A/N -
This is going to be a trek to read, I apologise ahhah. Enjoy!!

Phoebe
Munich, Germany
1984, April 12th

Oh come on... what do you all want from me now?

More updates? Stories? Can't you see all that I've been through already? Well once upon a fucking time Queen of the Night (Freddie Mercury) decided to fuck things up with Lord of All Darkness (Hayes Griffith) and make it everyone else's bloody problem! And they all lived to torture poor Peter Freestone for ever after. The bloody End!

...Right. I apologise. My boyfriend's been listening to a lot of early Queen stuff  lately and Freddie's behaviour is bloody getting to me. Yes, that's right, boyfriend. You'd all know that information if I wasn't just some carrier pigeon for gossip about Freddie and you actually took an interest in my life for once.

Whatever, it's fine. I don't care. Don't try and act like you're all interested now. Let's just bloody get on with it.

"Things could be worse Freddie."

I wish I could travel back in time to when I uttered those words to Freddie the day after him and Hayes ended things. If I could, I would smother myself with a pillow before I ever got a chance to open my mouth. I must have jinxed everything that day. Everything.

Things got worse. Much worse.

For two months, Freddie was able to pretend that him and Hayes weren't finished. He didn't tell anyone any different either. He was in a deep state of denial that he took a sort of crazy comfort in. That all changed when Hayes wrote... the review.

Miami had sat all of Queen down one rainy day to discuss the promotional tour that would predate the actual world tour. Well, not exactly world. After the 'I Want to Break Free' video was released, the American backlash was awful enough for the Queen boys to boycott the country completely. Aside from that, they were playing everywhere, even Sun City (after they had been heavily warned against doing so).

Usually, Miami didn't get all of the Queen boys together in one room, but this time around he had managed to wrangle them into the one office. Roger and Freddie had squeezed into one seat, whilst Brian and John leant against the wall along with me. I was privy to many Queen meetings, and believe or not, most were very boring. That was until I spotted the brand spanking new edition of Rolling Stone sitting upon the coffee table where Roger had his feet propped up. Eddie Murphy was splashed across the front cover, and it didn't look like a potential bomb. A safe read.

With a yawn, I attempted to casually pluck up the magazine. The Works had not yet featured in Rolling Stone's pages, but that wasn't exactly uncommon. Unless you had Hayes reviewing your album, it was likely you would be waiting two months before you had any word. Hayes always thought it was ridiculous that his colleagues did this, and it made sure any publicity that the review could stir up for the musician was now lost. So when a review for the Works didn't show up in March, Freddie breathed a deep sigh of relief and dismissed the possibility of Hayes writing anything about Queen. Maybe he just blackballed them, which would be better than being shredded into.

Hayes was rather ethical, which Freddie described in various ways, about a million bloody times to me when he panicked as I flipped through March's issue of Rolling Stone. With very few exceptions, he didn't write reviews if he knew the artist on a personal level, and when he did he was able to separate the art from the artist. Freddie went on a dreamy rant about it. Those were very common now. Too common.

Everything and anything provoked a spew of positive Hayes sentiment from Freddie. It's driven me half cracked at this point. His lip bloody quivered the other day when he saw someone write with their left hand, he proceeded to make a speech to me about how difficult lefties had it. Then he got misty eyed as he recalled how ink always stained Hayes' hand because of it. Yes, he lost it, but this was only the minor league of how barmy could really get.

I flipped the current issue of Rolling Stone open as I returned to lean against the wall. I pretended to show some interest in an article titled "Reagan's Fixer: George Bush" before my eyes flicked to a feature about Windsurfing. I could feel Brian reading over my shoulder, but he stopped once I flicked to an article about the Go-Go's. I turned to the next page, and instinctively almost blurted what I saw aloud.

There it was, the Works review, and I wasn't expecting the two star rating it received. It wasn't exactly popular with the critics, but it at least received an average three stars and was commercially popular. Two stars seemed a little low... especially when Hot Space had scored one and three quarter stars. The Works was surely at least an entire star better than its predecessor.

The critic certainly didn't seem to think so.

______

The Fails!

Queen's compilation of self-plagiarised hits, all in one convenient location!

I am going to shock everyone, and start off this article by praising Queen for being such an inspiration to their young fan base. Ignore all that controversy surrounding their latest video and bear with me. Never have I seen a band so dedicated to the task of recycling. I applaud Queen and their conservation efforts.

