Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Notes from the Imperial College notice board, late 1968-early 1969)

***

To whoever's looking for a drummer:

My roommate saw your advert. Ginger Baker/Mitch Mitchell type, you said, right? Then I'm the one you need. When's the first rehearsal?

Roger Taylor

***

Dear Roger,

Received yours this morning and would like to meet you for an audition.

Tim Staffel is the bassist and lead singer of the group, and I play lead guitar and sing backup. We write a fair bit of our own material as well. We'd like to hear a variety of your styles, both by yourself and with the two of us. Would you be able to meet us at the student club at Imperial College this coming Saturday at noon?

Your earliest reply would be greatly appreciated.

Yours cordially,
Brian H. May

***

Dear Brian H. May,

Bit stuffy for a rocker, aren't you? Also, I don't "audition." I'm happy to come jam with you two on Saturday and I'll make my decision after.

Roger

P.S. At least you like Cream and Jimi.

***

Dear Roger,

Well, you're certainly direct. That's not a bad trait in a drummer, I suppose.

It wasn't my intention to get off on the wrong foot, and for that I do apologise most profusely. Tim and I have had some less than stellar experiences with drummers lately, which has made me a bit hesitant to take on a new one sight unseen. Or, rather, perhaps I should say, "sound unheard."

I spoke to Tim about your answer to the advertisement, and we thought we'd make our audition (jam, if you prefer) requests with more clarity. We'd like to hear you play, as I said before, in a few different styles. Any Beatles or Cream/Clapton tunes you know would be a good start. Then Tim and I will demonstrate some of our own work and you can join in once you get the feel. We can discuss the outcome afterwards.

I look forward to meeting you on Saturday.

Yours Cordially,
Brian

***

"Discuss the outcome?" Are you fucking serious?

Roger

***

Dear Roger,

Of course you would be a part of the discussion. If we're to form a band, then we need to come to consensus on the direction we plan to take. It's imperative that the three of us are headed in the same direction if we are to succeed as a unified group. It would be best if we began this journey without histrionics.

The club is empty from about ten a.m. onward, if you would like to come early and set up. Tim and I are both dark-haired; his is straight and mine is curly, so you can use that to tell us apart.

Until Saturday, then,
Kind Regards,
Brian

***

You can tell me apart because I'll be the bloke carrying the drum kit.

Roger

***

Dear Roger,

Tim and I greatly enjoyed working with you on Saturday. The hours just flew past because you fit so beautifully into our sound. You play with an energy that manages to be robust yet precise at the same time - no mean feat. You have a deftness of touch that may well be unparalleled amongst drummers. Tim told me later that he was "gobsmacked" by your abilities.

We said it at the time but would like to reiterate: we would be delighted to have you be the drummer of Smile. What say you?

Best,
Brian

***

Despite the fact that you didn't know that drums could be tuned (for an astronomer your head seems to be rather far up your own arse), I found you and Tim to be quite good. Well, I found Tim to be good but you...fuck, man, do you have any idea how well you play?

Roger

***

Dear Roger,

I hope that message means you want to be part of this band. I also hope you understand how much we want you to be our drummer and collaborator. Tim and I aren't particularly outgoing people and sometimes our reticence can be interpreted as indifference. Nothing could be further from the truth; we were impressed beyond belief.

It's embarrassing that I have such a lack of knowledge about drums. I can find my way around a guitar (or a piano, if strictly necessary) but have limited understanding of all things percussion. The more you can tell me about the capabilities of your instrument, the fewer ridiculous statements I'll make and the more I'll be able to fit into the way you play.

You're far too kind about my own abilities, which are pedestrian at best. Listening to Hendrix has rather eaten away at any convictions of my own worth, but I'm willing to learn and improve. There are so many sounds I want to make, and with your drums behind me the possibilities will be endless.

Looking forward to seeing you at the next rehearsal, I remain

Very truly yours,
Brian

***

First gig went rather well, I thought. Tim's not the strongest singer in the world but it's a nice voice. Yours is a little thin and unsupported. Hope you don't mind my saying so. Your tendency to hunch over the guitar is probably doing weird shit to your diaphragm. Your modal register could be really nice if you could just breathe properly.

Sorry, I went to choral school as a kid. Old habits die hard. I don't have much in the low range but I've got a killer falsetto-to-whistle. We should throw that in next time.

Roger

***

Dear Roger,

I concur that the gig was a success; your solos were particularly well received. (Perhaps the open shirt contributed to the ladies' appreciation.) Please feel free to offer pointers on my singing as needed. That's one of the areas where I feel the most at sea.

You really went to a choral school? And you call me a swot? Seriously, I'd love to hear you sing more than just backup. I don't think Tim would mind. He does get tired a lot during a long set. Perhaps you could share some pointers with him as well—that is, if you can give him pointers without making it seem as if you're giving him pointers. Tim's a bit sensitive.

Shall we have rehearsal again on Friday? Perhaps have a drink afterwards?

Cordially,
Brian

***

A BIT SENSITIVE? He almost took my head off! Wanker. I'm just glad you were there to help settle him down, and that friend of his from art school, too, what was his name? Strange bloke, but interesting. Stronger than he looks.

Roger

***

Dear Roger,

I hope that the bruise on your cheekbone didn't give you a black eye. Tim feels terrible about that, by the way. He'll apologise in person next time we play.

His friend's name is Freddie Bulsara. He changed it to Freddie from something I can't quite spell. He's been in a couple of bands but none of them seem to be going anywhere. He has a unique sense of style: straightens his hair but insists I stop straightening mine.

In any event, keep something cold on your face and let me know if I can bring you anything.

Cordially,
Brian

***

A girl would be nice...

Roger

***

Dear Roger,

You and me both.

Sorry, that was a bit harsh. I was dating a nice girl but she met Freddie and...well, I'm no longer dating that nice girl. Probably just as well. I may be in Tenerife next year for some post-graduate work. It wouldn't be fair on her, would it?

There are times, though, when I feel that the stars and my guitar are cold, inanimate substitutes for human interactions. The stars are constant but so, so far away. My guitar is in my arms, singing for me, but still it's all hard and empty.

Not sure whether I should go ahead and post this note on the board. I get like this sometimes. My father tells me to shake it off, to be a man about it. He's right. He's right about a lot of things.

Well. I'd better end here lest I embarrass myself further.

Yours,
Brian

***

Not fair on HER that you swan off to Tenerife? How about your band? We're just getting some steam up and now you want to go get a nice tan?

I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but some of the shit you wrote about being lonely and empty made me a bit worried. Put on a decent outfit and some actual shoes if you own a pair. I'm taking you out to get thoroughy pissed.

Rog

***

Dear Roger,

I'd like to thank you for last night but I don't remember much about it other than the bouncer at the fourth pub tossing us out into the street. Hopefully your head doesn't feel as if you're playing your drums inside of it. Thank you anyway.

Looking back on our correspondence, I can't help but notice that you don't use salutations or complimentary closes. Why is that?

Yours curiously,
Brian

***

Don't need to use them with my best mates, now, do I?

Rog

***

Oh.

Bri

***

Chapter Text

(Early 1970, international correspondence between London and Tenerife)

***

Brian—

Buenas Días from Blighty. Our weather is shite and I hate you.

I don't really hate you. This weather, though. It's horrid. The flat's not draughty, there's a brisk northeasterly WIND running through it.

I suppose I'd best tell you what's going on. Fred and I are doing well with the stall and fairly well sharing the flat with Tim. There's something very strange about Tim, though. He's gone a lot, he doesn't have a lot to say when he IS here, and he just seems...furtive. Any idea why it's happening?

Freddie says hi. He's going to do some Liverpool gigs with Wreckage in a bit. Should be home by the time you come back, all suntanned and full of paella.

Have you shagged a señorita yet?

Rog

***

Roger—

It's "buenos." "Días" is masculine, not feminine.

For the millionth time, I didn't go to Spain to sunbathe or explore the cuisine. Nor did I go to get laid, come to that. As you well know, I've designed a coelostat and I'm going to use it for my PhD, which I need to work on if I'm going to get my dad off my back for eleven seconds. If we want Smile to succeed, we need me playing at full tilt and not having to move back home with my parents because I've failed at academics. I already gave up the offer to work at Jodrell Bank; I didn't dare pass up this opportunity as well.

Remember watching the moon landing at your mum's last summer? Remember when you said you thought my whole life was up there amongst the stars? Don't get me wrong; I love rock and roll. I just can't throw it all away, at least not until we're sure the band is going to take off.

You're rubbish at giving guilt trips, you know. Go have tea with my mum and ask her for pointers. She's the past master.

I haven't the vaguest what's going on with Tim. You could always take him out for a beer and apply the thumbscrews. Or you could just ask if he's "doing all right." Ha!

I'll be home a week from Saturday on the 2:15 flight from Tenerife. You can roll your eyes at me once I've made it through Customs.

—Bri

***

Dear Mr. Python,

What makes you think I'm going to meet you at Heathrow if you keep making terrible jokes like that?

Seriously, I'll be glad when you get here. Tim's definitely up to something and Freddie's not here to deflect.

How is "días" masculine if it's got an "a?"

Rog

***

Roger—

It was Latin first, and in Latin it was masculine. Also, it's costing me twelve shillings to tell you that.

B

***

Brian, you're still a swot. I'll give you your twelve shillings when I pick you up on Saturday.

R

***

(Summer 1970, assorted notes left around the flat, London)

***

Roger—

It feels weird to write when we share a bedroom wall, but with Tim still skulking about I don't feel comfortable having actual conversations with you.

At least we know now. I can't say I'm too terribly surprised to find out that he's been auditioning all over the place. "Humpy Bong," though...what in the world is that about?

So it's you and me and Fred in the apartment, and you and me in Smile. Any ideas what to do next? If anything?

Does Freddie know?

B

***

Brian—

Tim rang Freddie in Liverpool and told him about leaving the band and moving out. Freddie's more upset about losing one-fourth of the rent than about Smile losing our lead singer. I think he thinks this is his big chance.

R

***

Roger—

His big chance to be...lead singer? While he's out in Liverpool with Wreckage?

B

***

Brian—

Wreckage...let's just say it was aptly named. Evidently they haven't been going over well and Freddie's ditched them. He's coming back in a day or two, hoping to take over from Tim. He's very, very clear on that point. I fucking adore him, you know that, but he sounds like an orgasming sheep!

On the other hand, we're a little low on options. On the other other hand, we're REALLY low on bass players. Do you know any?

R

***

Roger—

We're fresh out of hands, aren't we? You can't sing lead from behind the drums without having a stroke, and, as you've so kindly and frequently reminded me, my voice isn't good enough. So Freddie it is, God help us. At least he knows the charts. Let's spend a little time working with him before we worry about getting a bass player.

Bri

***

(A few weeks later)

***

What do you think of the new name, Bri? "Queen" sounds rather posh and upmarket. Also sounds a bit poncy. But I kind of like it now that I've had time to think.

Freddie's sounding better these days. (I guess the sheep finished its orgasm.) He's kind of copying Tim on "Keep Yourself Alive" but some of the other stuff he's singing sounds like nothing else I've ever heard.

R

***

Roger—

I absolutely hate the name. Are we trying to irritate Her Majesty or something?

Of course you and Freddie have the stall, and the quarters are too close for you two to be squabbling whilst you work. It feels odd to tell YOU to "keep the peace," but I don't see where we have any other options. If the two of you are dead set on "Queen," then on your heads be it.

What do you think of Mike's playing?

Bri

***

I don't think anything of Mike's playing. The sooner we're shot of him, the better. Nice enough bloke, adds nothing.

Didn't want to bring it up in front of Freddie, but are you all right? You seem even more glum than usual.

R

***

Roger—

Well, you got your wish. Exit Mike, enter Barry. More rehearsals, less time for study. Hooray.

Come home with me for Sunday dinner if you want to know why I'm more glum than usual. Come listen to my father spell out all my failings in between moans about how he worked two jobs to put me through college only to have me throw it away like the ungrateful fool I am. Come watch my mother's lips tremble as she says she'd hoped I would make something of myself after all their sacrifices.

Yes, I know, I should be grateful that my father only abuses me verbally. In no way am I trying to belittle the severity of what you went through, but please try to understand that the water dripping on the rocks of my sanity is actually battery acid.

Bri

***

Brian—

Thanks for taking me to your parents' house for dinner. You weren't fucking kidding; they're impossible. I thought your dad was going to set fire to me every time he lit a match.

I'm rehearsing with Barry at three. You want to come watch and give an opinion?

R

***

Roger—

I watched, but I wish I hadn't. I don't even play bass, but I could do a better job than that. We need to do something to his amp. Burn it?

B

***

You've been hanging around me too much.

R

***

(January, 1971)

***

Brian—

Well, Barry's out, wants to play "in other styles," as if he knows the difference. Wasn't sure if you got his message or not. We have that gig opening for Yes in February, so we need to find someone sooner rather than later. Are you SURE Freddie can't play bass? Maybe just left hand on the piano? Shit.

R

***

Roger—

This Doug character, is Freddie serious bringing him in to play bass? He makes Mike sound like a genius. But we're opening for Yes in a few weeks, so there's some solace to be had in a "real" gig where pissed undergraduates aren't screaming at Freddie.

Some of the things they scream at him sicken me to the core.

Bri

***

(February, 1971) 

***

Brian—

So this kid John can play, and Freddie's taken him under his wing like we've never seen him do. But he's NINETEEN, for fuck's sake. He's practically a child! What kind of rock band lets a CHILD come in and play?

R

***

Roger—

The Beatles? George was younger than that when they started, you know, and they seem to have done rather well for themselves.

You were nineteen when Tim and I took you on. I'd love to say: "Look how mature you turned out to be," but I don't need my nose to grow any longer.

He's the best player we've heard. Come to that, he's one of the best I've ever heard, live. He's a quiet fellow—hallelujah—but his sound is enormous and original. We'd be fools to let him slip away.

We've got that demo coming up in a fortnight. Give him time to really lock in with you and that sound will be the foundation of everything we do. Plus, Freddie is absolutely mad about him, and you know what it's like when you've got Fred's undivided attention. You can't help but excel. John will do the same.

I think we have a band at last. Even our names sound good together: Bulsara, Deacon, May, and Taylor. They're so down to earth that they balance the unrealistic, fey sound of "Queen," don't you think?

Bri

***

Brian—

Uh, about the "Bulsara" thing...

R

***

Chapter Text

February-March 1974, notes from Trident Studios

***

Brian, Bowie canceled Top of the Pops. It's us, mate. Tomorrow night. Top of the FUCKING POPS.

R

***

Roger—

I wouldn't say the "performance" was anti-climactic, since we didn't so much perform as stand about whilst our record played. I always knew that show was absurd; I never UNDERSTOOD until I was stood there with my guitar plugged into nothing in particular. We won't even discuss the garbage they stuck all over your kit, or the arguments we had to undertake just so that Freddie could have his mic stand.

