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cutegirlmayra · 3 years

Note

I love your jealous Sonic and I think the most canon one is boom, so may I ask for Boom!Sonamy with jealous Sonic? If you need a more specific idea maybe Amy gets a pet like a puppy that takes up all her attention so Sonic feels left out and in competition and feels the dog doesn't like him and doesn't want to share Amy.

You can find me talking about this prompt at 21:16 on the Pajama Blogs!

Hehe, jealous Sonic, it would be more canon in Boom, you’re right. I agree and share your opinions lolol but I think this would be cute and I hope I do it justice!

PROMPTS ARE ON SHUTDOWN! Sorry, you missed the grand opening and will have to wait till next time :( You can still ask questions though! But they need to be in accordance to the blog rules~<3

Prompt:

Comedy Chimp was in a hysteria of panic, the news had just announced the most popular celebrity pet: Tinkle Dipples, to be housed in Hedgehog Village while preparing to shoot a cameo in the famous Tommy Thunder movies.

Eggman and Amy compete in a tournament/competition to win the right to take care of Tinkle Dipples for the shooting, since his manager is going fangirl over Tommy Thunder, she doesn’t want to care for him and instead, has Amy--the winner of the tournament--sign some legal documents and take off to pursue her hero.

Sympathizing a bit with the manager but more excited about the cute, idol puppy, Amy takes her job very seriously as Eggman whines and complains about his loss and plans to do something about it..!

“I knew I should have played Dynamite Dalmatian but she had Rover Clover on the field, you can’t EXPLODE ROLL WITH MAXIUM LUCK ON YOUR OPPONENTS TEAM!” he wept and tossed his arms about as they wacked against his bed.

Orbot and Cubot just looked to each other, unsure how to comfort him. “Sir, perhaps scheming against Sonic and his friends while one of their prominent members is distracted could prove useful and make you feel better?” Orbot stated, as the two held up a pen and some graph paper, “Scheming always puts you in a better mood for evil...” He encouraged again.

Collecting himself and rubbing his massive hands under his glasses, he sniffled as he took the paper and started sketching. “Ohh...hoo... hoo...oh-ho? Oh ho! Oh-ho-ho-ho-wha-hahaha!!!” with soft cries that suddenly turned manic with evil, he scribbled more furiously and immediately cranked his back and threw his arms to an angle in his signature laughter.

Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles were playing beachball when Sticks poked her head out of the local garage dump, “Heeeey, wait a minute!” she threw a banana peel off her head a second, “Volleyball and Beachball are the same things! Why are they called differently!? Do they respond to the same name!?”

“Guess you could call it Beach Volleyball.” Tails shrugged, “Though, technically, beachball is the thing you use to play volleyball...” As he continued, Knuckles spiked and knocked him down while he was contemplating it.

“Haha! Snooze you loose!” Knuckles mocked, throwing his arms down to point at Tails.

“Grr... Knuckles! We’re on the same team!” He spat out sand and dusted himself off.

“Oh.” Knuckles then gestured to himself, “Well, then I was awake and quaked!”

Tails shook his head, “Sonic, do you have to play on your own team?”

“What? I’m fast enough for two!” Showing off his amazing speed, Sonic zipped around the court to where it looked like Sonic was literally playing by himself, “I could even play all teams!” He snatched the ball from the ground and pushed--or lightly placed--Knuckles and Tails out of the field to then play the game by himself.

“Still seems a bit unfair, though.” Tails pouted, folding his arms.

“No, no. Shh!!! I wanna see which team wins!” Knuckles became excited, “Woo! Go, Left field Sonic! Ah! No! Watch out, Right field Sonic! Nooo..!!! Oh, phew... Wait-Sonic!” Knuckles went through typical spectators reactions, gripping his head, tugging on his hair, before cheering yet again, “Yeeeahhh! Good forward arm there, Left field Sonic! Rooted for your along! ... Hey, which one’s Sonic again?” he looked to Tails.

“At least you got the fields right.” Tails side-commented before stepping back up to Sonic. “Is this because Amy wouldn’t come down to the beach today?”

“Yeah, we can’t help it if I’m too good for the two of ya.” He twirled the ball on his finger, “Besides, Amy can’t--and won’t--part with that Tinkle... Dinkle... Winkle... whatever his name is!” Sonic fanned a hand out, masking his own opinions on it. “Amy’s obsessed with that thing...”

“Huh, I always thought Amy was obsessed with y-” Tails seemed to panic and jumped up to cover Knuckles’s mouth.

“Knuckles-!” he cried out, then lowered his voice to whisper down to him, clinging to his head and shoulder. “We’re supposed to pretend we don’t know anything about that...”

“Anything about what now?” Sonic was still doing tricks with the volleyball.

“N-nothing!” Tails waved his hands out and flew a moment in the air. “An-anyway, I don’t think I’m really in the mood to keep playing. I’ve got uh... some... some engineering stuff to work on! Bye, Sonic!” He waved and took off.

“Engine-erring!?” Sticks spat out a flat tire that had been thrown away that she was gnawing on to find the trapped gerbil that she believed made the car’s wheels turn and free it from it’s imprisonment at last. “Oh no, you don’t!” she jumped out and rushed after him, barking as he flew up and in a bit of surprised fright, tried to dodge her but she jumped and grabbed his foot. “You aren’t making nothing to torture these gerbils anymore!”

“W-wha-what are you talking about!? Le-let goooo!!!” The two flew off and seemed to crash somewhere.

“I-uh... better check on that.” Knuckles saw Sonic offering to share the ball with him but decided to check on his friends first. “Sticks! Wait! I’m sure that nice village of Gogobas are still safely in their pity parties!”

Sonic sighed, “Oooh...” And let the ball go to kick it, letting it roll as a Eggman spybot was hit out of a bush and flew up.

“Guess I’ll check on Amy then...” Sonic took off towards her house.

“Hehehe-huhuhu...” Eggman rubbed his hands together, sitting happily in front of his screen in his evil lair. “There we go... I’ll snatch Mr. Tinkle Dipples the second Amy’s distracted by Sonic!” He roared confidently in laughter. “My machine is almost complete! Orbot! Cubot!”

“Yes, Doctor?!” Cubot nervously saluted as Eggman turned around to face the two in his spinning chair.

“Make sure my robot pooch is fully operational!”

“Yes, doctor!” The two took off...

Sonic raced to the door, but before knocking, looked himself over in the reflection of a window and adjusted his quills, then tightened his bandana. He choked, loosening the bandana again and grumbling to himself something but the only audible line one could hear was--”Never learned to tie a tie...” before rushing back to door and knocking this time.

“Busy!” Amy cried from within.

His entire confident air deflated, and he drooped forward with his arms hanging down, “Oooh... Uh, it’s me! Sonic! ... Sonic The Hedgehog!” He puffed himself up just a little bit more, calling and leaning more towards the door. “Hero extraordinary! ... So much better than a puppy...” He folded his arms and mumbled the last bit to himself.

“Oh-oh... C-coming!” Amy seemed to scramble but Sonic could hear multiple layers of locks, chairs, wooden-door stoppers and more start being cleared away like a construction site. She peeked open the door, “Come in!” she chimed, “Quickly, quickly, quickly..!” She then rushed him in and put one single lock back on the door. “Eh, I’ll take of that later.”

“Woah, what’s with the, uh... high-end security arrangement, Ames?” Sonic thumbed-back to the door but Amy rushed over to a stool with a soft pillow on it, making the little puppy look like royalty as his tongue hung out and he drooled.

His eyes grew intensely large like in anime and shined, trying to such Sonic into his cuteness as Sonic felt the pull but leaned away.

It shone with heavenly aura as it’s eyes kept growing bigger but Sonic about-faced and turned to Amy, “Uhh... How’s the pooch-sitting coming along-” he was surprised to see she was completely captivated by the puppy and already squatting by the stool, gawking and taking pictures as her own eyes looked bigger than normal.

“Aww, cute puppy! Sweet boy! Look over hereee~” she cooed and coddled as it continued to pant, it’s eyes normal to Sonic now. “Who’s the cutest, wutest, sweetest, squishiest cheek boy ever?~” she then scrunched up his cheeks and played with them as they jiggled and wobbled to her touch, spraying drool everywhere...

“Oh.” He realized he was being ignored. “Alright, no worries, just the most dashing man of the hour in your house... No need to over-celebrate.” He frowned and pushed his arms straight down again. “Dumb dog.” he muttered under his breath.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY!?” Amy’s big, sparkling eyes went right into his face, as though a brainwashed-slave to this puppy as he shook his head in intimidation at her creepy smile.

“N-no-nothing! Just how cute the puppy iswh! Is-!” he almost mimicked Amy’s baby-talk on accident. “Ehem, Amy, I normally would never do this under typical and honorable circumstances but in this case-” He shoved her hands to his cheeks, “I think you see my point.” he beamed.

“...Uh, I guess?” Amy took her hands off his cheeks, “You hungry or something?”

He deflated yet again, his eyes just saucers of white. “N... No.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“...Yes.” He shrugged down, and as she went to the kitchen, he glared and clenched his jaw at the puppy. He zipped over to it, “Listen you, I don’t know what fame has done to your head or anything, but I’m not here to stand for your pompous treatment of my friend!”

The dog continued to drool, one eye blinking.

“But I’ll have you know that I’m the big shot in these parts! And Amy just happens to be madly in love with me!” He pointed to himself and then picked up the constantly panting dog. “Not you. So you can wag your little tail and stick out your tongue somewhere else!” He dashed to one of Amy’s bird cages and shoved the dog in, causing a minor yelp from it but it wasn’t hurt, just surprised as Sonic tarped it and headed back to Amy.

Sitting at the counter, he then crossed his legs, “So-ho-ho~ Amy~ Have I told you about the one time I-”

“Yep.” Amy continued to work on the food.

“I-I didn’t even say it.” Sonic squinted his eyes in suspicion at her.

“Uh-huh.”

“...Are you even listening to me?”

“All done!” she poured something into a bowl.

“Awesome! You’re cooking, might I say, is way better than Meh Burger when it comes to the ol’Sonic engine!” he rubbed his stomach and licked his chops before Amy swiped the bowl away from him as he went to bite down. “H-huh..? What just happened...” he spoke with his mouth open, mid-bite again, before he saw the puppy had mysteriously wound-up on the pillow stool again, Amy bringing the deluxe dog food over to him.

“Here you go, Mr. Tinkle Dinkles~ Yes, who’s hungry? Who’s the biggest star in Hedgehog Village and the world? And the whole wide wittle world? You are~ You are, you good boy~” she petted him as he leaned his head back, thumped his leg at her praise and loving scratches, and then flopped over her lap to gorge himself in her home-prepared dog food.

Sonic leaned against the couch, narrowing his eyes at the sight as he muttered more curses for the dog under his breath...

He had a thought bubble that then showed a chibi-version of Amy and the pooch, her scratching his belly and loving on him but the dog faded and a Chibi-Sonic replaced it. Snickering and cackling as Chibi-Amy continued her smothering but the Dog was now whining with it’s tail between it’s legs, trapped in a Meh Burger costume with a sign that read: ‘Will pee for attention’.

