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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years

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We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 1: Tobolsk, Siberia]

You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution (1917-1923) and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: "the 1" by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Nothing...?! This might be a first for me.

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

*** I'm going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 ***

Tagging: @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @hardyshoe @tensecondvacation @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @babyzellodeacon @culturefiendtrashqueen @pomjompish @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @allauraleigh @im-an-adult-ish @rhapsodyrecs @queen-turtle-boiii @haileymorelikestupid @bohemianbea @hijackmy-heart @acdeaky @jennyggggrrr @some-major-ishues @okilover02 @girlafraidinacoma @misc-incorporated @brianmayspinkyring @littlespoiltthing @madeinheavxn @quarterback-5 @escabell @confusedhalfofthetime @queenborhaplovergirl @atwinklingsound @rest-is-detail @standing-onthe-edge @pattieboydwannabe @dinkiplier @adrenaline-roulette @fancybenjamin @itscale @thesunburntpotato @peculiareunoia @sparkleslightlyy @whatgoeson-itslate

“There is a man coming for you.”

Mother’s words are very soft, so our jailers can’t hear them, and in English, so they wouldn’t be able to understand anyway. The stained-glass lamp on the vanity illuminates her drawn face in amber, gold, bumblebee jasper, a sickly yellow like jaundice. She stands behind me, dragging the brush through my hair, as I lock eyes with her reflection in the mirror. I knew this was coming when she walked into my bedroom shortly before midnight, or at least that something important was; Mother rarely leaves her wheelchair these days, and certainly not to brush anyone’s hair. Well…perhaps if it was Alexei’s. I nod seriously, gravely even, because that’s how Mother sees this: as a matter of great consequence, of great responsibility. But deep down—beneath this nightgown of linen and lace, beneath this prickling skin, beneath these bones handed down through centuries by the ruling dynasties of Europe—I’m so ecstatic I could scream it from rooftops.

“You’ll know him by his accent,” Mother continues, still brushing. She absently hammers through the tiny knots her fingers stumble across. “He’ll be British, and fairly young. He’s one of Sir Buchanan’s staff.”

I nod again, ostensibly solemn, weighed down by the gravity that only comes to people with years, if it comes at all. My reflection impresses even me. We’re co-conspirators in this mission.

“So don’t be alarmed when he presents himself. He’ll do so when it is most opportune, likely within the next few days. And be ready to leave with him immediately. You may not have any warning. Have you finished hemming your dresses?”

By hemming my dresses, she means secretly sewing our family jewels into them. It’s something we’ve all been doing since we were brought to Tobolsk one month ago. At Alexander Palace in Saint Petersburg, where we were first detained after Papa’s abdication, life had been almost normal: little supervision, plenty of comforts, the retaining of most of our retinue. But it’s different here in Siberia, in the mansion of the former governor who was similarly expelled by the tide of what I’ve heard called revolution. Half of our servants have been dismissed. Papa still receives diplomats, but less often than ever before, and only the few that he can still call friends; one of them is Sir Buchanan, who has been the British Ambassador to Russia and a familiar face for as long as I can remember. The soldiers that the Provisional Government has taxed with guarding us roam the hallways, the walking paths, the shifting shadows of long rooms; they stalk like wolves, their eyes narrow and wary and hateful. And the comforts that remain in our hands feel as fragile as the dwindling Russian summer.

“My dresses are in immaculate condition, I can assure you,” I tell Mother. This is my attempt at humor; my stitching is notoriously hideous. She doesn’t seem to hear me.

“It has to be now,” Mother says, and her knobby, arthritic hands stop brushing. Her eyes have taken on a glassy, far-away quality. “It’s the first week of September. Soon it will be too cold for you to travel safely. And if they take any more from us, if they leave us with no privacy at all, no visitors…if they move us any farther east…we’ll never have another opportunity to get someone out.”

And that someone has to be me, the middle daughter, the third of five extraneous non-heirs. Olga is too timid, too anxious, her nerves could never survive the journey. She’d give herself an ulcer within days and spend the rest of the trip retching blood into rubbish bins. Tatiana is too beautiful; and that may seem like a ridiculous reason for her not to go, but it is also a genuine one, because she is the only Romanov daughter that the average Russian could pick out in a crowd. She is tall and willowy and has striking, wide-set eyes and flawless skin and is just generally an angel fallen to Earth and a rather sizable dent to the ego to have as a sister. Maria is too pliable, she bends when pushed and always has, like the branches of a weeping willow, shoved by the wind one way and then the other until every last leaf is stripped away. Anastasia is too young, only sixteen, and hopelessly wild as well. This task will require restraint, and strategy, and above all else patience. And little Alexei…even if he did not have hemophilia (which he does, an affliction from Mother’s side of the family, and that is a weight she has never stopped carrying), even if he was not only twelve years old, he is too valuable to risk on a gamble like this. He’s more valuable and more loved than I will ever be. But this doesn’t pain me, and never has, at least not in my recollection. I’ve always considered it less a tragedy than a stark and inevitable truth. There’s no point in wrestling with it. I’d be better off resenting the moon, the stars.

My parents still have a great deal of affection for me, for all of their children. They would empty their veins for any one of us. I have never felt alone, never felt abandoned, not once in my life. Even now, Mother or Papa would go in my place if they could, would bear this burden for me; but it’s impossible. They’re both far too recognizable, like Tati. They’re both watched far too closely by our lurking jailers. And their health—collectively, as if they were a single organism—has collapsed since Papa’s abdication. They could not travel without the care of servants. They are phantoms of their former selves.

But I, I…

I am the only Romanov suited for this undertaking, inconspicuous in looks and durable in temperament. The talent that I lack in needlework is made up for several times over in my proclivity for languages; my English is fluent, and nearly without any trace of a Russian accent. And among my siblings, I am Uncle George’s unabashed favorite, the only one he has never been able to refuse during our yearly visits with the British royal family: not when I asked to stay up late with the adults as they sat around smoking and chuckling and telling stories too coarse for children, not when I invited him to dance with me at Christmas balls, not when I begged for riding lessons on his own children’s prized Windsor Grey horses. King George V is known to be a hard man, but he smiles for me. And he alone has the power to free us.

I reach up to take one of Mother’s cool, pale hands, which have come to rest on my shoulders. She’s staring blankly into her own reflection, caught there like a bear with its foot in a trap of iron jaws. “I’ll make you proud, Mama.” She likes when we call her Mama, as if we were still small and unsteady, as if she could still patch all our wounds. “I’ll tell Uncle George how desperate the situation is. I’ll beseech him to let us take asylum there. He doesn’t understand yet, but he will. And then we’ll all be together again.”

“That Welshman is a ghoul,” she whispers bitterly. She means the British prime minister, the man who has somehow convinced Uncle George that taking us in would irrevocably injure his popularity and thus his own monarchy’s stability. And so negotiations between the Russian Provisional Government and the British Empire regarding what to do with us have broken down. “He’s a demon sent straight from hell.”

This is very colorful language for Mother. “It’ll all be over soon, Mama. I promise. We’ll spend Christmas in London with our cousins, singing and dancing and opening presents, and Alexei can eat his weight in that English sticky toffee pudding he loves so much.”

Now Mother’s yellowed reflection smiles tenderly at me, and she bends down to kiss the crown of my head, smoothing my hair with hands gnarled by time and torment. “When you leave, a piece of me will go with you. I look forward to having it back where it belongs again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s an old greenhouse behind the mansion at the end of a cobblestone path that snakes through a rugged, craggy Siberian garden. It’s rather overgrown now and the glass walls are cracked in spots, and there’s a family of Blakiston’s fish owls building a nest in the eaves, but I still like to read there. I throw a wool sweater over my dress and head out in the afternoons once the sun has warmed it a bit, and I sit in the quiet and the green with a book—written in Russian or English or Latin or French or Italian—and a kerosene lantern until it’s time to retreat back inside for dinner. Everyone knows I do this: Papa, Mother, my sisters (none of whom quite grasp the appeal, although I’ve invited them all to join me at one time or another), little Alexei, the servants, the guards. They rarely even send a man out to supervise me anymore, which is much appreciated, because when they do he complains incessantly about how dull it is. And the greenhouse is where Sir Buchanan’s man comes to collect me.

I’m just pulling open the glass door, my eyes skimming the clouds, an English copy of Tarzan of the Apes under my arm, when a hand closes roughly around my wrist and drags me into a grove of Siberian pea-shrubs. Instinctively, I want to shout, to scratch at him; because no one has ever touched me like that, not even the guards, not even Mother or Papa. No one. Then I remember Mother’s words—there is a man coming for you—and I can feel myself flushing, grinning with exhilaration. My grand adventure is about to begin.

“Follow me to the stables,” my rescuer commands in a British accent that is hushed and very, very deep. He’s young, like Mother said he would be, maybe twenty-five. He has prominent, impatient green eyes and high cheekbones and curls of blond hair escaping from beneath his black knit hat. His fair skin is delicate somehow, and ruddy from the wind. My own skin is on fire.

My adventure is beginning! And my rescuer is handsome!! And he’s holding my hand!!!

Well, perhaps more like clutching my hand, but still.

He hauls me through the shrubs as I struggle to keep up, lifting the hem of my dress over roots and stones and thorns, my skull a useless echo chamber of exclamation points. Inside the stables, there is no company that doesn’t have feathers or four legs. Horses stomp and nicker, pleading for apples or sugar cubes. Crows flap their wings up in the rafters. Open on the straw-strewn, stone floor is a large steamer trunk.

“Get in,” my rescuer instructs me. “There are air holes for you. And no matter what you hear, no matter what you feel, do not make a sound. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I manage, smiling at him.

His eyes flick down to where my left hand is grasping Tarzan of the Apes, my knuckles white. “Why do you still have that?!”

“I’ll need something to read on the journey,” I explain, as if this is obvious.

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head. “Just get in the trunk.”

I do, curling up against the bottom with my face near one of the air holes the size of a marble. I can feel the weight of the jewels in the fabric of my dress, diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds not entirely unlike my rescuer’s urgent eyes. I can also feel another weight, a different sort of heaviness: a photograph of my family that I tucked into my bodice this morning, just in case today was the day. I clasp Tarzan of the Apes to my chest, my heart racing. I will see my family again soon, I know, and under much happier circumstances.

And I’ll have so many exciting stories to share with them!

My rescuer tosses some thin blankets on top of me—blotting out my vision—and then what sounds like several handfuls of shuffling papers. Then he closes the trunk. His footsteps recede out of the stables. I wait in the muffled sounds of horses and crows and the forthcoming Siberian autumn: chill wind and rustling leaves, the distant cries of migrating geese and the chopping of wood. Soon, the footsteps return, and there are more of them now. I listen to the clicking of hooves and the squeaking of wooden wheels.

“Careful with it,” my rescuer barks at someone in rather clumsy Russian. “Wait…”

To my horror, I hear him lift open the trunk lid. I hold my breath as he paws through the papers above me, feeling the pressure of his hands through the blankets. Finally, after what seems like forever, he grunts in approval and closes the trunk.

He continues, still in Russian: “Yes, I’ve got everything I need, thank you for waiting. I thought I might have forgotten some of my notes. Load it, please.”

And then I understand. He wants the guards to see he has nothing to hide, so that in a day or two when they realize I’m missing no one will say ‘hm, you know what, that handsome blond underling of Sir Buchanan left with a trunk just large enough to smuggle someone out in.’

The trunk rocks as it is lifted off the ground and loaded into the back of what I assume is a carriage. I brace myself against the sides of the trunk with the palms of my hands, gritting my teeth, biting back yelps like a tiny dog’s. Now I know how Anastasia’s Russian Toy feels when she yanks him around like she does, stroking his sable fur and nuzzling his floppy ears and kissing him ceaselessly.

Well, what’s an adventure without some discomfort? I mentally catalogue every detail to tell my family about later, perhaps around a roaring fireplace while sipping mugs of hot chocolate.

Soon the carriage is on the move, bumping along as we leave the mansion property and follow the dirt road that leads out into the wilderness. We travel for quite a while this way, for hours I suspect. Eventually, my rescuer begins whistling a tune I don’t recognize. It must be an English song. Even as the time lurches by uncertainly as I lay in the darkness of the trunk, I never become bored. I’m too busy envisioning all the fun we’re going to share together: sneaking through the countryside, outwitting the agents of the Provisional Government, exchanging stories and songs and the games of our respective childhoods, finally sailing triumphantly up the River Thames to Buckingham Palace. It feels like I could entertain myself forever with the promises of the coming weeks.

