Work Text:
There are some things you just can't rehearse.
Brian hates those things.
He can spend hours upon hours with his Old Lady, coaxing melodies and sighs out of her with fingers worn smooth with hours of practice.
He can write songs, rehearsing the words in his head until they flow onto the paper in his oddly old-fashioned writing.
He can plan his schoolwork, both his own studies and the lessons he meticulously crafts for the students who desperately need to love learning.
But when it comes to talking to Roger, he can't concentrate long enough to rehearse anything. And when he does, it's awful.
I love the way you play drums. You're the heartbeat of the band.
Nope. I sound like a fangirl.
You have such enthusiasm for life.
And what, I don't? How attractive.
I can't imagine my life without you.
So much cheese; where are the crackers?
You're so dear to me...
Why is that stuff only charming when Freddie says it?
Freddie, Roger's buddy, who'd taken over the lead singing function of Smile after Tim abandoned ship.
Humpy Bong, yeah, good luck with that.
Freddie, who'd re-named the group "Queen" and sent them scrambling to make new banners and signs.
Although that crest he's drawing is pretty cool.
Freddie, for whom "dear" and "darling" floated around his speech like champagne bubbles.
He's as much of an emotional mess as I am, but somehow HE makes it work. Damn him.
Of course, Brian could just go to Freddie and ask for help.
Not in a million fucking years.
So Brian rehearses what he can and tries to live with what he can't. He can play so well that their (latest, hopefully gone soon) bass player can't even screw up their sound. He can place each song lyric so precisely that the meanings will come alive when Freddie sings them.
And when Roger supplies the heartbeat.
No, that line of thought will get him nowhere. He looks out of the window and sighs. It's starting to snow. It's not white Christmas-card snow but a weirdly ashy colour, as if the flakes had tugged the smog down to the ground as they fell. The humidity won't do him any favours, Brian grouses as he starts to get ready for the gig.
The setting gel Freddie swears by doesn't work on Brian, turning his curls into a cloud of blackish candy floss that does nothing to soften the angles of his face. He pulls on a nondescript button-up shirt and black trousers—Freddie is going to give me so much shit for dressing "so boringly, darling"—and makes certain that he has extra guitar strings in case going from the tepid flat to the freezing outdoors into a hot club is more than Red can bear.
Brian catches sight of himself in the mirror and groans. He's skinny even by his normal standards and his skin looks dry and dull. He thinks about Roger, about the burnished hair and radiant complexion and shining blue eyes and perfect smile, and he wants to cry in frustration that he could never be handsome enough, GOOD enough, to deserve such a prize.
These useless and painful mental meanderings cause him to run late, so he snatches up the guitar (at least SHE doesn't care what I look like) and runs out of the flat. Taking the Tube will save time if not money, so he lopes down the snow-slicked staircase two steps at a time and just barely gets on the train that's about to pull away. At least the carriage isn't crowded. He takes a seat, eyes carefully trained on the map that he knows as well as he knows his own name, how to play the guitar, and how much he's hopelessly in love with Roger Taylor.
Doomed.
Roger is mostly set up by the time Brian manages to wrestle his guitar past the crowd lining up outside the club. With his unbuttoned shirt and a dark jacket tossed casually across his shoulders, Roger simply radiates Rockstar vibes. He's leaning down over the pedal of his bass drum, making some minute adjustment that Brian will never quite understand, and he's muttering something under his breath.
"What was that?" Brian asks as he plugs his lead into one of the elderly amplifiers that might or might not be working tonight.
"The fucking SIGN!" Roger huffs impatiently, blowing his fringe away from his forehead. "They've still got one of the Smile banners out there, can you believe it?"
He hadn't noticed. Getting inside and finding Roger had been too high a priority to waste any brain cells on unimportant things like the name of their band. "It's only been a few weeks since we changed the name," Brian begins, but Roger cuts him off with a dirty look. Stung, he turns his attention back to the guitar.
If they gave a prize for saying the wrong thing, I'd have a trophy bigger than my own body.
Brian manages to hold it together when Freddie and Mike come out for the sound check. Freddie's voice keeps getting better and better but Mike is at best a weak bass player and he's holding the group back. Mike practices a scale; the rhythm sounds like someone dropping marbles down a flight of stairs. Brian flicks a glance at Roger and they share a moment of mutual distaste.
