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"He still has that Brian spark in him, poppet. Odd spell. You'll just have to help him fill in the blanks, -I entrust the task to you only,-" she glared, "While I see how I can bring him back to normal and also return those foolish bandmates of yours. Shouldn't take you long. I know you're a Catholic, but do trust a witch-lady just this once - It's best if you help him do and think as closely as his old self, so that there are no malfunctions - that funny way you engineers call your very own mistakes. Things will turn out, yes?" the older woman gave a toothy grin. "I'll leave some luck, should help a speedy learning. Expect me when you least expect me!"
Magic and ravens and witches and wrong house directions and vanished bandmates and amnesia.
That had been all John could gather.
There was now a very purple and very itchy cloud of exploding smoke, and then she was gone. John could only cough at the odd dust it raised, and then just sat there, wordless, by a very blank Brian.
"But..." John breathed out. "I don't even know him that well."
...
It was as if Brian was now constantly, perpetually clueless.
John didn't like any of this in the slightest.
It was, as it were, scary. Brian, poor Brian! Would sit either staring or looking around, slightly agape. At a loss. All he had were his primal reflexes - though the stubbornness natural of the wiring of his very brain seemed to show at odd times; which was at least something.
Why me, though?
It was, still, a very long way - from teaching him how to People, to actually bringing out the Brian May in him.
Scary, indeed.
Sometimes, John wished he could be the oblivious one instead. He really didn't like this.
...
A couple days slowly bled by; and John was as anxious as the very first. He'd only had the neighbor's nurse help when it came to more invasive matters, but she was sort of expensive; and otherwise, Brian was just glued to him.
He was his responsibility now.
John had to have been turning to check that Brian hadn't gone wandering away from their table at least 15 times, while waiting in line to take their order. Thankfully, the amnesiac guitarist was generally well-behaved, though still very much inept in the basics of everything. Not knowing how to walk properly (and having learned the hard way not to try by himself) did help wonders.
The guitarist was just sitting in his borrowed wheelchair, twiddling with some little thing John didn't care to name. His mind was busy with way too many worries. Would Freddie and Roger be finally back soon? Would it truly be a danger for anyone to become privy of this situation? How long is this god-forsaken line? What in the world are they buying? John frowned and checked his watch.
When their food had been successfully ordered, he hurried back to Brian's side. Distantly he recognized the thing Brian was fiddling with was a napkin.
"Our food should be here soon," John absentmindedly noted, half to himself, while looking around. "... A-actually, maybe it's best if I order it wrapped. As take-away. I haven't told you how to eat properly and-"
Almost as if on cue, some small droplets began to run down the window by their side. John watched tragically as the droplets became more and more in amount, before it became full-blown rain.
"... Forget I said anything. Here will have to do."
He didn't know what to do; this was a lot of pressure. A inhumane amount, even. Never in a million years would any normal person picture themselves in such an absurd situation as it was; but of course, of all people, John was the one it happened to. Because he was John Deacon. And if the Moon itself were to come hurtling towards the Earth, out of a billion places, his standing place would've been the one to-
The call of a few distant snickers brought him back down to Earth.
Brian still couldn't even properly grasp at his spoon and fork; just sat there looking like a proper fool, and John had yet to so much as allow a knife in his proximity. "The food isn't gonna feed you itself, I fear."
He immediately regretted thinking of himself as the one things happened to. Brian was right there, just blankly staring at food while not even knowing his own name.
If only he had Freddie by his side, maybe this mission would be easier on him… And Roger too, perhaps - though he doubted they'd be less in the dark than John himself was about this whole amnesiac-magic-teaching-business-thing. They'd probably find a way to have Brian speak Mandarin as a first language or something.
Some support would be quite welcome, though.
When their food finally arrived, John thanked the waiter. His mouth watered at the sight and smell of his warm fries and fish; he hadn't realized how hungry he was until then.
