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Freddie spends the next three shags of his life bored utterly stiff and he absolutely blames Roger’s handsome roommate.
Well, two shags really. The first had been a boy from his design class he’s been flirting coyly with for nearly a month before finally accepting his offer of coffee and, Gods, hadn’t the boy turned out to be a bore. Constantly asking if Freddie was having a good time until Freddie had finally, tersely, informed him that, sorry darling, but he really wasn’t. The second had been in a club and he actually, come to think of it, also blames Roger for this one because if Roger had simply come along for a night of drunken shenanigans as imperiously instructed and not had a band practice with the aforementioned gangly roommate, Freddie wouldn’t have been thinking about gentle long fingers and soulful hazel eyes while he was giving head to a meat-handed oaf in the bathroom, which rather spoiled the whole affair.
By the time it comes to the third one, a gorgeous specimen of a gentleman with blonde hair and thick thighs, he gives up before he even begins and instead walks home to sleep on Mary’s sofa in a frankly horrid mood.
He’s still marching around like a bear with a sore head come Wednesday, though some of that could be due to the commiserating bottle of red he and Mary shared before he passed out rather than his current predicament. It’s nearly been a full week after his somewhat-illicit dawnlight tryst with a man too tall and too beautiful for sense and he can’t get it out of his head for the life of him. The most scintillating part of his sex life this week has been whenever he’s managed to find a free shower and and had as luxurious a wank one can have whilst in a race against the hot water tank, all the while picturing Brian fucking May.
So, okay, Freddie has been harbouring a little bit of a crush on Brian for a while now. It’s hard not to, the boy standing so tall yet so awkward and unsure, unaware of his own beauty, his voice soft but with an edge of strength that always makes Freddie sit up and pay attention, and a kindness to his giant frame that Freddie aches for.
Besides, Freddie gifts crushes like they’re sugar to be sprinkled across life. He can find almost anything in anyone to be worthy of infatuation, and falls in and out of love at the drop of a hat. He’d fallen in love with the shop clerk this morning only to forget the whole affair when he’d instead fallen in love with some boots he’d found on display on Earls Court Road that were completely divine.
He’s fickle and changeable and finds those traits awfully romantic in himself, and thus never really acted on his crush aside from some truly shameless flirting. But, again, Freddie does that with everyone.
Besides Brian has always seemed far too repressed, bless him, to notice anything about Freddie. He’s never before responded to Freddie’s admiring comments with anything other than good humour and a slight flush on his pale cheeks, which was a lot more than Freddie expected from the slightly uptight STEM student. But, then again, Brian is in a rock and roll band. And a rock and roll band with Roger of all people.
The other night throws Freddie’s whole perception of the situation totally off, or maybe just settles it into place. Brian has always been intense, but boy was he intense with his hand working Freddie and his tongue in his mouth. Brian has always been quiet, but the memory of his soft little moans keep catching at Freddie in unsuspecting moments and stealing at his heartbeat. Brian has always been gorgeous, but Freddie can’t stop thinking about the way the dawn light lingered across his angular face as Freddie stole quietly away.
Well. Freddie’s never been one to sit at home and mope about for any longer than the couple or so hours of required pouting, so he forces himself out of the bed that’s mostly his, at least until Mary’s roommate stops sleeping at her boyfriend’s, and decides to go and do something about it.
His hand hovers over a soft item of clothing, stolen from a chair and slipped over his head when his leotard proved too difficult to wrangle himself back into so early, and almost instantly he discards the idea. If he went around parading all the tops he’s nicked from men he’s slept with in front of the men he’s slept with he wouldn’t have any clothes left at all. Even if he does have the sneaking suspicion that Brian, quiet, shy, Brian, would really love it.
Another time, maybe, he thinks- promises- and heads out to see what London has on offer for him.
***
Roger Taylor is always unspeakably easy to locate, so Roger is his first port of call.
The blonde has a hectic schedule of lectures and classes, all designed to make him a medical-degree-wielding, fully-contributing, member of society, so Freddie heads first to the student bar and, when that fails, to the music rooms on the fifth floor.