Brian's so happy to share any kind of moment with Roger that he breaks into an unseemly smile. Freddie stops pacing the stage and stares at him with his head cocked to one side.
"Is THAT what you're wearing?"
So much for the moment.
"It's all that was clean," Brian mutters.
Freddie tuts and marches over to Brian. "For God's sake, you're a lead guitarist, not an altar boy." He undoes the first three buttons on Brian's shirt, then the fourth, then buttons the fourth up again. "You're skin and bones! We're taking you for food after the show, right, Roger?"
Brian gapes at Freddie, who winks at him and mouths, Just trying to help, dear.
Wonderful. If Freddie's sussed this out, then the whole world will surely know by noon tomorrow.
Freddie makes Brian feel cornered. Being cornered makes him anxious, and anxiety makes him lash out. The unlucky recipient of tonight's downward spiral is Mike, who is warming up on a dull riff made worse by the fact that his A-string is quite flat. Brian stalks over to him and takes the bass out of his hands. "You don't HEAR that?" he complains as he adjusts the tuning.
Roger and Freddie boggle at him.
Fuck it.
Brian shoves the bass back at Mike, only scarcely registering that he's brought humiliation on a rather nice guy whose worst flaw is not being a very good musician. Brian knows he should apologise, should try and make himself look silly to ease the tension, but he doesn't know how.
He hasn't rehearsed that.
Since he's only good at what he's rehearsed, Brian concentrates on his music as the band starts to play. His only salvation will be in putting aside the internal chants that torment him.
...need to apologise to Mike, need to tell Freddie to keep his innuendo to himself, need to stop thinking that Roger might would want me...
The music is something he's rehearsed and practiced and honed. It's a relief to have something go right for a change. Allowing himself the tiniest of smiles, Brian looks down at his hands as they spin gold out of thin air.
Roger's hair is...
Stop it.
His right hand is sweaty and almost slips on the whammy bar but he manages to hit it in perfect time. Roger is right with him, slamming away at the kit without missing even a fraction of a beat. And Freddie is, well, Freddie, entrancing the crowd. Mike...he's not horrible, he's just not...Queen material.
I didn't have to call him out like that. I'm such an arsehole.
The end of the gig comes quickly. Brian hustles off the stage and heads for the loo, where he stands with his hands braced on the chipped porcelain sink and stares at the water circling the drain.
Quite the metaphor.
He can hear a muffled argument going on in the corridor but he chooses to ignore it. His fingers tremble slightly as he splashes cold water on his face until it stings. Stiff upper lip, son.
He really, really doesn't want to be thinking about his father right now.
As the argument gets louder Brian can make out the angry voices: one rich but distressed and the other higher and clearly furious. Freddie and Roger. The third voice is muffled, getting farther away, and with a sinking, nauseous feeling Brian realises that it's Mike. And he's leaving.
Fuck.
Brian opens the door to find Freddie and Roger standing side by side, staring glumly at the door to the alleyway. Roger tries to light a cigarette, fumbles it, and throws the lighter against the wall. "Shit!"
"Mike's quit," Freddie explains through a tight smile. "It might be for the best, darling," he says to Roger, who rolls his eyes as Freddie does up the buttons on his shirt.
"I'm not cold."
"Well, *I* am, so button up."
Roger twists away from Freddie and points a finger at Brian. "He's the fourth one you've run off!" he shouts.
"Wait, wait, the first two left because YOU were yelling at them, and the third had a girlfriend who didn't want him out late at night!"
Roger throws the pack of cigarettes and turns sharply on his heel, aiming a left hook at the wall. It's Freddie who cries out in pain; Roger merely stands there and gazes mournfully at his split knuckles.
It takes a few seconds for Brian to react. He pats his pockets and pulls out a few banknotes, a movie ticket stub, three sixpence coins, and some bandages. He offers the bandages to Roger, who glares at him as he takes them from his hand.
"You've got the answer to fucking everything, don't you? Wanker."
