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ronniesshoes · 4 years

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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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pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles · 5 years

Text

If You’re Gone (Girls Talk Boys part 32)

I think I've already lost you I think you're already gone I think I'm finally scared now You think I'm weak, I think you're wrong

If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home There's an awful lot of breathing room But I can hardly move If you're gone, baby you need to come home, come home There's a little bit of something me In everything in you

Ashton got to Cal's about 20 minutes after Cher texted him. He knocked but when he got no answer he opened the door and let himself in, the place was a wreck. Calum had flipped his coffee table over slinging things across the room and he'd kicked a hole in the drywall by his front door. Ashton carefully made his way around the mess hearing Calum upstairs. He saw the refrigerator door open and went to close it before heading up noticing the whiskey Calum had just bought was not there.

Ashton jogged up the stairs and peeked into Calum's bedroom. Seeing no sign of man or beast as he made his way down the hall. Calum had a 2 bedroom unit and had turned the second room into a gym/music room. He was sitting at his piano with his back to the door and Duke at his feet half slurring half singing “If You’re Gone” by Matchbox 20. Ashton shook his head, he knew this was gonna be a mess. He put a hand on Calum's shoulder causing him to look up with a tear streaked face and unfocused eyes.

“What happened?” Ashton hadn't ever seen Cal look this dejected.

“I fucked up,” Calum hung his head and sniffled fighting back tears again scooting over so Ashton could sit next to him.

“Did Camille break up with you? Cal I don't understand what's going on,” Ashton was puzzled.

“I acted like a complete asshole towards Camille, and she's probably never going to speak to me again. She's already blocked my number on her phone and all her social media,” Calum slumped against his shoulder and reached for the bottle before Ashton grabbed it.

“Getting sick everywhere won't make you feel better tomorrow” Ashton told him taking a swig himself draping his arm across his friend as Calum alternated between babbling and crying trying to explain the fight with Camille.

Cher pulled into the airport's unloading zone and took a deep breath. Both women had been crying as Camille told Cher everything that went down. Camille was devastated by the argument and pissed beyond words but Cher knew she had the ability to compartmentalize and decide she wasn't dealing with Calum right now. With him deleted and blocked she had to focus on work and put her personal life on hold until she got back. Cher had always admired Camille's ability to just that, but also knew it was her way of avoiding dealing with her problems. She helped Camille with her bags and gave her a hug.

“You're gonna be great Cam, don't let this shit get to you. Calum knows he fucked up,” Cher cupped Camille's face in her hands sharing the sadness in her friend's eyes.

With a flash the sorrow vanished and Camille was angry and again Cher knew she was more comfortable being mad, as Camille didn't do sadness well.

“Are you guys done? He thinks you broke up with him,” Cher asked her.

“No I mean, I don't think so. He really fucked up and pulling this right now made it so much worse. I'll deal with it when I get back. Thank you for texting Ashton to go check on him,” Camille shook the thoughts out of her head and put her game face on.

“I'll see you when you get back,” Cher gave her another quick hug before waving to Stephen who was already waiting for Camille in the terminal.

Before Camille made it to the escalator to head up to check in her phone dinged. Cher had sent her a $10 Starbucks gift card knowing Camille needed a pick me up.

Cher checked her messages seeing two missed calls from Calum and a text from Ashton.

Cal's drinking and in a bad way. I'm gonna stay over here at least until he passes out. He tried to call you, Camille has him blocked. Did they really break up?

Cher answered him

Camille won't talk to him until she gets back. He acted like a complete asshole and I don't want to talk to him either. Camille hasn't decided what to do yet I'll explain later.

Ashton set his phone down. “The girls don't want to talk to you right now.”

Calum nodded, he was now sitting on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. Duke kept nudging at him and Calum would almost smile. Ashton had gotten some of the story out of him but Calum couldn't bring himself to repeat the worst he'd said. After a couple hours of drinking and listening to sad songs Ashton put him to bed and texted Cher.

