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’74. New Orleans

 It is the booming scene of blinding lights and bitter lips sweetened by coconut chapstick;

 seas of sweaty bodies and the hunger that shifts the tide too soon, making people clash and clasp at sheets; it is pulses raised, hearts hammering to the beat, that lead him straight to the wolf’s teeth. 

Delighted to be the next meal, 

the main course, 

the man on a mattress heavier than God.

Brian has always been a crowd-pleaser. In the land of the free and home of the brave, though, as push came to shove, he did not belong. On their third night abroad, he brought two women to his room, but his chains dragged across the floor as he passed Freddie’s door. He did not want to think about what it meant… to be hung up on the heat that came off his friend’s skin. 

Desperately, he dove into something else, letting himself be pulled apart, night after night, drunk off foreign liquor and adrenaline, which just made him crave more than he could ever chew. It’s no surprise that he was in way over his head at times, stuck to the skin of dazzling strangers. Sure, the highs were good, but only for as long as they lasted. With every new release, it seemed, the planes of the universe shifted, and the place that he needed to touch to feel satisfied was lifted further out of reach. 

Brian caved to an unknown need. Unsure of what he was chasing, he was scratched and bitten and bruised on his way toward the edge. For a glorious moment, it made him feel something other than the pressure of the loud new world that threatened to swallow him; it took his mind off the lurking stomach ache, which was far from growing pains. But he didn’t get anywhere. It wasn’t a real escape, and yet, as this was all happening to him, he told himself to enjoy it, to be proud. Being ripped apart by pleasure, by women, was the purest form of masculinity, was it not? 

That’s what the world taught him… but the world lies. Brian’s been forced to realize now, years later, that it has left him frayed and fucked up his relationship with sex. With… 

Next to him, Freddie is sipping on a vodka tonic, his lips curled around a straw. Brian wants to know how strong the drink is, but he won’t ask for a taste. Not from the glass anyway… After tonight, that’s not what he needs. He wants to be intoxicated by the hot thrill of a tongue in his mouth. 

Shaking his head, Brian tries to reign in his thoughts, to no avail; nothing fuels hunger quite like guilt. 

The salt on the rim of the shot is divine. Shamefully, Brian licks it off, and his tastebuds hum. So greedy, it should make him feel sick. 

When Brian senses Freddie’s eyes resting on him, heavy and deep, he forces himself to swallow the rest of the liquor and asks the bartender for a refill. The Tequila is horrid, but at least it burns, giving him something else to focus on. He needs to work off the adrenaline, he knows. At the moment, it’s gnawing at his cold bones, bitterly unsatisfied. 

“You’re very quiet,” Freddie remarks, stealing Brian’s glass before he can call on the bartender yet again. He takes the last thin sip of it, wincing. “Fuck, that’s ghastly. Did I throw you tonight? With the… grinding? I know I’ve been different of late. More aggressive.”

These words surprise Brian enough to pull him out of his head. “Aggressive? I don’t find you aggressive,” he says, frowning. 

Flippantly, Freddie tuts as if he’s been made to believe the opposite. “Oh, you know what I mean, Brian. If you don’t want me to be so, well, gay around you, I’ll tone it down.“

Brian’s heart nearly snaps in two. Although he wants to speak, he doesn’t trust his voice to come out as anything but a scream, so he hopes an incredulous look will suffice. The trust between them has always been unspoken, strong enough that they never had to ask for permission. So, what’s different now? Freddie thinks he’s become wilder, but that’s not an issue. Not to Brian, at least. 

While there have been recent changes to Freddie that keep Brian up at night from worry, like how he never answers the phone anymore, the bulk of them have left him sleepless for completely different reasons. The clothes , for one. Those are an issue. 

Tonight, Freddie is wearing a long, shiny leather belt that Brian likes, though he won’t say it; it feels too close to admitting how he wants it to slip through his fingers.

And then there’s Freddie’s eroded filter, his dirtier tongue, that drives Brian crazy. “You must’ve felt me,” he states bluntly when Brian doesn’t answer. “That didn’t bother you? Paul said you might—“

“No,” Brian says curtly, his chest tightening.

“But I was—“ 

“I know. ” Without warning, Brian takes the stolen shot glass from Freddie and slams it back on the counter. “What does he—your manager— have to do with any of it?” Because the alcohol has risen to his brain, the words pour out of his mouth unchecked. He’s had too much to drink. 

“Well, dear, he’s just being considerate,” Freddie mumbles, clearly wondering what’s possessed Brian, his brow furrowed and his smile long gone. 

“But this — “ Brian gestures stiffly between them. “What happens on stage, that’s ours, Freddie.” 

Oh yes, he’s had way too much to drink, and yet he thinks it would take at least another dozen shots to get his mind off Prenter now. Lately, it’s been so easy to blame him for every change that Brian doesn’t know how to handle. 

The distance could kill him. 