First things first, John thought, and brought Brian's food closer. He'd ordered something that would suffice for the guitarist while being easy to pick up and chew. A plate of rice and smoked meat, a bowl of sweet warm porridge, and a glass of apple juice.
John frowned in concentration while slicing Brian's smoked meat with the fork and knife. The guitarist just observed every motion with set attention, slightly agape.
"Remember when I taught you what utensil to use? Spoon for gathering, fork for picking, unless it's pasta." He gazed at the other man for a moment, then gently pressed his fingers against the underside of the other's chin, to close his mouth. "You'll start to drool or something."
It was a long process. Brian kept dropping rice on himself or tipping over the spoon with the oatmeal. One time he almost spilled his juice over the table.
Had he also lost his sense of self-awareness?
It pained John to see it. Brian had once been very composed in his ways, his careful manners. There still was an essence of the old Brian in there somewhere, and it showed sometimes in his set stubbornness, or in his earnest sensibility, or just that gaze of his; it only made it a bigger pity to see him struggle, unknowingly, like he was now.
And John didn't miss some stares. Some of them mocking, some of them pitying.
So much for discretion. Thankfully, the rest of the people were mostly minding their own business.
He just kept quietly going over how Brian was to grab his spoon. Hopefully, they'd approach the elbows on the table and the slurping later, when the time came for the guitarist to recover his sense of manners; those good old careful manners, so his, so uniquely his.
John could only sigh. Right now, he would just be busy picking out the bits of rice from Brian's shirt, and dabbing at his face with a napkin.
...
The bassist cleared his throat, sitting Brian onto the closed toilet.
"This is called using the toilet as a chair when the lid is set down, and it means you can use the toilet as a chair if the lid is set down," he rubbed at his own brow. "I figured we had to sharpen the basic hygiene matters... starting by bathing. If I keep leaving you to it, you'll actually begin to smell."
Hesitating, John's fingers set under the other man's shirt.
"May I take this off?" he asked.
Brian just stared at him for a moment, after having fidgeted around. It was his first time sitting on a toilet with a closed lid.
"Yes," the guitarist finally said. Not from hesitation, but from a struggle with finding the right word.
The undressing part was a way too long and awkward process, or at least for John; it felt like he was breaching some boundary, even if Brian had nothing of the sort and it was John the one who was to teach him the basics of… well, living.
In no time, a warm bath had been run. A very intrigued (and very naked) Brian was helped inside it. John did his best to avoid having Brian slip on him and crack his skull open, though he almost failed a couple times.
Finally, the guitarist got safely sat in the bath. The water only reached up to Brian's abdomen.
"I... guess you'll love the bubbles," bringing out the soapy wet sponge, John gave it to Brian. "You rub your skin with this, and this… scented bubbly foam comes out. Come on, try it."
Brian just stared at the thing, beginning to explore it with his gaze, before a gust of chilly wind sneaked in through the door. The taller man shivered, hugging himself.
"Ah, I forgot to close that," John hurried over to close the door, before going back to Brian's side. "A-alright."
With dismay he realized Brian had yet to even use the sponge on himself.
"Come on, Brian, it's easy. Just… rub it against you," John urged. "Easy."
Brian just stared at him helplessly.
"Can't."
"Why can't you?"
"Can't."
John all but groaned.
"Cold." Brian continued. "It-is-cold."
"It got cold a moment ago, but now it is not. Now you'll get sick if you keep-"
The younger man had been beginning to lose his patience with the way things were flowing; however, one look at Brian's helpless gaze had him just sighing in resignation.
"Alright, then. I'll help you this time," John sat on the bath side. "But I'm afraid you'll have to... see for yourself afterwards."
Gathering a bit of water with a bowl they kept in the bathroom, John gently poured it over Brian's shoulders, exposed from not reaching the water; it ran down the rest of his still dry skin. The guitarist just let out a surprised " huh!", shivering again. He had yet to verbally conceal his every emotion, but he'd get there.
