A/N:

Been a while since I updated here ahah, I hope you'll all enjoy! 💜 Strap yourselves in for Live Aid!

Garden Lodge, 1985

Jim Beach would forever rue the day he insisted on taking Hayes Griffith under his show-business managerial wing.

Like it or not, Hayes was in the entertainment industry thanks to his television show on the BBC, and needed all the management bells and whistles that come along with that. Hayes was already somewhat of a public figure thanks to his high-profile family, his controversial reviews, and famous connections, but in recent months he had established himself as a household name in the UK. Which meant the image he portrayed to the public needed to be somewhat carefully curated and controlled. Something Hayes fought against at every turn.

Why Jim made it his mission to take Hayes on, he would never know. Being responsible for Queen was one thing, but being responsible for both Hayes Griffith and Queen was bloody nightmare fuel.

However, it was Hayes and Freddie's... "friendship" that may send him to an early grave.

"Neither of you are listening to me!"

A tired Freddie was in the drawing room, splayed out on a chair so luxurious its frame appeared gilded. He wasn't listening to Jim's lecture, nor did he make much of an attempt to pretend that he was. If Freddie wasn't paying attention, Hayes who only glanced at Jim long enough to acknowledge his presence, certainly wasn't.

Jim quickly learned that his attention was impossible to keep a hold of if you weren't someone he was particularly interested in or comfortable with. Hayes' mind always appeared to be else where, but not in that typical dreamy, mindless sense. It seemed to Jim that Hayes was always in a defensive sort of state, and retreated into his mind to figure out all the potential offensives he may need to launch. 

Right now, Jim knew he appeared like the bloody enemy, barging in on the pair's surprisingly domestic morning, but someone needed to tell them to be more discreet.

"You two always badger me to help keep your names separate and out of the press, but you make it impossible!"

Hayes placed a cigarette between his lips and stood up to pluck the tabloid from Beach's loose grip. "Why are you needling out this photograph, it's a good one. Look how handsome Freddie looks."

Freddie chuckled whilst his gaze darted over a Japanese shopping catalogue. His spending was a subject that Jim had given up on long ago.

"My own wife doesn't look at me like that!" Beach tried to snatch the tabloid right back, "Photos of you two are fine, but you can't look like you... Hayes, you could stay somewhere else for a week or two."

"I dare say I could," Hayes murmured, "But I live here, so I won't."

"Watch the ashes, Hayes."

"I haven't lit it yet." Hayes hummed around the cigarette. He set about doing a spot of redecorating on the decorative grand piano where a sea of art and photos were displayed atop of.

"You live here, permanently?" Jim spluttered, completely caught of guard by the development. "How— since when was it this serious? You told me you were house hunting, Hayes, what happened?"

"It's quite difficult finding property in this economy." Hayes replied airily. That tone warned Jim to tread lightly.

He first found out about Hayes and Freddie's... entanglement, when Hayes had written a particularly scathing review of Queen's latest album for Rolling Stone. Only because he needed to be warned that Hayes had the potential to do more damage if he wanted to. Now, once again, Jim was behind on the state of Freddie and Hayes' relationship: he had no idea they were this serious. He had no idea they were silly enough to live together, in London of all places. It wasn't as if they could pretend Hayes was the bloody housekeeper, he was Hayes Griffith.

"Look," Jim sighed, "If you two are serious, that's fine—"

"Oh it's fine is it?" Hayes began cheerily, his venom growing more evident with each word. "I'm delighted it's fine—"

"Let him finish, Hayes." Freddie quickly interrupted before he could really get going.

Hayes backed off for the moment, and continued fussing over the small gilded frames around the mantle. Hayes always seemed like this solid, glacial figure to Jim, but sometimes he caught him leaking with honey or venom. What little honey he had only ever seem to extend to Freddie, of course.

"Back to this photograph." Jim tried for the umpteenth time to get Hayes and Freddie to see the reality of the press situation. "Lovely and all as it is, we just—"

Freddie's dark eyes were honed in on Hayes, "A little to the right, baby."

Hayes carefully shifted the tabloid ever so slightly to the right, as per Freddie's instructions. Even though Freddie had told Hayes to let Jim finish, they were still taking the piss. The tabloid page now appeared to be level with the ornate frame which Roger had gifted the pair as a housewarming present. The Sun front page with the headline, 'Drama Queen Can't Handle Criticism', was displayed inside— also courtesy of Roger.