At last, the carriage comes to a halt. I hear my rescuer leap down onto the ground and the swishing as his boots displace crisp fallen leaves. He opens the trunk, lifts away the papers and blankets, and offers me his hand. It’s strong, I note, and latticed on top with faint lines like cross-stitching. I take it, beaming, my head swimming, and climb out of the trunk.

Once I’m on the ground—which is a patch of dirt off the road and concealed by rows of Scots pines—I see that we have been travelling not in a roomy carriage with velvet seats and a graceful arc of a roof, but rather a rickety open cart. Secured to the front is an ancient, scruffy-looking mule. I gawk in disbelief. “What is that?”

My rescuer waves to the mule. “That’s Kroshka. She’s excellent company.”

“…Where is the carriage?!”

He glances at the cart, then back at me, puzzled. “You’re looking at it.”

“No, see, this is not a carriage.” I speak very slowly, because my rescuer doesn’t seem all that bright. “This is a cart pulled by a mule. And not even a particularly attractive mule.”

Kroshka flattens her long, droopy ears and huffs. “She didn’t mean that,” Ben coos to the mule, scratching her forelock. “You are a lovely mule. Who’s a lovely mule? That’s right, you are. Yes you are.”

“I need to travel in a carriage,” I inform him, crossing my arms. Mother hates when we do this, but the occasion calls for it.

He laughs at me, and not politely either. He cackles in loud, hysterical peals. “You thought…you thought we were going to sneak you to the railroad station in a…a…a carriage? Like, a royal carriage?! Why don’t you just paint a sign to hang around your neck? ‘Princess on the run, busy committing espionage, please don’t interfere.’ Bloody hell!”

“I’m not a princess.” The thrashing heat in my cheeks is no longer elation. It’s annoyance, it’s indignation. “I’m a grand duchess. I’m ranked higher than the princesses of any other kingdom.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ben.” He extends his hand, and I take it with a frown. It’s an awkward gesture; I’ve never shaken hands before, only watched from a distance as men did. “Benjamin Hardy.”

I give him my name in return, still frowning. He releases my hand and I re-cross my arms over my chest.

“Well, we definitely can’t call you that,” Ben says. He pulls a hand-rolled cigarette out of his coat pocket, clamps it between his front teeth, and lights it. He exhales a mouthful of smoke into the cold twilight air. “You need a new name.”

“Oh, oh! A new identity, how exciting! Can it be something whimsical? Please? Something elegant and romantic? Maybe…Katerina? Or Valentina? Or Alexandra, like Mother?”

Ben appraises me, taking meditative drags off his cigarette. “Lana,” he decides.

“Lana?!” I’m crushed. “No, absolutely not, I hate that name. It’s so pedestrian. It’s uninspired. It doesn’t even sound like a real name, it sounds like a nickname. It’s not a name for grand adventures. And we had a goat named Lana growing up and she was awful, she ate three of my hats.”

Ben grins. “Lana it is.”

“Can it at least be Svetlana? That’s a real name.”

“No.” He begins unloading the cart: feed for the mule, canteens of water, a small tent to be assembled. He flings a loaf of crusty bread at me and I almost drop it. “Go on, eat.”

“What, for a meal?!”

“Yeah. You’ve had bread before, haven’t you, Your Majesty?”

It’s actually Your Imperial Highness, but I don’t correct him. “No meat? No cheese?” I peer into the trees. “Can’t you chop some wood and build a fire and cook something for us? Some stew? Maybe some rabbit?”

Ben stops setting up camp and stares at me. “What do you think this is, the Waldorf Hotel?”

“The what?”

He points to the bread. “Just eat. We’re not building a fire tonight. We’re still too close to Tobolsk. We aren’t going to advertise our location. We are going to exercise an abundance of caution.”

“Do you think they’ll come after us when they discover I’m missing?” That’s a scary thought, but it’s terribly thrilling too. My heart leaps in my chest. An adventure! What an adventure!

“I don’t think they will,” Ben says. He struggles with the tent. “Someone, probably one of your sisters, is going to go out tomorrow and toss a kerosene lantern into the greenhouse. Then they’ll tell the guards you were inside and must have had an accident while reading and perished in the fire.”

“Oh!” I gasp, stunned. “How grisly.” I picture my family steeped in feigned mourning for me, drifting through the mansion halls in black, dabbing at imaginary tears. How strange. “But I suppose that will give us some advantage.”

“Yes.”

“What is our route, exactly?”

He recites it as the tent begins to take shape: “Tobolsk to the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The railroad to Moscow. Another railroad from Moscow to Saint Petersburg. And then a ship from Saint Petersburg out to the Baltic and south to London.”

I consider Ben as he labors. Perhaps I have judged him (and the mule) too harshly. After all, he is still my rescuer. “I would like to formally thank you for your service, Mr. Benjamin Hardy. For the great personal risk you have assumed in order to extend Christian goodwill to us in our hour of need. On behalf of the entire Romanov family, I thank you.”

He snorts a laugh. This one is incredulous, bitter even. “I’m not doing this for your family.”

Everything sinks in me, like a stone through water. “…You’re not?”

“No.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because Sir Buchanan asked me to,” he says. “Because he’s in poor health and retiring soon, so this will likely be my last chance to repay him for all that he has done for me. And because when I deliver you to King George, I expect to receive a substantial monetary reward. Then I’ll cross the Atlantic, secure employment with the New York Times, and publish an internationally acclaimed article about my experience smuggling the former tsar’s daughter out of wartime Russia. And I’ll live happily ever after.”

“Oh,” I reply softly. It’s all I can think to say. This adventure is not unfolding quite as I had planned.

“There, the tent is ready.” Ben shows me, opening the front flaps.

“Surely we’re not going to sleep in there together!” It’s a small tent. A very small tent.

“Indeed we are. And you’ll be thankful for that when you see how cold it gets out here at night. Sleeping together will keep us warm.”

“It’s indecent,” I say firmly.

Ben stands and rests his hands on his waist. “Look, I’m not going to touch you. That’s my whole job, to get you to London safe and…how would your people put it? Undefiled. You have to still be tradeable stock in the royal marriage market, right? So that’s what I’m going to do. I have no desire nor intention to make any advances upon you. God’s honest truth.”

I glower at him, mistrustful and unsure and suddenly very, very tired. The rush of today’s excitement has bled out and left me empty, drained down to the bones.

Ben adds: “Also, you’ll catch your death out here if you don’t sleep in the tent. And then I definitely won’t get paid.”

“I suppose there’s no use fighting it, in that case.” I plop down on a felled tree trunk and gnaw at my bread morosely, studying the dirt between my shoes as Ben bustles around the campsite: feeding and watering the mule, brushing her down, covering her with a blanket, devouring his own loaf of bread, consulting a map and compass, all the while humming songs I couldn’t name.

I wash myself as best I can with water from a canteen, change into one of the heavy cotton nightgowns that Ben brought for me, and stow my dress safely in the trunk where the jewels and photograph won’t be found. Then I crawl into the tent, hugging the north side while Ben clings to the south. He has a flashlight and is sprawled on his stomach, scribbling down what I presume are the events of the day in a leather-bound notebook. He’s true to his word, because he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even look at me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shiver beneath thin blankets and wish for my mother’s hands, chasing dreams of home as Ben’s pen scratches rivers of black ink into his notebook.

#ben hardy fic #ben hardy x reader #borhap cast fic

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mirkwoodshewolf · 3 years

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A heavenly reunion pt. 1; Queen x reader

*Author's note*

This is it guys. After almost 3 years of writing this series it's FINALLY come to the end. Like all good things, they must end eventually so here it is. The LAST chapter of my Rock Angel series.

I first want to point out the YEARS (except Freddie's death date) DON'T MEAN ANYTHING. I'M NOT TRYING TO PREDICT THE FUTURE OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. I just picked these random years to represent when the remaining members of Queen will pass, AGAIN THESE AREN'T REAL DATES AND I HOPE THEY AREN'T.

Pt. 2 will be up in just a few minutes so until then, enjoy this first part.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@ixchel-9275

@simonedk

@queensdivas

@queendeakyy

@queen-paladin

@sparkleslightlyy

@starswin

@labessieisallama

@isabella-bby

@naturalswifty89

@onebigfangirlworld

@ssa-sadboi

@5sos-wdw

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@geek-and-proud

@wormzteef

@bohemiansweede

_______________________________________________________________

*3rd Person POV. June 23rd, 2051*

Rock star, animal rights activist, founder of organizations like ANGELS CURING AIDS, WORDS CAN HURT TOO; Victims and survivors of emotional and verbal abuse, and the ANGELS AGAINST STALKING that helps protect people from violent stalkers. Also apart of charities like the Mercury Phoenix Trust foundation. The Rock Angel (Y/n) Kline had lived a full life.

She continued to tour with Queen as they got many other partnerships throughout the years. But she most enjoyed collaborating with Adam Lambert as he reminded her of him, bright and ambitious just wanting to share his music with the world and he knew he could never fill in Freddie's shoes but he sure as hell made a name for himself in his own way.

She was also a part of the "Bohemian Rhapsody" film that had been made and got to know the actors playing the men that she had grown up with and came to see them as her true family. Ten years after the film released, her own story got to be told thanks to the rights of Paramount and the brilliant mind of Dexter Fletcher, who had directed the story of her boys and Elton John, another one of her dearest friends and mentors.

But now at the crippled age of 90, the Rock Angel now lived in the privacy of her home in London. She was forced to stop touring because just 3 years ago she was diagnosed with a form of dementia.

It was hard on her family and her 4 children and dozens of grandchildren even great-grandchildren to see the once strong woman they had once admired for so long and looked up to as a role model not only in music, but life.

In their current home of London, her husband of over 70 years Jack who had made a name for himself. After the whole stalking incident, Jack joined the ranks of the LAPD. He worked himself all the way to the top and became Chief for over 30 years before he retired by the time he was in his 60's.

He sat there by his wife's bedside stroking her long white hair as she lay there forced into bedrest. She looked up at him and whispered.

"Jack?"

"I'm here baby."

"Where are they? Where are my boys?" she asked.

"Our sons? They're just downstairs."

"No, no. I meant my boys." At those two words, Jack's heart broke as he looked at his wife sympathetically.

"Baby they've—they died. It's been so many years since they all left this world." At hearing her boys were dead, tears fell down her face but Jack held onto his wife and kissed the top of her head. "But I can show you their videos, if you'd like."

"Please. I need to see them. To tell them goodbye." Jack then reached for the I-pad and opened up the Youtube app and began typing in the very song that he knew he would need.

He knew his wife didn't have long and he wanted her to have one last happy memory of hearing the perfect song written by her boys.

Together they held the I-pad and soon the music video "These are the days of our lives" came on.

"Why does Fred look so sick?" she asked worriedly. Jack swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to explain.

"He was suffering from AIDS, and it—really affected him love."

"I wish I could've taken care of him." She said as she stroked the screen every time Freddie came on screen. At the instrumental break as she watched Brian skillfully play the guitar, she smiled and said. "Bri....he was such a good guitar player."

"He was, but nothing compared to you." Jack praised obviously playing favorites. He then took notice of his wife growing tired as the song ended.

It was time.

"It's okay baby, you can rest now." And she did just that. Her breathing slowed right as Freddie spoke the last 'I still love you' line and the video ended. "Goodnight my Rock Angel. Be with your boys once again." He then let out a sob as he leaned against his deceased wife.

At 10:45am on June 23rd, 2051 (Y/n) Kline was pronounced dead at the old age of 90.

Everyone who had collaborated with the Rock Angel or had looked up to her all gathered at her funeral. Close friends and family all came to mourn at the loss of the last of the greatest Rock and Roll singers. She was buried in her birth town of Leicestershire, right next to her real parents.

*My POV*

I felt peaceful. My mind was no longer hazy. I could remember everything once again, but what confused me was where I was. I found myself walking through a long corridor but as I passed a mirror, I stopped and backed up to find a shocking surprise.

I was young again.

I looked to be about the age of 19, when I first met the guys. My hair was in the same long wavy fashion I once had before I cut it. I stroked along my cheek just to see if this was real or a dream, but as I stroked it I found that it was. Suddenly a door opened before me and I don't know why but I found myself walking toward it.

Now I was in what looked like an office with everything you would see. Filing cabinets, a large desk filled with paperwork but what caught my attention was the abacus that stood at the front center of the desk.

"Ahh (Y/n) Kline, please come forward." I turned to see a man around his 60's with short black hair, a grim like face with sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes. He wore a black business suit and he was intimidating but for some reason I came forward toward the desk.

