Work Text:
New Haven, Connecticut – October 28th, 1977
They’ve been in America less than forty-eight hours when it finally happens, Brian’s voice echoing out across the rehearsal hall in a way that makes John’s head snap up in attention. They’re a few minutes into a ten minute relax and Roger’s already wandered away from the kit, loudly talking Paistes and Zildjians with Crystal as they disappear down the hall, leaving Freddie still tinkering away at the piano, as yet unsold on the idea of including the bluesy number from their most recent album on the upcoming tour’s set list. It means John’s the only one paying any attention to the conversation happening over by the amp stack and the only one to catch the sheer delight in Brian’s voice.
“No, that would be really lovely, actually. This is our fifth time through America and we’ve never been over Halloween.”
John doesn’t know the name of the crew member he’s talking to, but he recognizes him as one of the American riggers. They’ve been in and out all afternoon working with Joe on the final tweaks for the new show, adapting the old Earl’s Court rig from this past summer for the road and apparently taking time out of their busy day to invite Brian May, notorious fancy dress enthusiast, to a fancy dress party, the very thing which John’s been dreading most.
It’s not the party itself that’s the problem. He’d have run into trouble years ago if he hadn’t learned how to cope with the occasional one. It had been hard not to with Queen’s star on the rise and parties seeming to follow them at every turn. The quiet, shy boy from Leicester had to keep up somehow. A drink or two to remove the sharp edges of his anxiety does the trick for however long it takes to smile and greet people before Freddie – and to a slightly lesser extent Brian and Roger – can take the attention away, leaving him to slip into the background happily unnoticed. Or at least if not unnoticed, then unbothered.
Freddie always has the more interesting thing to say, and Roger’s always glad to entertain. Any journalist worth their salt ought to know that if they want a genuine answer to a question, they’d best go to Brian.
And John is perfectly content to play the wallflower, nurse a drink and watch as his friends and boyfriend radiate the attention they receive back outwards. An everyday, run of the mill party would have been just fine.
It’s adding fancy dress to the mix that has him mentally digging in his heels. He does not, under any circumstances, want to attend this party. And of course, here’s Brian, animatedly nattering on about his costumes of old, accepting the invitation on their behalf, secure in the knowledge that where he goes, John is bound to follow.
They’d been so close, too. When he’d first glanced over the proposed itinerary a month and a half ago, the first stop had been Portland, a week into November. A fine, sensible start. Finish off October at home, enjoy Bonfire Night like a proper Brit and then away to America, Halloween safely avoided a fifth tour in a row.
Then had come fine-tuning and scheduling details, deals with the venues, travel arrangements. A mix-up with their Connecticut rehearsal space had landed them here in New Haven earlier than they’d planned, to rehearse a tour that won’t have its proper start for another week and a half.
…Maybe he could break things off with him until Tuesday.
“Why the sour look, dear?” A light touch settles at the small of his back – Freddie must have slipped around from the piano at some point – diverting John’s attention away from the poorly-hidden glower he’s sending Brian’s way. “It’s not the party, is it?” He’s overheard. Well, of course he has. Brian’s excitement had been very loud and very hard to miss. It puts a horrible sinking feeling into the pit of John’s stomach for detesting something that Brian so desperately wants to enjoy.
“Oh, you know,” his own voice is quiet, pitched low and meant just for Freddie. “He’ll want to dress me up and put on a show for everyone.” He knows how Brian gets when it comes to things like this. First an idea will form that he’ll latch onto like a dog with a bone, refusing to share the details until it’s fine-tuned to perfection in his eyes. Then he’ll expect everyone else to be fully on board with it, the fewer outside opinions, the better. John loves him, he does, but to say he’s stubborn is seriously underselling Brian’s mulishness.
Freddie’s not having any of it. His lips upturn in a smile, eyes knowing. “Wretched, isn’t it? Being dressed up and putting on a show. You’d think we get paid rather handsomely to do it every night of the week.”
