Work Text:
London, 1971.
“You look fabulous! Really, darling, I’m telling you, you look good!”
Freddie rushed out of the bedroom and hurriedly whispered under his breath "tell him he looks good, tell him he looks good."
John followed, having of course heard Freddie’s plea, and feeling all the more self-conscious for it.
“Really, you don’t have to-“
“Oh, my, John, you look so good! Doesn’t he just look good, Brian?”
“He looks really, really good, Roger.”
Freddie was, as per usual, the first one to crack, and the other three quickly followed, the Saturday afternoon silence of the small kitchen suddenly disrupted by a roaring chorus of mirth. They laughed harder than they had in weeks, until tears welled up in Roger’s eyes and he had to sit down and beg for them all to stop. Freddie had one hand on the table and one on his stomach, all teeth and that loud hahahaha of his, while Brian was giggling and desperately waving a half-eaten buttered toast in the air. John hadn’t even made it through the door, clinging to the frame for stability and allowing himself to let go completely.
It felt good to be laughing together, John registered as everyone’s faces slowly returned to their normal colors after a few minutes, and the bellowing subsided. The last month had been exhausting to say the least, with small pub gigs every other night and larger campus ones every Friday and Saturday. They had been on the road a lot with hardly any privacy or time to study, and too many nights in a row with no more than a small handful of hours of sleep had paved the way for tired Sunday noon rehearsals, irritable replies, sharp comments and even the occasional full-on argument between the four of them.
The strange thing about it, though, was that John had enjoyed every moment, even the headaches and the rows and the strained creativity. He had felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he was really, truly part of something. And it was more than just a band, too, or even a group of friends. It was a family. They felt like a family. A place for him to do what he loved to do, to play music, and to just be himself – whoever that was – without having to worry about frowning relations who thought he was wasting his time “making all that noise”, or the judgement of his acquaintances at school who didn’t understand why he wouldn’t rather be drinking and picking up girls than rehearsing all the time. To Freddie, Roger and Brian, he wasn’t a black sheep or a weird outsider, he was someone, he mattered. At first, when he had joined the band, he had thought they merely valued him for what Brian referred to as his “mad skills” on the bass, but after a while he had slowly, carefully, come to the realization that they actually, genuinely cared about him. “This here is my good friend, John – we call him Deacy”, Roger would say when introducing John to girls, and there was something about the way he said the word “friend” that made John feel slightly confused, yet lovely warm all over in a funny, tingling sort of way. Made him feel at ease. Perhaps he was even a tiny bit proud of himself, reluctant as he had been to admit it, because he had never been anyone’s good friend before, and even to this day he could not imagine what he had done to ever become that person, that "good friend Deacy". As John regained his breath and let go of the door frame, the smiles on the faces of his friends suddenly took him back to a chilly night a couple of weeks ago, in a pitch-black parking lot on the outskirts of Brighton. Their performance that night had gone well, as had it the night before, but it was past two in the morning, they had not had anything substantial to eat since lunch, and the heavy rain was making packing up a slow and tiresome affaire. Brian was putting away the last of their stuff in the back, and in the backseat, from underneath a blanket in much need of a wash, John watched, through the hazy gaze of sleepy eyes, as Freddie and Roger bickered over whose turn it was to ride shotgun.
“I’m serious, Roger, it’s my turn.”
“You had the seat all the way out here!”
“Yes, because that was part of the deal, since you got to have it three times last weekend, don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“And! And you said it wasn’t even better to sit in the front, that you actually preferred the back,” Freddie pointed out with his index finger increasingly closer to Roger face and a sudden excitement in his voice.
“I never said that! When did I say that?”
“The other day,” Freddie beamed.
“Yeah, well, that was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before- before I got the thing with my back.” John was leaning ever so slightly forward now to get a full, yet discreet view of the spectacle.
“What? You don’t have a 'thing' with you back!”
“I do, too,” Roger insisted.
“Roger, we all know you’re making this up. You’re sleep deprived, you’re hungry, and you just want to sit-“
“Alright, ask Brian,” Roger interrupted.
“Fine, I will. Brian! Does Roger have a 'thing' with his back?”
Brian had his head thoroughly buried between guitars and mics and boxes of this and that at the other end of the car, so his voice, even to John, sounded as if it came from the bottom of an avalanche. “What?”
Freddie repeated, “does Roger have a thing with his back!”
“Yes, I know you want to get back, I’m almost done,” the muffled voice answered.
“No, that’s not- Roger, he says his back’s been hurting!”
