In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

Birdman's Eye View: Stepping on Freddie's Toes

I glance at Brian and wonder if he sees what I see.  I want him to look back at me, give me some kind of sign, but he doesn't.  He's watching Freddie with that same mix of admiration and annoyance he always favors him with.  Brian doesn't have an easily readable face.  Neither do I.  It's a gift, really.  No one ever knows what we're thinking, unless we come right out and say it.  Difference is, I never say it.

Freddie is holding court here in our manager's house, campaigning again for his little jazz-type song.  "...So I made it a little longer and I think it flows better now."  He plays it for us.  Though I like jazz as much as anyone, I don't know where this fits on a rock album.  Granted, this version is much improved, but it's lacking somewhere.

Brian huffs.  "But it's lounge jazz, Fred."

"And...?"

"I mean, it's one thing for us to do the vaudeville stuff, the "Leroy Brown" thing, "Good Company", that's different.  This is... I don't know, it's just not the same."

Freddie sneers, "Oh, right, sorry.  Only jazz with electric guitars and a genuine George Formby ukulele banjo is worth the trouble.  I completely forgot."

"No, I'm just saying, it's still a little too bare.  There's no rock aspect.  It doesn't, um, it doesn't kick."

"So now we're putting ourselves in boxes, eh, Brian?"

"I don't like it, either," Roger chimes in.

"Freddie, we're not jazz artists.  We're rockers.  Variety's good, but it has to be good variety."

Freddie arches his eyebrow.  "My, my, that's very clever.  Did you think that up yourself?"

Brian is losing it.  "Look, Fred, I don't know what's gotten stuck so far up your ass lately that you're being such a twat, but do us all a favor and pull it the f--- out."

He may not know, but I do.  Too well I remember how I was restringing my bass toward the start of yesterday.  I'd done it a million times before, but this new string proved especially troublesome.  It kept slipping.  Finally I'd wound it around the knob, and I tightened it to the proper pitch.

"Come on, come on," I was muttering to myself, gently turning the key, the string pulling ever more taut.  But I pulled too taut too fast, and the string snapped.  Freddie was charging in at the very same time.

"Bollocks!" I had said aloud.  "So close!"

"The story of my life," he muttered.

"Huh?" I said.  And the floodgates opened and I resigned myself to my forever status as a sounding board- except now I'm that for two people and not just one.

And I thought Freddie was in a foul mood yesterday.  He was practically drifting away on clouds of happiness compared to now.  Anything any of us has said to him today has either been ignored or met with sheer hostility.  And Roger isn't helping.  He's grinning from ear to ear.  Because he knows exactly what's wrong with Freddie, as do we all.  He's simply the only one who's rubbing his nose in it.

Freddie looks Roger's way.  "What's got you so tickled pink?"

"Nothing, man," he says.  "Just thinking of all the things I can do with one hundred pounds."

Freddie's eyes narrow.  "Really!  I haven't seen any success on your end."

Roger shrugs.  "Just means I need to up my game.  What's your excuse?  You're living with her!"

Ouch.  Freddie's fuming.  I watch his hands clench into fists.  There's a lone, empty wine glass sitting on the table.  He moves his arm.  Now it's smashed in a million tiny pieces by his feet.