#IM GONNA GNAW ON HIS HIP BONE

[femboylando]

I jusr have no words

[buggaberry]

For your Bad Things Happen Bingo Card, how about "Passing Out From Pain" with Ladynoir? I'm a sucker for Ladybug freaking out if something bad happens to Chat Noir ;)

pairing: ladynoir

word count: 3981

warnings: character injury

a/n: this is over a year late im so sorry but i hope you enjoy ;o;

Read on AO3

__________________________________________

The Parisian sky was dark and cloudy as rain poured down heavily, soaking Ladybug’s hair. She futilely tried to shield herself from the barrage of droplets with her hands.

The rain came on rather suddenly, there were sparse clouds earlier but it was otherwise clear. She’d been sitting on a rooftop waiting to begin patrol.

Chat Noir was late. Though it wasn’t uncommon for him to show up later than her, Ladybug couldn’t help her gnawing concern this time around.

These past few days there’s been something off about him. It took her a while to notice since she’d been worried about Adrien, who was recently discharged from the hospital after having been in an accident.

She could never quite place her finger on it because he’d always throw on that big cheeky grin of his before she could catch his prior expression. Chat fought the same as he always did for the most part, but she noticed that he got knocked over easier and he would breathe rather laboriously at the end of their battles.

Ladybug knew her partner wasn’t well, in what manner was beyond her. The thought had crossed that perhaps he was resting, which would ease her mind, but he would’ve called in by now to tell her. He could always be too fatigued to transform if he was exhausted, but Plagg would have shown up by now if that were the case.

She would remain stubbornly at their meeting spot until there was a sign or if she ended up caving into the weather. Even if it was just to kick him and send him home to rest.

Ladybug attempted to shake off some of the water that soaked her, pulling out her yo-yo and spinning it over her head to shield her from the rain. It was much better, her arm would get tired after a while, but she was determined to tough it out.

It turned out that toughing out wouldn’t have to last long, as she heard a splash and a thud from behind her. Her heart leapt up to her throat in anticipation, only to drop to the pit of her stomach when she turned around.

There Chat Noir was, a soft sheen covering him from the rain, soaked to the bone. Aside from his slightly hunched posture and dull eyes that wouldn’t brighten despite his soft smile, his skin looked pale. It was undeniably pale.

Ladybug let her yo-yo drop from its rapid twirling, placing it back on her hip before scurrying to stand up and approach him.

Chat’s smile strained, trying to give her a better one, though her look of concern didn’t waver for a moment.

“Chat…”

Chat Noir grimaced in return, his smile wasn’t getting him anywhere.

“Hey, Bug,” he tried, attempting to keep his demeanor as straight as he could.

“You look terrible, what are you doing out here?” Ladybug said with brows furrowed in both worry and frustration.

Chat opened and closed his mouth a few times before pursing his lips.

“And it’s pouring out here, you’re gonna make yourself sick! Are you nuts?!” she exclaimed, both her hands fists at her sides.

Chat’s ears drooped atop his head, he looked away in shame remaining silent. Ladybug’s features softened as she gazed at him, shoving her frustration down in an attempt to calm down. Her hand started to reach out to him only to pull away, guilt tugging at her heart for yelling at him.

“I’m sorry… I—… I shouldn’t have yelled,” she said quietly, looking down, “I’ve been worried about you.”

Chat’s eyes returned to her, his smile was much more genuine than the one he was giving her earlier, “It’s alright, I’m alright. I guess I kind of deserved that.”

Ladybug chewed on the inside of her cheek before picking her head back up. He was a lot closer to her face than before, he looked much worse. His eyes weren’t as wide open as they usually were, his lips were paler, each breath he took seemed almost tedious. There were slight tremors that ran through his body occasionally, which could have been because he was cold, but his winces that came after made her think otherwise. It made her chest clench.

