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John didn’t get to kiss Freddie after all. At least not on that Saturday, anyway. When at last the rain had started to fall, making gentle, rhythmic taps on the little window and overriding the sounds of the street below in John’s clouded and susceptible mind, the spell of wistful contemplation was broken. He had left Freddie’s room in a hurry; staying there had somehow begun to feel as if he was taking a liberty which was not his to take, as if he was suddenly invading a part Freddie’s private sphere preserved for no one but his larger-than-life self. The silk between John’s fingers as he put away the clothes which Freddie had used to dress him up earlier now felt different to his touch. It felt softer. Heavier. John had started to feel light-headed by the thought of him wearing Freddie’s shirts, his pants. There was something not quite right about that. It was too intimate, too… Soon. He had closed the closet door with too much force then, instigating a mirthful yell of “just leave it on the floor, darling” from the kitchen, the impact of which John had instantly felt in his cheeks. He practically ran out the bedroom door and straight into Brian’s arms.
“Whoa, whoa, you in a rush?”
“Sorry! I’m sor- no, no rush, just, you know”, John convincingly stammered. This embarrassing behavior of his really had to stop before the others became suspicious of whatever the heck it was that was taking over John’s poor brain this fine afternoon.
“Are you not wearing any socks?”
John didn’t want to look down. Perhaps he should have. Yes, he definitely should have. Would have given him something to do. Instead, John kept looking intently at Brian, patiently waiting for words to form in that foggy head of his. But alas, he had forgotten how to speak. Language was a complete and utter foreign concept to him. He had apparently also forgotten how to blink, and oh, how he soon wished he could forget how incredibly annoying Roger’s laugher could be when directed at him.
“They’re probably in the closet,” Brian carefully ventured, which instantly resulted in Roger spitting chewed-up toast with butter and inhumanly large quantities of jelly all over the kitchen table in an explosive burst of painful merriment. The table top soon looked like something straight out of a slasher film.
John almost jumped out of his skin, the laugh was so unexpectedly loud. Brian’s friendly eyes barely hid an apparently overwhelming urge to chuckle triumphantly.
“Would you two stop! This instant! What is up with you? Here, John, forget about the bloody socks, come sit down.” Freddie moved from the counter to pull out a chair and place a colorful plate in front of it, all the while eyeing Roger with overbearing contempt as the blond wiped his mouth in his sleeve and regained his breath after more or less choking on what was left of his sandwich. John hesitated for what must have been merely seconds: should he make up an excuse to leave? What might he say, that he was meeting his family? Had to study? Surely there was some urgent package to pick up at the post office? A laundry basket to empty? Before he could decide on any evasive maneuver to get him out of having to explain himself, or even worse suffer Brian and Roger’s continuous insinuations, Freddie uttered another one of those usually so comforting “darlings” as a way to get John to sit down at the appointed chair, and John found he had no choice but to obey.
“Here you go, dear. You want cheese with that?” Freddie placed two slices of burned toast in front of John with a dramatic flick of the wrist, getting crumbs absolutely everywhere on the yellow tablecloth, the state of which was getting increasingly alarming.
“Um.”
To tell the truth, John had been ravenous less than half an hour ago, but now, with Roger’s snicker still hanging in the air, and Freddie suddenly treating him like he was five, he had lost his appetite. He really just wanted to go home.
“Um, no. Thanks. I’m actually not that hungry.”
“Suit yourself!” Freddie grabbed his own jelly sandwich from off his plate and jumped, in one swift movement, onto the counter, his heels kicking the cupboard below loudly in the process. He didn’t start talking again until his mouth was completely stuffed with bread.
“Swo, pwacthuf turrorror?”
“What,” Brian cried.
“A shwuu-“
“Freddie, swallow first, will you? We can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
Freddie chewed meticulously, swallowed deeply and opened his mouth as wide as he could in Brian’s direction, his tongue halfway to the tip of his chin and still covered in tiny bits of toast.
“Satisfied,” he asked brashly.
“Yes. What did you want to tell us, Freddie,” Brian asked in a mock-polite tone.
“I asked you all if we were going to do any practice tomorrow. My mother wanted to have me over for Sunday lunch, but to be honest, I’d much prefer practice. My father keeps nagging me about… Well, about everything, really, and I could so use a break.”
“Sure, yeah, let’s practice,” Roger replied, with Brian confirming his clear schedule the following day.
“You free, John,” Roger asked. “I could pick you up on the way there.”
