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Freddie finds Brian perched on the back of the drum risers with staff members bustling around him like a hive of angry bees. It‘s been fifteen minutes since the hall has been cleared of fans and most of the stage has already been disassembled and packed away. Their roadies are true miracle workers.
“Brimi!“ Freddie calls up to the man in question “Miami said he booked us a spot in a nice restaurant for today, so if you want to take a shower first we need to get going!“
The guitarist doesn‘t move from where he‘s sitting with his head rested on his bony knees.
“Go without me“ he says, which leaves Freddie a bit gobsmacked. Brian’s usually the first one to be showered and ready when it comes to scheduled dates. It’s weird enough that Freddie even has to look for him at all. He feels downright responsible.
“They have prawn cocktails!“ he tries to lure him, but even the promise of his guilty pleasure* does not seem to be enough to move the elusive Brian May, who pointedly does not reply anything. He doesn’t even look up.
Something must be wrong.
Freddie’s mind is already running a hundred miles per hour, conjuring up hundreds of gruesome scenarios as he quickly climbs the drum risers and settles himself on some clean space next to his friend.
Somebody must have been in a horrible car accident and died. A family tragedy? Maybe Brian’s developed a deadly allergy against animal hair and is banned from interacting with his beloved critters, wouldn’t that be devastating?
“Darling, what happened?“ the singer asks carefully, unsure if it’s appropriate to lend a comforting hand. What if he’s suddenly afraid of touch, oh dear, what if it’s something violent that made him act so strangely? Was it some obsessed fan? A roadie? Did John turn into a serial killer-
He stops right there. John Richard Deacon, born on August 19th 1951 couldn’t be a serial killer if it was his life-long dream. Which it isn’t. Freddie Fucking Mercury, you’re being ridiculous.
Brian mutters something so quietly that even Freddie’s trained musician’s ears can’t make sense of it.
“Uhm, sorry, could you repeat that?“ he asks, sliding a bit closer, mindful of some suspicious grayish spots on the step.
“I said, I can’t get up“ Brain says, timidly as if embarrassed. If one could see his ears from underneath the glory that is his natural hair, Freddie is sure they would be flaming red.
A reflexive “Oh“ leaves the singer’s mouth, when no further explanation comes forth.
The ’Why can’t he get up?’ hangs over his head like the sword of Damocles.
Did Crystal put glue on the steps? Oh god, if Crystal put glue on the steps, then Freddie is stuck too and this gorgeous pair of velvet trousers is brand new, how dare he!
The singer jumps up as if hit by lightning, but there is no tragic ripping sound nor is there any resistance.
He heaves a relieved sigh. No glue then. Back to the drawing board.
“Why can’t you get up, Brian dear?“ he asks, with the guitarist seemingly unfazed by his impromptu display of drama, head face down on his knees, that has to be extremely uncomfortable.
“M’dizzy“ Brian admits slowly “I think, if I get up I’m gonna faint.“
Freddie is taken aback.
That is… unexpectedly not as bad as he thought. No car accidents then. Then again, it is definitely not good that the man’s too dizzy to move.
Well, it could be brain cancer is his immediate thought, but he quickly realizes how outlandish that is. Brian’s been extremely meticulous with check-ups ever since the hepatitis incident of 1974*, there’s no way something as grave as brain cancer would have been overlooked for so long.
So he has to prod further, because that is what great friends do.
“Do you know why?“ he questions, but only receives a negating grunt.
“Can I do anything?“
“I dunno, can you?“
Freddie huffs.
“Maggie May, did you just sass me?“
The little chuckle that shakes Brain’s slight frame is weak but amused. He must be fine.
Which still doesn’t solve the problem.
Freddie wants to help quite badly, because there’s no way he is going to let his friend be stuck on these disgusting drum risers, god knows how many clumps of dried spit have been sprinkled there by Roger. Not to mention where dear Roger’s mouth has been before producing said balls of spit.*
Speaking of the devil, the drummer chooses to make an appearance at that moment.