Now that I have gotten that out of the way let's talk about Queen's latest album 'The Works'. I think that I shall kick things off with 'Play the Game'— pardon me, I meant 'Save Me' — no, no that isn't right either... Why can't I think of the highly innovative new tune from Queen's catalogue— oh! 'It's a Hard Life'! That's it! My god, I apologise for the confusion, I really do. I don't know how I muddled Queen's 16th take on Bohemian Rhapsody up with its 9th and 14th. How could I make such an error? Why, those songs are no more alike than Crazy Little Thing Called Love and Man on the Prowl. Nor are they anymore similar to Tear It Up and... quite literally any other Brian May composition that followed We Will Rock You.

Do I need to keep going or do you get the picture?

I could write a rhapsody on how Queen rehash the same formula for each album and have put self-plagiarism on the map, but I'll leave that to Mercury. He has clearly been flogging the same dead horse since A Night at the Opera and I wouldn't want to spoil any of his potential ideas for the next album, or the one after that... or the one after that.

Not only did Mercury's latest glam-rock, power ballad rip off Queen's own catalogue, but he also decided to steal some ideas from 'Vesti la Guibba' (an aria which appears in Ruggero Leoncavolla's opera: 'Pagliacci'). If the opening melody and lyrics of 'It's A Hard Life' sound familiar to any of you fine, cultured, people, that's most likely because Mercury completely ripped it  off— sorry— he was inspired by the aria's opening: "Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto!" For those of you who don't speak Italian, "Pagliaccio" means clown... make of it what you will when you see the word in conjunction with Mercury's compositions.

_____

"Oh fuck." I made the mistake of  muttering aloud.

"What's that?" John glanced over my shoulder, "Are you alright?"

"Hm? What? Yes!?" I rolled the magazine up and hid it behind my back. "Nothing."

Freddie narrowed his dark eyes immediately, "What do you have?"

"Spoilers for the soaps." I replied immediately, "Frank Harvey bloody took over the Rovers in Corrie, ridiculous."

"He's only the relief manager, don't worry." Miami piped up.

"Oh," I blinked and tried to back out of the room, "What a relief," I chuckled which caused Roger to wince at the awful joke.

Suddenly the magazine was yanked from my hands by none other than Brian May. "What's so bad about Rolling Stone that you're hiding it?"

Freddie stiffened as I made a feeble attempt to snatch the magazine back. Brian flicked through a few pages before he found the review for Queen's latest album. An album they were all rather happy with. Until now that is.

Brian's voice immediately wavered with the effort of keeping his supposedly placid demeanour plastered on, ""I'm Just Waiting For the Hammer to Fall... and smash through my poor record player.  The dolorous device deserves to be put out of its misery after being forced to play Queen's latest attempt at social commentary.""

"Oh fuck." Freddie echoed my earlier reaction. He knew Hayes' mark straight away, they all did. He placed his face in his hands, "Fucking tits."

"'You don't waste no time at all', yes, I may not, but you do Mr May: 4 minutes and 25 seconds to be exact."" Brian read aloud, his fingers trembled with restraint on the glossy pages.

Roger was up at this point as he yanked the magazine away from the guitarist, ""I did appreciate how Roger Taylor gave us an example of the exact kind of drivel that we may find on the radio nowadays with his other contribution to the album Machines (Or 'Back to Humans). Now that was clever how he linked it to the narrative expressed in Radio Gaga.""

Freddie was still cursing into his hands. Miami had decided to light himself a cigarette and was puffing on it furiously. The magazine was in fact a bomb that Hayes had dropped, and I was a bloody accomplice to its detonation.

"Oh he noticed that?" Roger chuckled, bullshitting on the spot to save face, "Many didn't, it was on purpose that I—"

"No it fucking wasn't you twit!" Brian shut him down immediately.

"You don't know my fucking process!"

"'Man on the Prowl' is a clear filler track which Mercury didn't even attempt to distinguish from his past rockabilly track 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love'. I suppose that anyone would get lax when they've already hit their peak six years ago. Not to worry mate, nobody expects anything better of you now."

Freddie dramatically lay his head back on the couch and released a pained groan. John silently grabbed the magazine as Brian and Roger decided to really get into it. With a few paragraphs Hayes had turned all of Queen on one another.

"'I Want to Break Free' is the syrupy contribution to the album that you would expect from Deacon... that's about all I have to say about it. Good Lord, even writing that much on the track drained me. This must be the come down after Deacon's usual cloying melodies.""

Freddie accidentally snorted a laugh, but quickly covered his mouth and nose. Everyone proceeded to whirl on him in an instant. I thought the Queen boys may tear Freddie apart, but he didn't seem too concerned. He simply sunk further into his seat, and carefully turned his cheek the other way.

"You're the reason Hayes Griffith is more awful than ever." Brian sighed deeply. "Aren't you?"