However, Sheffield says that it boosted the single sales and that they're pushing the album out as soon as they can. Perhaps the silver lining behind this cloud will turn out to be actual silver.

Bri

***

Ha! Rock stars living on an allowance, we are. I can't even scrounge a dinner off my mum because she'd have to send me bus fare first.

R

***

Roger—

I'd offer a meal at my parents' house, but you remember how well that didn't go last time. Beans on toast at my flat, then?

Don't shoot the messenger, please, but I need to let you know something. Sheffield pulled me aside today and gave me a lecture about how much money Trident are spending on "incidental" equipment and repairs. He wants me to tell you (hence my "don't shoot the messenger") that you "shouldn't hit the drums so hard" because they resent having to buy so many drumsticks.

If it makes you feel any better, he also wants me to tell Deacy not to break so many plectrums and to get Freddie to stop putting glasses and bottles on the piano. Then he reminded me that Trident will not replace my "obsolete" sixpence coins at any price.

Bri

***

We're in a rock band. How softly does he think I should be hitting the drums? Fuck, he used to BE a drummer, which makes this all the more unbearable.

I know it's not your fault. Good luck with Freddie and the drinks. You'd have better luck asking the sun not to come up in the east.

YES I KNOW THE SUN DOESN'T "COME UP." No astronomy lectures, please.

R

***

Roger—

One would think that they'd be grateful that John made an amp out of bits he found in a skip, or that my Lady is made out of spare parts and a fireplace. The new record is doing respectably in the charts, probably because we spent so much time on the road last year doing gigs that paid rock-bottom and looking like prats on Top of the Pops.

Instead, they're pinching every penny sending us to America with Mott. One stage outfit instead of two so there's less luggage. Use whatever amps are on site instead of taking our own. Reduce the drums, reduce the mics, reduce...down to the bone. Do we really want to start off in the U.S. with such a meagre production? On the other hand, if we take all our rig there, will we have the same uncooperative stage crews that screwed up our Sunbury gig?

But if we stay here, will we just stagnate?

Ignore me. I'm running a bit of a temperature and I just had a conversation with my dad, again, about how I'm throwing away my life.

Bri

***

Pity your dad's not single. He and my mum would make quite the pair and we could be stepbrothers. One big happy family, no?

We're done in the studio for a bit, thank God. America awaits, with all the golden-haired farmers' daughters one could pray for. Or lay for.

P.S. Not that I wish ill on your mum. Or on her cooking.

R

***

Roger—

Ask and ye shall receive. Mum brought over everything from their fridge because they're going out of town for a bit and didn't want it to go bad. Forget the beans on toast. Gather up Freddie and Deacy and we can have a feast tonight. We can toast to whatever we plan to put on this mythical next album.

Bri

***

April, 1974

Good news, Brian: All Hail Freddie Mercury, Worker of Miracles! I don't know what he threatened Sheffield with, but suddenly we have a pair of roadies, our own amps, and a PIANO on this tour.

Don't fret so much about the setlist and the tour, Bri. It's all going to be fine. You've looked a bit down in the dumps lately—I'll buy you a beer after we get done. That'll cheer you up.

R

***

Roger—

I know I'm better at reading skies than faces, but are you sure Freddie "threatened" Sheffield? There's been something odd about him all afternoon. He's unusually quiet; if it were anyone else I'd say "subdued." I can't put my finger on why, precisely, but it worries me.

Yes to the beer, please.

Bri

***

We'll definitely need more beer next time.

Freddie won't talk to me about it. And it's not just me. He won't talk to JOHN, at all, and I see you haven't fared any better. He just says something silly like "It's all a matter of commerce, darling, nothing to see here."

BULLSHIT.

Whatever he's got up to, it's so bad that Mary phoned me this morning at 3:00, in tears, because Freddie never came home. I'll reiterate: Mary phoned me. MARY, who thinks I'm the devil incarnate, phoned ME.

R
(not the devil incarnate, in case you were wondering—merely an underling)

***

Roger—

When Mary calls me at 3:00 a.m., you'll know the apocalypse has descended upon us.

I checked with Roy at the studio to see if Freddie had worked late. No joy there: Freddie left a few minutes after we did and didn't come back. Roy also said to let Freddie know that the new Steinway will be here by the time we start the new album. I didn't even know we had a new album to record, much less that a new piano was involved.

So, Trident is going to buy a new piano—and a Steinway GRAND, at that? And suddenly you can take your whole kit on tour, and we have three roadies and a tour manager coming with? Yet they say they can't give us more than 20 quid a week as "wages."

All of this goes on, and Freddie gets quieter and quieter. He's gone all the time, the instant we're out of the studio, and evidently he's not getting home until the wee hours if at all.

You know what I'm thinking; please tell me I'm wrong.

Please.

Bri

***

I think you're right about Freddie being seeming to be "off" lately. Maybe he's got a bit on the side and that's why he doesn't come home. You know how he can just wink and have the world at his feet. Whether that world is male or female...that's nor for us to judge, now, is it?

Christ, if it's Sheffield, though, I will personally remove every one of Norman's internal organs with my bare goddamn hands.

R

***

Roger—

Hopefully, that won't be necessary. If it is, you can count on me to hold him down while you kick his arse into another galaxy.

Now it's time to get packed up to go out on the road. I've never heard us sound so good as we've done in the last few rehearsals. Or at least the three of you. I don't know why I sound so lacklustre but after a few days' sleep I'll be ready to make you lot proud.

I'll see you at dark-thirty tomorrow for the flight out. America's going to have a new Queen!

Bri

***

12 May, 1974, St. Thomas' Hospital waiting room

***

Brian—

God. I don't know what to say. I have to say something, though.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry not to have taken you more seriously when you said you were peaky, sorry to shove you out on stage night after night, sorry to let Freddie keep you up 'til all hours afterwards when you just needed a good night's rest.

Tell you how I really fucked up: I didn't stand up for you when Trident said to bring you back home instead of putting you in hospital straight away. I meant to. Really, I did. But when I watched you fall down backstage, I forgot how to be anything but terrified.

Now it's come to this. They've taken you away to surgery to...fuck, I can't even make myself write it down. Putting it in ink will make it real, won't it? John says these are the best doctors in England and that I shouldn't give up, so for once maybe I should listen to him.

Freddie's beside himself. Whatever deal he's made with Sheffield, it wasn't enough to make YOU a priority, so of course Freddie's blaming himself. I think even John's trying to put some of this on his own head. Mostly he's taking care of Freddie, he and Mary—she's been really helpful, you'd be so pleasantly surprised.

So we're waiting. Veronica's off praying for you. Jo took Chrissy home and gave her a sleeping pill. John and Mary are with Freddie, and I'm sat here. I'm alone and it's

I wanted to tell you how much

No matter what, you'll always be in the band. One hand, two hands, eight hands if you want to become an octopus, we don't care. I just We just love you so fucking much.

Everyone's left you a note. I'm putting them under your pillow because I'm scared such a sap.
And I'm only signing off like this once in your whole lifetime, so enjoy it.

Love,
Roger

Chapter Text

(August, 1974—between Trident Studios and Brian's flat)  

***  

Brian—

You never did do anything by halves, and getting sick was no exception. Glad the ulcer surgery went well and that Chrissy's going to take you home and play nurse. Maybe naughty nurse, if you're a good boy.

(Read this next bit while Chrissy's at school. She's guarding you like a dragon and won't let any of us talk to you about what's going on at the studio, but there's shit going on that you need to know about.)

It's weird not having you with us to complain about mixes and tempos. We've put a lot of stuff down—Freddie, in particular, is composing like mad—but we're leaving tracks open for you when you're feeling better.

Thing is, when you were trying to record when you felt so rubbish, your playing was...well, it's never BAD, but it wasn't as polished as you usually make it. Roy and the EMI shirts decided to wipe it all.

I'm sorry. I know how hard you tried.

Norman and Barry, those bastards, want the album out this fall no matter what. Deacy did some acoustic stuff on my song and on his own (gotta ask Ronnie exactly how often he "Misfires"). He plays good enough rhythm guitar, rather tasty, so the album won't suffer. But he absolutely would not do lead tracks, not even when the Shirts came to him and told him he had to.

Know what he did? He defied them. Absolutely, completely defied them. Stood there, hands on hips, and said "No" in that voice that really means "I'll do you in, you waste of oxygen." You know that voice well.

Don't let on that I told you.

Then Norman told us that Trident wants to replace you altogether. Sid and his lot could hear Fred's screaming in the next studio over. John gave them the Death Glare. And rumour has it that I may or may not have thrown...a few things. Trident won't be suggesting THAT again.

Actually, don't let on that I told you this bit, either. Or the next.

Our plan is to drop by whenever Chrissy is at work and play you what we have so far. Do not TOUCH a guitar until the doctors say so, but feel free to spin your tunes in your head. We miss you so much that John says your solos can be as long as you want! I guess he's got a soft spot for you after all.

Chin up, Bri. We'll be by once you're settled in and ready for visitors.

R

***

Roger—

I'm sending this via Miami, who came to say hello today. Hence the sealed envelope, all very hush-hush.

It was so great to see all of you yesterday. I know you were all on your best behaviour, but believe it or not I actually have missed the bickering and bantering. Thanks for the cassettes, which I've tucked safely away in the nightstand after giving them a good listen. I've a few ideas forming in my head now that the pain meds have been reduced.

Freddie was fretting and fussing over my losing more weight, but he doesn't have any idea what an ulcer diet is like. I've never been served so much beige food in my life. I could murder a good curry right now, but it would murder me back.

Truthfully, I think Deacy did a great job on your song, really marvelous work. If I had to play bass...well, best not to think about that disaster.

Fred's "Flick of the Wrist"—is that about what I think it is? Because the words are troubling me. Not so much "work my fingers to the bone," because all three of you are doing that. It's "prostitute yourself...castrate your human pride." We've tiptoed around this long enough, Rog. If Freddie's doing something seedy with Sheffield, if he's doing it to protect us, then we have to put a stop to it.

If I could just get the hell out of this bed, I'd ply Freddie with enough alcohol to loosen his tongue.

And here I was hoping I was going to get another heartfelt "get well" letter from you.

Bri

***

Not gonna happen.

I did try your idea of plying Freddie with alcohol. An unbelievable amount of booze later, he divulged the one thing that you and I had already realised: he's gay.

Poor bugger bastard wanted to slink under the table after he blurted it out. He's been terrified to breathe a word of it to us. He's still living with Mary—although God only knows how that's supposed to work out—but his real interest is in blokes. Not you or me or Deacy, he said, not as a joke but in hopes that we won't turn on him.

I can just imagine your face right now. I know you're about to fucking cry. Stop that and keep reading.

I assured him that none of us gives a fuck minds about that. Well, "assured" is probably not the right term. I told him I didn't care how much fudge he wanted to pack and he responded that he'd rather BE packed. The conversation went downhill from there in ways that could give you a fresh ulcer, stopping only when we both were so drunk that the first three taxis we hailed wouldn't take us.

The huge bar tab wasn't enough to get a straight (oh, God, I need to rework my whole fucking vocabulary) answer about Sheffield. I asked about the song but he won't talk about it. Just says the song's something he "just wants to get off my chest, darling," but his eyes go blank when he says it.

Freddie said not to breathe a word to John, but that he "won't be too embarrassed" if you know. I didn't have the heart to tell him that you're the one who told me.

I don't have the heart to think about Sheffield right now. Gonna go play my guitar for a bit, see if inspiration strikes.

R

***

(6 November, 1974—Sheffield, United Kingdom)  

***

Roger—

I thought that last night might be as good a night as any, since we're in Sheffield. Stupidly, I imagined that being in a town with the same name as our "manager" would loosen Freddie's inhibitions.

I was terribly, horribly wrong.

He just looked at me with those tired, sad eyes. He said John was having a problem with Veronica and wanted Freddie to sort it with him. Then he told me not to wait up for him.

I waited anyway. I also phoned John, who said Fred wasn't with him. When Fred came back a few hours later, he just crawled into his bed and turned his back on me without a word. Finally, he said that he wanted to change room arrangements starting tomorrow so that he'd be staying with John.

I don't know if he cried, but I did.

We'll be on the bus to Bradford in a few hours. I know we can't talk about it on the bus, but after the shows...

Bri

***

(19 January, 1975, London)  

***

Brian—

We have answers, and God, I wish we didn't. Freddie just left a few minutes ago and I need to write this all down before I drown my sorrows or jump out a window.

Last night (or, to be truthful, in the wee hours this morning) I was happy and buzzed from John's wedding reception, when Freddie pounded on the door. He was still in his outfit from the wedding but didn't have a coat. He said he'd had a row with Mary and wanted to stay over.

Of course I immediately sat Fred down with tea and brandy. Evidently, Mary was pressuring him for a wedding of their own after watching John and Ronnie tie the knot. Not unreasonable, given that they've been engaged for years. But he had to tell her the truth. I can only imagine what happened next.

Freddie was as miserable as I've ever seen him. He said he needed to tell me a lot of things that were going to make me upset.

He wasn't wrong.

First off, he started talking about the boarding school in India. What kind of pestilential fucking hellhole did Bomi send him to? The TEACHERS were fucking him in exchange for favours. Or sometimes just for the hell of it. Freddie wasn't experimenting with boys his own age, he was getting abused—he was being RAPED.

You'd think that would have been enough shit for him to have to deal with in his lifetime, but that just set him up for what we were afraid of: letting Sheffield abuse him so the band could get what we needed.

Fred's had to do unspeakable things with him from pretty much the beginning. Getting instruments, getting equipment. A blowjob here, a quick fuck there. We needed roadies? Freddie had sex with that fucking bastard, and we got roadies. That cash advance John needed to buy the little place in Putney? Freddie, on his knees.

My huge Paiste gong probably kept him on his back for a whole weekend. Fucking hell.

He blamed himself, by the way, for Trident not putting you in hospital in New York. If he'd only had Norman with us, he reasoned, then he could've traded "just a bit of sex, darling"...

I don't know about you, but I'm about to puke just thinking about it.

After an hour of these confessions, I dragged him off to bed and just held him all night. He slept off and on and had a couple of bad dreams. Not surprising. Me, I couldn't have slept if you'd bludgeoned me over the head.

I might never sleep again.

Of course you and I have been talking about it for ages, but we need to get rid of Sheffield sooner rather than later. Get decent management, finally get paid what we're worth, all that lot.

But first, foremost, and always: we must protect Freddie.

R

***

Chapter Text

(June, 1976 - between Truro and London)  

***

Happy Birthday, Old Man Brian! I hope this reaches you at least in time for your party if not before. Sorry I won't be there to make it less boring. You'd think after slogging it out on tour for the better part of six months I'd want to be home, but I just had to get away for a bit. Even if getting away means hanging out with Mum. She sends her love, by the way.

