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holy moses (let us live in peace)

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Brian’s relationship with Easter had always been, to an extent, strained.

On one hand, he couldn’t help but adore Easter. All of the new nature and life was something he could easily spend hours fawning over when he volunteered at the nearby animal shelter. But at the same time, he resented it. Easter meant that exams were just around the corner and all his friends went home for the week-long Easter break, more often than not leaving him home alone in their flat.

It was Maundy Thursday -- the Thursday morning before Easter, and Brian was severely hungover. He’d woken up far too early with a searing headache that wouldn’t subside no matter how long he stayed cuddled up to Roger in bed, and no matter how many times he now opened and closed the fridge with a dejected sigh, he couldn’t find anything to eat.

So much for the Last Supper.

“Fred? Rog?” Brian turned to his two friends, who were pathetically slumped over the kitchen table, both looking extremely dead behind the eyes and wincing at the volume of his voice. “What are you doing for Easter?”

Roger glanced up from his magazine momentarily to shoot him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?” He paused, his lips curling upwards into a smirk. “What are we doing for Easter? The same as Jesus, love.”

In response the guitarist cocked an eyebrow, knowing he’d regret asking as soon as the question passed his lips. “The same as Jesus?” He deadpanned, parroting the blonde.

The shared look of smugness between his two friends left little to the imagination despite their ambiguity. Brian really wished he hadn’t asked at all, in hindsight – The antics of Freddie Bulsara and Roger Meddows Taylor rarely took survivors.

“Going out on Friday, coming back Monday, darling,” Freddie supplied. The smile playing on his lips seemed to come to life at Brian’s interest, almost completely forgetting the dull ache at the front of his head, until he was reminded by a graceful snort from behind Roger’s coffee mug.

“Funny,” Brian humoured, allowing himself to collapse in the chair next to Roger, giving up on his foraging for something edible. “Now, tell me what you’re actually doing. There’s bugger all in and I don’t think we can afford a week’s worth of food.” He eyed the jar sitting on the window ledge behind Freddie, looking incredibly sorry for itself, save a few twenty-pound notes, and at least six fivers in a bag so eloquently labelled “stripper cash” in Freddie’s stationery.

Looking at the jar made Brian feel a little wistful, really – Perhaps he should have put his last tenner in there instead of buying himself the new Led Zeppelin album last week so that they could actually afford to eat properly this week.

But before Brian had the time to let the guilt eat away at him, Freddie was putting on the Ritz, looking straight at Brian with his face twisted downwards and hands on his hips.

“Brian, I am a man of religion!

“Not a Christian though, are you, Fred?” He shot back; eyebrow cocked skyward, challenging him.

“Ugh, darling. Don’t remind me,” Freddie groaned, slowly dropping his head to his crossed forearms. “Bank holidays were designed for going out and getting wankered. It would be almost sacrilegious to not take advantage of that.” He mused, almost looking pensive.

That elicited an eyeroll from Brian. There weren’t many bank holidays where Roger and Freddie couldn’t be found in bars of various degrees of dodgy, getting absolutely hammered purely because they knew that they didn’t have to go to uni the next day. Truth be told, Brian was usually quite partial to joining them, although this was mostly just an excuse to spend more time with Roger without Freddie or John jeering at them (like he needed an excuse to spend time with his man, for heaven’s sake.) But someone had to stay at home; John was due back from Oadby on Saturday evening, and it was highly unlikely that either of his two friends would actually be back before Monday.

“I shan’t be joining you.”

“Ugh, Judas.” Whined Roger, sunglasses (where did they come from?) pulled down low over his eyes, yet somehow not masking the disappointment in his baby blues.

“Well, someone has to pick Deaky up from the station,” Brian chimed. “And I’m skint until my student finance comes through.” He looks almost pointedly at that bloody jar again, as if it would suddenly become a little fuller if only he looked away for the right amount of time.

Roger hummed thoughtfully, raising his eyebrows over his sunglasses ever so slightly at Freddie, who took the liberty to raise his middle finger in lieu of responding to the drummer’s look. Although it was a bank holiday and they did have a tradition, the initial reason the two were going out was because Freddie was missing John terribly, and it was making him a bit miserable. But Freddie was never going to admit that, and he certainly wasn’t going to allow Roger to mock him.

However, Brian didn’t miss the little exchange:

“You should tell him, Fred.”

Freddie simply looked back at him with a vacant expression, urging him to elaborate further.

“Deaky..?” Brian asked with a degree of uncertainty, wondering if he should have been quite as blunt about a subject so sensitive, but continues regardless. “Tell him about how you feel?”

“How do you know?” Freddie shoots Roger a glare, elegantly dodging Brian’s suggestion.

“Your love life makes quite interesting pillow talk, mate.” The shit-eating grin spread widely across Roger’s face is quick to dissipate back into a neutral expression when the singer reaches out to slap him on the arm.

“You’re both bastards.”

“Prick.” Roger huffed, rubbing his arm for dramatic effect more than anything. Freddie poked his tongue out back.

“Well, then. I’m off,” Brian announced, standing up from his seat to make himself scarce and avoid the domestic between his two friends, but not before he could lean down and plant a kiss onto Roger’s lips.

Although it wasn’t an excessively wild or spontaneous action on Brian’s part, Roger’s breath hitched in his throat before he could respond. But when Roger did manage to respond, it was with an urgency and force that was perhaps borderline inappropriate, though Brian certainly didn’t let that stop him from sliding a hand around the drummer’s neck to tilt his head slightly upwards, making it easier to lock onto his lips. His other hand found its way to Roger’s waist, while one of Roger’s hands tangled into the guitarist’s curly locks; the other travelled down Brian’s back and bunched at the bottom of his jacket to pull him in tightly.

When they pulled apart, Roger was smiling with swollen lips and pupils blown wide behind the lenses of his sunglasses. Brian was, too; foolishly so, though his head was still spinning and not quite producing a tangible thought. Had it not been for the wonderful sound of Freddie fake retching, Brian might have completely forgot what he was doing.

“Sorry, Fred,” Roger mumbled, uncharacteristically sheepish and flushed. Brian, on the other hand, smirked at their friend’s response.

“You two disgust me. Now get lost, darling. You’ll miss your bus.”

“Thanks for that, Fred.” Brian huffed a laugh and shook his head, picking his bag and scarf up from where he had left it on the floor earlier that morning. “I’ll see you later, love?”

Roger nodded, “I’ll be in later, I can pick you up after my lecture?”

“You’re too good to me.” Brian leaned down once again to quickly peck Roger on the lips, before turning to his friend, almost to make a point. “Bye Fred!”

“Bye, darling. Have a good day.”

And with that, Brian left the safety and warmth of the flat into the cold morning with his scarf wound tightly around his neck and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.