That’s different and John’s face says as much, eyes crinkling and nose scrunched. He’s not expected to do more than play his bass and even then, the notes never change. He has a script to follow and an audience that’s difficult to see past the lights shining in his face. He doesn’t even have to smile.
“Look, darling, if it bothers you so much, don’t go. Skive off sick or something if you have to. He can hardly fault you for being ill.” It should be telling that Freddie’s first suggestion isn’t to be honest with Brian about how he’s feeling but to lie and fake illness. Freddie knows just as well as John does that when Brian’s got his heart set on a thing, he won’t easily take no for an answer.
The echo of laughter drifting back in from the hall indicates Roger’s return and Freddie uses this as an opportunity to move back towards the piano, clapping his hands together to focus attention onto himself and bring the rehearsal back to order.
John’s quick to push aside his misgivings in favour of bringing them up with Brian later – well, maybe. Freddie’s certainly given him something to think about. It would be easier to play along until the last minute, but John doesn’t much like the idea of being so dishonest – and reach for his bass, slipping the strap back on across his shoulders as Roger waves Crystal off to saunter back to the kit. It’s just Brian who’s still prattling on, raving about his beloved penguin costume of old.
“It’s on the back of the album, shame we don’t have a copy, really – ”
“Let the poor man get on with his job, dear, he’s not paid to listen to ancient history!” Freddie interrupts from the piano, clapping his hands again and gesturing over to where the Red Special’s been abandoned on its stand. “Chop chop, I want to go over the opening number again, Roger’s been sounding a tad slow.”
The jab is well-calculated and would normally be enough to narrow everyone’s focus back into rehearsing. Calling out Roger instead of Brian should wrangle them both, but it turns out the drummer’s not even listening.
“Are we doing fancy dress?”
John suppresses a groan. Of course Roger’s interested.
“I’ve got an idea I’ve always wanted to try, but it needs two people.” Brian’s eyes find John’s from across the stage, bright with an irrepressible excitement that John himself doesn’t feel at all. It only makes his stomach sink further. Why can’t he just be happy and let Brian have his fun? But there’s meaning behind the dark-eyed glance and John’s cheeks pink at the understanding that Brian’s picturing him in some get-up already, only saved when Roger’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Is it two penguins, then, Bri?”
* * *
October 31st, 1977 – 8:21 PM
It’s not two penguins. John tugs at the collar of the white lab coat they’d found in a consignment shop yesterday while on the hunt to fulfill Brian’s elaborate vision, coaxing it to sit flat in the hotel room mirror. It fits only by the loosest of definitions: hanging slack over his shoulders, but falling short midway down his thighs. He’s trying not to think too hard about how it ended up on a sales rack, or what the suspicious yellow stain near his left wrist is.
A glance at the clock shows they’re just shy of ten minutes before the time Brian had wanted to leave and that means his window for calling the whole thing off is narrowing. Fast.
He’s ready, from a dressed-up perspective at least. The lab coat covers a muted button-down shirt and pair of trousers – his own – artfully smeared with one large, bloody handprint, the wide palm and long fingers clearly Brian’s. John can’t recall any version of the story that would allow for Dr. Frankenstein to have bloodied himself as though taking part in some sort of violent massacre, but it does add a bit of gruesome flair to what otherwise might have been a rather bland scientist costume.
It’s Brian’s outfit that compliments his. Brian on whom the center of attention is meant to rest. John’s not sure if it was deliberate planning on his part or some selfish hogging of the limelight, but he appreciates it either way. With Brian all done up – he’s been locked in the loo for the better part of an hour now – all eyes will be on him and John will be able to linger quietly at his side.
At least he hopes so, it’s what he’s been using to build up his confidence about the whole thing. Maybe he should have gone as the monster, he might have been able to get away without having to carry on mindless small talk with anyone.
A twinge of nerves hit his stomach hard and he doubles over, reflection ducking down out of the mirror along with the rest of him. He’s still not so sure he wants to go.