It's great to have some money to show for all our hard work, isn't it? Deacy tried to explain to me how we're getting more in royalties even though we're still paying off Trident for breaking the contract, but my head wasn't really in the game. All I know is that there's finally some income. I'm not sure Reid is exactly the best guy for us but at least he's not making Freddie suck him off to get us paid.

Speaking of, I tried phoning him but he's nowhere to be found. Presumably he's fucking for England with that publisher fellow. Or maybe he went back to Japan on holiday. We all had such a great time there—it was like being in the Beatles, wasn't it?—but I think the culture really clicked with our Fred.

We'll be back in the studio in a few weeks' time. No bloody idea what the next album's going to be, but we'll figure that out when we play together. I promise to get back into the swing of things pretty fast when I get home. I took my guitar with me and I think I've got the germ of a song that you'll like.

R

***

Roger—

Thanks for the well wishes. I tried to turn 28 with as little fanfare as possible, just dinner with Chrissy at home.

My mother decided to celebrate my natal day by phoning to wish me "Happy Birthday" in one breath and redress me for having "lived in sin" with Chrissy in the other. Evidently the fact that we married "eventually" wasn't good enough. Also, according to my father, I've "thrown away the chance for a good career." This last I heard from Mum, of course, since Dad hasn't spoken to me since the wedding.

Freddie sent a telescope and an obscene card. I think he was on the way to Japan at the time. It's hard to tell if he and David are still a thing. We don't talk as much as we used to. I miss him and I wish I knew what was going on. But it's none of my business in any event, is it?

I've heard from Deacy a few times. He struggled after spending so much time out on tour, but he's so happy now with Veronica and Robert. "Happy at home," as he famously said (much to your derision, if memory serves). Chrissy tells me that Veronica wants another baby pretty soon. It sounds like a simple enough statement, but there's a world of meaning behind it and not a little projection. I can't imagine myself as a father; I'm still wrapping my brain around being a husband. But I also can't imagine life without Chrissy, and if she wants to have children then children we shall have. God help them.

Ah, but you don't want to hear about domesticity. Suffice to say that I have some songs in the works and it'll be good to get your input. It's weird working alone like this.

Bri

***

Your father is "the dad I'd least like to punch in the face" of this band, but it's a pretty low bar.

Happy birthday anyway. Your present will turn up in the studio once we get going.

R

***

(August, 1976 - London)

***

Bri—

Loved what you did with the guitar sound on "Drowse." I put in the vocals today so drop by the studio and to hear your belated birthday gift. Listen carefully to the end. With cans on.

R

***

Dearest Roger,

Sometimes you can be the kindest man in the world. Bless you.

Gratefully,
Bri

***

(24 January, 1977 - traveling between Richfield Township and Ottawa)

***

Roger—

It's rather like being naughty at school, passing notes on the bus. I'm just not good at face-to-face conversations these days.

Thanks for organising the Death Scrabble matches. I feel as if that's the only time I get to spend with you and Fred and Deacy where we're not rehearsing, performing, or answering ridiculous questions from disaffected interviewers.

This may sound insane, but I actually miss sharing rooms. At first I thought it was marvelous to have my own space, but after the first couple of nights I started to get lonely. I wondered if Chrissy even misses me, then graduated to worrying about the nightmarish standoff with my father. I got into my own head and couldn't get out, as you say so often. And when I'm there, I can neither concentrate nor sleep.

Last night I was about to give up and see if Ratty or Jobby had any spare women about when I heard a knock on my door. More like a scratch, really. I opened it up and there was Freddie. He didn't say anything, just looked at me and smiled.

For a few moments I wondered if he'd lost his key someplace, or if he wanted to complain about a tempo. It was much simpler than that; he was lonely and thought I might be as well. Of course he didn't phrase it that way, prattling on instead about how his room didn't have a good enough view (of Richfield Township?) and was a bit cold, and would I mind terribly letting him bunk in mine like the old days?

So we climbed into bed and huddled together, just as we did in the old, draughty flat or in the seedy places we slept on the road just a few years back. Now we're staying in a series of ever-nicer hotels with more and more amenities, but there's nothing as comfortable as having Fred curl up next to me.

Bri

***

Yeah, Freddie's been a bit twitchy and clingy lately. He's insisting on one big area to use as a green room so we can stay together between sound checks and shows. He SAID it was to keep the band cohesive, but he MEANT that he was lonely and worried about us being lonely as well. I know I am, a bit, and I suspect that John is too because he grinned like an idiot when he heard about the communal dressing area.

Who would have suspected that the lead singer of Queen would be a mother hen? I'd make a joke about clucking but my hangover is taking up all of my brainpower.

Gerry told me last night that you're bringing your parents over for the show in New York. Are you DAFT? I remember the fallout from when you paid off their mortgage last year—why the fuck are you doing this?

R

***

R—

"Daft" is precisely what Gerry said. But after he grumbled a bit and I wrote an enormous cheque, he arranged for my parents and Chrissy to come over on the Concorde. It's ironic that Dad helped design it but he'd never be able to afford to fly on it, so I want to pull out all the stops.

It's very possible that this is the worst idea in the history of thought. I wanted to run the idea by all of you, but Freddie is busy being FREDDIE MERCURY, DARLING, and Deacy is...elusive.

Anyway.

My father hasn't spoken a single syllable to me in, what, three years? It's sad for me but the pressure on Mum is...well, it's something that I need to alleviate, isn't it?

B

***

B—

You also need to let John and Freddie know what you're doing. You'll get all wound up and snippy because you're anxious, and we don't need tensions to run any higher than they are already. They'll be behind you 100%. And so will I, you berk.

R

***

(6 February, 1977—New York City)

***

Roger—

I wanted to thank you for all your help last night.

Especially since you won't in a million years admit that you did help.

Obviously I was a nervous wreck from the moment my family's limo pulled up. But as rattled as I was, I couldn't help but notice how John pulled my dad aside to show him the nuts and bolts of our sound equipment. And of course I couldn't miss Freddie "turning on his charm" just for my mother.

When you stepped back, gave the other guys a nod, then took Chrissy's hand and walked her to her seat, I realised—you're the one who got everyone to pitch in.

You're a marvel. Tonight's drinks are on me.

Bri

***

Nice of you to give me the credit, but you're not quite right. Did it not occur to you that all three of us wanted the night to go well? That we were worried about how disconnected you felt from us? That we actually care enough about you to pull together as a band even when we get our own hotel rooms and limousines?

When your father shook your hand and said he "got it" now—and about bloody time, I must say—it gave us a vicarious thrill. After all, Freddie's dad will never "get it." Of course Deacy's father isn't here anymore and mine...well, the less said about him, the better. But your dad is merely stubborn (I suppose you come by your streak honestly), not rigid, dead, or an arsehole.

In retrospect, it may have been a little weird to open the set with "Tie Your Mother Down."

I'll take a very large G&T, please. And an evening chatting with my band, if we can manage it.

R

***

Chapter Text

***

(10 January, 1982—Munich—between Musicland Studios and Brian's flat)

***

B—

If it were anyone else storming out of the studio, I'd think we'd just had another day at the office. Since it's you, however, I want to know what's going on in your head.

Your phone's been busy for half an hour, so I'm giving this to Jobby and telling him to wait for your reply.

(If this envelope's been tampered with when he hands it to you, fire him.)

R

***

Roger—

Jobby's safe, but he gave me that look. The one that makes me wish I were on Mars, where it's warmer and more welcoming. I think he learned it from Deacy.

My phone's off the hook and it's going to stay that way.

You don't want to know what's going on in my head. Trust me on this one. I'll be okay, or at least okay enough to come in tomorrow afternoon.

Bri

***

You're not exactly filling me with confidence.

R

***

That's two of us, mate.

Bri

***

Okay, listen, we're going to have to up Jobby's salary if we're going to keep running him between your flat and the studio, so let's settle down and write notes worth sending.

I know what we're working on isn't your cup of tea. God knows it's not mine, either. We're certainly we're on the right side of musical history on this, but we have to let Fred and John have their funky little moment. When this album flops—and it's not "if," it's "when"—then on their heads be it.

We're both on edge because the "music" we're recording is, not to put too fine a point on it, utter gobshite. I don't even like my OWN stuff. I go home at the end of the day and mutter about it, and I come into the studio early to take the towels out of my kit and remember how to play WELL. I've gotten most of the resentment out of my system; all I have to do now is outlive the recording sessions.

Do whatever will help you get it out of YOUR system, and then come back to us and play.

R

***

Roger—

Play...what, precisely? In case you haven't noticed, there's not much call for lead guitar in disco. So I hang out in the control room, listening to music I loathe being played by people I scarcely recognise. Fred's got cocaine stalactites in his nose and I'm reasonably certain John's liver is about to file for divorce from his body. You seem relatively unscathed, somehow, even when you're programming the drum machine instead of playing actual drums. I admire your sangfroid. 

Then there's Prenter and his oily obsequiousness. (You never liked him, not even at the start; I should pay better attention to your gut instincts.) Whatever places he's dragging Freddie to at night can't possibly be doing him any good. He looks, as they say in the American South, like ten miles of bad road. Does he actually meet your eyes when you talk to him? He doesn't when it's me.

I've changed my strings three times this afternoon, just to have something to do as I try to sort myself out.

Munich has never held much appeal for me, but I don't recall it being such a vast hellhole when we were recording "Jazz." The atmosphere has me so disconcerted that I can't codify exactly what it is that I do want.

What DO I want?

I want our tax exile to be over. I want to hold my kids and kiss my wife in my own house for a bloody change.

I want for the buzzing in my head to be drowned out by something besides booze. I want not to covet the women who crowd around me every time I leave the flat. I want to be a faithful husband (yes, I know that ship's sailed but fidelity, unlike virginity, can be renewed) and a good father.

I want to play good rock music, not this thinly veiled disco rubbish. Hell, for that matter I simply want to PLAY. Anything's better than sitting about as John and Fred tell me "no guitars on this one, either" just as John picks up a guitar and starts to record it.

I want to hear you and John really lock in on a groove and not let go. I want to hear Freddie make the Steinway sing. If anyone can sort out how to throw synths and a drum machine out the window without killing a pedestrian, I'd be happy about that as well.

I want to be proud of what Queen does. We're gonna have to tour this album, you know, and there's not enough money on Earth to make me want to play this crap in public.

I want you to get to do what you do best: play the drums as no one else in the world can and sing in that amazing voice. I want John to climb out of whatever hole he's dug for himself. I want Freddie to get rid of the sycophants and the drugs and come back to us. Yes, I know he doesn't come to the studio in bad shape, but still...

What do I want?

I WANT QUEEN BACK.

Bri

P.S. John just sent the demo for his latest via Jobby. Jobby said I'll need a drink before I listen to it. Yet another funk track, called "Back Chat." I'll probably hate it.

***

Oh God, Brian...if I could get out of here I'd race to yours and snatch that tape out of your hands. I'm sending this with Chris in hopes of getting to you before you listen. Don't, Bri, just don't.

***

Roger—

Too late.

It's not enough that it's more fucking disco. It's not even that John wants to take potshots at me. But does Freddie truly need to sound like he's having THAT much fun?

"Oh, it's not about YOU, darling, it's about...people in general," Freddie would say as he sipped another vodka tonic, but his eyes would tell me the truth.

Fuck this. I'm done.

B

***

(11 January, 1982—Roger's flat)

Brian—

Know what I'd like? For you not to scare the shit out of me like this.

I'm glad you were just sulking and not...doing something stupid. Although "stupid" is a pretty low bar for this band right now, isn't it?

I got lucky. Instead of scraping you off the sidewalk, I brought you some beers and we talked. I'm not a fan of talking, generally, because I've come to associate "let's talk" with Dom telling me off about something. But I'm actually glad you told me what you did...just before you passed out on the sofa.

This is what I would've said if you'd stayed conscious for a few more minutes:

You're unhappy with John, and that's fine, but even as your pal I have to say that he's not entirely wrong. You have been known to get sharp with him, and to tower over him when you argue. I wish he'd chosen another way to make his point, but he does have one.

Freddie is troubling us both, and for the same reasons. I don't care who he wants to fuck UNLESS the guy's using and/or abusing him. And he's had close to zero luck in that category. We need to figure out how to get Prenter away from him, which WILL happen. We got rid of Sheffield; how much harder could it be to do the same with that smarmy bastard?

Meanwhile, the band's having a civil war. I feel like Switzerland in this skirmish and not in the good "Ooh, the skiing's really great this winter" kind of way. More in the "I love the hell out of all three of you but I wish you'd get your heads out of your respective arses" kind of way. It's exhausting. Once the album is done (and why is it taking a YEAR, for fuck's sake?) we will be able to pick up and start again.

Deacy will come around now that he's had his say. He'll never in a million years TELL you that, but you'll see when he comes up with one of his brilliant bass parts for a song you show him.

And if you think Freddie doesn't love you, then you're an idiot. He wrote you that naff little song a few months ago. Think he's ever written one for John or me? No, just for his Brimi.

(Am I jealous? Fuck, yes.)

You're out cold, still, and I phoned Mack to say neither one of us will be in today. I'm going for a walk and a think, so I'll just tuck this note in your hand in case you wake up before I get back.

Your hangover will be epic. Drink all of the water I'm leaving on the table, you twit.

***

(12 January, note in John's handwriting, found on top of his bass)

***

Gone to Bali.

***

Chapter Text

(February, 1984—between Gstaad and Los Angeles)

Brian—

Hope you're enjoying the palm trees and sunshine. We've had plenty of snow and are cavorting in it daily. Deacy keeps beating me when we race downhill; is it possible to use physics to cheat in skiing?

I presume you've heard Fred's idea of playing in Sun City. I'm formulating a response—completely negative—and wanted to get your opinion even though it will probably differ from mine.

What's mine?

That this is a terrible idea. Socially and politically, which I know the rest of you aren't so concerned about, but it is also an ethical minefield. Sun City is in Bophthatswana, which is a Banustan, meaning we'd be performing for rich white people in an area that's basically a state-sanctioned ghetto for the people who lived here in the first place. I know, I know, Queen's not a political band, but surely we can all agree that this is going to cause colossal problems.

Roger

***

Dear Roger—

Yes, I did hear from Freddie. I'm of two minds on the situation.

We had a good time recording "The Works" and it's coming out in a few weeks with, for once, decent advance press. Freddie's back on top of his game; John's coming out of whatever cave he was in. You sounded amazing and I think "Radio GaGa" could be a serious hit. After the miserable experience with "Hot Space," do we really want to start another band war just as we hit our collective stride again?

On the other hand, how can we possibly expect to avoid censure (or worse) for breaking the Union's boycott—to say nothing of the United Nations' one? We have our own consciences to tend to, as well.