It took a bit of work, but in no time Brian was successfully washing better with the sponge, while the bassist helped with his oily hair. There was a little incident when the guitarist didn't think of closing his eyes as the foaming shampoo ran down his wet face and toward his eyes, but besides that, the bath ran considerably smoothly.
John had to admit he had a bit of fun doing Brian's hair. Once they were out of the bathroom, he spent a good while just fixing the mane with his fingers and carefully styling Brian's beloved curls; he'd watch intently how the wet locks of hair bounced into curls as he rolled them around his finger, all the while telling him of the dedicated care his old self always used to have with his hair.
Never in a million years would he have gotten to do this with the old Brian.
...
The days passed, and eventually turned into a very educative, very hectic couple of weeks; it took that much and then a little longer for the bassist to reason this situation was real, and a work of magic badly done, too focused on caring for his very tall, very fussy responsibility.
As it turned out, Brian was good at the learning of words, for a blank adult's brain; he... quite liked to speak. His sponge-like memory was as sharp in memorizing the theory as it was in performing the practice.
Maybe too sharp.
"Now, let's try again," John held up the little bag. "What do we call these?"
Brian stared for a moment, then smiled.
"John said the answer to me."
"And what's the answer?" asked John.
"It's," said Brian, smiling wider. "Farters."
"No!" John was just alarmed at this point. "I-I told you about that because Roger is the only one with a mind to have called them that. And it was just once. Please. I thought we were over this. It's a bag of beans."
"Not farters?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because then she'll never get you back to normal if she arrives all of the sudden a-and hears that and thinks I have had taught you to speak like- like some-"
At this point, Brian was just staring, bewildered.
Right, John thought with a sigh. He won't understand you babbling away. Go slower with him.
"There's no such thing as farters."
"But John said-"
"No."
...
"I know it can get to be a lot. I too have family like that," the girl half smiled. "But one loves them through all. You'll just have to hold your cousin by the hand when you two are outside so that he won't do that again."
It had been a frightening moment indeed. Just when John had thought of telling Brian about the dangers of crossing the street, the taller man was already halfway into the busy road, following some bird; a truck almost got him. Chaos had ensued.
John himself was barely recovering from the shock, and now found hopelessly trembling.
"Sorry," Brian said for what felt to John like the umpteenth time. "Won't do it again."
"You don't have to say sorry so many times now… I-it's alright."
It sort of looked awkward. Brian was a tall man as it was; skinny and lanky, but still tall, tall. The clumsiness that came with this whole affair John would've found comedic if it didn't have him on the verge of a heart attack every two minutes.
Pesky birds.
When his gaze later sought Brian's, this one's eyes were set on the cloudy London skies.
"Couldn't catch it," his solemn hazel gaze traced the grey skies, almost seeking. "It was blue, and escaped me."
Both men sat in silence for a moment. Brian's brow furrowed, absent.
"Does it ever return to me?"
It took John a while to answer. When he did, it was a half-hearted "I don't know".
...
"And I, uh... I'll have to hold your hand like this," He took Brian's hand on his. The guitarist took his sweet time just staring at the gesture, amazed. "So- ouch, don't- don't squeeze like that."
"Oh?" The taller man looked at him, alarmed. "Why?"
"That hurts. That hurts me," John explained, and then carefully added. "And then I won't be able to play the bass again soon. Remember, you must not hurt people."
Brian nodded.
"I must not hurt people."
...
"Oh. Do I have any?"
"Any?"
"A mum and a dad."
John considered his answer for a moment.
"Well… of course you do?" said John. "Everyone has a mum and a dad. I've told you."
"What are they like? Do I look like them, or do they look like me? Do I call them mum and dad? Where are they?"
John chuckled, but then seemed to entertain it as he tried to remember.
"You know… before you became like this, you and I weren't really that close," said John. "So I don't remember much of what you might've told us. All I know for sure is that you are the one to look like them, not the other way round."
It was amazing how Brian knew to ask all that was actually important: how were they like. He didn't even ask for their names.