Even at this moment, as Freddie reaches out to touch his forearm, there are oceans between them. Brian hates those wide, treacherous waters. Some days, it feels as if Freddie is drifting away. But the stage is a different world; it always brings them together, anchoring them on firm soil. They may be dry, for the most part, the stage lands, but at least it keeps them close. 

Paul doesn’t have a right to touch that. 

“Ours?” Freddie echoes lowly, confused. “Everyone can see it, Brian.” 

“Yes, but…” Only I can feel you. 

Brian bites his tongue before those words can burst out, shaking his head. His mask is already slipping, and he doesn’t want to make this any worse. At this point, it’s a miracle that Freddie hasn’t seen right through him. In his current state, he doesn’t trust his thoughts to stay locked in his mind for long, so it would probably be best if he went to bed and tried not to think about sex. Or Mott. Or America. Or Freddie’s closed bedroom door.

“I’m gonna find a taxi,” is what Brian mumbles after noticing Prenter come out of the bathrooms. 

But Freddie doesn’t let him off the hook, clasping a hand around his wrist. His dark eyes are wide, gentle,  and full of questions. “Wait a moment, Brian… You know I won’t leave you, right?”

No, Brian doesn’t know that. Lately, there have been things that Freddie loves more than music and Brian can’t blame him. He can’t blame Freddie for loving the freedom, for diving into it head-first, but Brian wants to scream. And cry.

‘ These chains are so fucking heavy,’  he wants to sob because he knows that Freddie would understand.

Now, tears are stinging his eyes and Paul is heading this way, about to land an all-too-familiar tap on Freddie’s shoulder and then it’ll be over. 

To calm himself, Brian worries his bottom lip, refusing to meet Freddie’s gaze as he finally whispers his reply, “I wouldn’t hate you if you did.” 

His brow furrowed in concern, Freddie opens his mouth, but then Paul steps into their bubble, bursting it. “Hey, Fred, you said we could go somewhere else after midnight.” 

Freddie doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still resting on Brian. To avoid the scrutiny, Brian turns away to pay for his drinks. As expected, the price is staggering, but not quite as terrible as the one he’ll have to pay for his desires. 

Though he’s trying to drown it out, the sound of Freddie’s voice reaches his ears. “I’ll be right with you, darling,” he tells Paul. “Give me a minute.” 

“But the car is already waiting outside.”

“Then it can wait a little longer,” Freddie says, and Brian notices the hint of annoyance that’s slipped through his tone. It’s nice to know that he doesn’t just idly let people pull him along, that he can still put his foot down.

But Brian doesn’t want to do this. He can’t have a proper conversation, not in this state. Sure, he’s fucked things up while sober, too, but the alcohol never mixes well with his raw emotion, and there’s a hurricane of that in Brian’s chest right now.

Swallowing hard, Brian turns to face him. “Oh, don’t stay on my account. I was gonna head back to the hotel anyway.” Then, without even looking at Paul, he adds, “Have fun. “ 

Be careful, Brian thinks, because he knows where they’re going. 

And, hidden deep within his soul, there is a part of him that desperately wants to join them, to experience the rush of freedom. That part of him is voiceless, though; it can’t ask for a seat in the car, let alone tell anyone the truth. It might be silent, but it doesn’t die. Every day, it’s kept alive by dreams of flashing lights, horrible dance music, and men. 

(Lots of men.)

He’s never seen any of it, so he has no real knowledge of that world, but it has invigorated Freddie, that’s for sure. Brian remembers how much his view on sex changed after the tour with Mott and wonders if that same thing is happening to Freddie now.

As he lies down on his cold hotel bed, he tries not to worry himself to bits over the potential parallels: Is Freddie caught in a whirlwind, too? Falling into the arms of strangers to survive, craving a connection? Does the need ever end for him, or does it grow beyond his control? 

The worst part about these thoughts, apart from the projection, is that Brian only knows of one thing that can make them stop tormenting him. 

Sex. It’s not inherently bad; it takes him out of his head like nothing else. Or, maybe, music works just as well under certain circumstances. When he’s on stage, playing in tune with his mates, and the atmosphere is so hot that it’s hard to breathe, he forgets what it feels like to worry about life… about love. Sadly, he can’t produce the thrill of a concert on his own. 

What he can do, however, is go somewhere and find a random woman to take home. 

There’s just one problem with that solution: He doesn’t want a woman, so pretending that he does will undoubtedly make things worse. Instead, he lies awake, haunted by the memories that he promised himself not to think about: Mott. America… 

Freddie’s closed bedroom door. 

Brian wonders how different their relationship might’ve been today if he’d had the guts to knock. He wishes he hadn’t gone with the women, that’d he’d faced his fear instead. In a way, it’s a ludicrous idea because Freddie wasn’t even out back then and he would’ve been shocked at the thought of sleeping with his friend. That is probably the case still, which makes Brian’s chest ache. 

