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“So what’re we watching, John?”
John hands Freddie a VHS tape and climbs onto the couch, balancing cheese toast on his knees.
Freddie flips it over to read the title. “Herbie?”
“Mmmhmm,” he mumbles, mouth full of toast.
“Herbie? What kind of a movie title is that .” Roger huffs.
Freddie inspects the case. “It’s a racing movie.”
“Racing? Boring .” He huffs again.
John bites his crust angrily.
“Never mind him, John, he’s in one of his moods again.” Brian shoots him a look.
“Darlings, should we start the movie or not.”
“Go ahead, Freddie, but I’m not gonna like it.”
Once sliding the VHS in, Freddie falls between Brian and Roger. Roger careens away like an angry cat. “Don’t be such a diva, Rog, and sit up.”
He complies.
And the movie starts. And, as expected it’s dull. So dull.
But then… who is that .
Pale butter yellow exterior. Red-white-and-blue stripe running (rather seductively, one might add) from front to rear. Two glassy orbs that light up in the night.
The car, no, the gorgeous Volkswagen beetle , the movie was ridiculously named after.
Woah .
Immediately Roger flushes and glances at his friends. They can’t read minds, can they?
None of them seem bothered. Good.
Watching those rubbery tires speed down the road, he’s suddenly very invested in the movie— although he’s determined not to show it.
Herbie is... fascinating. Gorgeous. It's just... stunning.
Herbie does something particularly daring, and Roger chokes.
Everyone stares.
He blushes.
They roll their eyes and return to the movie.
Once the movie ends, Roger cuddles a pillow to his chest, heart pounding.
I’m in love with a CAR?
What the hell.
They stumble off to bed (they stayed up until 2am, ofc) but Roger can’t sleep.
All he sees is Herbie.
It’s so beautiful.
A car.
A bloody car.
...
He wakes up the next morning, eyes burning with lack of sleep. He stumbles into the kitchen, where Freddie sits on the counter island, cuddling his cat, and Brian and John make themselves breakfast.
John hands Brian the coffee machine and says, “Good morning, Roger.”
Brian disposes the coffee atop the refrigerator. “Morning, Rog.”
“Morning.” He tugs Lucky Charms from the cabinet and clutches the milk. “What are we doing today?”
“We’re trying to figure out our new album.”
“Ah.”
John sits across him, cross legged in the chair.
“Cheese toast? Again!” Roger exclaims.
“Uh, yeah?” John shrugs.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You know there’s other foods, right?”
“Um, yeah.” He doesn’t even look up from his magazine.
“Um, okay.”
“Hm.”
Roger taps the spoon against the bowl, thinking about that idiot car. Then he grabs a scrap of paper and jots down the lyrics he thought up all night.
“Roger, you’re writing on the rent.” Brian snatches it.
“Wait wait wait, no—”
Brian’s eyes widen. “Wha— what is this?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Give it here. Brian. Give it.” Roger grabs at it wildly. Curse Brian and his freakishly long arms! “GIVE IT HERE.”
Freddie waltzes atop the counter, steaming coffee mug in hand, and plucks it from Brian’s fingers. “It’s just a bill, darling.”
Brian snickers. “It’s not just a bill. It’s Roger’s new song.”
“Oh, is it? Let me have a look.”
“ NO !”
Freddie’s eyes widen, exactly like Brian’s. And he begins to laugh. “John, have a look at this.”
Roger’s had enough. He wrestles it from Freddie and retreats to his cereal.
Brian and Freddie’s laughs ring in his ears. It’s not funny .
John, unfazed, finishes off his toast.
It’s not funny.
...
Months later, Roger’s perfected his song. But the others don’t understand! So he’s locked away in the cupboard. And he’s NOT leaving. Not until his bloody song’s on the B-side. Freddie and Brian argue. Freddie says he doesn’t want it on the B-side. Brian says, it’s not a big deal . John butts in every now and then, mostly in Roger’s favor.
They’d better give the song what it deserves.
“Roger? Come out.”
“No.”
“Right now.”
“Do you like my song now?”
“Just come out.”
“Then no.”
Brian huffs. “Roger Taylor, come out of that cupboard right now .”
“Not until Freddie puts it on the B-side. And says he’s sorry.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“A child who deserves respect!”
Brian curses to himself.
“Tell Fred to hurry up. There are spiders in here.”
“I cannot believe you.” Footsteps recede, and he’s left with the thin line of light and his wrinkled photo of Herbie.
Another shadow darkens the door. Knock knock.
“You’ve reached the home of unrecognized talent—”
“Roger, this is getting ridiculous. Get out.” John whispers. “Freddie’s really upset.”
“ I’M upset!”
“You’re both upset. Over what? A song?”
“Yes, John, you’ve got it! Good job,” he mutters, sarcastic.
“And I get it. You feel underappreciated. I understand. But is this worth leaving the band over?”
“Yes.”
“Is it?”
He pauses, angry jitters ebbing away. “...yes??”
More footsteps descend. “John. Get out of the way.”
“Soorryyy .”
Freddie knocks at the door. “Roger. Fine. Your song can be on the B-side. But this is stupid.”
“Really? On the B-side?”
Resigned, he sighs, “...yes.”
Roger flings the door open, elated. “YES!” He dances around the kitchen. “Yes yes yes yes yesss!!!”
Brian, despite himself, cracks a grin.
John dances with him. “Congrats, Roger!”
Freddie huffs, a light grimace on his face.
Roger can’t stop smiling.