Warnings: swearing, drinking (nothing heavy, just the usual British amount hahaha)
Historical Inaccuracies:
- Brian's eyesight was (as far as I know, feel free to correct me..?) perfectly fine in the 1970s; he did not need glasses, but hey, I needed a plot device. Rog, as we know was (and is) the one with terrible eyesight
- There is no wall outside of the Union Pub, however, there is a green area with grass and trees and the occasional flower :)
Word Count: 5.8k
‧⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧
6 MONTHS EARLIER
The curly haired boy always held the door for everyone. Everyone. Bloody everyone.
You were studying at Imperial College in London, a prestigious place that you supposed was ideal for the material you were learning, though you felt intimidated by the place and nearly everyone there. You were a rural girl, and the city was big and bright and terrifying in comparison. But all the same, you loved the thrill that came with living in London, the energy that seemed to hum beneath every day in a way that you had never felt in the quiet country life. And now you were finally studying what you had always wanted to study: astrophysics.
The curly-haired boy always got to the lecture first and stood there holding open the door, tall and graceful and effortlessly pretty. You'd always found him pretty.
He barely spoke at all during classes, but when he held that door open tirelessly every morning, he was radiant. Amicable and eloquent, he traded stories of shooting stars he'd seen when too many cups of coffee had kept him up into the wee hours of the morning, Jimi Hendrix records he'd found at the record shop down the road, jokes about the volume of his hair.
Everyone liked the boy at the door, both girls and boys. Though, when affections were involved— and there were many instances of this— he seemed entirely oblivious. Instead, he ended up raving on about something niche within his drabbles of Einsteinian theories and black holes to the poor, infatuated soul who had simply wanted to discuss the fact that they saw the stars in his eyes, rather than in the heavens.
You'd never said more than two words to him, though. A 'thank you' every day, for which you earned a nod and, more often than not, a warm smile. Occasionally you bid him a 'good morning', which he returned brightly and easily. He was a nerd from his curls to clogs, and yet, his cool was impeccable, his awkwardness masked by the passion for the subjects of which he talked.
But one day, the curly-haired boy was not holding the door. Every student who passed through the door either frowned or murmured concernedly. The boy at the door was not there— the balance of the universe had tipped disturbingly far from equilibrium.
[[MORE]]
Instead, he rushed into the lecture hall nearly twenty minutes late.
Your eyes briefly met his when you looked up for the fiftieth time to search for him in a crowd of people where he previously could not have been found. His collar was crooked, his denim jacket had hiked the bottom of his shirt halfway up his stomach to display a thin band of pearly skin, the bottom of one trouser leg was cuffed, and he was wearing only one sock with his white clogs.
Your fingers itched to fix that collar; it bothered you immensely that it sat so jauntily.
"Sorry, sorry," he apologised his way to his seat.
Your professor, Dr. Carmichael, raised his eyebrows at the curly haired boy. "Mr. May," he said, a heavy undertone of disapproval in his voice.
"Oh, I'm so sorry I'm late," said the boy, now known to you as May, gravely. "Won't happen again."
"Should hope not," said Dr. Carmichael sternly, returning to the chalkboard.
May assumed his usual spot, which of course had been saved for him, even in his absence. The spot was in the row immediately in front of you, two seats to the left of your own.
A hushed mutter was heard as people all around him questioned his earlier whereabouts, both to his face and behind his back.
Your professor turned around again from where he was etching a long and complicated derivation on the chalkboard whilst students hurriedly copied his work down, pretending to understand what it was they were writing.
You crossed your legs, relaxed where you leaned back in your chair; you understood the derivative that the others did not.
You absently wound a lock of hair around the end of your pencil, and your eyes strayed to May, who squinted at the board as though he couldn't see what was on it. Perhaps he couldn't. Maybe that was why he sat so far forward in the hall, being neither a question-asker nor a pet of the professor's. You frowned, wondering why he didn't just ask to switch spots with someone, being so well-liked and all.
A couple of hours later, the lecture finished, and people swept from their seats all around you. They swarmed to May in clinging crowds, and their words buzzed heavily on the air, though you could not catch the first name of the boy May. You shrugged inwardly as you stayed seated while the crowd thinned out— the name May suited him well, even on its own, drenched in elegance and the flowering warmth of Spring.