Here's my compromise idea: Let's do a Beatles-in-Memphis thing and demand desegregated audiences, and donate some of the proceeds to local charities that benefit the Bantu people. Ticket giveaways to people who wouldn't be able to afford to go otherwise, that sort of thing. I'm going to run it past Freddie. I think we can make it work out.

DON'T break a leg. Or an arm or a hand.

Bri

***

(November—London)

Well, that was a fucking mess.

We thought that Freddie banging up his leg in Hanover was bad, but that was nothing compared to him losing his voice in mid-concert a few weeks ago, which in turn wasn't as bad as having to cancel two more concerts, which was far less of a headache than trying to reschedule overbooked concerts to calm the legions of furious fans.

Then we come home to not just bad press but hideous press. Remember when they thought "Radio GaGa" was fascist? That's a knighthood compared to what they're calling us now. "Racist" is one of the milder terms.

We're in trouble with the Union and the United Nations is about to blacklist us. It's interesting company: they also slated Frank Sinatra, Rod Stewart, Status Quo, and Paul Fucking Anka. Fred will be devastated that his darling Liza is also on their shit list.

Still think this was a relatively good idea?

We have Rio in January. I'll see you at Fred's Christmas do. Meanwhile I'm going to sit on my hands and not send in a resignation letter.

R

***

Roger—

You were right all along. I don't know what we could have done to stop Freddie from committing to this venue, but we should have tried harder. I should've tried harder.

I'm a bit at loose ends. I played "Strange Frontier" a few days ago (really fine album, by the way, even the tracks I didn't play on) and it startled me that the singer is someone I've known for 3/4 of a score.

Rio will be better. New Zealand and Australia will be...interesting. Maybe we can all find consensus again in Japan.

Chrissy sends her love to Dom. I'd send mine to you but I'm afraid to get it back, marked "return to sender."

Bri

***

Oh, piss off, Brian; you know I wouldn't do that.

I'd drive over and punch you in the face, in person.

I'm grumpy and jumpy and the rest of the Seven Dwarves. Ignore me.

R

***

(June, 1985—London)  

Roger—

With the tour behind us and nothing in particular in front of us, I've had a chance to think.

Freddie's in a decent place, not the way he was when Bill Reid was in the picture. (It's a low bar when we're happy that his boyfriends aren't biting him on the hand.) John's hidden himself away to play golf and solder things together. You seem to be staying afloat, but I could see the exhaustion in your eyes every night the moment we stepped off the stage. As for me, I don't think I was on top of my game once we hit Australia and the groove never came back.

You hate my astronomy metaphors, but my orbit has been disrupted and I'm spinning away from you all, further and further every day. The three of you are up there in your short haircuts, enjoying your funky songs, and I'm just this throwback rocker guy who didn't grow, didn't evolve, didn't even change hairstyle.

On the flight home you said it might be good to take a break. At the time I thought you meant a few months, but maybe a few years would be better. Maybe a lot of years.

Maybe all of them.

So the question is, if we're not Queen, what are we?

Bri

***

What are we?

Friends.

Even if the band dies, we're going to be okay. It's not gonna be like the Beatles, fighting and suing each other until one of us croaks. I won't let that happen, mate.

Listen, though: you know about this concert coming up, this Live Aid thing? I thought it was all set up, but Bob Geldof called Miami and wants us on the bill. It's one 20-minute set. Greatest Hits. Get our juices flowing again.

The whole world will be watching. Freddie would love that.

Might be a way to reignite the hunger we used to have. John would love that.

Might be a way to heal the world, one bit at a time. I would love that.

What would you love?

R

***

I'd love to be proven wrong about Queen being irrelevant in 1985. I'm in.

B

***

(14 July, 1985—London)

Brian—

I'm writing this in the wee hours of the morning before I have a chance to forget anything from last night.

We were right to do this. It was the right thing for the cause, but it was the right thing in so many other ways. (No, not because I got to ogle Princess Diana, you pervert. Do you think she or Charles noticed that it wasn't Deacy sitting there? Crystal had a blast "being" in Queen.)

From the very first rehearsal, when we were editing songs down to fit more titles in, there was an energy around us that I haven't felt for years and years. Getting the timing right, making sure Freddie knew how much stage he would have to "play with," even calming John down once he heard that the audience would be in the billions—it was all fantastic. I fell in love with this band all over again.

Backstage, yeah, that was a zoo. It was weird hearing all those other bands fuck up, one after another. Were we the only people who bothered to actually PRACTICE for this international event? Sure sounded like it. The more we listened, the more confidence I got; they weren't ready but we were. By the time we walked out there and the crowd started cheering for a group they hadn't even bought tickets for, I felt like the emperor of the fucking WORLD, swear to God.

Broad daylight, no sound check, no light show. Just the four of us against the world with Freddie as our leading man. Even though my foldback speaker was complete shite, I could tell we were absolutely on fire. (Sorry about the end of "Hammer," but I couldn't hear a fucking thing and couldn't see Freddie.) What I could see was that absolute SEA of arms waving and clapping during "Radio GaGa." They all knew what to do, even before Freddie led them.

You were afraid that we had become irrelevant. Well, we were not irrelevant tonight. We were not relics of a bygone era.

FUCK, WE WERE MAGNIFICENT.

Then you and Freddie came out and broke our hearts with "World." I loved how you hung back and let Freddie be the absolute centre of attention, that you barely even took a bow at the end because, damn, he was amazing.

Geldof said that our set brought in more money than the rest of the concert put together.

WE ARE MAGNIFICENT.

Let's get back in the studio right away. I have an idea for a song about MLK's vision of unity, and who better to explore that theme than the BEST FUCKING BAND IN THE ENTIRE WORLD?

Okay, I'm buzzing and exhausted and Dom wants me to come to bed. But I had to get this on paper so that you'd know, for certain, that Queen is BACK.

Forever.

Roger

***

Chapter Text

(24 January, 1988—London)

***

Brian—

You know how much I hate musicals. Yet tonight the song in my head will be "I'm Getting Married in the Morning."

I haven't changed my mind and gone back to Dom. Christ knows I love her like mad, but more as a best friend than a lover. I've already bought a house for Debbie and me and we're planning to move mid-February.

So what the hell am I doing? I can see the tilt of your head and the way the corners of your mouth are turning down as you ask me that. Well, I'll tell you.

Dom's not being a UK citizen is a legal mess, according to Jim Beach. Her visa status could be revoked at any moment and, incredibly, she doesn't have the right to be our kids' legal guardian.

I want to be sure that she's secure, personally and financially, and I very much want both of us to be parents to Felix and Rory. Therefore, we're getting married tomorrow morning.

You aren't invited. Neither is John. It's a sham of a wedding, so of course the most sham of "couples," Fred and Mary, will be "standing up" for us. How fitting.

We'll keep up the public front, for a while at least. I know I can count on you to hold your nose and lie for me.

As I have done and will do for you and Anita.

Rog

***

Roger—

It might please you to know that I'm at a loss for words. "Congratulations," perhaps, but to whom? I think your children may be the ones who come out ahead.

My glass house won't survive a single stone being thrown. My own marriage, as you know all too well from my rantings and ravings, is in complete shambles. Chrissy is bewildered—no wonder, since we just had Emily last year—and she keeps asking "What did I do wrong?" and "What can I do to change your mind?" The answer, of course, is NOTHING. Chrissy is still herself: quiet, a great mom, a gentle soul. But she's a little sparrow and Anita is a brightly-plumed bird of paradise. Chrissy is undemanding and Anita wants everything, and for some reason I'm drawn to her willfulness in ways I can't begin to comprehend.

Meanwhile, Freddie is blaming himself for introducing us in the first place. Most days he tries to convince me to brave out the next threescore years in a marriage that's choking me. Once in a while, though, he gives me that sheepish smile and says "Anita IS an extraordinary woman, darling."

I don't care what Chrissy gets in the divorce. I only want two things: joint custody of our children, and my Red Special. She can have everything else. Houses, cars, money, the lot, they're hers for the asking. God knows she deserves them for putting up with me.

We're not going public until the papers are signed. That leaves you and me with one secret each. I think we can handle that small burden.

Bri

***

(May, 1988—London)  

***

Brian—

I can't sleep. I suspect you can't, either. Not after Freddie's bombshell this afternoon.

Maybe Freddie is only going to say this once, but I can't. AIDS. It's all I can think about. That, and he's known for a year without telling us.

I wish it were all I could talk about. But we made a promise to keep the secret so you and I can't even talk about it between ourselves, in case someone overhears. You can't tell Anita, I can't tell Debbie, and I think John's going to have a nervous breakdown because he always tells Veronica EVERYTHING.

When Fred came back from Barcelona weighing a stone less than when he left, I knew something was wrong.

Just not this. God, not this.

R

***

Roger—

Have I slept? Not bloody likely. Anita finally went off to the guest room because all I do is toss and turn.

I keep coming back to one moment.

When we were on tour last year in Spain, I overheard John and Freddie having a bit of an argument. Freddie said something like "Well, I won't always be here to do this." A goose walked over my grave, or so I thought; it was actually walking over Freddie's.

I wonder if that conversation was going through Deacy's head on tour. Remember Knebworth, when he tossed his Fender and knocked the whole stand of them over? That was so unlike him that even Ratty was worried. I tried to ask him last night at yours, but we were all so drunk that I found him in the loo, puking up his guts. (In the interest of full disclosure, I also threw up. In your rhododendrons, just before the taxi came. Sorry about that.)

Anita's already asked me, twice, what's the matter. Her perceptiveness is going to be an issue here. I have to out and out lie to her (this isn't the time to remind me how good I was at lying to Chrissy), just as you'll have to do with Deb. And John with Veronica, as well as the older kids. Fuck, we can't even tell David Richards even though we're going to Montreux soon.

Meanwhile, Freddie's about to finish up the recording in Barcelona with Señora Caballé. I can't believe he's really as blithe and unconcerned as he tried to be yesterday. Yes, he's trying to put on a brave face to spare us, but...

God. JIM. And Peter F. and Joe. If we think we're in Hell, just imagine what they're going through. Just like us, they will have to lie all the time, even to one another. I can't even think about it.

Freddie wants to record. That's what we're going to do. We can't let this fracture us. He may not say it now—or ever—but he's going to need us at our full strength.

And we'll need to lean on one another.

Anita's out at rehearsal until late every night this week. Call or come by if you need anything.

Bri

***

(March, 1989—London)  

***

Brian—

Well, one of the "girls" has been let in on Freddie's secret.

He and Dom stayed in touch after...well, after. She called me last night, ranting in three languages about my having held back from her. There was an undertone of something else there, and once she started speaking English I was able to get it out of her.

She's got breast cancer.

She didn't tell me. She told FREDDIE.

Immediately after she phoned he had her over at Garden Lodge. I can just see it now: Phoebe and Joe setting out tea in the kitchen and Jim putting roses in a vase, all cosy and warm, then tiptoing out so Fred and Dom could chat in private.

Dom said he took both of her hands in his and he told her.

Because he wanted her to have a shoulder she could cry on.

Fuck. I'm the worst person in the world.

R

***

Oh, Roger, I'm so terribly sorry. I hope Dom was diagnosed early; I know you will ensure that she gets the very best of care. Please send lots of love from Anita and me. If you need anyone to help out with Rory and Felix, they're more than welcome to stay here. My kids are here every second and fourth weekend, so they can all frolic together in the garden. I wish they knew one another better.

The same goes for all of us, frankly.

I hadn't heard from Deacy for weeks, so I trudged over to Putney to see him in person. Veronica clearly wanted me to give her some inkling of why he's so withdrawn, but of course I couldn't. He was fixing one of the kids' toys, a horrific talking bear called a "Teddy Ruxpin" that looked as if it would murder you in your sleep. He wouldn't meet my eyes, wouldn't say much of anything even though we had the room to ourselves. We drank a beer, talked about the weather in Montreux, and said good night.

It sounds innocuous enough, all very English and stiff-upper-lip, yet there's something dangerous in his eyes. Perhaps he'll open up to you instead. You've always been closer to him than I have.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about the album release. I know we agreed on "The Invisible Men" (although I still disagree about the cover photo, which is as terrifying as Teddy Ruxpin), but now I think we should change it to what we all need: "The Miracle."

Bri

***

(30 May, 1991—London to Los Angeles)  

Brian—

We filmed the video for "Days" today. Rudi and Hannes showed me the rushes tonight and they really are phenomenal. They'll edit you in when you're done with the promo tour.

Diana made Fred a gorgeous waistcoat with paintings of all his cats. Delilah is in the very front, of course. He was hours in makeup but it's not going to fool anyone.

Perhaps we thought that if we didn't ever talk about it, it wouldn't happen. But looking at that footage, I felt the truth wash over me like cold water.

Freddie is dying.

When you and I were doing the rounds together, going to the launch parties and hobnobbing with DJs whose names I didn't care about in the first place, having to lie made it easier to put it out of our minds. I know how much you struggled the last few weeks—that "Good Rockin' Tonite" interview really took it out of you, you poor sod—but the truth's going to come out sooner rather than later.

Lying has been hard on us. We won't have to do it much longer. And that's going to be the worst of all.

Freddie looked bravely into the camera even though he was so weak he could barely stand up, and whispered "I still love you." I think he was talking to us.

Come back as soon as you can. The secret is getting too heavy to lift alone.

Roger

Chapter Text

(25-26 November, 1991—London)  

Brian—

Well, we've woken up to a world we never wanted.

You said last night that it didn't seem real until we saw it on TV. We watched it on every news outlet in Britain, the three of us huddled on your sofa like kids who just found out their house burned down.

Which it has, in a way. Slowly, over the last four years, but now it's burned to the ground and we're standing in the ashes.

I've never seen John so pale. I've never seen you be so quiet. The only words I heard out of you for a whole hour were to thank Anita for the drinks, and even then it seemed like an automatic response more than actual speech.

It's a cold comfort but I'm glad you two got the news via the proper channels. "Don't bother coming, he's just gone" is going to haunt me as long as I live. I know, I know, you explained how upset Phoebe must have felt with Fred right THERE yet not right there at all, and how much worse it would've been had I unknowingly marched into the house and called his name.

But that's not really what's eating at me.

I was too late because I was late.

Once I'd faffed about with coffee, picked out a different jacket, and stopped to chat with Debbie about something unimportant, an hour had passed from when I'd decided to go to Garden Lodge. If I'd just gotten straight out of the fucking chair and picked up my car keys, I might have been there for him. I might have been holding his hand, or I might have been able to get in an "I love you" before he was GONE.

They've taken him away, of course, and all I can think about is that he's cold and alone in there. I feel cold without him. My body REMEMBERS him, the exact fit of his head on my shoulder in the dressing room, or the weight of his legs over mine when we napped on the studio sofa. I thought I could hear him whispering "Just for a little while, darling," as he bunched up next to me on the tour bus. It's more than losing a friend; it's losing a part of myself.