He sat down and pulled out a file and began reading through it humming to himself then he said.

"Place your hand over the abacus." I looked at it to see that the color code was white and black. White at top and black at the bottom.

"What is this?"

"This shall determine your next step. Just place your hand over it and let fate do the rest." I didn't know what this was gonna mean but again I saw myself place my hand over it and the second I did, it started going frantic.

Moving up and down frantically with no one even touching it. It was mostly balanced most of the way until it finally majority of the counters went white. The man smiled and said.

"Give my regards to those Rockstar friends' of yours. I'll be looking forward to your next concert." He then snapped his fingers and everything went bright.

Next thing I knew, I heard the sound of birds chirping and felt the sun beaming down on me. I was then greeted with wide open fields and a giant house along with several barn-like homes. It was like Garden Lodge and Rockfield farm mixed into one.

As I stood a few feet away from the main mansion-like house I swore from the second window of the white satin curtains I saw movement. I walked towards the house and placed my hand on the doorknob, I paused for a few seconds before I finally opened the door. I walked in and it was exactly like Freddie's home of Garden Lodge.

I walked through the threshold to see the grand staircase to my right, the long corridor ahead of me and the entrance to the living room to my left.

"Hello?" I said as I stood there. It was then I felt something nuzzle between my legs and I heard a meow. I heard it again and I looked down to see a very familiar face. "Hey, Delilah." I picked her up and held her as she purred and nuzzled my face. I scratched under her chin and she lowered her head to lick my hand.

"No it should be more like this." I heard a low, smooth baritone voice say.

"No, no and no Mr. tuxedo! Bernie has it like this and it shall remain this way. He and I are the genius piano and songwriting duo and it'll stick to this rhythm and timing." Another voice boasted out.

Oh my god.....It can't be. I set Delilah down and she took off running up the stairs as I crossed the living room into the parlor where Fred kept his piano to see two men that I had not seen in forever.

"David? Elton?" I spoke up. The two men turned toward me. David looked so much healthier than last I saw him and he looked younger just like me, in fact he looked about the same age he was when he did Live aid as well as working on the Jim Henson project 'the Labyrinth'.

Elton on the other hand looked about the age from when he was first starting off, back before he began experimenting with all the drugs and all that. The vibrant ginger hair but he still had on those flamboyant sunglasses he always loved to wear.

"Is that—really you?" I asked bewildered.

"Oh shit it can't be. The high angel herself, the Rock Angel?" Elton dramatic tone.

"Yes, it's me."

"Ohh darling. Welcome home." David greeted me with a wide smile and open arms as he walked up to me. He embraced me as he chuckled warmly and said, "Did you have a good life darling?"

"Uh-huh. I had the best life." I said, my voice muffled within his blue suit.

"It looked like you did love." We separated and I couldn't help but admire just how healthy he was.

"How have you been David?"

"Much better darling. No more chemo, I can finally breathe again."

"That's good."

"Alright you overgrown smooth talker, let me at her now." Elton proclaimed as he shoved David aside and immediately came up and kissed both of my cheeks before embracing me. "Oh darling we sure have missed you."

"And I you Elton. Life just hasn't been the same without your music."

"Been practicing those scales I taught you?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes, whenever I could."

"That's my girl." He hugged me again and I buried my face into his shoulder.

"(Y/n)?" a choir of voices soon rang up. I felt my heart stop as I lifted my head, not believing what I was hearing. Elton let go of me and both he and David with soft smiles on their faces told me to go and see who it was. The four voices called out my name again.

I crossed through the parlor, ran across the living room until I came to the door and just halfway up the staircase, I felt my smile widen and tears fill my eyes.

"My boys."

"You're finally here!" Freddie proclaimed. My legs raced directly up the stairs and Freddie, Brian, Roger and John all gathered me at the center in a long awaited Queen group hug.

All I felt were arms wrapped around me tightly, kisses all over my head and face and gentle hair and back strokes. I don't even know how long we were in that hug for but I didn't care, all I cared about was the fact my boys were here all together. When we finally separated I finally got a good look at all four of them.

They were all so young and vibrant just like how I first saw them back in concert long before I became an intern, I would like to think they were now the same ages they were when they first played at the Rainbow back in 1974. Long hair and all.

"I can't believe you four are here." I praised.

"And we can't believe you're here. And with your long hair again, was this when you were most happy?" asked Brian.

"If by that you mean when I first became Miami's intern? Yeah, best day of my life. Do you guys hate it?"

"No darling we've loved you no matter what your hair length is." Freddie said as he stroked the ends of my hair.

"I only just hope you didn't bring along any extreme surprises. Belly button rings, more tattoos." Deacy teased me. I chuckled but felt tears fall down my face.

"Aww lovie what is it?" Roger cooed as I felt him rub my shoulder. All four of them looking at me with those concerned puppy dog eyes they all knew how to do.

"I'm sorry. It's just—I missed you four so much." They all awed as Freddie first took me in his arms and said with his head leaning against mine.

"I know darling. It seems like it's been forever since the five of us were together."

"Coming from you Fred you have no idea." I wept as I gripped onto him as tight as I could, burying my face into his long black hair which softly tickled my face.

God if there's anything I missed about Freddie, it was his warm hugs. They were always so warm and inviting, anyone who was lucky enough to be given any sign of affection from this loveable man was considered lucky, and I was fortunate to be one of those people, and now finally after almost 60 years, I was able to feel that affection once more.

We were now upstairs in the master bedroom to do some private catching up.

"Alright sister dear, come here you." Deacy said. I smiled and immediately went into his arms and he embraced me. As all of you know, after Freddie's death, Deacy was the one to take it the hardest. So much so that he hardly played at any Queen gigs except for maybe three occasions then by 1997 he officially retired and no one had heard from him since.

The guys and I respected his decision so in order to make sure he was alright, I kept in contact with Veronica and would occasionally ask how Deacy was doing as well as the kids. I had learned that the two of them had two more kids, Luke and Cameron and the two of them had been successful in their own ways, all of the Deacy kiddies had, especially Luke who followed in his dad's footsteps and played in a band of his own.

In fact with the permission of the parents, I had allowed my nephew Luke to play at a few of my tours, and god just seeing him play reminded me so much of his dad, not to mentioned he looked so much like him.

And it was an honor to play with a second generation of Deacon.

The sad news of Deacy's passing came to Jack and I from Laura on a cold November day in 2035. Out of the two of us, Jack was the most heartbroken because he not only lost a brother but his idol and mentor.

We were invited to the burial by decree of the Deacy clan but I made sure that through some makeup and wigs that Jack and I weren't recognized by press because we wanted this to be private. As Deacy would've wanted that.

"Ohh I've missed you so much (y/n)."

"Not as much as I missed you brother mine."

It was then my attention turned towards the last 2 members of Queen, the remaining members I kept working with till the end. Brian May and Roger Taylor.

Together in our lives after Freddie's death and Deacy's retirement, I had been there for everything Queen got to accomplish, and they did the same for me. In fact it was Brian who bestowed upon me my plaque to be initiated into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame before I was given my star right above Queen's.

I was also involved with some of the work they did for a little movie called "Bohemian Rhapsody", and they helped become a part of my movie "Set it all free Angel". I first turned my attention to Brian.

It had been almost 10 years since my movie came out and 20 for Queen's film Bohemian Rhapsody. I was in my home studio working on my next upcoming album when I had received a call from Anita telling me that Brian had passed away at the age of 93. It was a peaceful passing so he wasn't suffering or in pain which I was thankful for in a way, he's suffered through so much that if I wanted him to go out, it would have to be peacefully in his sleep.

The world was devastated at losing such an inspiring man. Not only in the music industry, but for his work in astrophysics, as well as the animal programs that he's helped funded and laws he helped raise awareness for.

When he died, I took over the business in his name and within 3 years; I finally helped get laws of abusing, harming or killing animals to be illegal and anyone caught doing that wouldn't get misdemeanors. They would face legal full sentencing of 20-50years in Federal prison. On the night the laws passed and I along with Brian's partnering animal rehab centers signed off on the law, I went to Brian's grave and told him everything.

I immediately glomped him into a hug and held onto his waist tightly. He embraced me back just as tight as I was holding him, me humming lovingly as I buried my face into his chest feeling him stroke down my hair. After what felt like forever, he separated from me and stared down at me with those loving hazel blue eyes of his as he placed both his hands at the top of my head before stroking them downward against each side of my head and ending by cupping my face in his hands.

"I am so proud of everything you've done (Y/n). I saw it all, thank you for continuing my legacy for animal rights."

"You taught me everything I needed to know about being kind and caring towards all creatures, so much so you helped inspire me to do my own animal rehabilitations and rescues. I just—wish I could've been there for you when you......"

"It was beyond your control love. But I didn't suffer. I knew you loved me, and would've done anything to come see me had you known. I never blamed you, so stop blaming yourself." I nodded as tears slipped down my face but with his thumbs he wiped them away before hugging me once more. I felt him kiss my temple before cupping the side of my face once more to kiss my nose.

Even as I got older and we were both in our senior years, he never once stopped with the nose pecks. I smiled and Eskimo kissed him before he pressed his forehead against mine. It was then I felt a hand on my shoulder and I turned to my right to see Roger standing before me.

Besides Freddie's death, I think the most devastating thing for me was when Roger died. It was about a year after Brian's death when I had gotten a frantic call from my godson Rufus that Roger had been taken to the hospital because of a stroke. Without hesitating, I got into the car and raced to West London Medical Hospital, where I met up with the Taylor pride.

I was frantic with anxiety and fear that I would lose yet a 3rd member of Queen. Over 48hrs passed when Rog finally regained consciousness and I was sitting right there by his bedside holding his hand. He spoke so softly it was like whispers on the wind and the only thing he wanted to do was go outside.

Reluctantly the doctors allowed it so my godchildren, and his wife Sarina took him out to the hospital garden and allowed me some one on one time with him. But I didn't know that that would be the last time they would ever get to talk to him. The last words he ever spoke to me were and I still remember it to this day, even up here in heaven.

"Brian and Freddie have come to collect me, they send out their love to you and Deacy. Look after the old bastard for us." And I literally felt his life slip away from my hand as he died right there in front of me.

For months I was depressed. I was allowed to go to the funeral and speak my eulogy and I sang at his funeral, this time my own rendition of Phil Collins' song 'You'll be in my heart.' It was also because of his funeral that Deacy and I got even closer than we had in years.

He had secretly gone to both Brian and Roger's funeral but it didn't take till Rog passed for him to physically approach me and we both just wept and cried from losing a father, a brother, a great friend together.

Finally when I finally gained the strength, me and the Taylor children all took a picnic up where Roger was born and just looked out beyond the fields of where his childhood home was and reminisced on all the wonderful memories we had of our father.

And it was from his death I produced my album 'Papa Lion' and dedicated it to him; 'To my Papa Lion, and all the other father lions out there. Keep protecting your children no matter what'.

"You gonna get into these arms or what love?" he asked me. I spoke not a word but felt tears in my eyes as I raced up and buried myself into his neck and dirty blonde almost brunette hair. He held me and spun me around, kissing all over my face humming and moaning lovingly.

When he finally set me down, he cupped my face just like Brian did but he gently leaned forward and very gingerly headbutted my forehead and the two of us nuzzled each other, rubbing our noses together.

Like a father lion and his cub reuniting with each other at last.

I held onto his wrists which still cupped the sides of my face and just allowed my tears to fall out but I couldn't stop smiling.

"I hope those are happy tears." He said to me. I sniffled and nodded.

"Yeah the—these are....ha-happy tears." I choked out.

"You know you don't have to be so strong around me, right lovie?" It was then I just broke down and wept as I embraced him. "Shhh, shh. I'm here my lion cub, I'm here. Papa lion is here." He whispered in my ear.

"God I have waited so long for you to say that." I whimpered out to hear him softly laugh and just hug me tighter.

"Oh my darlings.....my heart.....it's too full!" We heard Fred exclaim out dramatically. We both laughed as I nuzzled deeper into my papa lion's chest, happy to finally be reunited with them.

After finally calming down, we were all just sitting around the master bedroom. I was up against the couch leaning against Deacy's legs as he was currently brushing and braiding my hair.

"So you guys continuing to rock it out here in Heaven?" I asked.

"Don't you know it darling. Every good singer who has helped made a difference comes up here and we continue to live a peaceful eternity doing what we were born to do. Be performers." Freddie stated.