Brian hummed, near to the melody of the mockingbirds outside just out of reach - and then looked down and twiddled with the chords again. John continued after a moment.
"... But I also know for a fact you built the Red Special with your dad."
"Oh?" the curly haired man looked up, almost wide-eyed. "I did?"
"Yes. You've told us that before," reminisced John. "Your dad is an electrical engineer, like me; so he knew how to build such a thing. You love the Red Special very much. That's why I make sure you take good care of it."
"Did I also love my dad very much?"
"Yes, as you should..."
"And did he?" Brian leaned forward. "Love me?"
John remained silent for a moment.
"I'm sure he does."
...
"Don't look at them, Brian," said John while fishing the keys out of his pocket, even if they still were a few blocks away.
John tried to ignore the sneers and mean comments from the men. He knew what this looked like - But there was no way in hell he'd let go and risk anything happening to Brian. And he also didn't owe them any explanations.
It went fleeting as they made to turn the corner; he gasped and flinched when in no time the guys were right behind them, and then one of them in front, stopping them right on their tracks.
"Come ooon!" the leader of them all but slurred out, giving a toothy grin. "We just wanna talk."
Two sparrowhawks had set over a nearby fence, barely chirping from the bough they'd deserted forlorn.
"Is this what you do?" John frowned. "You- you bully people for being different?"
"We go for the freaks," the lad laughed and the others followed. "It's just such an unusual sight! Like a free walking circus."
John tried to walk past him, holding Brian's hand tighter, but another one blocked their way. That was a looming man. John unconsciously retreated a couple of steps, looking up at him.
"We... We have better business to do. I-I suggest you let us pass and we all move on with our lives."
"What business do fags have then?" The other man wiggled his eyebrows lewd, followed by his friends' snickers.
John grew pale, as Brian watched the whole back-and-forth like a ping pong match.
"W-we're not fags," said John. "He's-"
"Nah, mate! The one's a retard, and the other a stutterer!" One of the men all but shouted, seemingly so amused.
John was about to answer, when suddenly a force shoved him back. They had pushed Brian against him.
Brian could only gasp, holding onto John's arm.
"Does he even know how to defend himself?" the men's leader sneered, tilting his head. "Or must he be taught how to be a man?"
"I don't need any teaching on how to be a man," Brian puffed out his chest, remembering what John had said once. "I am a man."
"You sure are!" The others laughed, and then the man shoved him by the chest. Nothing physically harsh, but it took them by surprise.
"Hey, leave him alone." At this point John was panicking.
"Why won't he defend himself, then, if such a man?" The guy raised his eyebrow, a mocking smile never leaving his face. Then he tsk-ed, negating with his head in disapproval. "A real man wouldn't pull no punches, my boy."
"That's cuz' he ain't no real man, that one!" One of the others lamely added, followed by a couple laughters.
"I must not hurt people."
Yes, John could remember that. He himself had taught him that.
...
The incidents unfortunately didn't stop there; but it all served great teaching opportunities, if ever terrifying ones.
...
"Hey! What do you think you're doing, arsehole?" Somebody angrily shouted.
John jumped up when he heard a commotion, immediately looking at the source of the shouting. Where was Brian?
To his great dismay, Brian was there.
Right there. In the midst of the very commotion.
It felt as if his legs couldn't carry him fast enough as he hurried toward the other guitarist, who seemed just wronged at best.
"What do you think you're doing, man?" the other guy made to shove him. Brian just gasped and looked down.
"I just wanted to hug her," he said, defensively.
"That's my girlfriend!" the guy fumed. "Who told you you could just go and do that, huh?!"
Brian hesitated for a moment, while John frantically tried to figure out just how in God's good earth he'd managed to get himself in trouble, in so little time.
"John did," Brian started. "When you feel someone is nice to you, then-"
"Brian," the bassist finally reached out to him, placing a hand on his arm. "W-we need to go."