“You should go rest, Kitty. You don’t look well,” she whispered while placing a hand on his cheek, caressing it with her thumb, brushing droplets away. There was a brief look of surprise that flickered in his eyes from the action.

Chat sighed, his face pressing into her palm, “If My Lady insists, I suppose I can leave patrol to you.”

“I mean it, Chat. I don’t wanna see you again until you’re feeling better. I need you, but I need you healthy, got it? If you’re sick or hurt, you need to be resting,” Ladybug said, pushing his soaking bangs away from his face.

Chat glanced away, his expression was unreadable but he nodded.

“Good,” Ladybug sighed and pulled her hand away, Chat pouted at the loss of her touch. She wasn’t completely satisfied with his answer though, hesitating before asking, “It’s nothing I need to be worried about, right?”

He let out a soft chuckle before smiling and brushing her dripping bangs away like she had done to him, “I’m not dying if that's what you were wondering. I promise.” He had said it with such sincerity Ladybug couldn’t help but stare at him with wide eyes. There wasn’t a joke about nine lives or a hint of nonchalance in his answer, he was being honest which filled her with relief.

“Do I look that bad?” He snorted, tilting his head to the side endearingly. Ladybug could feel her lip quivering a bit as she turned her head away. “Yes, you do.” she wanted to say.

She heard Chat breathe in a bit like he was about to say something, only for her to suddenly be tackled over to the ground. A loud bang followed, making her ears ring.

Chat painfully groaned from above her, making her snap her gaze up to check if he’d gotten hit. There wasn’t any visible damage, but she still gingerly held him as she got up.

“Can you get up?” she said with urgency, glancing around to make sure another hit wouldn’t come flying in. Chat Noir nodded, so she held him from his forearms to help him up. Ladybug brought his arm around her shoulders, holding him firmly at his waist as she pulled out her yo-yo to swing away, not catching his scrunched-up face.

Though the minute they were airborne, there was a bombardment of large spikes flying in their direction. The rain splashing in her face wasn’t helping her as she tried to maneuver away, she ended up skidding as she landed in the street.

An odd figure approached them from a distance, humanoid with tentacle-like limbs it walked with that sprouted from its back, pitch black and oozing goop. An Akuma that looked like it could have come straight out of some sort of horror movie.

Of course, there would be an Akuma in the midst of pouring rain and her partner basically out of commission. Ladybug was plotting the types of violence she’d resort to when she confronted Hawkmoth.

She spun her yo-yo over their heads to protect them from the rain, though it was kind of pointless since they were already utterly drenched.

The Akuma suddenly lurched forward towards them and in hindsight, maybe she should have spun the yo-yo in front of them to protect them from it. It was fast, too fast for her to move. Chat Noir pulled out his staff from beside her and extended it, quickly moving in front of her to block the incoming limb about to ram into them.

He tried to push it back, only for another one to coil around him and toss him to the side. “Chat!” Ladybug gasped and began to sprint over to him, only to get whipped in the opposite direction. She landed with a thud on her back, the wind knocking out of her lungs.

Just as she began to get up, another spike came flying in, going just over her head and impaling the wall next to her. She whipped around to look at it then back at the unnamed Akuma. The spikes were its limbs, they solidified when they disconnected from its back, growing back promptly after. How quaint.

It began to make a move towards her partner, who still hadn’t gotten back up. Ladybug saw red as she tore the spike out of the wall and chucked it as hard as she could at the Akuma.

She sprinted over to Chat Noir, relieved to see him blinking and breathing, albeit, weakly. She wasted no time tucking her hands behind his back and knees, lifting him up from the ground.

Ladybug whipped her head up to check on the Akuma, who was currently immobilized, tentacles stuck to the ground from the spike she had thrown. It was starting to regenerate, but it was enough time for her to get Chat somewhere safe.

She made haste, sprinting back home, up to her balcony. Her home was decently far away from where the Akuma was.