Sonic continued to snicker to himself before the doorbell rang again.

“Oh?” Amy lightly placed the dog back on his stool and used a finely made napkin with ‘Fuzzy Puppy Buddies’ logo on it to clean up his mouth before heading to the door. “Who could that be?”

While Amy was distracted, Sonic sped over to the dog, grabbed it, pulled back the window and tossed the dog with a under-handed swing out the window. It hung in the air a moment before going, “Oof?” like a little woof and fell straight down...

Into Eggman’s hands...

“Hehehe, hohoho..!” Eggman placed a mechanical dog down, doing the exact animations as the dumb little creature in the first place. “Now you’re coming with daddy sweetie~ Who’s a big, bright, beautiful star? You are~ You are Mr. Tinkle Dipples~ Uncle Eggy has a nice place set up just for you~” he wiggled his finger to the puppy and continued to adore it secretly while sneaking away.

“I’m gonna miss Metal Pooch.” Cubot wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Such beautiful destruction he caused...”

“Yeah... The steel heart mends, Cubot. Give it time to rust.” Orbot patted Cubot and helped turn him away from the sight.

When Amy closed the door again, she turned around with a shriek, panicking and tearing her house up looking for the dog. Sonic tried everything to get her to turn her attention to him, even momentarily throwing away his pride and setting up a floor-lounge with candle-lit setting with a rose in and across his mouth,... but she was too busy searching to see.

He spat out the rose and it hit her on the back of her head, “Ah! Sonic! We don’t have time for-...” Her eyes shrunk at the scene, and it might have been enough as their eyes met and romantic music started playing as he lifted up his foot and clicked a radio with his heel.

“Who’s a good boy..?” he flirted, but suddenly...

“BARK. BARK. I AM BARKING LIKE A CUTE, WITTLE BOY. BARK. BARK.”

“Oh my stars!” Amy raced to the window, “Mr. Tinkle Dipples!? What are you doing out here?” she had big, anime eyes again... as though love was blinding her from seeing the fakeness of the dog.

She cradled it in her arms after reaching down the window to get it.

“BARK. BARK. I AM THE GOODEST OF BOYS.” It’s robot voice was a dead giveaway, but Sonic was amazed to see that Amy kept caring for it, spoon-feeding it as it took the food but lifted its tail to dispel it out the other end.

“Ohh~ Did Tinkle Dipples make a wittle present-mess-le?” Amy put her hands to her hips as Sonic couldn’t take it anymore.

“HE’S A ROBOT!” He spindashed the Eggman robot as it powered down.

“Ohh... Goodest of b-b-boys...” and shut down.

“NNNOOOO!!!” Amy freaked out, crying and holding him in her lowered arms.

“Amy! Snap out of it! It’s a decoy!” Sonic put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, and her eyes returned to normal. “H-huh? Sonic? When did you get here?”

He lowered his eyes in agitation, but then the news came on.

“This just came in, T.W Barker is suing Amy Rose for a violation of her contract, that’s right, MR. TINKLE DIPPLES IS MISSING! AHH!! THAT POOR, INNOCENT BOY! AHH! AHH, THE AGONY! Amy’s reputation is ruined by the way and the world will never forgive her awful crime of LOSING THE MOST ADORABLE PUPPY IN THE WOR-RL-RLD!!!” The eagle was losing himself in his grief, as Amy’s eyes twitched and she brought out her hammer, looking ready to murder Sonic.

“Wait!” He dodged, “Amy, listen to me! YIKES!” he had to dodge Amy all the way to Eggman’s, where they defeated him to get the puppy back, who was still as still and in a loop-animation as ever, but wagged its tail and licked Sonic’s face when successfully brought to the manager.

Amy’s reputation was spared and Cubot and Orbot got Tails to fix Metal Pooch, leaving him to a happy life with Mombot.

She sat and stroked him, “THERE. THERE. WHO’S THE GOODEST BOY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD BESIDES MY TWO OTHER EVIL BOY SONS?”

Metal Pooch continued the animation cycle, “I AM. I AM GOODEST BOY OF YOUR TWO EVIL SONS. BARK. BARK.”

Eggman frowned, watching from a window, “Ohh... Wait, how’d he end up there!?”

Cubot still visits to give him screws as a treat.

Amy looked to her friends, “Huh, I guess the moral here is to not let celebrities take over your lives and make you forget about your real friends...” She opened her arms up to everyone but instead, T.W Barker popped up, shocking everyone.

“And always keep your contractual obligations~” he winked to the camera with a sly grin.

“Evenwhenabluehedgehog,that’sbeentheloveofyourlifeforwhoknowshowlong,isflirtingwithyoujustbecausejealousyisapartofacopingmechanismoftennotprescribedwithourcompany’sproductremembertobrushyourteethandsayyourprayerssuckersthisistotallylegitmarketingschemes.”

he muttered under his breath as though the legalities at the end of a radio or t.v commercials.

END.

#sonic boom #cutegirlmayra #sonamy #boom!sonamy #sonamy boom #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sonic boom prompt #sonamy prompt #fuzzy puppy buddies #eggman #boom!eggman #eggman boom

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ronniesshoes · 4 years

Text

Keep Yourself Alive

Previous / read it on ao3

A note: There’s a brief mention of J.K. Rowling, and I just want to make it clear that the tweet Freddie talks about is made up and in no way refers to her recent transphobic tweets. That part of the fic was written almost a year ago, and the fic itself takes place in 2018. If any of my trans and nonbinary readers want me to delete it I will, no questions asked.

Another, less important note: I had to post this in a rush so I might go back and edit a few things once I have time to read through it. No major changes, I promise!

Massive thanks to my wonderful friend @theseasofrhye for always cheering me on. Love you to pieces!

“What?”

Freddie looks up from his idle sketching at the sound of Brian’s voice. It doesn’t sound like him at all, his voice weak and stuffed with a choked up sort of disbelief. Freddie tries to catch his eye, but Brian is staring into space, listening intently.

“How—” Brian tries. Clears his throat. “How long have you known?”

His nostrils flare, and his jaw is tight, but he doesn’t look angry.

“Right,” Brian says tersely. Freddie wishes he knew what they were talking about. “I have to go now. No, I—. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I love you, too.”

Brian puts his phone down at the table, staring at it for a long while until he finally looks at Freddie. His eyes are glazed over with tears, and there’s a tell-tale twitch to his lips. Freddie rushes to his side.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling in front of Brian when he drops his gaze to the floor. Brian’s eyes land briefly on his before they skitter away again. Freddie puts his hands on Brian’s knees.

Brian is silent for a long while. His eyes seem to have fixed on a point behind Freddie’s left shoulder, and his jaw works hard to prevent tears from falling. Freddie gives him the space he needs, worried but aware Brian will clam up if forced to speak.

Finally, Brian opens his mouth. Closes it again and swallows. Freddie rubs a soothing hand up and down his leg.

“Dad—” He lets out a shaking breath. “My dad has cancer.”

The words hit Freddie like a punch in the gut, and he feels his throat close up. “Oh honey.”

He wordlessly squeezes Brian’s leg. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to help. It’s not fair that this is happening to Brian of all people, Brian who works so hard and has already been through so much.

“It’s his lungs,” Brian says, voice suddenly stripped off emotion, “they reckon it’s caused by his smoking. Among other things.”

“How are they treating it?” Freddie asks, and his voice comes out deceptively calm.

Brian shrugs. “They don’t know yet. Chemo probably. Might operate.”

Brian’s trouser leg is rough against his palm, and Freddie feels helpless and inadequate. He knows it’s not about him, that whatever he says won’t make the pain go away, but he cannot stand seeing Brian hurt like this.

“How do you feel?” His voice is gone now, reduced to a whisper.

“Angry,” Brian says. “Helpless.”

“Wh—”

“He’s always lived like this,” Brian interrupts, jaw working. “Mum’s tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t hear. Continued to smoke, continued to eat like shit. And now we’re paying the price.”

“Brian …”

“Why’s he doing this? Why—” The front door bangs open, and Brian’s mouth snaps shut.

“Do you want me to tell them?” Freddie asks quietly as he moves to stand.

Brian shrugs.

There’s the clunk of boots hitting the ground, a rustle of fabric, then a voice, unmistakably Roger’s, “aha! Told you they were here.”

Freddie glances at Brian, but he’s picking at his nails, mind elsewhere.

John and Roger enter then, both wearing equally big grins. Their presence seems loud and jarring.

“Missed us?” Roger asks, looping his arms around Brian from behind and pressing a loud kiss to his cheek. “Hi.”

Freddie tries to suppress a wince, but John’s sharp eyes pick up on it immediately. He looks at Brian, then back at Freddie.

“Hi,” Brian says, voice strange. Freddie’s heart races. It’s like watching a cat crossing the road about to be run over—he knows the blow is going to be fatal, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Roger frowns and removes his arms. “Are you alright?”

Brian nods but doesn’t answer. He gets up to pull open one of the cupboard doors.

Roger looks after him, eyebrows drawn together. Then he relaxes. “Forgot my cigarettes, I’m just gonna go out and have one. I’m dying for a smoke.”

Brian visibly tenses. Freddie is half out of his chair before he realises there’s nothing he can do. Roger and John send him equally alarmed looks.

“I think Iʼm gonna go for a walk,” Brian says, voice hoarse and very much not looking at any of them.

"Of course dear," Freddie says, wanting so badly to go with him, but recognising his need for being alone. "We'll be here when you get back."

Brian nods stiffly and crosses the living room floor. Freddie listens for the swish of his coat, the stomp of boots. Soon after, the door closes.

Roger and John turn towards him simultaneously. "What's wrong with him?"

Freddie takes a deep breath, looks into their concerned faces. His nails bite into the palm of his hand. "He just got a call from his parents," he says, heart clenching. "His dad has cancer"

Roger's eyebrows draw down in obvious distress, and he’s grabbing the back of Brian’s vacated chair. A flicker of emotion shows on John's face.

“How bad is it?” Roger asks at last. His voice is a hoarse whisper.

"I don't know," Freddie says, matching his volume, "they were still looking into treatment. I don't know if Brian was told which stage it was in."

A long, uncomfortable silence permeates the flat as they process. Freddie feels sick with worry.

"Fuck," Roger says, dumping himself into the chair, and the breaking of the silence works like magic.

"I don't know what he needs," Freddie says, feeling small under the weight of his concerns, "I'm afraid he'll shut us out, that he’ll do something stupid."

"I don't think he will," John says. "We've all dealt with grief. He'll come around soon enough."

"What about the tour?" Freddie asks, hating himself as soon as the words leave his mouth.

"Let's give him some time, he'll decide what's best for him. Worst case we find someone to fill in, but let's not worry unnecessarily. I’m sure we’ll know more once he’s had time to process."

Roger scrapes his chair back.

"Where are you going?" Freddie asks, reaching to pull him back by his shirt.

John grabs him by the wrist and shakes his head mutely. His hand finds the back of Freddie’s neck, fingers moving in a gentle caress.