"No, no. You ain't getting out so easily," the fuming man started, clenching his fists. "we're going to take this outside, mate."
"H-he... hit his head! Doesn't know what he does," John started, grabbing Brian by the hand. "He's like a child."
"Like hell he knows," the man all but growled, beginning to approach. John and Brian gave a step back.
"Charles," a girl started, trying to take him by the shoulders to no avail.
John was about to hyperventilate now stuck in the midst of a small crowd that had suddenly gathered to watch things unfold. God, bless their hearts - just when had people become so rude and so nosey?!
"Charles," she said again, firmer this time. "It's alright, just leave it-"
Charles turned to her in outraged disbelief.
"Just leave it? Lily, he crossed a line with you."
"He's a child," she begged. "Just look at him. He doesn't know what he's doing. It's not worth it, let's just go."
He turned at him and then at her.
"He's a grown man."
"He's special," she insisted. "Mentally. Love, it's obvious. You're gonna beat up a mentally retarded boy?"
Now Charles seemed to just hesitate a bit, to the sheer relief of John.
"I don't know."
"Please. Love. Just let this go? For me?"
She seemed desperate for her boyfriend to just drop it. John actually felt bad for the girl.
With Charles' glare and a warning, the couple finally left.
...
After the commotion had passed and John had hastily reminded Brian how hugs worked, the guitarist just seemed thoughtful.
"... And if you truly want to hug someone, you ask them first. Did you forget to do that?" He finished helping Brian with the one shoelace the guitarist for some reason kept struggling with. "You say, may I hug you? See, May. Just like your surname."
He chuckled humorlessly. When the guitarist didn't even hum as a response, John looked up at him.
"What's the matter?" asked John. "It's alright now. You're safe, and you know better now... Do you?"
"What does 'retarded' even mean, in this... in con- in this context?" Brian asked, frowning. "Why do people insist on calling me that?"
John sat wordless for a moment, and then sighed.
"It's a word people came up with, to describe other people who are… delayed, mentally. You know what 'delay' means, right? From the dictionary I gave you with the encyclopedias," he asked. Brian nodded. "Well, that. Y-you're not that, though... People just like to talk about things they know nothing about. Better let them."
Brian just sat there again, thoughtfully.
Sometimes it was both a blessing and a curse how Brian sucked in new information like a sponge. He learned the intricacies of new words fast, but many awkward questions came with it.
"Okay," the guitarist finally said. "May I hug you?"
Like that one.
John just stared, surprised.
"I'm sorry?"
"Why are you sorry?"
"No, no," John sighed. "That's in the same context of 'I beg your pardon?'. I meant, what did you just ask of me?"
"May I hug you?" Brian didn't hesitate for a moment.
"Oh. Uh," John looked around, almost trapped. He rubbed at the back of his own neck. "W-well, we're in public, and you know what happens sometimes when we even hold hands and…"
He looked up. At Brian's stare, and his ever expectant smile, John just sighed, standing up.
"Let's just go home."
...
Because Brian seemingly refused to learn how dangerous the world truly was, even if John and the world itself kept rubbing that lesson in his face.
...
What was John supposed to say? Men are bigger, stronger, have big muscles and short hair and a penis? They're rowdy? They're insensible? Brian surely knew enough by now, so he was most likely just learning how to take the piss.
Still Brian stared with a cheeky smile, expectant. John had to fight off the urge to roll his eyes.
"Very funny."
Oh, but it was a tricky question, even if a joke; he had to word properly, and thread carefully. John had known, or heard of, plenty of men who didn't even fit in those categories. (John himself included. Because he recognized he was the biggest softie.)
Fidgeting a bit from his side of the bed, he cleared his throat and continued.
"Well… you're a man. A man. We have to clear that up if we don't want any confusion later," John chuckled anxiously. "Stop asking questions just to get a laugh out of them. And no, I'm- I'm not ready to give you the Talk."