He finds Roger in the third one he tries.
“I always knew you loved that drum-kit more than me,” He sighs by way of introducing himself, and Roger’s head shoots up with a toothy grin.
“What can I say, she bangs better than you.”
Freddie arches an eyebrow. “Well, whose fault is that ?”
Roger laughs, mischief and sex, and begins such an enthusiastic drum roll for Freddie to saunter into the cramped room to that Freddie quite forgets his original intentions with finding his friend. Instead he rips a page from Roger’s notebook and settles himself on the floor behind the drums, the red velvet muffling curtains spilling around his shoulders as Roger plays him beats to comment on, writing notes and little asides of ideas to himself as they go. The pair of them have passed hours like this before, Roger tapping out a rhythm for Freddie to hum along to as a guide, before they take apart the beat and examine it between them. Roger never takes offence when Freddie makes his suggestions, which makes him one of the stronger men Freddie knows. Roger always listens silently and taps out a response on his drums, playing out the advice and adapting it as he needs.
They’ve been friends for over a year now and Roger still doesn’t seem any closer to offering Freddie something more from the band he slaves over. Maybe it’s a group decision and Freddie just hasn’t made the cut, but Freddie thinks it rather more likely that Roger simply hasn’t had the thought yet. Which is fine, Freddie can wait. Besides, the only slot he could possibly fill right now would be keyboard player and Freddie has substantially larger visions for his future than that, thank you very much.
“No band today?” He asks lightly, toying with the edge of a cymbal he’s found on the floor, probably discarded by Roger in one of his piques of organising and reorganising his kit.
“Later,” Roger mutters around a pencil, before crossing out some notes he’s made for himself and then holding out a hand for Freddie’s to compare. “Brian’s buried somewhere in the library, Tim’s in class, and I have a date in about…. shit twenty minutes ago.”
From there the bubble of peace breaks into Roger scrambling about for jacket, cigarettes, big ring of studio keys, unceremoniously shepherding Freddie out of the room with his jacket still hanging off one arm as he locks up. Cigarette is still fully lit in his mouth though as he flicks his collar and asks, “You’ll be back for practice later though, right? You can tell Brian you agree with me about that pacing.”
Which sounds like more of a danger than Freddie has particularly planned on confronting with Brian tonight, and really it’s less that he agrees with Roger and more that he agrees the song needs to be faster than the snail pace Roger is probably exaggerating Brian as advocating, but he does think that the song needs help so he probably will show up later regardless.
He says, “If I don’t find anything better to do,” which Roger knows is a yes in sheep’s clothing and disappears with a ‘see ya Freddie!’ thrown over his shoulder.
Freddie straightens out his jacket from where he’s practically been hauled from the room, and heads for the library.
This isn’t an area of the college that Freddie spends much time in, if he’s being honest. His classes are in the art school and the specialised library there contains multitudes on everything he could ever hope to devour on fashion, graphics, history, that he rarely needs to venture anywhere else aside from the music rooms. He’s certain he’s going to get lost, and nearly does when he spots a harried looking girl walking purposefully by and, going off instinct, follows her right to the front doors of the central library.
He almost gets lost again inside. The library is so big and Brian isn’t where Freddie thought he’d find him, buried in the dusty stacks of boring physics books. But in the end, he finds him in the pitifully small music section, surrounded by thick textbooks he must have hauled up from the lower floors, and scribbling furiously into a notebook that’s seen better days.
He doesn’t notice Freddie to begin with, which suits Freddie fine because it gives him the opportunity to study the other boy. He hasn’t seen Brian since the other night, and he can’t quite tell if Brian seems different to him yet.
Then Brian looks up, and Freddie’s heart flips over in his chest.
He finds himself surprised to realise that he didn’t exaggerate Brian’s hands in his head this past week, didn’t buff out any of the imperfections in Brian’s face when he pictured him. In fact it could be said that by picturing Brian in all his composite parts, Freddie’s imagination actually did him a disservice. Put back together into the full picture, Freddie might be in some trouble.