The door slams, and Freddie slumps back. John's touch is comforting, and now that they're alone, he feels tears well up in his eyes. Unable to stop them, and knowing John doesn't care, he lets them fall.

"It's so unfair," he whispers, and John pulls a chair over and sits down. Freddie leans against him, and John wraps his arms around him.

"I know," John says.

"Does it hurt you?" The words come out strangled, but he suppresses his urge to hide his face in John's shoulder and instead looks at him, needing to know. John hesitates.

"It feels strange," he says, "numbing, in a way. Am I supposed to help him because I’ve been through the same thing? Even if I wanted to, I can't offer words of comfort because my own situation is an example of how it can end in spite of all hope and prospects."

Freddie tightens his hold around John's waist. "It’s not your fault,” he whispers, fingers curling in the fabric of his jumper, “if anything you're a perfect example of how life goes on. There's comfort in that, too."

John drops a kiss to his hair. "We'll have to see how he's feeling when he comes back."

"I wish it hadn't happened," Freddie says, "it's not fair."

John makes a noise at the back of his throat. "No, it's not."

"He looked so happy just half an hour ago,” Freddie says, heart aching. “He and Roger seem to have made up finally."

John hums. "It’s a good thing he has Roger to talk to. I think it’ll make it easier."

“I love Roger, but he’s not exactly the nurturing type, is he?" Freddie says, listening to the steady beat of John’s heart.

John lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "He can be alright. I think he dislikes feeling useless."

"He and me both," Freddie sighs, rubbing at the drying trail of tears on his cheeks. "When did life get this complicated?"

John smiles. "When we grew up and discovered that our parents have their own struggles and can’t protect us. But life has become more interesting since then, don't you think?"

"I suppose.”

“You suppose,” John repeats, teasing, “don’t give me that. You love it when life is complicated. And if it isn’t, you’ll make it that way.”

“That feels decidedly backhanded,” Freddie says, grabbing John by the knee and shaking it.

John laughs. “You know what I mean. You love a good challenge.”

“I don’t love it when my best friend’s father has cancer,” Freddie says, feeling tired and fragile.

“That’s not the greatest news to receive, I’ll admit,” John says, “but it’s gonna be alright, don’t you think? We’ll be alright.”

“Hm,” Freddie says, decidedly unconvinced.

John is silent for a while. Freddie looks up, searching the familiar features. John meets his eyes. “Do you have any paper at hand?”

♛ ♛ ♛

“Alright, what’s next?” Freddie asks, pushing his finished drawing aside.

"Draw Roger wearing a top hat and a cape made of kittens," John says, giggling as he surveys the drawing.

"Made of?"

John laughs harder. "Not like a fur cape. I want actual, live kittens."

"How is that even gonna work?" Freddie demands. John's laughter is infectious.

"I thought that maybe if they all held paws they could stay together? Or tails?"

Freddie leans forward, elbows on the table. "There's no way Roger could get kittens to do that."

"No, really it's their shot, they're just using him as a prop. They've dreamt of this, Freddie, dreamt of it for ages. They just want to be famous. Like we do."

"I'm not sure your story is plausible," Freddie says, but he picks up his pen anyway. "Alright, how long have I got for this one?"

"It's always funnier the longer you spend on it because you just mess it up even more," John says, “five minutes?”

"I think maybe it’s your turn," Freddie says, lightly kicking John’s ankle under the table.

"Alright," John says, picking up a sheet of paper and reaching for a pen. "What do you want me to draw?"

Freddie purses his lips, looking to the ceiling in thought. He smiles. "I want you to draw Brian in space,” he says, “but make it gay."

"Brian and Roger in space, then?"

"John!" he says, "it's not official yet, we have to pretend we don't know anything."

"Right. Because they’re here right now."

"We don't know anything before they decide to tell us," Freddie says firmly. He’s certain it won’t be long—he and Brian have a wine night planned in a few days. "And anyway, I was thinking more along the lines of burlesque."

"What?"

"Brian," Freddie says, doodling a mop of hair on a previous drawing.

"Brian doing burlesque in space?"

"Yes," Freddie says, looking into John’s skeptic eyes. "I'm sure that's gonna be just wonderful."

John raises his eyebrows but doesn’t argue. "Right. How will I know you're not peeking if we're doing it at the same time?"

"Hm," Freddie says, looking around. He notices a scarf draped over Rogers' vacated chair and reaches for it. "Blindfolds!"

"One of those days, eh?"

Freddie laughs. "If you don't trust me without ..."

"Oh, I definitely don't,” John says, eyes on the scarf as Freddie runs it through his hands. “We need another one though."

"The tea towel?"

"It's dirty," John says.

"I can use it," Freddie says, even though he doesn't really want to. Anything that’s been that close to the sink probably shouldn’t come anywhere near his respiratory system.

"I think Brian's got a scarf in the hall," John says, pushing his chair back. A moment later he reappears with the ugliest scarf Freddie has ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes upon.

He makes a face. "Is that—?"

"I know,” John says, throwing Freddie the scarf, “think his mum made it."

“That explains so much,” Freddie says, “still, you’re supposed to go against your parents’ weird tendencies and beliefs, not adopt them.”

John makes a noise of amusement, sitting down opposite of Freddie.

Freddie holds up the scarf. “Do you—?”

John grins. "I think you'd look just lovely."

"Well, you won't be able to see me anyway," Freddie says, throwing John the other scarf. “I should divorce myself on the spot if I could see myself now.”

“You talk so funny sometimes,” John says, eyes crinkling.

“It’s called expressiveness, darling.”

“It’s called drama,” John says, folding his scarf with quick hands.

“Unimportant,” Freddie tells him, securing his scarf over his eyes and picking up a pen. "How long?"

"Two minutes," John says, and Freddie puts his pen to the sheet of paper in front of him. "But wait, we need to set a timer."

Freddie pauses. "Alright, you ready?"

"I can't put the timer on with a scarf over my eyes,” John says. Freddie can hear him move about.

"Then set the timer and tell me when you're ready.”.

"Alright," John says a moment later, "timer's on, blindfold's ... almost on. Right, I'm ready. Go!"

At the word, Freddie starts sketching. He's not entirely sure how he'll deal with the kittens yet, but John did say it was their moment, so they should probably be in the spotlight. He outlines Roger’s silhouette with light lines, doesn’t forget the top hate, then starts from where he thinks he sketched Roger’s feet, working his way up, stacking kittens on top of each other until the timer rings.

He takes off his blindfold and loses a snort.

There are kittens everywhere.

He thinks he's done a decent job of sketching a vaguely human-shaped figure, but in no way does it resemble Roger, not even when he tilts his head and squints. The top hat is pretty good but on his shoulder rather than his neck, and the furry blobs he's pretty sure are supposed to be kittens are everywhere—some are on the figure’s head, others on him, and the cape is at least four centimeters too far to the left. Disturbingly enough, his crotch is also covered by a kitten, if the whiskers and almond-shaped eyes are anything to go by. Speaking of eyes, for some reason, Roger's only got one.

"I like it," John says, leaning over the table to look at Freddie’s drawing. "Very Picasso. Wanna see mine?"

At Freddie’s nod, John slides the drawing towards him, picking up Freddie’s own to inspect it at a closer range.

Freddie looks at the drawing. The hair he got right, but there's neither burlesque or space unless he counts the dots and short lines which Freddie guesses are supposed to be stars. The legs are long and consist only of one line each, and the nose takes up most of his face. The resemblance is uncanny.

"Well, where’s your drawing?" Freddie asks, "this is just a picture of Brian in space dancing. Where'd you get it?"

John laughs. "I think they’d both be even better if they got some colour. Have you got any markers?"

"Have I got markers?" Freddie says, offended by the very question, "I haven't spent hundreds of pounds worth of markers for you to have the audacity to ask me if I've got any! The nerve!"

"Sorry," John says, giggling. "Can we use your markers then? I'm very sorry."

"You better be," Freddie says, and pushes his chair back. "I'll give you markers."

In his room, he empties his drawers, collects every single marker he owns and gathers them in his arms, walks back into the living room and spills them all on the table in front of John just to make a point.

"That's a lot of markers," John says.

"Of course it is," Freddie says, sitting down opposite him again.

John sends him a smile. "Wanna switch?"

"What?"

"The drawings."

Freddie reclaims his drawing. "Oh yes."

♛ ♛ ♛

Freddie is not sure how long they've been colouring, but he's almost done when the sound of the front door makes him look up. A moment later, Brian and Roger appear together, Roger looking serious, Brian drained and washed out but managing a smile in their direction as they pass them. They disappear into Freddie's room, the door clicking shut behind them, and Freddie instantly feels sick. He didn't mean to forget, didn’t mean to have fun while Brian is most like going through hell and back again, but he hadn't spared him a thought while he was with John.

John's foot brushes against his own underneath the table, and he looks up.

"Don't feel bad," John whispers, "Roger's taking care of it."

Freddie knows that, knows that Roger is handling it just fine despite his earlier comment, but the feeling that he should be helping won't leave him.

“Wanna switch?” John asks carefully, gesturing to his drawing, “I’ll do the background.”

"I'm not really in the mood for this anymore," he admits.

"That's fine," John says, "we'll clean up. Do you want to be alone?"

Freddie shakes his head vigorously. "Please no."

Freddie looks at him for a moment. It scares him to put words to his feelings. He's always relied on sex to distract himself from his own emotions, and moreso when his partner started asking questions he couldn't answer.

"I just want to lie with you," he says.

John brushes his fingers over his arm. "We'll do that. Want to go to my room?"

“Hm,” he replies, fisting a hand in John’s jumper. He breathes deeply, tries to make his own heartbeat match that of John’s. “Have you made your bed?” He thinks he needs to lie down and be coddled.

He can hear John smile by the way air leaves his nose in an exhale. “You know, I woke up today and I was just about to, but then I thought, better wait, you never know when an unmade bed might come in handy.”

Freddie smiles tiredly and lets himself be pulled out of the chair and into John’s bedroom.

The mess seems worse than usual and it irks him, makes him feel jittery, almost.

When he doesn’t settle against the wall as he usually does, John looks at him, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t look at the mess. Just, you go in, I’ll have my back to it.”

“I can clean it, it shouldn’t take 10 minutes.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Freddie says, even though it does. He feels worn out and confused like he’s just woken up from an accidental nap.

John picks up his huge Lord of the Rings book from his nightstand and holds it out for Freddie. “Here,” he says, “to keep you entertained.”

Freddie looks at the book, suspecting it weighs about the third of his own body weight.

“I’m not getting into bed with that,” he says, “what if it lands on me, it could kill me.”

“How would it land on you?” John asks, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Surprise attack?” Freddie replies, sitting down on the bed.

“Alright, suit yourself,” John says, putting the book back on his nightstand to start collecting the clothes strewn across the floor.

Freddie lies down and buries his face in John’s pillow. It doesn’t smell wrong exactly, but it also definitely doesn’t smell like someone who’s been sleeping alone. “Why do your sheets always smell of Roger?”

“I’ll let you figure that one out yourself,” John says, dumping his armful of clothes in his hamper.