I know you feel the same way.

Roger

***

Roger—

I'm just back from Chrissy's. She kept the kids away from the telly until I could come tell them in person. Louisa and Jimmy cried because they'll miss their Uncle Freddie. Emily, too young to understand Death, cried because her Daddy was crying.

With my father and the divorce and now losing Freddie, I wonder if I'm imprinting myself on them as the Bearer of Bad Tidings.

No matter how wretched I felt, I must have looked even worse, because Chrissy wouldn't let me leave until I'd had a cup of tea and a sandwich. I keep forgetting, consumed as I am in my own selfish grief, that Chrissy loved Freddie very much and is in nearly as much pain.

I'm also forgetting that Anita was his friend before she was mine. She's not talking much about how she feels. Perhaps she's working out her own heartache by taking care of her stunned, useless boyfriend.

As for the call and being "too late"—my God, Roger, you did so much for Freddie these last few years. You defended him against the whole world, protected him, lied for him, took your new baby to see him, comforted him, and waved two fingers at the press the whole way. He died surrounded by people who loved him, and even if you weren't holding his hand you were in his heart.

These last few weeks have been so hard on all of us. Coward that I am, I took Anita with me a few days ago because I couldn't bear to go alone. John couldn't go at all. You were amazing through this whole miserable business, and I couldn't love you more for everything you did for our Freddie.

I'm unplugging everything for the next day or so. I'll see you on Wednesday.

Brian

***

Wait—John NEVER went to see Freddie? EVER?

I will fucking tear him limb from limb, I swear to God.

***

Not at the service.

B

***

(27 November 1991—London)

Bri—

I'm a couple of vodka tonics worse than when we had lunch after the service, so if I spell things wrong just read for content rather than clarity.

Is it possible to sue journos for invasion of privacy at a funeral? Because photos are already being circulated on the World Wide Web thing and I want to start banging heads together.

I didn't understand one word of the ceremony and the incense gave me a headache, but if it's what will help the Bulsaras get through it then it's for the best. Speaking of "being for the best," thanks for suggesting a quiet lunch rather than going to Garden Lodge with everyone else. I couldn't face small talk with Mary or Dave Clark. Mostly, I couldn't bear being in Freddie's house, expecting him to peek around the corner with a cat in one hand and champagne in the other. It was the right thing to be together quietly, just the three of us.

Yes, I still want to throttle Deacy, but he looked so lost and frightened all day that I'll restrain myself until he's a more worthy opponent.

I've been sitting quietly and drinking since I got back to the house. Debbie, wisely, put Rufus on my lap for a little cuddle and then took him off to bed so I could have some quiet time.

I kept brooding on what happened after, when they took Freddie's poor, frail body and burned it until there was nothing left. I was in a right state when "telephone ex machina" happened. Miami—bless him, he's done so much behind the scenes so we don't have to—said that TV-AM wants to interview us. Miami called Deacy first and of course that arsehole said no. I said I'd ask you.

If we do, then we can finally tell the truth.

R

***

Roger—

Our ladies are saints. Anita dosed me with quite a bit of really good red wine when she realised that my brain wasn't up to coping with reality.

My thoughts have been as melancholy as yours. Without Freddie, the thread that holds us together has evaporated. "There's no point going on," Deacy said at lunch, and I thought that me he was probably right.

Then I started thinking another way.

I was working on a song the night before Freddie died. "Nothin' But Blue," the one I started last year in those sessions with Cozy. The lyrics I wrote that night went:

No use in crying, that ain't what you would do, no.
Living or dying, we'll just keep on fighting through.

Isn't that what Freddie was all about these last few years? Fighting? He fought so hard to make music, to help other people who were ill (without letting them know), even allowing the doctors to try medications that couldn't save HIM but might help OTHER people. I say, let's do the ridiculous television show and let people know who Freddie Mercury really was, and what they can do to honour him.

I know you're furious with John, but he's not an arsehole. Well, he is a bit. But you know that Fred always protected him, and acted like a father figure. Deacy already lost his father, and losing Fred, too...that was probably just too much for him. He barely says ten words at a business meeting; there's no way he could do much during a television interview. But you and I can storm the place and fight for his memory.

Bring on the hosts of naff British morning television. You and I are more than a match for them.

Still fighting through,
Brian

***

(2 December, 1991—London)

Bri—

When I was a kid in choir we had to sing "Blest Be the Tie That Binds." I was humming it in the dressing room, and the fourth verse stuck with me all day:

            When we asunder part,
            It gives us keenest pain.
            But we shall still be joined in heart,
            And hope to meet again.

Joined in heart. That was you and me with those gits this morning, especially Mike Morris with his tabloid-fueled questions and the absolute fucking wanker Paul Daniels. Why was he even there, again? All he had to do was say "Sorry for your loss," but...well, let's just be grateful that there's now someone ahead of Deacy on the list of people I want to punch in the face.

You amazed me out there, you really did. You controlled your anger beautifully, so cool and composed but absolutely fucking dangerous to anyone who would dare say a word against Freddie. I was about to break down a few times there (Debbie said my eyes looked "full") but your determination to put the record straight kept me going.

That, and a desire to punch that tosspot Daniels in the face.

But mostly you.

So, the truth has set us free. I will miss Fred every day of my life, though, and I think we should take a little time to assess what to do next. You've got your album to put out—don't tell me that "it's too soon" because I know Freddie insisted that you go right ahead and release it when it's done—and then we should do Live Aid one better and put on a memorial show at Wembley. Make it the biggest, gaudiest concert that anyone will ever see, with you and John and me right up front to give Freddie the sendoff he truly deserves.

He'd fucking love that.

R

Chapter Text

(October-December 1993—London to various cities)  

Oi, twat.

John and I have been holed up in the studio for weeks, trying to make headway on the tapes Freddie left us. We've called your home, your mobile, your PA (she doesn't return our calls, so make sure she gets a pay rise), your girlfriend, and your ex-wife (the kids are fine, in case you're interested). You're unavailable, you're busy, you're "touring the new album."

Touring, my arse. You're the warm-up act for Axl and his crew. Oh, how the high-and-mighty have fallen, you who had the unmitigated gall to cast aspersions on The Cross. We might not have set the world on fire, but at least we didn't have to call up the "cool kids" to get gigs.

We didn't have to put on our patented "sad victim" face, either. Too much melodrama will kill you, along with too much overacting in your videos. Fucking hell, do you truly believe that you're the only one mourning Freddie? Do you actually believe, in that oh-so-intellectual world you inhabit, that your pain is any worse than John’s or mine? Than Kash's, or Bomi's and Jer's? Than JIM'S?

When you're ready to take off the hair shirt, call us. Or not, and we'll finish the fucking thing without you. Your choice. I honestly don't give a shit anymore.

But Freddie would be heartbroken.

Roger

***

At least you didn't write it on an airsickness bag.

B

***

There wasn't one handy. I tried a loo roll but the pen kept tearing through it.

By the way, there are now six little Deacons. A boy again, Cameron.

R

***

Roger—

I didn't know they were even expecting. But that's not surprising, given that I've been incommunicado for so long. I'll send along appropriate greetings and gifts after I finish this letter.

You're right to be outraged by my absence, both personal and professional. You may be surprised to hear the underlying causes.

At the end of '91, all I wanted was to die. I couldn't get out of bed, couldn't lift the covers off myself. Eating would have required too much energy, and on the rare days I bathed I needed a lie-down right afterwards. I thought about all the ways I let my father down, let my children down, let you and Freddie and John down. Failure, failure, failure. It wasn't sorrow; it was a depression so bone-deep that it felt as if my marrow had been replaced with lead.

I never told you this, but there was one day when I hauled myself into my car and started driving for the express purpose of plunging off a bridge and ending it all. Melodramatic, I know. This next bit sounds fantastical, but the only reason I didn't follow through was because of a dream I'd had, this voice that came back to me as I was headed for the nearest body of water. "You need to be here." It was Freddie, I'm certain of it.

So much goodness in my life was because of Freddie.

Even as ill as he was, it was Freddie who kept me going that last horrible year. He kept after me to write, to play, to sing. He even insisted that I release the album as soon as possible after he died, because I'd be "crazy not to take advantage of that publicity, darling."

I listened to Freddie's voice, but I wounded you and John in the process. For that, I am deeply sorry.

The album wasn't a mistake, but the tour...

Actually, the "tour" is fine. The GNR guys are wonderful in that they DON'T keep asking me if I'm okay. It's rather refreshing to be treated as if I hadn't just recently wanted to die. They and my band leave me to my own devices, which gives me a great deal of time to think.

I've thought through a lot of things, but there are three which are such serious failings that they must be dealt with. First, I'm not strong enough, vocally, to be on my own right now. Second, I feel utterly at sea when people don't disagree with my ideas. And finally, I've come to understand that parts of me—the best parts—are missing.

That's the two of you, in case you couldn't see past my wall of subtlety.

There was a moment during Freddie's memorial concert when I turned around and realised that he's not beside me and will NEVER be beside me again, my stomach plummeted and I forgot how to move, how to play, how to breathe.

It's like that now.

You and Deacy are the only people who can truly comprehend the heartbreak of our Freddie-less existence. I need the two of you more than you can imagine, more than ever, more than words can express.

Brian

***

Come home. (Almost) all is forgiven.

R

***

Roger—

Jim Beach sent me a cassette of what you two have done so far. I wasn't there, so I can't "cast aspersions" as you so cheekily put it a while back, but honesty compels me to confess that this doesn't sound like something Freddie would love. If the two of you are truly happy, then I'll keep my hands off it and my mouth closed. If you're not, then I'll be back in London at the beginning of January and offer my input.

I just think we owe it to Fred to make this an album to remember him by, not just a compilation of things he did when he was so terribly ill.

What say you?

Bri

***

Brian—

Get yourself to the studios sooner rather than later. Deacy agrees that this isn't the outcome we wanted. I suspect he put in some of the more annoying bits just to get under your skin and MAKE you come in to work on it.

One of these statements is not true:

John would rather chew off his own foot than admit it, but he misses you terribly.
David misses you terribly, as well.
I don't miss you at all, you wanker.

Enjoy the rest of your shows and give Axl a big middle finger from John and me. No reason.

R

***

Sorry to hear that David doesn't miss working with me. Ha!

Bri

***

(5 November, 1995—London)  

Brian—

The album goes live tomorrow. The last of our life's work as Queen, I suppose. I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's a terrific album, but there should have been so many more. The sound of Freddie's voice should be eternal, damnit.

That's why "Made in Heaven" is so important, and that's why I'm a nervous wreck writing letters instead of partying.

I wasn't nervous about "Happiness?" last year because there wasn't anything to lose. I wasn't responsible for anything but my own arse. But this one...this is all about Freddie. I hope we've done right by him, that it would be worth all those hours where he sang his heart out even when was too sick to stand up.

When you were out on the road and John and I put cans on for the first time to go through the vocals, we both broke down and cried. I swore that I could smell his cigarettes and that little hint of vodka that was on his breath when he was gearing up to go onstage. Deacy didn't say anything in particular, but he was so shaken up that we called it a day ten minutes later and got shit-faced.

When we pulled ourselves together and tried again, we were close. But it really did take your touch to give us the "Queen" sound we wanted. Not just the guitar licks (John's are good but they're not a patch on yours, you bastard genius), but the whole "feel" of the album. It needed all of us as a unit. Even though we're still reeling from his death, we're the ones who can keep him alive through his music.

It might surprise you that my favourite track on the album isn't one of mine. It's "Mother Love." Not just because the two of you holed up and wrote it so near the end, and not even because Freddie's vocal is so gut-wrenching. It's because of how brave you were to stand up and sing that last verse even though it was absolute agony. Deacy and I were in the control booth with our mouths open. Neither one of us could've done what you did. (No jokes about poor Deacy's voice, please.) You didn't try to blend in with Freddie's voice—you gave it your own, laid all your pain out there, and the result is absolutely fucking perfect.

There are times when I'd like to pluck every stupid hair out of your head and knit them into a rope to hang you with. Then there are times when I wish I believed in God so I could thank Him for introducing you to me.

Tonight is one of those times.

As a wise man often said: "Cheers, darling."

Roger

Chapter Text

***

(17 January, 1997—Royal Savoy Hotel, Lausanne)  

Bri—

Wayne Sleep came up to me after the show tonight, all smiles and hugs. It's odd that his principal dancer also died at 45, just like Freddie. Maybe that type of loss binds us together to do projects like this one. Rock and ballet, just like Freddie did with the Royal Ballet. God, he would've loved this show tonight.

Thing is, I don't know what's binding US together these days.

I know that Deacy was nervous—fuck, he was chain-smoking the entire time backstage, before AND after we played—but what he said to us at the end is really bothering me.

"This is it, guys, I can't do this anymore."

He'd been in a cold sweat most of the song, barely looking at me for cues, not looking at the audience at all. I think he was searching for Freddie out there, just like we did at the tribute concert, except that he wasn't really with US at all. Even by John's normal standards of anxiety, what happened tonight was at a terrifying level. I don't think he was just chattering; I think he meant it. I think he's done.

I'm going to have to tiptoe to your room to shove this under your door. Deb and the kids are very much asleep, so I can't phone. Slip your answer under my door. God knows I'll be awake.

R

***

Roger—

You know you could have knocked on my door and we could have talked face-to-face, right? You must be worn down to the bone. But it reminds me of our misspent youth when we do the naughty-boy note-sneaking now and again, and your note made me smile through my own exhaustion.

Deacy did look rather peaky (ha!) in rehearsals as well as tonight. Perhaps we should've rallied around him more, been more aware of how he was feeling and done more to keep him as relaxed as possible. He used to draw so much strength from Freddie. It might take both of us to equal that.

John didn't just borrow Freddie's strength— he may also have borrowed Freddie's traditional "end of tour diatribe." It was a shaky scenario for him, being amongst so many strangers. I bet if he could be with us and our usual crew, he'd snap out of it fast enough.

It's not time to worry yet. We're all going to take a break anyway, so why don't we just leave him in peace for a while?

At any rate, I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow before we have to leave at stupid-thirty for the maddeningly early flight to Heathrow. Must have a word with Gerry about the arrangements. We're not getting any younger and we all need our beauty sleep. Well, I do, anyway.

Dormez bien,
Brian

***

(August-October, 1997—emails sent in London)  

***

Roger—

I've been working on a song for a while but hesitated to send it along. Originally I planned it for whatever solo thing I might do next, but upon reflection I realised that would be the wrong place for it to live.

It's for us, you and me and Deacy, and it's about Freddie. I was thinking about him, and about Gianni and Jorge and everyone we've lost too soon. Just a rough demo, naturally, but I'd love your opinion.

Bri

***

Bri—

Got the tape. Everything's at sixes and sevens right now with the fucking press all over Deb and me. I'll give it a listen soon.