Jim's gaze flicked between the old picture which documented the aftermath of a silly tiff between the pair, and the new picture taken outside of Le Caprice. It was mercifully a little blurry, but Hayes' lips were clearly at Freddie's shoulder although Jim supposed that one could make the argument Hayes was just resting his chin on Freddie's shoulder. That's more likely what it looked like to someone who didn't suspect them of being an item. Either way, it wasn't simply a "friendly" gesture, not unless it remained an isolated incident. Although Freddie did try his best to argue the friendship case for now.

"Oh I have had more damning pictures out there." Freddie waved a dismissive hand. "I'm... tactile."

"Yes, but Hayes... he's not exactly..."

"I'm not what? Friendly?" Hayes sighed as if pained, "That's rather hurtful, Jim."

"Oh you've wounded him now, he's quite sensitive, Miami."

Hayes kept the tabloid propped up with a porcelain cat, before he returned to sit at Freddie's side. "Yes, extremely wounded."

"Hayes' constant presence here can't be explained away easily. The press in England are shameful, and if there was even a hint of relationship between you two, they'd hound you relentlessly. They'd turn this into a prison rather than a home!"

That statement appeared to land with Freddie, who finally lifted his gaze to meet his manager's. In that moment Jim felt rotten. It wasn't fair that he had to scold Hayes and Freddie for simply being happy, and it was even more awful that he had to be the one to tell them to hide that happiness. But until management worked out a narrative, Hayes and Freddie could not seen to be living together; not in London that is.

Jim couldn't believe that Hayes and Freddie were actually listening to him now, so he cautiously kept going. "Tomorrow, there'll be cameras everywhere. Hayes, avoid Freddie as much as possible, don't make your... favouritism so obvious. Be seen chatting to everyone."

Hayes silently scratched at the stubble along his jaw.

"Can you at least stay somewhere else tonight? I don't want you to be seen here for the next few days. Nothing can threaten tomorrow."

"Not even if I sneak in the back door?" Hayes asked innocently.

"He already does that, Miami, don't worry." Freddie added, equally as innocent.

"I think that's the whole issue, darling." Hayes murmured.

Him and Freddie made eye contact, and proceeded to burst out laughing. They loudly whispered a few more innuendos, that really weren't all that funny, but made hilarious to the pair by the vein popping out along Jim's temple.

"He can stay at his brother's." Freddie finally conceded when Jim looked as though he couldn't take any more.

"I promise to be equally dreadful to everyone tomorrow and not play favourites." Hayes added.

"Well, I don't need you to be dreadful Hayes—"

"A gentleman doesn't go back on his word." Hayes haughtily lifted his chin. Freddie scoffed loudly before leaning over to whisper something directly in the critic's ear. Hayes laughed and his hand automatically dropped to Freddie's knee as if he couldn't possibly help but touch him.

They're going to be a disaster.

***

July 13th, 1985
Wembley Stadium, London

The atmosphere behind the scenes of Live Aid was charged with enough electricity to power the entirety of the United Kingdom.

There was a tangible buzz about the makeshift trailer park behind Wembley stadium, thanks to the anticipation and temporary unity of such a diverse range of musical talent. Legendary acts mingled with upcoming stars, creating a palpable sense of solidarity as they all gathered for a common cause; to raise funds for famine relief in Africa. The same scene would also be mirrored across the pond in the JFK Stadium, just a little later due to the 5 hour time difference between London and Philadelphia.

A scruffy green carpet had been rolled out where the musicians and their families were being kept backstage in order to mimic the aesthetic of grass beneath the dozens of trailers. Faux flowers and plastic plants were also scattered about in an attempt to make the artificial set more "natural". The air was steadily cloying with cigarette smoke, sweat, and hairspray, but the musicians failed to notice as they were too rapt up with themselves and each other.

Conversations were a fusion of artistic discussion and debate, amusing anecdotes relatable to those who lived the rockstar lifestyle, and ardent musings on the importance of this gig's cause. Live Aid's backstage truly was a musical melting pot of talent, hope, and creativity.

Hayes Griffith felt as though he had been dropped on foreign soil, behind enemy lines, and was now surrounded on all sides.

The critic couldn't help but look like a malefic wolf amongst lovely lambs as he strolled about taking it all in. Although Hayes appeared intimidating, and in search of some poor unsuspecting victim, the reality of the situation was that he really couldn't give enough of a toss about anyone here to do so.