“He takes up quite a lot of space, doesn’t he?” Freddie says, thinking back on the time they briefly lived together. Unless Roger had company, he would more often than not come creeping somewhere around midnight when Freddie woke up to use the loo. At 5.30, when Freddie’s alarm went off, Roger would be draped all over the bed or wrapped around him, and Freddie would leave him to his sleepy mumbles and duvet hogging, knowing it would be another three or four hours before he resurfaced.

John hums. Freddie wonders if he will ever be able to give back all the love and support he receives, or if John eventually will leave in search of something better.

Then he feels bad. Two years of working on himself and thoughts like these still turn up and make him feel utterly worthless. He closes his eyes, feels his heartbeat and listens to the comforting sounds of John moving about. Resolves to do better. For John and for himself.

The mattress dips, and there’s a warm hand on the small of his back. Freddie turns over and opens his arms for John.

Bile rises in his throat but he swallows it down. "I'm so glad you're here," he croaks, pouring his sadness and his love and the guilt that’s been building for the past week into those words. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

John looks quietly taken aback. He brushes the fringe out of Freddie’s eyes. "You'd do just fine. You always will."

"I'm trying to be romantic," Freddie whispers, feeling sick by his own words, shivering when John’s arms close around his waist, "this is a declaration of love and you're ruining it."

John's eyes crinkle with pleasure. "I know," he says, "I feel very lucky, too."

Freddie allows a smile, forces himself to believe the words. "Good. You're not getting rid of me."

John tightens his hold around him. "Good."

♛ ♛ ♛

The thrum of nerves are still running through him when he wakes up the next morning. He hates it when his friends and family are sad or angry and there's nothing he can do about it. Roger hasn’t returned to his bed during the night, and Freddie breathes and tells himself Brian is alright.

They all eat breakfast together, a rare occurrence due to their very different wakeup times, and while it’s nice, it also serves to accentuate the fact that something is very wrong. Halfway through his toast, Brian’s phone rings, and Brian goes quiet for a moment, then excuses himself and disappears into his room. Freddie watches him anxiously.

"He's going to be fine, Fred," Roger says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just give him some time."

Freddie wants to argue that that's not necessarily true, that the last thing Brian needs right now is his father dying on him, that he definitely won’t be fine and that if Brian’s not fine then the rest of them won’t be fine, either, but then John catches his eye, and he forces himself to relax.

“Did any of you see the comment that was left on our Facebook page?” Roger asks, putting down his spoon with a clatter in favour of picking up his phone, “they called us wanna-be rockers and Bowie imitators.”

“Imitators,” Freddie says, outraged, “Bowie wishes he had half my charisma!”

“That’s easy for you to say,” John says, eyes crinkling when he smiles, “he’s not here to argue.”

“He wouldn’t argue,” Freddie says loftily. Roger lets out a snort.

From inside their room, Freddie can hear Brian's frustrated voice. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and listens.

"No, dad, a vegan diet is not—" Brian says, "I don't care about that! This is not me forcing—no. It does matter, and it does help! Just try it out at least. For me. I—"

John's calf brushes against his own under the table, and Freddie sends him a weak smile.

The door opens, and Brian comes stalking out, phone to his ear and a hand rubbing over his face. "Yes, two months. I know, I'll send pictures. Love you."

Ending the call, Brian sits down heavily, looking thoroughly harassed.

"Are you alright?" Freddie asks softly, reaching out to rub a comforting hand over his arm.

"Yeah," Brian says, "he's just so difficult. Doesn't he want to get better?"

"Of course he does," Freddie says, "but change is scary. His current diet might be the only normal thing in his life right now."

Brian breathes out through his nose. "I know. It's just frustrating."

Roger and John don't say anything so Freddie presses on, masking his own unease. "Is there anything you need, love?"

"I want to work on the tour," Brian says, "I want to start practising tonight."

"Okay," Freddie says, sitting back in surprise. "Let's do that."

Roger glances at Brian, then catches Freddie's eye.

Freddie looks down, toys with his bracelet. It's unlike Brian to be so decisive, especially in voicing his own needs. Then again, Freddie can understand the need to distract himself. Some days, it feels like it's all he can do to keep his head above the water.

♛ ♛ ♛

"No," Brian snaps, "it doesn't go like that."

They have been playing for just over an hour, and Brian has been relentless in the pursuit of the vision in his head. Roger has kept his mouth shut for the most part, but Freddie can feel John getting increasingly irritated.

"Fine," John says, holding up his hands in mock surrender, "let's do it your way."

Brian narrows his eyes. "This is not my way, John. This is how it was written and how we're gonna play it."

"And I assume you'd like to play bass yourself, then," John says with frightening calm. Freddie attempts to telepathise shut up, shut up, but it doesn’t appear to be working.

"Don't be so bloody sensitive," Brian snarls, "can’t you just trust me on this for once?"

"You're being irrational," John says, and Freddie’s gaze flits around the room, eventually catching Roger’s eyes. He breathes in an attempt to steady himself.

"Oh, I'm being irrational? Do you have any idea what I'm going—"

John raises an eyebrow, managing to look frighteningly disapproving, and Brian falters.

"Fine," he snaps, "I'm being irrational.”

John exhales messily. "Brian, I understand you're going through a lot right now, but that doesn't excuse being an outright prick."

"John," Roger says sharply.

"He is," John insists, "and it's not okay."

Brian has gone suspiciously quiet, and when Freddie chances a look at him, he's blinking furiously. Freddie looks away.

"I know," Roger says, scrubbing at his hair, "but—"

"Oh, that's nice," Brian interrupts, voice strange. It makes Freddie's insides twist. "You're on his side."

"Let's take a break," Freddie says loudly, eager to stop the discussion before it escalates further. "Let's come back in five minutes."

"No, I think I'm done for today," Brian says cooly, putting his guitar down. "You can continue without me."

Roger groans. "Brian, come on,” he says, but Brian is already leaving and doesn’t answer. The door to their shared bedroom slams. “Was that entirely necessary, John?"

John folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall. "Yes."

"I know he's a bit …” Roger settles for a vague hand gesture, “but he's processing a lot at the moment."

John lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Don't you think it's better that he cries it out rather than bottling up and being a pain in our collective arses?"

Roger opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Maybe you should talk to him instead," Freddie gently advises, "I'm sure it would do him good to cry but let's not push him so far we force a breakdown."

John's shoulders draw up. "He needs to cry it out."

“He will.”

“It’ll haunt him,” John says.

“I really think you should talk to him, Deaks,” Roger says softly.

John looks at them both for a long moment. Freddie holds his breath. “Fine,” he says, putting his bass down, “I will.”

“Don’t be mean,” Roger calls after him. The door clicks shut, and Roger stretches. “So that went well.”

Freddie groans. “It did not go well. God, what a mess. I need a drink”

“Say no more,” Roger says, reaching behind his kit to grab a can of beer. Freddie catches it.

“Thanks,” he sighs and pops it open. “We might camp out here for a while.”

♛ ♛ ♛

He’s just adding the final touches—this including giving the backside of one Neville Longbottom a decidedly rosy tint—when a door opens, and Roger appears in tiny briefs and two-day greasy hair, phone in his hand.

“Morning, love,” Freddie greets him. “Slept well?”

Roger grunts in reply and dumps himself in the chair next to Freddie’s, putting his phone on the table alarmingly close to the edge.

Freddie puts down his pen, rotates his wrists a few times, and picks it up again.

Roger leans against him to get a closer look at the screen of his iPad, his bare skin warm against Freddie’s arm. “Are you drawing Harry Potter porn again?”

“It’s not porn,” Freddie says coolly.

It isn’t.

“For someone who gave up after the first book, you’re a very dedicated fan.”

Freddie can hear the amusement in Roger’s voice, but doesn’t take the bait.

“Everyone knows the books are horribly passé.”

“I think you’ll find quite a few people disagree,” Roger says and sits back. Freddie can see him eyeing his cup of tea, and moves it out of reach.

“You obviously haven’t seen dear Joanne’s latest tweet.”

Roger rests his head in his hand and smiles. “Can’t say I have.”

The door to John and Roger’s bedroom opens again, but its second occupant heads straight for the loo without a glance in their direction.

Seconds later, the ugly sound of retching reaches them through the half-open door.

“Migraine,” Roger explains.

“Oh, poor dear,” Freddie says, “again?”

Roger yawns and stretches. He slumps down for a moment, scratching his chest, then moves his chair back and saunters into the kitchen, switching off the light as he goes.

“Need a refill?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Freddie says and picks up his cup to sip at his rapidly cooling tea. He turns in his seat to watch as Roger picks out the tallest glass and fills it to the brim with water. He digs through the cupboard and retrieves John’s meds, fills and clicks on the kettle, and leans against the counter.

Freddie feels the overwhelming urge to hug him.

“What?” Roger demands when he notices his stare.

“What?” Freddie echoes innocently.

“You’re looking at me funny.”

“I assure you I’m not,” Freddie says, “you’re always so suspicious of me, darling.”

Roger sends him a look, then turns his attention to something behind him. “Alright, Deaks?”

What sounds suspiciously like a whimper is the only reply, and Freddie turns in his seat to find a sorry-looking John standing in the doorway. His heart clenches painfully.

Roger pushes himself away from his recline against the worktop, thrusting water and meds into John’s hands, telling him, “just call if you need me to find something heavy to hit you in the head!”

Freddie follows John with anxious eyes, but he’s not spared a single glance. He forces himself to focus on Roger. “So,” he says, dragging out the word, “I heard you and Brian got on pretty well last week. Do we need to revoke your straight badge?”

“I don’t think you’re the right person to revoke anything straight related,” Roger says, reclaiming his earlier seat. He’s quiet for a moment, then flashes Freddie a smile. “Didn’t know Brian was such a gossip.”

Freddie waves a dismissive hand. “Like he’d voluntarily tell me anything. I made him tell me, of course. Don’t have much of a sex life myself, gotta find that thrill elsewhere.”

Roger’s eyebrows immediately draw down.

“Oh, come off it, dear. Anybody would think you’re that boy’s mum. I’m not complaining,” Freddie says, “it’s nothing new that I take interest in your sex lives. Now tell me all about it, Brian is so secretive.”

“There’s not much to say,” Roger says, picking up the spoon from the sugar bowl to play with, “I fucked him, it was … it was good.”

“That can’t be right,” Freddie says, not believing him for a second. “You are the laziest person I’ve ever known.”

Roger lets out an exhale that sounds a bit like a laugh. “Well, alright. He rode me. Happy?”

“Very,” Freddie says, flashing him a grin. Roger rolls his eyes and smiles.

“Listen,” Freddie says, reaching out to pat his arm, “I know Brian is always dying to take it up the ass, but you must demand he top sometime, it feels simply divine.”

“Freddie …” Roger says, burying his face in his hands but peeking out through his fingers.

Freddie laughs. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he says, pushing his chair back and patting Roger on the shoulder as he rises. “I’ll just check on Deaky.”

Not waiting for Roger to reply, he leaves him to himself and knocks softly on John’s bedroom door. When there’s no answer, he pushes it open. The room is dark, but not so much that he can’t make out the shape of John, curled up in a ball of misery on his bed.