Brian didn’t know what he wanted then, either. Not really. After several nights of heavy sex, he started to fear that he was losing his senses; that he was somehow becoming immune to the pleasure. It was as if he became desensitized, and, suddenly, the orgasms didn’t matter anymore. More than anything, he craved the emotional ties but, with the women, that became harder and harder to find. On stage with Freddie, well, that’s a different story. There is always emotion between them, even though it’s never quite enough; it makes him yearn for more. 

On top of it all, there is also the spark, the heat…

For years, Brian has known what it means, but guilt has kept his mind firmly grounded. He supposes that, if he let it all go, he could fantasize about Freddie, and maybe that’d be all. The pleasure that he’d get out of it would be shameful, no doubt, but would it be damaging? 

He’s never allowed himself the full experience and that might’ve been a mistake. At the end of the day, his wistfulness turns his thoughts into vague desire, like wishing the salt on the shot glass was something else… 

“God, I’m sorry,” Brian murmurs, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, a last attempt to control himself. 

But Freddie soon appears in the landscape of his wildest dreams. Maybe the alcohol is partly to blame for it, though the wall blocking out the fantasies may have been deteriorating for a while. With his lip pulled between his teeth and his erection in hand, Brian pictures Freddie soaked by red lights, stuck between the bodies of other men.

See, that’s the worst part. Brian has yet to find himself in this scene. He must be on the outside, looking in. 

Foolishly, Brian squeezes his eyes shut as if that will keep him from watching other men kissing him. It’s all in his head yet so vivid, it makes him shake. It’s not jealousy. Brian doesn’t mind if they kiss him. Or fuck him. He just hates not being there himself. Desperately, he wants to belong to that place… because it’s where Freddie is. 

In the end, Brian finishes at the sight of a tall man kneeling in front of Freddie’s glistening tip. Defeated, he whines low in his throat, hating himself because he knows why this image was what made him let go. That man, perhaps more than anyone else in the room, could’ve been him. It could’ve.

Still, he feels like a voyeurist. 

He sinks deeper into the mattress, even though he should shower. It’s gonna take more than that for him to feel clean. As his breathing slows, the fantasy fades, putting tears in his eyes as it goes because of course, it does. Brian knows he’ll never be one of those men, with whom Freddie wants to spend his night. 

All he can do is hope that those he chooses are treating him right.

’79. Munich 

It is the pull of the night, the rolling dice, the dizzying heights, that make him fall out of line;

The sharp edge of a breakdown, only softened by the sweet rhyme; in the studio, hummed to the bassline,

Drifting, gone past the a.m., all of them sinking; 

It is the loneliness that nearly does him in, the phone that never rings, how he looks at Freddie and sees himself.

To keep each other in check, they have decided to have dinner together this evening. Brian, John, Roger, all huddled at a table like they did in the old days, Freddie’s absence like a heavy, smothering blanket of fog over their heads. 

“I tried to call him,” Roger exhales, and Brian stops picking his food around to look up. “Guess who answered for him?” 

“We don’t need to guess,” is what John mumbles, taking another sip of beer. He’s been looking rather grim these days, guilt-ridden, with slumped shoulders and sad eyes. But, then again, Brian supposes that he’d find himself looking like that, too, if he dared to glance at a mirror. “Why do we even let him in the studio anymore? Maybe if he wasn’t, Freddie wouldn’t be so…” 

Brian feels his lip twitch. If only it were that simple. If only he could blame a single person for the painful drift that they’re all trying to prevent, but he can’t. It’s more complicated than that. 

“He wants to go, John. None of us want to be in that studio.” It’s a dark, cold space, much like Brian’s mind these days. It makes the city lights look more appealing than they really are. 

Across from Brian, Roger takes a long drag of his cigarette. “I still think he’s in way over his head. The men that he talks about, they’re all so much bigger than him, and, if drugs are involved—"

“Wait, he tells you about his…?” The question slips off Brian’s tongue before he can think to prevent it. Immediately, he realizes how fucking stupid it is; nothing could be less important right now, and yet this feels like a sharp blow to his chest. 

“He doesn’t tell you?” Roger takes off his sunglasses to stare at him. 

Brian wants to seep into the restaurant floorboards. When that doesn’t happen, he’s forced to shake his head.

Surprised, Roger lets out a quiet, “Huh.” 

Then John sends Brian a stiff smile. “We’ll praise ourselves lucky then.” 

Maybe Brian should feel lucky because he doesn’t know if he wants to talk to Freddie about these men. His heart is fragile enough as it is. Still, the deep furrow of concern in Roger’s brow makes his stomach twist. God… what has Freddie told him? 

Ignoring John’s comment, Brian looks at Roger and gathers the courage to ask, quietly, “… Do you think he’s being hurt?” 

His response is the opposite of uplifting; a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Brian. Whatever it is, it doesn’t make him stop, does it?”