Before long, you refocused your eyes on the scene around you to find that there were no people at all, save for your professor who now stood staring at you with mild concern mingled in his weathered features.
"Doing alright, Miss Andrews?" he asked, tossing a chalk stump into the bin by his desk.
You blinked rapidly, trying to bring back the dignity you'd lost by staring blankly at the chalkboard for the past minute or so.
"Just fine, thanks," you said, beginning to pick up your things and throw them into your bag, which you then shouldered.
"Understand the derivation okay?" Dr. Carmichael looked to you from where he stood on the lecture hall floor, the acoustics of the room carrying making his voice easily heard.
"Yes," you said honestly. "I seem to be better at those than the actual physics, though."
Dr. Carmichael smiled. "You've got the skill set, Miss Andrews. All you need is practice, if your semester exam was any indication."
You winced, feeling foolish.
Seeing your expression, Dr. Carmichael shook his head. "No, no," he said, "that's a good thing. Your mathematics are not lacking, and I can tell that you work hard in order to have it be that way. Your downfall exists conceptually, but, like your mathematics, your interest in the subject material is passionate. That is something which no one can teach, and that is why you will go far in this field, should you choose to continue."
His comment made you swell with pride— who wouldn't when an accomplished individual complimented you for that which they themselves had already mastered?
"Thank you, Dr. Carmichael," you said.
"Anytime. Enjoy your holidays," he responded, referring to the couple of weeks off which the university afforded you all every February.
"Thanks, you too."
"And don't forget the test on the Tuesday after," he reminded you kindly.
You nodded to him, then made your way out of the row and toward the door.
"And get some glasses, Mr. May!" Dr. Carmichael shouted, and you jumped at the sound because you had thought he was shouting after you.
But it was only to May, who stood silhouetted in the doorway that led out of the musty lecture hall and into the dappled sunshine of noon.
You saw his curly head bob. "Yes, Dr. Carmichael."
"Good lad," said the professor to May, and you reached the door where the latter stood.
"Thank you," you said as a form of greeting to May; he was holding the door for you, though you were the last to leave and no other student was in sight.
"It's only right, seeing as I missed earlier," his lashes fluttered against the bright sunlight, eyes trying to adjust.
"You didn't have to wait for me," you replied as the door shut behind him and he began to walk beside you, shortening the steps his long legs should have taken, in order to keep pace with you.
"But I did," he said. "Now the balance of the universe has been restored."
You laughed.
"Which way are you going?" he asked, glancing down at you, shielding his eyes from the sun.
"That way," you pointed ahead.
He smiled bemusedly. "Me too. I've never taken another route to my next class. Odd that we've never run into each other on the way."
You may not have run into each other, but you'd certainly seen him, heard his laughter as people told him their adventures because he was simply a person you could tell those sorts of things to. His head was in the clouds, but when it counted, he listened. You'd learned that much from observation. Not that you observed frequently, just whenever he happened to cross your line of sight. Or your train of thought. Which seemed to be more often than you'd have preferred to admit.
"Yeah, odd," you responded distractedly.
"You're always thinking," he said.
You felt suddenly snappy. "What? Should I not be? Being a woman and all?"
May raised his hand, the one that wasn't supporting his books, in surrender. "No, not like that at all. Sorry if it sounded that way. I just meant that I do that too," he professed. "People think I feel some sense of superiority, or that I'm stupid, but really, I'm just thinking, and I thought I saw that in you, too."
Lines ran through your forehead as you struggled to figure out how it was that you were supposed to respond to this.
May sighed beside you as you hugged your books closer to your chest, your eyes abandoning his face for the laid-brick path ahead of your feet.
"I'm terribly awkward, I must apologise," he said. "I just... Never mind."
But you wanted to hear what he had to say. It was obvious that he was simply interested in making conversation with you, and if you were honest, you wanted to talk to him too.
"No, go on," you encouraged him. "Tell me why it is that you need glasses and yet don't have any, or why you don't just move closer to the board so you can actually see it."
A flush touched his cheeks, and his hand tousled his messy curls further.
"Broke the last pair and got no room in the budget to get another."
