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Put out the fire

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Frankfurt, April 28th 1982

 

That night, after the concert, tempers were running high, and the exhaustion of the tour was showing. Not even the adrenaline caused by the show could keep any of the four men going. The show had been quite good, all in all but the audience didn’t seem to particularly like their new album, which had prompted Freddie to tell the audience "If you don't wanna hear it, fuckin' go home!" Not the best way to introduce a song. Of course, it did not help that half the band actually agreed with them.

 

Once they had started playing the damn things, the audience had liked it well enough, and even Roger had to admit those songs did work live, with more drumming and guitar added in the mix, and their professionalism kicking in, getting the very best out of their instruments. Despite everything their chemistry on stage was still undeniable, still perfect as ever, and the pent up anger and energy only ever seemed to make the shows better.

 

As soon as they were off stage, though, the arguments about everything and anything came back full force, and that time, as it often was the case lately, it was John and Brian who had started getting at each other’s throat about tweaks that should or should not be made to the setlist The exhaustion did not help, especially for Brian who had not slept properly in what felt like weeks. Roger, for once, had tried to defuse the argument but had gotten dragged into it, and even Freddie, their usual diplomat, had been unable to stop it from happening. It had paused during the car ride, each in their own limousine, but had started again as soon as they got out of the car and out of the public eye. It had only stopped when they had gotten to the hotel top floor where each of their suites were located, and they had each gotten inside their own room, slamming the door.

 

 

***

A few hours later all of them were asleep, each alone in their suites. One floor down, a little boy was having a nightmare. One of his flaying arms pushed the lamp, that had stayed on, crashing down on the floor.

 

Unnoticed by anyone, the rug caught on fire. The shrieking of the fire alarm woke up the child and his parents, and they got out of there, but the fire was now raging in the room.

***

The fire alarm blared through the whole hotel. The fire was progressing fast, cutting through the rich ornaments of the palace. In the biggest of the top-floor suites, Freddie woke with a start. He could hear the alarm, and noises of people running around. He got up, quickly put on a t-shirt, sweatpants, running shoes, grabbed his keys and was out the door with his unlaced shoes in under a minute, grumbling and hoping it was a fake alarm.

 

The moment he was out the door, it was clear it wasn’t. The corridor felt warm, and the light from the overhead window, had an orange tinge that did not bode well. There was not any smoke in the corridor yet, but it would only be a matter of time. Freddie felt his heartbeat grow faster. He tried to remember where the fire-escape was. He knew the lift was out of the question, and they were on the tenth and last floor. As he turned around, he saw Roger, sunglasses on but with his shirt put the wrong way around, and John, hair seeming redder with the light of the flames, getting out of their respective suites.

 

They congregated in the corridor. John looked tense, and Freddie was quite sure he did as well. Roger had the advantage of his sunglasses to hide his facial expression, but his voice betrayed his concern when he asked:

“Freddie, John, you’re alright?”

“Yes.” answered John, voice tight.

“Yes, are you?” asked Freddie, putting his hand on Roger’s forearm.

The drummer nodded and looked around. John said out loud where everyone was thinking

“Where’s Brian? Did he go out tonight?”

“No, I...”

“No, I don’t think so...” said the two others at the same time.

“Shit, he’s still in there.” said Roger, voice going up in the higher range, panicking.

“Alright, calm down” said John, who barely sounded calmer himself. “Freddie, you have a double of his room-key in your room, right?”

“Yes” said the singer, and he ran off to get it. He had never blessed more than this time this habit of their early years to have key doubles, in case one of them forgot theirs, or shouldn’t be left alone for whatever reason. They hadn’t used them in years, yet, it had become a habit, one they had never quite stopped having, despite not having gone to each other’s rooms quite a long time.

While Freddie was running off, Roger and John went to Brian’s door. Roger tried to open it, just in case, but of course, it was closed. Roger pounded on the door, and both he and John yelled but there was no response. Of course, it could be that Brian had left for the evening, and not told any of them, it was the most likely possibility even, but none of them was ready to take the chance.

Freddie was back, and passed the key to John, who opened the door. He was met by a lot of smoke, and closed the door right back. In the few seconds, he had seen Brian’s form silhouetted on his bed, unmoving, flames licking the open window.

 

John turned around, and grabbed the fire-extinguisher that was just next to Brian’s door. He then looked at his two bandmates. They nodded.

“You put out the fire, we get him out.” Said Roger to John. And they opened the door again. There was a lot of smoke, but as of yet, very few flames, and crouching down, the three rockers were next to their friend in a very short time. John attacked the few flames that had caught the curtain.

 

They were used to working together enough, that even in that situation, they coordinated effortlessly.

“Brian, dear, wake up, there’s a fire, you need to get out of here”. Freddie’s voice was tight with worry, why hadn’t Brian woken up?

On the other side, there was a bottle of sleeping pills, and a glass of water, and for one terrible second, Roger feared the worst remembering the pictures from Jimi Hendrix’s death. A wave of panic washed over him. Then he got a better look. There was maybe one pill missing from the bottle. New drug, probably badly dosed, but most likely not dangerous. Still, Freddie did not seem to be getting much of a reaction from Brian, who was opening his eyes, far too slowly.