R

***

Roger—

Now, like the rest of Britain, I'm thinking about Diana. What a waste of youth and good deeds. The song (have you listened yet?) could be about her, as well as the others.

Bri

***

I think Elton's got the market on Diana songs cornered, mate.

Rog

***

So that's a no on listening?

Bri

***

Honestly? I stuck it in a drawer and forgot about it until I got your note. Nothing personal, just my life being crazy. I promise to give it a listen before we go to the bloody ballet on the 28th, okay?

R

***

Brian—

Hold everything.

This song is...I don't have the right words. It's just everything I've ever felt about losing Freddie, all rolled up into one gorgeous melody. It really does suit your voice, but I can "hear" where John and I would slot in perfectly.

This HAS to be a Queen song. Has to be.

I do have a couple of suggestions. It feels rushed, so it could be at a more leisurely tempo without losing the urgency. Also, it sounds a bit TOO Freddie-specific in the middle. If you really do want that universal feeling, you might tweak the lyrics a bit. Plus, the ever-ghoulish press would love to accuse us of wringing the last drops of tears out of Freddie's fans, so that's another reason to open up the words. Caesar's wife and Freddie's widowers must be beyond reproach, you know.

Hand to heart, I don't think I've ever heard you sing anything better. Ever. Let's get this on tape quickly.

I'll get Deacy into the studio if I have to tie him up and drag him there kicking and screaming.

Rog

***

Roger—

Well, that's a first, having you want me to slow something down!

Will tinker with middle verse. You should sing that one.

Do you think we can put it on the "Rocks" album?

Bri

***

Are you fucking kidding? It needs to be the single.

R

***

Bri—

We clicked today! No arguing, no posturing, no rolled eyes. It was a fucking miracle. Less than two minutes into rehearsal and we were in such a groove that I could have drummed for two days straight without even stopping to pee. As sad as the song is (you bastard, you made me cry when your voice broke on "window"), getting to play with you and Deacy was a blast. I didn't have to think about what John would play; I could feel it in my veins along with my blood.

I know you don't rate yourself much as a keyboard player, but I'm glad you did it instead of Spike. The feel of it being just the three of us is what gave the recording such a feeling of HOME. So, yeah, doing the video with you on two instruments is going to require some footwork from Rudi and Hans, but they'll be up to it.

John played brilliantly, but he seemed subdued. Of course the material was melancholy, but I can't stop thinking about what he said that night when we played for Elton. Not that I think Queen can go on indefinitely with the three of us, but, to paraphrase your song, I'm not ready to say goodbye.

I still think it's too fast, though.

Rog

***

R—

If we slow it down, we'd have to make a choice: either keep the pitch stable and make our voices go wonky or have it sit in between two keys.

Bri

***

Bri—

I listened to it slowed down, and the nebulous key made it even more heartrending. Keep it and put it on the album, last cut and first single. I've spoken.

R

***

(29 November, 1997—London)  

***

Roger—

It's going to be a gorgeous video.

The rushes show us Rudi and Hannes' vision: simple "rehearsal" set at Bray, black-and-white, the camera floating through the instruments like a ghostly visitor. Oh, if Freddie could only have seen this! Your idea of ending on a champagne glass atop the piano was inspired; I could almost hear him saying "Cheers, darling."

I didn't dare look either of you in the eyes during the takes because I know I'd have wept openly. I did peek at John from the piano a couple of times. He was...somewhere else, probably thinking of Freddie and hurting so, so much. I think it did him a lot of good to be with us.

He just needs time. I think he feels guilty about not going to see Fred, toward the end, and that makes him gun-shy around us. But even when he put his Fender away, patted the case, and said goodbye, I didn't sense that he was really going away forever.

Bri

***

Bri—

You're right about the video. The Torpedo Twins did right by your song and by Freddie's memory.

The single's already out in Japan and the US and it's selling pretty well. We come out in January here. The album's doing fine, as John told us today.

I love your optimism about John, but I have to confess I don't share it. You may not have been watching him today but I was. He's not just subdued, he's spent. It's not just the wrinkles or the grey hair. His entire demeanour was that of a man who just wants to sink into the mists and not be found again.

You and I live and breathe music. John loves it, in an abstract way, but without the compulsion that we feel. He'll set the bass aside for one of the kids and find other things to occupy himself.

The horrible part of me is glad that he feels guilty for abandoning Freddie. (Let's call it what it was, shall we?) After everything Freddie did for him, he deserves to feel like shit. But the part of me who spent my whole adult life making Queen tick with John by my side? That part of me is sick at heart.

I'm so sorry, Bri, but we've lost him.

Rog

Chapter Text

***

(January, 2000—emails sent in London)  

***

Really, Brian? Your PA? How utterly cliché of you, and you richly deserve everything Anita dishes out as punishment.

I mean, my life isn't exactly a romance novel but at least I only ruin one woman's life at a time.

You spent years pining over Anita. You left Chrissy and your kids for her, for fuck's sake, so you could be with her. Now, you chuck it all out to canoodle with Julie—who's also married, in case that makes any difference to you. It probably does to her husband. Jesus, Brian, for someone who claims to avoid the spotlight you're doing everything you can to plant yourself dead center in it.

When Freddie drew the Queen crest and put flames coming out your arse, he really knew what he was about.

R

***

Roger,

If it makes you feel any better, Anita left me.

Bri

***

I'm sorry. Are you all right?

***

No, Roger, I'm not all right. I haven't been this NOT all right since the disastrous, miserable fucking year 1991.

I've fucked up my kids' lives, Chrissy's life, Julie's life, and now Anita's life. At least I'm consistent. Everything I touch turns to shit and it's no one's fault but my own.

Feel free to tell me that you told me so.

***

I told you so.

Are you at the house or the flat? I'll come get you.

***

You don't have to humour me.

***

Debbie won't let me NOT humour you. Don't disappoint a pregnant lady, Bri. Besides, Rufus and Tigerlily haven't seen you in absolute ages. We don't care if you're a wreck, we'll put on some Monty Python movies and eat popcorn with the kids. C'mon.

***

Are you sure you trust your children around a crab with flames coming out of his arse? If you are, then I'm at the flat.

By the way, those flames are from the phoenix, but I'll run with your colourful description for the moment because I deserve it.

I don't deserve you.

***

Pack enough for a week or more, and bring your acoustic. Might as well have you sing for your supper, if penitence is what you want. I'll be there in half an hour, flame-arse.

R

***

(March-April, 2000—between Tuscon, AZ and London)

***

Dear Roger,

They won't allow electronic communication during my stay here, so I'm writing this down and shall send it via what the kids call "snail mail." I must confess that putting pen to paper has a certain old-fashioned charm.

I hope you are doing well and taking good care of Debbie. I remember Chrissy in her last months of pregnancy, and...well, I don't know how women do it, truly I don't. You were so kind to take me in when I was such a mess; I hope I didn't upset the kids.

So. Here I am at a very fancy clinic in the middle of the desert. If I didn't know this was Arizona I wouldn't be able to tell from our surroundings. We could just as easily be in Madagascar or on the Moon. We're cut off from daily life in ways that I never imagined. Even on our craziest tours, we at least had contact with the outside world.

By the way, if anyone here knows who I am they're not letting on. There's a great deal of peace in anonymity.

It will surely be no surprise that the doctors immediately realised that much of my distress could be traced to Freddie's death. My natural state of "Byronic melancholy," as Freddie himself always put it, went into overdrive that year and I've never recovered. They want me to be able to remember losing Freddie without re-living it. Tricky, that.

They tried antidepressants, but they were worse than you can imagine. I still wanted to die; I just couldn't work up the energy to actually do it. I never want to feel that out of control, that lethargic and useless, ever again.

After they weaned me off of the medications, they spent a few weeks tweaking my diet. I'm nearly as skinny as I was in those old days, if you can believe it, but they say it'll even out once my metabolism calms down after all the drugs.

Now they've put me in behavioural therapy. It's working a bit better, although I was rather at a loss when they asked me to find a "higher power." I don't believe in God, at least not the way the Americans seem to, so I had to find another way. I went out every night to look up at the stars. There's almost no light pollution here so I could make out so many even without a telescope. Above my head were the constants like Orion and the Milky Way, and they were so strong that I could let them hold me up.

I call them my "brave stars," because in their presence I can feel myself becoming stronger.

I feel that way around you, as well. Hopefully I can repay the favour.

Brian

***

Brian—

Thanks for your vote of confidence!

Due to the incredibly slow postal services in both countries, your letter arrived the day after our new daughter Lola was born, April 9th. She's brilliant, perfect from head to foot.

Debbie and I talked about it after reading your news, and we decided that Lola's name should celebrate her brave Uncle Brian. While "May" is a lovely middle name, using it flat-out would have ignited speculation about her paternity. (I loathe the British press. Just thought I'd let you know that.) So we disguised it by pairing it with Daisy, like the old cartoon, and the result is Lola Daisy May Taylor.

Come and meet her soon.

Rog

***

Roger,

Now I know how Freddie must have felt when he heard that Rufus' middle name was "Tiger." I'm touched and proud and so, so happy for you and Debbie.

They'll let me come home in a few weeks, and I will meet my little namesake. Perhaps she will give me enough courage to make amends with my own precious children. I miss them more than...well, you would understand.

Thank you, my friend. For everything.

Bri

***

(September, 2000—emails sent between Vancouver and London)  

***

Roger—

I'm in Canada. I'm in Canada because Anita is in Canada, and my heart has to be wherever she is. I'm going to see her play tonight and ask her forgiveness. Spare a thought for me if you get a chance.

Bri

***

Go forth and get your girl.

***

It may take a while for her to trust me again (and I've only myself to blame), but she's willing to give it a go. More fool, her, but I'm over the moon.

***

(1 November, 2000—emails sent in London)

Roger,

Tonight, Anita said the words I never thought I'd hear. She looked at me with those beautiful green eyes and said, "Brian, I think I'm ready to get married."

The heavens opened and the trumpets sounded.

Of course, I've run it past my children. The girls are happy now that we've explained that Anita will be a good stepmother, not the evil ones like in Panto. Jimmy will take a bit longer to come around. Anita and I will give him space while he sorts it out in his mind. Chrissy even gave us her blessing, which I, at least, don't deserve.

We're thinking of a quiet daytime wedding, with just a handful of family and friends and a nice lunch afterwards. You and Debbie are invited, of course, and I'll ask John and Ronnie as well. We're due a reunion in happy times.

What a year this has been. From the depths of despair to the greatest happiness I've known in years, and through it all you've been my best friend, my brave star.

Be my best man, if you would?

Bri

***

Mazel tov! Just wait until my speech...

R

*** 

(18 November, 2000—email between London and Venice)

***

Dear Brian,

It was an amazing wedding and I'm thrilled to have been at your side. Deb was in awe of Anita's scarlet outfit, and I'm endlessly amused that you, of ALL people, wore white.

I'm sorry John didn't come. Ronnie sent regrets, but in the end he just...couldn't. I know it made you sad, but I'm certain that he does still love you in his own way.

This evening I was thinking about the ups and downs of your year, about how much despair you were in at the beginning and contrasting that with how happy you looked when you said "I do." I don't think I've seen you so much at peace in all the years I've known you. Anita may have been the (beautiful, if not blushing) bride, but you're the one who was glowing.

Seeing you like that made me recall those odd little Japanese ceramics Fred used to collect. Remember the ones that had cracks repaired with gold? He always said they were the most precious because the broken places were even more beautiful for having been mended. If that's not a metaphor for you and Anita, I don't know what is.

I'm very happy for the two of you. Enjoy Venice, and treasure the gold that holds you together.

Roger                                                                              

Chapter Text

(May, 2007—emails in London)  

Bri—

PhD—Piled Higher and Deeper? I suppose congratulations are in order for yet another collection of letters after your name. I remember you slogging away at that thesis in that freezing-cold flat and all the nights you'd fall asleep with your head on a pile of papers.

(By the way, I was not the one who plaited your hair one night and tied it with a bow. I'll give you three guesses who *did* do it, and the first two don't count.)

In any event, good on you for finishing the task.

Rog

***

Roger—

Thanks! It was somewhat daunting to open up all those old, dusty notebooks and squint at my spidery scrawl. That the field has been neglected all these years was a blessing in terms of research left to do before the thesis, but a tragedy in that we still have so much to learn.

Speaking of neglect, I do apologise for holing myself away in the attic whilst writing the bloody thing. We should have a celebration at the house, just you and me and the girls.

And speaking of speaking of...haven't you received the invitation to the commencement ceremony? Anita and I sent them out weeks ago.

Bri

***

Ah. I think we're going to pass. But thanks for the invitation.

***

Are you okay, Rog?

***

Feeling a bit lost and unaccomplished in your wake. You're Ursa Major and I'm some tiny little speck of your zodiacal dust stuff. You're DOCTOR May: Astrophysicist, Inventor of the Red Special Guitar, 3-D Photography Wizard, Writer of Books, Saviour of Animals, Man With Many Letters After His Name.

And I'm Mister Taylor, who hits things.

***

Roger—

As you love to say, "bollocks."

Yes, I have letters after my name, but they're not because I'm successful. They're there because I'm almost sixty bloody years old and yet I'm still so fucking terrified of being a failure. I put myself in the public spotlight the same way I used to play in front of Freddie. "Look at me, look at me, I'm significant!"

You, who are so much more comfortable in your skin, don't have the need to behave that way. The wonderful things you do in this world aren't grand gestures, they're simply what you know to be right. That's the way good deeds *should* happen. And I admire you so much for that.

Oh, you pretend to be so cool and unaffected by the world, with your shades and your tattoos and your quick-witted quips. Your disguise might work on people who only know you through the band, but it won't work on me.

I know your heart.

I know what a marvelous father you are, and how you've managed to knit the people you love into one unit.

I know your generosity, your protectiveness, and the depths of your friendship.

You're Leo, full of stars so bright that the ancients could see them and wonder at them. Freddie talked to me once about the Queen crest and he said you're the lion who faces out, who takes on the whole world.

Forget the ceremony; it's going to be boring as hell anyway. Come to the house tomorrow night and we'll look at the stars together. No shop talk, nothing about the musical or the tour or this interminable film project that I'm starting to regret. We'll drink a toast to Freddie and look for Virgo in the east.

Bri

***

Damn, and I was just getting a good sulk going.

I'll bring vodka.

R

***

Roger—

With the last few performances of "We Will Rock You" just around the corner, another Queen era is coming to a close. I'm glad we can both be there for the final curtain call on the 31st.

Jim Beach sent an invitation to the Deacons, which Veronica has declined. It's rumoured that John came incognito to a performance or two, but rumours about John's presence all *over* London are widespread and, frankly, hard to believe.