Contrary to popular belief, Hayes certainly didn't spend his time agonising over what musician he was going to take down next. Behind a pen, or camera, yes, it was open season for Hayes, but in real life social scenarios such as these, he knew how to behave. For the most part. However, everyone still looked at him as if he may single them out and strike at any moment.

Everyone but Paul McCartney who spotted Hayes and immediately made a beeline for him.

Hayes was in a particularly hideous mood today, and was in no state to have the Beatle's supernova smile blaring right in his face. Hayes had stayed in his brother's last night, so that he wouldn't be caught leaving his own home this morning, and had been like a briar ever since. Every time he felt himself grow happier and more comfortable with his relationship with Freddie, someone was always there to order him to tone it down.

All Hayes wanted to do today was support Freddie, and he wasn't even allowed to do that much... at least not freely.

"Griff!" Paul threw an arm around Hayes' neck and tugged him in close, "Thought you'd be in America!"

Hayes' only reply was a small gruff sound in the back of his throat. If he was going to get so cheerily manhandled here in England, he may as well have attended the American show. He tried to fight off a shudder when he thought of Madonna's over-amorous hands.

Paul looked deceptively well put together in a grey suit, and Hayes was glad he had opted to wear his leather blazer or else they would have almost been matching. Paul would have definitely drawn attention to the fact.

Hayes had spent a considerable amount of time ironing his crisp white shirt, and pleated graphite trousers this morning whilst he chatted on the phone to Freddie. George and a few other ministers had been gifted a set of Motorola monstrosities, so that they could have a telephone on them at all times. Hayes kept expecting to be yanked back by a wire every time he set about pacing the room with the portable device at his ear. He figured matters of State were much less important than a potential rockstar meltdown— Annie agreed. Hayes had taken advantage of the portable telephone all morning and his brother had joked it was like having a teenager in the house.

"Where's 'Liss?" Hayes squinted, hoping that his cousin would be somewhere nearby.

"You know, you could just say 'hello Paul' for once?"

"Hello Paul," Hayes said dismissively, "Where's Alice?"

"Just us lads today," Paul replied with a grin.

Hayes gaze was glued to the white, flimsy-material, jumper which the Beatle wore beneath his suit jacket. It was like witnessing a car crash, he simply couldn't look away from the horror.

"You're thinking something insulting, aren't you?"

"No?" Hayes protested immediately, "I was thinking how brave it was for you to leave your hair au naturel today after your string of dyeing disasters."

"That's insulting."

"Hardly, I called you brave?"

Paul cut him a withering stare, before he clamped a hand on Hayes' shoulder and steered him towards a free circle of wooden seats.

The last time Hayes had seen Paul was a few months ago, and it hadn't exactly been his finest moment. Freddie and Hayes were just recently back together, but Queen were finishing off a world tour. So Freddie was away and Hayes was left alone in London. Tabloid photos of Freddie partying had provoked some sort of insecure regression in Hayes, as did a run in with his father. Hayes knew his regression was less to do with not trusting Freddie, and more to do with his own septic insecurities. He had sought out Alice, but found Paul instead. Even though Hayes oftentimes felt himself to be some sort of incomprehensible, dreadful anomaly at times, Paul was always surprisingly good at understanding him.

So it was Paul who helped him that night when he had worked himself up into quite the state... even when Hayes hadn't exactly been entirely truthful with him. He may have purposely omitted the fact that he and Freddie were actually back together. If Hayes had been more forthcoming with the truth, it was likely he would have gotten less sympathy from Paul, and more "you stupid twit".

Of course Paul and Hayes pretended that incident never happened now that it was in the past and involved... emotions. Now they simply sat together, musician-spotting. Paul relayed a few live gig anecdotes from his repertoire, and Hayes nodded every so often, pretending he hadn't heard each story a million times before. At this stage, Hayes could recite most of Paul's tales backwards and in Latin.

Mick Talbot and Paul Weller of The Style Council approached, whispering amongst themselves. Why Talbot didn't stick it with the vastly superior Dexys Midnight Runners, Hayes would never know. He felt the sudden need to shield my eyes from the glare of Weller's garish red shirt as the pair swept past. They did alright earlier, considering the band was still in their infancy.

"Inchoate."

Paul glanced at Hayes, but didn't fully acknowledge the muttered comment. Which meant Hayes was free to push his limits even further.

Live Aid's opener's, Status Quo emerged from a nearby trailer. Paul was definitely itching to say something about Francis Rossi's ponytail, but it would risk a comment from Hayes about his own hair again. The by-gone band laughed their way to a nearby table of refreshments. Hayes mused about how utterly predictable and cliche it was for them to open with 'Rocking All Over the World'.