Brian’s face splits into a smile at the sight of him, which is gratifying. Freddie’s slept with enough boys who pretended not to know him after the fact, and he’s ridiculously pleased that Brian isn’t one of them. “Oh, Freddie, hi!”
Freddie’s about to reply with the devastating one-liner he’s been practising in his head since he left the house when he notes the exhausted edge in Brian’s voice. Other things click into place then; the deep bruises beneath Brian’s eyes, the shadow creeping in at his jawline, the slight ink stain at the left-hand corner of his mouth from a chewed up biro.
“Don’t move,” he says instead, and turns on his heel.
When he returns, Brian still looks confused. He looks even more so when he catches sight of the steaming mug in Freddie’s hands.
“Tea,” Freddie explains helpfully, passing it carefully over. Really, wasn’t the boy meant to be a scientist or something. “I had to fight the old dragon on the front desk to let me use her kettle, it was all very courageous I tell you.” He trails off, because Brian is still staring at the cup he’s holding, as if he can divine something from the curls of steam, and Freddie’s not sure he’s listening to him anymore. “Brian?”
“You made me tea,” Brian says, the statement sounding not unlike a question that Freddie doesn’t know how to answer.
“Yes, sorry, I know you prefer coffee but really I don’t think that’s the thing for you right now, you look absolutely-”
“I like tea,” Brian cuts him off with a quiet smile and take a sip. He’s probably scalding his tongue, but Freddie’s learned to take what you can get with stressed out students. He doesn’t have many friends in the more academic fields but he once crossed Roger in the midst of a spiral about his anatomy exam and it’s not an experience he cares to repeat. And Brian seems to actually care about his degree.
Brian drinks deep and long, eyes closed in a fan of dark lashes, and when he comes up for air he barely moves. Then his eyes open and he looks more collected, something back in the dark of his eyes. “Thanks, mother.” He grins at Freddie over the rim of his mug and Freddie huffs at the jibe but cant help his own answering smile.
He takes a seat on the floor beside Brian and casts an eye around the bomb site of textbooks. There’s notes scrawled across half of them, Freddie hopes the half that actually belong to Brian but he’s not taking any bets, in an untidy looping script that he recognises from Brian’s notes on Roger’s music. It’s there again in what looks to be the beginnings of an conclusion torn in two, one half balled up in obvious frustration, and he spots the leaking pen that must be the culprit of the stain at Brian’s lip. He flicks it out of the way, out of reach of his trouser leg.
“So this is what you decided to do instead of band practice?” Freddie waves a hand to encompass all of this and Brian looks down as if spotting the disaster zone for the first time.
He laughs, slightly sheepishly but with a tenor of nerves stringing through the sound as he sets down the drained mug of tea and reaches for his notebook again. “Quantum Mechanics coursework.” He gestures with the notebook and a sheaf of paper full of words Freddie could never hope to understand flutters to the ground. “Should be a lot simpler than I appear to be making it.
“Oh, of course.” Freddie hopes his disbelief comes across in his tone and it must do because Brian’s smile is quick and self-effacing. As he smiles, Freddie can see the points of his incisors poking over his lip. “Don’t know what you’re worrying about, just a simple little thing, Quantum Mechanics. A doss subject, I’ve always said.”
“ Alright .” Brian makes as if to elbow him but the gesture is gentler than Freddie expected, a laughing nudge of shoulders rather than a dig in the ribs. “It’s just taking longer than I’d like.”
Freddie feels the same about all his essays to be honest. Any time spent writing down his process rather than enacting the practice in the nitty gritty of materials and paints is time purely wasted.
“Why the music section?” He asks, though he knows the answer.
Brian still takes a second to answer, blowing air out of his mouth as he thinks. It’s a trait Freddie’s always liked in the other boy, even it it’s anathema to his own quickfire brain. Brian always takes his time, formulating a considered response even to the most arbitrary of questions anyone (Roger) could ask him. “Nicer breaks,” he decides, kicking out his ridiculously long legs and crossing them at the ankles. He settles back against the wall Freddie’s leaning against, some of the tension unspooling from his body. Freddie can’t imagine he’s actually taken a break since he arrived. “They have a couple of good albums in the reference section and there used to be a record player but someone nicked it-”
“ Those bastards,” interjects Freddie emphatically and Brian nods.
