Chapter Text
Snow falls in fat wet flakes over the streets of London. It's not a pretty snow but heavy and blinding, the kind that threatens to freeze the air in your lungs. The streets are empty but for thick drifts piling up, and lights are dim in barren windows. No one with sense is out in this sort of weather.
Roger Taylor stomps his boots on the sidewalk in a feeble attempt at trying to knock of ice from the tread, a litany of curses mumbled under his breath. Filomena is buried in his scarf, and even still she’s shivering against his skin. “Next time I decide food is more important than warmth, bite me.”
Filly nods, then nips at him to bring the point home.
By the time they make it home, Roger’s teeth are chattering and he can barely feel his legs. The heat’s not on of course - they can’t afford it - but being out of the wind and snowfall is a mercy. Not bothering with minor inconveniences like setting down the parcel in his arms, he drops to the floor and spends the next few minutes shivering against the wood, breathing on his fingers to restore some feeling.
Webbed feet enter his narrowed field of vision, and he blinks blearily up at Azara, her inscrutable eyes blinking dolefully at him from her lovely white head. “You look half dead, Roger.”
“Thanks,” he says, because at least that means he looks half alive.
Well-manicured feet step up to join the swan’s, and Freddie’s voice rings too loud in the room. “She’s right, dear, you look downright sodden. Do get off the floor, no need for dramatics.”
When all he receives is a middle finger in reply, Freddie tuts and seems to take matters in his own hands, because a second later he’s being hoisted to his feet. Both stumble, but Freddie steadies them both, then wastes no time in peeling layer after damp layer from Roger’s shaking form.
“Honestly, we could have waited until tomorrow, love. What were you able to afford, soup and tea?” Freddie tuts, rubbing his hands through Roger’s hair with just the right amount of invigorating force.
Filly slinks out of the scarf at last, whiskers flared. “Thank you, Freddie.”
“Of course, ‘Mena.”
Roger bends to let her down, where she hops over to Azara, wasting no time in snuggling up to the swan. “Bread, too,” Roger mumbles, “and some aspirin for Deaky.”
Freddie’s lips are pursed, but his eyes are warm and sympathetic. “Let’s get you into something warm, then.”
By the time he’s warm enough, Roger’s wearing two of his own shirts, one of Freddie’s, and Brian’s baggiest blazer on top of it all. Slippers and sweats complete the rather unflattering look, but he couldn’t be assed to care, especially since his only company is currently tucked against his side, both his hands wrapped around Roger’s still chilled ones. Filly and Azara are on the back of the sofa, curled together and napping.
“John’s not going to like knowing you went out for him.” The words are quiet and Freddie’s breath sends goosebumps racing down his neck.
“Yeah, well,” Roger shrugs. They all need the food, John just needs it the most. Almost on cue, a rough cough comes from the far room, and both men look over at it before lowering their voices further. “We didn’t have anything else.”
Not as asleep as she looks, Azara shifts in his peripheral, feathers a lovely fan as she adjusts. Craning her long neck, she looks down at Filly first, then over to Roger. “We’ll have made due. We always have.”
Her voice, pitched low and calming, always warms him, and Roger can’t help but give her a feeble smile. When a daemon speaks to you, you listen. “I know, but he sounds miserable. And I know Brian hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning.” Talk of food brings a growl to his own stomach. Luckily it's not audible, but Freddie’s elbow is pressed against his side and he undoubtedly feels it. The look Freddie gives him is overkill.
“Okay, yeah, I’m hungry too, and so are you.” Leaning his head sideways, temple pressed to Freddie’s hair, he sighs. “We don’t have enough money for new strings, and my last pair of sticks broke three days ago. We’re kind of proper fucked, Fred.”
Freddie fiddles with Roger’s fingers, flipping and curling them this way and that, his lips pursed. “‘Fred’, he says,” he mutters under his breath. “Brian’s rubbing off on you.”
Letting out a loud breath, he adds, “true enough. Still, one of you being sick is hard enough. Don’t want to make it two, love.” It’s accentuated by a tap on the nose. Roger wrinkles it, and ignores the urge to sneeze.
Roger falls into a doze while Freddie shifts his attention from Roger’s hands to a pad of paper, doodling a lily then jotting down what looks like a mess of lyrics. He stops when Roger starts shivering again, who wakes with a start when Freddie shifts to grab them both a throw. It’s thin and stained, but it’s something, and when they both curl together beneath it, warmth starts to pool between them. Roger shifts until he’s practically laying on top of Freddie, who only smiles and wraps his arms around him. “There, get comfy love, that’s the ticket.”
“Thanks, Freddie,” Roger mumbles, lips feather-light against the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Be lost without ya.”
“That we can both agree on, my dear.”