No. 

Brian downs the rest of his beer as memories flash through his mind again. When he blurts out, “It doesn’t stop me either,” is not because he’s drunk; it’s because he can’t take it anymore. Lately, he’s been falling back into old habits and it’s been so fucking painful, chasing the thrill, but he can’t make himself stop. Then it’ll only become real. 

Roger and John share a nervous look. After a long, dreadful moment of silence, Roger speaks up, “What are you talking about, man?”

Under scrutiny, Brian feels the need to retreat overpower him. “I mean, we’ve all been there, haven’t we? I know you’ve been going out a lot, too. It’s not easy to stop.” 

Even when you die a little bit every night. Still, Brian doubts that Freddie feels that way because he doesn’t lie awake after sex, wondering what freedom tastes like. Now more than ever, Brian could care less about the women, the booze, and yes, the drugs; he knows it’s not what he needs, but he falls into it nonetheless, afraid that there is nothing else out there for him. No-one else. 

“So, what are you suggesting? That we stage an intervention?” John asks, worry painted in his gaze. “Because I, for one, am not getting involved with… that.” 

Brian turns to stare at a rumple in his napkin, telling himself that most men don’t understand the appeal of gay bars or leather clothes. Often, he forgets that because it’s what he craves.

“I don’t think we need to intervene unless he’s actually getting hurt, you know?” Roger says, “but we should still try and be there for him. As much as he wants us to be anyway.”

Swallowing hard, Brian dares to look up but doesn’t ask the question that is taking over his mind: How do we know if he’s getting hurt? 

These days, it feels as if they’re not a part of his world anymore; there could be so many monsters in it, and they wouldn’t be able to see it. All they see is Prenter, looming behind his shoulder, more a shadow than an assistant, and even he hides his sharp teeth behind a smug smile most of the time. Sometimes, Brian has wondered if it’s all his imagination, the whispers and the snide comments that the man sneaks into Freddie’s ear when he thinks no one’s listening, since he seems harmless enough. On the surface.

But Brian’s calls never reach Freddie anymore.

The people that Prenter introduces Freddie to all seem dazzled as if they’d rather devour him than talk to him. It makes Brian’s stomach twist but, for the most part, all he does is watch it unfold because Freddie appears to enjoy himself. 

That doesn’t quite stop the worry from eating away at Brian’s heart, though. 

Then, rather abruptly, it becomes too much. 

It’s just the two of them in the studio tonight, tweaking some guitar bits for a song, because Roger and John had other plans. It would be great to have them here, so they could work like they used to do in the old day. The real miracle of this is that Prenter hasn’t yet turned up. Brian treasures every single moment, knowing full well that their time alone may soon be spoiled. 

Still, they hardly say anything to each other, nothing past the usual, ‘ Do you like this?’

Brian twiddles a few dials, and they listen again. Something is missing, clearly, but they can’t find out what it is. “Maybe I should just re-do the whole thing.” 

Freddie stares at him. “What? Now?” He doesn’t turn to look at the clock, and yet Brian knows he wants to. As always these days, it seems as if there’s somewhere he’d rather be. 

Bitterness seizes Brian's chest without permission, making him scoff when he stands up. “Yes, now. You don’t have to stay.”

Freddie’s lips part. “I want to stay, dear. Who else is gonna cheer you on?” When he tries to smile, it quivers. At the sight, Brian’s heart immediately sounds the alarm that shuts down all of his walls. In an instant, his frustrations are pushed aside.

“Hey, where’s Paul?” In truth, he never thought he’d give a shit about the answer, but he does now when Freddie averts his eyes at the name. 

“He’s just busy tonight.” 

“Ah.” Brian looks at him, seeing right through his lie. 

There’s an unwritten rule in the Queen Book that reads, ‘Don’t push on sensitive matters’, which Brian desperately wants to break right now. As he’s trying to remind himself that he’s Freddie’s friend, not just a nosy bandmate, he grabs the neck of The Red Special and enters the recording booth. 

He plays his feelings out, letting them flow to his fingertips. He knows that he has a right to be worried, but he can’t bring himself to admit it, so he prays that the chords will speak for him like they usually do. This time, however, they don’t. 

When Freddie enters the booth, his dark eyes alight with sparks, Brian nearly breaks down because he can’t remember the last time he’s seen that. 

Fighting the rising tears in his throat, he murmurs, “Is it alright now?”

“ Alright? That was magic!” In pure excitement, he grabs Brian’s shoulders, giving him a little shake. “You really are my Jimi, darling.”

Brian turns his head to fight a sob. He supposes that it would’ve come out if it wasn’t for…

At first, he thinks it could be the dim light playing a trick on his eyes, but no . Even though Freddie’s tried to cover them— with layers upon layers of makeup, it seems — there are dark violet bruises on his wrists. They don’t look like love bites at all, marring his skin. Immediate anger flares up in Brian’s chest, making his every breath hurt. 