I do wonder if John sometimes walks around Tottenham Court Road, camouflaged in a heavy jacket and a cap and sunglasses, and comes upon Freddie's statue. I wonder what goes through his mind when he looks up to see him. But John maintains his silence, and I'm destined to wonder to the end of my days.

Meanwhile, the planning commission in Surrey is giving Anita and me ridiculous amounts of grief about moving the statue here. I've learned more about plinths and exedrae than I ever wanted, and every time they try to chide me about the statue's "possible negative effect on wildlife" I want to laugh in their faces—except that this is so important to me.

We should sit down with Adam sometime soon and go over tour particulars. I hope you're as happy about Rufus going with us as I am. He's a treasure.

Bri

***

Brian—

Rufus getting his first big break from you, and now touring with us? I'm still struggling with that a bit. Not that I'd have wanted him to go through all the shite we experienced back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, but...well, we've been over this and it's done. He's a good lad, I'll give you that.

I've seen random videos of people coming up to John on the street. He looks like a crabby extra on Corrie until someone jams a camera into his face, and then he looks so frightened that I almost want to pull him to safety and hug him.

ALMOST.

Rog

***

(1 June, 2014—texts in London)

In all the excitement and closing-night celebrations, I left the theatre last night without checking with the work crews. This morning my guys told me that someone stole Freddie's statue. I don't even know how that was possible. I'm just heartbroken.

Bri

***

No worries, he's safe in my garden! Fuck the planning commissions. You're welcome to come visit whenever the mood strikes.

***

That was a low blow, Roger. And a cruel one.

***

Oh, come on, Bri. If it bothers you that much, I'll have Irina cast another one.

R

***

Your birthday's coming up, I can call her and get it going. Bigger? Smaller? Gold-plated?

R

***

Or let's get two and plonk one down right in front of Deacy's house.

R

***

Brian?

***

Best to leave him alone for a while, Roger.

—Anita

***

(19 June, 2014—Chicago)  

Dear Brian,

Well, forty years on I'm back to writing letters on paper and slipping them under your hotel room door.

The run-up to this tour has been the weirdest three weeks of my life. And given how weird my life has been, that's saying a lot. It's been the quietest and most professional set of rehearsals imaginable. Not a single argument, not a single eye roll, not so much as a heavy sigh.

I hated it.

And tonight's concert—apart from Adam's mic malfunctioning, which he handled like a champion, and your extended "killing time until it's sorted" solo was brilliant—was almost antiseptically perfect.

I hated it.

Here we are, opening night of a world tour, and you won't exchange any more than the most basic pleasantries.

That's the worst.

No, I take it back: the worst is that I brought it upon my own head. Sarina warned me that this would likely backfire. Shit, even the guys with the crane warned me that you weren't going to be amused at all. But I did it anyway. I wanted "Freddie" for myself, much the way I wanted his attention on me when he was here with us. You're not the only one who longed for it, you know. Even John did it. We all wanted to be in Fred's orbit, in his heart, and we used all our considerable wiles to make it happen.

You're angry with me. You have every right to be. I "stole" Freddie from you, and I know that's got metaphorical implications as well as practical ones. (If it makes you feel any better, OUR planning commissions are having a field day trying to get poor Freddie moved out.)

I didn't do it out of malice. I didn't even do it because I miss Freddie so terribly. Okay, I very slightly wanted to annoy you, but even that's not the reason.

I set Freddie in my garden so I can see him. You know my hearing's not so good, but what I haven't been advertising is that it's actually going to shit rather quickly. The day's going to come when I can't hear Freddie's voice anymore, when that laugh and the way he said "Roger, darling" will just be memories.

When all I can do is look.

I'll have the statue moved: your place, a park, anywhere you want. Anything so I don't have to lose the sound of your voice so soon.

I'm sorry.

Roger

***

It's still opening night for another hour. Keep "Freddie" safe and we'll toast his memory. Lobby bar in ten minutes. Drinks are on you.

Bri

***

(26 September, 2014—texts between Plymouth and London)  

I'm in Plymouth, as you probably heard, and today they gave me an honourary doctorate in music. They gave one to Julian Lloyd Webber as well, so does that mean I'm officially posh?

I know it's not the same as the REAL letters you have, but please be happy for me.

R

***

I *am* happy for you, Rog. Even when I don't much like you, even when you make me re-think my stance on pacifism, I still love you.

***

Because I'm all you have left?

***

Because you're Roger Taylor, DMus.

***

And you're my Big Bear, A-Z.

Chapter Text

(May, 2016—emails in London)  

Bri—

Looks as if we're going ahead on the film project, again, although I have my doubts we'll get much further this time. Graham and Jim sent a video that an American actor did at Abbey Road but I haven't had the will to look at it. Have you?

R

***

Roger—

Haven't watched the video but I've seen bits of his work already. Jimmy loves "Mr Robot" and had me watch a few episodes. Rami Malek doesn't *look* at all like Freddie but there's an intense focus about him that reminds me...you know...so we should give him a shot.

Bri

***

Bri—

l don't know who was more embarrassed: Rami, for showing up at my flat for an informal "audition," or us, for not having the courtesy to pop in the DVD beforehand.

My God.

He's our guy.

He's our Freddie.

R

***

(5 November, 2016—texts in London)

Roger—

The good news: Rami is confirmed as Freddie.

The bad news: We have lost all control over this project other than the music. Jim Beach has confirmed it. Bugger.

Bri

***

Well, anything has to be better than the original script: the turgid piece of crap that started and ended with old-you-played-by-some-guy-in-makeup banging on about Freddie and the band.

Right?

***

From your mouth, as they say, to God's ears.

Bri

***

You do know that when you text me, your name's already on it so there's no need to sign, right?

***

Yes.

Bri

***

(October, 2017—emails in London)  

***

Bri—

Tomorrow is the Live Aid shoot. I have to confess that I've got goosebumps. Do you want to ride together to Bovingdon tomorrow? I'm at the flat.

R

***

Roger—

Goosebumps? Me, too. I'm taking Emily with me; she's dying to experience this "thing" that Daddy's been talking about since she was a baby.

I hate that we were gone on tour all the while in the pre-production phase. Don't get me wrong, I loved being on the road with you and Adam and the gang, I just...this is for FREDDIE, you know? And even though we can't have much input on the script, I want everything we CAN participate in to be as good as possible.

I'm glad you agreed to invite Tim to sing "Doin' All Right" on the soundtrack - at least he'll finally get something for slogging it out with Smile back in the day.

Pick us up at the crack of dawn and we'll head North. I'll bring cameras and champagne.

Bri

***

Bri—

My GOD. That was fucking amazing.

Well, except for the wig they put on Ben. Why go to all the trouble of recreating Deacy's hideous shirt but give "me" a haircut I hadn't had for a decade?

So tomorrow they're going to put US in wigs and have us climb that scaffolding (I hope they tie us to something in case we take a bumble) so we can look down on the show. Probably to get us out of the way so that I'll stop trying to get Ben to hit the right bits of kit at the right time, or to get you to let go of Gwilym and Rami.

We get to be fans. Haven't done that since Hendrix.

R

***

(December, 2017—emails in London)  

***

Bri—

I knew it, I fucking knew it. They've all but shut down production because Bryan Singer's done a runner.

This bloody movie is NEVER going to be finished.

R

***

Roger—

I heard that Sigel took over to keep things rolling. At least that was what I gathered from the panic-stricken texts from the guys on set.

Bryan is saying he's having "family problems" but some of the rumours coming through are disturbing. I know, I know, we're the last people on earth who should be listening to the proverbial grapevine, but if he's done even half of what's being said...

We can't have him attached to something with Freddie's name all over it.

Bri

***

Brian—

Singer's fired and they've brought Dexter Fletcher back aboard. Bless that man, we'll have to send him flowers and booze.

Fletcher said he was, and I quote, "looking at two complete acts in a good film and had to not let it down."

I hear they're sending Joe back to the U.S. for a bit because his father's doing worse. The text I got from Jim Beach said that they'll pick up again in a week or so. It'll give time for Fletcher to get his sea legs on this very, very rocky boat.

R

***

Roger—

We should have insisted on Fletcher from the beginning and not let him get away. He's doing the movie about Elton, too, so perhaps this will give him some perspective on how music influences lives.

The boys need a break after all they've been through. I feel terrible that poor Joe has to take such a sad trip all alone. I look at his face, sometimes, and I can see the weight of the world on him. But the other guys and Lucy will always have his back no matter what happens. Come to think of it, the way Rami rallies "the troops" around Joe reminds me so much of Freddie when the fog of depression got to be too much for me to bear. It's sad, of course, but also beautiful in its way.

Bri

***

Brian—

Is it rotten of me to wonder whether Fletcher can get Joe to re-record John's dialogue without such a posh accent?

R

***

Roger—

In one word: YES.

In many words: You've been far more critical of Joe than anyone else in the cast. More so than your endless grumbling about Rami having the wrong colour eyes or Gwilym's face being so much "better" than mine. (Thanks for that, mate, by the way.) Even more so than Ben, who not only looks nothing like you but also DOESN'T play drums after all, and needed a lot of your help to get it looking good.

Gwil and Ben have the two of us to ask questions of, and Rami has our memories plus about ten thousand hours of footage. Joe has so much less to work with, since John rarely said more than ten words at any given interview. Additionally, he's burdened with the knowledge that he's playing someone who doesn't even want to be remembered, much less portrayed.

I give him great credit for doing as well as he is, but you look for every perceived flaw you can find.

Rog, I've been thinking about this for quite a while, and I keep coming back to the same notion over and over again. Perhaps I'm wrong about this, but I don't believe I am.

I think you're hard on Joe because you're still so angry with John.

Forgive me if I'm wrong.

Bri

***

Brian—

Much as I loathe to admit it, there may be something to your words.

When I watch the cast going through their paces, I can't help remembering John as he used to be: brilliant, sarcastic, thoroughly involved with our music. A friend, different to how it was with you or Fred, but still close enough to be able to communicate without words. When we got sent on those endless foreign press junkets we were thick as thieves (and we were even naughtier than thieves, if my memory serves) and for so many years he was literally at my right hand on stage.

Then Freddie got sick and John began to drink too much, began to withdraw. Then Freddie was dying, and John was nowhere to be found. Jim Hutton said he was "surprised" that John turned up for the funeral, that's how absent he'd been.

I look at Joe, with the ridiculous wigs and that LOOK in his eyes, and I want to punch him in the face for not being there for Freddie.

It's not fair on Joe.

I'll try and do better.

R

***

Roger—

Thank you for reminding me why you've been my best friend for half a century.

Brian

***

Oh, fuck off. ;)

***

(23 October, 2018—texts in London)

***

It's not quite the story we wanted to tell (actually, it's not really close to the story we wanted to tell), but it's still a very good movie and I couldn't be prouder of our brave crew. Anita was in tears, and I have to confess I wiped away a few, myself.

Bri

***

WHAT A NIGHT! All those people, all cheering for us and for the film and for FREDDIE.

Sarina has predicted that I won't sleep a wink tonight. She's way, way off. I may not sleep for a week.

***

I'm not sleeping, either. I'm sitting at the piano, Freddie's piano, and I would give anything to have him here with me.

Bri

***

I'm sitting outside at Freddie's statue, freezing my arse off, and I would give anything to have him here with me.

***

I was thinking—perhaps we can have a little party, just us and the cast. Right at "Freddie's" feet, to celebrate before they head off for the US premiere. I've missed them all so much since the shooting wrapped up. We should get together.

Bri

***

We have to let go of them, Brian. They're actors who've done a job. They'll do the press tour and they'll get another job, and another one after that. Queen isn't their life the way it is ours.

I know, it's a bit like losing Freddie all over again. But for what it's worth, you've still got me.

Now go get out of your own head and start thinking of what to do on our next tour. The show, if you recall, must go on.

***

Chapter Text

***

(10 July, 2019—texts in Vancouver, Canada)  

***

Soundcheck went well—your drums are in good nick and your voice is stronger than ever. But I'm strangely uneasy about going onstage tonight. No idea why.

Bri

***

I think all six of us are bloody amazing. You always get into a state before the first show. Just relax and do your thing. Don't fret or fuss, or I'll start calling you Freddie!

***

Maybe that's my problem; I'm missing Freddie so terribly lately. I feel as if little bits of me are being eaten away, like my heart's going to fall out of my body.

Bri

***

We could cut LOML if that's what's setting you off.

***

LOML is my cross to bear.

Bri

***

I'll stay onstage and sing it with you if you like.

***

Better my heart break than yours, but thank you. See you on the field of battle!

Bri

***

(23 July—texts in Dallas)  

***

What the fuck were you and Pete DOING after the show? Were you licking the stage clean?

***

One of the knobs came off of Red. One of the originals. We looked for ages but couldn't find it.

Bri

***

That's a shame. I know how much the pieces of the Old Lady mean to you. But if it went into the crowd, you're not going to see it again. Is there something Pete can rig up to replace it?

***

He's already installed a new one. I just want MINE. I put up posts on social media asking for it to be returned; hopefully someone will give it back.

Bri

***

Give it back? Oh, Brian. If you're LUCKY you'll be able to buy it back on eBay.

***

Is that what they do, our fans? Take and take and take until there's nothing left of us?

Bri

***

I know that all the bits and bobs you and your dad put together mean the world to you, and I'm sorry. But for fuck's sake, Bri, YOUR knob's not going to fall off. I mean, Anita might chop it off if you fuck around again, but—

***

Thanks for the laugh. Now if my leg will just stop hurting, I'll stop being such a grouchy old fart.

Bri

***

(2 December, 2019—emails in London)  

***

Brian—

Bloody fucking hell. Were you hoping I wouldn't find out you were having surgery? 'Cause that didn't work. My phone went into convulsions this morning as all five of my children tried at once to get details about something I knew fuck-all about. Are you all right?

R

***

Rog—

It was such a minor thing that it didn't warrant mentioning. Sorry that it made a mess of your day. I'm already home and hobbling about. After all the misery on the first part of the tour, being able to fling myself across the stage will be cathartic.

Rory phoned to get the gory details and she'll share with you.

Bri

***

(28 December, 2019—emails in London)  

***

Roger Taylor, OBE—

Congratulations on yet more letters to add to your name! I'm so proud and happy!

Bri

***

Bri—

Thank you. The kids are thrilled (Felix, a bit less so once I reminded him that it's not a hereditary title) and Sarina's walking on air.

Although I strongly suspect, given how the nomination process works, that OBE really stands for Owes Brian Everything.

R

***

Roger—

Obviously Brian Enjoys (ha!) getting the credit, but the honour truly is yours and yours alone. You deserve this and so much more.

Bri

***

One Bloody Example of why I haven't chucked you off the stage, yet.

YET.

R

***

(13 January, 2020—texts in London)  

***

I'm sat amidst the detritus of preparations for this six-week-long expedition. Not sure how I feel, leaving Anita at home and going by myself.

