ᵍʳᵒᵘᵖⁱᵉ

˚₊‧꒰ა 🎤 ‧₊˚

[ i've got it ]

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰.

Paul spoke of Freddie's sexuality and 'inappropriate' actions, as well as how his passion for music and songwriting has hindered over the years. The line picked up, and he heard the gravelly voice of Jim, "Hello?... Hello?"

"Miami?"

"Freddie? How are you?"

"There was this Africa concert... that wants Queen to play. Is- Is that still..." Freddie softly recalled, ignoring the man's questions.

"You mean Live Aid?" Jim asked. "They've announced all the bands, Freddie. It's too late."

Freddie sighed, "I need... I need to reconnect with the mothership."

"Freddie, they don't want anything to do with you. They're still very upset."

"Maybe if- if you ask them, they would meet me. Tell them that I want to talk. Just talk," he pleaded, before taking a gulp. "We're family... You know, family have fights... all the time."

"I can call."

"Thank you... Jim."

Averting his eyes back to the television screen, he listened to the ending of the interview. "As this friend, somebody who probably knows Freddie Mercury better than anybody else, how would you describe him inside as a person?" the reporter questioned.

"For me, Freddie will always be this frightened little Paki boy... who's afraid to be alone," Paul answered.

"I hope he sees this and realizes what he has lost in you."

"I hope he does too."

"A close and important friend."

Freddie nervously drummed his fingers on the leather armrest, before moving to sleek back his hair. Jim watched him from his desk with a frown, and the singer looked over at him. "Where are they?"

"They're late," Jim said with a gentle tone, giving him a pointed stare. There was a knock on the door, and Freddie was quick to sniff away his tears as the door opened. "Hi, guys."

"Jim," Brian nodded, looking over at the singer as he took a seat on the couch, followed by Roger and Deacy.

"If anybody wants any tea, coffee, bladed weapons, just- just ask," Jim smiled. "So, who wants to go first?"

"I'll start," Freddie quickly stated, causing the others to turn their gaze to them. "I've been hideous. I know that and... I deserve your fury. I've been conceited... selfish... Well, an asshole, basically."

"Strong beginning," Roger scowled, glancing away.

"Look, I'm happy to strip off my shirt and flagellate myself before you. Or rather, I could ask you a simple question."

"I'm good with the flagellation," the drummer shrugged.

Freddie sighed, nodding to himself before asking, "What's it gonna take for you all to forgive me?"

"Is that what you want, Freddie?" Brian questioned. "I forgive you. Is that it? Can we go now?"

"No." Freddie paused as Brian tilted his head in query, waiting for him to continue. "I went to Munich. I hired a bunch of guys. I told them exactly what I wanted them to do, and the problem was... they did it. No pushback from Roger. None of your rewrites," he muttered to Brian, before looking at Deacy. "None of his funny looks." The drummer and bassist couldn't help but allow a small smile to lift at the corners of their lips. "I need you... And you need me." He patted Brian's knee with a soft grin. "Let's face it. We're not bad for four again queens. So, um, go ahead. Name your terms."

Brian inhaled sharply as he spoke, "Could you give us a moment please, Fred?"

The singer looked slightly shocked, and the guitarist raised his brows. Freddie reluctantly stood, and Roger's eyes widened as the man actually listened. 

When the door closed, signaling his leave, Deacy looked over at Brian. "Why'd you do that?"

"I just felt like it." Roger and Brian chuckled as the former shrugged, lulling his head back against the sofa. Jim stood from his desk, heading outside. He looked over to the left, finding the singer leaning against the wall, hands in his pocket.

The lawyer came to a stop in front of him as he looked down the hallway. "They'll be alright. They just need a bit of time," he assured.

"What if I don't have time?"

Jim split his gaze to the singer, brows pulled into a worried frown. "What do you mean, Fred?"

Before he could speak, the sound of the door clicking had both the men looking over, where Deacy stood with a pursed pout of his lips. "You can come back in now, if you'd like."

Freddie nodded, following the bassist, casting a glance over the other band members. Roger sniffed, clearing his throat shortly as he sat down in his original chair. "We decided," the drummer started, leaning forward, before he squinted in mock thought. "What did we decide?"

"From now on," Deacy spoke with clasped hands. "Every song, no matter who wrote it, music, lyrics, it's by Queen. Not one of us, just Queen. All the money, all the credits, split four ways evenly."