"In fact we just had our concert the other night. We got to perform alongside the Beatles." Said Roger.

"Shut up! The Beatles?!"

"You know it love, Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and Starr." Said Brian.

"Wow, I wish I could've seen it." I said.

"You will darling, we perform our concerts every single night. And it's always a mix mash of artists and bands collaborating together to perform the Greatest Heavenly Rock 'n Roll concert." Said Fred.

"Now that you're here poppet, you'll get the chance to perform with the best of the best." Said Deacy. I was flabbergasted.

"Holy......" I couldn't even finish it because I was just so shocked to think that I would be performing with the greatest artists long before my time and bands I wish I had the chance to record or perform alongside with. The guys all chuckled at me and I said.

"So that's why David and Elton were here."

"Mm-hmm. We're all performing together in tonight's show. Three artists of the 70's decade for the first time ever sharing the stage together." Said Brian.

"Ohh man what people would've killed to see that in person. I mean yeah you guys performed at the same venue like we did with Live Aid or did some recordings together but never all three of you guys on stage at once." I said.

"That's how it works around here." Spoke Deacy as he finished the last strand of my braid. I thanked him and observed the braid he had done and I commented.

"You've gotten better Deacy."

"Laura was good practice. My baby girl always wanted her hair braided."

"She may have gotten that from me, sorry." He playfully scowled at me but I cheekily stuck my tongue out at him. "Say Fred, where's Jim at? I figured if you were here, he would be too."

"Oh that man of mine, he's out tending the garden, come have a look." He escorted me to the back window and there I saw a field of flowers as far as the eye could see.

"Whoa. He's done all of that?"

"Been doing it since 2010 darling. Always a hard worker my husband. When he first came, I was worried he wouldn't like this appearance of mine, after all I didn't have my tache and my hair was much shorter than when I first met him."

"Jim loves you Freddie. He loves you no matter what you'd look like."

"And I did know. Turns out he's got a long hair kink." He whispered to me which made me choke out a laugh.

"Seriously?" He nodded ecstatically and that's when Deacy spoke up.

"We're still here Fred, no need to hear any of that."

"Oh god Deacy don't act so innocent. After all you were the one who wrote a song about pre-ejaculation." Deacy's mouth just gaped before turning stoic, and of course Rog and Bri were laughing their asses off. He turned to me and I shrugged saying.

"He's got a point."

"Okay yeah ha-ha fuck all of you."

"Oh come off it John. We mean no harm by it." Roger teased

"At least it's better than a car fucking song." Deacy fired back.

"That's not funny!" Roger proclaimed.

"It is kinda funny." Deacy sassed back.

"Okay, okay enough both of you. I had enough of your arguments to last an entire lifetime. I don't need to relive it now when I just got here." I stated.

"Sorry love." They both choired out.

"Oh (y/n), I do have a surprise for you though." Brian spoke up. I looked at him and said,

"What kind of surprise?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise now would it?" He said as he walked right up to me.

"If you tell me, I'll still act surprise." He chuckled and wrapped an arm around me.

"C'mon love, let's head outside." We soon went down the stairs and headed out of the house.

Brian lead me to an open field about a half mile away from the house. There was nothing but green for miles ahead.

"Brian what's this about?"

"You'll see." He then took his index finger and thumb and curled them inward like pinchers before placing them against his lips letting out a loud whistle. We stood there for a moment that was until I heard a bark. A very familiar bark. No it—it couldn't be.

Soon jogging up the hill about a mile away was a German Shepherd. His familiar traditional fur coat shined under the sun as he looked right at me. He let out a couple of barks and soon several more dogs came running up beside him.

They consisted of a golden retriever, 2 pit-bulls, 3 huskies (1 traditional black and white, another grey and white and the last one an auburn coloring), a collie, and 4 Labradors (2 blacks, a tan and one brown).

With each dog that this pack had, I knew every single one of them. I turned to Brian baffled and he just grinned at me before nodding telling me that they were who I thought they were. I turned back around and the German Shepherd let out a bark. I then let instinct take over and ran as I cried out.

"Bucky!" He soon came running after me, as did all the other dogs barking and panting as they all ran down the hill towards me. "C'mon kids! Come on!" I proclaimed. Each dog was running as fast as they could but Bucky and the black and white husky Shasta were leading the pack. "C'mon kids!" Bucky let out some barks as he raced ahead of Shasta and we met half-way.

Bucky leapt with both paws to my shoulders knocking me down onto the ground.

"Ohh Buck. I can't believe it's you! Ohh look at you boy! Good boy Buck!" A second later Shasta came up to me whimpering happily as his tail wagged. "Oh Shasta baby boy look at you! Hi~ Hi baby boy~." Soon enough my entire dog pack was all up on me grunting and whimpering happily as they all began to tackle me, wanting my attention and love.

Now while you all know I've had Bucky and Sammy as the family pets for Jack and the kids. The other dogs have a different story. The two pitbull brothers that I had named Titan and Bear were rescue dogs when I was a part of an actual rescue mission with one of my animal charities in saving dogs from a Mexican dogfight.

Whenever I was free from touring and recording, I made sure they were well taken care of and even let them stay at my home for awhile before they were finally adopted by a good family.

My triple threat huskies Shasta, Maya (the grey and white) and Eevee (auburn) were actually Kelly's dogs. Shortly after she left for college, she wanted to fill her house with dogs so she adopted these three and very often when she would visit or we would visit her, these troublemakers were always there. Sweet and loveable but stubborn little buggers but I wouldn't take them either way.

The Labradors were also rescue dogs that I helped out. The black one Raider and white one Rowdy were just left abandoned tied up in the backyard of their owners homes. The owners had abandoned them and left them for dead in the hottest summer of the year. But thanks to my team we got them out, sheltered and good homes but I occasionally checked in on them since I couldn't let them go.

The brown lab Cleopatra and the other black lab Midnight were once stray dogs till my son Freddie found them and gave them some food and water. Since he didn't have the heart to turn them to the shelter he adopted them. They even started their own little family since Midnight and Cleopatra were mates together and had many puppies together.

And finally the beautiful Collie was Jezebel. Jezebel was something special because she was actually my nana's dog. I hadn't seen her since I was probably five years old, she was already an old girl growing up but from what I remember, she was so maternal with me.

Whenever my nana was busy with something, she knew she could trust Jezebel with me.

After giving every single dog my attention I finally managed to stand up and see all the dogs in my life standing in a row.

"Jezzy, Bucky, Sammy, Titan, Bear, Shasta, Maya, Eevee, Cleo, Midnight, Rowdy and Raider. I don't believe it. Good doggies. My lucky dog pack. I can't believe you're all here. How did you find them all?"

"I was out strolling wanting to observe the stars when I found Bucky and Sammy. They immediately recognized me and just came running right for me. Soon enough they brought me to meet the rest of the dogs you've known and rescued. I was surprised about the collie but I knew she wouldn't be among them if she wasn't a part of your family."

"Yeah, Jezebel was my nana's dog. I called her Jezzy cause I couldn't quite pronounce her name. She was like my guardian dog angel. Always maternal until she passed away of cancer when I was just 5 years old." I walked up to her and pet her head and she leaned up against me. "She even saved me from almost being attacked by a stray dog one summer."

"Well I'm very glad she did." Brian said as he walked up and stroked her head and she gave his hand a friendly sniff and lick.

"And you took care of all of them?"

"Well I'm an animal activist through and through. If Freddie takes care of every cat that comes to Heaven, I thought I should take care of the animals I've grown fond of, but also the animals my little protegee has taken on herself. As well as the family dogs." I smiled and Brian and thanked him with a hug and he gratefully hugged me back.

As the day drew to a close and nightfall came, the boys had escorted me over to the Heavenly Concert hall. If we want to look at it scale wise, imagine it as Wembley Stadium during the time of Live Aid back in 1985. We drove in a royal golden carriage fit only for her royal majesties themselves.

"Wow, it's just like Wembley stadium."

"It is in a way, but it can fit an infinite amount of people. Any and all are welcome to watch us perform." Said Deacy.

"And we won't need to do soundchecks or anything?"

"Nope. This is heaven darling. Up here everything works to the full capacity and capability. No have to worry ever again about sound checks or power outages." Freddie stated. Our carriage soon stopped at the back entrance and the doors magically opened.

I stepped out first followed by Deacy, Roger, Brian and Freddie. Deacy wrapped his arm around me and guided me into the building and the five of us followed the sign down to the basement level where the dressing rooms were.

And it was like they said, I saw dozens of stars with the names of so many artists and bands before and during my time. Elvis Presley, Janis Joplin, the Beatles, David, Elton, Led Zeppelin, REO Speedwagon, George Michael, Phil Collins, Bob Dylan, and everyone and anyone you could think of.

"And here we are darling, your dressing room awaits." Roger said as he stood before a red door with a golden star with wings on each side that read in bold black letters my stage name ROCK ANGEL. He opened it up and I was in awe.

Inside was a very large room filled with furniture, a huge makeup station with large mirror decored with lamplights around the perimeter of it.

On the left side of the dressing room were hundreds of different outfit's I've worn throughout the years. Everything was there on hangers along with some of the hats I wore, fedora's, cowgirl, and my famed flat caps of various different colors and styles.

While on the right; I could see just music instruments like the Red Special Brian had made for me up against a special holder up along the wall right by my makeup stand.

"Is this my....."

"Go on and have a look darling." I heard Freddie say in my ear.

"Okay. I finally have my own mall." I walked in and was just in awe at everything. It looked like heaven had taken my master bedroom from my first home I had after becoming the Rock Angel and just put it all here.

I walked inside and said.

"Ooo, very nice shoes." I pointed out on the shoe wrack seeing some of the styles of shoes I've worn. From combat boots, to Adidas', flats, and even the high-heeled boots that Deacy always wore during the 1970's.

"We're glad you like them darling. Why don't you go around that corner and press the black button along the dresser." Deacy said. I walked further in and reached a dresser and found the black button. When I pressed it, a couple of shelves slowly opened up revealing almost every pair of sunglasses I've always worn.

"Oh my god! I've missed wearing these." I picked up a pair of my ray ban black and gold framed sunglasses. "Didn't I make these look good?" I quickly turned to see the guys were gone. "Guys?"

"Over here love." I heard Brian's voice say. I walked towards the right to see my boys standing or sitting along some of the foot stools.

"Oh there you all are. Ohh nice amps." I couldn't help but see the amps up along the wall. "I—I'm just...." Before I could continue a remote was tossed over at me by Roger as he said.

"Before you even say anything else. Type in combination 2-1-2." I muttered the combination to myself as I pressed the numbers and soon the closet before us opened and soon revolving around were various guitars and bass guitars, shelves soon opened revealing several pairs of drumsticks each imprinted with my name on them.

I had no words.

"Umm....this is.....I can't—" I jumped back a bit as the top shelves suddenly opened revealing two different microphones. One was a basic black but it was bedazzled with red gems while the other one was pure gold with golden gems.

"Elton and I had a little hand of having your microphones designed." Said Freddie with a modest shrug.

"I mean....guys this is......unbelievable. And this is all mine?"

"Oh darling you should see ours. It's practically the entire mansion back home."

"Each star that comes here is given the full custom of what they've enjoy back on Earth. And since you've favored how you once had your rotating dressers back in 2011, it's all here for you but advanced into your instruments as well." Said Roger.

"And if anyone has any suggestion like if they're close to another artist, they can submit some suggestions of what should be in said artists dressing room." Brian spoke up.

"Aww you guys, I love you." I said as I came up to them and we got into a group hugged.

"We love you too (Y/n) darling. Now hurry up and get ready, the concert is about to begin." The boys left me to my own business. I walked up to my clothes rack and went through every style and decided that if I was to do my first concert in Heaven, I might as well wear exactly what I wore for my first concert as the Rock Angel.

After getting ready and doing my makeup the same way Freddie had done for me that day in Madison Square Garden, I picked up my Red Special and put it around my neck and left my dressing room.

"The Rock Angel is back." I looked up to see the boys standing across me in front of their dressing room, dressed to the T like they had at the they did at the Odeon theater Christmas Eve 1975. I smiled and said.

"Well look at you guys, it seems like only yesterday I was sneaking my friends into the house while Joanna and Graham were at their Christmas party just to watch you guys live at the Hammersmith Oden theater." I sassed.

"Thank you love, now c'mon time to head to the stage." Roger said. The lads cheered and I followed behind as we all walked back up the stairs and went through the corridors of backstage. Hundreds upon hundreds of artists were getting themselves ready to go up and perform.