"What did you do Fred?" Roger dragged his hands through his hair.

John frowned, "I thought our music was off limits to him now."

"What's this?" Poor Miami's eyes practically bugged out of his head.

Freddie scratched at the corner of his eye, "I don't control what the man writes, do I?" He asked casually. "My god I don't have him on a leash."

"Oh for fuck sake," Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, "Have you two split up!?"

"Split up!?" Miami stammered, "What? Who?"

Freddie flinched at the words. It seemed as though he couldn't confirm it aloud because that would force him to deal with the reality of the break up. Two months and Freddie hasn't accepted that Hayes and him are finished, he wasn't about to start now. His fingers fussed with a stray thread in the couch and he inclined his head slightly as it was the closest he could come to a nod.

As Miami had a heart attack with all the new information, and the Queen lads tore into Freddie, the frontman managed to block it all out. Freddie plucked up the magazine which John had tossed his way, and flicked through it. His eyes darted across the article as he took it all in. It was rather difficult to gauge whether Freddie was upset or furious from the crease in his brow and the roll of his jaw.

"He didn't use my name once in the article!" Freddie had seethed the second we got away from the rest of them. "Did you notice that? It was 'Mercury' every single fucking time he ripped into me. He even bloody called me mate. Sarcastically! Me! Mate!"

I was an accomplice to Freddie's infidelity... which meant I was also going through this situation with Freddie as if Hayes broke up with me too. You know how I used to want to know everything that happened between them? I take it all back. I don't want to know a single detail more regarding Hayes and Freddie.

"Maybe he was just trying to be extra impartial, as a precaution—"

"Impartial! No one is that impartial, we bloody love each other, he can't just switch that off to write some "neutral" article!" Freddie threw the magazine to the ground, "He wrote it to hurt me, fine, but he knows the damage it does to the band, not just me! If Hayes is going to bloody have his revenge, he could have at least used my fucking name!"

Freddie refused to use the past tense when speaking about Hayes, as if it made the situation any less real. He tried phoning him almost every other day, but was too afraid to actually get on a plane and see him. Freddie was a mess when I found him on the street the night things ended, and I don't think he wanted round two with a Hayes who couldn't stand the sight of him.

Now I know Freddie is completely in the wrong, but the article was harsh on a man who deeply regretted what he did. Especially it's ending, the parting shot was simple, but designed to sting.

"Oh Queen... you've had the time, you've had the power, but I have yet to see your finest hour."

A rough translation: "Queen, you've been together all this time and have nothing good to show for it." What a lovely thing to say to overly-sensitive musicians.

"He could have at least returned one of my calls to warn me that he was writing the fucking review." Freddie snarled, "Is is so unreasonable that I would expect that much from him!?"

You cheated on him, he's allowed to lash out. Not that I could ever say that aloud. "Yeah, some warning would've been nice."

"That's all I'm fucking saying!"

"Does Hayes speak Italian?" I randomly blurted the first thing that came to mind, unfortunately I wasn't able to change the subject like I intended to, "Or does he just do a lot of research for his articles—"

Freddie turned to glare at me as he plucked up the now half ruined magazine, "Of course he speaks bloody Italian, he says it's just updated Latin."

"What do the lyrics that you stole- I mean- the lyrics Hayes said you were inspired by- what do they mean?" He likes the opera, maybe he'll rattle on about that.

Obviously I shouldn't have asked for a translation, because Freddie started tearing up the magazine, page, by page. If I didn't have his lighter, or matches, I'm sure he would've burned it too. Musicians are very performative with their anger.

"'Laugh, clown, at your broken love'." Freddie spat, "The clever fucker just had to slip that in for me, didn't he?"

Munich, Germany
May

Gather round readers, and let me tell you the tale of how Freddie Mercury thoroughly fucked up his knee a mere three months before 'the Works tour' was set to begin. 

Freddie would never give much away on how he hurt himself that night, other than that he had been in some sort of drunken brawl in a dive bar in Munich. I figure if there's anyone who should know the real story it's the ones who've been forced to put up with with the mess that is Freddie and Hayes because this is merely another tale in their saga.

Hayes was in Munich, and the news of that seemed to send a shockwave through Freddie. He had already been here for two nights, according to Barbara who spotted him, so it was rather clear the purpose of his visit was not to see Freddie.

Freddie handled that as well as you would imagine... in so far that he handled it awfully.

Without knowing whether Hayes was actually still in the city or not, the next two days were like a Scotland Yard investigation. There was also a high possibility that Barbara was mistaken and didn't actually spot the critic, but I didn't want to be the one to suggest that theory.