“Yeah, it’s a shame really. But I suppose it’s just habit coming here now.” Brian shrugs, and something about that thought, a tired student dragging heavy tomes on the cosmos up dingy flights of stairs to be able to listen to second-hand dusty vinyls of music just to keep himself sane is so stunningly lovely that Freddie marvels that no one has committed Brian May to poetry yet. He feels a little as if he’s the first to discover an alien species or a rare flower and wants to hide the discovery away just for himself.
He did wonder at that the other night, with Brian looking at him in such awe that Freddie had wondered if no one else had ever loved Brian before. Brian’s hand had driven that thought from his head but he finds himself wondering it again. He surely can’t be the first, but if anyone else ever had however could they have let him go?
Brian’s answer drifts their conversation easily to music. Freddie has two kinds of circles he runs in these days; club-goers and music-lovers - Roger being the place where the diagram venns - and all in all the conversation is infinitely better in the latter half. The topic is never far from his own mind, Freddie feels as if he was born in the midst of crescendo that’s never stopped rising, and it’s immensely gratifying to surround himself with people who, even if they don’t always agree with him, think just as intensely on the matter as he does.
It is different, he realised the other night and realises again now, having the conversation solely with Brian. He’s always enjoyed talking with Brian, the guitarist offering a new perspective on matters in such an intelligent and genuine way that it’s always surprised Freddie to find that, at the end of it all, they actually agree on majority of points. But curled in Brian’s bed, all that quiet focus solely on him, Freddie found himself unfurling parts of himself to Brian before even fully planning to, and somehow finding Brian already there, echoing his sentiments back to him. Maybe he wrote it off somewhat, brushing it off as part of the spell he finds so easy to fall under when an evening with a gentleman is so inevitably heading towards only one conclusion, but the feeling comes back in full force as they leap from the tiny collection of music the library has on offer to talk about the first records they ever bought for themselves, to music their different sets of parents like and how there’s no accounting for the bad taste of the older generations, before veering off into Brian’s influences for his music and how Freddie also writes songs, he supposes, in his spare time.
“I always see you writing during our practices,” Brian says as if the thought has just occurred to him, and Freddie flushes slightly because Freddie writes the most during their practices, eager heart pining for the chance to offer something to the boys he knows, he knows , he’s meant to be more for. “I just thought it was just your weekly assessment of our, oh what was it, ‘complete and utter lack of flair’ .”
Freddie remembers that particular feedback not going down as well as he’d expected it to, but Brian is laughing, sharp teeth and mirth, so he shrugs coyly. “Some of it is. You’ve got to let me introduce you to eyeliner at some point, dear, I think you’ll look just terrific.”
“ Alright ,” Brian agrees easily, still laughing. He seems a different being from when Freddie first arrived, his lovely long limbs gone loose and horrible hunch gone from his shoulders, so much so that Freddie panics a little when Brian’s eyes flick back to the paper strewn around them, not quite ready to hand him back to the tides of word counts and references. But Brian lazily rolls his head back to face Freddie again and says, “Tell me about your songs, then.”
Brian probably isn’t aware what he’s gotten himself into with that quiet demand.
He’s looking a little slack-jawed, Freddie realises about ten uninterrupted minutes later, and desperately orders his mind to catch up with his mouth to claw the excitable words back behind his teeth. “What?” He says, feeling a little self-conscious when Brian still hasn’t said anything to fill the silence.
Then Brian is standing up, movement so quick for a boy who has so much height to unfold, and tugging Freddie up after him. “C’mon.”
Freddie lets himself be pulled along, intrigued, and laughs softly when Brian pulls him to a stop in a back stack. Not to show him a relevant book as Freddie was expecting, but to pull Freddie back against his chest and kiss softly at the skin of his neck. It’s impressive, actually. Freddie usually sees this sort of thing coming.
“Oh, I see.” He tries to sound disapproving, but seeing as how it’s utterly false he suspects he fails somewhat. “Were you even listening to me at all?”