I'm staying here tonight. I hope Camille is ok, Calum is too upset to talk about it but he knows he's wrong

Cher smiled and messaged back

Thank you for not defending him but still supporting him. I'll see you tomorrow daddy

Ashton chuckled and squeezed his dick through his pants glad this fight between their best friends wasn't coming between them.

Calum had spent two days holed up with his laptop and journal in his music room with Duke. Ashton checked up on him but they didn't talk much as Calum was watching the all the ProFantasySports live streams and scribbling down song ideas. Calum was laid out on the floor with his laptop watching Camille's interview on SportsTalk and Ashton was fiddling around on the piano when they both jumped at the sound of the front door slamming.

Footsteps came thundering up the stairs before Luke burst into the room.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Luke was angry and accusing.

Calum flinched at his words and Ashton stood up “Luke you don't know the whole story,” he said trying to calm him down.

“Actually I do, I was on the phone with her last night because she couldn't sleep,” Luke fumed. “He basically accused her of lying, wanting to cheat on him with her ex, and, this is the best part, accused her of using sex to get ahead in her career.”

Ashton was stunned and Calum couldn't meet their eyes, his face burning with shame.

“The worst part is the timing of it. Camille feels like you’re trying to sabotage her job. You need to figure out your insecurities and your jealousy because while she's going to forgive you this time, you will lose her if you keep it up,” Luke sat down and his expression softened. “I know you love her. I want to see you guys make it.”

“What did you come back from your vacation with Summer just to yell at him?” Ashton asked slightly annoyed.

“Did you and Summer have a good time?” Calum asked.

“Yes, thank you. We're really good right now” Luke replied. “I'm not here to fight. I'm here to help you get your girl back.”

“Wait did you say she forgave him?” Ashton asked.

“No she hasn't yet but she wants to. He needs to convince her, and we're going to help.”

The party was going strong but Camille wasn't really having fun. She'd escorted the contest winners around from breakfast, a day in the NFL Zone meeting players and testing their pass, punt, and catching skills before ending the day at a charity dinner. She'd promised Brandon Pearcy she'd drop by his party tonight and Stephen agreed to tag along. Being a sports agent Brandon had gone all out, he had clients on both the Rams and the Patriots so they'd split house down the middle, blue and gold on one side with silver, red and blue on the other. The food was themed accordingly, New England had lobster rolls, crab cakes, fried clams, Greek pizza, fluffer nutter sandwiches and whoopie pies. L.A. served up french dip sandwiches, Pink's chili cheese dogs, Pho, shrimp tacos, chicken and waffles and rice krispie treat chocolate chip cookies.

Brandon was always friendly and introduced her to several big name players. Rob Gronkowski, Tony Gonzalez, Calvin Johnson, Cam Newton and even Odell Beckham Jr who was extremely good looking and very flirty. People were snapping and posting pics and Camille couldn't shake the feeling she was doing something wrong.

“Camille,” a familiar voice was at her side and she looked up to see Quentin standing there.

She jerked back, panicking when he put his hand on her arm.

“Easy now, baby girl I didn't mean to scare you.” Camille relaxed seeing the concern on his face.

“Sorry I was lost in thought. You scared me.” Camille put her hand on her chest.

“You looked miserable,” he told her with a laugh before she noticed his eyes catch something across the room distracting him for a second.

Before she could turn around his attention was back on her “I know this is a work event for you but come hit this blunt,” he spoke quietly leading her out to a side patio where several people were smoking.

Camille took a puff and Quentin leaned down to talk to her.

“You need to leave this party. Brandon is going to make a move on you and he can be very aggressive and very nasty if he doesn't get his way.”

“Q, why are you telling me this? You think I can't handle myself?” Camille kept smiling and her voice low.