I watched as the boys did their typical body warmups to get themselves pumped up when I felt a nudge at my arm.

"You seem quiet poppet, everything okay?" I looked up to see Deacy standing beside me.

"You said anybody whose anybody comes to see these shows right?" He nodded and I said solemnly, "Do....do you think my family, like my mum and dad know that I'm here now? That I'm here performing?" I felt him wrap his arm around my shoulder and he said.

"It's possible. Anytime a new artist or band comes here, it's fully announced far and wide throughout Heaven. So there's a good chance they might be out there in the audience."

"I hope so. I just want to show them what I've achieved, I want them to be proud of me."

"They are poppet. Just like we are." He embraced me in a one armed hug leaning his head against mine.

"I really have missed these moments between us Deacy."

"So have I. And I've got a hell of a lot of comforting to catch up on."

"Well now's a good start."

"Oi you two! Are we going to perform or not?" The two of us smiled as we heard Roger's voice cry out to us. My brother looked down at me and he said.

"C'mon, let's go do our thing." I nodded and we headed towards the guys.

*3rd Person POV*

Once again it was concert time. Every soul that had passed into heaven that was a fan of Rock and Roll or music in general came from far and wide to come to the concert of concerts, even bigger than the Earthly event that Live Aid gave the world.

Generations of artists and musicians that had come from around the world from many different backgrounds came to this very stadium to give the performance of their afterlives. Thousands, almost a million people poured into the stadium as the lights were flashing and doing their test run for each artist that would perform that night.

Soon Bob Geldof came onto the stage and everyone applauded for him.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Welcome once again to the Heaven's Rock and Roll concert." Everyone applauded and cheered holding up signs of their favorite artists or bands that would be performing tonight. "It gives me great honor to announce that we recently were given a new arrival, but I won't give it away on who it is." The audience crowd because they wanted to hear who it was as Bob continued, "I'll leave that to the band who know her best. So without further ado I would like to bring up on stage the first band performance of this evening's festivities. These lads I knew personally and they helped make one of the biggest rock concerts even greater than I could ever imagine. These four individually talented young men rose to the stardom in the early 1970's before exploding into the worldwide phenomenon by the 1980's. Ladies and Gentlemen please bow before her royal majesties that is Queen!"

The crowd roared with applause as Bob left the stage and the stage grew dark. Soon the opening notes for "Now I'm here" began playing and everyone cheered louder as they began clapping in rhythm. Those who have seen and grew up seeing Queen live, knew exactly how to react and behave during a Queen concert and those who got to know Queen up here in heaven got a taste of what it would've been like had they seen them in person with all four of them up on stage.

Soon Freddie's silhouette and voice echoed through the speakers as he began to sing the song. When the song began to pick up, the lights on stage exploded as did fire from the sides of the stage as all four members of Queen were finally revealed to the crowd.

Freddie lead with the vocals and his mates and brothers backed him up on not only the vocals but their instruments, and ever the frontman he was, strutted the stage like it was his as his voice overpowered and reached out into the audience with a force unlike anything.

By the end of the song, Freddie proclaimed into the microphone.

"Thank you! Thank you, good evening everybody!" The crowd cheered as Freddie continued, "Oh it looks magnificent out there tonight. Okay my darlings, right now. Right now, we're going to take you for the first time ever we're taking you all to the battlefield. This is called Ogre Battle!"

The boys continued to play a few more songs like 'White Queen', 'Killer Queen', 'Bohemian Rhapsody', 'Don't stop me now' and 'Son and Daughter' included with Brian's famous guitar solo giving Deacy and Freddie enough time to change clothes for the next half of the performance. Freddie now wearing the famed black satin outfit with his chest exposed and diamond fingernailed glove as well as the chain glove on the other.

"Yes thank you, thank you very much. Featuring Brian May on guitar!" Brian took a bow as the spotlight shined on him and the crowd cheered. "Now then my darlings, as I'm sure everyone's heard we have a new arrival. A very special girl to all four of us. How would you all like to meet her?"

The crowd roared with applause and soon Roger began doing one single rhythmic beat. Hearing the beat made the entire audience clap in that single beat rhythm.

"She first rose to the spotlight in the summer of 1981. A bright, charismatic young woman whose music has touched the lives of millions. To us she wasn't a shadow of our fame, she was an equal partnership. The like of which we had never knew we could ever ask for. Ladies and gentlemen and everyone up in the balcony give it up for Heaven's very own Rock Angel, Mrs. (Y/n) Kline!"

From up on the catwalk above the stage, the silhouette of the Rock Angel herself came up and it appeared that she actually had angel wings sprouting from her back as she began the first verse of her famed song "Set it all Free".

By the chorus, the screen lifted up and she hopped off the catwalk and gratefully fell from the 10ft catwalk onto center stage playing her Red Special as her boys backed her up as they always did whenever they performed this song together.

And seeing the two artists perform together, Queen and the Rock Angel, the crowd was in pure excitement bouncing up and down and crying out the lyrics to the well known song that the Rock Angel's 'Bohemian Rhapsody'.

But none were more happy to perform once again than the artists that were on stage. It had been forever since it was the five of them together up on stage and they couldn't help but look at each other. As the guitar solo came up, it turned into a guitar battle between the Rock Angel herself and Brian May which got the crowd really pumped up.

By the end of the song, everyone was chanting out 'Angel! Angel! Angel!'

"Hello Rock and roll heaven how's everyone doing tonight!?" The crowd welcomed her with a roar of applause. "God I can't believe I'm here performing with my boys once again. And right now we'd like to bring out a special guest for this next number." She turned to Deacy who nodded and began playing his bassline for "Under Pressure" which got the crowd applauding louder.

"This man is a well-known legend and the birth of a true 'flamboyant' hard rocker. And a very close friend of mine." Freddie started.

"Six time Grammy award winner, 4 time Brit award winner, actor, musician. Everyone put your hands together for Mr. David Bowie!" (Y/n) proclaimed into the mic.

It was then Freddie and (Y/n) began singing the first part of the song as at the center stage a circular hole began to open and soon rising up onto the stage was David Bowie himself. He wore a royal blue suit with a black undercoat suit shirt as well as the business white shirt. A light blue tie and black shoes.

He soon began his line of the first bridge as Freddie and the Rock Angel backed him up. When the second part of the song came up after Freddie's little vocalization, David gave the gesture for (Y/n) to take the second part of the song. And as she always performed it, she would lowly sing in her alto range before suddenly belting out to the perfect volume as she would hold the note out for as long as she could letting the two legends back her up.

Just like the record Freddie and Roger softly sung the first part of the break, then David came in before (Y/n) belted out the why vocals before the song picked right back up. It was something that could only be seen in Heaven. Three legendary singers performing one song.

David Bowie, Freddie Mercury and (Y/n) Kline the Rock Angel.

The three lead singers stood side by side with each other with David on the left, Freddie in the middle and (y/n) to the right. The three in almost rehearsed synchronicity began to sidestepped across the stage as all three voices blended the bridge that it could give one an eargasm.

Agreeing with each other and knowing what she could do to close the song, both David and Freddie stepped back with (y/n) completely unaware as she just allowed the song to consume her.

At the final note, she let out a proud controlled belt that was first heard at Freddie's tribute concert and it almost seemed like the sun was rising as the stage was lit up in a heavenly glow as she held the note. The entire audience was in an uproar as they gave a standing ovation to the Rock Angel herself.

She turned around and saw the five older men smiling at her and applauding her for a phenomenal performance that they have missed so dearly.

The concert continued as Elton John soon came up on stage and together he, Freddie and (y/n) sang 'I'm still standing' a song that was personal to all three of them in some shape or form but they knew this was the perfect song for them all to sing.

After a few more Queen songs, with the allowance of their beloved Rock Angel since her set was about to come up after theirs, she allowed them to stay and be her band as she would perform her hit songs before the souls of Heaven.

Songs like 'Who I am', 'So good,' 'Bridge of light', 'Rock angel', her rendition of 'Somebody to love', 'We'll be together', and with her boys already up there with her they did a few more duets of Queen songs like 'Friends will be friends', 'Spread your wings', 'Fat Bottomed girls', and 'Jailhouse Rock'.

Finally their time was up and as 'God save the Queen' played through the speakers, all five of them stood side by side each other and bid the crowd a goodbye and thank you.

After watching several performances from backstage, and when the concert finally came to a close it was time for the after party. So just outside in the back a beautiful garden was set up with refreshments and plenty of drinks to fit everyone's needs and all the performers of the night came out to talk amongst one another and to celebrate another well-performed concert.

As well as to welcome their newest achievement.

*My POV*

Oh my god. That was a thrill rush, and now being here at the after party I saw literally everyone. Elvis, Janis, the Beatles, Little Richard, Elton, David, Hendrix, everyone in rock and roll big names were gathered around this beautiful garden.

As I went to go grab some water I felt a hand tap my shoulder and there stood John Lennon himself.

"So you are the famous Rock Angel?" I swallowed my water and was completely star-struck.

"Y-yeah I.....Mr. Lennon I....."

"Please call me John."

"Okay, John. Can I just say.....just between us that you were always my favorite Beatle out of the group."

"Coming from you that's a huge honor. And now I can finally rub it into Paul's face the bugger." I laughed and that's when I heard a female voice say.

"Alright let me at her, where is she?" And there donned with her famous fur coat, tall Russian-like hat and red circular shades was Janis Joplin herself. "And there she is. The one female rocker better than me." She spoke as she came up to me.

"Oh no Mrs. Jop—"

"Ah-ah. Mrs. Joplin is not my name. Call me Janis baby girl." I blushed and she wrapped an arm around me and said, "You know, you and I aren't so different kid."

"How so?"

"Well we both struggled in our families and personal lives, got together with some male rockstars to form a partnership before splitting off to have our freedom. The only difference is, is that I wish I had your strength. I decided to call it quits with heroin being my way to kick the bucket."

"You were someone I did look up to. I mean yeah you had your struggles, but hell you didn't take shit from no one. When conservative minds at the time wanted you to do it their way, you said....."

"'Fuck you. I'm doing it my own way!'" She finished off which made the two of us laugh. "Yah know something baby girl, I like you. Promise me for Lady's night you'll do a song with me?"

"It would be an honor Janis." She smiled and hugged me tightly.

"Alright my darlings, may we have everyone's attention?" Freddie's voice soon spoke up as he was now standing on top of a table. Everyone looked up and as the boys of Queen stood up front Freddie continued, "First of all magnificent show all of you. So cheers my lovely darlings." Everyone of us raised our glasses in the air saying 'cheers'.

"We'd also love to specifically say a wonderful show for our newest arrival," Brian spoke up. He turned to me and extended his hand out for mine. I took it and he gently pulled me up front so that everyone could see me.

"Our beloved Rock Angel herself, (Y/n) Kline." Roger spoke up as he smiled warmly down at me.

"To the Rock Angel!" Deacy stated as he raised his cocktail glass in the air.

"To the Rock Angel!" Everyone choired at me. I bashfully smiled and said.

"Thank you, it was an honor to see most of you perform tonight, and it was great to perform with someone of you once again after so many years. I hope I have the privilege to perform with every single soul here." I said.

We then raised our glasses once more and the mingling and partying continued long into the night.

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a-froger-epic · 3 years

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And fics you’ve been loving lately?

Okay! This has been sitting in my asks for a while because sadly I've had very little time to read as of late. Much less than I wish I did.

But I do have a handful of fics I have recently enjoyed very much.

Leave It In The Lap Of The Gods by @bambirexwrites

Maycury - Now, look, I know not everyone is into fem!Queen. It's pretty niche. But even if you're not, I encourage you to give this story a go because the characters in it come to life in their own right, while still keeping that connection with the people we know and love, who they are based on. This, to me, is an absolute masterpiece from Bambi. It's so intelligent, so heartfelt, so well-researched and careful of the area and the themes explored here. Just an absolute joy to read.

a garden of broken shadows by @just-a-poor-boy-queen

Freddie/OMC - Let me count the many ways in which I love this fic. I was so happy to see it finished recently. It has such a sweet, authentic take on a teenaged Freddie at boarding school. The author brings her own cultural first-hang knowledge to it, and that is felt throughout. Reading this was like watching a short-film. It gripped me thoroughly throughout and what I like best, is that while it has all the heartbreak, the ending is sad, but uplifting. My favourite kind of ending.

Be My Last Strange Encounter by @ivyyara

Joger - This is not a very recent fic, but one I read recently and really enjoyed! It takes the incubus trope for a spin, with a very reluctant incubus!John and an incredibly charming Roger. Their chemistry just leaps off the page and the sexy times are verrryyy nice. Ahem.

