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New Year’s Eve 1974, somewhere above the roofs of Kensington
“I can’t turn my legs like that.” Roger is looking between his own feet and Freddie’s as he tries to imitate his fourth position. “How can you turn your legs like that?”
Freddie smiles indulgently as he extends his arm in a beautiful, fluid motion to his side, feeling the simple elegance of the posture roll through him, and prepares for his move.
“Watch it!” Roger swerves aside as Freddie’s admittedly exuberant fouetté almost kicks his glass out of his hands.
“...two, three et e-le-vé,” Freddie sing-songs and then finishes the movement with a plié.
The sound of Roger’s solitary clapping cannot compare to the roar of a crowd, and the stars twinkling above are faint in comparison to a set of stage lights, but as Freddie takes his bow, the joy welling up in him like bubbles in a glass of champagne is just as exhilarating. “Thank you, darling,” he smiles, a bit breathless.
Roger whoops and grins widely. “That prima baller- or what would you call him, primo ballerino? Anyway, that Nureyev guy, he’s got nothing on you,” Roger exclaims with the authority of a newfangled expert on all things ballet.
“Principal dancer,” Freddie corrects, trying not to look too pleased at Roger’s words. It’s ridiculous, of course, and Roger isn’t being serious. Freddie knows that. But it still makes his chest glow warmly, that he would stay with him up here long after everyone else has gone back inside, that he’s always prepared to indulge Freddie in whatever strange fancy strikes him. Even if it’s something as far removed from Rock’n’Roll as classical ballet. “And you’re right,” Freddie adds coquettishly. “I heard Rudi is already quivering!”
“Lucky for him we got you first then,” Roger says with that kind of grin that always has Freddie’s heart add a couple of extra beats. “And we’re not letting our lead singer run off with some ballet company.”
“Hmm.” Freddie is glad that he can blame the colour in his cheeks on the cold and the exertion. He taps his toes on the ground in front of him, bouncing his stretched leg up and down. Heeled boots are not ideal for this, but it’s not like he planned for an impromptu ballet demonstration tonight. It just… happened. As these things tend to do when he and Roger get together.
“Alright, now show me!” Roger takes off his jacket and puts his glass down, then comes to stand next to Freddie, looking at him expectantly.
Of course. Roger has to try everything as long as it holds even a remote promise of fun.
Freddie draws his head back so he can look down his nose at his friend and purses his lips. “I’m not sure I can work with that,” he says as he inspects Roger, fighting hard to keep a smirk off his face. He’s teasing, but there’s some truth in it. Roger’s posture is dreadful, all rounded shoulders and cocked hips.
Roger sticks out his tongue at him and draws himself up into what he must think is a dancer’s position - chest puffed out, head thrown back, limbs stiff and ramrod straight.
“Oh dear,” Freddie sighs. He tuts and shakes his head some more, just to see Roger narrowing his eyes at him. “Well then, needs must.”
It’s great fun, to poke and prod at Roger, watching him squirm as he tries to keep his shoulders down even as his arms come up, and make his stance strong but not rigid. Freddie does his best to appear authoritative, although his knowledge doesn’t extend far beyond a few surface platitudes - a feature about Nureyev he happened to see on the telly, that coffee-table book of Mary’s that he likes to leaf through from time to time, some half-remembered bits Kash showed him when they were little.
“You do have something of a dancer though,” Roger notes, going a bit cross-eyed as he tries to observe Freddie’s finger tilting his chin up. “When you’re on stage I mean. Not in a classical sense perhaps but - oi! My elbow doesn’t bend that way.”
“Oh, you aren’t even trying!” Freddie swats Roger’s shoulder and glares at him.
“This is stupid,” Roger grumbles as Freddie crouches down to manoeuvre his feet into something approaching a ballet position. “I can’t believe dancing is all about standing around looking like a prat. Or if it is, can I at least have my drink back?”
“It’s all part of it,” Freddie explains. But perhaps making Roger stand still in a contorted posture isn’t the best way to make him understand the joys of the ballet. “Alright then. We’ll start with a plié. Ready?”
No, Freddie thinks as he watches Roger prance about and make a cruel mockery of the pinnacle of Western dance, while his friend has many natural gifts, a dancer’s grace isn’t one of them. Which explains perhaps why he rarely dances at parties and such. But he looks like he’s having a lot of fun right now, goofing around to an improvised melody that Freddie is humming - bits of Mozart and his own fancy - and ignoring every single one of his corrections.