"Decrepit."

"Hayes." Paul hushed him, reminding them both that his name had always been synonymous with 'shut up'. Hayes offered him an innocent lift of his brows but it never seemed to fool the Beatle who simply tried to hide his amusement.

"Hey Paul, good to see you!" Bryan Ferry had suddenly appeared to clap Paul on the shoulder. The crooner's smile dropped when his gaze snagged on the critic's. "Mr Griffith, hello."

"Peacocky warbler." Hayes whispered out of the corner of my mouth towards Paul who shot him a little warning glare. Before Bryan could even exclaim 'pardon', Hayes stood up and shook his hand, "Looking forward to the show later?"

More musicians milled about, flashing smiles at Paul before scurrying off at the sight of Hayes. It would probably offend anyone else, but Hayes didn't mind if his unintentional scowls meant less people would try to engage in small talk with him. The fact that Hayes had spotted Dominique earlier in a nearby trailer plot, and knew that he couldn't just freely walk up to the Queen camp wasn't doing his natural frown any favours either.

"There's your best mate Sting," Paul nudged Hayes.

"His work is why society needs critics." Hayes muttered, "Someone needs to protect people from such atrocities."

"You're such a ray of sunshine today, Griff. Thanks for keeping the rain away."

"They're not going to last— the Police. Sting thinks he's above Copeland and Summers. Silly tart." Hayes twisted at the ring around his pinky, "He sent me a letter after my review of his solo record last month."

Paul frowned, ready to help blackball the man if need be, "What did he say?"

"That everyone loved his music, so I was clearly just spewing hatred towards him for the sake of it. I gave him three stars, so I really don't see what his issue was."

Paul and Hayes glanced over at Sting, who was palling it up with Phil Collins. "I replied with a piece of Shakespearean advice."

"Thought you hated old Billy."

"William is the lesser of two evils." Hayes grinned, happy that his teenage schoolboy rants had stuck.

"I sometime hold my tongue: Because I would not dull you with my song." Hayes recited, "I told him that he could benefit from adopting such an attitude more often."

"For fuck sake." Paul laughed, "Steer clear of him today, alright?"

A comfortable silence stretched between them, but Hayes could sense Paul's concerned stare. Hayes was arguably more touchy than usual, but he had hoped that Paul would put it down to Hayes being in an environment where he was public enemy number one. Of course he would be a little more tightly wound than usual.

"You've been back in England a while now, Griff." Paul hedged the subject carefully, "You haven't told me where you've shacked up yet."

"Was I meant to?"

"Well Alice knows, doesn't she? I know she knows."

Hayes languidly shrugged a shoulder, "Perhaps, in time, she'll trust you enough to share such things."

"Y'know I get it," Paul sighed deeply, "The whole long distance thing. It can be fucking rough, can't it?"

Hayes narrowed his gaze and tossed it to the side, "What's that?"

Paul leant in a little closer and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "James."

Hayes' brow rapidly furrowed, "Who?"

"James." Paul's expression slowly became shadowed with deep sympathy, "He's still in New York isn't he?"

Hayes pinched the bridge of my nose, "Do you mean the film critic?"

"Alright then, yeah." Paul rolled his eyes impatiently, The film critic. There's no need to be ashamed man, we can say his name." He ended that motivational
speech with an awkward pat to Hayes' shoulder, because they were both still English at the back of it all.

"We can say his name." Hayes agreed, "But as I told you before, we were never an item."

Hayes had been meaning to tell Paul that he and Freddie had gotten back together, but he knew that Paul would think him stupid for going back to him. As much as Hayes purposely provoked Paul's ire, he knew at the back of it all, he was still dreadfully protective over him.

Paul arched a highly expressive brow, "Thought you were killing yourself wondering what he was up to in New York when you were here in England?"

"No I was— I am— single." Hayes coughed lowly, hoping to clear the lie from his throat. May as well get used to saying it, he thought bitterly to himself.

"James seemed nice, a lovely northern lad, what more could you want?"

Hayes saw an opportunity and couldn't help himself. Surely there must be a limit to the Beatle's "enlightened" outlook.

"An extra inch or two actually." He replied dryly, hoping it would put an end to Paul's current line of questioning.

A pause.

"I thought he was tall enough."

Paul proceeded to frown as if trying to picture James, the Rolling Stone film critic who Hayes took great care to avoid whenever he was back in New York. The joke had clearly completely flown over Paul's head, likely because he wouldn't or couldn't suspect Hayes of ever making such a quip.