I'm Just A Singer With A Song by @sparkleslightlyy

Gen - Alright, so this is a ficlet with fem!Freddie as a singer in India, and again what drew me to it is the authenticity of the setting, I'm just a sucker for somebody writing what they know and live and putting it into words beautifully. It's very vibrant and colourful this, it made me smile throughout.

Baby, Won't You Look My Way? by @theprophetsaid

Maycury - Best bathtub sex scene ever. No, no, wait, that's not all there is to it! It's a fantastic getting together story which starts with a really interesting scenario. Brian and Freddie share the room to have sex with groupies. Incredible build-up, kept me on the edge of my seat throughout, and yes, my God. The chemistry. Incredible.

Look No Further by @rubadubababyoil

Maycury - Look, it isn't my fault the Maycury writer's have been bringing their A-game! This story is just wonderful, absolutely captivating in its emotional sincerity and intelligent storytelling. It also has such a well-though-out, empathetic and intelligent take on Freddie's situation before he came out and his relationship with Mary. Both Freddie and Brian feel so incredibly real throughout, and their voices are captured so well, I could hear them speak.

Sink Into Eden With Me by @freddie-mercury-rising

Freddie/OMC - The tags do not do this story justice one bit. It's so much more than just smut, my god. It is also incredible smut, I must say. I wish I could write smut this good. But apart from that, it has so many fantastic, psychologically compelling insights into Freddie, as he is written in this story, that it just blew me away. I think this is the most (and best) character analysis I have ever seen in what is essentially a PWP fic. Mind blown.

Journey's End by @plainxte

Froger - Wahey! The ONE Froger fic on this list. Shameful, I know! :P No, but this is Plainxte doing what she does so incredibly well. It's a fairytale for adults, it's distilled romance, it's heartache and faint echoes of something you can't quite hear. This story keeps you thinking and guessing and wondering. It's like walking through a misty, enchanted forest.

#fic recs #Queen RPF #Joger #Froger #Maycury #Freddie Mercury #such beautiful writing #bless the people in this fandom

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queenies-of-the-universe · 2 years

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Thank you @beevean 😘💕💛

indoor plants or gardens // cloud-watching or star-gazing // water or fire // paperback or hardcover // running or hiking // sleeping with socks or without socks // fruit or vegetables // hanging plants or succulents // dark wood or light wood // handwritten or typed // instagram or pinterest // braids or pigtails // dc or marvel // books or movies // oceans or meadows // forests or fields // sweet or salty // ice cream or chocolate // hoodies or sweaters // piercings or tattoos // summer or winter // boots or sneakers // cars or motorcycles // curls or straight hair // castles or cottages // sunny days or storms // reptiles or birds // disney or nickelodeon // strawberries or watermelon // essays or posters // phones or laptops or desktop // glass or stone // dark or light // photos or paintings // circuses or theatres // reading or writing // dogs or cats // poetry or novels // monsters or ghosts // thrift shops or libraries // fiction or non-fiction

PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG

I tag @freddie-moments @slowlyrusting @painandpleasure86 @roger-s-maracas @jackfrostsander @ecle-c-tic @freesiafields @thislookinyoureyes @musiccat1971 @wiesel-mercury @a-froger-epic @quirkysubject @sparkleslightlyy

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cashandandrogyny · 2 years

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thank you @queenies-of-the-universe for the tag!

plants or gardens / cloud-watching or star-gazing / water or fire / paperback or hardcover / running or hiking / sleeping with socks or without socks / fruits or vegetables / hanging plants or succulents / dark wood or light wood / handwritten or typed / instagram or pinterest / dc or marvel / books or movies / oceans or meadows / forests or fields / sweet or salty / ice cream or chocolate / hoodies or sweaters / piercings or tattoos/ summer or winter / spring or fall / boots or sneakers / house or apartment/ cars or motorcycles / curls or straight hair / castles or cottages / sunny days or storms / reptiles or birds / strawberries or watermelon / essays or posters / phone or laptop or desktop / glass or stone / photos or paintings / circus or theater / reading or writing / dogs or cats / poetry or novels / monsters or ghosts or vampires / thrift shops or libraries / fiction or nonfiction / dark or light

tagging @greatkingrrrat @grace70svibes @wiesel-mercury @sparkleslightlyy @roger-s-maracas @catboydavidbowie and anyone else who wants to do it :)))

#tag game

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grand-budapest-queen · 3 years

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Freddie, Opera and Crown for the Queen Asks <3

Thank you, @sparkleslightlyy for the lovely asks! 💫

FREDDIE: Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

Introvert for sure!

OPERA: What are you most proud of?

Apart from how much I´ve changed in the past years, I´d also say my fanfics. I put my heart and soul into those stories and it´s not always easy for me to write but I love them so much and every time I look at my stats, I feel well proud of how far I´ve come!

CROWN: What role do you play in your clique?

I would say either the friend who gives good advices and listens and understands because I love being there for my friends. But then I can aslo be the really silly friend who laughs all the time and giggles for no reason and is kinda annoying I guess.

#ask game

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painandpleasure86 · 2 years

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Tag game

Thank you @queenies-of-the-universe for tagging me in this!

Tagging to (no pressure of course):

@you-oughta-know @pumpkinlilyao3 @grace70svibes @roger-s-maracas @warriorteam1924 @honey-rae-pluto @deakys-chesthair @deakysgurl @emmaandorlando @queen-hospitality @shewas-agaystripper @newstart-newheart @ivyyflowers @ronniesshoes @sparkleslightlyy @freddie-mercury-rising @freddie-moments @39seasofrhye21 @sarah0687 @julescape @urlolaluna @johnstoast19 @lady-artemis27 @mrs-ianto-jones @stormtrooper-in-clogs @stormtrooper-in-converse ,

#lily was tagged 👀❤️#tag games #painandpleasure86 reblogs

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eileen-crys · 2 years

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Some updates 💜

I have changed all the my art, my fics and my writing hashtags to rachelb's art, rachelb's fics and rachelb's writing. (Thanks @sparkleslightlyy for the link to the tag editor!!!) (Why can't I tag youuuu)

Just so you know, "Rachel B" is my main art name, it's just my tumblr username that's eileen-crys haahah 😅 I hope you'll be able to see my stuff from ios again now...

The next chapter of Down in the Dungeons is almost done! I was meant to post it before the end of the year, but I had more inspiration about the Johnica week and I struggled to finish some paragraphs of DitD. I'm editing it now, and I'll post it between the 2nd and 3rd of January, as soon as I'm back from my lil holiday. Thanks for the patience 🙏🏻💕

I'll post a fluffy drawing later so stay tuned!

#writing updates

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years

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72 Hours In Montreal [Part II]

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together…or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, a teeny tiny bit of sexual content (not graphic), mentions of violence and addiction, angst (of course, like have you met me, y’all already know).

Word Count: 6.4k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @imtheinvisiblequeen @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @youngpastafanmug @rhapsodyrecs @inthegardensofourminds @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bohemianbea @hijackmy-heart @sparkleslightlyy @haileymorelikestupid

You hate losing things. You’ve always hated losing things.

There is a difference between leaving something and losing it, a crucial difference. Leaving entails a choice, an estimation, a premeditation, a process through which to acclimate like a climber learning to breathe the razor-thin air on Everest. Leaving is the closing of a book, sliding it back into its dusty space on the shelf, walking away with perhaps certain characters or phrases still rattling around in your bones but also a conscious that is more or less unincumbered, that is at peace.

There is no closure in losing things. There’s no making peace before you part ways like the ragged edges of a compound fracture; there’s no time to accustom oneself, no idealistic promises to write or call, no ambling, sentimental farewells (sincere or otherwise), no nostalgic kneading of a war-torn sweater or book or glassy-eyed teddy bear before you kick up the nerve to place it gingerly—as if it might feel pain—in the waiting arms of a friend or a donation bin or a neighbor’s child or a waste basket. When you lose something, there are no goodbyes; there is only a sudden void in the shape of that sweater, that book, that stuffed animal your parents bought you before you were born, that set of keys, that photograph, your grandmother’s ring, that friend you made at summer camp in a haze of eye-watering bonfire smoke and fireflies, that man you shared a lightning-bolt instant of magic with in a crowded place where the two of you were alone. And then after—for minutes, for months, for decades or more—there is the episodic rekindling of grief each time you think you catch a glimpse of what you lost, each time you remember it. Or perhaps that grief never really leaves you at all; perhaps it only learns to sit quietly, patiently, in some cobwebbed corner of your mind as time rolls on.

And so when you wake in the late-morning hours of November 25th, 1981, your thoughts still murky with the voices and faces of that room backstage at the Montreal Forum, you are immediately disappointed in yourself, maybe even more than disappointed, maybe even furious; because there’s no doubt that you’ve set yourself up to lose something new.

You drag yourself off the pillows, the vertebrae of your spine popping in protest, your mood black. You had showered when you arrived home last night, that had been the very first thing you’d done, and yet you can still (somehow, exasperatingly) smell hints of John’s cologne and cigarette smoke. Across the small bedroom, crisscrossed with elongated shadows as weak autumn sunlight streams in through the windows, is the easel holding a plain white rectangle of canvas. It’s been there since you moved into this apartment—you’d brought it with you hoping in vain that it might jog some long-dormant muscle memory, reveal some unexcavated inspiration—and it’s always been blank; but it seems a little extra empty this morning, like open water, like the sterile expanse of outer space. That does absolutely nothing to improve your mood. You throw off your blankets and step down onto the scuffed, creaking hardwood floor.

When you wander into the bathroom and flick on the light switch, that now-faithful luminescence spills over you like rain.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just after 1 p.m. when the band comes into the Yankee Candle shop again.

You’d been unpacking a cardboard box of holly-berry-red jars labelled Christmas Wishes (what an idiotic name for a candle, what the fuck do wishes smell like?) and stacking them on a display table. Kevin had been trying to help an increasingly frazzled senior citizen choose the perfect candles as gifts for her favorite granddaughter’s wedding; she had already rejected Vanilla Cupcake, Home Sweet Home, Blush Bouquet, Rainbow’s End, and, very ironically, Wedding Day. When the shop door opened and closed with the requisite jingling of those little metal bells, you had barely noticed; your attention was preoccupied ostensibly with Christmas Wishes candles but in reality with commanding yourself to forget that John Deacon had ever existed at all, let alone fixed your light switch and spent hours with you backstage after a Queen concert and fucked you on a pool table and left unwelcome remnants of himself all over you like invisible fingerprints. Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl is piping cheerfully through the shop speakers, a window into a featherlight world without a shred of realism, almost like it’s mocking you.

“Hi,” John says.

You jolt out of your dejected inner monologue, blink up at him in bewilderment, and drop a jar of Christmas Wishes which explodes against the tile floor.

“I’ll pay for that,” John says immediately.

“What are you doing here?”

“The band has two more days in Montreal,” John replies with a cool, unfazed smile. He’s wearing his bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses again, and you’re reminded of what you and Kevin had named John before you knew who he was: Casablanca. “We’re playing the Forum again tonight, actually. I thought I’d swing by to invite you.”

“We’d love to go!” you hear Kevin cry on the other side of the shop. Freddie has hopped up onto the counter and is sprawled there like a fatigued Victorian housewife, resting his head in the palm of one hand and grinning adoringly up at Kevin. Roger is browsing through the dessert-scented candles but checking his watch. Brian has somehow entered into a conversation with the disagreeable grandmother and is nodding with thoughtful, professorial concern, tapping his chin with one dexterous finger. Now she’s unfolding her wallet to show him family photos. Brian, chuckling politely, produces his own wallet and proceeds to introduce his wife and children. Roger and John exchange amused, clandestine smirks. Through the glass door you spy Chubby pacing on the sidewalk outside, cloaked in black as usual.

“Don’t you have class on Wednesday nights?” you ask Kevin.

“I can skip it.”

“Don’t you have a group presentation coming up?”

Kevin flashes you a rosy, too-broad warning of a smile. “It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I’ll tell them I got Lyme disease or something.”

“Everyone knows you don’t hike.”

Kevin ignores you and resumes his chatter with Freddie. Brian and the grandmother’s conversation has somehow evolved into a cordial debate concerning the theory of evolution. Roger sighs in annoyance as he picks up a jar of Chocolate Layer Cake to sniff.