"Ah," you said in understanding, knowing full well the tightrope life of a student in London. "And not moving closer to the front?"
His colour deepened. "Embarrassed. Dislike having that many eyes on me."
You glanced up at him. "That's very frank of you," you said, candor letting genuine surprise slip into your voice.
"Really? I just think I'm a bit of an open book, by nature. Anyone could read me if they tried. Simplistic."
"That sounds rather self-deprecating," you told him.
"I don't know—" he stopped talking when he noticed you turning right where he had made to turn left.
"Oh," the two of you said in unison, then blushed upon finding your thoughts had mingled.
"I'm going left," he smiled apologetically, pointing a slender finger over his shoulder.
"I'm going right," you returned his sunny expression.
"See you later?"
"Doorway, tomorrow at ten," you nodded.
He laughed softly, the sound infectious as the corners of his eyes crinkled and he touched a hand to the side of his face.
"Always. Won't ever be late again."
Maybe it was a trick of the light, but you thought he winked at you then. Your cheeks warmed.
He was leaving when a thought occurred to you, and the question beat against the side of your mind, begging to be asked.
"Hey, astrophysicist boy," you called after him. He turned, eyebrows raised and pointing to himself as he mouthed, Me?
"Yeah, who else?" You looked around, trying to downplay the adrenaline that rushed through you at the amount of confidence you currently embodied. His presence made you feel a strange exhilaration, akin to the kind that usually ensues when one hears two melodies harmonise perfectly.
So you asked your question.
"Want to go for a drink sometime?"
The sun was peculiarly brilliant for this February day, beating down hotly on your neck and shoulders. The trees around you held their breath, their leaves motionless for once, as May held your gaze.
Finally, he smiled, looked down at his feet, looked back up at you.
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like that."
You nodded, then hurried down the path before he could discover what a mistake he'd made in even talking to you in the first place.
Two minutes later, you realised that it was you who had made the mistake: he knew neither your name nor where to find you. You looked back in the direction from which you'd come, but he was nowhere to be seen.
You closed your eyes in dismay.
Oh well. It was probably for the best that you only saw him in the mornings. He'd soon have found out that you weren't made of the same ethereal matter as he.
Still, as you walked quietly to your next lecture, you mourned the loss of a possible friendship, and the fact that you would now not see him for two whole weeks.
‧⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧
The string snapped against your poised fingers.
"Ah!" you cried, pulling back and letting the guitar fall to your lap. "The fuck," you muttered, pressing your fingers against your lips. Your mum had always kissed everything better when you had been little, as many mothers did, and the habit of replicating this had never faded.
You sighed and stared at the red mark that slashed across your fingertips. You didn't need anything more to discourage you; you felt incompetent enough as it was.
You'd been playing electric guitar for a total of seven months, and your progress was little. You couldn't afford lessons, and though your dad played guitar, you lived an hour from your parents' place and couldn't very well make a trip to see him every time you needed some pointers.
No, your dad was in the country, and you were in the city, and you had resorted to books to teach you most things, even if many of them were slow and overly technical in their teachings.
You sighed again. Then your eyes snapped to the door as one of your many housemates— you had ten— burst into the room, the door rattling against its frame.
"Hi Heather," you said.
"Jesus, fuck," Heather hissed under her breath, hopping around on one foot as she cradled the toes of the other.
You laughed.
"New boyfriend?"
Heather fell down onto her bed that stood across from yours. Rent was incredibly expensive in London, so no one in the house was even able to occupy their own room; you shared in twos, except for Amélie, Jenny, and Kate, who had drawn the short straws of a three-person room. If someone brought home a date, the roommate of that person would share a room with others for the night, turning up with a spare mattress and an apology in hand. It seemed to work, though. Unfortunately for you, Heather brought home many a boy, or girl, or person, and did so quite often. You therefore found yourself apologising to the rest of the household quite frequently.
Heather grinned at you, pulling the sock off of her stubbed toes. "He's positively heavenly in bed," she joked.
You smiled. Trust Heather to come up with a good pun.
"How's the guitar playing going?" she asked, her eyes meandering back up from where they had been examining her injury.
"About that..." you said. "Broke a string just now."