He’s been mulling over Freddie’s comment all night. All weekend, in fact. But not with any sort of seriousness until dinner, a hurried, casual affair in the hotel restaurant. Nothing terribly fancy in anticipation of tonight’s party. John’s meal is sitting heavily in his stomach now and he can’t be quite sure if it’s the nerves or the force of Freddie’s suggestion that’s doing their worst with his head, turning an imagined excuse into a real one. When the nausea hits properly, stomach churning, he can only glance helplessly at the closed bathroom door, through which Brian is still putting the final touches on his costume.
The costumes were a good idea, he has to admit, and if it had just been them and their friends and not the entire, surprisingly lively music scene of New Haven, Connecticut, he might have been more enthusiastic about it.
No, he’s going to do it. He’s dressed now, isn’t he?
His stomach twinges a second time, harder and with a distinctly worrying gurgle, and John wonders, suddenly panicked, whether he’s actually gone and made himself sick over a silly fancy dress party.
It's as he’s taking stock of each cramp and spasm that the bathroom door finally opens, out lumbering Frankenstein’s monster, arms held dramatically in front of him like the perfect embodiment of Boris Karloff. Brian’s slathered in several tins' worth of green paint, spare tuning pegs glued to his neck with spirit gum in place of electrodes. The mass of curly, brown hair might be a little less ‘late night double feature’ than intended, but Brian’s done his best with both it and the make-up. His hair’s been tied back, curly ponytail tucked into the neck of the dusty suit jacket that he’s padded out to give his narrow frame added bulk.
He looks wonderful. And it only makes John feel worse.
The monster doesn’t come with much by way of catch phrases, but Brian continues to stumble towards him, working to supress a boyish smile in his excitement to show off his hard work. He’s only a few steps away and clearly coming in for a kiss when John realizes he’s not the only thing that’s turned green.
“Brian, I think I’m going to – ” He ducks his head, bending double to clutch at his stomach as Brian’s stoic monster face slips into concern.
“What’s wrong?” He’s at his side in a heartbeat, closing the distance with a few, quick, character-breaking steps. “John?”
He cringes, flinching away from Brian’s reach. His boyfriend has done his hands up in paint, too, and the sight of them has the bile rising to the back of his throat. “Excuse me.”
The bathroom’s a mess. Brian’s clearly been too excited to tidy up after himself, no doubt planning to leave the clean-up for tomorrow. Smears of green paint line the hotel sink with dabs of spirit gum dotting the countertop in waxy, drying globs. John ignores all of it, hastily twisting the tap and jabbing a hand under the faucet. Just a bit of cool water on his forehead, that’s all he needs. A quick splash to refresh himself and then he’ll be ready to go.
“Sweetheart?”
One of Brian’s hands settles at his hip, slipping around his waist to loosely support him and John’s shoulders cave inwards to avoid him, hit again with that awful sense of guilt. He’s spent the past two days seriously considering Freddie’s suggestion of bailing, working up the courage to face his anxieties about the silly party. And now that they’re genuinely ready to go – this. “I don’t think I can go tonight.”
It’s the answer Brian must have been expecting because while his expression plummets – Frankenstein’s monster lost in a sea of disappointment – he still nods. “It’s alright. We can stay in.” He squeezes lightly at John’s hip as a reassurance, but John’s not convinced. “You should have told me you weren’t feeling up to it, I wouldn’t have pushed.”
“No, Brian, it’s not – ” Another twinge hits hard and he swallows back an acrid mouthful of bile, stomach threatening to upturn its contents. He manages to fight his face into a more neutral expression, masking the queasiness that’s taken hold. “You’ve done yourself all up and you look wonderful. Go. Please.”
John loves his boyfriend, he really does. He loves his incredibly talented, far-too-stubborn, too-often-distracted boyfriend too much to hold him back from something he so clearly delights in. But it does sting when Brian’s gaze slides off to the side, looking out towards the clock on the nightstand, whites of his eyes made all the more prominent by the green paint surrounding them. Hardly a hesitation.