And just like that, the awkwardness was gone. John accepted the lift, and Roger proceeded to ask John if he could bring those lyrics Roger had left at his place the other day, because he had some time the following week to hopefully finish the song he was currently working on. The conversation naturally progressed from there, and soon the four of them were discussing bass lines, vocal harmonies, upcoming gigs and money for gas in high spirits as the four professionals they were when it came to their music and the band. Everyone was allowed an opinion, everyone got a say. John had no issues making his sentiments known on the inappropriate length of Brian’s latest guitar solo or the brilliant addition of ‘Jailhouse Rock’ to their new set list. Hadn’t Freddie said that he was one of them, that there was no Queen without John Deacon? Hell, no, there wasn’t, and John knew it. It’s what made early morning classes bearable on rainy Mondays. It’s what made cold showers and oatmeal for dinner somehow worth it. It’s what made him smile even when there was little to smile about. In some mushy way, Roger and Brian occasionally teasing him felt like a compliment – as if, on some still unfathomable level, they saw John as a younger brother. He absentmindedly broke a chunk off his toast and munched on its crisp edges as he plotted a subtle revenge on his bandmates, thoroughly searching his mind for a fitting payback for yanking his chain just now. There was a far-away smirk in his grey-blue eyes which only Freddie seemed to notice. John didn’t mind if Freddie knew – he liked being somebody’s younger brother, especially Brian and Roger’s, but younger brothers retaliate. That’s how families work, and theirs was no exception. He was going to make sure of that. If Freddie kept his eyes a little longer than usual on John’s face just then, John ignored it. He had to ignore it – he had no way of knowing if the comforting warmth in the pit of his stomach was the result of those dark, mischievous eyes trying to read his mind or the now familiar realization of having friends, of actually having people around him who valued his opinion on any and all matters and shared their feelings with him in return. Freddie was soon occupied with the topic of white versus black platforms followed by an audio demonstration of a “jolly, little tune” he had fabricated the night before, and John decided that he had merely overreacted before. He pushed all strange thoughts and feelings aside which had confused him so while looking out Freddie’s bedroom window minutes earlier and returned to the here and now: music, Queen, friends. Friends. That was all. Gosh, how silly he had been!
About a week later, John took that silliness of his to a whole new level. All thoughts of Freddie as anything else but the brilliant lead singer of their band had been pushed to the back of John’s mind, with school, band practice and an incredibly successful campus gig taking center stage and occupying all of his time. Thursday of that following week had been almost too good to be true: not only had John gotten an A on a test which had haunted him all semester, but their show that night had been absolutely packed, with hundreds of college students yelling and cheering as the last slam of Roger’s drumsticks reverberated through the dim, sweaty auditorium, and Freddie’s angelic voice sieved through the exultant, and quite possibly mightily drunk, crowd and echoed mysteriously in the stagnant air. John’s cheeks had burned with bliss and pride and utter exhaustion, and it was the best feeling in the world. Sure, the venue had been miniscule and the pay insignificant, yet their playing had felt flawless and the audience loved them, and that was the only thing that really mattered. They’d touched a few hundred souls that night with the melodies which they spend all their free time writing and rewriting and fine-tuning and rehearsing. People – real, living, breathing people – had joined in and sung at the top of their voices the words which days earlier had only existed in the minds and hearts of the four of them. Those words, those fragile, inexperienced words, were brought to life that night. Putting them down on paper or even singing them in Freddie and Roger’s flat on weekday evenings didn’t do the job of maturing them – it wasn’t until they soared from every moving body in that crowded, gloomy hall somewhere in Outer London that their true meaning was revealed to John, that those words finally made sense. That was why his cheeks burned as Roger, Brian and he joined Freddie on the edge of the platform on which they had performed and took a bow to a still delightfully cheery audience. His cheeks burned, and he couldn’t stop smiling. And for the briefest of moments, his eyes met Freddie’s, and his heart skipped a beat. High as he was on the thrill of their show, the smoke, the lights, the music, the screaming, he almost lost his balance: Freddie’s dark eyes had shone like the brightest of stars on pale, moonless nights. So far away, so unattainable, yet so real and so sympathetic. As if the light in them had been turned on just to reach John and make him feel special, make him feel… Loved. John wanted to stare into those starry miracles for ever and ever and then some more.
John hardly remembered how he ended up backstage, in the chilly, empty classroom the size of a small flat in which they’d gotten ready a little over an hour earlier and left all of their bags and coats and gear. Brian had already changed into his normal clothes and was packing up, and Roger had gone somewhere, probably talking up a pretty, blonde freshman in the place where they served the alcohol.