Freddie must notice. And, of course, he thinks it’s his fault. “God, did I say something wrong?”

Before this, Brian was already an emotional wreck. Now, anger has been thrown into the mix, and that’s all it takes for him to snap. “What is this?” Trembling, he takes Freddie’s wrist off his shoulder. “Who did it?” 

Freddie freezes for a moment, his eyes wide and lips parted. Then he picks himself up, his expression shedding its vulnerability. Still, his voice doesn’t quite reach the same level of strength. “Just some guys. It’s nothing.”

Guys. Plural. Brian’s mind doesn’t have time to dwell on that for long. It’s not important. 

“Did you want them to?” He asks sharply, even though he’s terrified of the answer. 

Shuffling on his feet, Freddie tries to smile but it stiffens on his face. “Well, it just sort of happened, dear. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Fuck, he doesn’t know the half of it. 

“Oh, I do,” Brian bites out, stormy desperation dripping off his tongue. “You think I’m gonna stand idly by and watch this happen to you?!” His voice has reached a shout now, but Freddie is used to that from years in the studio — the volatility — and usually, it helps to just laugh it off. So that’s what he does. 

It doesn’t work. Not when Brian’s heart has been drowning in worry for months. “Don’t give me that!” he snaps, causing Freddie’s amusement to crumble at once. “You know exactly where he’s leading you to, Fred! What do you need him for anyway?” Prenter’s name is obsolete, especially since it might pollute the air between them even more. 

Freddie stares at Brian as if the answer is obvious, but it isn’t. “Sex,” he finally sighs. “You think anyone would fuck me otherwise? Love me?”

Of course, that’s what this is. The freedom that Freddie needs is not the kind that lets him sleep with whoever he wants; it’s the one that lets him find love. Like smoke to the night sky, Brian’s anger dissipates. As quickly as it came over him. To his awe, he finds that it is soon replaced by… a bit of courage. 

He reaches out, brushing his thumb across Freddie’s wrist. “You know this isn’t love.” 

Tears appear in Freddie’s eyes, making him blink furiously and avoid Brian’s gaze. “As I said, I don’t expect you to understand—“

“I’ve been whipped, Freddie,” Brian admits without fuss, mostly to make him listen, but it also feels good to finally say it. As Freddie lifts his head to gape at him, Brian goes on, “And scratched bloody. And tied up… Just to feel connected to people, but none of it was love. What was this? Handcuffs?” He’s still tracing the edges of the bruises, which are far too ugly to have been left by something that harmless. 

Freddie’s lips twitch. “Chains, actually.” It seems he has not yet recovered from the new information, his gentle gaze riddled with questions. The first one that comes out is, “Why are you telling me all of this?”

By some miracle, the courage lives on in the sea of heavier emotions in Brian’s chest. 

Finally, he lets go of Freddie’s wrist, but only to graze it with his whole hand. “I just… I want you to know that I understand.” The space between them has become just a sliver of thinning air, which makes it hard to breathe. “I do,” he whispers. 

Despite everything, Freddie looks like he doesn’t quite believe it. “What do you mean, darling? What do you understand?” His voice cracks suddenly, desperation slipping through each syllable. “How—how much?”

Brian wants nothing more than to kiss him, to let that answer for him, but he can’t do it like this. Kissing Freddie is not a spur-of-the-moment thing that he can do while his guitar is hanging around his neck, even though he wishes it was. He knows that he needs to actively choose it despite the tremors of fear. Despite the unthinkable risks. He can’t just force Freddie into it either, capture him in a kiss, and hope it works out for the best. 

Aware of this, Brian lets his hand linger for another moment, his eyes even longer. Worrying his lips, he murmurs, “We can go back to the hotel if you’d like. For a drink.” It’s not an obvious proposition, and yet it carries enough weight to stick to the atmosphere. 

Freddie opens his mouth to say something, then doesn’t. Brian has nothing more to add.

If they’re both speechless already, how will this go?

Brian orders a glass of whisky in the hotel bar. If he’s going to do this, he needs some liquid courage in case the spark in his chest begins to fade. Freddie doesn’t order anything, just watches Brian drain half of the drink before they make it through the door to his suite. 

Upon stepping inside, Brian stops for a moment. This… this is where he’s wanted to be since ’74, but he never made it. Unsurprisingly, it’s surreal, and the memories soon overwhelm him, compelling him to put down the glass on the nearest flat surface — a small table by the door — No more of that now. 

“ Why are we here, Brian?” Freddie asks, his voice a confused whisper. 

Desperately, Brian wishes that the burn of the alcohol would loosen his tongue, but he doesn’t know what to say. There’s no way for him to articulate years and years of secret yearning. Swallowing hard, he reaches out, daring to touch Freddie’s shoulders to mirror what he did in the studio. “You don’t have to let people hurt you, you know.” 