"Is that your type then... tall? I saw that minister you pulled— Alice pointed him out on the telly— he's tall. He's also married though, so that probably shouldn't be your type—"

"—oh good god." Hayes groaned and scrubbed a heavy hand over his face. "Clearly Alice can't be trusted with anything! We aren't talking about this— and can please lower your voice?"

"What?" Paul protested, "You're the one making a big deal out of this, we're just two lads chatting. Relax."

Hayes could not "relax" and being told to do so only made him more tense.

Before Paul could put himself forward as some sort of wingman, or before he could tell Hayes about all the gay men he knew, who obviously couldn't help but fancy him, Hayes stood up abruptly.

"I think I see a friend."

Hayes squinted, hoping to find Queen where he had spotted Dominique earlier. She was gone, but Hayes could just about make out Brian May's unmissable mass of curls.

"A friend?"

"Mhm," Hayes nodded, his poor vision landed on Roger's blonde head. "Roger Taylor— Queen's drummer."

Paul who had been gratingly upbeat until now let his brow pull into a frown, "Mercury's not there, is he?"

"No." Hayes forced a chuckle, "Don't worry." He briefly patted Paul on the shoulder, "I'm sure I'll catch up with you later."

With that, Hayes quickly made his way towards who he hoped was Roger. The drummer was dressed casually in white jeans, a blue plaid shirt, and of course a pair of sunglasses. Roger was rolling up his sleeves when Hayes approached, and he found himself more than a little disappointed that Freddie had not shown up yet.

The two equally poor-sighted men finally caught each other's gaze. "Hayes! Good to see you, mate."

"Hello, Roger." He smiled, "How are you?"

"Brilliant," Roger forced Hayes to take a seat within the Queen family circle. Brian offered him a brief wave and small smile, whilst Dominique practically bounded over to brush a kiss on either side of his cheek.

"Thought you would have found us a little earlier." Roger adjusted his sunglasses.

"I would have." Hayes scanned his poor gaze amongst the throngs of people, hoping Freddie would be somewhere nearby, "But Beach told me I couldn't play favourites today."

Dominique's dark eyes filled with sympathy, and Hayes took great care not to acknowledge the pity thrown his way. "Sorry."

Hayes shrugged.

"I think Miami had a heart attack when he realised you wrote that review because of what Freddie did. He was surprised." Roger explained, lowering his voice, "Think he's just worried Fred'll do something again, and you'll... lash out again."

Hayes scoffed, but held his tongue. Even if Freddie hadn't cheated at the time, the Works wasn't something Hayes was ever going to hail as the album of the decade. Usually he would have argued just that, but he didn't feel like being a twat to one of the people who was always made the effort to be friendly towards him. Even if Hayes suspected Roger was only so nice because he was a little scared of him. He felt a small twinge of guilt for being so short with Paul earlier, but assumed by now it didn't phase the Beatle.

"Mhm, perhaps I'll lash out and tell everyone on live television about his penchant for being so selfish with the duvet." Hayes said dryly.

Roger laughed as Dominique explained how deeply she could relate to such a struggle. Selfish rockstars and all that. John soon appeared with his wife Veronica, who had mercifully gotten Hayes a strong drink, and proceeded to joined in on the conversation. Depending on the topic of discussion, and the recipient of his words, Hayes could chatter on endlessly, but for now he only spoke when he needed to.

Hayes soon found himself distracted by the sway of a glossy black braid down the exposed back of the elegant beauty who was Sade Adu. The singer spotted Hayes and flashed him a pearly white smile from the lips she had painted red. Sade and her bassist Stuart Matthewman walked over and introduced themselves to the rest of Queen before she perched herself on the arm of Hayes' chair.

"Thank god," Hayes muttered, "Someone bearable."

Sade turned to glance down at him, her golden hoop earrings swaying with the moment. "Charming as ever Hayes." She flashed him another small smile which he returned before placing a quick kiss to her cheek.

Hayes had always been a fan of Sade's music, and had said as much when they met a year ago. He just thought she was just a class act, with a lovely voice. The pair instantly hit it off and became fast friends. Naturally, the media decided Hayes and Sade were lovers, so if that woman had a number one fan, it was probably Jim Beach. He heavily encouraged the friendship.

"You better hide," Roger leant over to whisper in Hayes' ear, "Sting is on his way over. He's been complaining about you all day."