"Done," Freddie nodded in agreement.

"We have a problem with the people around you," Roger added.

"Paul is out. I fired him."

"On what pretext?" Deacy asked.

"Villainy." Brian and the bassist smiled, amused, before he proceeded, "What else?"

"Bob Geldof," Jim said. "I called to convince him to squeeze you guys into the lineup for the Live Aid concert, but he wants an answer now. You have to make a decision. Every ticket's already sold. 100,000 people at Wembley... 100,000 people at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, a global TV audience around the world of 150 countries, 13 satellites. The Olympics only had three."

"We haven't played together in years," Roger murmured. "It's kinda suicide to play again for the first time in front of millions."

"Try over 1.5 billion," Brian corrected with a grimace. Roger's mouth dropped as his brows rose in shock, whilst Brian chuckled, "'Who are these four dinosaurs?' 'Where's Madonna?'"

"It's a 20-minute set. Everyone gets the same," Jim informed. "Jagger, Bowie, Elton, McCartney, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Phil Collins, REO Speedwagon, Bob Dylan."

"Certainly good company," Deacy commented.

"Anybody who is anybody is doing this concert."

"Look," Freddie called, and the others turned their gaze to him. "All I know is that if we wake up the day after this concert, and we didn't do our part... we're going to regret it till the day we die. Please."

Freddie laid in his bed, the dark blue sheets wrapped around him as if he were caught up in a cocoon of silk. Rising from the bed, he made his way into the bathroom as he slowly got ready for his appointment. In his white tank top and jeans, the singer stared at himself in the mirror for a moment.

Leaving his apartment, he soon found himself in the doctor's office, walking down the dim hallway with his hands stuffed in his pocket.

Soon, the appointment took place, and after half an hour of tests, Freddie sat opposite the doctor, who frowned deeply after telling him the dreadful news. "Do you understand? The way we go from here is that treatments are available. They're not particularly effective, Freddie."

The man looked down with a heavy intake of breath as he pondered the news. After a few minutes, Freddie left the office, his eyes tracing his footsteps, wandering past a man who he paid no mind to.

"Eh-oh."

Freddie stopped, glancing over his shoulders, before softly singing, "Eh-oh."

Convinced our voices,

Can't be heard.

We just wanna scream it,

Louder and louder, louder.

What the hell

We fighting for?

Yeah!

Just surrender and

It won't hurt at all.

Freddie came to an abrupt stop, fingers grazing his neck as he shut his eyes, the pain blossoming from his throat being too much for him to continue singing.

"Yep. Mm-mmm," Deacy nodded, looking at the singer in front of him before glancing at Brian and Roger. "Let's call it. Yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah," Brian agreed.

"Sorry," Freddie apologized, licking his lips as he let out a dry chuckle. "I sound like shit. You all are lovely, you sound good. Been a while. My throat feels like a vulture's crotch."

The boys chuckled before Roger spoke up, "We've still got a week."

"We'll get there," the bassist smiled.

"Yeah, we're in a good place, Fred," Brian assured. "You just need a bit of rest, that's all."

Freddie nodded, blinking rapidly. "Yeah."

"Get a drink, Rog?"

"Yeah, there's a nice little pub down the road, actually."

"Can I come?"

"We've just an exclusive."

"No, of course not. Invite only."

"Yeah, that's kind of you."

"Before you leave..." Freddie turned around, facing his friends. "Could I have a second?"

The boys shared a look, before Roger nodded, "Yeah. What's up?"

"I've got it."

Brian and Roger looked at Freddie, brows furrowed in slight confusion as Deacy shook his head. "Got what?"

"AIDS. I wanted you to hear it from me."

Roger stared at the singer, eyes wide in shock, as Brian glanced down at his feet, taking a soft breath, "Fred, I'm so sorry."

"Brian, stop," the singer dismissed, shaking his head softly. "Don't. For right now, it's between us. Alright? Just us. So, please, if any of you... fuss about it or frown about it, or worst of all... if you bore me with your sympathy, that's just seconds wasted." Deacy raised his gaze to the ceiling, tears threatening to spill from his lids. "Seconds that could be used making music, which is all I want to do with the time I have left. I don't have time to be their victim, their AIDS poster boy, their cautionary tale. No, I decide who I am. I'm going to be what I was born to be. A performer... who gives the people what they want." He raised his finger to the roof, with a soft utter, "Touch of the Heavens. Freddie fucking Mercury."