“Alright, I’m taking this stuff to the van,” Brian broke the silence. “Could you guys get the amplifiers?” He was out the door before he said the last word, the sounds of that distant party abruptly dying as the door closed after him with a distinct cluck. John dared not lift his gaze from where it was currently fixed to the little space between his feet. He was still wearing his stage outfit – a bold, black, shimmering ensemble put together by Freddie and approved by John through a compromise which had been reached on the grounds that Brian wore something similar. He had liked wearing it on stage, too. It was light and smooth and made him feel almost glamorous (a concept he was yet to get used to) when Freddie stole subtle looks at him in between songs. In the half-darkness of the classroom, John could now feel Freddie moving towards him in silence. When Freddie finally spoke, John’s breathing already felt labored, and the butterflies in his stomach were back and apparently up to no good.
“You were amazing tonight, darling. And you looked absolutely fabulous.”
“T-thank you. So did-“
“Did you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“Fabulous?”
John tried to meet Freddie’s eyes, but it was difficult. Difficult not to blush, difficult not to stare. Difficult not to look at those rosy, plum lips hiding his beautiful, toothy smile.
“I guess I did, yeah.” John involuntarily led out a chuckle that sounded way too nervous for this kind of intimate atmosphere. There was no way Freddie did not know what was on his mind. Of course he did – Freddie seemed to know everything that went on in John’s fuzzy head, and John was still trying to figure out if that was a curse or a blessing. However, the relevant question to be asking right now was, what was on Freddie’s mind? Why were they standing so close, talking about John’s looks? Surely John wasn’t imagining this; no, this was real life, this was really happening. Freddie really was reaching up to tug a lock of curly hair behind John’s burning ear. Freddie really was moving closer, lifting John’s chin ever so slightly and meeting his wide-open eyes.
“John,” he spoke softly, unexpectedly. It wasn’t a question, or a reprimand. It felt more like a plea, a prayer. John kissed Freddie so quickly, it almost threw the singer off balance.
Retaliation.
There was more passion in the kiss than John had ever imaged there’d be. No traces of softness, of tender romance, was detectable – they were all over each other, clawing each other’s backs, pulling each other’s hair, tongue fighting tongue in a wet, hungry battle which was so wrong it felt right. Maybe they kissed like that, like animals, because they knew that whatever it was they were doing couldn’t last very long. Brian would be back in mere minutes, mumbling and complaining about their lack of cooperation in loading the van. Roger might return any second with a girl on his arm, asking them if “gorgeous here” could catch a ride to town. So they kissed and kissed as if they would never kiss again, their bodies pressed together as if their lives depended on it. John never wanted to let go, was sure he couldn’t let go. Freddie was so warm and slender and strong, and he shivered every time John touched his ass. So John grabbed it and rubbed it and fingered it and got so hard in the process that Freddie moaned loudly in John’s mouth and pushed him back against the nearest table, tight silk rubbing against tight silk, and pearls of sweat forming on John’s heaving chest.
Stop. Stop. Stop! John’s inner voice was trying to be rational, but his body wasn’t complying at all. Freddie was suddenly on his knees, fumbling with John’s zipper and whispering “you’re so fucking hot I could die”. John’s entire lower body felt as if it was on fire. He grabbed both sides of Freddie’s head to steady himself, and he could almost see the tension building up in Freddie’s muscles as he began to pull down John’s pants, his mouth twitching in anticipation in between the occasional “I want to fuck you so hard” and “I want to make you scream”. John hissed as the cold air hit his erect cock, and he pulled Freddie’s hair so hard then that he was afraid he was hurting the other man. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how to stop. He was shaking all over. Positively trembling. He needed Freddie to take him in his mouth right now or he was sure he was going to faint.
“Yes! Yes,” he cried softly. “Suck me, suck me good.”
And he did. Freddie grabbed the base of John’s cock, his hand moist and warm, and started sucking at the tip which was already leaking enthusiastically. Freddie’s tongue swirled around and around, before he finally took John’s full length in his wide-open mouth and started moving rhythmically up and down, up and down. Up. And down. Choked gasps escaped John’s throat, as he shifted his weight from his feet to his ass, pressed as he was against the sharp edge of the wooded table top, his toes curling and uncurling in his leather platforms. So this was what it felt like. This was it! How could such simple movements be so pleasurable? How could his heart be pounding out of his chest because Freddie was touching him there? How come they’d never done this before? How!
Just as John thought he couldn’t last much longer, they both registered them – the footsteps approaching the door. The handle was turned, and Freddie was on his feet again in milliseconds, his flushed face tuned to the window so as to hide what was happening in his pants. John didn’t know how to cover himself up so quickly, so he somehow ended up fake-coughing, as he hastily moved away from where Freddie had left him against the table, his body crouched forward and his hands busy with pulling his pants back up, unfortunately unsuccessfully so.
Someone flung the door open in a rush.