H.G
London, England.
3rd, June.

I have been back in London a grand total of three times since I left for New York six years ago. Once was because I missed my mother... somewhat. The second was because my brother George asked me to be a godfather to his child, and the third was to introduce my parents to, Angela.

As I watched my father march up and down his office as if he were in the Queen's guard, it became abundantly clear why I didn't come home that much.

"I can't believe these are the sort of people you are associating yourself with Hayes."

Open on his desk, was the article regarding Freddie and I in the Daily Telegraph. I was furious at his exaggerations, but I held my tongue. He did not even ring to ask if I was alright, or to ask what really happened. It seemed he just read a few tabloids and wanted to cash in on the story. Make himself look like a concerned father.

"Go easy on him Al," my mother tutted softly. She had attached herself to me the second I walked through the daunting black doors of the St. Albans mansion.

"This is me going easy on him Judith!" My father growled. He then continued wearing a path in the carpet of his study.

"Hayes hasn't been home in a two years," my treasure of a mother sighed, "Let's not spend his visit arguing."

"For us to argue, I would have to speak too." I murmured causing my father's chilling gaze to land on me.

"Judith, be a dear and make us a pot of tea." He said tightly.

"Please." I added.

"Yes." From the look on my father's face, it was clear that if I was a few years younger I would have gotten a right good clip around the ear. "Please."

My mother proceeded to squeeze me into another hug, shoot my father a warning glare, and then slip out of the room. I tried to give off the vibe that I was a grown man, not to be trifled with. I casually leant against the ornate marble mantelpiece. My elbow missed the mark and I knocked a silver candlestick over, I fumbled to catch it yet it still hit the ground.

"Hayes, sit down."

"I will," I declared as I sunk down into the burgundy leather seat across from my father, "But only because I was going to sit anyway."

My father's icy blue eyes flicked to the candlestick still in my hands. I smiled sheepishly and placed it on the table. "It was the journalist, in the study, with a candlestick."

"What?" He asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You know, Cluedo?"

"Are you an idiot?"

"I mean," I blinked, "I don't think so."

"I meant it in a medical sense, it would explain so much."

"I don't think you can use that term anymore-"

"I'll use whatever bloody term I want."

I looked up from my intertwined hands, and found that I was now nose to nose with a taxidermy fox. "No- no please don't start."

"You never went fox hunting with me as a boy, that's when I knew there was something off."

"Oliver shot and killed this fox on his first try, he was ten." My father said proudly, stroking the lifeless fox that my eldest brother took down. I itched to wash my hands at the sight.

"George," my father gestured to the the large antlers that had been mounted on the crimson red wall behind him, "Shot one of the last red deer in Ireland at fifteen, you know before those bloody conservation laws."

Ah yes, I am a failure as a person because I didn't murder an animal at a young age, how foolish of me.

"I let you go into journalism," he stood up, laced his hands behind his back, and marched, "Because I thought you would report on real issues. I thought you may report on politics, the news! Even sport would have been bloody better than what you're doing now."

"Is sport a real issue?" I found myself asking.

"More real than music." He rumbled, "I never should have let you go to New York. I hear stories you know."

"Stories from New York?"

"Hayes, has a man ever propositioned you?"

I wish I had a drink so that I could do a spit take, instead I had to settle for choking on my tongue. "W-what?"

"Oh good, you haven't been." My father settled back into his chair, "I was worried it would happen. You know my friend Terrance?"

I nodded slowly, forgetting every word in my vocabulary. Growing up in England, being 'propositioned' by a man, well it's not exactly a very widely discussed topic. Especially not in my household. I was about to make a comment about his favourite sport being rugby and that essentially was nothing but a game where men in shorts tackled one another, but I refrained.

"He was in New York last year, he saw two men," his voice dropped, "holding hands."

"And," I leant in, matching his hushed tone, "Is he okay?"

The painfully obvious sarcasm flew over my father's head, "Yes, thankfully." He nodded seriously, "I just don't think New York is a good environment for you, there's rumours you know?"

"Rumours?"

"Everyone wonders why you don't just marry Angela."

"You said, and I quote 'if you marry that American tart, don't bother coming home'." That was four years ago, I hadn't been home in two.