“Mack’s been flirting?”
“I- who’s Mack”, Freddie asked bewildered.
“Mack’s that guy Brian goes to school with, isn’t it,” Roger quickly added.
“Oh, right, yeah, that really short guy with the-“
“Rainbow trousers,” they both blurted.
Freddie’s hands went up in the air again. “God, he always wears those! I mean, really, I like rainbows as much as the next guy, but the fit is all wrong, and I mean, doesn’t he ever wash them, and someone really should tell him that rainbow and brown is an odd combination. You know he wears those brown jumpers that Brian secretly admires, but I have dropped hints that he’d look ridiculous in one, so fingers crossed he won’t find out where to get them.”
“I think he has a girlfriend,” Roger suddenly interposed.
“So?”
“So, Mack has a girlfriend and flirts around. Maybe he’s not so uncool after all,” Roger smirked.
“No, he’s uncool,” Freddie established. “He also collects hair.”
“Really? From what?”
“Oh, anything, really. Cats, drains. Brian.”
“Yes?” Brian finally appeared from behind the van, soaking wet and shivering. “All done,” he added.
“Great,” Roger said, “let’s get going, then. Wait, what were we talking about?”
“You were talking about lumbagos and questionable fashion choices, amongst other things,” John replied, sticking hardly anything but his nose out of the small crack in the window. “Brian, I’m in the front, you can thank me later.”
Freddie fake-gasped loudly as Roger went “the nerve! And from someone so young!”
“I’m an old soul,” John smiled.
“Aw, he’s too precious to be mad at,” returned Freddie, nudging Roger to get in the van.
And there was that warm feeling again. John buckled up next to Brian and listened to Freddie and Roger continue their ramblings in the back as the engine started, and the muted swishing of the windscreen wiper blended with the beating of the rain on the hood and windows. The atmosphere was damp and stuffy from a mixture of sweat and wet clothes, and on the radio some soft playing of guitar strings formed a sweet, little tune that John didn’t recognize, yet found oddly familiar. Brian started soothingly humming along to its melody, and then Freddie giggled wickedly at something Roger was describing, and suddenly it didn’t matter so much that John’s head was spinning from weariness, or that they had a long drive back in the rain, or than John had a test on Monday that he hadn’t studied for, because he was not alone anymore. Yes, that was it. He sighed, leaned back and closed his eyes. He was never going to feel lonely again.
“No, but seriously,” Freddie tried again when the last of the chuckles died down. “He looks nice, doesn’t he? That will do, that will definitely do.”
Freddie had convinced John the night before that perhaps it would be a good idea for the band image if John, too, just like the rest of them, wore less conservative and more daring outfits on stage. John had protested, claiming he dressed anything but conservatively, and if Freddie wanted to see what conservative looked like, he should pay a visit to his father. Freddie had laughed and said he would love to, and John didn’t think it sounded like a joke at all. Nonetheless, Freddie had continued, there was room in John’s professional wardrobe for more silk, more glitter and definitely more jewelry. John had eyed Freddie at the mentioning of that last item, but he had been unable to keep his stern composure when Freddie positively beamed at him from the other side of the table. He looked like a man who had all kinds of dreadful ideas about how to make John look as outrageous as him, and any doubts John might have had concerning the way such clothes would make him feel were instantly overpowered by a strange feeling of excitement. Even the next day, a rare Saturday without a Queen show in the evening, Freddie’s full attention on John had him grinning involuntarily for an hour straight. Freddie had dragged John to the second bedroom of his and Roger’s shared flat, and had emptied out his entire closet and proceeded to dress John up in front of a full-body mirror, in everything from lacy tops to knitted tanks to leather platforms to oversized bowties. John thought he looked like he was going to a fancy dress party half the time, but Freddie squealed enthusiastically at each ensemble, and John’s cheeks burned in return. He couldn’t deny the fact that Freddie was being really sweet to him by wanting him to feel a part of the group in every way possible, including looks.
John looked imploringly at Roger and Brian across the kitchen table, hopefully getting at least part of his message across through the kind of non-verbal communication which he had never really mastered. He wanted them to be honest – they had a show tomorrow afternoon after all, and he didn’t want to stand out on stage as that “freakish bass guy with the pearls”.
“Maybe lose the tiara,” Brian suggested cautiously.
“Definitely lose the tiara,” Roger concurred, “but the rest is great. You look fabulous.”