"No," John groans. "Go away."

"What's wrong, honey? I won't talk."

"No, you're wearing something, cologne or something like that. It makes me sick."

"Oh." Freddie's not sure what to do, but John decides for him.

"Please leave. I'll come find you later."

"Do you need anything?" He knows he's lingering, but he can't stand the thought of leaving John to suffer on his own.

"No!"

At John's harsh tone, he leaves the room, shutting the door with a soft click.

Roger looks up, Freddie’s cup of tea cradled in his hands. "You look miserable.”

"Yeah, well," Freddie says, “my cologne smells bad, apparently."

Roger snorts. "You know he's sensitive to smells when he's sick. I like it, if it makes you feel better."

"I know you do," Freddie snipes, "don't think I haven't noticed you using it every time you're going somewhere."

Roger shrugs.

Freddie sits down on a chair, head in his hand. "I don't know what to do," he says.

"Don't do anything," Roger says, "how many times has this happened? You know it'll pass."

Freddie knows it will. He also knows that it’s just not the same anymore. "I suppose it will," he says anyway. Shakes himself. "And what are you to do on this fine day?"

Roger lights up. “I've actually written a song," he says, "thought I'd jam away on the keyboard for a bit."

Freddie picks up a sugar granule and inspects in on his finger. "Sounds ... riveting."

Roger sends him an exasperated look. "I'm sure Brian wants to mope with you if you're looking for company."

"No, thanks," Freddie says, "means I'll have to come to terms with the fact that I don't have any actual problems."

"Worth a shot."

“There’s nothing to do,” Freddie says, “it’s 10.30 and I’m bored already.”

Roger tips half the sugar bowl into his cup of tea. "Go for a walk, I don't know."

"I hate walking," Freddie says, wrinkling his nose as Roger drains the remains of tea, the sugar granules crunching between his teeth.

"You're extremely ungrateful, you know."

"I know," Freddie says, "that's the problem. I want this day to pass."

"There's Tim's party to look forward to. You can call him."

"I suppose I could," Freddie says, but he doesn't move. He doesn't want to talk to Tim when he's seeing him in a few days.

He reaches for an orange in the fruit bowl. Peeling oranges have always had a calming effect on him, and the scent always seems to clear his mind. He's silent while he peels it, making a noise of satisfaction when he manages to get the peel off in one piece, then spends a minute carefully removing the white stuff from each slice.

"What's this called?" he wonders aloud. Roger glances up from his phone.

"Pith," he says, and resumes his texting.

Freddie makes a noise of surprise. What an unusual word.

He splits the orange in half and offers one half to Roger.

"Thanks," Roger says and puts a slice in his mouth. Freddie lets out a sigh and puts his head on his shoulder, relishes the warmth from his naked skin. Boy never seems to get cold.

The door to his bedroom opens a few minutes later, and Brian comes striding in, phone in hand. “Good, you’re here. I need to talk to you. Where’s John?”

“In bed with a migraine,” Freddie says, “you don’t want to go in there.”

Brian ignores him. A moment later he comes back all in one piece, pace still brisk and face unusually business-like. “Right, I’ll be back in a few hours and then there’s house meeting. Could either of you do the washing up?”

“Of course, darling.”

“You’re being very, you know,” Roger says, making a vague hand motion. “Are you alright?”

“Splendid,” Brian says in that same brisk tone, but Freddie doesn’t miss the brief hand on Roger’s shoulder before he’s out the door, leaving the two alone again.

They glance at each other. Roger tips his chair back.

“So this is gonna be interesting.”

♛ ♛ ♛

A few hours later, Brian returns and assembles them all in the living room, even John who’s wearing sunglasses and instantly curls up on the couch. Roger settles in the armchair, and Freddie finds his usual spot on the floor, throwing glances between John and Brian.

Brian looks at them for a long moment. Freddie shifts in his seat.

"I've decided," he starts, pausing to take a fortifying breath. He glances at Roger, who sends him a small, encouraging smile. Brian exhales slowly. "I'm going to Tenerife."

Freddie's heart speeds up. He waits.

"As you know, I've been thinking about it for a very long time, but now that dad has gotten ill, it just made me realise that all this time-" His voice breaks, and Freddie wants to jump up and hug him. "All this time I've been trying to make everyone around me happy, so much that I have no idea what I want for myself. Everyone wants something from me, everyone thinks they know how I should best live my life. The only one who doesn't know is myself, and my head is so filled with everyone's concerns and opinions and it's exhausting, feeling like I never do anything for myself. Because even when I try, I can never be sure if what I do is really my decision or if I'm trying to please someone. And I don't want that anymore.

"These past months have been really stressful for various reasons." He glances at Roger, "and I don't want to go through that again. You don't deserve that. I don't deserve it either. I don't know if dad will make it but I do know he's looking at lengthy treatment, and I've been thinking about what I really want, and - and as much as I want to make sure he's alright, and as much as I love the band and you guys, and I do, I love you so much, this trip is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I deserve to do that for myself." His voice wobbles, and he blinks back tears. "I deserve that."

For a moment, they are all quiet as they process Brian's words. Then they get up as one and envelop him in tight hugs.

"Of course you're going," Freddie says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His eyes sting ridiculously. "We'll be waiting right here, cheering you on. You go look at some pretty stars."

Brian laughs, his body shaking inside Freddie's arms. Freddie catches John's eyes over Brian's shoulder, and the soft smile that greets him makes him finally burst into tears.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Brian tell anyone exactly how he feels. A few glasses of wine usually loosen him up enough to talk about his sex life, but to see him vulnerable like this, drunk on nothing but passion and the desire to better himself—it releases something in Freddie, a tight little knot of worry with Brian’s name on it that has been living inside his chest every since Brian offered the first heartbreaking tale of his adolescence over wine a month into their friendship.

He hugs them all tighter. “I love you so much.”

♛ ♛ ♛

A welcoming calm settles over the flat after their talk. Brian seems lighter, more relaxed than Freddie can ever remember seeing him. There are moments where he seems hyper-focused and moments where he's distant, but the weariness that seems to have weighed him down for months has lifted from his shoulders.

When he disappears into his room, they know to leave him alone, but sometimes, Roger will come with him, and despite the slight ache in his heart, Freddie knows that helps, too.

Other times, Freddie will wake up in the middle of the night and he'll crawl into Brian's bed to hold him until his crying subsides, or they'll stay up late and Brian will open up in a way he almost never does. Freddie treasures these moments, keeps them to himself, and while he thinks it helps Brian, he finds that an unhealed part of himself attempts to stitch itself back together each time. It makes him want to talk about Jim, and he does, sometimes, but mostly he lets Brian do the talking. A nagging feeling tells him that Brian is not the one whom he should be talking to about that anyway, and a deep-seated, thrumming nausea takes residence in his body, grows a little each day.

He knows he needs to tell John the truth, but he can't bear to go through the trauma all over again, can't bear even the thought of a shame so deep it makes him dizzy.

On Thursday, Mary calls him.

"You've got to come," she says, easily interrupting his excuses, "we haven't seen each other in forever!"

"I'm just really busy," he lies, bouncing his leg, "can't we do it another day?"

"You're not busy," Mary says, "classes don't start for another six weeks. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, gazing out the window. The wind makes the trees outside sway dangerously, and rain beats against his window. "I'm just not really in the mood to go out."

"You don't have to do anything," Mary tells him, "just get over here, I'll make tea and we'll wrap you in blankets. You don't have to talk. I really miss you."

Freddie hesitates. The mere thought tires him, but on the other hand, he doesn't think he can stand staying at home either. "Okay," he says, "I'll come. But I might not stay long."

"That's fine," Mary assures him, "just shoot me a text when you're on your way!"

Freddie promises her to do just that and doesn't remove the phone from his ear after she's hung up.

♛ ♛ ♛

"Tea's almost ready," Mary tells him as she opens the door and pulls him in for a hug. "Where's your umbrella? You're all wet."

"It broke on the way," Freddie says. He's just glad it was a plain black one and not his own. "The wind is awful."

"Do you want to borrow some clothes? You'll get sick."

"Please," Freddie says, bending down to untie his shoelaces. "Can I hang my jacket in your bathroom?"

"Of course," Mary says, disappearing into her flat, "I'll just get you some dry clothes."

Freddie pushes his shoes off. Even the toes of his socks are wet, so he picks up both shoes and jacket and walks into the living room.

“Here, let me take those,” Mary says, trading him for a jumper and a pair of sweats. “Oh, I don’t think I have any socks your size. Hold on, Patrick might have a pair.”

He watches as she disappears into the bathroom. After a moment, he pulls out a kitchen chair.

They’re fine now, John and him, but he can’t stop thinking about how John didn’t want anywhere near him when he was sick. And Freddie should have known, of course he should, and he does, but he didn’t remember, didn’t have anything to offer, made it worse.

And there’s Roger, who for all his faults acts like it’s like second nature with his meds and his water and his care, and Freddie loves him so much but he can’t help but compare himself to that, and for the first time, it makes him feel small.

“Here you go,” Mary says, and Freddie accepts the proffered socks with a small smile. “Do you need a blanket? We can move to the couch. Here, do you need some help?”

“It was a little rain,” Freddie says, shaking her hand off his shoulder, “you treat me like you dug me out of a snowdrift.”

“Well,” Mary says, crossing her arms, “you look really miserable.”

“Thanks,” Freddie says drily.

Mary lets out an exasperated sound and turns on her heel. Freddie turns around to watch her.

“Do you need any help?” he asks, watching her pull out cups from her kitchen cupboards.

“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” She doesn’t sound annoyed, but Freddie gets up anyway, helps her gather sugar and milk and put it on the flowery tray Mary has picked out.

"So, how's the new year going?" she asks him as they sit down.

Freddie hesitates, not sure where to even begin. "Different," he says eventually. Not in the way he'd thought, certainly—he'd been sure he would be able to feel change in the air as soon as the clock struck midnight, would be able to feel that this year, 2018—how promising it sounds—would be their year, the year they got signed, the year that would finally be it.

He didn't think he'd be dealing with a grieving friend, his two best friends getting together, and Brian’s decision to leave after all, all within the first few weeks of the new years. And if it feels overwhelming for Freddie, he can't even begin to imagine how Brian must feel.

"A good kind of different?" Mary looks at him over her tea.

Freddie shakes his head, throat closing up. “Brian’s dad has been diagnosed with cancer.”

“Oh my God,” Mary says, leaning forward in her seat.

Freddie nods vigorously, nostrils flaring as he tries to soothe the sting in his nose as tears fill his eyes.

“When—How’s he—? Is he gonna be okay?”

"I don’t know,” Freddie says, “they’re looking into treatment, but I don’t think they know much yet, they only just found out.”

“Poor Brian,” Mary says with feeling, tapping her nails against her cup.

“I don’t know how to help him,” Freddie says, taking a gulp of his tea and letting it warm his insides. He hesitates. “I feel so useless all the time.”

Mary opens her mouth to speak, then closes it a second later. Freddie shifts in his seat.