“Please trust me this one time, this will get ugly if you stay. His dealer just showed up and Brandon on cocaine It's something you don't want to see. It's only 9:30 my dude was just talking about getting out of here and hitting up this bar he knows that's got some decent food, you should go with the girls. I'll tell Brandon you're fighting with your boyfriend and left.” Quentin stopped when she looked surprised and hurt. “Damn I'm sorry, I was just making shit up. I'll go get your boy Stephen and we'll turn this night around.”

Quentin went back into the party and Camille found herself being surrounded and hustled out of the house by three women she'd just met.

They stopped once they got to the driveway and one of them began laughing “Well that was dramatic.” She stuck her hand out “Hi, I'm Brittany. This is Shay and that's Megan.”

“Nice to meet y'all. I'm still a bit confused as to what just happened,” Camille shook her hand.

Stephen, Quentin and three other guys were right behind them. Camille recognized two of them as NFL players Patrick and Von. The other one, Jalen, she knew personally from her guest appearances on his ESPN show “Two Minute Warning.”

They ended up at Vortex for burgers before finding a silly karaoke bar. For the first time since she'd arrived in Atlanta she was actually having fun. Camille wasn't even worried about posting pics to Instagram, let Calum be mad. She wasn't doing anything wrong and if he couldn't see that then he had to go. Of course the thought of actually breaking up with him made her feel like someone knocked the wind out of her. She blocked that thought almost as soon as it popped into her head.

Tonight was her night with her new friends. Quentin left before midnight to make the teams curfew the rest of the group stay till closing at 3am. Camille had to be up at 11 AM to appear on Two Minute Warning in a surprise guest appearance. Camille texted Cher the details before getting some much needed sleep.

Cher hadn't ever had a Super Bowl party without Camille which made it really weird. Camille usually went all out with a Tex Mex taco bar but Cher went instead with pizza and chicken wings. It was the first time Cher had seen Calum since he stormed out of her house the night of the fight. She was pleased to see he looked like hell. He deserved it for making her best friend cry. Aside from that everyone seemed to be in a decent mood. They all cheered through Camille's segment where she dissected, correctly as it turned out, just how and why the Patriots would win. Everybody was in a great mood, and then the game started.

“Be serious, that game was a fucking snooze” Camille joked with Stephen as they presented their boarding passes to go home.

“The halftime show was worse than I thought it would be,” Stephen responded. “Both Sicko Mode and Sweet Victory deserved better.”

Camille laughed but then the Dramamine kicked in and she knocked out for the flight. Cher picked her up at the terminal.

“I hope you know Calum went all out for your return,” Cher warned her as they drove home.

“Mmmm we'll see,” Camille tried not to smile.

“Are you still mad?” Cher asked her.

“Yes, but I really missed him,” Camille sighed.

Walking in she immediately saw the place was filed with pink roses. She headed upstairs to her room and saw tulips strewn out on her bed with an envelope in the center.

Opening it she recognized Calum's messy handwriting and sat down on her bed to read.

My Darling Camille,

There is no excuse for how I treated you and I can't tell you how deeply ashamed and sorry I am. You are the best thing that has happened to me and I'm so afraid of losing you. I've already put you through so much I feel like an asshole asking you to forgive me. I should've never acted like you had to choose between me or your job. Your career is your life the same way mine is and that was completely unfair. You love what you do, you're brilliant, funny and I am so proud of everything you've accomplished. I didn't mean to act like you ever have to choose and I'm truly sorry.

The rest of what I said is completely inexcusable. I lost my mind for a second and lashed out at you and while there's no taking back what I said please know that I didn't mean it. I never thought you would cheat on me. My jealousy is all on me and I'm an absolute twat for behaving like that.

I know words are empty unless they're followed by changed behavior. I want us to really talk this out and I want to be more open with you. I've never been good at expressing my feelings but I want this to work. I want us to work. I have more to say but I'd really like to do it in person. Please give me another chance.