“Oh, careful, darling,” Freddie cautions as Roger pirouettes straight into the chimney, and belatedly reaches out to balance him.
“That was a good one,” Roger proclaims, in clear contradiction of the facts. “Almost three spins!” He takes Freddie’s arm and twirls underneath it in a move that is one percent ballet, and ninety-nine percent sixth form school dance. “Come on, let’s do some of those… what did you call them? The stepping left and right?”
Freddie arches one eyebrow as he lets himself be dragged along. “You want to be my Margot Fonteyn, then?”
Roger throws him a puzzled look, but then shrugs and does a curtsy. The silliest little expression comes on to his face as he trills, “Please, call me Marge.”
And that’s it. Freddie lets go of Roger and doubles over with laughter, slapping his thighs while all manner of undignified guffawing and shrieking sounds escape him, like he can’t contain all the mirth inside him. “Call me M-M…” he wheezes, and just when he thinks he’s got himself back under control, he remembers Roger’s absurd expression and loses it again. It must be the half dozen glasses of champagne he’s had, and the elation of ending the year on a high note - and the sheer joy of being here, with Roger, free to be as foolish and flamboyant as he wants.
There’s no one else he could do this with. Not like this.
Roger is only spurred on by his reaction, breaking out into a full-blown ballerina impression, with twirls and ridiculous little jumps and fluttering hands, that sends Freddie into hysterics. He ends in a dramatic pose, on his toes with one arm stretched out over his head and his back extending in a backwards curve - for all of two seconds, before he loses his balance and careens straight into Freddie, who stumbles sideways, still feeling weak and tingly from his bout of laughter.
Roger holds onto him, keeping him upright while Freddie tries to find his feet under him. “Whoopsie,” he says with a wide, happy grin.
The fact that their faces are just inches apart catches up with Freddie, but the panic that usually overtakes him when they find themselves like this, the urge to get away immediately lest he do something he can’t take back, is drowned out by the breathless exhilaration of the moment. A belated firework goes off down in the street somewhere, making Freddie startle and giggle and let Roger take just a little more of his weight.
The grip that Roger has on his arm tightens. “Let’s sit down a minute, eh?” He’s stepping away, but he’s pulling Freddie right along with him, keeping them close. “All this twirling about is going to my head.”
They sit down on the steps of a rusty metal staircase leading up to another section of the roof. It will leave horrible stains on their trousers, but how could he care about such trifling matters now, when they’re both caught up in this shared game of make-believe. There will be a point when the bubble bursts, when it gets too much and one of them - sometimes but not always Roger - will move away with a laugh and a shake of the head and reality will be restored.
But not yet.
“Here you go, sugar plum.” Roger has picked up their glasses and presses one into Freddie’s hand.
Freddie accepts it with a breathy, “Thank you, my dear,” and an elegant twirl of his wrist.
The space that is just big enough for the two of them to squeeze into. Freddie is hyper aware of their knees and arms pressing into each other, points of warmth in the cold night, and of their exhalations mingling in the frosty air. They’re shielded from view by the chimney rising next to them, so that even if someone came onto the roof at this late (early?) hour, they wouldn’t immediately be seen.
It might have been by accident that Roger chose this spot. It might be. It surely is. Because what else could it be?
Roger’s sitting at a slight angle, his hand resting on the step behind Freddie. His arm isn’t touching him, but Freddie can sense its presence so close to his back. He fights the urge to lean into it, too aware, at the back of his mind, that this might be too much. It’s a careful balancing act, and he desperately wants to keep their bubble afloat for as long as he can.
They clink glasses, and Freddie takes a sip of the chilly if slightly flat champagne. He looks up at the endless night sky and imagines what it would be like if he just let himself fall. Just this once.
When he looks down again, it happens to be just as Roger is looking up.
Freddie always told himself it was all in his head, this electric buzz in the air between them. But it can’t be, because it is a real, physical thing. Not just a feeling inside him, but sensations on his skin, vibrations like soundless waves running back and forth between them. A force field strong enough to drag any compass needle off course.
Never band mates. Never friends. That’s what he promised himself. But hasn’t Roger always been so much more than that? Something special, removed from the ordinary constraints of the world?
Roger’s lips are slightly parted, as if he had been just about to say something when he got caught up in the moment. This moment. Their moment.
The sure knowledge that Roger must feel it too, that he is just as affected by this as Freddie is, surges through him like the purest, crystalline drug, turning him into the fearless, brilliant, divine being he knows he can be.
Everything feels light tonight. Everything feels possible.