My father waved his hands as if to say 'nonsense'! "Look, I didn't think a dancer was the most respectable job, but I have become much more open minded! She's a lovely girl."

Angela wore a skirt above the knee and a leather jacket to her first meeting with my parents. The fact she was a dancer, spoke her mind, and was an American seemed to be far too much for my father. My mother on the other hand, was the type to say 'if they make you happy, I'm happy'. No, I don't know how the hell they're still married.

"What's changed your mind?" I asked suspiciously. What are these rumours?

"I," he coughed awkwardly, "Now don't get upset, but you know how the people in my circles like to talk."

"Out with it."

"Well, they just find it strange how you and Angela aren't married yet. You certainly aren't getting any younger. And you ran off to New York, to write about... music."

Am I out of the loop as to why music is so wild? I then recalled the photo they used of Freddie in the Telegraph, wearing obscenely tight red shorts and had an "oh" moment. It was probably the musicians and not the music itself that concerned my father and the rest of the crypt keepers. Those shorts were even more scandalous in person, what does he have to possibly gain by wearing them? Sure they draw attention to certain areas but-

"You spent too much time with your mother, it made you somewhat soft."

I have never been bloody described as soft.

"Just when you put it all together, people are whispering that you may," he coughed awkwardly, "be playing for the other team."

"Is that really all it takes to be accused?"

"The photo with Freddie Mercury didn't help matters. Everyone knows what he is."

"For fuck sake," I murmured a rare curse, "That's ridiculous."

"I know it's stupid, but it's what people are saying." He scratched at his nearly trimmed snow while beard, "I have done my best to quash rumours, I'm sure it's just people being horrid."

I scratched at my eyebrow, "You want me to marry Angela, so your murder of crows won't gossip about me at high tea?"

"Hayes this isn't funny."

"It's hilarious!" I don't know why my voice grew shrill, "I didn't realise my life was being dissected by strangers!"

A little hypocritical coming from the journalist.

"You're too much sometimes," Dad continued to twist things, "Always have been, you never acted normal, not like your brothers. Your lifestyle for the past few years hasn't help you either! And you just act it."

"I just act it?"

"That's right."

"I act as though I'm attracted to men?"

"No, but you just don't act as though you are attracted to women." He seethed, "I know it's due to your coldness, but you need to realise how all your quirks add up."

A slight twist tugged at my chest but I refused to stew in any of the hurt my father's words may have caused.

"This is pure trollop!" I exclaimed, "You said this the last time I was home too, just because I'm not married, doesn't mean I never will. I just want to be sure."

"Look, it's suspicious! You have no reason not to be married, you have your mothers' looks and my charming wit. Angela has been your only serious relationship. It doesn't make sense why you aren't good with women!"

My father's wit? At that comment, the crackling fire looked rather inviting. Pits of hell- where Hot Space burned. I frowned upon realising my mind had wandered to a conversation with Freddie. I would love to see my father's reaction to meeting Freddie Mercury. Alastair Griffith would surely croak if he saw Freddie strutting about.

As my father continued to drone on about something being fundamentally wrong with me, the urge to really give him something to be pissed off about was overwhelming. I didn't care if they made me sound like a stroppy teenager.

"I have to go get settled in my room!" I declared and stood up from my chair, "I'm tired." Definitely a stroppy teenager.

Before my father could interject, I was speeding out of the room and nearly barrelled into my poor mother. I went to steady her but she quickly exclaimed, "no!"

I let my hands drop, and offered her a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry darling," she quickly sighed, "You just know how clumsy you are."

"Never noticed."

I nodded my head towards the maid who was a step behind my mother, holding a tray with a teapot and all the associated trimmings.

"I'm just going to take this up to my room if that's alright." I murmured, reaching for a mug.

A hand gently brushed down my arm, "Are you sure?"

"Mhm, I have a phone call to make." I pecked her cheek quickly, "You and I will chat very soon."

F.M
London, England.

"You're strangely quiet."

"I have my quiet moments, everyone does." I grumbled, pushing my aviators higher up my nose.

"Yes," Phoebe hummed, "But you're stewing."