Brian chuckled back, seemingly not recognizing John's anxiety behind his own grin.
"The Talk?" Brian stared after a while. "Huh."
Lately, it had become very entertaining to talk to Brian. He took everything John said like it was top quality entertainment, and made a lot of questions. Being honest, his curious nature had been showing from the very start, and John was more than happy to answer his every question. Figuring out a way to answer them was also very interesting.
That had also led to a reservation for an upcoming visit to the Planetarium, somehow. They had to start somewhere with that astronomy thing, even if the old Brian had been leaving it on hold. Only books wouldn't suffice when they had an entire world outside and ahead... Or so John had figured, anyway.
"Yes," John leaned back, his brown hair following and hanging over -but not quite as much as reaching- his back as he stretched and yawned. "The Talk. I should- I'll show you some cartoons on it someday, I guess... Or a book of sorts."
To be fair, John suspected that Brian knew more than he let on. It was only obvious, what with all the time spent among a sea of books.
He was beginning to wonder if the latest haircut had been a bad idea, when Brian picked up his accoustic guitar from beside the bed.
"Oh. Have you been practicing, like I told you?"
"Yes," Brian began to play a nameless tune on the stringed instrument.
It began simple and repetitive; but then, John picked up how at every repetition, a chord was added, and then a newer one, and Brian never forgot the last additions as he created each new pattern of sound. It was just subtle layers of details, but it was there.
He was getting there.
Perhaps muscle memory was doing its miracles, or maybe Brian just always did have an innate talent; either way, the bassist couldn't begin to express how happy that made him - Brian was doing so well!
"That's very impressive," John smiled tiredly, yawning and hugging his own legs, as Brian began an attempt at Beatles' Blackbird. "You're already very good at it. Could teach a thing or two to Freddie in no time."
...
"That's a beaver," John started. "It's taxidermied, of course, like I explained on our way here. But-"
"Why is she so quiet and still?" Brian asked with concern, closely looking at the beaver's stiff form.
"I-it's... a work of taxidermy."
"Why is that so sad?"
"Because it's dead. I've told you of death before."
"Why am I sad?"
"Brian, Brian..." John sighed.
"But no-one should have the right to just take a little guy's corpse and expose it, I reckon. That is horrible. Immoral."
Brian then scooted impossibly closer to John's side, looking positively haunted.
That was another thing John ought to talk to him about. This Brian could be way too touchy, and though now he was sort of the only one besides his own family, Freddie (and maybe Roger) that John wasn't as uncomfortable with when it came to physical touch, it'd be unacceptable if he were to pull the same with another person. Only God knows what Brian might get himself into.
"Let's take you to see the live ones. It's... beyond me, why you'd beg me to bring you here in the first place. I know you like to watch and judge everything you don't like," John spoke as he led Brian by the hand throughout the exposition. "But that isn't exactly healthy."
Finally, they reached the live animal contact area; a more open, farm-like space, with its hay-covered grounds and its wooden walls painted like those of a red barn. That was when the true Brian was actually set free.
"… Maybe I shouldn't have been feeding you meat," grimaced John, as if remembering something.
"What is it with meat, now?" Brian absentmindedly asked, looking around in awe, and then immediately began to very nearly swoon over every animal he came across; from the colorful little fish, to some spindly old pony; took a liking to an injured brownish owl and everything, though it could only be admired from afar. It became clear to John that he did not have the heart to tell him about the reality of his beloved smoked meat on rice. Not yet.
For the time being, the main ingredient was still soy.
Brian's love for animals was already in his nature and not something John had to teach. Much like any other feeling, really.
...
"You... don't love girls like you love chocolate," John laughed under Brian's confused stare. "That's silly. Here. What do you feel when you see a girl?"
Brian thought hard on it.
"I usually like their hair," he finally said. "And they smell nice. Men's cologne is too strong."
This would be easier if only John, 1. knew how past Brian perceived attraction to the opposite gender, and 2. knew how he himself would even put it.