His heart and his breathing, time itself, everything stops as he touches his lips to Roger’s. It’s an ecstatic kind of agony, those long seconds where none of them moves.
Then Roger’s hand comes up to the side of his jaw, his thumb against Freddie’s cheekbone, his fingers in his hair. Everything comes soaring back, the colour and the light and the blood rushing in his ears. For one glorious, all-encompassing moment, he gets to revel in the feeling of Roger kissing him back.
Then he breathes in cold air.
He hardly dares to blink his eyes open, but when he does, Roger - still so close to him that Freddie could count every single one of his extraordinary lashes - is staring at him with wide-eyed wonder. All Freddie can do is meet his gaze, silently begging him to lean back in, to confirm his wordless question with an equally wordless ‘yes, always, forever’, because nothing less will do.
Roger’s gaze drops, not to Freddie’s mouth, but to a point somewhere above his shoulder. He shakes his head and removes his hand from Freddie’s face, leaning back slightly. “’m sorry,” he mumbles.
Giddy, disbelieving shock at what he has done rolls through Freddie like a tidal wave breaking on the shore. It’s nauseating, like sitting on a plane and suddenly realising the thirty-thousand feet drop underneath him. All sorts of automatic defences spring to his mind. ‘I wasn’t trying to…’ ‘I’m not...’ But then he’d have to explain what he wasn’t trying to do, what he’s not. Or leave it at a vague ‘You misunderstand.’ It sounds laughable, pathetic in his own ears. He kissed his best friend. What exactly is there to misunderstand? Cold sweat breaks out all over his body and he thinks he might actually throw up.
Roger clears his throat. “Freddie, I…”
“I proposed to Mary,” is what comes out of his mouth. “At Christmas. I meant to tell you earlier but…” But then I got distracted by, by... (your charm and your wit, your fire and your oh stop it). “We’re going to get married, can you believe it? Next year perhaps. I got her such a big ring, a real rock.” He can’t stop the manic, ugly smile breaking out on his face any more than he can stop himself from jabbering.
It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. It's been little more than a week and already he's turning it into something he promised himself it wouldn't be. A defence to point at, a shield to deflect all doubting looks. Oh yes, I’m married. This is my wife. Look here, there’s nothing to see, please do go on. As if something that simple could fool someone like Roger even for a second.
Roger’s eyes snap up and Freddie has to look away. “Right. Uhm. Congratulations,” he offers eventually.
“Anyway, time to head back down, don’t you think,” Freddie says briskly and without looking at his friend. Who he is not sure he’s in a position to call that any more. Another wave of helpless terror washes through him at the thought. God, how could he have been so stupid? All those years of careful secrecy, wiped out by one moment of carelessness. “The others must be wondering whether we’ve been abducted by aliens by now.”
He pushes himself up, but Roger grasps his wrist and holds him in place. He struggles against it even while he’s pretending that it’s not happening. He’s got to get away from here. He doesn’t want to hear what Roger’s got to say, doesn’t want to see the pity in his eyes, the betrayal, the revulsion.
“Freddie…”
“Piss off,” he snaps, starting to struggle in earnest.
Suddenly, his arm is free, and he hauls himself up, clenching his teeth so his face doesn’t crumple. Only a few more steps, then he’s away, and he can find himself a full bottle and bathroom or a broom closet to curl up in and drink himself to oblivion.
“Freddie, don’t go, please!”
There’s a note in Roger’s voice that he’s rarely heard before, and it makes him stop in his tracks even as he curses himself for it.
He can hear Roger swallow and take in a ragged breath. “You don’t have to say anything,” Roger says with a voice even hoarser than usual. “Just listen for a minute, alright? One minute, that’s all.”
The last thing he wants is to listen, but he can’t fight the plaintive note in his Roger’s voice any more than he can shake off the leaden sense of dread that has settled in his gut, sucking up his momentum. He turns a little, not so much that he has to look at Roger, but enough that he can lean his back against the chimney.
“Right. Alright. Thank you.” There’s a rustle of clothes and the click of a lighter, the crackle of burning tobacco and then a long shaky exhale. The soundtrack of a night out with Roger.
Freddie wonders glumly how often he’ll be privy to that after tonight. Whether Roger will tell him that they’ll keep it strictly professional from now on, or whether he’ll take a softer, supposedly kinder approach and phase him out slowly. At least he won’t tell anyone, of that Freddie is sure. For all his light-hearted charm, Roger will take your secrets, your real secrets, to the grave.