"I don't stew."

"Of course not," Phoebe nodded and returned to driving.

The truth? I was in fact letting myself fall into lapses of contemplation as of late. Yes, bloody stewing. Where did this un-Mercury-like habit stem from?

That fucking moustache.

A strip of hair across my top lip has caused more controversy than what's seen on the surface. The superficial reaction, was fine, it could be handled. People didn't like it. I looked different. It didn't fit with their image of me and all that. Who fucking cares?

However, paired with the shorter hair, and my new wardrobe, it seemed as though I was keeping with the fashion trends of a demographic of people that were held in no high regard. Apparently many people took my moustache, as an admission of being gay. We did lose quite a lot of fans... and we continue to lose them. Bringing my new look to the stage outraged people. People hated my 'new' identity and wanted me to erase it. I didn't fully understand it, I was just being me, I always had been.

The boys may joke and tease, but it is clear they blame my image for the current drop in our fanbase. They most certainly view me as the cause of our lack of popularity in the States too. Just last year, John and Brian informed Rolling Stone that they hated my image, hated how I presented myself in the eyes of the public.

A fight with the boys this morning after we travelled back from our Edinburgh gig, had me storming off the train and vowing never to play in America again once this tour was done.

I was the scapegoat for Queen's tainted image, and they were quite content to shift the blame on to me. You have to understand that what I say in interviews, and what they publish, is often misconstrued or taken out of context. I learnt that pretty quick in the 70s, it's why I may appear more wide-eyed and hopeful about the interviewing process. However, it became clear that I gave them fresh cream and they published sour milk.

Reporters go in with an opinion of me already, of course their articles are going to be flawed with bias, but everyone eats it up as if it's fact. Oh I know I'm not angel, I hate interviews, they're tedious and I'm asking the same questions all the time, but I'm truly not this high strung diva from the moment I sit down. Critics don't matter once you've gained success, then the fans do the work. Usually I never even read the reviews if critics, but I was itching for something to be angry about as the band blamed the failure of an album on me.

My misplaced anger spread to Hayes Griffith, and all I fucking did, was taint my image once again. Everyone was furious at me, which was the only reason I agreed to do some damage control in the form of an apology to Hayes. Luckily, it seemed as though he was open to it. I genuinely did feel a little guilty for taking out my own personal hell on him.

You think you'll be okay with being branded this and that by strangers, and that you'll ignore it when outrageous stories are published. It's naive thinking. I used to bloody tear my hair out in the beginning, wondering how on earth the media could get away with publishing genuine lies. I no longer had sleepless nights over it or anything, I didn't take myself as seriously, but I suppose the review from Hayes had sent me over an edge I had been trying to shave off for a while now.

"Do you know what I can't stop thinking about?" Phoebe's voice broke me from my spiral.

Is he reading my mind now?

I retrieved a pack of cigarettes from my vinyl jacket, "No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"The music critic."

My fingers stilled their movements, "What about him?"

"Well, I just think it's funny how you went from fawning over him, to pushing him through a table."

"Yes, well, he opened his mouth and ruined it all." I grumbled.

"He has nice lips so I don't see how that's possible."

"My god!" I exclaimed in disgust, "Keep it in your knickers!" Yes I'll apologise to the man, but there's no need to put him on a pedestal.

In any case, Hayes doesn't have nice lips? What a strange observation to make. If Phoebe wanted to comment on Hayes' appearance, he could have said something about his ridiculous cheekbones or those devastating eyes or-

"I'm not the one obsessed with him." Phoebe laughed, "You do realise that every morning since meeting him, he's the first thing you bring up."

"Maybe I have nightmares about him." I declared defensively, "Have you ever thought about that? Have you!?"

What was that?

"What is this attitude?" Phoebe squinted at me from the rear view mirror, "Is this what happens when you're attracted to someone who rejects you?"

"Rejected!?" I snapped, "I was not rejected. I sent him a drink before I knew who he was. If I had known it was him, that drink never would have been sent!"

"Sure."

"Yes, sure!" I puffed on a cigarette, "Reporters are little shits, I wouldn't sully myself with one."

"Sully," Phoebe repeated, "Do you hear yourself?"