After two days of searching, we finally had a lead. Whilst having drinks in the Teddy Bar, Patrick and Polder walked in. The Teddy Bar was usually a haven for Freddie, with its regulars being 'bear' like men, but tonight, things were about to turn... grizzly.

What? That was a bloody good one.

... Anyway. The Teddy Bar wasn't exactly a dive, but it wasn't exactly a high end establishment either. Teddy bears actually hung from the ceiling, but you got used to the whimsy after a few trips and Freddie certainly did frequent the joint. It was a place you would never bloody see Hayes Griffith, even if he was going through some sort of "self-discovery" phase (if my sources are to be believed).

In reality, it sounded like Hayes was going through some sort of mid-life/post break-up crisis which called for sleeping around and involving himself in every activity under the sun. Jose, his doorman, said he rarely saw Hayes return home at night. When he did go home it was only to change and leave for work. Obviously, that line of gossip didn't go back to Freddie. The term 'don't shoot the messenger' would not be enough to save me in that scenario. Besides, I don't think I could handle a hypocritical rant about Hayes not being allowed to sleep with who he wants considering Freddie had been with Winnie a few times since the break-up. Sometimes Freddie gets into a 'fuck Hayes for leaving' mood and likes to pretend that what him and Winnie have is real enough to excuse what he did to Hayes. His entire being turns thunderous with guilt in the aftermath of being near Winnie. The dials on all of that man's emotions are cranked up far too high.

The second Patrick and Polder caught sight of a waving Freddie they halted in their tracks. They whirled into each other in a clear panic before they eventually pulled on a pair of disarming grins. That was obviously suspicious, but Freddie was too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice. He was sulkily nursing his drink when the couple finally dragged their feet over.

It was about several drinks in before Patrick threw a curveball into Freddie's evening. A quick disclaimer to remind you all that Freddie is not a well man lately. Just keep that in mind as we go along.

"I er," Patrick coughed, "ran into Hayes yesterday. I was stumbling on the way home from Jeans, and I nearly floored him as he left the Sugar Shack."

I'm surprised that Freddie didn't get whiplash from how quickly he whirled around, "What?"

"On the street, I literally ran into Hayes." Patrick clarified, "He was with a lad called Alex, and there were two others but I can't really remember their names."

"Alex." Freddie repeated, his mind obviously jumping to the worst possible conclusion. "And they were together?"

"Oh no," Patrick shook his head quickly, "I don't think it was anything like that."

Freddie didn't seem convinced, "And how did Hayes seem?"

"Fine," Patrick replied nervously, "He was chattier than I remember actually."

Patrick briefly explained that Alex was only here because he was doing an article on German designers after Karl Lagerfeld took over Chanel. Rolling Stone had also been invited by Elton John's people to write up about his 'European Express' tour. Two birds with one stone could be killed if Hayes joined Alex on his trip to Germany, and caught Elton at his show in Munich. The critics decided to make a quick little break out of it.

I thought it was good that Hayes was actually doing things like having fun with friends, but I would never say such a thing in front of you-know-who.
Obviously no matter the terms of a breakup and who did what, you want the other person to be a mess. Humans are awful, but that's how we work. So hearing that Hayes seemed better than ever wasn't cause for Freddie to celebrate.

Instead he took a long drag of his cigarette. "Did he ask about me?"

Polder and Patrick exchanged a small glance, before Patrick ruffled at his dark blonde hair, "No... but he did ask about Dorothy. He was half plastered to be fair."

Please, remember that Freddie has well and truly lost it, don't expect him to behave like any normal person would right now. Don't even expect him to act like Freddie Mercury typically would. We're too far past that.

Freddie seemed to melt at this information, "Aw, he did?" He sighed dreamily, "He really did?"

"Er, yes." Patrick shuffled a little further away from Freddie, "So I decided to ask him up to the flat, you know, to check up on her, and say hello to Polder. I was only being polite, and half joking... we were both drunk. Remember that. Very drunk."

"Oh," Freddie laughed as if he believed the story ended there, "Did he disappear with Alex then? No mention of where he was staying? Or for how long? He'll be at Sharon's show?"

"He actually—" Polder's deep voice broke from how high pitched it went, "Ahem, he actually took Patrick up on the offer."

"Oh no. No." Freddie tutted with the shake of his head, "Hayes wouldn't do that. If one knew him like I do, one would know that Hayes would never accept a practical stranger's invitation to look at a cat, or even exchange pleasantries."

"I feel like you wouldn't have to know him that well to know that—" I began but Freddie shot me a rather withering glare. "Never mind."

"Yeah, I was surprised he said yes," Patrick chuckled and rubbed at the back of his neck, "But that's what happened."