Now Freddie only has to live with never being let in on Roger’s own confidences again. He’ll find a way to do that too. Somehow. Just one more thing on top of everything else.
“I’m not brave like you,” Roger says, and that is so unexpected that Freddie can’t help but turn his head towards him. Roger is sitting with his elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling from between his fingers. When he notices Freddie looking, he gives him a small smile. “Oh, you know.”
Freddie shakes his head, and frowns down his feet. None of what Roger says makes a lick of sense, but he doesn’t have the heart to argue.
“But I want to be honest with you,” Roger continues. “I owe you that much, and if I don’t do it tonight, I won’t have the balls to do to it ever.”
Freddie can see the orange glow of the cigarette illuminating his features out of the corner of his eye. He silently wonders how much exactly Roger had to drink and for a moment - to his shame - hopes it might have been enough that he won’t remember anything by tomorrow. But Freddie knows what Roger looks like when he’s plastered, and this isn’t it. This is far from it.
“So. I thought about that sometimes. I don’t think anyone who knows you can help but be a little bit in love with you.” Roger takes a deep breath. “I can’t.”
All those miserable errant thoughts that were tangling in Freddie’s mind are instantly incinerated. A little bit in love with you. A little bit in love with you? A little bit in… He can’t possibly. He can’t mean. His heart pounding his chest, Freddie turns towards Roger.
“Just... not like that.”
It’s like the air has been sucked out of him. All the turmoil inside him, the budding panic, the nightmare scenarios, the shame at being so completely exposed, dies down, suffocated under a heavy blanket of misery. “No, of course not,” Freddie whispers. He presses his eyes shut and lets himself slide down the chimney until he’s coming to sit on the dirty floor, knees drawn up to his chest, all fight gone out of him. No, Roger isn’t like that. Only a completely gullible, pathetic fool could ever make himself think he might be.
“Ah, crap.” Freddie can feel Roger shuffle close to him, and he doesn’t even have it in him to push him away. “I’m not put off by it,” Roger says, taking a deep breath. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
Then why won’t you let me, Freddie thinks desperately and only just manages to keep the words from spilling out by biting down on his lips. If you’re a little bit in love with me, and you’re not put off by it, then why won’t you let me? Why won’t you let me have that? “Aren’t you,” Freddie mumbles instead, praying that the thickness in his voice will read as anger.
“No. I’m not.” And for the first time, Roger doesn’t sound hesitant. Freddie dares another look, and now Roger’s eyes don’t shy away from his gaze. “It’s just that it wouldn’t ever be…” He searches for words that don’t come, then shakes his head and starts again. “Fuck, I can’t use you, Freddie.”
The stars are shining bright tonight, bright enough that Freddie can see the flush darkening Roger’s face. He doesn’t explain himself any further than that, but Freddie knows what he means, sees it so clearly. Roger’s knees splayed, gasping into the night sky, his taste in Freddie’s mouth.
Would that be so bad?
It would be devastating, yet Freddie would not hesitate for a second if Roger offered.
Roger’s eyes are imploring him, to… to understand? To accept?
To try again?
”I’m not put off by it.” The spots of heat on his cheeks. The darkness in his eyes. The way he kissed back, even if only for a second. It’s all telling Freddie something. It’s telling him that if he pushed, he might get... not what he longs for, but a handful of minutes where he can imagine what it might be like. A bitter-sweet, shameful memory he could nurse like a stiff drink on lonely nights. Perhaps until the next time Roger is a bit too drunk, and a bit too horny, and there’s no one else to go to.
It’s humiliating, the readiness with which he would accept that bleak trade-off.
Roger’s hand lands on his knee. Freddie is ready to let himself be pulled in, but all Roger does is squeeze it lightly. “I’m not gonna be that kind of twat,” he says quietly.
“What the fuck do you want from me then?” Freddie’s voice sounds gravelly, strained and alien even to his own ears. Why are you doing this, Roger, why are you doing this to me? Why won’t you just let me leave?
“I want to be your friend.”
Freddie snorts, a wet and ugly animal sound that makes him recoil from himself. “Just fuck off,” he whispers with the last breath air in his lungs. He can deal with a lot, but not lies told out of pity. Even if Roger hasn’t realised they’re lies yet.
“Fuck off right back,” Roger huffs. “I am your friend and there’s not a whole lot you can do about it.”