“Guys...” said John, still fighting the flames, that were getting closer and closer. The extinguisher was only going to buy them a little bit more time at that point.

Roger took the glass of water and threw it a the guitarist. That got a reaction and Brian shot up, spluttering. Freddie got some water on his face too. Roger pocketed the bottle of pills just in case, and they got Brian to get up. Helping each other, crouching low to get some breathable air, they managed to get out of the room. The floor was creaking, and it was getting hot.

They got out, not a moment too soon. Despite John’s effort, just as they were closing the door, the bed took on fire. They stopped in the doorway, coughing. John’s right arm was held protectively against his chest. Roger spotted some painful looking burns on his friend’s wrist. It would have to wait. They’d have to get out as fast as possible. They ran in the direction of the staircase, Brian was running with them, although he still seemed to be rather unsure of what was actually going on.

 

They never got to the staircase. There was smoke building up in the corridor, and looking at each other the musicians soon figured out there was no way that with that much smoke that far up, the 10 storeys of stairs would be clear enough to let them through.

 

“My suite.” said Freddie.

 

It was the one that was the further away from Brian’s and it seemed like the best possible idea. When they opened the door to the room, they saw with relief that there was no smoke inside. They got inside and closed the door behind them.

 

“I’ll go call the fire-department, tell them we’re stuck up here.” said Freddie.

“Do you speak German, Fred?” asked Roger, knowing the answer.

“Not, really no. Well, I know Schweinehund, or Arschgeige but it won’t exactly help with the fire brigade...”

“Why what does it mean?” asked John

“Pig-dog or something….And Arse-violin”

“Yeah, that’s colourful but not really helpful, Fred, let’s hope they speak English. Otherwise, I think Fire is Feuer, 10th Floor is Zehnte Etage, and four is Vier. I can’t really help you more than that.” said Roger.

 

Freddie ran off to find the firefighter emergency number in the hotel leaflet and to call them.

 

“Put something on the balcony to signal our presence too, Fred!” added the drummer.

 

“We need to barricade the door with wet towels.” said John.

 

“Right, then we’ll get a look at your arm.” said Roger. “Bring me the towels Brian and I will put them on the door.”

 

The Brian and I part of the statement was arguably optimistic, since the guitarist was dozing off again, sat down directly on the floor, coughing occasionally, as they all did. John did not point it out and just went to fetch the towels. Roger filled the cracks and the bottom of the door, and wet the whole doorframe and the walls and floor while he was at it. By putting a wet towel directly on top of Brian’s head, he managed to get the guitarist awake enough that he used his height to push wet towels to the uppermost parts of the door. The whole process also had the effect of getting John’s burned wrist constantly under water, and when Roger finally had time to get a look at it, it did not look all that bad.

 

 

When they got to the main part of the suite, Freddie had just finished talking with the firemen.

“They know we’re here, but there is only one firemen ladder high enough in Frankfurt. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“Well done Fred’” said Roger.

 

Freddie and Roger sat next to each other on the couch. All they could do now was wait. On the couch in front of them were John and Brian, the bassist still holding his arm, as even if it did not appear to be severe, the burn still hurt like hell. The sirens were shrieking in the distance, but the fire alarm inside the hotel itself had stopped, thankfully.

 

Once the flurry of activity was past, the situation hit them fully. The light from the fire on the floors under them was colouring the light orange. John started to shake uncontrollably. Brian, who seemed to be more and more awake by the minute, and was slowly piecing up in his head what had just happened, took the bass-player in his arms, something they really had not been doing much lately.

 

The youngest of them was crying. He was scared. A lot could happen in twenty minutes. The other two looked at each other and joined in the hug. The couch was facing the window, and they looked at the skyline, at the Festhalle were they had played just a few hours ago, a reality that seemed a universe away now.

 

“You got me out.” said Brian. “You saved me. You probably could have been safe by now but you came back for me.”

“Of course we did, you idiot.” said Roger. “And don’t bloody take those sleeping pills again, they make you far too hard to wake up, you wanker.”

“I won’t, I’m sorry” said Brian. His friends may die because he had not been careful and taken a pill that was probably far too strong for him, especially having drunk some alcohol as well just after the show. Freddie passed a hand through his curls, and John curled in tighter.

 

After twenty minutes, the firefighter were there, and they got them out, carrying them all the way down on the firemen ladder. Down there they were met by their crew who were frantic. They had been further down, and had been able to go out before things were really bad. Everyone had gotten out without any serious injury. Without quite understanding how that happened, John ended up with an armful of his roadies. That part of the event was never mentioned again. And at the next concert the fans were even more enthusiastic than ever.

 

The arguments did not stop. They were still the bitchiest band on the planet, the galaxy even, as Roger sometimes added, sticking his tongue at Brian. But the thought that they might actually hate each other barely crossed their minds again.

Notes:

Hey people !

This is the end of this short little thing. I hope you liked it.

The information about the concert, including Freddie using somewhat colourful language towards his audience is accurate and comes from the previously quoted queenlive.ca website. And Jimi Hendrix did die of a sleeping pill overdose, according to hiswikipedia page.

The rest is obviously complete fiction, thankfully !

Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought, thank you for reading this.

Have a wonderful day and take care

Toinette out