Freddie's gaze sharpened at that. He sipped at the remainder of his vodka tonic and scratched at the edge of his fresh moustache as if deciding his course of action. Finally, he began to drum his fingers against the table.

"And you didn't think to phone me when you had Hayes there?" Freddie asked in a rather cool tone.

Uh oh.

Polder choked on his drink whilst Patrick averted his gaze. "Well, you know, we got caught up chatting. Polder was going to call you! We had a few drinks— and he's very bloody charming!"

I think I could see where this was heading... but I really hoped I was way off.

"The accent is distracting." Polder concluded glumly.

Freddie exhaled sharply, "If it was yesterday, why didn't you fucking call today then? You didn't even know you'd run into me here!"

"See, the thing is... we were hoping that we wouldn't uh see you at all Fred, at least not for a couple of weeks." Patrick stammered, "When you'd be less likely to be... crazy."

"Why would I be annoyed?" Freddie scoffed, "Because you were nice to Hayes? Bloody grow up. You just should've told me the second you ran into him."

Patrick and Polder exchanged yet another flustered glance, communicating telepathically like most couples do. Freddie's gaze flicked impatiently between them and his fingers continued to drum against a coaster.

"What is it? What are you not telling me?"

"Well, oh god, right. Okay. I'm just gonna come out and say it, we're all adults here!" Patrick pulled at his hair, "Hayes was there, chatting to us, which I've explained already. One thing lead to another, and things got very friendly, y'know? There was coke involved and just- I don't know. I'm sorry Freddie."

Uh. Oh.

Freddie blinked slowly, "Huh?"

"You've been sleeping about with Winnie- I just- I thought you wouldn't care that much but it was still a shitty thing to do I'm sorry."

The gears slowly turned in Freddie's long lost mind, "Oh."

I think I was about to drown in the awkward energy that fell over the booth, the bar, all of Munich and the whole bloody world. Freddie's hands twitched on the table, and I couldn't tell whether he would proceed to literally strangle someone or not.

"And, you-you let this happen?" Freddie stuttered towards Polder, "You let him and Hayes- him and Hayes... happen? Is that what you're trying to fucking tell me right now!?"

Polder glanced down at his lap. Whilst Patrick waved a dismissive hand, "Oh he was in the middle of it, but that's irrelevant, what matters is I'm— we're — sorry."

...Uh oh. Good for Hayes and all that, but as Freddie's assistant and friend? Uh. Oh.

As Patrick apologised profusely, Freddie was frozen with the shock of it all. I pondered how I would help Freddie get away with murder as Polder slipped out of the booth and tried to make an escape. Maybe I won't help him at all, prison could be the wake up call he needs. Freddie didn't exactly know how to react, and I can't really blame him.

Why do you say when your friends tell you they had a threesome with the ex you are pining over? It's even worse when I summarise it like that. Oh god, everyone needs to bloody evacuate the premises, nobody is surviving this.

"And- and-" Freddie swallowed deeply, it sounded painful to do so, "And Dorothy was there?"

Yes. Somehow that's the part Freddie decided to hyper-fixate on. It's easier not to question it. When it came to Hayes, Freddie would burn down an orchard if a leaf touched him. I didn't really know what would happen now that he had heard that not one, but two men, had... fooled around with Hayes. I was waiting for an implosion or maybe an explosion. Both. The world may end actually.

"Well, she wasn't in the room but yeah I suppose she was in the flat somewhere—"

Freddie gasped, one piercing enough that I had to check my eardrum hadn't just burst from being so close to him.

"You," he blistered, "You fucking- you sick fucking little shit! How could you!? Dorothy is probably fucking traumatised! Traumatised!!!"

Yes, this is really what Freddie's pretending to take issue with.

"I'm so sorry Freddie, really I am, Hayes literally left straight after— he probably doesn't even know how friendly we still are with you—"

Freddie's stood up, almost knocking the table over with the force of the action. A pint fell to spill all over Patrick, but he wisely didn't kick up much of a fuss. Instead, he also stood up and continued apologising.

"Phoebe! Get me my jacket, we're leaving!"

"You didn't bring a—"

"Get me my fucking jacket!" Freddie snarled.

I half fell out of the booth in a scramble, ready to rip a jacket off a random bloke just so I could give it to Freddie. If he wants a coat right now, he can have a bloody coat! He deserves it! I should have known not to take my eye off Freddie, but my brief second of panic had distracted me.

The next thing I knew, there was a crash, I whirled around and there was Patrick and Freddie sprawled out on the floor. Freddie definitely threw the first hit and Patrick wasn't going to let him get in a second. The two were now drunkenly, and ungracefully wrestling about on the floor.