Brian hums and Freddie fights not to swoon at the vibrations of soft lips at his neck. “I was.”
“Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm.” Brian’s hand tucks Freddie’s hair out of the way and he presses closer. Freddie can feel the point of his nose pressing into his jaw. “You were saying how much you love the sound of Electric Ladyland but especially the lyrics, and how you’re worried about sounding a little derivative but, really, if derivative of Hendrix is the biggest criticism you can come up with for your own music then you mustn’t be doing too bad.” He plants another kiss as if punctuation. “I like Electric Ladyland. Heavy guitar wor-“
“Please stop talking about guitars.” Freddie cuts Brian and then himself off by turning and bringing their mouths together roughly.
Brian makes a small noise of surprise, but he started this so he can damn well finish it.
He rises to the challenge beautifully. Large hands instantly find their way to Freddie’s waist, and Brian’s fingers are deliciously long enough that Freddie can feel their firm grasp into the flesh of his arse in a way that could possibly be accidental but he’s willing to suspect isn’t. Brian is tall enough that Freddie feels almost tilted back, like a prima ballerina held up only by the strength of her partner, and he presses up on his toes to keep catching every kiss Brian is biting into his mouth.
Brian has sharp teeth and likes to use them. Freddie discovered this the other night and Brian reinforces the discovery now, nipping at Freddie’s bottom lip, before conducting what appears to be a careful study in the way different pressures make Freddie groan. Freddie is more than willing to provide the results. Brian kisses like a man looking to take Freddie apart and examine what he finds there, it’s overwhelming, it’s intense, it’s absolutely bloody fantastic . It’s definitely enough to make Freddie ignore the uncomfortable feeling between his shoulders from where he’s being pressed into the shelving behind him as Brian kisses and kisses and kisses him.
He can feel his mouth just beginning to get sore when Brian shifts just so and then there’s a thigh pressing between his legs and every sensation Freddie has is rushing downwards with a startling acuity.
He breaks away with a laughing gasp, the sound more ragged than he was expecting, and they stumble a little in the sudden movement. Brian’s mouth is still open, dark and pink and completely inviting. “Is this what you nerds do in here?” He asks, utterly delighted at the prospect.
Brian swallows heavily but his smile is a wicked thing. “Oh ‘course . It’s how we work out the crippling repression and academic hard-ons for our professors.”
Freddie laughs again. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so much during sex. Probably never. “Don’t be too high and mighty, Mr Dragged-Me-Here-Because-I-Enthused-About-Hendrix-Exactly-Once.”
“You enthused about Hendrix for ten straight minutes,” Brian corrects with a pink flush on his cheeks so sweet that Freddie can’t help but press up to and kiss. As he pulls back, Brian moves skilfully and drags their mouths back together in a practically knee-weakening kiss.
If it’s a plan to shut Freddie up, it’s effective. Freddie’s going to have to start sleeping with more scientists if they bring this sort of thinking to the table.
Freddie has been had in a large variety of places. Mostly club bathrooms if he’s being honest, but there’s a large diversity of those in London. He’s been had in bedrooms and backseats and, notably, once in the park beneath a beautiful cherry blossom. He’s never been fucked in a library before, but finds himself tabling that plan before he even lets himself fully picture the way Brian would have to hold him up against these beastly uncomfortable shelves, fuck into him gently enough not to knock over all the stacks but fast enough to match Freddie’s pace, hands probably clapped over each other’s mouth so they didn’t get caught…
He mostly tables that option.
Instead he untangles his hands from where they’ve buried themselves quite possessively and without his notice in Brian’s wild mane, and slips them up under Brian’s shirt to turn him. Brian goes easily, curious, and lets himself be pushed back into the shelves, which give a worrying rock before steadying. Freddie pays them no mind because Brian’s hands have come up from his hips to gently cup his face, slide reverently into his hair, which is just so perfect for what Freddie’s planning that he grins. It ruins the kiss, but Freddie needed that anyway.
