ᵍʳᵒᵘᵖⁱᵉ

˚₊‧꒰ა 🎤 ‧₊˚

[ i need a break ]

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦, 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝.

He glided his finger across the hundreds of names before settling upon the first Hutton, Jim he found. But the list carried on till the bottom of the page, and then onto the next. It would be very hard to find this Jim Hutton.

A knocking at the door had him looking up, hearing Paul's muffled voice, "Freddie, you in there? Freddie?" He turned the light off, placing the book down. "They're here. We can't put this off any longer... Freddie?"

"MTV banned our video. The youth of America. We helped give birth to MTV," Freddie said, turning around to face the boys.

"It's America," Brian shrugged. "They're Puritans in public, perverts in private."

"I'm never touring in the US again," the singer decided, shaking his head, before chuckling dryly. "And I'm the one being blamed for it. Not you, dear, whose idea, I believe, it was to dress up in drag," he said to Roger. "Not you. Not even you, who wrote the bloody thing. No. Crazy, cross-dressing Freddie. Freddie the freak. Freddie the f*g." He sighed, stopping his pacing. "I'm tired of touring. Aren't you? Album, tour, album, tour. I want to do something different."

"We're a band. That's what bands do," Brian stated. "Album, tour, album, tour."

"Well, I need a break. I'm sick of it."

"What are you saying, Freddie?" Deacy asked, tapping at his chin.

Freddie didn't answer for a moment, instead opting to light a cigarette and gaze out the window at the view. He glanced to the side at Paul, before sighing. "I've signed a deal with CBS Records."

"You've done what?" Roger questioned.

"Without telling us?" Brian asked, turning around on the couch to look at Freddie.

"What kind of deal?" Deacy wondered.

"Look, I'm not saying we won't record or ever tour again. Queen will go on. But I need to do something different. Do you know what I mean? I need- I need to grow. What- what's the song? 'Fly Away'?"

Deacy bitterly smiled, "'Spread my wings and fly away.'"

"'Spread my wings and fly away.'"

"A solo album?" Brian guessed.

"Two, actually," Paul corrected, and the boys glared at the man. "Back-to-back."

"Another word out of you and I'll throw you out the bloody window," Roger threatened.

"But that's years, Freddie. I mean... that'll take years," Deacy explained.

"Ye of little faith."

Roger sighed, "I don't believe this. How much?" Freddie looked back out the window, ignoring the question. "What did they pay you? I wanna know how much they paid you! -."

"$4 million dollars!"

Brian scoffed as Roger paced away, pinching his forehead as Deacy acknowledged, "That's more than any Queen deal."

"Look, the routine is killing us. I mean, you must all want a break from all the arguments," Freddie tried. "I mean, whose songs gets on the album, whose song's the single, who wrote what, who gets a bigger slice of the royalties, what's on the B-side, all of it. You must need a break."

"Freddie, we're a family," Brian said.

"No, we're not! We're not a family!" the singer objected with a glare. "You've got families, children, wives. What have I got?"

"You've got $4 million dollars. Perhaps you can buy yourself a family," Deacy shrugged.

"I won't compromise my vision any longer."

"Compromise?" Roger questioned. "Are you joking? You were working at Heathrow before we gave you a chance."

Freddie turned, shooting daggers at his three best friends. "And without me... you- you'd be a dentist drumming 12/8-time blues at the weekend at the Crown and Anchor," he spat, before looking down at Brian. "And you. Well, you would be Dr. Brian May, author of the fascinating dissertation on the cosmos that no one ever reads. And Deacy... for the life of me... nothing comes to mind."

Deacy pursed his lips, informing, "I studied electrical engineering. Does that meet your standard?"

Freddie smiled, though it was pained. "It's perfect."

He stubbed his cigarette, walking past Roger, who turned and snapped, "You just killed Queen."

"Oh, give it a kiss one day. She might wake up."

"You need us, Freddie," Brian said. "More then you know."

"I don't need anyone," he denied. Freddie left the room, leaving the band to sit there in silence, as Paul followed, patting Roger's shoulder as he passed. The drummer shoved it away, and the three watched as their friend left them.

📍𝙼𝚄𝙽𝙸𝙲𝙷, 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟺

It had been a few months since Freddie had abandoned Queen, and all his old friends with it. Although the band was only labeled to be on hiatus to the public, both the boys and Freddie felt that they were fully finished with Queen.

The singer had brought a new house, away from the city and all the publicity stunts and tabloids. But he would never admit it to them, if he ever saw them again, but he felt his heart ache when he thought of the band and the girls.