I attempted to pry them apart, but it was surprisingly difficult. Two other bloody bouncers had to get involved. People were shouting in German, some cheering, some sounded distressed, all whilst Patrick and Freddie hissed at each other. The Irishman's own temper seemed to boiled over when things got physical.

Eventually, with the help of the bouncers, we got the two twits separated.

"Are you fucking insane!?" Patrick snarled as he held onto his jaw.

"Are you!?" Freddie snapped back, holding onto stomach. "How could you even go near Hayes!?"

"It's not like you bloody own the lad is it!? You're the one who tossed him away aren't you?"

Polder appeared and immediately went to Patrick's side. He fussed over him for a moment, but Patrick was now purposefully trying to wind Freddie up with a few jabs about the night with Hayes. It didn't take much for the frontman to slip out of my grip to have another go at Patrick. I didn't quite catch the comment that Patrick made to have Freddie want to have another pop at him, but it caused Freddie's nostrils to flare and for him to charge a few steps forward.

Polder seemed to think that this whole thing was only for show so he halfheartedly tried to put a stop to an advancing Freddie. All Polder did was throw out a lazy foot to try and pause Freddie in his tracks. There was no ill intent in it, in fact it seemed more playful than anything. Just a simple 'oh calm down will you?'

It certainly did stop Freddie though, because Polder's foot somehow caught knee in an awkward way. The next thing I knew, the frontman was going down, and would've hit the floor if Patrick and I hadn't grabbed a hold of him. Of course we were all tossed out at that stage by security, but we would've had to leave anyway. Freddie was badly hurt.

Freddie's entire face was contorted with pain as he clutched at his unnaturally jutted out knee. "Oh fuck, okay Freddie, we're going to get you to a hospital, alright?"

"No." Freddie tried to desperately wave me off, "I'm fine. Just give me a second, it'll pass."

But it didn't pass in the end and Terry was called so that we could both force him into a car. I think Freddie was much more concerned about the injury's impact on his future stage gymnastics than he was with the clear pain of it all.

The last thing a heartbroken Freddie Mercury needed right now was to be confined to a bed because of a stupidly received knee injury but here we were.

***

I could have kissed Roger Taylor when he turned up at Freddie's door a few days later.

Cabin Fever is real, and it's awful. Truly awful. Freddie Mercury was never meant to stay cooped up for this long, it's unnatural, and he's quite simply lost it. Hopefully the distraction of Roger may do him some good because I can't take it alone any more.

"How's he holding up?" Roger asked as I led him toward Freddie's room.

"Oh he's great!" I exclaimed and swung the door bedroom door open after a brief knock. It was a lie of course, I just didn't want to scare Roger off.

Freddie Mercury was truly a sorry sight to behold right now. He was propped up against the headboard with his casted leg stretched out in front of him. Upper thigh to ankle, a full bloody cast was what Freddie needed for his injured knee. Dorothy was curled up against his side, and his fingers brushed over her listlessly.

Yes, I had been instructed to kidnap the cat back after Patrick and Polder had shown themselves to be "unfit parents". Poor Dorothy hadn't been allowed to move from Freddie's side since the incident. Freddie had been prescribed heavy painkillers to deal with his knee... and it was truly the last thing he needed. Freddie was stir crazy from his injury, and on top of that, he decided now was the perfect time to fully acknowledge that him and Hayes were over.

The man had gone loopy.

Which is the only possible explanation for why Freddie demanded I go out and find him Barry Manilow records. Yes, you read that correctly. Barry Manilow. I spent my Saturday hopping from record store to record store in search of Barry Manilow vinyls. Even a cassette would do at this stage, but they weren't exactly easy to find. I also felt less ashamed doing cocaine runs than I did asking shop owners whether they had any Manilow records in stock. That says it all.

I should have pretended that I never found Barry Manilow's 'Here Comes the Night' vinyl, or I should have at least checked the track list to make sure it was safe. But, how was I to know that Barry Manilow had done a cover of 'Memory' from Cats the musical? Or how was I to know that Freddie would have a complete mental breakdown over it?

The track played on repeat as Freddie alternated between crying uncontrollably and moaning that he'd never find love again. Then there was the brief existential crisis that grew out of his questioning of soulmates, which was particularly painful to sit through as Freddie mused about the meaning of life.

At least now it was all Roger's problem for a little while.

"Hey Fred." Roger sat on the edge of the bed cautiously, "How are you doing... buddy?"

"Me?" Freddie stretched his arms listlessly behind his head, "Oh fine, fine. Brilliant actually. Don't worry, I'll be in prime shape before the tour dear, I promise."