"You're a legend, Fred."

"You're bloody right I am. We're all legends. But you're right, I am a legend." The others laughed, Brian lifting his hands to his eyes, wiping away the tears that had formed. "Now, you give me a chance to get my bitchy little vocal cords in order... and we'll got and punch a hole through the roof of that stadium."

"Actually, Wembley doesn't have a roof," Deacy informed, causing chuckles to escape the band. 

"Alright."

"No, he's right. It doesn't."

"Then we'll punch a hole in the sky." Freddie smiled at his friends. His family. The four moved into one another, embracing each other as he joked, "Now, even though you're crying like three little girls, I still love you."

"Alright, enough of this."

"Drink?"

"Yes!"

"Or ten?"

A grin lifted at the corners of your lips as you watched Freddie play with Rufus, and your daughter, Tigerlily. Yes, you know it was quite absurd, but Roger had been so mesmerized and adamant on naming the baby girl such an audacious name, you had no choice but to comply. Although, the name did suit the feisty child. 

"How's the practicing going?" you questioned, walking over to your best friend. He smiled up at you as you slowly sat down on the spot beside him on the couch, handing him a mug of coffee. God knows you were stocked up on it.

"It's going well. My vocal cords have been terrible though," he sighed, relishing the taste of the dark drink.

"Well, like you said, you couldn't sing off-key even if you tried," you recalled, and the man chuckled, glancing down at Tigerlily with a fond look in his eyes. You tilted your head, before going to question, "Bubs, what did you need to talk about?"

This caused a frown to pull at Freddie's features as he silently gulped. Placing his mug down on the coffee table, he shifted his body on the couch to face you directly. He grabbed ahold of your hands, fiddling with your fingers and your wedding ring, toying with the silver band. You watched him with an amused smile as he slowly spoke, "Y/N, I'm sick." You felt your body slow to a pause as you stared at the singer, confusion and slight terror etched across your face. "I'm really sick."

"Wh- What do you mean?" you questioned, discovering your voice to be shaky.

Freddie gulped, looking down at your interlocked hands, squeezing them tighter as if to reassure himself and you. "I have AIDS."

A gasp escaped your lips as you lowered your gaze, your lip trembling as shaky breaths escaped your chest. You could your heartbeat going erratic as you stumbled over your words, "That... That's not true. You're lying."

"I wish I was lying, my dear," he mumbled. 

"No!" you exclaimed, wrenching your fingers from his as you stood up in a flurry. "You- You can't be sick! I won't accept it!"

Your legs shook, and a moment later, you felt your body tumble to the floor, landing with a clatter as you slid down onto your knees. Heavy sobs spewed from your lips as tears trickled down your red cheeks. Freddie was quick to follow, gathering you into his arms as you immediately responded, wrapping yourself in his embrace. "Oh, my dear, sweet Y/N," he whispered, sniffling.

"Freddie..." you cried softly, pressing your head to his chest, inhaling his peppermint scent you had grown so fond of over the years. "You can't leave me... I need you. I need my best friend."

"No, none of that." Freddie was quick to dismiss, raising your chin with his finger so that you had to look at him. "You could take on this crappy world with your eyes closed, my dear. You don't need me. You don't. "

You sniffled softly, using your palms to dry away your tears. "You're right, bubs. I can live in this world without you... I just don't want to."

Freddie smiled softly, brushing your hair back behind your shoulders as you heaved a heavy sigh. "I don't want your sympathy. Goodness knows I feel it from the boys."

"They know?" you asked.

"Yes. I told them yesterday, during our rehearsal."

"I knew something was wrong! Roger came home all quiet. And you know him, he's like a walking bazooka." 

Freddie chuckled at your taunting, before a soft voice called out, "Mummy, are you alright?"

Both you and the singer turned your heads, finding Rufus peaking from the armrest of the sofa, an adorable frown resting on his features. You chuckled with a sniff, opening your arms wide, and the boy immediately took the invitation, rushing into your embrace. "I'm alright. Just emotional, that's all."

"At least you have Uncle Freddie here," he smiled, eyes closed as he dozed off.

You glanced up at the man beside you with a small grin. "Yes. At least I have your Uncle Freddie."

For now.