Work Header

Can't Face This Life Alone...

Chapter Text

"Deacy," Roger hisses loudly. His friend and bandmate groans from where he is curled up on the left side of the bed. "Deacy! Are you asleep?!"

"I was," John's blowsy brown head turns away from him and buries itself beneath a pillow. "So kindly piss off."

Poke, poke. "I can't, John." Roger Taylor's blond head leans over the other's covered one as he jabs at the bassist's back with a sharp finger.

"Why NOT?"

Roger's high, husky voice is serious. "Because something's up with Freddie."

John Deacon is instantly on alert, flinging the pillow off of his head and turning to Roger with hazel eyes wide. "What-- how d'you know?"

Roger's ears grow slightly red. "He uh...he isn't, erm, snuggling with me anymore."

John shoots upright and scans the dark room for signs of their lead singer. He sees nothing. Huh. "Well that is a bit unusual," he smacks his lips and speaks slowly.

"Ya think?" The other scoffs.

John sighs and slings his bare legs and feet out of the huge bed and its mass of fluffy blankets. He tiptoes across the echoing room to look into the living area. Sometimes Freddie goes out to his inverted-key piano to play in the middle of the night, and John expects to spy him caressing the keys with a drink in hand. But nothing moves besides two cats chasing each other across the shadowy floor.

Roger pokes his head around the bedroom door. "Find him?"

John rolls his eyes. "No, obviously not. Wait," The cats had gone across to the other side of the room catty corner from the kitchen. Delilah's room, if Roger remembers right. There's a light on, and a wrenching, gasping sound emanates from out of it.

The two men glance at each other and hustle over. "I think there's a connecting bathroom. That's gotta be where he is," Roger whispers. Going through the large bedroom-- too big for a single cat, as far as he is concerned --the blond drummer notes that the bed is rumpled and a blanket extends to the door of the bathroom as if it had been dragged and possibly thrown. Retching sounds are coming from the darkened room, and Roger almost turns around and walks back out.

But then he hears Freddie moan weakly, and that decides it. His friend is in pain. He looks at Deacy once again before tapping at the door. "...Fred?" Poking his head around its edge, the drummer sees the singer with one arm leaning on the porcelain toilet bowl and his head hanging over its top. Bleary brown eyes lift to look at him. Instantly Roger rushes in and pushes back Freddie's dark hair from his forehead. It is soaked with sweat, but his knees are shivering against the tiled floor.

John's feet move away, and Roger wants to say something smart or sharp to him, as he hadn't run away even though he initially wanted to. But then John is back with a glass that he's filled with water. "Here y' go, Freddie," Deacy speaks softly, crouching down and handing him the cup.

Freddie's hand shakes a little as he takes it, and Roger keeps one hand on his hair, still holding the tresses back. "--Thank you," the singer gasps a little, looking up at them both. "I'm so sorry to have woken you, dears."

John, noticing that Freddie's shoulders are now shaking, goes out the door of the bathroom and grabs the blanket left by the doorway to wrap around him. "No worries, Fred," the bassist assured. "Roger was the one to wake me anyhow."

Roger glowers at John over Freddie's head, voice squeaking "B-because I was worrying about you, Freddie! We can't have our lead singer sleepwalking through his house, maybe hurting himself tripping over cats; that wouldn't be very good at all, would it?"

"Of course not," John's eyebrows disappear into his curly bouffant hair. "I see exactly what you mean now, Roger. Mm-hmm. That's insightful." He speaks in a sly manner that barely registers as sarcasm. Roger doesn't immediately pick up on it; he actually appears smug for a moment before noticing Freddie's wan smile. "... Except for the fact that he wasn't sleepwalking."

"Wanker!" Roger slaps at John, who dodges out of his way, entire face brightening in laughter. The drummer sighs explosively and flings his arms up, nearly buffeting Freddie's head. "Oof, sorry Freddie," he instantly apologises, contenting himself with making an obscene gesture and shaking his head at John. "C'mon, let's get you back to bed, yeah? Can you stand?" His feverish friend appears so pitiful that Roger answers his own question. "Evidently not. Alright, here we go." He crouches down and wraps both arms around Freddie's form, pulling him against his bare chest securely. With a grunt, the drummer lifts his friend relatively easily, straightening from the knees.

Freddie automatically sags against him, breaths ruffling the light hair on Roger's chest. "My head is doing its absolute best to destroy me, darling," he murmurs.

Roger sniffs. "No worries. John, see if you can't find something for his head." He turns himself sideways to shuffle with Freddie out the door, and John nods sharply but does not argue being ordered about. The slender bassist holds the door wide after walking through it, and Roger brings Freddie towards their bedroom.

"Just a moment," Freddie speaks softly. "Roger," he puts one palm against his friend's flesh, which is radiating a natural warmth that is as soothing to Freddie as a hot bath. The drummer dips his head, feathery pieces of blond hair falling down over his forehead.

Freddie all but loses his train of thought as he looks into Roger's bright blue eyes, filled with a softness that the world rarely sees. But then he catches the thought again. "Ah--I think it might be best to leave me in Delilah's room, darling. Just in case I am very sick, I don't want to leave my germs in your bed." Doing his best to smile though he appears exhausted, the dark-haired man adds "...I give you leave to snuggle with Deacy while I'm gone."

Roger gasps in semi-faux horror. "C'mon Fred, you know I only do that with you!"

"Wow." John comes back holding a makeshift ice pack that he gently places on Freddie's head. "I'm offended. I'm not a bad snuggler, myself."

Roger snorts as he gently takes Freddie back to Delilah's bed and lays him down on it. "Who told you that? Veronica? Deacy, she has to say it-- she's married to you."

John says nothing, only smiles a secretive little smile that is caught and returned by Freddie. Roger sees it and whips his head around even as he tucks bedclothes around Freddie tenderly. "Now HANG on, seriously?? You and Deacy?" Crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall, Roger sticks out his lower lip in a pouty way, voice cracking perfectly. "Now I'm a little offended that I wasn't invited."

"Next time," Freddie said, his voice fading fast in exhaustion.

"...Maybe," John quips. "'Night Fred."

"Good night, John. Sleep well, Roger."

"Yeah, yeah," Roger mumbles, automatically swooping down to peck Freddie on the forehead when the other looks up at him, dark eyes appearing worried. "It's fine, I'm joking," he assures him. "Just yell if you need anything. Or send Delilah after me. I can call her," and the drummer lets out a halfway decent caterwaul.

John jumps and then the others hear his footsteps rapidly retreating, a door slamming, and him calling from their bedroom: "...if you're going to keep doing that I'm not letting you sleep in here."

"Too bad, I won't put another cat out of their bed." There is a small silence and then the door creaks.

"Fine, fair. Come on then." Roger chuckles as he heads over, Freddie looking after with a tiny smile.