Roger hooked his sunglasses over the collar of his blue shirt before his eyes scanned over Freddie's face properly. "Got in a scrap did you?"

I attempted to back out of the room to give the pair some privacy, but Freddie instructed me to put on his record player with a series of over the top hand gestures.

"You should see the other lad."

"Does he also have a fucked up leg?"

Freddie called Roger a bitch as I tried to figure out a way to "accidentally" scratch the Manilow L.P. There was a very particular order to how Freddie insisted on listening to the album, which meant I had to skip the opening track. Essentially I had to skip all of the upbeat tunes so that Freddie could purposefully be affected by the crooner's ballads. It was actual torture.

"Er," Roger glanced over at me, "What have you been listening to Fred?"

'Midnight, not a sound from the pavement, has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.'

"Roger, have you ever listened to Barry Manilow?"

Roger looked dumbstruck for a moment before realising that Freddie was deadly serious, "Is he the bloke that sings Mandy?"

"Mandy," Freddie whispered, "Yes. You know most two-syllable names can be slotted in there? Like 'Freddie', Hayes used to change the lyrics as a joke you know?"

Brilliant. Just brilliant. We've gotten back to Hayes.

'Memory, all alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days, it was beautiful then. I remember the time I knew what happiness was...'

Roger blinked, "Oh, really?"

I desperately tried to shoot the drummer a look that said 'don't encourage him' but was ignored because Roger temporarily decided to be a shoulder to lean on. His funeral I suppose. It's easy to be a temporary shoulder after all, especially when you can come and go as you please!

I hope that I didn't sound bitter towards Roger's freedom, because I'm not.

"I came to apologise actually Freddie." Roger winced through a smile, "We all lost it with you for the Works review instead of realising that you'd obviously gone through something bad with Hayes. It wasn't fair of us."

Freddie shrugged a shoulder and paired it with an eye roll, "Oh who cares honey? I'm past that."

Roger opened his mouth to say something else, but Freddie quickly shushed him as Barry's vocals burst out for Memory's dramatic climax.

'Touch me! It's so easy to leave me, all alone with my memory, of my days in the sun... If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is...'

Roger glanced over his shoulder at me, as if I held all the answers as to why Freddie Mercury had gone mad. Repressed heartbreak and painkillers just weren't a good mix it seemed, then you throw in Manilow and it's a disaster.

"Hs vocals are rather good. Aren't they?"

Roger looked torn between disagreeing and facing Freddie's wrath, or agreeing and facing personal embarrassment, so he opted for neither. "How did you get into the fight?"

Freddie scowled momentarily before he attempted to continue with his extra campy, nonchalant, attitude towards Roger. "I can't even remember dear, I was absolutely trollied. Think I just got caught up in the wrong crowd." He patted Roger's thigh, "You know me!"

"But Peter said it was over Hayes?" Roger frowned and I considered how quickly I could take a nosedive out of the window.

"Did he now?" Freddie growled before he asked Roger to pass him his cigarettes, "Well Mr Freestone must be mistaken."

Roger decided not to push any further on that, "Did you get a new pet?" He reached out to brush a hand over Dorothy's back.

"This is Dorothy," Freddie explained and kept a watchful eye on the interaction between the drummer and the cat, "I need to move her back to England, or find her foster parents here."

"Right, right."

"She was tiny as a kitten," Freddie reminisced as he took a drag on his cigarette, "She used to fit herself right into Hayes' palm."

Roger chuckled, "Yeah his hands are huge..." He quickly clamped his lips shut as him and Freddie stared at each other for a moment. Freddie's eyes narrowed with confusion as Roger fumbled for a cigarette of his own.

"I ah, don't know why I said that- don't even know if it's true- I never noticed really." Roger stammered, "Anyway, how long are you out of action for?"

At that, I was finally able to slip away for a much needed break from Freddie. Roger stayed in the room for a couple of hours, and it was a relief to hear Freddie cackling with laughter again. Whether it was real or forced I couldn't tell, but at least he appeared to be in slightly better spirits when Roger slipped out the door.

When I brought Freddie in a cup of tea and his next set of painkillers, he had finally turned the Manilow record off. I noticed that his cast was now littered with crude doodles, penned by both Roger and Freddie because apparently they were thirteen year old boys whenever together. I eyed a huge pair of tits that Roger had drawn across Freddie's knee and rolled my eyes.

"Mary was thinking of popping over to play nurse maid," Freddie commented as he popped the pills into his mouth, "You could take a week off if you'd like."

"Oh?" I tried not to appear to excited by the prospect, "Are you sure? I wouldn't want to leave you when you're like this..."

"You're an awful actor darling, and I know I haven't exactly been the easiest... company."