“You’re sure?”
He nods through the rising nausea. There’s nothing here for Brian if he stays but a prolonged clean-up and a night in with a John who’s feeling miserable.
One wide hand settles in his hair and John tilts his head up into it, enjoying the light scritch of Brian’s fingers against his scalp. It’s a welcome distraction from the queasiness he’s feeling but too soon, the sensation’s gone, replaced with a light kiss dropped to the crown of his head before Frankenstein’s monster lumbers off into the night.
* * *
It's a real blow, climbing into the car alone. Having always meant to travel to the party with John, Brian hadn’t made arrangements over dinner with Roger or Freddie, leaving him to face the amused looks of the driver by himself. He’s not particularly embarrassed about it. It is Halloween, after all, and done up like this with an hour’s worth of green paint and his hair tugged back, he’s just an enthusiastic participant in the holiday rather than Brian May.
It’s freeing, in a way. He just wishes John would see it like that.
He also wishes he’d have just said he didn’t want to go if that’s how he’s feeling rather than faking ill to get out of it. He’d been perfectly fine when Brian slipped into the bathroom to get started on his make-up, determined to do it in secret and have the finished product be a surprise. Well, there’d been two big reveals tonight where there should only have been one.
And now here he is alone, monster on the loose. At least he'll have Freddie and Roger to keep him company, on top of whichever other members of the road crew decide to show their faces tonight.
The pub, when the car pulls up out front, is looking somewhat riotous already. Done up with cheap cardboard ghouls in the windows and a skeleton propped up near the door, it’s already filled to the gills with the Connecticut music scene. Queen’s not the only band in town rehearsing a tour – or playing one – and each group comes with their own motley collection of costumed road crew, some of them already spilling out onto the street.
It’s very much not John’s scene when Brian pushes his way inside. The wrong kind of crowded. The wrong kind of loud. His costume’s impressive but not out of place among the plethora of ghosts and vampires and other monsters lining the floor. Truthfully, it’s not really Brian’s scene either. Certainly not the calmer atmosphere he’d been expecting, with the room to breathe and enjoy other peoples’ costumes over a drink. The place is packed beyond capacity.
Once he’s fought his way to the bar, it’s hardly worth the battle to catch the bartender’s eye and Brian focuses instead on scanning the floor for any sign of Roger or Freddie.
What he finds instead is a zombie and a skeleton that look suspiciously familiar and he gravitates in their direction.
They’re not his missing bandmates, but they are representatives of Queen. Trip, their sound engineer’s gone overboard with the fake blood: his face marked up with thick, gloppy smears of it trickling down from his ears and the corners of his mouth, more of it matted into his hair. Brian supposes the chalky tire tread inked onto the old white T-shirt he's wearing is meant to explain the blood - roadkill, perhaps? Crystal's costume is at least a little more obvious. His face is painted up like a grinning skeleton, the white bone skull extending up into the thinning hair on his forehead, a cartoonish rib cage done sloppily across his black shirt with what looks like white gaffer's tape. The kind they have in abundance in one of the road boxes. Not a stand-out showing from either of them.
“It’s Frankenstein!” Trip’s the first to greet him, shouting over the crowd as he claps him on the back, missing Brian’s cringe at the wrong name. John’s Frankenstein. Or would be, if he were here. He's Frankenstein's abandoned monster. But it's not worth correcting him as the pair look him up down, taking in the costume. Wrong name or not, Brian can't help showing it off just a little. It’s what he’s here for, after all. “You look great!”
He’s quick to return the compliment, despite the feeling that neither roadie put more than a couple minutes' worth of effort into their own costumes, the sentiment made worse by the fact that he's forced to repeat himself three times before Crystal can hear what he’s saying.