Fresh out of the shower, clad in sinfully tight jeans and a yet unbuttoned shirt, towel slung across his neck, Roger Meddows Taylor could easily be mistaken for something out of a fashion magazine. It is not hard to imagine why they call him the pretty one, especially if he lets Freddie dress him up.
“Good evening gents“ the drummer says, stopping underneath them and voice rasping from overuse “Miami says that he is not above eating dinner with only Deaks and me, if you two don’t move your arses in the next fifteen minutes. And I really love you guys, but I’m also completely knackered and dying of starvation so could you please get moving?“
Freddie nervously glances between Brian and Roger, who is impatiently scrunching his damp hair with the towel.
“We might have a little problem here…“ he begins and practically feels poor Brian curling in on himself as if he could somehow defy the laws of nature and sink into the ground.
However, before he can even try to explain, Roger takes a good look at their guitarist and his eyes widen from their usual droopy squint.
In a moment he has ascended the risers, bringing with him a whiff of floral deodorant and what must be Freddie’s shampoo, that wanker.
“Oh Brimi, did you forget to eat lunch again?“ he softly directs at Brian, completely ignoring Freddie.
“Maybe“ Brian mutters.
Roger sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in a display of mock resignation. Only that Roger is the world’s worst actor and Freddie can clearly see the worry tinging the man’s movements as he puts his hands on both sides of Brian’s head and makes him look up.
“Fred, could you get us some stuff?“ the drummer asks Freddie, the studied biologist in him taking over “some chocolate bars and water and I think there’s a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope in the med cabinet in the dressing room. Oh and tell Miami and Deacy to go on without us, we’re going to be late.“
“Yes, of course“ Freddie nods and wastes no time jumping down the risers and hurrying backstage to gather all necessities like one of Santa’s elven henchmen.
Backstage is still a rambunctious sea of abstractly unorganized messes. Managers, more managers, entire racks on wheels filled to the brim with discarded stage outfits, lost roadies and random pieces of equipment shuffle their way towards the light at the end of the hallway that is the entrance to the trailer park.
Only his trained expertise in slithering through crowds makes it possible for Freddie to reach his destination as quickly as he does.
Apparently the headlong gathering also includes one John Deacon, who walks into him in the dressing room while he’s furiously digging his way through a closet and refuses to leave his friends behind in favor of fancy food.
Miami will just have to enjoy those prawn cocktails alone.
Freddie dumps the blood pressure cuff, stethoscope and a pillow he’s found in Deacy’s arms, before re-entering the stage.
Brian is still sat in the same spot looking like the picture of misery, but Roger has moved next to him and hugged him to his side, a hand buried in his wild mane of curls.
“Roggie dear, we come bearing gifts“ Freddie singsongs and hands him an ugly newsboy cap that he’s crammed full of sweets from the refreshments table.
“What’s wrong?“ Deacy asks, awkwardly holding his bundle of paraphernalia.
Freddie pats his shoulder.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Brian’s just feeling a bit under the weather.“
“Righty“ Roger says absentmindedly while digging through the cap and pulling out a KitKat bar.
“Bri, you gotta eat this.“
Brian makes a pathetic noise which could be interpreted as a ’no’.
It could perhaps also be understood as a ’the moon is bright tonight and by the way, did I tell you that I’m a werewolf’ but maybe that’s just Freddie projecting his late-night musings.
Roger nudges him. “Just this one?“
Brian shakes his head. Roger patiently rubs his arm and cranes his head a bit to face him putting on his best pouty expression.
“Hey come one, look at me, please?“
That gets the guitarist to crack open his eyes and dejectedly focus on the drummer’s face.
“I know you’re feeling like shit right now“ Roger starts, cautiously despite his choice of words “and I know you’re probably nauseous and don’t wanna eat anything, but you’re blood sugar is like really low and you’re only going to feel worse if we don’t get some sweet stuff into you, okay? You’re gonna feel better, I promise.“
He holds out the unwrapped chocolate bar again and this time Brian actually takes it, even though he looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Roger presses a soft kiss in his hair and hums approvingly.