“I have nothing to offer,” he elaborates, “I hate even saying it, but he’s got Roger now, hasn’t he? He’s the first one he’ll go to. And John, John has gone through practically the same thing, he can offer perspective and share his personal experience. What do I have to offer? And I’m so scared for John, what if it pulls at old wounds, what if he starts hurting? But he’s pushing me away.” He pauses to catch his breath, feeling sick at his own words. It’s not about him. “Or not pushing me away, but he’s—he had a migraine a few days ago and he didn’t even want to talk to me and I know it doesn’t have anything to do with me, but then there’s Roger, and he knows exactly what John needs, and I just, I can’t keep up! And I don’t know what to do, and maybe I shouldn’t even—

“Freddie, calm down,” Mary says, putting a hand on his knee. “What’s all this you’re saying? Of course you have something to offer. It’s not about personal experience or being better at comforting someone because you’re in a relationship with them. You know that. And you’re great at comforting people, everyone who knows you says so.”

“I’m really not,” Freddie says, “I never know what to do, I just make it up on the spot.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone does that,” Mary says.

Freddie looks into the familiar face. “Nobody needs me as much as I need them.”

He hates his own words, thought he had gotten rid of those thoughts long ago. Still, he can’t help but notice a pattern—he never expected to be as close with John as John is with Roger, but now that Brian and Roger are dating, he’ll inevitably come second, and Roger … Roger is his best friend, but Roger doesn’t play favourites, and Freddie knows that, didn’t think he would ever want or need it to be any other way.

Didn’t think he would ever feel this lonely again.

“Freddie, that’s not true,” Mary says, “is this—I didn’t know you were having these kinds of thoughts again.

Freddie shrugs. Feels the hot flush of humiliation at admitting a weakness he was supposed to have gotten over. “Only the past week,” he says. “It’s nothing, it’s not—” He takes a deep breath, fixes Mary with his most convincing gaze. “I’m fine.”

He almost believes it, too.

♛ ♛ ♛

Hours later, he’s lying in bed with John, chest tight. He rubs his thumb over John’s calloused fingertips.

“Promise we’ll never be like Roger and Brian,” he whispers. “Fighting all the time.”

John presses a kiss to his forehead. “We won’t,” he says. Pauses. “Their core values are so different.”

“Ours aren't?”

John seems to consider the question for a while. "They view the world in entirely different ways. That's what makes them such a great team, at least creatively speaking. We're all very different people, but if anyone can create a spark it's those two. They need to butt heads to better themselves and each other, it's their way to get feedback. Us, we don't need that. We're more like each other, we know what we want and we're lucky enough that we both know how to work for it."

Freddie smiles. It feels a little wobbly. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

They're so close it feels a little scary. “John,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I'm afraid I'll get jealous.” John’s gaze is steady and calm. It feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket. “You have to know it has nothing to do with you, but I'm such a mess when it comes to people I care about. I don't want any of that to happen.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” John says, calm and confident, “I know you’ll never intentionally hurt me. trust you with my life.”

John’s words feel like a boulder on Freddie’s chest. Trust is a scary thing, especially when Freddie has an entire back catalogue of ways to break it.

There are so many things John doesn’t know yet, and Freddie is afraid it’ll drive him away if he finds out. He knows he has to spill his biggest secret at some point, but in this calm, safe space, it seems impossible. He can’t do it. Not yet.

John wipes the tear spilling from his eye away with his thumb. “What’s all this? Do you want me to sing Chiquitita again?”

Freddie lets out a snort in spite of himself. “It’s alright.”

His eyes drop to John’s smiling mouth. John leans in to kiss him sweetly. “What made you think of all this suddenly?”

Freddie shrugs. “I miss Jim.” The lie weighs heavy on his tongue, the tightness in his chest so uncomfortable he squirms. Still, he’ll take the discomfort over the truth any day.

John’s smile falters, and something cold drops in Freddie’s stomach. He watches John’s mouth open, then close, and fear pushes more tears out of his eyes. John inhales quietly. “I don’t mean to pressure you,” he begins, and Freddie squeezes his eyes shut, “but I think we should talk about it. It can’t be easy for you.”

“I can’t,” Freddie whispers, forcing the words out from his tight, aching throat. “You’ll leave me.”

John is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is calm and kind. “Of course I won’t. I want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all.”

Freddie shakes his head, presses his wet face into the pillow.

“Freddie.” John’s voice is soft and kind. “Something’s the matter. I’m worried about you.”

Freddie’s chest hurts. “I’m so messed up,” he whispers, “I should never have made you fall in love with me. I don’t deserve you.”

John is silent for so long it makes Freddie unstick his face from his pillow and look up at him. “Why are you saying these things? Are you keeping something from me?”

The tone of his voice makes Freddie’s stomach drop unpleasantly. He’s had disturbingly similar questions directed at him before.

“No,” he says. It sounds more like a whimper. “I’m sorry.”

“Please tell me what’s wrong, Freddie.”

Freddie closes his eyes, feeling exhaustion wash over him. “Can we wait until tomorrow? Or after Tim’s party? I promise I’ll tell you. I’m so tired.”

John looks at him for a long time. Freddie stares back in mute appeal.

“Okay,” John says at last, and Freddie feels weak with relief.

“I’m sorry,” Freddie says again. “I should go back to bed.”

“Yeah,” John says, closing his eyes. “Goodnight.”

Freddie’s heart sinks. He crawls out of John’s bed, shivering when he’s subjected to the cold air of the room, and whispers a soft “goodnight” before he leaves John alone.

Roger and Brian are still in the living room, and he bids them goodnight as he passes, closing the door behind him. As he creeps under his own freezing covers, he feels sick with fear. He knows it’s inevitable that he’ll ruin this relationship, but if John is taken away from him, he doesn't know what he'll do. He doesn't think he can bear it a second time.

He holds John tighter.

♛ ♛ ♛

The next evening, he leaves yoga class a little later than intended. Tim’s housewarming party is in less than two hours and he hasn’t eaten dinner yet, but while he looks forward to the distraction, part of him doesn’t want to go. There hadn’t been time to talk before John went to work this morning, and Freddie was on his way to class before he returned home. He knows there is no way they’ll talk before going tonight, but there’s an itch under the surface of his skin, and he can’t stand it much longer. He just wants to get it over with.

The flat smells of fried food when he lets himself in, and when he enters the living room, Brian, Roger, and John are all sitting around the kitchen table, faces turned towards him.

"Anything left?" he asks, sniffing the air.

"Sorry," Brian says, "we didn't know when you'd be home."

Freddie opens and surveys the fridge, pulls out a few carrots and runs them under the tap. He hoists himself up on the worktop and watches the three of them.

"Buzzed for tonight?" he asks. Various noises of disagreement meet him. "Come on, we deserve a bit of fun!"

"You didn't get only three hours of sleep because someone kicked you out of bed," John says, glaring at Roger.

"It's so small," Roger says, "and anyway, I didn't mean to. I apologised already."

"Apologise to the giant bruise on my bum."

"Why don't you just push your beds together, get it over with," Freddie suggests.

"Because then they'd have to come to terms with the fact that they need each other like a toddler needs their plush toys to sleep."

"And we're not ready for that yet," Roger says, stealing a lone fry off Brian's plate.

"It would also ruin the laundry mountain," John adds.

Freddie shudders. "Is there a particular reason why it's still there?"

"We're being efficient," Roger says, "why go through all the trouble of taking it from the hamper to the washing machine to the laundry basket to the closet to the hamper again when you can put in on the floor and be done with it?"

"Because it's gross?" Brian offers.

"Our floors are very clean," Roger says.

"Cleaned it only last week," John continues.

"Sprinkling water on the floor and mopping it up with a t-shirt does not constitute as cleaning," Freddie says, exasperated. He's positive he wouldn't survive rooming with either of them more than a day. At least Brian is somewhat tidy.

Roger shrugs. "You don't have to be in our room."

"Sometimes that's necessary when Brian doesn't allow PDA in the living room."

"It's not that I don't allow it," Brian says, "just not when I'm eating, please."

"It's not like we're having sex," Freddie says, amused by Brian's insistence that all displays of kissing are kept to the bedroom. "If anyone needs to be careful it's me."

"Shut up," Brian says, at the same time Roger says, "you know it!"

Freddie lets out a snort. "Alright, once you've finished the washing up—

"That's gonna be John and Rog."

"—come to our room and we'll make sure everyone looks fabulous for tonight."

"Must we dress up in glitter every time?" Brian asks, sharing a look with John.

"Of course," Freddie cries, "we've an image to uphold, darling!"

“Right.”

Roger slings an arm around Brian’s shoulders and presses a loud kiss to his cheek. “You can borrow some of mine, babe.”

John catches his eye and slides out of his seat, tilting his head towards Freddie’s room. Freddie grins and follows him, leaving the washing up for the other two.

♛ ♛ ♛

They leave an hour earlier, boots clattering down the stairs and Brian's arm easily slung around Freddie's shoulders. He seems to be in high spirits, doesn't even attempt to shush Roger and John's impromptu duet of S.O.S as they wait for their Uber.

Freddie joins them half-heartedly but is ultimately more concerned about the cold, and is glad of Brian's arm around him. He might look fabulous, but his jacket really isn't suited for these kinds of temperatures.

“God, it’s freezing,” he says. Brian laughs and pulls him in for a hug.

Tim's new flat is minimalistic and artsy, exactly how Freddie expected it to be, but what he didn’t expect was for it to be filled to the brim with people.

“That is dedication right there,” Roger says, gesturing to the tinfoil covered walls. In the living room, a projector runs footage from The Factory on loop.

After a moment's search, they manage to find Tim in the throng of people. "There you are!" he says, pulling them into a hug one after one. "How'd you like The Factory?"

"Impressive," Freddie says, "you've really outdone yourself, dear."

"Gay and classy," Roger says.

Rolling his eyes, Freddie lets Roger be, exchanges hugs with everyone he knows and some people he doesn't, and is quick to find a visually appealing bottle to dip into at the makeshift bar.

It's been ages since he's been to a theme party, and he relishes the opportunity to dress up, even if most people are dressed in black turtlenecks and smoking with a drink in their hand. He wrinkles his nose at a couple of girls in skinny jeans and smokey eyes, feeling slightly offended on Tim's behalf. He looks around the cramped flat but can spot anyone he knows. His flatmates all seem to have disappeared, and he weaves through the people until he spots John on the couch, squeezed in between Roger and a girl who's lighting his cigarette. He watches them as he sips his drink, interested to see how they interact. It's rare that he gets to observe John like this—usually they're at their flat, and while he knows John has friends outside of the three of them, it's odd to see him engage with other people. He seems to enjoy it, if his relaxed posture and easy smile are anything to go by.

When the woman excuses herself a minute later, Freddie slides into her abandoned seat.

"Hi," he says.

John blows out a cloud of smoke, upwards away from him, and smiles before offering the cigarette to Freddie.

"It's bad for you," Freddie says before accepting the cigarette. He's not drunk enough that he can pretend not to mind the taste, and he quickly passes it to John again. John relaxes back in his seat.

"What do you think of that?" Freddie asks, pointing to a couple dressed in lurid pink.