Yours Always

Calum

Luke watched as Calum paced back and forth staring at his phone. It had been almost an hour since they'd seen Cher's car come back from the airport. Calum was sweating and looked nauseous. There was a knock at the door and Luke saw Calum slump in relief when he answered.

“I thought we should talk,” Camille said before she saw Luke “hey peanut, are you guys busy?”

“NO,” both men answered in unison.

“I talk to you guys later,” Luke gave Camille a quick kiss on the cheek and quickly left.

Camille found herself wrapped up tightly in Calum's arms the second the door closed.

“Camille I am so sorry. I'm an idiot and an asshole. Please don't leave me, I want to be better for you.” Calum was trying not to lose it, barely choking out the words.

They stood there like that, both of them crying together, his face buried in her hair and her face pressed to his chest. Until Camille finally had to pull free because she was all stuffy. Returning from the bathroom wiping her eyes she found Calum splashing his face with cold water at the sink. She came up behind him hugging his waist before he turned and picked her up setting her on the counter.

He looked her in her eyes, “so are we ok?”

Camille nodded, “yes but this can't happen again. Mistakes will be made and this won't be our last fight, but I don't want to keep having the same fight. Respect is the minimum I expect from you. My job is going to get hectic next fall and you're going back on the road. We're going to have enough problems without creating new ones for no reason. I need you to talk to me., I need you to trust me. You're so good at hiding your feelings babe, I never thought about you being insecure. I look at you and see Calum Hood: this gorgeous rock star who I'm lucky enough to be with. I can't imagine you'd ever think you weren't enough.” Camille brushed his curls off his face and stroked his jaw.

“I just think you're amazing and you could do better than me,” Calum couldn't meet her eyes now. “Honestly you could do better than most of the guys you're around. None of them are good enough for you either.”

“You saw the pictures?” Camille asked.

Calum nodded looking guilty. “I watched all your live streams and checked your Insta and Twitter constantly.”

“And?” Camille raised her eyebrows.

“And it was the first time I saw you smile since you got to Atlanta. I'm a complete dickhead for ruining your trip. I'm glad you got to have some fun,” Calum met her eyes again. “I have a surprise for you if you'll come upstairs.”

“Calum we are not jumping into bed. I couldn't anyways,” Camille laughed before giving him a light kiss on the lips.

“No come upstairs to the music room,” Calum put her back on the floor and pulled at her sleeve.

She followed him upstairs and he sat her in a chair before getting behind his piano. He cleared his throat and Camille could see he was nervous but once he started to play and sing Camille was left in awe of his talents.

I was just coastin' Never really goin anywhere Caught up in a web I was gettin kinda used to stayin' there And out of the blue I fell for you

Now you're lifting me up, instead of holding me down Stealing my heart instead of stealing my crown Untangled all the strings round my wings that were tied I didn't know her and I didn't know me Cloud nine was always out of reach Now I remember what it feels like to fly You give me butterflies

Kiss full of color makes me wonder where you've always been I was hiding in doubt till you brought me out of my chrysalis And I came out new All because of you

Now you're lifting me up instead of holding me down Stealing my heart instead of stealing my crown Untangled all the strings round my wings that were tied I didn't know her and I didn't know me Cloud nine was always out of reach Now I remember what it feels like to fly You give me butterflies, yeah You give me butterflies

Now you're lifting me up instead of holding me down You're taking my hand instead of taking my crown Untangled all the strings round my wings that were tied I didn't know you and I didn't know me Cloud nine was always out of reach Now I remember what it feels like to fly You give me butterflies You give me butterflies

“Calum, that was beautiful,” Camille was trying not to cry.

Calum motioned for her to come sit in his lap and when she did he kissed her and looked her in the eye. “I'm sorry for everything. I love you and don't want to lose you.”

“Calum do you know what you just said?” Camille was stunned.

“Yes,” he was smiling at her his eyes bright. “I love you my darling Camille, my everything, my queen.”

“I love you too Calum,” Camille had more to say but it was smothered by his kiss.

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