"So you play hard rock, then, quiet girl," said Heather, a note of amusement in her voice.
You flicked your guitar pick at her, and it hit her square on the nose.
"Hey!" said Heather. "Injured, remember?"
You shrugged. "You attacked me first. Had it coming."
Heather narrowed her eyes at you. "Just watch out when the 1st of April rolls around, 'kay, Y/N?"
You rolled your eyes and lay back on your bed, amber guitar in your lap, arms out to the sides, eyes on the ceiling.
"Tell me, Y/N," Heather leaned against the wall, "why is it I've never heard you play?"
You groaned and shut your eyes. "Because I'm a fucking mess," you said.
"Better than a virgin mess."
"Heather! Don't be crude."
"Prim."
"Oh shush."
"Fancy a drink, then?" said Heather, looking at you rather pityingly.
You sat up. "Yeah, why not?"
"Just this once, then," Heather winked.
You took the guitar from your lap and returned it to its place, a stand beside your bed. You stood a moment, admiring the beauty of the instrument, from the colours to the craftsmanship it must have taken to make it. You only wished you could play it better than you did. Your poster of Jimi Hendrix seemed to gaze at you mournfully through its glossy paper eyes as you thought this, and you began to feel even sorrier for yourself.
"Get dressed, then, Princess," Heather's voice wrenched you from your sad little reverie.
You faced her and frowned. "I am dressed."
Heather observed your ragged jumper and loose trousers. "Wear something that shows you off a bit, gorgeous."
"You flatter me," you said dryly.
"'S what I'm here for, Y/N! Kitchen in ten." Heather sashayed out of the room.
Shutting the door, you examined your wardrobe.
You chose an orange top embroidered here and there with tiny white flowers, paring it with black bell bottoms and platform high-heeled boots.
It would have to do.
‧⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧
You were downstairs in the ten minutes you had promised, and Heather cooed upon seeing you.
"Lovely, Princess," she said. "Just a couple of criticisms—"
She pulled at the string that held the little collar of your blouse together, letting it fall open a bit, fluffed your hair, and swiped lipgloss across your lips.
"You're blazin', Y/N," Heather was practically glowing with pride, as though you were her little sister. Sure enough, Heather pretended to dab at her eyes, "All grown up, baby."
"And I was only five yesterday," you said dramatically, earning another grin from your friend.
"Let's rock and roll, then," Heather linked your arms and pulled you out the door.
‧⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧
The bar was stiflingly hot, and for 10 PM in February, it felt like summer.
The Union was crowded because it was a Friday night, and the place hummed with chatter, laughter, clinking classes, and some band playing a blues gig on the small stage that lay to one side of the pub.
Heather rapped on the wood of the bar top when you reached it, despite the fact the pub was overcrowded and the employees working the bar were rushing back and forth like madmen.
The head barman waved another customer off and walked up to you and Heather to a chorus of shouting and bickering about who had been at the bar first.
"Hey, Brendan," said Heather.
"Hiya, Heather," Brendan returned. He was Heather's cousin and therefore was always happy to serve you two before any of the twenty-something-year-old drunkards who occupied the few barstools crammed into the corner where the main bar held its court. "Y/N," he nodded to you.
"Brendan," you said awkwardly. Heather sniggered beside you. Brendan had been keen on you, and Heather had even tried to set you up with him once, but he wasn't really your type, and you also very obviously had nothing in common with each other.
"Usual?" he asked the both of you.
Heather looked to you for your approval. "Yep, just that," you nodded.
"Coming right up."
Heather leaned back against the bar and stared down anyone who tried to make her move. You were less assertive and ended up standing in front of Heather after some already-tipsy girl had pushed you out of the way, tilting dangerously on her too-high platforms.
"Hey, move outta the way a second," Heather patted your shoulder and you took a step to the right. She'd straightened her posture from slouch to regality, and she ran a hand through her glossy hair.
"See something you like?" you said, following her line of sight.
"More like someone. Don't wait up, hun." Heather sauntered off and you rolled your eyes.
Brendan chose that moment to return with your drinks.
"Gin tonic and a beer," he announced. "Where's Heather?"