Did the old Brian even have a girlfriend somewhere? A girlfriend who'll be most likely confused? Would John have to go through Brian's old love songs? Again?
John sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He also wished this hadn't came up right at tea time. Their tea now lay forgotten, lukewarm beside the cold scones at the bedside nightstand.
He wasn't exactly teaching Brian to love. Feeling already came natural to the man, either with his old memories or lack thereof. He was teaching him how to go about it; because the risk of accidentally weirding women out was still there.
John couldn't teach how to feel, basically. He could only teach how to better process the feelings and then channel them.
Or at least, he could try.
"No, no. You see, you wouldn't look at… well, me, and at a girl, and feel the same thing. Or anything remotely similar, really. You'd find… I-I guess you'd find her eyes pretty or something?"
"I haven't looked at any girl long enough to conclude that her eyes are pretty," argued Brian. "And your eyes are pretty."
John blushed and almost spat out his tea, coughing a few times.
"Alright, no."
"Brown and still green. Like mine. Colors of nature."
"... That's... nice. It's called hazel."
"They seem a bit like a galaxy if I look hard enough."
"I-I don't really think you should look hard at anyone's eyes," John rubbed at the back of his own head. "It's uncomfortable."
"How else do I know if the eyes are pretty, then? Now you're being… C-contradicting. Con. Contradictory," Brian groaned. "I'll just find me another teacher, then."
"No, you can't."
"A better one."
"I'm quite sure you can't," John grabbed a scone. "But you're free to try."
"Alright, then. I shall."
"Please, don't. You'll only manage to get me in trouble. Again."
"Okay. Do you love anyone?"
John frowned.
"W-what have I told you about sudden changes of subject? And about awkward questions?"
"Do you love me?"
John buried his face in the pillow and groaned, ignoring the scone crumbs on the sheets, while Brian kept poking at his back and asking that same question over and over.
...
"Of course you love clogs," John huffed, struggling to get the shoe to fit Brian's foot. "You used to wear these all the time."
"They're uncomfortable," protested Brian, almost pouting. " 'm not loving this."
"I'm sorry, but you have to love them," John frowned in confusion while raising Brian's leg a bit, to read the numbers under the clog. "Not sure why it's such a struggle. I'm pretty sure I bought them your size…"
Brian just stared, and then huffed in disbelief.
"You are teaching me to wear these bloody shoes-"
"Language." John sighed.
"... Which are likely going to affect my foot shape in the long run. Are you going to teach me how to wear a clown's nose next?"
Looking up at his fellow guitarist, John's heart dropped for a second. Not again.
Brian had been physically picking up certain patterns of expression proper of John, through no fault of his; he was the one person Brian spent the most days with, after all. Yet he couldn't exactly teach the older man to drop a way to grin or grimace too reminiscent of John, when it all came subconscious to him. He just hoped it didn't interfere much with the Return.
(This was also one of the reasons why, when it came to Brian, John didn't allow much closeness to form with other people.)
"Soon the Witch will return, and I hadn't remembered anything about the clogs before, so I figured…" John thoughtfully rubbed at his own chin. "... It wasn't too late. Walk around to see how well they fit you?
"John, it is too late!" Brian remained sat, soundly stomping his feet several times on the floor, to find the clogs' wooden material thumped heavily. "I look ridiculous!"
"No, don't do that."
"Teach me how to sing or something! I know I ought to be a singer. You brought me old recordings."
"I'm the worst singer," John grimaced. "I'll find you some vocalist instructor soon."
"Please, do."
...
"H-how do you deal with the fluid," he hiccuped, all reddish eyes and a runny nose.
John struggled to find an immediate answer, crouched in front of Brian.
"W-well, your usual self would usually not hold back on expressing your feelings," he pondered out loud. "Quite open. You just were a bit more… composed about it. A-and poetic."
I shouldn't have left his TV on Disney, thought John, wondering just how in the world it had gone from Mickey Mouse to a documentary about suicidal lemmings.