As Freddie takes a breath in, the warm orange glow of the sunset falls through the curtains and onto his lips. For once, Brian lets himself stare at the sight that awes him. Freddie’s Adam’s Apple bobs, making Brian’s eyes follow the movement. 

It seems that’s all it takes. 

“Are you…” Freddie starts, but it turns into a low gasp when Brian kisses his jawline, then his cheek.

His heart is hammering in his ribcage, expecting Freddie to freeze, to shove him away; instead, he melts, wrapping a finger in Brian’s belt hoop to tug him closer. Their foreheads meet much more softy than their lips; a collision that leaves no room to wonder who caused it. In a second, they are both breathless, forced to pull apart again. 

Freddie pants hotly against Brian’s mouth, his pupils blown wide. “Actually, don’t tell me.” 

Though Brian has no idea what he’s talking about, he says, “I won’t,” just to make him a promise. It’s probably more than other men have offered him. To seal it, Brian kisses him again, parting his lips this time to taste, as he shakes, the lingering cigarettes. 

He prefers the French cologne on Freddie’s skin. It brews a sweet kind of need in his heart. He wants Freddie everywhere, wants to be drenched in him, but his hands haven’t moved an inch. 

“God, if you could just—“ Brian murmurs in between kisses, “—touch me.” 

“Alright.” Freddie breaks the kiss, his voice rough and mouth swollen as he unbuttons Brian’s shirt the rest of the way. Then he presses his warm palm to his chest. “Too much?” 

It’s not nearly enough. In any other situation, Brian would assume that Freddie is teasing him like he sometimes does while they’re on stage, but his eyes are serious here. As if he’s unsure of how much more Brian can take… Or will. 

Brian frowns, shedding the shirt and covering Freddie’s hands with his own to guide them upward. When Freddie’s wrists reach Brian’s shoulders, he dips his head to kiss the bruises, delicately, praying it doesn’t hurt. “I could never have too much of you.” 

He swallows hard. Surely, Freddie has to know what that means. 

“Brian…” But his voice is all bafflement.

And the realization hits Brian like a tidal wave. If his words always fail, then he needs to show it instead. That’s his only chance now. Knowing this, he cradles Freddie’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply, fiercely. 

When Freddie answers in kind, sucking on Brian’s bottom lip, his heart finally stops beating against his ribs. Still, once Freddie’s shirt is removed, too, it starts up again, anticipating what comes next. Brian’s seen Freddie shirtless before, even without pants on rare occasions in the dressing room, but it’s never been like this. He adores every inch of skin that he exposes, amazed that he can touch it now. He’d focus on that alone if it weren’t for Freddie’s fingers in his hair, tugging on the curls.

Brian growls at the pleasant sting, responding by grinding his hips against Freddie’s until… “ Fucking hell, darling.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Brian says, hardly recognizing his own wrecked voice. Even though it hasn’t been long since he last had sex, it’s been forever since he felt so affected by, well… everything: Being touched, being kissed, and doing it to someone else. 

He wants Freddie on the bed, on the luxurious silk sheets. It’s where he should be. 

So Brian grabs his thighs, lifting him off the ground. Freddie lets out a yelp, a sweet sound of surprise that makes Brian nuzzle his cheek. It hits him that he’s never carried anyone before; there’s never been a need for it, but Freddie’s pants are around his ankles so, it seems, he finally has a proper excuse. 

Once Brian has put Freddie down, he goes to unzip his own jeans, but then he meets Freddie’s gaze in the near-darkness. Pauses. He can see that they’re thinking the same thing: We’re really doing this?

It’s risky in every sense of the word, yet Brian never meant to give himself time to think about that; his mind will just derail. 

“We…” Freddie stammers, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “We don’t have to.” After he’s said it, he squeezes his eyes shut as if he’s just waiting to be rejected, as if Brian would ever leave him there. 

Maybe Brian would feel insulted if he didn’t know any better, but he does and the only thing this tells him is that he needs to prove himself. He keeps their eyes locked as he takes off his jeans and figures that he might as well remove his boxers while he’s at it. Although Brian has never felt confident about his body, he can’t help but feel a glimmer of pride when he senses Freddie’s heated gaze lingering on him.  

Brian joins him, a smirk playing on his lips. Freddie’s eyes are raking over him now, shameless, and he loves seeing that, even though he feels a bit self-conscious. After a minute, he cuts off the staring, kissing Freddie once again. Like he was struck by the need to carry, Brian is overpowered by the strong urge to pull Freddie into his lap. He’s never dared to think about that before. Now, he’s doing it without a moment’s hesitation.

It’s funny how the heart works when it knows it might only get one shot. 

Telling himself not to overthink it, he grabs Freddie’s cock, giving him a few, firm strokes from the base to the tip. 

This makes the first moan tumble off Freddie’s lips; it’s strangled as if he’s been holding it back for ages. “ God, Brian, have you—have you done this before?” 

