ᵍʳᵒᵘᵖⁱᵉ

˚₊‧꒰ა 🎤 ‧₊˚

[ another one bites the dust ]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐪𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.. You were seated beside Jim as you both read through numerous legal forms in the recording studio whilst the group of men fought. 

"We're a rock and roll band," Roger argued. "We don't do disco."

"It's not disco," Deacy shut down with a shake of his head. He looked quite tired with all the bickering.

"Then what is it?" Brian asked.

"It's Queen."

"So sorry, my darlings!" Freddie exclaimed from the booth. "Lost all track!"

Roger stood up from the couch, glaring at the singer. "You fired Reid without consulting us! You don't make decisions for the band."

"Hey," Brian warned lowly, holding his hand up, trying to settle him down.

Freddie entered the room with Paul trailing behind him. "Well, I'm terribly sorry, dear. It's done. Besides, Miami will manage us. Won't you, darling?"

Jim chuckled nervously, glancing at you. "Um, I'll think about it."

"No. And besides, you'll have dear Y/N helping you."

"Are you high again?" Brian questioned.

"Well done, Columbo," Freddie sarcastically congratulated. 

"You need to slow down, Fred."

"Oh, don't be such a bore. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Are you?" Roger countered.

"I don't care if you're shit-faced," Deacy stated, walking over to Freddie and slapping the paper to his chest. "As long as you can sing." 

He handed the paper to Roger and Brian, the former huffing, "No, John, I don't want to play it."

"Then I'm all for it," Freddie said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm tired of the bloody anthems. I want the energy in the clubs," the singer explained. "The bodies. I want to make people move."

"You mean disco?" Brian clarified.

"Why not?" Paul asked.

The guitarist turned, shooting the man a glare. "Do you mind pissing off? This is a band discussion." 

Paul did the opposite, moving towards the couch and taking a seat as Roger spoke, "Drum loops? Synthesizers?"

"If you say so," Freddie shrugged.

"It's not us!"

"Us?"

"It's not Queen!"

"Queen is whatever I say it is!"

Brian scoffed, shaking his head and Roger walked over to Freddie with a scowl. "Well, you can play your own bloody drums, then."

In a fit of pettiness, Freddie pressed the music sheet to Roger's face and shoved him away. "Fred," Brian started.

"Okay, let's see how good a boxer you really are!" Roger exclaimed.

"Roger, take it easy! Take it easy!" Brian yelled, holding the drummer back. Freddie moved into position, holding his fists up. "Alright, Muhammad Ali." The three stopped as they heard something. They turned their attention to Deacy, finding him sitting on the drum raisers as he played a riff on his base. "That's... that's- that's quite... that's quite a cool riff actually."

"Hmm. You wrote that?" Freddie asked. Deacy didn't answer, just gave him a pointed stare. "That's really good."

"Yes, it will be... if you all can just shut up and play," the bassist exasperated.

Brian tapped Freddie's arm, who argued in response, "He started it."

"Oh, shut up!"

As Deacy started the riff again, Freddie switched the bottle of beer with the sheet of music in Roger's hand. Your husband looked over at you, and you shrugged, sending him a smile. 

Freddie began to walk circles around the drummer as he spoke-sang. "Steve walks warily

Down the street,

With the brim pulled

Way down low.

Ain't no sound but

The sound of his feet,

Machine guns ready to go.

Are you ready?

Are you ready for this? 

Are you hanging on

The edge of your seat?

Out of the doorway

The bullets rip.

"Okay, I'll do it," Jim declared.

To the sound of the beat.

He cupped his hands over his mouth, repeating, "I'll do it!"

Soon, the boys had started practicing and playing, making small changes and extra adaptations wherever they thought it was needed. Roger played with a cigarette in his mouth, often sending you a wink, to which you would roll your eyes and continue working with Jim.

"Oh, just improvise. Just give it whatever you want," Deacy said to Freddie.

"I can do that!" the singer smiled.

"Steve walks warily

Down the street,

With the brim pulled

Way down low.

Ain't no sound but

The sound of his feet,

Machine guns ready to go.

Are you ready, hey?

Are you ready for this?

Are you hanging on

The edge of your seat?

Out of the doorway

The bullets rip.

To the sound

Of the beat, yeah.

Another one bites the dust. 

Another one bites the dust. 

And another one gone,

And another one gone.

Another one bites the dust, yeah. 

"That's a good idea!"

Hey, I'm gonna get you, too.

Another one bites the dust. 

How do you think I'm going to get along

Without you when you're gone

You took me for everything that I had 

And kicked me out on my own 

Are you happy are you satisfied? 

How long can you stand the heat 

Out of the doorway

The bullets rip 

To the sound of the beat

Look out!

"Freddie?" you called. He looked up from his hunched over position, panting deeply. "Are you alright?"

He gathered his breath with a deep inhale. "Yes, my dear. I'm quite alright." You nodded, sending him a small smile before you walked to the exit. "Y/N?" You paused at the doorway, turning around. "I'm sorry."