Bri

***

Remember this: you're not going by yourself.

***

That's very kind of you.

Bri

***

Adam will be there. ;)

***

Fuck off.

Bri

***

(28 January, 2020—emails in Osaka, Japan)  

***

Roger—

Whatever it is that I've done to put you out of sorts, I humbly apologise. Whether it's my constant Instagram posting, my newfound dedication to veganism, or just my fundamental Brian-ness, I can see that you're not enjoying Japan at all and I want to make amends.

Bri

***

Brian—

You're right that I'm not enjoying Japan. You're wrong to think you have anything to do with it.

I'll always associate Japan with Freddie. From how much he loved our first tour here, to all the STUFF he bought, Japan makes me think of Freddie and I miss him so fucking much.

Now there are photographs of us everywhere, and fans mobbing us (did we ever really ENJOY that, and if so, what were we thinking?), and every one of them says something about Freddie that makes my soul ache.

The worst was the pop-up store with the life-sized Freddie, and having to stand there and pose while people took pictures. For once I blessed my rubbish eyesight. Still, it was unnerving and weird and...ghoulish, if I may be honest.

Then we saw Koh. He took so many glorious photos of us when we were young, and now he's old and WE'RE old and Freddie's gone and I don't know what we're doing anymore.

I'm exhausted and there's this fucking plague going around.

What ARE we doing, Brian?

Rog

***

Roger—

Those are all excellent points. What are we doing? I don't know; I only know what I'm doing.

I'm trying to remember that so many of these fans are young and have waited all their lives to see us, and that helps me keep a (relatively, because you know me) even keel. It probably didn't occur to them that screaming crowds could make us anxious, or that posing with young, life-like replicas of Freddie—and even of John, for different reasons—might cause us pain.

This part of the tour, for me at least, is a love letter to people who welcomed us with open arms at a time when our own nation didn't give a toss.

Think about that during "Teo Torriatte" tonight. And if you need to vent in person, I'm always ready to hear you out.

Bri

***

Brian—

I did what you suggested, and stood back with Pete during "Teo Torriatte" so I could see the crowd and hear them sing along. That was your first love letter to Japan, and it's even more poignant now. When I heard the happy voices and watched the lights shine all around you, I was able to adjust my attitude.

I've been saying that we're tearing up our hearts every time we walk into a stadium and try to rekindle the magic we lost when Freddie died. But now I feel differently about it. There's a third heart beating along with yours and mine, reminding us that the music isn't lost. It's the gestalt heart of all these people who still love us after all these years.

R

***

(12 February, 2020—emails from Brisbane, Australia)

***

Brian—

I can't find a newspaper, but social media is going mad about some kind of altercation with the press. What the hell happened?

R

***

Oh, God, Roger, it was such a harmless beginning. The limo was going out of the airport and there were these kids holding up signs...I couldn't bring myself to just drive by so I got out for autographs and selfies.

There was a news cameraman there. I held up all right for a bit, then I asked him to stop filming once he had enough for his story, so that the kids could meet me in relative privacy. He kept on with sound, and then with his phone, and he put it right up in my face. I absolutely snapped. Yes, I shoved him, but what they're showing on the news and in the papers is only the last bit, after he'd broken the last thread of my endurance.

I'm used to shitty press, of course. I just feel so terrible for those kids.

Bri

***

Brian—

Now that I've seen the video, read the trashy rags, and had a while to think, I'm ready to send this rebuttal to the Brisbane press:

Dear Brisbane News Media, and especially Channel Seven:

No good deed goes unpunished.

Brian May, exhausted from weeks on tour, spotted a group of children waving signs at him and had his limo driver pull over so he could meet with them.

He could just waved and driven by. In retrospect, perhaps he should have done. Your headline would have been "Queen Guitarist Snubs Children," which is patently ridiculous but far preferable to the hatchet job that transpired.

Brian has spent most of this trip meeting with animal rescue groups, to the point where I scarcely see him from one day to the next except at concert venues. As tired as he was, he gave up his precious free time to give joy to some fans, and what thanks did he get? A television camera recording the entire thing. A camerman who couldn't be happy with the footage he got and blatantly disregarded a reasonable request to give these people some privacy. A phone shoved into his face.

All I can say to your "photojournalist" is that he's lucky I wasn't the object of his newsmongering. Brian shoved him back; I would have kicked him in the balls.

Assuming he had any.

Your doctored photos and footage are so insanely out of character that I want to laugh at your pathetic attempt at a smear campaign. I've known Brian for more than fifty years, and he is a considerate, intelligent, patient man, sometimes demanding and petulant, because he IS a rock star, but at heart the gentlest of gentlemen. For you to say otherwise is character assassination. I will not stand for it.

Next time you want to slander a member of Queen, come and find me.

Roger Meddows Taylor, OBE

***

Roger—

It's beautiful. The only way it could be better would be if you had written it on an airsickness bag.

Don't send it, though. It's enough that I got to read it. Bless you.

Bri

***

Brian—

If you change your mind, revenge is but a few keystrokes away. Now let's go show Brisbane exactly what made you a rock legend.

Rog, also a rock legend

***

Chapter Text

(30 April, 2026—Emails between Surrey and Puttenham)

***

Roger—

This year will be the fifteenth since we first began performing with Adam. That we went from "Hey, that one's got some real pipes" to a dozen world tours struck home with me. Doesn’t seem possible, does it?

I brought it up with Adam a couple of days ago, at Javi’s birthday do (we missed you like mad and told many tales about you; how much were your ears burning?), and the sweet boy said that since it was also 35 years since Freddie died, perhaps we could do some sort of retrospective on his life and music. I think it's perfect. Does that appeal to you at all?

Bri

***

Sorry to miss the party. Been out of town, and then I've been a bit under the weather and such.

Does Adam mean a retrospective with film/interviews? That sounds like a good project to keep us occupied. You could finally empty out those shoeboxes full of photos...

R

***

Rog—

They're all archived safely, including the negatives, thank you very much.

A retrospective would be part of it, sure, but what we’re thinking about is one last tour, a huge blowout series of concerts all over the world. Not back to back, of course, but for three or four weeks at a time. Invite Rufus, bring along anyone you can think of who'd help show the world just how great Freddie was. We can make it an enormous spectacle—one last series before my knees give up the ghost—and go out with a bang!

Bri

***

I don't think that's too good an idea. Why not stick to doing a filmed retrospective, maybe put out a book?

R

***

Rog—

I get that you don't want to travel much. So how about doing some concerts locally? Simulcast in 3D all over the world? We could do Live Aid one better and sell out the planet for one night.

Bri

***

Sorry, Bri, I can't.

R

***

Not even if it's a charity concert?

Bri

***

I can't.

***

Can't, or WON'T? It's not as if you haven't traveled all over the world the last few months!

Bri

***

I can't.

Because I can't hear.

I wasn't going to lay this on you because I know how you PANIC, but my hearing's gotten so bad that even with the new implants it's absolute rubbish.

R

***

Rog—

God, I'm so sorry. We can fix you up with headphones, something high tech and new, what about that?

Bri

***

Don't you think I've TRIED? Brian, I'm basically deaf. The implants let me make out words when people speak but there's no tone to it. And music sounds horribly, painfully bad, like someone vomiting into a trash can full of distressed seagulls.

It's like I told you when I nicked Freddie's statue from the Dominion: there was going to come a time when I can't hear his voice any more. That time is now.

Last week I put on one of the grandkids' fancy headphones and turned "You Take My Breath Away" up, and I could just about make out Freddie if I isolated the tinny squealing. I won't tell you what your guitar sounded like.

The truth is this: I've lost music and I can't ever get it back.

If you want to take Rufus on the road with you, go for it. He's always adored you, and the crowds would love him. But I just can't be part of that. It's too fucking painful.

R

***

Rog—

I'm so terribly sorry. I absolutely don't know what to say. You sound so hopeless and that's just not who you are. Surely can't just be giving up without a fight!

There have to be doctors out there somewhere who know how to help you. I can start looking, I'll go with you and Sarina, I'll be there for the whole thing. You without music—I can't even begin to comprehend that. We have to try whatever we can. Just say the word and I'll do anything.

Bri

***

I doubt there's a doctor anywhere on the planet I haven't consulted. That's where I've been all this time! I went EVERYWHERE, saw specialists all over the fucking WORLD, and the answer was always the same thing: "We see this in so many classic rock musicians, Mr Taylor, and I'm terribly sorry to give you such bad news..."

It happened to most of us. All that crazy loudness did us in, didn't it? Pete Townshend went first, then a whole slew of us started going deaf. I knew it was coming, and I'm trying my damndest to accept it.

You mean well. You always do. But to suffer the loss of music altogether is agonising so please...don't torture me with any more suggestions.

Although I do love you for trying, you silly old sod.

R

***

Rog—

I am a silly old sod. Anita heard me crying and tried to comfort me with hot tea and cuddles, then I told her what had upset me and SHE started crying. We're supposed to have all the grandchildren over this evening so I'm going to have to pull myself together first.

And I feel guilty as hell, because what have I got to moan about when you've been in so much distress?

Now I feel even worse, because for whatever reason you decided not to tell me until the search for a solution was already over.

And later I'll feel worse AND guilty for thinking about myself at a time like this.

Bri

***

For fuck's sake, Brian, that's EXACTLY why I left you out of the loop for so long—you panic and you go all to bits. Remember the COVID thing back in 2020, when we had to postpone the last leg of the tour and you went insane on your Instagram because you took it in your head to assume that the quarantine was intended to kill off the old folks? It took HOURS to talk you off of that ledge and make you delete the post. I couldn't imagine what you'd do if you knew I was wandering the earth looking for a miracle that doesn't exist.

Now, go make yourself presentable and give my love to Anita and the youngsters.

R

***

Rog—

You're absolutely right that I fly off the handle. It's getting more pronounced since I turned 70, and now that 80 is staring me in the face I find that I'm less patient than ever.

Time is narrowing as it turns, and everything we've done seems to recede into the distance.

Even without your problems, going on tour would have been ridiculous. My poor joints wouldn't last a month, for starters, and how would it look to try and be a Rock God with a walker or a wheelchair?

We had a good run, you and I. Almost sixty years...not a lot of friendships last that long, much less successful careers. Having you literally at my right hand all this time has been an honour, a privilege, a right pain in the arse at times, and the greatest professional delight you could ever imagine.

I'll leave it to you how to break this to Adam. I won't betray your confidence, obviously, but we do need to let him know that he's on his own—or that he can form his own band if he wants, and keep our music fresh until he finds someone to replace himself.

Meanwhile, tell me what I can do to help you—as long as it doesn't involve us never seeing one another again.

Bri

***

"Never see one another again?" God, you can be maudlin. Of course that won't happen. I've had you in my back pocket for so long that I can't imagine what it would be like to live without you.

Tell you what. Gather up your shoeboxes—pardon, your ARCHIVAL MATERIALS—and bring them to mine. Sarina will cook something lovely and free of animal products (if that's not an oxymoron) and we can enjoy a spring evening in the garden next to Freddie. He'd INSIST on being part of our reminiscences.

R

***

Freddie is as much a part of our lives as ever, even all these years later.

What can I bring to this evening's festivities?

Bri

***

Don't be ridiculous, darling: CHAMPAGNE.

R

***

Chapter Text

(18 July, 2037—Letter from Puttenham)

Brian—

Happy birthday tomorrow, my old friend.

I'd have been by earlier but everyone's fussing over me so much. Emphysema sucks, you know, but it's my fault from spending my youth smoking. Sarina hovers; Rory smiles when she takes my vitals but I can tell she's been crying. Now the grandkids treat me as if I'll break if they touch me. As if THAT could make me break.

So, yeah, my life's been pretty fucking awful the last two days. When Adam turned up and cried while I held him, I could cope; I could still pretend everything was going to be okay.

I knew I was doing worse than I thought when Debbie and Dom came over TOGETHER to hold my hands and talk ever-so-softly to me.

This is what made me realise that I'm totally fucked: John came to see me today.

John Deacon.

JOHN FUCKING DEACON.

As if forty bloody years hadn't passed since we clapped eyes on him or heard his voice, John turns up on my doorstep and waltzes in (as well as he can with a walker, but you know how he used to strut). You'll be cruelly amused that looks as shite as we do, paunchy and wrinkled and not a hair on his head. He used to be so vain of his hair, but then didn't we all?

We sat outside by Freddie's statue, wrapped up in blankets like the two old coots we are, trying to recapture moments lost fifty, sixty years ago when Queen was starting out. When we became famous. When Rolling Stone called us the Sonic Volcano.

Sonic Volcano? How about Mostly-Deaf Anthill?

It wasn't all good-old-boy reminiscing. He told me, tears streaming down his face, that he still has nightmares about Freddie's death and that he never forgave himself for being such a wankstain (my term - he called himself a fucking useless coward). He shut himself up in that poky little house for nearly half a century because he couldn't face himself, much less the world. Never touched his bass again. Remember how he used to make that thing scream one minute and weep the next? Christ, he was good, he was fantastic. But he said that without Freddie, he just didn't have the heart for it anymore and sent the poor Fender off to the Queen warehouse.

One thing we have in common, John and I, is that music disappeared from our lives before we were ready. We talked a lot about that today. John said that he'd wanted to contact me when the news got out that I had to retire but that he was afraid I'd punch him in the face.

"So you waited until I was too sick to lash out?" I asked him.

But of course, that wasn't the reason. He can't ever make up for abandoning Freddie, certainly not by being at my deathbed, but I appreciate his candour and, believe it or not, his company. I even started calling him "Deacy" again. He's coming with me to your do tomorrow, by the way, hope you won't mind.

See, John and I KNOW each other, even after all these wasted years have gone by. And we have things in common: losing Freddie, losing our beloved music.

Losing you.

Of course they're burying you on your birthday, just to make the pain twice as unbearable year after year. At Highgate West no less, so that I'll have to fucking PAY to come and yell at you.

I know, it could be worse—they could've shot you into space to be with your cherished interplanetary dust, or they could've hidden you away like Mary did with poor Fred. At least I have a physical place to visit. Jews leave stones on graves as a marker that someone visited; I'll leave sixpences.

So.

Of course I'm sad, you tosser, but I'm also grateful. That we met via the bulletin board, that you made me an equal partner in Smile, that you stuck with me through thick and thin and Freddie's death and all the years we played together afterward, that you still valued me when I couldn't play anymore. I'm also grateful that I got to say a proper goodbye last week, that we had the chance to remind ourselves that we'll always be brothers.

Fuck this, I'm getting too sentimental.

At any rate, Rufus is going to drive Deacy and me to the "family" visitation early tomorrow. (He about shat himself when I casually mentioned that John Deacon will be joining us in the car.) John has a few things he wants to whisper to you in private.

Me? I'll just put this letter in your hand to take with you on your journey, and I'm signing it, just as I promised:

Love,
Roger