It’s a heart warming scene really. If Freddie had a camera with him he would have definitely whipped it out and taken a million pictures, because such cuteness is unbelievable. The only thing keeping him from loudly cooing is the fact that poor Brimi’s probably already embarrassed to death.
Their guitarist has never been an attention-whore, not like Freddie who moves to own every stage he sets foot upon, or Roger, who would most certainly play the audience like a lion his prey if he wasn’t stuck behind his drum kit.
Even throughout his exhaustingly lengthy but admittedly brilliant guitar solos he is only ever presenting his music, never himself. One does wonder how this kind of modesty still exists in this day and age.
At least until you witness him in during recording sessions, nagging anything and anybody to the point of perfection that is.
Freddie will not pretend to be a saint who has never once thought of kicking that bony ass right out of the studio.
“John, can you give me the- yeah, thanks!“
While Brian is miserably nibbling at his chocolate bar, Roger takes his blood pressure with practiced moves and whistles a bit under his breath at the results.
“90/55, no wonder you’re dizzy, mate.“ he acknowledges.
John questioningly glances at Freddie, who shrugs. “I’m a graphic designer, darling, I wouldn’t know about stuff like that if it tap danced in my face.“
“The normal blood pressure is around 120 to 80“ Roger explains at their inquiring looks while putting cuff and stethoscope aside “I don’t know what Bri’s usually is, but 90 to 55 is pretty low even for people with normally low blood pressure. Some people deal with it better than others though, I think I would definitely be out cold with numbers like that.“
“Sounds plausible.“ John nods and tilts his head in contemplation.
“I used to be in dentistry.“ Roger says, as if that explains everything.
“Speaking of knowing what to do“ Freddie chimes in, using the bottle of water in his hands as some sort of silent maraca “is there anything we can do to help?“
Brian’s by now finished chewing his KitKat and must have resigned himself to treatment under Doctor Taylor for now, accepting the Cadbury bar handed to him without complaint.
“Uh yeah, sure“ Roger says and directs Freddie to Brian’s other side „Take his legs, put’em on your shoulders. Come on, Bri, head on my lap.“
Freddie sinks down onto the steps, spit spots forgotten and puts one of Brian’s endlessly long legs on each shoulder.
If he wasn’t such a brilliant guitarist, he would’ve made an outstanding model, their Brian. He’s got it all, legs for miles, hair like a Greek goddess, weight bordering on unhealthily underweight.
Of course Freddie’s overwhelmingly glad that they’ve snatched him before any international runways could, even though he severely doubts the man would have ever considered becoming a model.
“I feel like a gynaecologist“ he croons, giving the shanks on his shoulders a good squeeze and waggling his eyebrows “Maggie, what can Doctor Mercury do for you? How is the baby?“
“Fred!“ Brian hisses in an astonishingly accurate impression of an irritated cat.
“Oh right, I shan’t do that“ Freddie says “After all I can’t see anything important when you’re still wearing pants. No medical care when still in underwear I say!“
Roger snickers. John hands his pillow to the victim of their laughter and he puts it on his face in defeat. The bassist pats his shoulder in silence.
Deacy’s really a perfect quarter of their group, Freddie thinks fondly. Calm and collected with a razor-sharp mind, yet not prone to overthinking like certain other suspects. Constantly dragging Freddie’s fantastical imageries back to earth, where would they even be without him?
Also he’s got a ridiculously cute face.
“Oops, excuse me!“
One of the stray roadies carrying a piece of lighting rig almost bumps into Deacy, who quickly sits down on the step underneath the three of them, swift creature that he is.
Meanwhile the tail end of the rig nearly takes Roger’s pretty head off, but he leans back just in time, jostling the pillow off of Brian’s face in the process.
“Oi, watch it!“ the blond menace yelps and the roadie, what was his name again, he must be new, flinches guiltily.
