PRETTY LOVER BOY - ROGER TAYLOR

XXVIII.

♛ ♛ ♛

They're all done and recorded. All of them, complete and out of mind, except for Bohemian Rhapsody. At this rate, it'll never get finished, especially with Paul on everyone's asses about being over schedule.

"It'll come to you eventually, Fred," I say to the rather disheveled man sitting next to me on the couch. He has his notebook balanced on his leg, twisting the pen in his hand as he nods absently at my comment.

It's into fall now, and what trees there are on the property have turned to their deep red and burnt orange hues. It's gotten chillier as well, but I'm not complaining too much. The boys, on the other hand, all wake up on the morning and come downstairs wrapped from head to foot in layers of clothing to battle the morning frost of the house.

I've found myself taking more and more wandering walks over the property, watching the chickens or the cows when they've come close enough for me to see them in the field. It's unbearably beautiful on the farm, and I almost don't want to leave. You can't walk like this in London.

"Clementine!" I look back towards the house, finding Roger jogging out towards me.

"Yes?" I ask, pausing my walking to turn fully towards him.

"Freddie's got something," he stops just short of me, holding his hand out, "come on."

I take his outstretched hand, getting dragged back towards the studio barn. When we enter, Freddie's frantically running around, backed by a tired looking Deaky and Brian.

"Roger, drums, come on, before the passion escapes me darling," Freddie claps his hands, shooing him off before turning to me, "Clementine, sit there and tell me I'm not crazy. If I am, hang me."

"Sure thing, Fred," I reply, shaking my head as he ushers me into one of the armchairs, facing all of them.

The four practice with a bit of bickering at first, all definitely at that familiar point of wanting to be as far from each other as possible. I do, however, see the moment where it clicks for them. It's a viscous cycle really. Rehearse, bicker, record, back to writing, then rehearse and so on. Over and over and over for every song. It makes you crazy and hell, I'm not even the one really going through it.

When Bohemian Rhapsody is recorded and done, successfully so, it's like a weight lifted off of everyone's shoulders. A weight that took away the campiness of our stay at Rockfield and brought on a massive party that ignited a fire of liveliness back into the boys and myself.

"Fur or no fur, darling?" Freddie asks me, wrapping a coat dramatically around himself in the mirror.

"Fur," I reply, "come in with a flare, take it off when it gets too hot."

"You really are the only person in this house with any competence," Freddie sashays off to his wardrobe, "now go on, go get ready and don't you dare try and look better than me."

I end up on the floor in my room, (something only used for clothing storage at this point considering I sleep in Roger's room), staring into my wardrobe of clothing that seem to be melting together at the moment.

"Clementine?" I swivel my head to the door, finding Roger slowly pushing it open, peeking his head inside. When he sees me his bottom lip pulls down and he comes all the way inside, dropping down next to me. "Can't figure out what to wear?"