“Just so you know, it’ll be essentially the same routine as last night,” John warns. “They’re filming the concert and making it into a movie or something, so they want everything to be as identical as possible so they can use the best footage from each show. And we’ll be wearing the same outfits as well, of course. But they’ve been dry-cleaned, it’s all very sanitary, I can assure you I’ll smell just fine. Not as good as you, but we can’t all live on top of a bakery, now can we? Don’t be alarmed if it all seems a little déjà vu, that’s my point.”

“So I guess I won’t be missing much if I can’t make it,” you say.

From across the shop, Kevin mouths: I will throw you off a bridge.

“Look…” John’s voice drops as he steps closer to you, taking off his sunglasses and slipping them into the front pocket of his jacket. His eyes are just as attentive and direct and grey-blue as you remember. Maybe not Warm Luxe Cashmere after all. Maybe something else. Something less blue and more grey. Silver Birch? White Sage? You can feel more vestiges of him burrowing their way into your memory, into your bones, dotting your skin with unseen tattoos like freckles: unsolicited keepsakes that you’ll be tripping over in shadowed hallways for years to come. Still, you can’t quite bring yourself to look away. The shirt beneath his jacket is white and half-unbuttoned despite the cold outside. The cologne and cigarette smoke you could have sworn were still tangled up in your sinuses this morning are filling your lungs with fresh nostalgia. And John’s smiling, just a touch cautiously, like you’re a skittish animal he’s hoping not to startle: a light-footed doe, maybe, or a friend’s eccentric Papillon. “If I did something wrong last night, I’m sorry. You can tell me and I’ll fix it. If you’ll let me fix it, that is. From my end of things, I thought it went…you know…rather well. Really well, actually. But then you ran away. And now you look sort of horrified. So, if I’ve disappointed you, I sincerely apologize. I know I’m not exactly in peak form.”

You can feel yourself returning his smile. Goddammit. “I still enjoyed myself.”

“You sure did,” John agrees, patently relieved. “Twice, from what I counted.”

“You missed one. You’d think an engineer would be better with math.”

“You’d think an artist would be more inclined to attend a free rock concert.”

Now you frown. “I’m not an artist.”

“You can be whatever you want to be as long as you come to the Forum tonight.”

“John…”

“I really want to see you again,” he says seriously, discretely. “And I’m not talking about more sex on a pool table. I mean, I’m open to that possibility, don’t get me wrong. We could also go the more conventional route and spend a night in my suite at the Ritz-Carlton. It’s got a massive jacuzzi tub right there in the bedroom, you would love it. But that’s not what I’m asking for. I’m just asking to see you again.”

You’ve gotten distracted, bogged down in his eyes like your tiny feet once sank into wet sand during weekend family trips to the Cap-Saint-Jacques Nature Park, peering back with wide uneasily eyes to ask your dad if it was possible for sharks to swim so far downriver. “Could you wait here for just one second?”

“Sure,” John replies, perplexed.

As Kevin and Freddie continue their conspiratorial giggling, as Brian sympathetically listens to the grandmother complain about her impending grandson-in-law (“He has six tattoos, Brian. Can you imagine. Six! And you know what the Pope says about marking up your body like that…”), as Roger sighs with rapidly escalating volume and impatience, you make your way to the shelf of nature-themed candles and pick up a jar of White Sage, which is interestingly both blue and grey and not at all white. You bring the jar back to John, and he reaches for it, still confounded but willing enough. But you don’t hand him the candle; instead, you hold it up next to his eyes and study not just the color but the hue, the value, the intensity…things you haven’t thought about in eighteen months. And you’re shocked by how quickly it all comes rushing back.

“That’s what I thought,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “Pretty damn close.”

“So you have been thinking about me.”

“How do you know that’s a good thing? Maybe White Sage is my new least-favorite candle.”

“Is it?” John asks, somewhat concerned.

“No,” you admit. It definitely is not.

John does take the candle now, pops off the top, and inhales deeply. “Oh, that’s awful! I mean, no offense, I know you don’t make them or anything. So I don’t blame you. But it’s really dreadful. It’s like a bush. A salty bush. Or laundry detergent. Oh god. Let’s put that lid back on straight away. Goodbye now, awful candle. I hope I smell better than that in real life.”

“You do,” you assure him, a bit begrudgingly. It would be easier if he didn’t.

“Are you sure they don’t make any that smell like you? They’d sell out instantly. Yankee Candle would rake in millions. I’d buy a few dozen myself.”

You didn’t think Kevin was listening, but he must be, because now he calls over: “They could call it Sugar Baby. Because of the sugar. But also because of the proclivity for rich old guys.”

“Kevin,” you moan, mortified. He and Freddie cackle uproariously. Brian is telling the fretful grandmother stories about some cat named Pixie he had when he was a boy. Roger has fled outside to talk to Chubby and bum a cigarette. Surely Queen has more important things to be doing right now: interviews, photoshoots, album signings, partying with exciting and glamorous people, literally anything that doesn’t involve tacky candles or aproned employees. The band will have to leave soon. And part of you is silently begging them to, as swiftly as possible; but a growing piece of you is aware of how empty you’ll feel when they’re gone, how haunted by the ghosts of their joy and their magnetism and their strange, beautiful accents…and, most of all, of course, by John.

“So this is a pattern for you,” John teases, tilting his head and grinning mischievously. He has a look that says he thinks he’s going to get what he wants, and he’s thrilled about it. “Bewitching aging rock stars. Is that why you didn’t want me in your apartment? Who’s tied up under your bed, Mick Jagger? Paul McCartney?”

“No,” you reply brusquely, avoiding his eyes. You unpack the last few jars of Christmas Wishes and arrange them on the display table, spinning each candle so the label faces outwards towards the customers. And you wonder how different the world would be if people wore their own labels, spelling out their ingredients and penchants and histories, little red clearance stickers for the damaged ones, the jars with chips or cracks or scents warped by the inexorable trudging of time.

“I’m sorry…?” John ventures, instantly repentant.

“It’s not a pattern.” You snatch up the empty cardboard box and retreat into the stockroom to grab another carton of candles waiting to be freed. John follows you, puzzled and yet persistent, and closes the stockroom door behind him; but he’s careful to stand by a shelf stacked to the ceiling with boxes of holiday candles—Balsam & Cedar, North Pole, Surprise Snowfall, Frosty Gingerbread—and away from the doorway. He doesn’t want you to think he’s trying to trap you, and you don’t; you think he’s just trying to understand. But that doesn’t make it any better. It might make it worse.

“I’m sorry,” John says again. “I didn’t mean to imply…I…um…I hope you don’t feel like I’m…um…” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Okay, I have no idea what I did wrong. But I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just busy. I’m working. That’s what I do, I stock and sell candles. So please just let me do my job.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes are searching, his voice gentle. “Why don’t you want to come to the Forum again tonight?”

“John…there’s no point.”

“I am inclined to disagree.”

“It was one day!” you cry, exasperated. “John, hello, newsflash, you are a rock star. You live across the fucking ocean. This thing is pointless. It’s beyond pointless, actually. It’s embarrassingly futile. We had one day, and it was wonderful, I’m not saying it wasn’t…but one day is all it’s ever going to be. So why drag things out? Why make it any more painful than it has to be?”

“Three days are exponentially superior to one. There’s some math for you.”

“John, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” Then his eyebrows shoot up. “Unless you have a secret boyfriend. Oh shit, is that what this is about? Please don’t say you have a boyfriend. Is he scary and huge? Is he a hockey player?”

“No, that’s not—”

“Because I really should tell Chubby to be on the lookout if there might be some beefy Canadian trying to pummel me—”

“John, please, listen—”

“And I really can’t think of any other reason why you would be so—”

“Maybe you’re not concerned about what comes next because you’re not emotionally invested and that’s completely understandable, you probably do this all the time, you probably have an underemployed fling in every city the band plays, but I—”

“I already told you, this is not usual for me at all. At all. And who says it’s futile?! As long as we’re both on the same page I don’t see why—”

“John, I just can’t—”

“Look, I get it, if you have a boyfriend or something please just tell me and I’ll leave you alone—”

“I had a husband,” you say abruptly, and John’s face goes white and blank like a chalkboard wiped clean.

“You…you had a…?”

“We were best friends growing up, and we got married at eighteen, and we moved to Alberta so I could go to art school. And at the end of my junior year someone stabbed him to death for his wallet outside of a Petro-Canada.”

John’s lips have parted; his eyes are glistening and fixed on you. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even breathe.

“And I, um…” You shake your head, gathering your words. Because you’ve never told this story before. And it’s long and excruciating and not quite linear, and yet at the same time so simple: the person you’d always thought you were vanished and left a splintered pile of glass in its place. “I went off the rails a bit after that. Slept all the time, didn’t go to class, drank through a handle of vodka every other day. And, eventually, I failed out. My parents brought me home to Montreal and put me in rehab, and that took a few tries but after the third round it stuck. And now I go to bed early and I don’t drink at all and I make eight dollars an hour at a Yankee Candle shop.” You give John a small, sad, acerbic smile. “So as you can imagine I am a very far cry from engineering degrees and champagne toasts and mansions and yachts and everything else your world is made of.”

The stunned silence hangs heavy in the air, along with an amalgamation of mismatched, holiday-inspired candle scents. John is stunned, of course; but so are you, stunned that you shared this with a virtual stranger, stunned at how little John Deacon feels like a stranger after just twenty-four short hours of being aware of each other’s existence.

“I’m so sorry,” John replies at last, still watching you.

“Please don’t say anything in front of Kevin. He doesn’t know. He just thinks I’m really incompetent at job hunting.”

“I wouldn’t say anything. I…I…”

Someone pounds on the stockroom door. “Oh Deaky, darling?” Freddie chimes from outside. “We’re late for that signing! Chubby is positively incensed! Hurry up!”

“Give me a minute!” John yells back.

“You should go,” you say. “Really. Thank you for the invitation, I’m sure Kevin will enjoy himself tremendously. And I hope that you won’t take my absence as a mark of indifference. Because it’s the opposite.”

“I want to see you again.”

“You must have exceptionally poor listening comprehension skills.”

“We have a lot to talk about. And I don’t have time to get it all out now. So you need to come to the Forum tonight.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s an excellent idea, actually.”

“I think you missed the entire purpose of—”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” John says; and it knocks all of those other fearful, fluttering, warring words right out of your skull.

He was listening. And he might even understand.

Freddie hammers his fists on the stockroom door again. “Deaky! You have fifteen seconds and then we’re finding a new bassist! Kevin, dear, do you happen to know how to play bass…?”

“Well?” John presses restlessly, shifting his weight from foot to foot but never taking his attentive, blue-grey, White-Sage-reminiscent eyes from yours.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay, fine. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Great. See you tonight.”

“Uh I didn’t commit to that—”

But John is already gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“He’s checking you out,” Kevin says; but really, he shouts it, and you can still barely hear him over the roar of the music. Queen is performing Dragon Attack, a song you’d never heard before their Montreal shows but one that you like; it has a driving, furious sort of bassline that’s impossible not to move to, nodding heads, stomping feet, the crowd around you clapping and swaying. It’s powerful and maybe a little lustful, almost animalistic. It seems a natural soundtrack to all manner of sins. Yesterday your front-row seats were on the right side of the stage, the side closest to Brian; tonight, Chubby led you to the left side, the one near John. Chubby had explained in his almost indecipherable Irish accent that it was Freddie’s idea, so you and Kevin would get the experience of seeing the show from each angle. You are not entirely convinced that’s the truth.

“No he’s not,” you shout back at Kevin, clutching his forearm when the audience jostles you.

“He totally is.”

You’ve been trying to keep your attention on Freddie all night—with varying degrees of success—but now you steal a glance at John. Kevin was right: he is absolutely checking you out. John pretends he wasn’t and turns to peer over at Roger. You look down at your shoes.

“He’s very good with his hands,” Kevin notes, grinning over at you. “He seems like he would be, anyway. Can you confirm?”

“Kevin, no.”

“No as in you can’t confirm or no he isn’t good with his hands? Those are equally difficult to believe.”

“No as in we aren’t going to talk about this.”

“Aww, what’s wrong, Sugar Baby?!” He massages your shoulders with his large, dough-soft hands, chucking merrily. And it does help, at least a little bit. Queen has transitioned into a reprise of Now I’m Here. “Relax. This is a good thing. This is something you’re going to remember forever and tell your grandchildren about one day. Hey, kids, gather around to hear about the time when Grandma was a groupie for three glorious days in the auspicious November of 1981.”