You shrugged. "She made a beeline for some guy. Blonde, blue-eyed, pretty, smoking a cigarette. I'll take those," you gestured to the drinks, wondering whether or not it was a good idea to drink them both in a matter of minutes. You'd felt glum ever since this afternoon, and you couldn't have said why.
"That's Heather," shrugged Brendan, handing you the drinks and returning to his busy post at the bar.
You sighed, looking around and trying to spot a place to sit down; you realised you felt more like drinking alone than in a crowded bar.
There were people everywhere, so you decided it was probably easier to find a place to sit by walking around a bit.
The Union was rowdy tonight, and more than once you bumped into someone, nearly sloshing the drinks to the floor. Nearly.
You suddenly spied a table and a pair of rickety-looking chairs in a corner, and hurried toward it.
Just as you made it to the chair, another person pulled it out for himself.
Your shoulders slumped. This was exactly what you needed right now. A bloody chair-stealer.
You made to leave.
"Oh, no, sorry. You sit," said the tall boy who had pulled out the chair, offering it to you.
There was something familiar about that voice. You turned around. Your face brightened immediately.
"Hiya, May!"
"Miss Andrews?" he said, and you nodded.
You put the drinks down on the table and he pushed your chair in as you sat down.
"Gentlemanly," you remarked as he took the seat across from you, leaning his elbows on the tabletop.
He shrugged. "Common courtesy when a lady sits down."
You frowned. "Not many people think like that."
"And here I thought you were taking astrophysics and not psychology," he shook his head.
"Majoring in astrophysics, minoring in psychology," you corrected.
"Oh, really? That sounds interesting." Then he held out his hand. "I'm Brian, by the way." His smile was small, but you could tell it was genuine, from the way the expression wholly overtook his face.
"I'm Y/N," you took his hand. "Hello, properly, I suppose."
"Hello properly to you too, Y/N."
You looked at the two condensation-covered glasses that sat in front of you. "Fancy that drink, Bri?"
He blinked at the nickname, but it had felt natural for you to say it, and he went with it.
"Celebrating the start of our holidays?" he said. "I'd love one. What've you got?"
"Just a regular draft beer," you pushed it toward him.
"Sounds good," he said, taking the glass and a sip. "Who was it meant for?" he asked, running a finger about the rim.
You tasted your own drink. It had the perfect amount of tonic to compliment the gin. One thing could be said for Brendan, at least: he knew how to make a drink.
"My friend Heather. But she's gone off with some Casanova."
Brian furrowed his brow, sipping his beer. "Please, dear God, tell me he wasn't blonde and blue-eyed," he muttered.
"You know," you said with amusement, "he was."
Brian covered his face with his hands. His words were muffled. "Was he a pretty-boy? And smoking a pack a day?"
"Uh, I don't know how many packs he smokes a day, but that sounds about right, yeah. How'd you know?"
Brian groaned, leaning back in his seat. "That's my friend. And you were right when you said Casanova."
You smirked in the direction where you'd last seen Heather.
"She's a bit of a femme fatale, to be honest," you said, "so tell him to exercise caution."
"Femme fatale?" Brian chuckled.
You raised your hands in surrender, "Her words, not mine."
"Mm, must admit, I did find it slightly odd that you would betray your friend like that."
"What's to be said for you, agreeing with me that your friend is a Casanova?"
"You haven't guessed?" he said.
You shook your head slowly.
"His words, not mine," said Brian, and you laughed.
"Wow, we have a lot in common," you declared.
"Do we?" he leaned forward again. "Tell me more."
You swirled your gin tonic. "Well, we're both studying astrophysics—"
"Say, are we really?"
You narrowed your eyes. "I don't need your sarcasm, Brian May."
He pouted attractively. "Go on, then. What else do I not know? Indulge me."
"Fine. You like Jimi Hendrix, I like Jimi Hendrix—"
"How'd you know that?" he said.
"Bri. You talk about dear ol' Jimi all the time."
"When?"
"Every morning you hold open the door."
"Every day, really?"
"Every day. You can't tell me you don't have posters."
Brian smirked faintly. "I do. Of him and of The Beatles."
"Ah," you raised a finger. "And we both like The Beatles."
"You'd have to be insane not to."