The very same had happened once before, upon finding out the neighbor's parrot's chatter had been forever cut off by some stray cat.
John whipped out his handkerchief, cursing that it was the only piece of cloth he had near, and placed it under Brian's nose.
"Blow, like I taught you when you had the allerg-"
Brian promptly blew his nose harsh, closing his eyes tightly. John grimaced, pressing the cloth well against the other's nose, before retrieving his hand.
"... A-alright," John cleared his throat, still grimacing, trying to shake off the now sticky-wet cloth that clung to his hand. "Alright."
Having finally got rid of it, he turned back to Brian, who only seemed the slightest bit calmer.
"W-what you do now is... try to breathe, and-"
"What do friends do?" asked Brian very nasally, staring through bloodshot eyes.
John didn't quite understand the question.
"What?"
"What do friends do when their other friend cries? What do you do now?"
John mouthed the quietest 'oh.'
Marvelous! He was a terrible friend.
He'd been so focused on teaching Brian what to do, he completely forgot about doing the comforting part of it himself. Even when it should've gone first .
Gulping, he cleared his throat awkwardly. It had been way easier to deal with guiding the other through anger or even fear.
Being honest, John had never known what to do when comforting anyone before; and he would've hated comforting Brian even way back then. He'd surely do a lousy job, just awkwardly sitting there and trying to think of what to say to the other person, before they had enough of him and went to cry elsewhere.
Freddie would have known what to do, he thought with a sigh.
...
Brian shook his head to rid of the unpleasant memory, trying to focus on the words before him.
That other night had been tears, and so were many others; but they had made way for this very day.
The Big Day.
... Now Nighttime. John paced anxiously as Brian silently tried to re-read the last volume of his encyclopedias. The chilly wind ruffled his curls and turned his nose pink. Very hard he tried not to shiver too much at the cold night-breeze and longingly look at the warm safety of their van nearby.
"When is your birthday, again?"
"I'm not that forgetful, Deaky. No need to interrogate me for test finals," He leaned against the van, passing onto a new chapter. Of Soul Music & Its Icons. "I learned my stuff. You taught well."
"A-and your medical history?" asked John, still looking around, as if not having heard Brian.
The guitarist only sighed as an answer.
John couldn't believe the lady. Was this why he had driven them to the bloody countryside? To be met with nothing?
"She- she said she'd meet us right on this hill today!" The younger man checked his watch for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. "She'd be right back with the lads and your old self and- she's late."
"She'll come," Brian reassured emptily, not looking up from his book. "And then I'll be no more."
John turned to him, sighing. That had truthfully been one thing the bassist had avoided thinking too much about.
Perhaps it would've been better to find a way to guide Brian through that fear, but it was too late now.
"We don't know that for sure... Maybe she'll just give you your old memories back, on top of the new ones you've made," he approached the older man, gaze softening. "We can... we can ask her, I reckon."
Brian half smiled.
"You reckon?"
"I reckon."
Sharing a smile, both gasped as a shooting star passed them by, completely overshadowing the nearing flap of a thrush wing. But it did not care as it lightly approached, flying its moonlight dance to the tune of its Nightingale companion.
"And the Pleiades are looking especially bright tonight," observed Brian, still looking up. He felt a good thing approaching, as if some wintry stream in his mind flowed warm to life by the early hints of a soon budding spring.
Of course, his conscious brain didn't put it like that. Not yet.
The Pleiades statement just made John look all concerned again. He turned away, nibbling at his nails. Brian sighed. "What is it now?"
"W-what if you didn't learn enough over these last months? And then you malfunction, like she said?"
Silence.
The nightingale above them flew down, finding the van's roof to be very interesting.
"... Are you calling me dumb, John?" Brian stared.
The thrush wasn't as shy, dancing ever nearer.
Under Brian's questioning stare, John couldn't help stifle a giggle.
"I forgot to teach you not to stare. Please don't do that."