It’s the petulance in Roger’s voice, the offence he takes at the suggestion he might be anything but, that pierces through the layers of resentment Freddie has shored up in his defence. He presses his hands to his eyes to keep the grief from spilling out. Grief for something he never had, never believed he could have in the first place. He wishes Roger would just leave, so he wouldn’t have to keep up this semblance of control, but could fall to pieces right then and there.
But Roger doesn’t leave, he stays right there with a hand on his knee, while Freddie shakes and gasps, heaving with the effort to hold back the tears that are building up behind his eyes until the pressure is almost too much to bear. Roger’s arm comes up around his shoulders, and because Freddie is small and weak behind all the bluster, he lets himself sink against Roger’s side. It feels so good to burrow into him, to let him take some of the weight. It feels like he’s walking into a trap, but he’s in no state to resist it.
When he can breathe again, they’ve ended up side by side, with their backs against the chimney, almost as close as they had been before Freddie went and almost ruined it all. He fights the urge to move away, to give Roger the space he’ll surely want, but then Roger drapes his jacket over both their knees, adding a flimsy layer of warmth, and Freddie is for better or worse stuck there.
He doesn’t trust it yet, this closeness. Who knows what Roger will think once he’s sober, and had a couple of night’s sleep, once he has mentally gone through all the times Freddie looked at him, or touched him, and has reevaluated them in the light of tonight’s events.
But for now, all he does is light another cigarette. And once he’s taken the first couple of puffs, he holds it out to Freddie, like he always does when he thinks Freddie might be in the mood. Habit? Or just an ostentatious display of nonchalance? Freddie’s not sure if he can take that. He shakes his head, worried about how much his hands might still be trembling.
They sit through the cigarette in silence. Freddie has no idea what to say, what to do. He isn’t even sure what he’s feeling, apart from drained and a bit light-headed. So he sits there, watching the lights of London blinking below, a mirror of the stars above. It’s a cold night, and he’d be freezing in his thin shirt if weren’t for the warmth of the chimney against his back - and Roger’s against his side. The roof had been full of people just an hour or so ago when they’d been watching the fireworks, but eventually all of them had gone back inside, leaving only him and Roger in their own little world.
If only they hadn’t.
But perhaps it’s been inevitable. Freddie used to tell himself that it would get easier with time, that the torch he’s been carrying would dim and splutter out eventually. Or at least that he’d get practised enough to hide its light, so that eventually, it would be second nature. That it would stop hurting. Only that’s not what has been happening at all. It’s been coming in waves, this feeling that something has to get out of him before he cracks. And lately, the moments when he’s convinced himself that he’s finally over it, that he can settle down and live the easy life, have been few and far between. Christmas had been one of those, when he and Mary had been full of sweet red wine, giggling and happy and making plans into the wee hours of the morning. It had felt so right, in that moment, and so he’d-
“I don’t think I’ll ever get married,” Roger says as he shakes the last of his Marlboros from the packet and lights it.
“Oh.” Freddie desperately tries to figure out if he has done something to give his thoughts away. But then he remembers that he had brought it up himself earlier, in his jumbled, painful attempts to extricate himself from this quagmire of his own making.
Roger just shrugs, looking philosophically into the trail of smoke he’s breathed out.
“Does Jo know about that?” Freddie asks, trying to force some light-heartedness into his voice.
“She’s the same. In fact, she informed me first,” Roger says with a delighted little grin, as if that were the best thing ever, and nudges Freddie with his elbow.
They fit so well together, those two. A bit too well, perhaps, in their fierce independence that makes them bounce apart as much as it pulls them together. “I see,” Freddie says.
“Perhaps we should leave the marrying to John.” It’s not really a question. Not quite a piece of advice, but something in between.
Oh God, it’s Roger trying to be subtle. A rare sight, and not a pretty one, although Freddie should feel flattered by the effort, he supposes.
“He seems to be looking forward to it,” he offers tentatively. In fact, John had been disgustingly happy ever since he’d told them of their plans, hovering around Ronnie like a clucking hen.
“He does,” Roger agrees. “Not that he had much choice though. Mr Tetzlaff would have come after him with a meat cleaver if he’d refused.” He grins brightly at Freddie for a moment, before his eyes grow wide and his face falls. “Oh my god, are you…” He leans in a bit closer and lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Is that it?”
Freddie’s a bit slow, as he always is when he is this close to Roger. He cocks his head, peers at Roger’s furrowed brow, trying to work out what on earth he is- oh. “No, no, of course not, I mean, no,” he splutters. “That’s not at all what’s going on, darling, we just-” He hates himself for the way his voice falters when he catches up with the fact that he just called Roger ‘darling’. He’s always called him that, just like everyone else, except perhaps with a bit more of an illicit thrill attached, but now it feels like it’s out of bounds.