“Dane’s here somewhere, too.” Trip looks off to the side, scanning the crowd as if expecting to see him nearby. “He’s easy to spot – borrowed one of Fred’s cat suits.” The wardrobe supervisor with his full head of dark hair already looks enough like the singer from behind that Brian’s confident he’s a dead ringer for him in one of his stage costumes. He wishes him the best: when Freddie sees him wearing it, he’ll either have a good laugh or Dane’s going to be shown the door.
Speaking of: “Have you seen Fred or Rog yet? I can’t find either in this mess, it’s a wonder I found you two!”
Trip and Crystal exchange a glance and Brian immediately gets the sense that they know something he doesn’t. Wonderful. Did those two decide to bail as well?
“I guess – ” Crystal starts at the same time as Trip, both of them yelling over the din of the pub until Trip waves Crystal on. “I guess something at dinner disagreed with them. They’ve both called down with some sort of food poisoning.” The pulse of the music and the sound of conversation around them makes the explanation difficult to make out, but Brian catches the gist of it as Crystal adds that Roger’s sticking it out on his own for the night and Prenter’s looking after Freddie.
They’d eaten together, the four of them, but Brian's feeling perfectly fine. Granted, he'd been so worked up about getting back upstairs to the room to get dressed that he'd only picked at his meal -- the same one that John had eaten all of. His heart plummets.
* * *
By the time the key clicks in the lock and the hotel room door creaks open, John’s migrated from the bedroom to the floor of the bathroom. Somewhere along the way, he's managed to wrap his fingers around the complimentary bathrobe hanging off the bathroom door and pull it down with a tug. He's got it draped across his shoulders now as he huddles on the tile. He can’t see the clock from here, but he must really have lost track of time if Brian’s back already.
It's only takes a minute for Brian to find him - though it's not like he'd had very far to go - but there he is, filling the door frame, still hidden behind his green make-up and the bulky costume.
John's eyes drift closed at another sharp wave of nausea, not so bad as the ones before, but the sound of the tap running is a welcome relief, proof that Brian's going to take care of things now that he's back. The press of a cold cloth to his forehead is even better, and he leans into Brian's arm when his boyfriend joins him on the floor. "I'm sorry about the party."
"Don't be sorry, it was terrible." Before John's given the opportunity to interpret the words to mean Brian came home because the party was terrible, he quickly adds, "Did you know Freddie and Roger have taken ill, too? Why didn't you say anything?"
John doesn't bother to argue the point that he had said something, it was Brian who'd been too preoccupied with showing off to listen. The fact is that Brian's here now and that's what's ultimately important. He'll rib him on his absence later, when he's feeling more up to it.
“How about I get you into the bed, then, sweetheart?”
It sounds like a lot of work, but with the contents of John’s stomach well and truly emptied by this point, it’s not so terrible to leave the bathroom and he lets Brian help him up onto shaking legs and gently guide him toward the bed.
It’s only a moment’s work before the covers are turned down far enough for John to slip under the sheets and then Brian’s warm body is stretched out next to him, dusty costume and all.
John wants to ask if Brian was a hit. If the work that went into getting so done up was worth it, but he settles for pressing his face quietly into his shoulder, crowding his body in close to ride out the last few twinging churns of his stomach. He smells like party: cheap beer and cigarette smoke woven into the fabric of his suit jacket, but he also smells like Brian and that makes up for the rest of it.
"I thought you were faking it." Brian's voice is very close to his ear, lips pressing in against the side of his head in a gentle kiss, an apology for being a complete idiot about the whole thing.
Despite how poorly he's feeling, John manages a chuckle. "I'd thought about it. I did. But I didn't want to disappoint you."
"You wouldn't have disappointed me." Even as he says it, Brian knows how untrue the words are and the soft snort from John says he's not the only one. "Well, I'd have been disappointed, but not by you."
"I'll find a way to make it up to you. Maybe dinner in that restaurant again?"
"Go to sleep."
Come morning, Brian’s still painted green, but from John to the bed sheets, so is everything else.