Hayes ignored that and loosely wrapped his arm around Sade' waist to prevent her from falling off the arm of his chair. "You didn't sing my song. All the papers say I inspired you."

"You know I couldn't risk exposing us like that, love."

Hayes pouted, "Oh Helen—"

"Shut up." Sade playfully tapped Hayes' chest. They both laughed, but it was rather short lived because Sting had arrived and was now politely greeting the rest of the group.

"Hayes Griffith, how are you, man? Thought you'd be in America."

"Sting, hello." Hayes cooed, not bothering to meet the man's gaze. He was too irritated by the singer's ill-fitting, sad, varied shade of beige, outfit. If one wears a baggy shirt, they can't also wear baggy trousers— he may as well have wrapped himself in a rubbish bag.

"I've been wondering what you're doing here." Sting kept a tight-lipped smile smacked on his face, "Apart from bringing the energy down?"

"Oh come on," Roger scoffed, "Don't be so sore mate, take reviews on the chin like everyone else. None of it matters."

"Hayes isn't bringing the energy down." Sade protested and pinched at the critic's cheek. "He's my muse."

Sting sighed impatiently, irritated that he hadn't a more supportive audience when he took his great stand against Hayes Griffith.

"I just think my art—"

"You're getting awfully liberal with what constitutes art."

"What?"

"Nothing, continue." Hayes gestured to the chair in front of him, "Sit."

Paul's earlier advice to steer clear of Sting had clearly gone in one ear and out the other. Sting glanced suspiciously at the chair, but sat anyway. Roger wasn't a big Police fan, so he sent Hayes over a roll of the eyes in solidarity.

Sting wound himself up once again, and Hayes thought the man may have rehearsed whatever little speech he was about to present him with.  "Art is subjective—"

Hayes sighed. "Not that mouldy chestnut."

"Art. Is. Subjective." Sting tried again, "So what gives you the right to try and sway other people's opinion with your—"

"You know what, you're right." Hayes attempted to tame back his hair, but it was a lost cause at this point, "No need to say anything further, consider me stung."

"Oh you're such an arrogant little—"

"I'm agreeing with you?" Hayes adjusted his blazer, "Art is subjective, and I would rather not be subjected to yours."

It appeared to Hayes that Sting's hairline retreated even further back when he scowled. Roger and Stuart attempted to make their laughter, but failed

"Again, I feel like we're playing fast and loose with what is considered 'art', but you get the message..."
Hayes had to bite down on his lip not to keep himself from rehashing his thoughts on 'Message in a Bottle', or congratulating him on his earlier performance because it certainly had 'Driven (him) to Tears'.

"You're impossible to talk to." Sting shook his head, even though he had needlessly initiated this waste of Hayes' time. "This is pointless."

"Well you would think that, seeming as things aren't going your way." Hayes smile was sardonic, "But I dare say if you were triumphant with your goal —  to what, take me down a peg or two— I'm positive you would see things in a different light."

"Now." His gaze swept up to meet Geldof's who had approached the group before landing back on Sting's reddening face, "Free up that chair for my next opponent."

Geldof was laughing as he once again begged Hayes to introduce at least one act with a few such quips. He would have thought Geldof couldn't stand him, considering Hayes had made no effort to hide how utterly tone deaf he thought the lyrics to 'Do They Know It's Christmas?' were. However, everything appeared to be water off of a duck's back for Geldof, and Hayes found the Irishman much more likeable than he had previously perceived.

Hayes eventually excused himself, desperately needing a moment of solitude and a private cigarette.

He skirted around the back of a nearby trailer, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone as he took a few sharp drags of nicotine. Hayes eventually felt grounded enough again to cheat a small glance around him. The cigarette almost fell from Hayes' lips with the automatic smile that cracked across his face at the sight of Freddie.

Dressed simply in wrangler jeans and a plain white tank top, Freddie somehow never looked better. Well, Hayes supposed he was biased because he found himself thinking the exact same thing every time he went just a few minutes without seeing him. But even with Hayes' usually clouded judgement, there was something he found extra alluring about Freddie in his element. Which was something he was ready to go over and tell Freddie, but Tony Hadly of Spandau Ballet appeared at his side, as did a swarm of cameras.

Hayes stood entranced, captivated, fascinated, enthralled, etcetera, by Freddie's dark gaze and animated hands. He eventually noticed the chrome studded leather belt around Freddie's slim waist and the matching strap around his bicep. Of course Freddie couldn't go without some little flashy detail thrown in somewhere on his person for such a large audience. Hayes smile grew slightly even when he was trying to tame it.