“I don’t know if that’s the kind of thing you share between batches of homemade chocolate chip cookies,” you say. As you watch John on the edge of your peripheral vision, you can tell he’s looking at you again. “It just seems…masochistic.”

“How so?”

“Well, I mean, obviously it’s not going to last.”

Kevin laughs again, a loud boisterous one this time. “Oh, come on, Sugar Baby. Haven’t you ever heard that phrase about…wait, how the fuck does it go? The one about it being better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all or whatever. Same rule applies. When I run into some super fine boy toy at the disco on a Friday night and go home to his place, do I spend the whole time bemoaning the fact that I’ll probably never see him again? No, of course I don’t. What a waste of time. You know what I do? I enjoy it. Because who the hell knows what’s gonna happen tomorrow. I could get hit by a bus. I could burn up in a tragic Yankee-Candle-related accident. The Soviets could annihilate us all. All you have is today. And if I were you, I’d spend it doing whatever you two were up to last night. Because I’ve never seen someone who looked so high without being…you know…high. And you know what else?”

“What?” you ask. You don’t have to shout so much now; Freddie and Brian are performing Love Of My Life at the center of the stage. John and Roger are shrouded in darkness, hidden. They might even have ducked out for a smoke or beer break. But a part of you knows John isn’t drinking tonight. Because he remembers that I don’t. And he won’t give me any excuses to stay away from him.

Kevin beams, gazing up at Freddie as the rest of the audience sings along to lyrics you haven’t quite memorized yet. “Casablanca looked pretty high too.”

You mull that over for a while, like reading tea leaves or comparing horoscopes; and you’re still mulling it over when the roving spotlights find John again and he plucks out those now-famed opening notes of Under Pressure.

Tonight, the afterparty isn’t backstage. Chubby collects you and Kevin at the end of the show, ushers you into a waiting limousine, and escorts you both to the private second floor of a bar overlooking the St. Lawrence River, complete with scantily clad waitresses carrying trays of Moet & Chandon and Swedish meatballs and bacon-wrapped scallops, white string lights wrapped around the metal railing of the balcony outside, moonbeams glinting off the ripples of the icy brackish water. In the spirit of the band’s quest for symmetry, you’re wearing the same outfit as last night too: the faux fur jacket, the glittery black dress, matching black lace panties (although no one is supposed to see those anyway, and the fact you’d picked them is beginning to feel suspicious, like your subconscious was plotting against you). And your clothes are all freshly laundered, of course, but it had been unexpectedly difficult—painful, even—to shove them into your efficiency-sized washer and sprinkle in the powdery white detergent like fairy dust to erase the night before.

At the bar, Kevin is good about keeping you company, about not abandoning you to fend for yourself in a sea of strangers; but when Freddie appears with his flourishing hands and his soaring voice and his cloud of clamoring apostles, you can tell how much Kevin wants to go with them. So you give him a brave parting squeeze of a hug and a reassuring smile and send him off with the promise that you’ll catch up with him later. You ask a waitress to bring you a Coke—“Yes, just a Coke, nothing in it. No, not a Rum and Coke. Just the Coke. Yes I’m aware that is nonalcoholic. That’s the whole idea. Yes. Thank you.”—and roam out onto the balcony, where aside from a few couples smoking and giggling tipsily together you are alone. You look out over the St. Lawrence River, sipping your Coke, wondering if John will find you, hoping he won’t but wishing he would. And, within ten conflicting minutes that feel more like hours, he does.

John joins you by the railing, so subtly he makes no sound, doesn’t seem to displace even a single molecule of air. The string lights reflect in his direct blue-grey eyes like stars, illuminate the flush of his cheeks: not bloodrush from champagne or Stella Artois but something else, maybe nerves (although he always seems just a little too steady to be nervous), maybe anticipation, maybe desire. And he says: “Do you want to talk first or should I? I’m not much good at it, but I’ll talk if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to talk first.”

“Alright.” He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, nods as he exhales smoke into the cold air of a sharp Canadian autumn. “I understand what it’s like to lose somebody. The details aren’t important, and besides, I don’t think there’s anything I could tell you about what it feels like that you don’t already know. But you shouldn’t be ashamed of where grief took you. You should be proud of the fact you climbed out of it. Because plenty of people never do.”

Now you’re flushed as well; you can feel the heat rising in your face under the sting of the wind. It isn’t humiliation that John knows your story, it isn’t shame, it isn’t frustration, it isn’t any of the things you were expecting to feel tonight, that you’ve been living with like a storm that won’t blow over for eighteen months. It’s something freeing, it’s something like the exhilaration of a key unlatching a long-locked door. “I’m so sorry, John. However it happened.”

John waves a hand. We don’t have to go there, he means. He wants to move on. And it occurs to you, as if for the first time, that moving on is something that might be possible for people to do.

“Is your ex-wife a bad person?” you ask him. “I get that it’s fucked up for me to want her to be a bad person. But I guess I feel like if she’s not the one who ruined the marriage, if she’s not a bad person…that might mean that you are.” And you turning out to be a bad person might kill me.

“She isn’t a bad person. She’s a...” John considers this. “She’s a small person. Small in terms of what she wants out of life, in how she sees the world. And I guess maybe I was the same way ten years ago. But I grew out of it, and she never did, and the space that opens up between you fills with so many words you’ve forgotten how to say that when you try to bridge the gap you realize you can’t even see the other shore. It’s irreconcilable. You’re two strangers with some kids and the same last name.”

“Kevin said you have eight children. Please tell me he was exaggerating.”

John laughs warmly, fondly; and it’s a sound so beautiful it raises goosebumps from the back of your neck down to your wrists. Oh wow. I might love this man. “Four,” he amends.

You smile back. “Thank god. Four isn’t so bad.”

“Would you like to meet them?”

“Absolutely.” Then you comprehend what he just said. “Wait, like right now?”

“In a way.” John crushes the butt of his cigarette under his white sneakers, fishes around in the pocket of his black leather jacket, and pulls out his wallet. Inside are dozens of photographs of four children, two boys and two girls, all very blond and bubbly and truthfully not looking very much like him at all: Thomas, Heather, Eliza, Matthew. John tells you about them, how Tommy is already learning to play a miniature version of a bass guitar, how Heather loves dinosaurs, how Eliza always wants to help her mother bake things—“She’d adore your dodgy little bakery-scented apartment,” John says—and how Matty, only a year old, is already exhibiting a budding obsession with gardening. And somehow, it begins to feel like you know them, like they might be your own acquaintances or friends or family and not the children of some divorced rock star you met yesterday.

“They’re marvelous, John,” you murmur with a soft longing in your voice you can’t remember ever hearing before.

“Why didn’t you ever go back? To finish your art degree, I mean. You must have only had around a year left. It seems heartbreaking to let so much hard work go to waste.”

You ponder how to answer that as John waits patiently, slipping his wallet back into his jacket pocket. “At first, I was afraid to be away from home again. Afraid to go back to Alberta, where it all happened. Afraid to relapse, I guess. And then the real problem became that I couldn’t remember why I ever cared about art to begin with. I didn’t see the point of any of it anymore. I couldn’t paint, couldn’t even sketch out shapes or faces, I had no inspiration, it’s like I had this detachment in my hands…or whatever part of people it is that creates things. But more than that, I think, I couldn’t remember the person I’d been when I’d dreamed about being a painter. I always thought I knew who I was and what I was capable of. What type of daughter, friend, student, wife, person I was. And then something happened that turned me into a stranger. Who knows what I’m capable of now. Who knows who I really am. Who knows what any of us could become when those invisible guardrails of our lives’ plans fall away. Most nights now, I don’t dream about anything. What the hell does that mean?”

It was more of a rhetorical question, but John answers anyway. “I think it means that you’re still in that part of grief where everything feels a little numb, a little black and white. It passes. It really does, I promise it does. And I won’t pretend that I know exactly who you are yet. But I know I’d like to.”

There’s a long lull before you speak again, a quiet against the backdrop of muted music and voices inside the bar and the roiling water flecked with bone-white reflections of the moon. “John, why do you want me?”

He shrugs, like the act was so autonomic he’s never imagined having to put it into words. “You’re sad, but you’ve gotten good at hiding it. You don’t let people push you around, but you aren’t cruel. You aren’t a journalist or a groupie…” John chuckles. “Fuck, you didn’t even know who we were. That’s hard to find nowadays, and actually very appealing. You always smell like sugar and bread. And you’re beautiful. Even in your Yankee Candle apron, you’re beautiful. More so out of it, but I digress. Does that answer your question?”

“I guess it does.” You’re smiling again. There’s no hope in trying not to smile at him.

“Why do you want me?”

“Well that’s obvious.”

“Not quite obvious enough. Please elaborate.”

“Because I’m a professional sugar baby.”

John throws back his head, his messy auburn hair whipping in the wind, and laughs; then his arms close around your waist, and he pulls you in, cradles your face in his hands, kisses you as the St. Lawrence River rushes by and the planet spins onwards and time passes kindly like words penned on a postcard from an old friend.

“When exactly does the band leave Montreal?” you ask when you break away.

John’s reply is somber. “Our flight is scheduled for Friday at noon.”

“I guess three days might be better than one after all.”

“Don’t you love math?” John kisses you again, very slowly, like you’re something to be contemplated, to be studied with great care with the calloused tips of his fingers. You find yourself feeling like a painting in a museum again; not as something irreparably flawed, not as something fractured, but as something with rare worth that only improves with time. “I’d really, really, really like to spend the night with you.”

“In the hotel crawling with the band and crew and press?” It doesn’t sound especially enticing, you have to admit to yourself; impersonal, exposed, like unabashedly slipping into the room next door with the pool table all over again. And what you want with John feels different now. It feels like something unhurried and sheltered and secret. It feels less like a dream or a movie and more like something real.

“Or, even better, in your dodgy flat on top of a bakery.” John grins playfully.

“That’s an amazingly bad idea.” You would never be able to scrub out all those memories. You wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Not really. We’d have privacy. We’d have time. I could fix some more things for you. There’s nothing I love more than fixing things. Well…almost nothing.”

“You like this idea,” you realize. His calm, constant, White-Sage-colored eyes are alight.

“I do. But I’m not pressuring you. I am emphatically not doing that.”

Maybe an apartment full of memories wouldn’t be so bad. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Really?”

“Yeah. But if you so much as glance at my unopenable windows I will disown you.”

“Deal,” John agrees, holding your hand and leading you back into the bar where Take It On The Run by REO Speedwagon is quaking through the congested and smoke-filled air streaked by pink and green neon lights.

You locate Kevin knocking back what is probably no less than his fifth glass of champagne and say goodbye—he’s insistent on staying longer, although he’s ecstatic to see that you’re leaving (and with who)—while John finds Chubby. The hulking Irishman drives you both back to your apartment, exchanges some impassioned words with John about leaving him alone with some random Canadian Yankee Candle employee, eventually is persuaded to go to the Ritz-Carlton and come back first thing in the morning.

“I’ll take good care of him,” you promise Chubby, and he replies with a rumbling snicker and some jumble of Irish-accented phrases that you can’t quite interpret. It’s not until you and John have ascended the staircase and shut the apartment door behind you that you hear the limo pull away into the night. “Remember,” you tell John, smiling as his lips meet yours in the darkness colored with notes of sweetness and cinnamon and vanilla and rising bread. “Don’t even think about touching those windows. Or the water pressure. Or the peeling paint. Or the creaky hinges on the front door.”

“Too late. I’m already thinking about all of that. Don’t be fooled, Sugar Baby. I’m wildly distracted at the moment.”

But he doesn’t seem distracted: not when he peels off your dress, not when he follows you onto the bed strewn with pieces of clean laundry, not when he explores you with his hands and lips and tongue and the same kind of gentle reverence you once reserved for paintings older than the seventeenth-century French fur trading settlement now known as Montreal.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, John tumbles effortlessly into a serene, hushed sleep; but you don’t. You lay there staring at the shadows on the ceiling, at first only at peace, and then curious, and then wrestling with silent disbelief. At last, you surrender to a feeling you haven’t known for a year and a half, that you didn’t think you’d ever understand again.

You climb out of bed as delicately as you can—it doesn’t matter, John is a blessedly deep sleeper—and find your basket of oil paints and brushes in the back of your closet. You fill a cup with water from the kitchen sink, tear off a flap of an old cardboard box to use as a palette, and stand in front of the easel as silvery moonlight floods in through the bedroom windows.

The empty ocean of canvas begins to fill before your eyes. The paintbrush fits in the cradle of your hand like a song you know every word to.

#john deacon x reader #john deacon fic

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