"Agreed," you nodded enthusiastically. "You're also very interested in relativity and dark matter, if your door-holding conversations are any indication."
"You're observant," he remarked.
"As are you."
"You flatter me," he responded.
"No," you said. "It's the hair. It makes you more likeable."
He laughed and shook his curls out, then glanced up at you from beneath them when they fell across his honey-coloured eyes.
You cocked your head to one side, the corners of your mouth turning upward.
He tried to blow his hair away from his eyes, but failed miserably several times.
The fifth time his endeavour failed, you couldn't hold in your laughter any longer.
"Sorry," you said without any real apology in your tone, and Brian huffed, tucking his curls away from his face.
"No you're not," said Brian.
"Yeah, no, I'm not," you shrugged.
"This is bullying. I'll have to take to day-drinking," he picked up his glass and downed the last of the beer.
"Shame it's already night."
"Definitely bullying," he tutted at you. He then motioned to your own empty glass. "Up for another one?"
"Yeah! Thanks," you fumbled for your wallet, but Brian shook his head.
"My turn," he said.
You smiled.
When he returned, he didn't sit back down. "Let's go outside," he suggested. "Too loud and stuffy in here."
You nodded and rose from your seat. He carried your drinks and you hoped you carried yourself with confidence as you left the pub for the summer-like evening.
"Strange weather we're having," Brian commented, looking up at the sky.
"Yeah," you agreed, following his line of sight to where they rested on the stars. Or where the stars should have been, anyway. There were very few to be seen in London; the light-pollution overwhelmed Mother Nature's own glittering display.
Brian handed back your re-filled drink absently, eyes still on the heavens.
"Thanks."
"It's a shame we can't see more than this," he said, his voice wistful and soft as he stared into the deep blue above your heads.
"It is," you murmured.
He beckoned with one hand, only momentarily looking away from the sky, and you followed him to the brick wall that separated the pub from a park path. Flowerpots were haphazardly arranged atop the wall, and Brain frowned, finally tearing his gaze from the stars to set his drink on the ground.
"Help me, will you?" he asked, eyeing the flowerpots.
You nodded, freeing your hands of your glass.
Brian leaned against the side of the wall, then tossed his long legs over the brickwork and hopped down from the short height. He held out his hands and you passed him pots, which he deposited on the ground on the other side.
Having cleared the wall, Brian mounted it again and crossed his legs. You picked up your drinks and handed him his.
He thanked you, at the same time that you attempted to climb up the brick and sit down beside him, using only one hand to support yourself. The latter was a grave mistake.
You tilted forward violently—
"Oye," said Bri, grabbing your arm in an incredible feat of reflexes.
"Jesus," you exhaled through your teeth. "Thank you."
Bri chuckled. "You should thank me instead of Jesus."
You made a face and shoved his shoulder, then remembered your almost-fall and laid your hand on his back before he too could lose his balance. His skin was warm beneath his knitted sweater.
He tutted at you, shaking his head, "And this is how you thank me."
"I'm going to have to ask you to shut it before I actually do push you off of this stupid wall."
"Not entirely stupid, though," Brian clinked his glass against yours. "'S given us a spot to sit, away from the noisy people, hasn't it?"
"And a vague view of that which we love best," you had turned your eyes to the stars.
"Though not nearly enough."
"What with this city's extensive use of lights," you said.
You could hear the thrum of music and the shouts of drunk people from behind you in the bar, and you glanced appreciatively at Brian for his quieter company.
"Two short-period comets have been discovered this year already," he began conversationally.
"Far better than those long-period comets, with their damn 200-year perihelions."
Brian positively beamed at you, as though you'd said exactly what he was thinking. "Yeah! Because if you miss those, then they're just... gone."
"Makes them a bit magical, though," you mused.
"Once in a lifetime," Brian agreed with a sigh. He asked out of the blue, "Do you have a telescope?"
You glanced at him. "No, why?"
"So that you can see the comets, when the journals release more specific dates for when they'll pass Earth. Shame," he continued, "some of them will be spectacular."
"Some of them?"
"Unlikely that we'll be able to see them all."
"But they'll still be spectacular, whether or not we see them," you contended.