He found myself ready to waltz on over there because it was only Tony Hadly, but the cameras made him a little nervous after Jim Beach's excessive warnings yesterday. In Hayes' brief window of hesitation, he attracted the attention of peppy 1 and peppy 2, otherwise known as 'Wham'. Peppy 2 bounded over towards the critic with a affable grin stretched across his face.

Hayes rapidly attempted to turn away, but Andrew Ridgeley was already there.

"Hayes Griffith!"

"Hullo."

"Thought you'd be in America!"

"No," Hayes smiled blandly, "I work better on home soil."

Andrew's impossibly cheery expression dropped for a moment, "You're not working are you?" He reached out to playfully shake Hayes' arm, "Relax, enjoy yourself! It's a great day."

Hayes' gaze dropped to the hand that was on his arm. "Mhm, I'll try my best." He pulled himself away from the musician, "Good luck out there."

Hayes thought that would be that. He didn't expect Andrew to trail at his heels like a puppy dog, still yipping and yapping away in the hopes some scraps of conversation would be tossed his way. This new wave of pop musicians are relentlessly spirited... Hayes paused and managed to bite down on the sigh that desperately needed to escape him. Andrew's babbling most likely stemmed from nerves, and Hayes supposed he could be a little sympathetic.

"When are you on?" Hayes asked politely.

"After Elton John." Andrew replied immediately, "No pressure, right?"

"Oh good, someone like you will be desperately needed to dust the cobwebs off after his performance."

Andrew laughed but quickly attempted to smother it, "Don't let Elton hear that."

"Don't let the big names intimidate you." Hayes murmured, "You're shiny and new, half of the acts out there are just being dusted off after being stuffed in the back shelf for years. The audience will be glad to have a fresh influx of energy with you two."

Andrew beamed at that, and Hayes felt himself stiffen. Oh no, I've encouraged him, he agonised.

"I knew you weren't as bad as people said you were! I told George it was just a character for the telly."

Hayes shook his head, "No, I'm rather beastly, off screen and off page." He joked.

From the corner of Hayes' wandering eye, he caught sight of Freddie retreating from his conversation with Hadly. They were both smiling, and Hayes was relieved to see that Freddie appeared much more at ease than he could have expected in such a setting.

As if sensing his presence, Freddie turned in Hayes' direction. A tangible energy always seemed to charge between them whenever their gazes connected and Hayes found himself wondering if they really were too obvious or if Beach was just being paranoid. Freddie's lips may have remained somewhat flat, but his eyes crinkled betraying the smile he was trying to fight. He nodded his head towards his trailer. Hayes caught on to the extremely obvious instruction directed his way, and slightly inclined his head.

Hayes was halfway to Freddie's trailer, when Paul popped up out of nowhere.

The former Beatle had discarded his previous "suit", only to replace it with an ill-fitting and scruffy ensemble. Hayes couldn't understand how a man could go without a tailor, and Paul's baggy trousers should be an example to everyone that the trade should never be allowed to die out. Hayes' gaze briefly flicked over Paul's dark, lint-speckled, jumper, and he wondered how Alice had allowed him to pick his own outfit. It was Live Aid, for fuck sake.

"Hullo again, Griff." Paul said, leaning against a nearby trailer. Yes, Paul may have had a pleasant smile on his face, but Hayes had learned a long time ago never to trust a Beatle smile. Those lot could turn those smiles off and on at will.

Hayes merely grunted and made an attempt to move past him, but Paul shifted his stance to effectively block the critic off.

"Where you headed?" Paul asked, that people-pleasing grin still plastered across his face.

Hayes narrowed his eyes, and straightened up defensively. "I'm going..." He paused, "to see a friend."

Paul's smile slipped every so slightly as further suspicion crept in, "A friend... or a friend— friend."

Hayes absolutely detested the word to describe Freddie, and loathed it even more each time he had to use it.  "What's that supposed to mean? I'm just saying a quick hello to on old friend. I wasn't aware I needed your permission to do so."

Paul's arms crossed against his chest and he shifted weight from one foot to another. Hayes felt himself tense even further, he was rather familiar with that particular stance. He'd seen it in action countless times when Paul went into protective father mode with his own children. Hayes had also seen it in its developing stages when he was younger but now it seems he had perfected it.