“Doesn’t he just,” Freddie answered pompously, taking a step back and admiring his work. John’s stomach felt the sneaky basking of a few unwelcomed butterflies then: it somehow felt like Freddie was admiring him. But of course he wasn’t. That was silly – he was just happy he had finally gotten John to wear something that suited the band’s visual expression, an aspect of their musical careers which Freddie took very seriously. No, he definitely wasn’t looking at John.
“It’s not a little, I don’t know, too much,” John ventured.
“Absolutely not, darling!” Freddie removed the tiara and tried to straighten a few creases here and there. “The shirt needs ironing most terribly, dear, please ignore that, I’ll see to it, but I swear, it is so you.”
“But-“
“No more buts, Deacy boy, Roger and Brian agree with me. You’re out-numbered.”
“It’s a democracy now”, Roger asked.
“Hush,” Freddie returned, “or it’ll become a dictatorship, and I’ll make you wear the tiara.” He turned to John again, looking at him intently. “Glamourous!”
“You won’t feel different or weird, John,” Brian helped, “Freddie wears the same thing.”
“Yeah, well Freddie looks darn good in everything,” John replied.
And then he could swear his heart skipped a beat. He wished the floor would just swallow him up, never to be seen again. John Richard Deacon, the Mysteriously Vanishing Bass Player formerly of the band Queen. There was a slight pause, too long for comfort, in which Roger and Brian looked at Freddie and then back at John before chuckling and awkwardly agreeing. In the meantime, Freddie’s dark eyes held John’s for a brief moment, before John eventually had to look away, clear his throat and continue.
“Alright, if you all think it’s fine, I’ll wear it. Can I, um, can I change now?”
“Please do,” they all echoed.
John quickly disappeared into Freddie’s bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him. He had begun to undress when someone came into the room and gently closed the door again. John jumped like a hunted rabbit before turning around to face Freddie, who seemed just as surprised as John, turning away quickly so that he was facing the wall rather than his half-naked friend. It was weird. Only moments before, Freddie had stripped John down to his white boxers without the vaguest hint of hesitation or bother, and now he looked almost… Embarrassed? Was it because John had said that thing about Freddie looking good in everything? Oh, God, why did he always have to say such awkward things! He was a man of few words, but boy, did he know how to use them badly. John felt a growing lump in his throat as he fought frantically with his zipper.
“Oh, my, I’m sorry, darling, thought you’d finished,” Freddie exclaimed.
“It’s okay, I’m almost done.”
“I just,” Freddie began, but then he stopped. Hesitated. It was so unlike him that John forgot what he was doing mid-sock and just stared at Freddie’s back, waiting.
“I just didn’t want you to think you don’t look nice in what you normally wear, John,” Freddie at last began again. “Because you do, you know. You have your own style, and I love that. I just thought- I just wanted everyone to know that you’re one of us, you know? That you’re staying, for good. That there’s- there’s no Queen without John Deacon, bass player extraordinaire.”
If Freddie said more than that, John didn’t hear it, because his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. Freddie didn’t need to tell him that. John knew, he had known, and yet Freddie felt compelled to make sure that he did. John had no idea how to respond to that kind of appreciation and concern.
Freddie still had his back turned to John by the window. “Does that make sense at all, darling,” he asked.
When no reply came, he carefully turned around. John was decent enough now, only his feet were still bare, and his jacket was on the bed.
“You alright? John?”
John cleared his throat and continued fumbling with his sock. It was inside out, and Freddie giggled at him from the corner of the room.
“I see you’re in the middle of quite the task there, dear. I’ll leave you to it.” Before closing the door behind him again, he stuck his head back into the room and announced that Brian was making more toast.
“And I got you cheese from the store this morning, so hurry up or we’ll eat it all.”
When Freddie had left, John gave up on his socks and sat down on the bed, his face to the window. It was grey and wintry outside. The blinds were half-drawn, and from his spot at the foot of the bed, brown brick walls across the road swirled before his unfocused eyes. He could feel his heart rate slowly returning to normal as he concentrated on the noises of the street below. A few cars were passing by. A young woman was talking a mile a minute and laughing at her own story. A familiar autumn wind blew persistently between the old, narrow houses. John was trying to figure out if what he was feeling was a good or a bad thing. Had he thought about it a little longer, an infinite number of apprehensions, complications and worries would most likely had found their way into his conscious mind and pulled him out of his reverie, but for now, all he could think of was the way Freddie had locked eyes with him back in the kitchen. Everything else was a blur. Everything else could wait. John held on to that feeling as long as he could. He wanted to treasure it forever, never to spoil or tarnish it.
He wanted to kiss Freddie Mercury.