He also found great melancholy in the thought of Rufus. The boy had grown to be six years old, soon turning seven within a matter of three months. With the foggy image of your son in mind, his thoughts slowly swirled until they circled the memory of his best friend. 

Oh, how he missed you. Aside from Mary, you were the one person he found true and complete comfort and happiness in. He remembered all the little and big things, from the moment you met at the short age of two, immediately opting to play with one another, you showing him your new Barbie doll that you had gotten for Christmas from Santa himself. Although you had made a promise to yourself to never allow anyone to use it, Freddie had watched as you meekly passed it to him with a small smile. 

He constantly wondered about how Roger was treating you, constantly wishing that he was a horrid husband and that you hated the man, for at the moment, Freddie heavily disliked the blonde. But he knew, as did everyone else, that Roger was a doting partner, and from the news of your second baby arriving just a few weeks ago, he reluctantly agreed with the fact.

As he continued playing the piano, Paul was in the next room over, nursing a glass of brandy when the phone rang. He picked it up with a sigh, greeting the person, discovering your voice on the end of the line, "Paul. Can I speak to Freddie?"

"Oh, Y/N. No, he can't talk right now. He's working day and night constantly. As are you, I assume," he joked after hearing the soft whining on your end.

"Will you make sure to tell him that I called? Mary said she called a few days ago but hasn't received any word back."

"Don't worry, he's in safe hands," he assured. "I will certainly tell him you called. Tschüs."

From your end, you reluctantly placed the phone back onto its stand with a sigh, your gaze shifting to the carpet where Rufus sat, staring idly up at the television in complete concentration. 

"I'm guessing it was Paul." You tore your eyes away from your son, over to Roger, who watched with raised brows. You nodded numbly, glancing down at your chest, where your little girl slept soundly, her round cheeks warm against your lower neck.

"I don't know why Freddie isn't responding," you mumbled, feeling the couch shift beside you as Roger sat down. You leaned your head back on his arm which had found its way to the back of the sofa, and he rested his hand on the baby's head, stroking the little hairs atop her head. 

"I don't think it's just Freddie."

You nodded in agreement. "Paul certainly is and forever will be a leech."

Rain peltered down on the roof of Freddie's house as he slept on the crimson leather couch of his living room. He coughed a little, stirring him awake as he took a gulp, feeling the tanginess of blood filter down his throat.

The sound of knocking caused the singer to open his tired eyes to the glass door, where he felt his heart burst from his chest. There you were, watching him with a sad frown, with Mary beside you.

With wide eyes, he slowly stumbled off of the couch as you and Mary made your way to the front door. The girl grasped at your hand, sharing a terrified look with you. "He looks so..." she trailed off with a sniff.

"I know, I know," you whispered, nodding to her quiet statement. "He looks sick."

Inside, Freddie coughed loudly as he accidently knocked over the multitude of glasses littering the floor, tables and any free surface as he quickly walked to the door. When he saw you and the girl, he smiled as he opened the door. 

"Hi, bubs," you whispered as Mary stifled a sob from beside you. 

"Hi. Come in, come in." Immediately, the girl ran into his arms, holding the man tight as she breathed heavily. After a moment, she let go of him, and Freddie looked over at you. You raised a hand to his cheek, caressing the skin before pulling him into an embrace. "Why did you both come all this way?"

"We just haven't heard from you in so long, and we phoned and phoned, and then, last night I just had this terrible dream that something bad had happened, so I called Y/N," she explained as the three of you started walking to the living room.

"We decided to come visit you, bubs..." You slowed to a stop as the words died on your tongue, your gaze sweeping over the messy room. You let out a shaky breath at the sight of hundreds of empty glasses and bottles, used tablet packets resting beside them. "Freddie, what-... what's going on here?"

"No, no, I've been working that's all," he quickly spoke, trying to avert your attention.

"Freddie, you're burning the candle on both ends," Mary mumbled.

"Yes, but the glow is so divine." He watched as you both observed the white powder that was strewn across one of the glass tables. "Being human is a condition that requires a little anesthesia."

"We miss you," you whispered.

"I miss you. I miss you both so much," he heavily panted. "Listen, but I have to finish the second album. I need you both. Stay. Stay here with me. Just us three, together. I need the love of my life," he said to Mary, before looking at you with a frown. "I need my other half."

Mary shakily sighed as she shook your head, as you moved to take his hand, finding it trembling in your hold, before speaking, "Freddie... what about Queen? Jim told me he's been trying to contact you about Live Aid, and you won't take his calls."

The singer shook his head as he stared at you. "What is Live Aid?"

"You haven't heard?" Mary questioned in confusion. "Freddie, it's the biggest concert there's ever been or ever will be."

"It's for the famine in Africa," you informed.