Brian knows that Freddie’s obvious pleasure should make him feel confident, but the question only reminds him of his inexperience. What if he makes an utter fool of himself during all of this, as is likely to happen? What if he can’t make this good?

“No,” he mutters, a little too grim as he struggles to push down his anxiety. 

“You’re in your head again, aren’t you?” Freddie deduces straight away. Slowly, he starts moving his fingers through Brian’s hair, soothing him in an instant. “Don’t worry about it. We can stop at any time.”

“Freddie, that’s—“ Brian strokes him again, slower, hoping that will help prove his point, “—that’s not I want.” 

Freddie blinks. “Oh?” 

The confusion may be sweet, but Brian’s frankly had enough of it by now. He wishes that he could just tell Freddie that he’s into men, that he’s into him, to dispel any remaining doubt, but he can’t compel the words to leave his mouth. That’s entirely his fault, he thinks at this moment, though it probably isn’t true. According to his father, there is only one way to be a decent man…

… And it isn’t by pushing other men onto mattresses and hiking their leg upon your shoulder. 

Brian stares at the lube and the condom from Freddie’s drawer. He’s handled both items before, many times over, but in this context, they look foreign. The nerves that prickle underneath his skin even top those he felt the first time he was with a woman. As if they were on stage, Brian looks to Freddie for cues. And Freddie gives them.

It’s surprisingly sobering, the whole thing, but Brian realizes that he quite likes the attentiveness of it. The hot rush that he experienced in America years ago doesn’t beat the hard blush of this right here.

Sucking a kiss onto the inside of Freddie’s ankle, Brian senses heat coil at his core just from the anticipation. And yet, he’d stop in a second if… “Are you sure, Freddie?”

Freddie’s dark turn glazed, and Brian wonders how many times he’s been asked this question.

It takes him a moment to respond, “Yes.” Even though it’s rough, it’s unequivocal, and so Brian breathes a little warning, then starts to push in.

The sensation is so different it sends a shiver up his spine, but he knows he can’t just dive into it. When Freddie moans, Brian searches his expression for a hint of pain yet doesn’t find it. Still, the tightness of his body is a bit worrying. “Try and relax for me,” Brian whispers, noticing the nervous tremor in his voice.

“I…” Freddie starts to say something but breaks it off just to breathe. Some of the tension immediately disappears, allowing Brian to push in a little deeper.

That’s how they carry on for a few minutes. By the time that Brian is finally buried inside him, he’s at the brink of losing all self-control. Now that he’s grown used to the feeling, he finds it exhilarating; the urge to thrust hard and deep is irresistible. He tries it out, just once at first, because he can’t help himself. The gasp that it pulls from Freddie’s throat cuts off into a loud moan that he’ll probably remember forever.

“ Brian— “ Freddie whines as he writhes beneath him. That… That is dangerous; the guests in the next room shouldn’t know that there are two men in here. They could get arrested.

Though Brian could slow down to prevent any more of these sounds, he doesn’t want to. Instead, he puts his hand over Freddie’s mouth, grabbing his thigh with the other, a little too hard, and keeps up the pace. Regardless of his efforts, Freddie remains loud, and the muffled noise takes Brian out of his head. In just a minute, he stops worrying. Once he gets out of his head, there’s no going back, though. With Freddie, he realizes, he has everything: the pleasure, the emotion, the escape that he so craves.

His thighs soon begin to strain, burning with every movement, but he doesn’t want this to end. To his regret, he knows he’s at his limit, so he takes his hand off Freddie’s mouth to hear his shallow breathing. Sweat is dripping down Brian’s naked back; the air between them is hot and thick as he rushes to make it through a few more thrusts. 

“God, Brian, please don’t, ” Freddie pants, probably sensing that it’s coming to an end.

Brian, overwhelmed by the blinding heat of the moment, scrambles to cover Freddie’s mouth again.

That was a mistake… Equally affected, it seems, Freddie tries to bite down on his lip, but his teeth meet the skin of Brian’s knuckle instead. While it certainly stings, it also makes him come, catching them both off guard.

Brian nearly chokes on the sheer force of his own moan as he tries to swallow it back down; Freddie exhales shakily, almost as if he’s about to cry. Once he’s recovered enough, Brian pulls out and brushes a piece of hair off Freddie’s sticky forehead. “Are you okay, baby?”

Fuck, he did not just—shit. 

He always does this and it always gets him in trouble, gets him hurt in the end. It’s so naive to think that the people he fucks want anything to do with him outside of it. But whenever the physical connection is strong enough, his hopes are brought up. It’s ridiculous at this point, how needy he is. 

