Starstruck

Part 8

Warnings: swearing, slight (?) angst

Historical Inaccuracies: once more, N/A. i'm on a roll!

Word Count: 4.3k (again lol)

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Lightning crashed cacophonously outside of your bedroom window, and you jumped in surprise. Rarely did it storm in London. Normally it simply rained. But the weather tonight was fierce— thunder boomed like a woman scorned, and the rain lashed against the sides of the house, roiling like the tempered sea.

The phone in the hallway rang, and you yelped, then proceeded to haul yourself from your bed so as to answer it.

"Y/N?" Heather stood in the hallway and glanced between you and the phone. "It's just a phone, yeah?"

You nodded and Heather crossed her arms. "You've been jumpy for weeks. Why don't you just call him?"

The phone rang on persistently, and you wanted to pick it up, if only to make the noise stop. But Heather was blocking your way.

"Call who." It wasn't a question. You didn't need to ask who she meant, and she didn't need to specify.

"You know very well that I'm talking about Brian," Heather leveled her gaze on you. "Just call him. Say whatever you have to say. Hell if I know what's going on, but I give bloody good advice and you'd be silly not to follow it."

"Heather," you sighed. "Would you let me pick up the phone to speak to whomever it is that's already calling?"

"How do you know it's for you, princess?" With that, she snatched up the phone. "Hello? This is Heather." She paused, then smirked to herself. "Of course, Freddie. I'll get her on the phone." To you, she said, "Fine. You win. But only because Rog's already called me twice today." She pushed the phone into your hand and entered your shared room. She flopped down on her bed, picking up a copy of Music Life.

"Hello, Fred?"

"Y/N, darling!" Freddie always began his phone calls like this. "Fancy a drink?"

"Freddie, it's—" you glanced at your watch, "eight-thirty at night."

"Yes, so why do you sound like you're about to go to bed?"

You sighed. "Why now, Freddie? You must know I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, Y/N, you're never in the mood." There it was. He knew you too well. "And I want a chat." His voice had dipped, taken on a quality of quiet honesty, a certain degree of sobriety.

After weeks of carefully avoiding the topic of Mary, and the topic of his feelings in general, would Freddie finally feel okay to tell you what was going on?

You hoped so. You'd been too anxious about Freddie's possible reaction to your asking— you'd learned your lesson with these things— and so you had not asked at all.

"I'm on my way."

"That's the spirit! See you soon, darling!" There was a click.

You poked your head into the bedroom, "Heather, I'm going over to Freddie's."

"Sayonara, Y/N," Heather waved at you over the top of her magazine. She seemed distracted by daydreams of a certain blonde-haired drummer. She'd probably pick up the phone and ring him as soon as you'd left. They'd talk into the night like the moon and the sun crossing paths between the dawn or the dusk, as you'd once done with Brian, your very own kindred spirit.

You didn't even notice that you'd wound the rainbow scarf around your neck until you were too far down the road and it was too late to discard it again.