Roger heads for the front door of the club, to God only knows where, to do God only knows what, but Brian is left frozen to the spot. Someone's hand is on his shoulder. Freddie.
"At least he took the bandages," Brian mumbles.
Freddie's hand presses firmly. "Go after him, darling."
"He doesn't want me." So many layers of meaning.
"Go anyway," Freddie wheedles, dark eyes sparkling.
"Why don't you go?"
"I'll be so busy doing tear-down."
Since WHEN does Freddie stick around long enough to do tear-down?
"I won't see a thing, I'll be so...engrossed. Now, get moving." He reaches up to give Brian a little shove against his shoulder blades.
It's enough to get his feet moving, albeit sluggishly. He can see Roger silhouetted by the light of the street lamps, leaning against the brick archway with his eyes squeezed shut and his arms crossed over his chest. At least Roger has bound up his injured fingers in the bandages, the wrappers fluttering away in the cold night breeze. His shirt's a little too small—probably one of Freddie's, since they're constantly stealing each other's clothing—and it rides up to show a tantalising view of his navel and the slightest dusting of dark blond hair trailing into the waistband of his trousers.
Brian swallows. Whatever is in his mouth is thick and unpleasant. Does fear have a flavour? Does despair? Longing?
"Roger?"
Roger's eyes open for a second before he closes them again and turns his face away. "Fuck off, Brian."
"Are you all right?"
Stupid question.
Roger doesn't dignify it with a response. He continues to lean against the wall, flexing the injured fingers of his left hand. The redness looks painful, the base knuckles beginning to swell. Brian reaches for the hand but Roger shoves him away so hard that his back hits the other side of the archway.
Wind is swirling the wet snow all around the street, mirroring the chaos inside Brian's mind. The banner for Smile is barely hanging on.
Brian knows how it feels.
"Rog, I'm sorry I snapped at Mike. I'll phone him up tomorrow and apologise, okay?"
There's a grunt, and for an instant Roger looks at Brian before turning away again.
"I don't know what you want me to DO!" He's shouting, something that doesn't happen all that often, but he's tired and ashamed and frustrated and worried and so, so in love with this infuriating bastard that tears are running down his face...
He doesn't even realise the moment he steps forward and grasps Roger's shirt, pulling him up and closer for a kiss. All he knows is that Roger's lips are full and chapped and taste like beer and sweat, and that Roger's hands are lifted in surprise rather than anger. Roger pushes Brian away, panting slightly, blue eyes wide with shock. Brian braces himself for the blow as Roger comes closer.
But Roger doesn't punch him.
Roger is kissing him back.
Roger's arms end up around Brian's neck until they are so close that the winter chill is obliterated by their combined warmth. Brian leans over so that Roger won't have to stand on tiptoe anymore.
"You're not mad at me?" Brian asks, wincing at how childish he sounds until Roger kisses the tip of Brian's nose, then wraps his arms around Brian's waist to hold him tightly.
"Just surprised, is all." Roger turns around and starts walking away from the club toward the street, snowflakes landing feather-light on his hair and shoulders. He turns back toward Brian and holds out his hand. "You coming with?"
To the ends of the earth.
Brian joins his hand to Roger's and feels the warmth transfer from skin to skin. He starts to laugh. Roger peers at him, eyebrows raised.
"Contact binary," Brian chuckles. It explains everything to him and nothing to Roger, so he elaborates. "Two stars that are so close together that they share the gases in their outer layers."
Roger recoils, clearly offended. "I don't smell THAT bad—"
"Your warmth," clarifies Brian.
"Oh." Mollified, Roger tugs at Brian's hand and walks close enough that their arms rub together. "Had you planned to say that?"
Huh.
"Nope. Totally ad lib. Weird, because usually I have to rehearse things like that."
"It turned out great. You got it in one take." Roger stops, grinning up at Brian with eyes as bright and blue as B stars. "The kiss was good, too."
"I didn't rehearse that, either."
"Mmm." Roger tilts his face up as Brian swoops down and kisses him again, and again, and again, until Roger's cheeks are glowing with affection rather than the cold. Roger lifts his fingers to his lips, then to Brian's, and kisses him lightly as he whispers, "Some things don't need rehearsing."
Brian loves those things.