Oh dear, Freddie must take him aside to apologize later, Roger might be a little choleric but it’s not like he’s prone to ripping people to shreds. No need to worry.
“Is he alright?“ the roadie asks, after having secured his load again and noticing their strange constellation on the drum risers.
“Fine!“ Roger snaps.
“Never better.“ Freddie adds calmly.
“We’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, Robert.“ says Brian, who is decidedly not enjoying the attention.
“Well, if you need anything, give us a shout“ Robert gives them a nervous thumbs up and off he goes again joining the equipment ant march.
“You didn’t need to go off like that.“ Freddie chastises as soon as the boy is out of sight.
“One of these days you’re gonna give one of the lads a heart attack and then who’s going to climb around the rafters in the middle of a gig?“
“Tell that to my gravestone, Fred.“ Roger proclaims dramatically and would have looked thoroughly indignant, if he wasn’t stroking Brian’s head in his lap.
“Here lies Roger Taylor: tragically beheaded in the prime of his youth by Robert, son of Alfred“
“You make it sound like it was a battle.“ remarks John and proceeds to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, passing it around complete with a lighter.
“As if I would die by any other means then a glorious battle.“ Roger says around a mouthful of smoke. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a reminiscent smile.
“Man, do you remember the times when we still had to do all the setup by ourselves?“
“Oh yes.“ Freddie says, patting Brian’s knee.
“Those were hard times. I must have wrenched my back at least four times. You all should be glad that you’re all young and sprightly, this aging body simply doesn’t do anymore. Where’s the return receipt?“
“At your parents house.“ says John and they have to stifle their laughter.
“I think I broke my pinky toe once because I tripped over an amp.“ Brian offers, after they’ve calmed down a bit.
“Bloody thing was smarting for weeks and now it’s all crooked.“
Freddie raises his cigarette in reverence.
“In memory of Brian’s straight and hail pinky toe! It will be held in unprecedented honor.“
In the following pious silence John starts humming the funeral march. How dare this man claim to be unable to sing, when he sounds so wonderful!
I’m going to make you sing on our next record, my dear Freddie thinks, adding a harmony to the song and snickering in his head even if I have to tie you to a chair and make you eat Roger’s mincemeat pie.
It doesn’t take long for the remaining two to add in their vocals and soon they’re jollily singing Chopin’s dark masterpiece to a non-existent crowd, until Brian abruptly swings his legs off of Freddie’s shoulders and sits up.
“I think I’m fine now“ he says. And without doubt, there’s a bit more color in his face and a little smile gracing his lips.
“Drink some water“ Roger orders, grabbing the forgotten water bottle from Freddie and thrusting it under the guitarists nose.
“Also stop skipping meals, you know exactly why your blood pressure’s gone all dodgy.“
Brian winces guiltily as he uncaps the water, but doesn’t say anything. He probably just forgot
about lunch again, that airhead. On top of the inevitable post-gig adrenaline crash his body must have decided to enforce a break.
Freddie smiles at his boys. A bunch of disasters, that’s what they are. His lovely bunch of disasters.
“Well, I for one think I’m ready for dinner“ he exclaims, elegantly rising from his seat and stretching languidly “are you with me, darlings?“
Taking a deep breath Brian slowly gets up and quickly brushes off Roger’s hovering hands.
“Anyways, thanks for the help and company. I really appreciate it and I’m sorry if I worried you.“
“Oh bugger off“ Roger grouses but gladly accepts the firm hug he gets.
“I’m going to let Miami know we’ll be there in a few“ says John, who has already located the nearest phone.
“I think I was promised prawn cocktails?“ Brian asks sheepishly.
“Yes, yes, and you shall receive! Good lord, I am starving!“ Freddie wraps an arm around John who steers them towards the phone.
From behind him he hears Roger snicker like a mischievous goblin. He looks back.
“What is it dear?“
The drummer points at his bum and grins.
“You got spit on your pants“