"Griff..." Paul's voice was laced with disappointment. Hayes was furious that such a tone could still make him feel like shit whenever directed at him

Hayes immediately averted his gaze, finding himself unable to keep eye contact with Paul once his expression began to display a shred of very obvious concern. He felt himself grow irritated with the unruly curls that kept slipping free of his neat hold, and ran a heavy hand through his hair. Since Paul had reduced Hayes to a teenager with his tone, Hayes would act like one. He spotted a stray pebble on the faux grass, and gave it a little kick with the toe of his expensive French shoe. The pebble narrowly missed John Illsley's foot, but Hayes figured that it would only help add a little more pep to the bassist's step.

"We're back together." Hayes muttered, and fought off the urge to anxiously look around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear.

Even without looking at him, Hayes could sense that Paul's body had sagged, "Griff..."

"Don't start."

"He cheated on you!" Paul mercifully lowered his voice, "You were in such a bad way after it. Do you remember the night when—"

Hayes held out a hand to rapidly cut him off, "Yes, yes, I remember. There's no need to drag up the distant past."

He could bloody hear the smirk that cracked across Paul's face, "So we're calling two months ago the distant past?"

"It was three months ago," Hayes corrected him, as if that helped matters. "I'm fine now."

There was a long silence, where the chatter of all the other musicians and their families seemed to grow louder. In the backdrop, Elton John was in deep conversation with Kiki Dee, no doubt hashing out some details for their later duet. Geldof and Bono were attempting to out mother-Theresa one another with a passionate debate, involving plenty of waving hands from the Irish men. The tense air between Hayes and Paul had clearly failed to spread to the colourful characters around them.

"He cheated on you, mate." Paul repeated, this time he had lowered his voice, and appeared more genuine than before. "You practically walked in—"

Hayes was irritated by Paul's hypocrisy, "Like you cheated on Alice? For god's sake Paul, like you didn't hurt —"

Paul quickly held his hands up, "Alright. Alright. Look, we just want you to be happy."

"Freddie makes me happy. He does. He..." Hayes voice was barely a whisper, and he found himself unable to succinctly describe exactly how Freddie made him feel. Nor did he think he should have to. At least not to anyone but Freddie himself.

Hayes raised his voice once again, "Is that really what you're wearing on stage, or is that..." he disapprovingly wagged his finger up and down, "your travel outfit?"

Hayes knew parachute pants were seemingly all the rage nowadays but this was ridiculous.

Paul was quite used to Hayes' insulting diversions, so he wasn't all that caught off guard at the change in subject. He glanced down at his all-black get-up. "What's a travel outfit?"

Hayes set about securing his glasses onto his nose, "I dare say it does what it says on the tin, Paul. It's an outfit you wear to travel in; something leisurely, something you wouldn't want to be caught dead in, something you definitely would change out of before you perform in front of millions of people. So where's your real outfit?"

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Hayes remained silent, but offered him a passing glance over the rim of his glasses, which appeared to annoy Paul.

"At least I didn't take back a cheating, preening, son-of-a—"

"Fuck off, Paul!" Hayes snapped, before he took great care to veer around the Beatle in order to continue on his way towards Freddie's trailer.

"He's no good for you, Griff!" Paul called after him, at an embarrassingly loud volume. Which he had probably done on purpose, that absolute fucker.

Hayes whirled around, he would rather die than go without having the last word.

"If you're going to throw such a massive stop over only being given one song, Paul McCartney, I suggest you take it up with Mr Geldof. My god, it's a charity event, show some decorum."

There was a momentary lull in the excitable chatter surrounding Paul and Hayes. Geldof and Bono ceased their animated conversation, and just like everyone else, they chanced a glance at the Beatle. Paul took a brief second to send an absolutely livid glare Hayes' way before he quickly slapped on an overly cheery grin.

"Good one, Griff! Always so cheeky!" Paul laughed loudly, in an attempt to do some damage control. His gaze darted about to gauge people's reactions, "Oh you keep me young, man. See you after the show."

Paul caught a hold of Alison Moyet in passing, crowed a few words and set her off giggling. He wouldn't usually give up so easily, but right now, Paul needed to save face in front of his fellow musicians, and more importantly the cameras. Of course it worked, because who could accuse the "cute" Beatle of being anything but bloody pleasant?

Before Hayes could allow the urge to tear his hair out to completely take over, he quickly whirled back in the direction of Freddie's trailer.

___

A/N

Hope you all enjoyed part 1! 💜

Also a massive thank you to hadorii who practically co-wrote this chapter and the next part with me. As usual can't recommend her stories enough.

Part 2 is essentially written already, so I should have it up very soon. Stay tuned!