"I wouldn't be happy if I hurt my knee either—"

"I don't just mean the last few days," Freddie chuckled, "Ever since Hayes and I..." he cleared his throat, "you know, I have been awful. So I'm sorry for that."

I glanced over at Freddie's glum face, taking in the rings under his bleary eyes, the downturn of his mouth. The liveliness that usually buzzed like something tangible from Freddie seemed to have evaporated. It's been like this for months, and I don't know when it was going to end. Freddie's been through heartbreak before, but never like this.

"No need to apologise." I said dismissively, and helped Freddie prop a pillow or two under his leg once again.

"Can I ask you one more thing, then I promise I'll shut up about Hayes, book firmly shut."

"Uh—"

"Do you think he's better off without me?" Freddie asked causally, as if he hadn't asked a fully loaded question.

Oh good god, "It's not for me to say—"

"Well, he was at Sharon's gig a few days ago," Freddie pressed on, "And Elton said that he was more friendly than he's ever been. Upbeat, funny. He wasn't even bloody sure it was Hayes. Then there was the whole Patrick and Polder fucking incident— and I hear of all these opportunities he's getting in England— and I don't know. He's clearly better off since the break up, so I should just leave him to it, right?"

"Oh ah," I stammered, "Freddie I really don't think I should—"

"So that's a yes?" Freddie began to pout his lip, "Was I really that awful to him—"

"I didn't say that!" I exclaimed irritably. After three months of torture, my patient front finally broke and everything seemed to just gush out of me like a tidal wave.

"You did something awful yes, terrible actually, but you clearly regret it. Jesus Christ you've been an absolute nightmare Freddie! You obviously think you need him, so just stop all of this self-pity, stop being a whiny coward, and go annoy Hayes with all of this emotional turmoil instead of me! You hid behind the phone for months at the end of your relationship, don't keep doing it now if you want him back! If you do want to keep going this way, by all means do, but I don't want to hear another bloody word about it!"

By the end of my little rant I had half lost my breath and knew I needed to do damage control, "But- but that's all none of my business! Do you want more tea!? How about I go out and check if the record store has any new Manilow vinyls in stock?"

Freddie was simply staring at me, lips parted in shock. "Whiny... coward?"

"No?" I spluttered, "You must have misheard me—"

"No." Freddie dragged a hand through his hair, "No I didn't, and in any case, you're right."

"It was too harsh—"

Freddie rolled his eyes, "Yes, and you should've bloody said all of this sooner! Why didn't you!? For fuck sake Phoebe why did you let me mope about like this?"

I stiffened, "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes I'm fucking serious! Look at me! I'm a mess! How could you let me get to this point!" He flapped his hands about, "Help me up! I can't lie here all day! At least move me to the bloody living room!"

I tried not to growl as I helped Freddie up off of the bed, "You're ridiculous."

"I'm not going to get Hayes back if you're sabotaging me like this! I know you've always wanted him for yourself but you've gone too far this time." His lips twitched into a brief smirk as he hobbled out into the hallway.

"You won't be getting anyone back with that cast on your leg." I chuckled as Freddie plopped himself down on the couch, "Especially not Olympic runner Hayes Griffith."

Freddie flicked his wrist dismissively, "Once I'm back in action there'll be no stopping me dear. You'll see."

"That's a terrifying thought."

Freddie flashed me the ghost of a self-assured grin that I hadn't seen in a long time, "I suppose I have no excuses now not to finish my solo album now."

Slowly but surely, Freddie started getting back to his old self. He focused on getting his knee better for the upcoming tour, and getting his solo record finished. He no longer had a mental breakdown anytime Hayes was brought up, but every so often I would catch his jaw flex at any explicit reminders of the critic. Freddie eventually stopped trying to call as the summer drew to a close, and Hayes never attempted to get in contact. Not once.

In August, Queen's management set a plan in motion to have a European press conference in Munich to promote the Works tour. All types of media outlets were invited, as was the usual custom, which meant top music journalism dogs like Rolling Stone could not be shunned. Especially not due to some secret personal falling out. I didn't think Hayes would show his face, not if he couldn't even manage so much as a phone call with Freddie. Then again we were all wrong about him not reviewing the Queen album.

For Freddie's sake, I hoped that the first time he saw Hayes since the horrid break-up wouldn't be in a room full of journalists and dozens of flashing cameras to document it.

___

A/N-
Hope you enjoyed whatever that was 😂🤍
(Barry Manilow propaganda).

P.S- This is the interview where Freddie vaguely explains how he hurt his knee in a pub brawl, for those who haven't seen it . Obviously my version is all canon now. 😌

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