Besides, this is Freddie. He won’t answer to sweet names; he’s his bloody friend, for crying out loud! Defeated and spent, Brian rolls onto his back, resisting the desire to pull Freddie as close as possible. The silence is heavy yet hot as the sweat that sticks to his thighs; his lips are aching for a deep kiss that he knows he won’t get… 

“I should be asking you that,” Freddie replies suddenly, startling him. The white silk pools around his hip when he flips onto his side to watch Brian with gentle eyes. “… are you?”

No. “ Yeah, just a little—“

“Thrown?” 

Brian worries his lower lip. “Fragile, I suppose.” 

Freddie hums in understanding, then says something Brian has heard a thousand times before. “You worry too much, my dear.” He trails his fingertip, light as a feather, down Brian’s shoulder. “It was nice to see you be… careless for a bit.” 

Though Brian wants to huff at that, it comes out sounding way too heavy, like a sigh, and the weight of it must land on Freddie because his brow furrows. For a long moment, he looks deep in thought. When he pulls his lip between his teeth, Brian finally asks, “What is it?” 

“Do you…” Freddie lowers his voice so it’s nearly a whisper. “… want me to do it to you? It could, well, I don’t know—“

“Yeah.” Brian swallows thickly to fight off the fear that clutches at his chest. He usually enjoys giving up control, but it’s different with a man; he has no idea what to expect, and yet… he wants to know what it’s like. He might only get this chance once. “That’s—if you’re not too tired, that’d be good.”

Freddie tells him to say something if it becomes too much, which it nearly does. Several times, even. It hurts for a while, and Freddie has to rub his thighs gently to make him relax. Still, the tears don’t spring forward in his eyes until the pain fades, which is strange. Maybe it’s the pure relief that comes along as his thoughts begin to blur; the fear of what his dad might think if he saw him there, and what it might do to the band, is banished from his mind.

“I won’t hate you for crying, dear,” Freddie tells him softly, pushing in again. “It’s alright if you want to let it out.”

Brian chokes on a whimper but pulls himself together. “I can’t.”

At his strangled reply, Freddie watches him in concern. “I think you should,” he murmurs, pressing a delicate kiss to Brian’s pubic bone.

“No, Freddie,” Brian stammers. “I’ll sob. ”

Maybe Freddie thinks he’s being a bit dramatic, but Brian can feel himself already starting to unravel, and, if he lets the tears fall, there will be no way to stop them. It doesn’t matter that they’ll be of the good kind, born out of relief rather than despair; he doesn’t want to break down during this. No way. He’s not putting Freddie through that. 

Oh, how he wishes he could laugh. That might ease the furrow in Freddie’s brow. But he’s too overwhelmed, overstimulated, teetering on the edge of something quite unimaginable. “Please,” he murmurs, for no apparent reason, his lip quivering.

Freddie seems to know what he means, though, changing the position of Brian’s leg to hit deeper. 

One of the most valuable things that Brian has learned over the years is that orgasms are as mental as they are physical, perhaps even more so. This one is strong enough to kill him, and yet it seems to be mainly in his head. It’s never happened before, and he wonders if he should feel embarrassed of the animalistic noise that escapes him, but…  Freddie just kisses the corner of his mouth, lacing their fingers together as his tremors settle. 

After that, Brian really can’t take any more. His body aches all over despite how boneless he feels. A few tears rip themselves loose from his eyes, and he can’t stop them. Instead, he wipes them away with the heels of his palms.

Next to him, Freddie is watching intently, but the question he asks is unexpected, “Fuck, did I hurt you badly?”

Brian manages a smile. “I’ve had a lot worse.” 

When Freddie’s lips curl, too, Brian is happy to see a bit of relief in it. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve been whipped. ” His eyes widen comically as if he still can’t quite believe it. “God, when was that?”

Under any other circumstances, Brian would hesitate to share that information; more than the other guys in the band, he prefers to keep his sex life private, only because he isn’t very proud of it. Now, however, he doesn’t mind, wanting to preserve the comfortable atmosphere of the afterglow. “New Orleans.” 

When Freddie grins, he doesn’t try to cover his teeth; it makes Brian’s heart feel warm. Maybe… just maybe, something positive will come out of this, too. 

“Oh, New Orleans. Even I slept with a woman there. Me! ” 

Even though Freddie’s laughing about it now, Brian turns to him, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His chest feels heavy when he says, “I hope that wasn’t too…” Horrible. Traumatising. Painful. 

Freddie’s eyes grow a little sad, but Brian supposes it could be worse. “Nah, dear. I’m working through it now. It wasn’t unlike how this must’ve been for you.” 

Brian doesn’t know quite what to make of those words, and yet they feel like a blow to his ribcage. A little frantic, his heart quivers, and he brushes his thumb across Freddie’s cheekbone. “Hey, we’re okay, right?” 

Once again, Freddie smiles, reassuring. “Yeah, yeah. We are,” and nothing is worrying about his demeanor. 

Nevertheless, the thought that plagues Brian as he lies awake is whether Freddie still thinks he’s straight.