Something about John's ease and confidence makes him feel a little uncertain, but he forces down the feeling, knowing now is not the time.

The skin around John's eyes crinkles when he smiles. "Very stylish."

Freddie smiles and tries to relax, but his mouth feels annoyingly dry, even when he drains his glass in one go. John waves to someone Freddie vaguely recognises, and he's suddenly struck by the irrational fear that maybe John doesn't need him.

He hasn't even realised how much he's grown—in the first year they knew each other, John was so shy and reserved Freddie would have to introduce him to everyone they knew, to hold his hand through it all. It made him feel useful, and as John seemed to grow more confident, for each time John approached someone on his own, Freddie felt warm and accomplished. Now he feels uncharacteristically out of place.

He watches John out of the corner of his eye until John catches him staring. He extinguishes his cigarette in a silver ashtray. "You look thoughtful," he says.

Freddie shakes himself.

"Just thinking about tomorrow," he lies, "we should do something nice." He touches John's hand.

"What do you have in mind?" John asks, and it's like everything is back to normal. Freddie's not sure where it even came from, this pang of insecurity, but he reckons he really should have a chat with John tomorrow, no matter how unpleasant it might be. Not now, though. Now they're at a party.

"Whatever you want," Freddie says. He wants to drag him into the loos and kiss him until the worry disappears, until he feels whole again.

"Lord of the Rings marathon?"

Freddie loses a laugh, rolling his eyes affectionately. "Not promising anything."

"That's good enough for me," John says, draining the rest of his glass. "Refill?"

"Please," Freddie says, determined to have fun tonight. He deserves it. They all do.

While John is gone, he looks over the guests, half of which he recognises from uni. Roger and Brian are standing together, talking to someone Freddie thinks he recognises from Brian's course, and Freddie is pleased to see that they seem to finally, finally find comfort and peace in each other's company.

When John hasn't returned after a few minutes, Freddie pushes himself off the couch and makes his way to the kitchen in search for both drinks and his boyfriend. Whichever comes first.

Tim is alone in the kitchen, replacing empty bottles with new ones. Freddie beams.

"Fabulous party, darling," he says, dipping into a bottle of vodka. The alcohol and the earlier proximity to John has made him feel pleasantly buzzed, and the thought of going home later to sleep off their hangover together makes him feel warm all over.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Tim says, putting his drink on the worktop, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“It really has,” Freddie says. He pokes Tim in the chest, “we’re still waiting on those photographs, dear. Are they fantastic?”

Tim smiles briefly. “I think you’ll enjoy them,” he says, voice low. Freddie strains to hear him over the music and loud chatter coming from the living room. “There’s glitter in this,” Tim says, reaching out as if to touch his eyeliner. His fingers graze his cheekbone, and Freddie stills.

“Not quite Edie Sedgwick,” Freddie says, swallowing, “but I couldn’t go without glitter.”

Tim looks at him for a long moment, fingers not moving. Then he leans in and kisses him.

Struck by panic, Freddie freezes; Tim’s lips are moving clumsily against his own, tacky-sweet from his drink, and his hand cups the side of Freddie’s face. Everything in Freddie’s body tells him to stop, to push Tim away, but he can’t move, lets himself be kissed for what feels like a small eternity.

“Tim? You out here?”

The sound of Roger’s voice kicks Freddie’s limbs into gears and he pushes Tim away, backing up against the wall just as Roger steps into the kitchen.

“Oh, Fred, hi. John’s looking for you,” Roger says. He turns to Tim, claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. Freddie thinks he might throw up. “Tim, my man. We gotta talk. Important stuff to be discussed.”

Tim shoots him a look as Roger drags him away, but Freddie closes his eyes, tries to make the room stop spinning. After a moment, he sticks two fingers down his throat and throws up in the sink.

Before joining the others in the living room, he picks up a bottle of vodka and drinks until the alcohol has numbed the taste of sick and the feeling of Tim’s lips on his own.

For the rest of the evening, the bottle doesn’t leave his hand.

♛ ♛ ♛

His sheets smell wrong. It’s not a scent he recognises, and he wonders if Roger has accidentally bought a different laundry detergent. His shoulders and feet are freezing, and he pulls both feet and duvet closer, unsticking his sore eyelids.

He doesn’t immediately recognise the wall he’s facing, but his head feels fuzzy, and as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, he can't bring himself to care.

The sheet is soft against his naked skin, but it’s the wrong kind of soft, and the duvet feels sticky and heavy despite the low temperature in the room. If he slides his palm outside the duvet to rest on the cool sheet, he thinks he can steady the nausea that rolls in his stomach. His throat is dry and scratchy, and he swallows repeatedly to soothe it, breathing deeply to relieve the pressure in his head. There's a reason he keeps drinking to a minimum—the last time he'd gotten blackout drunk had ended in the hospital, Roger and Brian watching him like hawks for weeks afterwards.

Despite his best intentions, a groan escapes him as he rolls onto his back and opens one bleary eye. There are no curtains, but the overcast sky affords little light. With some effort, he gets up on his elbows to look around. There's an untidy mattress on the floor, and he wrinkles his nose. One-night stands are just not worth it, he decides, and then freezes when he remembers.

He doesn't do one-night stands anymore.

Pulse thrumming and nausea rising and spreading even faster in his stomach, he gets to his feet and stumbles out of bed as remnants of last night pierce the muddied waters of his mind. The party, Tim's confession, the kiss, John and that girl talking.

Heart racing painfully, he breathes deeply, tries to calm himself down. He's naked, yes, but that in and of itself is not unusual, despite Brian's protests. And while he doesn't think he's ever undressed for anything other than sex in another person's bed, he was drunk when he went to sleep. Surely that must count for something.

If only he could remember. It feels like electricity runs under the surface of his skin, and with a sinking feeling, he realises he was right. He was bound to fuck this up as well. He's going to lose John just like he lost Jim. Kill another person with his selfishness.

A crinkle of plastic sounds as he steps on something on the floor. His head hurts when he bends down to pick it up, and with a shaking hand, his fingers close around an open condom wrapper.

Something drops cold and heavy in his stomach, the force of it so strong it offsets a sudden burst of panic. Freddie attempts to breathe deep, but his throat is closing up, and his breath comes in short, shallow bursts.

Something is wrong. He feels hot all over, and there’s blood, so much blood, wetting his cheeks, and there’s Jim’s lifeless body and he’s done it again.

He can’t breathe. Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong. He’s going to die here, palms pressed against the floor, and he didn’t realise he’s no longer standing; he’s going to die in Tim’s bedroom, and he’s going to be naked when they find him, and then they’ll all know he’s done it again.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to regain control over his breathing, but his body feels heavy and sore when the low hum of voices from the living room swims into his consciousness. Breathing quietly, he picks himself off the floor and gathers his clothes, dressing quickly. He needs to get out of here.

Before rationale can catch up with him, he's opening the window and climbing into the windowsill, the January air cooling his flushed skin. His shirt catches as he slides onto the ground, and the sound of tearing fabric makes his eyes well up again and a sad little hiccup leaves his throat.

Feet stinging against the cold pavement, he walks briskly towards the bus stop, fingers closed tight around the phone in his trouser pocket. As he rounds the corner and spots the bus stop, he realises with a start that his wallet is still at Tim's, safely buried in his jacket pocket.

Eyes stinging, he pulls his phone out, carefully avoiding missed calls and texts with John's name on them and instead speed dialing Roger's number.

After two rings, it goes to voicemail. He calls again.

Three rings, a faint rustle, then Roger's morning groggy voice. "It's nine in the morning," he says, "why are you calling?"

Freddie's throat tightens. His feet burn.

Don't hang up, he silently pleads. He attempts to clear his throat but to no avail.

"Freddie?" Roger's voice is softer now, and Freddie misses him so much it hurts.

"Please come pick me up," he whispers, voice rough from underuse, "I'm sorry I woke you up, I'm sorry, I don't know how to get home."

"Where's Tim? I don't have the van yet."

"I left," Freddie says, feeling sick at the mention of Tim's name, "I haven't got my jacket or my shoes, else I would've taken the bus. Please can you come?"

Roger is quiet for a long time. Freddie knows he's going to say yes, of course he is, but for a moment he fears he might not. If Roger discovers what he's done, he's not sure he'll ever forgive him. And he would be right not to.

"I'll catch the next bus," Roger says, "keep your phone open, yeah?"

"I don't have much battery left," Freddie says, heart clenching in relief, "but I'll wait by the bus shelter."

"Good," Roger says, "I'll see you soon."

"Roger?" Freddie rushes out before he can hang up.

"Yes?"

Freddie swallows repeatedly. "Thank you."

Roger lets out a long breath. "I'll be there soon."

When the bus pulls up next to his stop 22 minutes later, Freddie is freezing to the bone. A few people send him wary glances as he sits on the bench with his knees drawn up, but so far, they’ve left him alone. He almost wishes for the distraction—the thoughts that poke his blistered mind leave him restless and exhausted, and even his numb skin and shaking bones offer no relief.

It’s happened again. The one thing he promised himself to never, ever do again. He’s cheated on John because he’s irresponsible and mentally unstable and throws away everything good in his life, and there’s no way to excuse it. The thought of having to tell him makes him nauseous, but Freddie figures he owes him that much.

He thinks about how much his life can change in less than a day, and an odd calm settles over him. He’ll lose his friends, the band, their cosy little flat, John—but maybe it’s for the best. At least he will be free from worries then. Nothing more he can fuck up.

And still, there’s a supernova of burning disappointment lodged in his chest. He’ll take their anger and their unforgiveness, but nothing weights him down like the heavy disappointment in himself. He really thought he was doing better.

"There you are," Roger says, mouth smiling but eyes uncharacteristically serious. He's carrying Freddie's fur coat and a pair of boots which are not his but look wonderfully warm even though they definitely don't match his jacket. "What are you doing out here, you silly sod?"

Freddie avoids his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Roger hands him the coat and sits down next to him, boots in hand. Freddie slips the coat on, shivering when the soft, warm fabric slides over his body.

“Want to go to the other bus stop? There's a bus leaving in 5 minutes."

Freddie nods mutely, accepting the boots from Roger. "My feet are too cold," he complains, as his attempt to put on the boots has him hissing in pain.

"You're such a fool," Roger scolds softly, pulling his feet into his lap, "running around outside with no shoes on. What if you end up with frost-bites?"

"I'll be fine," he grumbles, hissing softly as Roger attempts to massage life into them with gloved hands, "I sat on them."

Roger looks at him. "Freddie, why did you leave Tim’s house?”

Freddie freezes. He swallows. “I panicked.”

Roger doesn’t pause his massage, but Freddie catches a flicker of emotion on his face. “Why didn’t you tell Tim? He could’ve helped.”

Freddie shakes his head until the skin of his face itches. “I couldn’t.”

“Freddie, you'll tell me, right? Later."

Caught off guard, Freddie looks into sincere blue eyes. Nodding weakly, he looks away.

"We shouldn't have left without you," Roger says, "but you kept insisting. I should've known something was not right."