A sad smile pulled at my lips as you looked down. "I'm your best friend, Freddie. I want you to tell me whatever is bothering you."

The singer sat dejected, looking away from you. That was your answer. You sighed, shaking your head and left the room, finding Roger waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall. "You ready?" he asked, receiving a short nod as an answer. 

📍𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙳𝙾𝙽, 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟸

You stood by the side of the table, arms crossed as you settled beside Jim, whilst Paul lingered on the other side. The band was having a conference and general publicity talk with numerous newspapers, magazines and more.

Most of the reporters were not interested in the rest of the band, their sights set on the singer, who smoked out of boredom. "Freddie! Freddie, as the leader of Queen, do you feel responsible for the success of the band?" a reporter asked.

"I'm not the leader of Queen, I'm only the lead singer."

The press clamored as they fought to question him. "Freddie! A question for Freddie. Do you ever doubt your talent?"

"No, that's a stupid question," he brushed off.

"Take it easy, Fred," Brian sighed, sending him a pained smile.

"What's next?"

"Freddie, uh, your teeth!" a critic started. "Why don't you get your teeth fixed?" Brian looked back at you and Jim, confused as to why no one was asking about the band or the band's songs, instead focusing their ridiculous and quite frankly, rude, questions on the singer.

"I live in Britain. I don't want to stand out," Freddie shrugged, causing laughter to follow. 

"Next-."

"Why don't you have your manners fixed?" he retorted, cutting Brian off. "That's an asshole question to ask anybody."

"That's an asshole question," Brian repeated in a mutter.

"In your song 'Life Is Real', what do you mean by the line, 'Love is a roulette wheel'? Are you implying that the more partners you have, the more chances you have of... contracting something?"

"What?" Freddie had a look of pure confusion written on his face as he stared at the man, before thinking up of a response, "I don't know, I haven't figured out love yet."

"But it implies something else, Freddie," he continued.

"That might be a better question for Rog."

"Watch it," Roger glared.

"Freddie, concerning your private life, there's lots of pictures of you in the tabloids looking drunk or ill."

"Which one is it, ill or drunk?"

"I had a cold last week, if anyone cares," Deacy informed.

"As much as we'd love to answer questions about colds, I'd like to speak about the album," Brian intervened. "If anyone's got any questions about the music?"

But the reporters ignored him and the rest of the band, shouting for the singer. "Freddie! Freddie!"

"Freddie, your parents, they're, they're conversative Zoroastrians. I wonder, what do they make of your public persona?"

"Is that music... "

"My parents died in a fiery wreck," Freddie informed.

"I happen to know that's... that's not true, is it? I just wanted to know whether they were proud of you."

"Are your parents proud of you?" he countered. "Is this what they hoped for?"

"I hope that they are."

"I surely don't think so."

"Anyone want to talk about the album?" Brian tried yet again.

"Freddie!"

"Freddie!"

"Freddie!"

"Could you answer my questions, please?"

"This better be good."

"SHUT UP!" a man screamed, and you pursed your lips, containing a smile.

"Freddie, could you tell us about the rumors concerning your sexuality?" a woman questioned.

"What about the rumors concerning your lack of sexuality? I'm just a musical prostitute, my dear."

"Can you answer the question?"

"What's your name, dear?"

"Shelley Stern," she supplied.

"Shelley."

"Yes."

"That thing between your legs, does it bite?"

The man who had screamed earlier let out a loud snicker, "Ha!"

"Could you answer the question, please?" the woman pried.

"We're here as a courtesy," Deacy commented.

"You know, there's four of us up here!" Freddie exclaimed.

"What are you afraid of, Freddie?"

"What- what do you want? What... what is the truth?" You could see that Freddie was now only allowing his anxiety and slight fear to surface, his brows furrowed and face forming into a deep a frown.

"Can you be honest for once?"

"Why are you lying about your parents, Freddie?"

"I'm... I'm not lying about anything. I just, I'm- I'm-."

"Your fans deserve to know the truth, Freddie."

"This is my business. It's my business!"

"No, you're a public figure!"

"What? Why- Why?" The shouts were overlapping, and Freddie continuously wiped his brow for sweat was constantly forming.

"Our readers want to know?"

"What do your readers want to know? They want to know what?" Freddie shouted, standing up.

You were surprised, to say the least, when your husband prompted the idea for the music video for 'I Want To Break Free'. And when he asked you for your Chanel lipstick, saying that your wanted to embody you during some of the shots, you simply allowed him to take the designer makeup from your hand.

Rufus, now 5 and going onto 6 in a few months, glanced around in awe of the studio. You repeatedly had to shush him due to the fact that they were still filming.

Freddie, who was sitting at his hair and makeup, glanced over at the set as a woman lifted his fake black bob wig. He watched as the boys played around, falling onto one another on the couches, and Rufus was in the middle of it all. He craned his neck a little, finding you watching over them with a fond smile.

"Brilliant! Can I get up now?" Roger wondered. "I've got a wife and kid watching."

"No, you can't," Deacy shrugged, causing all of you to laugh.

"I wanna be in it!" Brian whined.

"Get off me!"