“What-” Brian’s voice is thick and the ink stain at his lips is almost completely gone. Freddie thinks he can taste it on his own tongue. He doesn’t let Brian finish the half-formed question before he sinks to his knees in a graceful, very practised, move.
Brian’s mouth shuts with a gratifying click.
The buckle on Brian’s trousers is an atrocity to fashion and nearly makes Freddie question being here. But as he rips it from the belt loops and tosses it aside, Brian’s hands shoot out and grip onto his shoulders like he’s clinging to Freddie for dear life, which is endearing enough that Freddie instantly forgives him and gets to the task of thumbing Brian’s buttons open.
“Freddie,” Brian breathes, just to say his name it seems.
Freddie leans in, lifting the hem of Brian’s shirt to kiss at warm skin there, before dragging his mouth down to the material he’s steadily peeling away.
Freddie loves this. It’s easily an activity that ranks as one of his top five favourite pastimes, and while he may not have been all that good in the beginning, too much enthusiasm, too much teeth, he considered the practice worthy of further study and as a result flatters himself something of a master in the art of cocksucking. It’s hell on his bony little knees, but considering that Brian is already damp in his shorts this probably won’t take that long. A shame, maybe, but Brian is all wound up tension and edging on desperation, translating into his fingers clutching hard at Freddie’s hair and hips shifting unthinkingly, deliciously, and Freddie feels the thrill of that at the nape of his neck.
Brian has a very pretty cock, long, thin and pink. Freddie felt it in his hand the other night but now to look at it he’s pleased with the results, sets his mouth to the head and lets it rest on his tongue. He looks up at Brian and the other boy has his eyes closed, neck arched, teeth biting on his bottom lip as if he’s stopped before Freddie’s name or some other curse word, and as gorgeous as the sight is it simply won’t do. Freddie mercilessly swallows him whole, which brings Brian’s thighs clutching around him and his body hunching in shock. A book falls noisily somewhere to Freddie’s right but when Freddie pulls off again with a wet pop, Brian’s eyes are dark and fixed entirely on him.
Any grand plans Freddie had to get Brian under his thumb and begging for more fail right then and there. Freddie might as well offer them up along with the contents of his chest because they all appear to belong to Brian now.
He doesn’t know how he managed to forget this - the heady feeling of Brian May trying to know him.
They hold each other’s gaze but Freddie is the first to break, heat soaring in his gut as he closes his eyes and ducks his head to plant a kiss at the very base of Brian’s cock, running a trail upwards until he can lap at the saltiness of his slit and hear the way Brian hisses. The hiss catches fire in Freddie’s chest and he chases it down, corkscrewing his mouth in a vicious movement that earns him a high moan, a hard twist of hands in his hair.
Then, gently enough that it takes Freddie a second to notice, earns him Brian’s fingers soothing the back of his head where he just pulled. It could be mindless little strokes, but Brian slips his hand, large and warm, from his hair to catch his jaw, and Freddie’s face is being tilted upwards. A long thumb strokes over his cheek, bobbing over the place where Brian’s cock is pressed, finding his bottom lip and pulling a little before soothing the reddened flesh. Then Brian’s hands are framing his face, hair pushed back from his eyes, and Freddie’s never had his mouth so sweetly fucked before but gods he could die to have Brian do this to him every night. Shallow thrusts pushing his cock into the wet heat of Freddie’s mouth, fingers sweeping across his eyelashes, all Freddie had to do is kneel there and take it and he does.
“ God ,” Brian groans, and doesn’t speed up.
Brian did this the other night, set a pace Freddie wasn’t expecting, slow and curious and steady despite his obvious eagerness, and it was absolutely maddening. Freddie has always liked it, always had it, fast and dirty. It might be slightly cheap but that’s not without its own appeal, own kind of romance when Freddie can be out every night, a different lover, a different heartbreak in the morning. But Brian is all but cradling Freddie’s face, hands firm, and where before Freddie could laugh and call him an utter bastard, now it’s not even remotely funny. Freddie can hardly breathe.
