bus stop.

Roger smiles as he falls into step with him. "You seem happy today.”

"Sorry," Brian says, "won't happen again."

Roger gives him a light shove. "Come off it."

Brian laughs and almost spills his coffee.

They’re lucky enough to find seats opposite of each other on the bus, and their knees knock together until Roger loops his legs around Brian's and pulls.

"Behave," Brian warns him, sitting back in his seat but allowing Roger's legs to press against his own; a wonderful, solid warmth.

He looks out the window but can feel Roger's eyes on him.

“Would you quit staring at me,” he says, covering his self-consciousness with a scoff. He’s not used to this much attention, and while it's not exactly unwelcome, it’s vaguely unsettling all the same.

"Can't help it," Roger says, "you're so bloody gorgeous."

"Well, do something about it, then. Therapy or something. It freaks me out."

Roger laughs but relents. "Wonder what Fred&Deaks are up to," he says after a moment. "John told me Fred wanted to take him to this strange gallery."

"Good for him," Brian says, distracted by an email notification on his phone.

"Reckon you'd hate it," Roger continues, seemingly unfazed by his less than enthusiastic reply, "full of paintings of ladies and that. Not exactly your thing. Seems to be Freddie's at times."

"Just because he doesn't want to shag them doesn't mean he can't appreciate them," Brian says, "you're so black and white at times, it’s astounding really."

Roger nudges his knee. "I'm black and white, huh?"

Brian gives him a withering look. He suspects it’s not entirely working. "Whatever it is you're implicating ..."

Roger grins. "You're so suspicious of me."

Returning his smile, Brian leans onto his elbows, balancing on his knees. "I can't stop thinking about yesterday,” he confesses. “Reckon it's the best I've had in ages."

"You weren't too bad yourself," Roger says with a grin, "but my memory's terrible, I might need a repeat performance before I can give you a proper review."

Brian lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Roger leans back, looking pleased. “Yeah.”

♛ ♛ ♛

Brian looks up from his attempted songwriting at the sound of a soft but fervent “yes”. He glances at the screen of Roger’s phone and is not surprised to see he’s still playing Candy Crush. Perhaps he’s finally reached next level after being stuck for two days.

Shifting slightly on the couch, Brian puts his hand on Roger’s thigh and exchanges amused glances with Freddie, who has paused his sketching to curiously peer at Roger. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the armchair, one of John’s legs at his side. Roger, too engrossed in his phone, doesn’t look up.

As Freddie returns to his iPad, John's hand drops to his hair, his fingers lightly scratching his scalp as he reads Lord of the Rings for the umpteenth time, and Freddie closes his eyes, his face a picture of wellbeing. Smiling to himself, Brian removes his hand from Roger’s thigh to pick up his hand instead, idly playing with his fingers as he tries to come up with the next line of his song.

In his peripheral vision, the corners of Roger’s mouth turn up, and Brian swipes his thumb over the Leo constellation on the inside of his wrist, follows its pattern of stars. Unthinkingly, he picks up his uncapped pen and carefully marks down the stars of his own Cancer constellation next to the tattoo. Roger’s smile is closer to that of a smirk when he turns his head to inspect the new addition to his wrist, and Brian is mortified with himself.

"Sap," Roger simply says, dropping a kiss to Brian’s hair before he resumes his Candy Crush.

Brian doesn't dare look up, but when he does, a mischievous pair of grey-green eyes is trained on him. Catching his eye, John slowly lifts an eyebrow, looking very, very pleased. Brian promptly flips him off.

A moment later, Roger pockets his phone and yawns widely. "Gonna go out for a smoke and some groceries," he says, putting his newly decorated hand on Brian’s knee to lever himself to his feet. "John, you ready?"

Brian can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as John and Roger disappear into the hallway to put on their coats and boots. “Don’t forget the shopping bag,” he says, listening to the creak of the floorboards and accepting a kiss from Roger on the way out.

At the sound of the front door slamming, he stretches out his legs, glad to have the couch to himself. Freddie covers a yawn and gets to his feet.

“Cup of tea?” he asks, and Brian hums in reply, closing his eyes as Freddie gets up to clank around with cups and spoons.

Brian is not sure when he last felt this happy and relaxed, and quietly resolves to do what he can to hold on to this feeling. He’s beginning to suspect that how he felt over Christmas and New Year’s is not entirely normal or healthy.

He feels around for his pen between the cushions and picks up his notebook from where it’s ended up on the floor, and manages to get a few more lines down before Freddie presents him with a steaming, perfectly made cup of tea.

Brian thanks him with a smile, greedily inhaling the fragrant steam, and watches him take his own cup to the dining table to sit down with a loose sheet of paper, presumably inspired by Brian’s own songwriting.

Brian finishes his tea around the same time he finishes his song, and has just got up to get his book when the phone rings, mum’s name flashing on his screen.

"Hi, mum," he says, glad she called on a day where he feels as good as he does. He should visit them soon. "How are you?"

"Brian." Something in her tone of voice makes Brian pause. His heart thuds against his chest.

"Hi, mum," he repeats, uncertain. The line is silent for a while. "Mum?"

"Do you want to come have dinner with dad and I, honey?" She sounds strange, and Brian swallows a sudden sting of fear.

"I'm sorry, I already planned to eat at home." He pauses. “Mum, you sound so strange. Is everything alright?"

"Nothing's wrong, honey," she assures, voice slightly hysterical, "nothing that can't wait. Are you free tomorrow?"

"Mum," he says, putting on his best stern voice. "Something is wrong and I want to know."

"I really shouldn't tell you over the phone."

"Mum." He resists the urge to stomp his foot. Anxiety thrums under his skin.

"Alright." She sighs, and Brian doesn't think he imagines her shuddery intake of breath. "Brian, you remember how dad's bronchitis has been worse lately, don’t you?"

"Yes," he says, voice coming out as a whisper. He tightens his grip around the phone. It's nothing, he tells himself. Bronchitis is not dangerous, mum is just overreacting as usual. "Did he see a doctor yet?"

"He went before Christmas, we just got the results." Her voice breaks now, and Brian feels sick.

"Mum."

"It's not bronchitis," she says. She's crying now. "It's cancer."

#whoops #sorry brian #keep yourself alive #maylor #queen fanfiction #deacury

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