"I don't remember," Freddie whispers. He doesn’t know why he wanted to stay at the time, but he knows himself well enough to know that he has probably been a right bitch until they left.

"Is it because you're involved with John?"

Freddie looks up, startled by his perceptiveness.

Roger looks embarrassed almost. "I wondered if something like this might happen. That you'd start feeling guilty."

Freddie grabs onto the half-truth with relief. He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "Hard not to when there’s death involved, don’t you think?"

Roger lets go of his feet, and Freddie wriggles his toes. He puts on the boots, tucks the coat tighter around himself.

"I know it's not easy for you," Roger says, "please take it easy. I worry about you."

"I know," Freddie says, but he’s not sure Roger hears him because then the bus turns up at the stop on the other side of the road, and they run to catch it.

Take it easy. He wishes it were that simple.

When they get to their flat, Freddie heads straight for the bathroom. Roger, thankfully, had let him be on the bus, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before he has to tell them. Hours, maybe, before John knows—open, honest John, who says things like I trust you with my life and I know you’d never intentionally hurt me, words Freddie have to live with for the rest of his damned days. He doesn't think he can bear it.

Eyes stinging with unshed tears, Freddie steps into the shower, turns the water scalding hot to get some feeling back into his body even though it burns and stings.

The tears don’t fall. He tries to, he really does, even forces up memories he’s tried to repress for years. Maybe this is his punishment. He’ll walk around a lifeless shell until he’s made his confession. Then he’ll be thrown to the dogs and maybe he will feel again.

He stands under the spray for no more than 10 minutes. Then he dries his sore body, flushed from the heat. He knows it's no use to hide out here. He just hopes he can get to his room before anyone tries to get a hold of him.

Wrapping the towel around himself, he opens the door and makes a line for his bedroom, keeping his head down. He thinks he sees John out of the corner of his eye, but soon he's in the sanction of his bedroom, and he closes the door.

He finds the biggest, ugliest tee he owns, then discards it as he realises it's John. After a moment's thought, he picks it up again. It might be the only thing he'll have left from him by the end of the day so he might as well wear it. The thought makes him feel sick. He curls up in bed, ignores the knocks on the door.

"Freddie?" It's John's voice, muffled through the door but so clearly his that Freddie feels sick. He doesn't answer, hopes that John will go away, will leave him to his own misery.

He doesn't.

The door opens, and Freddie curls in on himself, curls into a tight ball.

The door is softly clicked shut, and a moment later, the mattress dips, and there's a warm hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright, Freddie?"

He can't bring himself to answer.

"Freddie. Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't," he says, "you'll hate me."

There's silence for a long moment. "Freddie," he says again, carefully neutral this time. Freddie's heart races. "What have you done?"

"Don't make me say it," he begs. He scrubs at his wet, prickling face.

The hand on his shoulder tightens, forces him to turn around. Freddie hides his head in his hands.

"Freddie, you're scaring me."

Freddie. Freddie. Freddie. His name sounds wrong in John’s mouth, wrapped in love and in care, and he can't seem to stop crying now that the prospect of telling him is so near.

At last he gets the words out. "I think I cheated on you."

“What?”

The word is barely out of John’s mouth before the door opens, and Roger pokes his head in.

“Go away,” John snaps, and the door closes again.

“I’m so sorry,” Freddie hiccups, “you must know I didn’t mean to, I’ve never wanted to have sex with Tim, I don’t even remember.” His cheek itches from the salty trail of tears, but his hands stay fisted around the duvet. “Please don’t be mad, please forgive me, don’t go.”

John stares at him for what feels like a lifetime. Freddie thinks he’s going to faint.

“I’m not mad.” He doesn’t look it, either. The words are slow to leave his mouth, and Freddie can’t read his face. Another wave of nausea crashes over him. “Why are you so upset?”

The words take him by surprise. He clears his throat in an effort to buy time for his brain to catch up. “Why aren’t you?”

John’s face is inscrutable as always. “I don’t have all the facts yet.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to answer my question.”

“I’m afraid you’ll leave.” The words sting his raw insides, and he suppresses a tremor.

John reaches out to touch his arm. A fresh stream of tears runs down Freddie’s cheeks. “You’re shaking.”

“Don’t touch me,” Freddie whispers, “please.”

John’s arm drops to his side. There’s an air of uncertainty around him, and for some reason, that scares Freddie even more. “Roger told me you had a panic attack.”

His eyes snap to John’s before he hastily lowers his gaze.

“Freddie.”

He stares hard at his hands, forces his blunt nails into the skin of his palm until it stings. The words are lodged in his throat. He wishes he had told John earlier, wishes he could get up and leave, but he stays nailed to the bed, unable to move.

“I cheated on Jim,” he says at last, and it hurts to hear the words leave his mouth, “I cheated, he left, ran into a group of guys who’d seen us together. Cracked his head open on the pavement. And I promised—” An ugly sound escapes his throat, and he hides his face in his hands, gasping through tears and the piercing pain in his chest.

“Oh, Freddie.” His skin prickles all over and he continues to cry, hyper-aware of John through the million thoughts running through his brain. “Can I hug you?”

Freddie nods vigorously, not trusting his voice, and is surprised by the swiftness and strength with which John pulls him into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” John says, “I didn’t know. It’s not your fault. It’s an awful, awful accident, but it has nothing to do with you.”

It’s a lie, of course, but Freddie can’t find the energy to argue. His eyes burn and itch.

It’s another minute before he forces himself to calm down. John is stroking his arm, and the touch feels intense, almost painful. The position he’s in is uncomfortable, and he really needs to blow his nose, so he ducks out of John’s hold and opens his bedside drawer, carefully avoiding eye contact.

He can feel John’s eyes on him, and he braces himself for another uncomfortable question. Outside the rain has started again.

“Do you remember what made you do it?” John asks, “with Tim.”

Freddie winces. “John …”

“I know it’s uncomfortable to talk about, but we’re gonna make this work,” John says, “you owe me some answers.”

The hardness in his voice shocks Freddie a little. “I know,” he whispers, “but I don’t know why.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Freddie bites down on his lower lip, hard. When he releases it, there’s a dent on the inside, and his tongue soothes it while he thinks.

The problem is, he doesn’t remember anything of what happened, doesn’t remember anything past the kiss and feeling trapped in his own body, the burn of alcohol down his throat. It’s been a while since he’s been blackout drunk, not since they moved in, and should he ever need further proof that it never ends well, he’s sure the consequences of this will make him think twice for years to come. If he survives that long.

“Tim asked me if I was down for a shag,” Freddie lies, “said he’d wanted to for a while.”

John’s face remains blank. “And did you want to shag him?”

“No!”

“You have no problem rejecting people usually,” John says, “why was this different?”

“Because he’s my friend,” Freddie says, relaxing a little as he gets comfortable with the lie.

“So’s Brian,” John presses, “you don’t shag him.”

Freddie can’t help himself. “He hasn’t asked yet.”

John looks at him with serious grey eyes. “Is this a game to you?”

“I don’t know,” he snaps, “why are we sitting here discussing my sex life?”

“Because you come home and tell me you’ve cheated on me,” John says, eyes hard, “what’d you think would happen?”

“Perhaps I hoped you’d leave,” Freddie says, chin lifted.

The expression in John’s eyes is a slap in the face.

“Fine,” he says, and does just that.

♛ ♛ ♛

Freddie waits exactly 27 minutes before he leaves his foetal position on the bed and goes to find John.

The living room is quiet and empty save for somebody’s half-eaten lunch on the kitchen table. The door to John and Roger’s room is closed, and Freddie counts five breaths before he lifts his hand to knock.

There’s silence for a moment, then Roger’s voice sounds. “Come in!”

He pushes down the handle and slowly pushes the door open.

Roger is sitting in bed with his laptop, slumped against the wall in a way that makes Freddie’s back ache in sympathy, and John is reading and very much not looking in his direction.

Roger looks up.

“Can I talk to John for a moment?”

“Sure,” Roger says, looking back at his screen, “go ahead.”

“In private?”

Roger looks at John, who still hasn’t acknowledged his presence, then back at Freddie. “Sure,” he repeats, this time much less convincingly. He closes his laptop, then spends an inordinate amount of time searching for a pair of trousers until Freddie loses patience and throws a pair from the open closet at him.

Once Roger has left the room, Freddie inches closer until he’s standing next to John’s bed.

“Tim kissed me.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” John says tonelessly.

“I’m sorry,” Freddie says, “really, I am. I know you don’t want—

“Why do you keep punishing yourself?” John interrupts.

“What? I don’t—

“You said it yourself, you hoped I would leave.”

“I didn’t mean—

“Well, that’s what you said.”

Freddie really wishes John would stop interrupting so he could get his thoughts in order.

“I’m sorry,” he says lamely.

“Freddie, you can’t just come and tell me you’ve cheated on me, you’ve got to give me more than that.”

“I know,” Freddie says, “I panicked, I’m sorry, whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”

John looks at him for a long time. “Tell me what happened.”

“Tim kissed me, then Roger walked in, I panicked, I drank too much, I woke up alone in his bed,” Freddie says, “I don’t remember anything from that evening, I don’t even remember you leaving.”

John shifts slightly. “So what makes you think you had sex?”

“There was a condom wrapper on the floor.”

“Could belong to anyone.”

Freddie closes his eyes. “I was naked.”

John is silent for a while. Then he takes a deep breath. “Even if you agreed to it at the time, you can’t consent when drunk.”

“Tim was drunk, too.”

“But if you don’t want to fuck him while sober …”

“Not really how it works, John.”

John falls silent again. Freddie forces his nails deep into the palm of his hand. “I know you didn’t do it to hurt me. And I don’t think you’d consciously do anything to hurt our relationship. But I need to think this through.”

��Of course,” Freddie says, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He almost can't say the words. "Do you want me to leave?"

John hesitates a second too long. "I don't think so."

"Oh."

John lies down again, but this time, there's space enough for Freddie. "I'm gonna read for a bit," he announces, and reaches over Freddie to get hands on his huge Lord of the Rings volume.

"Alright," Freddie whispers. He knows he deserves this, knows John is allowed all the time he needs, but it makes him feel sick. He doesn't think he's allowed to touch, but tries to tell himself that the fact that he hasn't been thrown out yet is a good thing. He can't bear the thought of being asked questions he doesn't know the answers to, but he knows he owes it to John. He will do anything to keep John in his life.

“I love you,” he whispers.

John tenses. “Freddie …”

“Don’t you love me?” The words feel heavy, wrong, but at the same time he needs to know or he thinks he might die.

“Of course I do,” John says, and Freddie doesn’t feel relieved like he thought he would. “But I didn’t think you’d use it to ask for my forgiveness.”

John reads a long time, and Freddie keeps quiet, not inclined to disturb him. There's a crack in the ceiling, he notices, and they haven't done their laundry again. He startles when he feels John's leg press against his own, but relaxes when it doesn't move away. If he focuses on the warmth and weight of that leg, he almost believes it to be a promise.

Hours later, Freddie wakes up to washed-out colours of a dying sunset on the wall. John shuffles closer and wraps his arms around him. Freddie cries himself to sleep.

#a #keep yourself alive #maylor

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