"You do realise I pay your wages, it isn't wise to speak to me like this."

Of course Phoebe called my bluff, "Yeah, anyway, if you want my advice-"

"I don't-"

"I think your apology to Hayes should be genuine, a proper clean slate. Don't you realise how good it would be to have a journalist on side?"

"David Wigg is in love with me," I waved my hand and ashes crumbled on to my white jeans, "So I do have a journalist on side."

"A journalist for the Rolling Stone would be great considering how popular it is in America."

I merely rolled my eyes like a petulant child. "You sound like Howard."

"If Howard Bloom could make Billy Joel more media friendly, I think his advice is wise."

"I'm going to take his advice! I'm meeting Hayes aren't I?" I tried not to snap, "Now, let's talk about something more exciting! Like how Garden Lodge is coming along? I bought this beautiful little antique piece..."

After getting myself excited about my new mansion, it was almost disappointing to return to my flat in Kensington. I racked through my internal list of contacts, wondering who I could call upon for a night to forget all my shit luck as of late. I was ready to put the mess in my rear view and focus on tomorrow. Get back to my fuck today, live for tomorrow attitude.

Tiffany slunk over, the long-haired blue point, looked judgemental as usual. "You don't know how easy you have it darling."

No, she doesn't have an Adonis music critique that is insistent on killing my already piss poor image.

The phone blared beside me, which caused the skittish feline beside me to leap off the couch and barrel into Tom who had just made into appearance. A hissing match commenced just as I plucked up the phone.

"Will you two knock it off?" I grumbled before realising the line was engaged.

"Are you and the boys play fighting?"

I dropped the phone on my lap before quickly scrambling to pick it back up again, "Hayes?"

"Mhm yes, but before we do our usual song and dance, it's 9pm." Hayes declared, "I am not well rested, and I will try to go to sleep after this call."

"9pm?" I echoed, "But it's 9 here."

"Yes, that is the current time in London?"

I straightened, "You're in London?"

"God I hope so," he hummed, "I took something before the flight and I was pretty much drugged for the entire journey."

I was surprised at the small laugh that escaped me, "I see, and where are you staying in London?"

"I'm outside London," he explained, "Staying with my parents." A deep sigh crackled through the line. "Which reminds me, the reason I phoned, ah, it was to make sure you knew I had nothing to do with the article in the Telegraph."

"You have nothing to do with the article where your father valiantly defended your innocence?"

"Yes, it sounds absurd." He murmured, "But I assure you, I didn't even talk to my father. He saw a chance to look like Mother Superior and took it. It takes two to tango, I'm not placing the full blame on you. And it wasn't a bloody attack, I think it's ridiculous they are advertising it as such."

I will admit I was shocked, "Was that an apology?"

"Don't make a thing of it, or else I'll take it all back and swear that this conversation never happened."

Is this conversation really happening?

"Okay," I ventured suspiciously, waiting for for the bite, "I think we can both agree neither of us were blameless."

"You're more to blame than me."

Oh for fuck sake.

"I knew this was too good to be true-" I began but the sound of a rumbling rich laugh cut me off.

"I'm joking Freddie! Relax." Hayes chuckled, "Do you know what the plan is for our little stunt photo?"

"We just have to meet in a public place, the paparazzi are being tipped off, they'll snap our picture and that's it."

"Right, we should probably be seen to go in somewhere together too, so it doesn't look too staged."

He really must be feeling drugged you at the moment, "As in get a drink or something?" Did I sound calm, I hope I sound calm. Why would I have any reason to be nervous? Do I sound nervous?

"I'll slip out the back." He said dismissively, "Don't worry, we don't actually have to spend time together. I'll see you again for Milton Keynes anyway."

"I'll lay out the red carpet for you dear." I commented dryly.

"I expect nothing less," Hayes chirped haughtily.

"Tomorrow then?" I blurted, "Will we meet tomorrow?" There was a long pause and I found myself nervously scraping at the edge of a cushion, waiting for a reply.

A sigh of relief escaped me once his silken voice met my ear once again, "Tomorrow sounds good. Phone me in the morning with an update."

"I will, goodnight."

"Night."