However, Roger doesn’t react to it all, apart from a cautious relief coming over his features.
“We’re careful,” Freddie adds. Also, they only have sex once in a blue moon, but that’s not information it feels wise to volunteer right now.
“Good, good.” Roger distractedly plays with the cigarette. “I’m not ready for all my friends to act like grown-ups all of a sudden. Brian and Chrissie are making me nervous too.”
“Come on, Brian’s always been boring.”
Roger gives him a pointed, amused look. “Rude.”
“You know I’m right.” And it’s usually Roger who complains the loudest about it.
“Also,” Roger says a bit louder, “We’ve got an actual tour of America ahead of us and I need my partner in crime. Gonna do it like last time? I get the odd days, you the even ones?”
“I was thinking perhaps we’d get single rooms,” Freddie replies, trying not to appear too excited by the fact that apparently Roger is still prepared to share a room with him. Still prepared to use their old system to decide who is allowed to bring someone home and who would have to hang out in the lobby or some third-rate bar or shack up with Brian and John until the other has finished ‘entertaining’. Despite everything. “Now that we’re headlining, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. This is the Sheffields we’re talking about. Bet you, they’d make me whittle my own drum sticks from driftwood if they could.”
“Hmm, let me run the idea by Jack- hey!” He almost falls over to the side when Roger jabs him in the ribs.
“Don’t you dare.” Roger glares at him.
Freddie narrows his eyes. “Only if I get the odd days plus all the Saturdays.”
“Fuck off.”
“Or what?” Freddie growls, only belatedly realising he’s not in a good position to get into that kind of challenge right now. Not with what Roger could wield over him.
“Or I’ll draw a moustache on you next time you’re wasted.”
Involuntarily, Freddie’s hand flies protectively to his upper lip. “You wouldn’t.”
“And I’ll use a sharpie, too, not kohl. And I’ll get Brian to take photos. And then I’ll- oi, stop! Stop!” Roger desperately tries not burn holes into their clothes with his fag as he bats Freddie’s flapping hands away. He grins at Freddie, that cheeky, boyish grin that both tears and mends his heart, and Freddie smiles back, a bit too brightly. Perhaps, some stupidly hopeful part of him thinks, perhaps he will be allowed to have this. Not what he fantasised about in his weaker moments, but something that can be real and lasting and all the better for that.
“Come on,” Roger says, tapping his thigh. “My bollocks are freezing off and I haven’t had a drink in forever.” He gets up with a groan more befitting someone much older, and offers Freddie his hand, pulling him up.
“Thank you,” Freddie mumbles, and when Roger doesn’t pull away immediately, he keeps his hand in Roger’s a moment longer and forces himself to look up at him. At Roger. At his friend. “Thank you,” he repeats, earnestly.
“My pleasure,” Roger says with an odd formality.
Freddie withdraws his hand then, he doesn’t want the moment to get weird, but Roger doesn’t move away yet. “I like talking to you,” he says. “About, you know, whatever.”
“Classical ballet?”
Roger puffs out his cheeks and lets out a long breath. “F’r instance,” he says in a tone that clearly says ‘It’s not like I can shut you up about it anyway, can I?’
“That’s lovely,” Freddie replies and starts making his way towards the door that will lead them back inside.
Roger falls into step beside him. “But also. You know. Anything.”
“That’s good to know.” And Freddie is grateful, he really is, for what Roger is trying to do, but he also really wishes he’d shut up now.
“Like if you ever want to-”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I mean it! About, you know, how you’re-”
“Did you know Nureyev only started his formal training when he was seventeen?” Freddie pulls the door open with some effort and motions for Roger to go through. “After you, darling.”
Roger hesitates before stepping inside. He turns to look at Freddie and inhales sharply, as if he’s about to try and make his painfully obvious point again.
Please just let it be.
After a tense second, Roger shakes his head, huffs out a silent laugh and rolls his eyes at Freddie. “Did he now? Seventeen, gosh. Fascinating.”
Freddie follows him through the doorway. “I know, it’s almost unheard of!”
“Are all your ballet stories going to be that exciting? Only because I don’t think my heart can take more than one a day. Or one a week, possibly, better be careful.”
“Oh, we haven’t even got started. Did I ever tell you that story about how…”
As the door falls shut behind them, the first grey light of 1975 dawns over London.