"Well, perhaps Paul thought it wasn't a good idea. A distraction from my work. That's what's important, that I finish this album," he stammered, before grasping both of you and Mary's hand in his. "Stay with me, my darlins, and I'll be alright."

"Freddie, we can't stay with you," you denied, shaking your head.

"Of course, you can. I need you."

You looked over at Mary, and she was quick to whisper, "Freddie, I'm pregnant."

Freddie went silent, eyes widening as he slowly let go of her hand, glancing down at her stomach. "How could you?"

Mary's mouth dropped as she took a slight step backward. "How could I? Freddie, this has nothing to do with you."

"You cannot blame her for this, Freddie," you scolded as Mary held onto your hand for support as she released a wobbly breath. 

"Come on, let's get in! I bought some nibbles." The front door opened as you turned your head, where you found Paul entering, a group of men filtering it behind him as he paused at the entryway. "Freddie! Sorry we're late-... Y/N, Mary. What a pleasant surprise." You closed your eyes as you let out a sigh, the man turning around to his friends. "Hans. Everyone, come in. Milan, make our guests comfortable." You watched as the men walked in as if they owned the place, quickly making themselves comfortable as Paul came up beside you. "I wish I knew you both were coming to stay. I'd have scrub the place."

"Actually, we're not staying," you dismissed, and you turned around, heading to the door as Mary fled beside you. 

"Wait. Y/N, Mary, wait! Don't go," Freddie called, breaking off in a run to follow you to the door. Paul tried to stop him, but it was no use. "You told me you had a dream. What was it?"

"We were trying to talk to you," you said in a low tone. "But it was so hard, Freddie."

"It was like talking to my father," Mary stated, staring at the singer. "You needed to tell us something... but you couldn't say it."

"Because you had no voice," you finished. Looking away from your best friend, you wrenched the door open with Mary's hand in yours as the two of you ran through the heavy rain, over to the awaiting taxi sitting in the driveway.

"Freddie, come and say hello to our new guests. They're dying to meet you," Paul called with an uneasy smile, all the while the singer felt tears rush to his eyes as he sniffed. As the door opened, and Freddie ran after you and Mary, Paul offered a small grin. "He'll be one second."

"Mary! Y/N!" Freddie called, watching as you hopped into the taxi after the girl, ready to close the door, but he gripped onto it with a gasp. Your eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the singer, Mary peaking around your shoulder. He took a breath, gazing at you both as he spoke, "I'm happy for you, my dears. Truly, I am... It's just... I'm frightened."

"Freddie, you don't need to be," Mary assured. "Because no matter what, you are loved."

"You take a place in our hearts, Freddie," you cried, reaching out into the rain to take his hand, feeling as his grip tightened. "By us, by Brian, Deacy, Roger... your family. It's enough. And those people... they don't care about you. Paul doesn't care about you."

"You don't belong here, Freddie," Mary said. "Come home."

"Home..." he echoed softly.

You looked away, releasing his hand from your own before shuffling further into the car. There, you leaned your head on Mary's shoulder as she rested hers atop yours, hearing the door shut from next to you. Soon, the taxi drove off, leaving Freddie standing in the rain, watching the car go.

Paul, who had been standing at the doorway, yelled for the singer, "Freddie! What are you doing? You'll catch your death."

"Why didn't you tell me about Live Aid?" Freddie questioned.

Paul clenched his hands into tight fists as he thought up a response. "The Africa charity gig? It'll be an embarrassment. I didn't want to waste your time."

As he walked over, Freddie held his hand up, somehow sensing the man's steps. "You should have told me," he said.

"Of course, I did. You forgot," Paul gaslighted. "You're always forgetting things. Come in now ad have a drink."

Freddie stared up at the sky, blinking against the rain as he shook his head. "You're out."

"What do you mean?"

"I want you out of my life," he clarified.

Paul opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, placing his hands on his hips as he stared at Freddie. "Cause I'm the only one left, you're blaming me for everything?"

"I blame myself."

"So, I'm out? Just like that?' Paul questioned. "After everything we've been through?... Just think of the photos I have. I know who you are, Freddie Mercury."

"You know when you know you've gone rotten?" Freddie asked after a moment. "Really rotten? Fruit flies. Dirty little fruit flies. Coming to feast on what's left. Well, there isn't much left for you to feast on anymore. So, fly off! Do what you like with your photographs and your stories. But promise me one thing: That I never see your face again. Ever."

Paul stuttered as he blinked rapidly. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry! Freddie, come back! I'll make it better."

But Freddie paid him no mind, leaving Paul and all the horrid memories and addictions in that house as he walked down the driveway as he sang softly to himself, "Under pressure."