He wants to blame it on the act, and does. He’s harder than hell and his hands are too preoccupied with holding onto Brian’s bony hips to reach down and help alleviate any of the pressure. His knees are beginning to make their complaints known, and he’s rather shamelessly sucking off another boy in a public library. It’d all be enough to take anyone out of their heads, bare them back to sensations, and Freddie has always given himself over whenever he could. He can now, and moans a little too loudly when Brian slips his hands to rest on Freddie’s throat.
Above him, Brian chokes, which combined with the way his body tenses is just enough of a warning. Brian’s right foot lifts, his thumbs sweep up the length of Freddie’s throat, and he comes with Freddie’s name breaking on a gasp.
Freddie wipes his mouth, wipes his eyes, and leans his head forward to rest against Brian’s thigh, try and catch his breath a little. He can feel Brian shuddering, or is it trembling, and can’t help but wonder again. How a man can go from singular focus to quiet vulnerability and back on the turn of a sixpence.
When his breathing is almost level, his knees are all but screaming at him to move and he finally listens. As he shifts, Brian’s hands entwine with his and help bring him to his feet, a gentlemanly gesture so entirely at odds with what they’re doing here that Freddie is helplessly charmed.
Brian kisses at his chin, his nose, his cheeks, little dotting things that linger and Freddie thinks it’s rather a clever way of avoiding his mouth until Brian dips and captures that too, tongue soft and languid on top of Freddie’s. Freddie bites down, not too hard but enough that Brian hisses, and pushes his hips against Brian’s in an entirely unsubtle gesture but one that has been lost on many a sated boy before.
Brian breaks away, laughing. “C’mere,” he says, almost pointlessly because Freddie is close as close gets, or so he thinks until Brian somehow pulls him closer, tighter, and Freddie lets out a moan as every inch of him that cried out to be touched is now touching Brian.
He almost doesn’t hear it. His body is singing, his nerves are electrified, his blood is racing. By rights he shouldn’t have, and if the world was fair then neither would Brian, but he does. The tinny sound of a wristwatch alarm coming from Brian’s left wrist.
Brian stills.
Brian groans.
Freddie prays.
Brian says, “Shit. Practice,” and Freddie suddenly hates all music but particularly the trio that will be formerly known as Smile when Freddie kills them all and starts with the guitarist because Brian’s grip on his thighs is loosening .
“No, Brian- ” The sounds slip out of Freddie, desperate noises rather than the beginning of any sort of rational argument for Brian to stay exactly where he is and finish what he started. He clears his throat and tries again. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”
Brian, luckily for Brian, seems reluctant to move any further away but he arches an eyebrow with all the mental faculty of one not trying to claw their way to an orgasm by hell or high water. “Do you want to explain to them why we’re late?”
Which is a very good point. Whatever is growing between him and Brian, it anything even is, is still small and delicate to the touch. It doesn’t need tromping all over by awful friends with terrible intentions. (Roger). But Freddie’s finding it hard to convince his hands of the merits of that when they’re pressed to the tantalising small of Brian’s back and not particularly inclined to move. He tries, just once more, a small movement of his eager hips, and Brian breathes in sharply, oversensitive. His hands clamp more firmly on Freddie’s hips, but just to hold him in place.
Freddie tips his head forward, defeated. “This is cruel ,” he whines, and the bastard laughs .
“Later,” he says, promises, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to Freddie’s mouth that Freddie is becoming keenly aware he can’t even hope to coax into something more, but it mollifies him a little. “After.”
There’s not a trace of ink left on Brian’s lips now. His limbs are loose and his hair is quite frankly a fucking state but he’s a different creature entirely than from when Freddie arrived. And that’s enough, Freddie realises, for him to accept the promise, step back, and allow Brian the dignity of redoing his trousers.
It doesn’t do a thing to help him, however. He bites his lip and tries counting to ten. Then, when that fails, wonders if there’s a loo nearby he can discreetly sort himself out in. But Brian must have a direct line into Freddie’s head because then there’s fingers circling his wrist, pulling them away from where they’re innocently resting on his own thighs. Barely creeping towards the hardness in his jeans at all.
“Come on,” Brian tugs him away and Freddie follows.