One corner of his lips turned upward. "Schrödinger's—"
"—Schrödinger's cat."
"Great minds think alike."
"They do," you responded. "You and me, Bri. I'll let you think I'm clever," you said thoughtlessly.
"What?" Brian barked a laugh. "Think you're clever? If you can understand those fucking awful derivatives, then you're more than just clever."
You scoffed. "Now you flatter me."
"I can't do those for the life of me," Brian confessed.
"You can't?!" you heard yourself cry.
"Alright, now you're making me feel silly," he scrunched up his nose cutely, then sighed.
"I didn't mean to. It's just pretty great that we're friends if you're piss-poor at derivations."
"He-ey!" Brian uncrossed his legs, turning to you in indignation.
"Shut up."
"Sorry."
"Stop apologising for nothing."
"Sorry— I mean, no. We're friends?" he said.
"Has anyone ever told you how nice you are, Bri? If you didn't want to be friends, you should have told me so before you started talking about the superiority of short-period comets."
He threw his head back and really laughed this time, his skin glowing in the unobscured moonlight as his curls fell over his shoulders.
"Oh, you're wonderful," he remarked. "A wonderful friend. Of course we're friends."
"So back to you being horrible at derivatives—"
"Yes, and mind you, I haven't forgotten how horribly rude you were about that," he sniffed.
"— and how clever I am at them—"
"Now you flatter you."
"You said it first," you reminded him.
There was a pause.
"I could help you with derivatives," you said.
He set down his glass and contemplated you with inquisitive eyes. "In exchange for..?"
The warm night breeze tickled your face and the air hummed like the electrons around you had broken away from their atomic shells. "What're you offering?"
He was frightfully close to you, a slender hand's breadth away. The trees whispered in the park across from the wall where the two of you sat dangling your legs, and the moon outlined Brian's jaw, an aquiline nose, his cheekbones, the planes of his face.
You breathed in coffee, summer rain, books so old they could've been stardust themselves. Brian was all of these things, all of these things that you adored.
"What do you want... from me?" His whisper was breathless and soft and light, and felt like the first kiss of sunlight after the curtains had been closed to a thousand days of rain.
For one fleeting instant, you knew what you wanted. You often felt that you did not know what you wanted, but for just a moment, you knew, and you wanted it, terribly.
But then the strangling nerves that normally dictated your every action suddenly rewound themselves about your being, and tightened.
"I don't know what I want," you murmured in all earnesty, despite the line of his lips in the pale light, despite his gravitation toward you, despite everything that made him a constellation and you a star.
His breath hitched audibly and his eyes reflected galaxies in the darkness.
"I fear what I do."
You melted. You melted because you understood. You understood what this starry-eyed boy meant, by fearing oneself, because with freedom there came uncertainty, and with uncertainty walked choice and mistakes and shame and darkness.
You felt so small in the universe.
"Be kinder to yourself, Brian."
"I could say the same to you, Y/N."
Lilies. He smelled of those too.
The night was warm; the stars felt young and pretty. You felt younger too.
A loud chiming interrupted the flower blooming over your heart, and Brian leapt back from where he had gravitated into your orbit.
Slowly, you pressed a palm to your chest, and Brian mistook your motion for surprise.
"Now, no falling off that wall," he warned you.
You smiled, the expression involuntary and yet in existence.
"Not tonight, at least," you promised.
Brian slid from the wall as Big Ben finished chiming twelve, and in the dimness of the park he brushed himself off; the little light there was seemed to shimmer at his edges, as though it were simply drawn to him.
"Time to go home, I think," he said, extending his hand to you.
You slid your fingers into his grasp, and from the way his hands were soft but his fingers calloused, you wondered if he, like you, played guitar.
You hopped down from the wall, and like the ever-clumsy person you were, almost toppled over. You turned the blunder into a twirl instead, spinning dramatically with your arms above your head.
Brian laughed and initiated a waltz without a partner, his chin raised and his steps methodical but graceful.
You shook your head at him as you both began to traipse homeward.
At the turn of the path, you eventually parted ways, with Brian offering a bow to you as though the dance of earlier had ended. You followed suit. It was only right.
"Good night, Y/N."
"Good night, Bri."
‧⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