Chat was quiet the whole time, as she laid him down on her sling chair and pulled out a throw blanket to put over him. Ladybug would’ve put him in her room, but there was no way for her to justify putting him in a stranger’s house. It would have been better to hide him and protect him from the rain, but it was too risky. The drape above the chair was enough to shield him from the rain, thankfully.

“Is this alright?” Ladybug whispered as she tucked him in. He only nodded and gave her a brief smile.

She furrowed her brows at him before jolting back when she heard a distant crash. The Akuma must have gotten free. She had to go back.

Ladybug turned back towards him, reassuringly grabbing his wrist, “I’ll be back as soon as possible, okay?” she said, backing away and swinging in the direction of the noise.

The pit of her chest was filled with anxiety the entire time, her gut practically screaming to go back and stay with him. There was something wrong, she could see it in his eyes.

She took a little longer than she would’ve liked fighting the Akuma, her frustration growing as the battle went on and causing her to continuously slip up.

Ladybug didn’t think she’d ever smashed an akumatized object so hard in her entire life.

She managed to keep the Akuma far from her home the entire time, which didn’t make her any less urgent to get back to her balcony.

The Akuma turned out to be a director who’d gotten upset at the refusal of promoting their horror movie. Ladybug didn’t pay much attention to anything else, her partner was the only one on her mind.

She promptly ran away, out of sight after casting her miracle cure, detransforming in an alleyway to feed Tikki before transforming once again. 

Ladybug returned to find Chat Noir sitting up, his legs dangling off the side of the chair, watching raindrops gather from the brim of the sheet above him and dripping down. His eyes had this sort of mesmerization in them that was akin to what a cat might have.

She let out a puff of air, he looked okay.

One of his cat ears twitched at the sound of her footsteps before he turned his attention towards her.

Ladybug smiled gently at him, "Hey, are you feeling any better?" she asked.

Chat Noir paused for a brief moment before nodding, "Yeah, I think I'm alright," he said, his voice rather quiet.

This was probably the moment she should send him off to go home, part of her felt like that would be wrong.

Before she could say anything to him, he started to get up.

"I should get going now," he said as he walked past her and towards the railing. He barely spared her a glance, he sounded a bit rushed and panicked.

Ladybug turned around to protest, but he just as quickly hunched over and stumbled with a hiss of pain.

She grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him, her prior panic filling her all over again. The moment she held him, he leaned into her, knees wobbling.

"Chat? Chat, what's going on?"

He didn't respond, he had a grimace painted over his features and he was panting.

Chat Noir went limp in her arms in mere moments.

"Chat!" Ladybug cried out, lowering him down to the ground to lay his head on her lap.

She quickly checked his pulse and breathing, both of which were perfectly stable. He had fainted.

What was she supposed to do? Was she supposed to take him to the hospital?

There was no fever or anything, so he wasn't ill, he was clearly in pain. Ladybug couldn't think of anything other than that he must have been injured somehow, badly at that. Which made her worry if he was bleeding at all under the suit.

She tried tapping on his cheek a few times to rouse him, but he wouldn't budge.

Her best bet was to wait for him to wake up to see if he could go home or if she needed to take him to the emergency room.

Even if he was mostly alright, she wasn't entirely sure if she trusted him enough to not pass out again on his way back.

The rain had at least eased up, she lifted him up bridal style and carefully laid him back on her chair.

Ladybug was conflicted, they were fairly exposed up on the balcony and both had gotten utterly soaked. She didn't want him to catch a cold on top of everything else.

She debated between walking into the bakery as Ladybug to ask her parents for help or jumping straight into her room to try and care for him.

There was also Alya, she could call Alya for help, she'd understand. Right?

She thought about detransforming and saying Ladybug asked Marinette to watch him, but then she'd feel like a jerk for ditching him as Ladybug.

She placed her head down on Chat's lap and groaned, "Why do you have to do this to me, kitty?" She huffed and took his hand, caressing it with her thumb.

She was just going to have to take him into her room as Ladybug, that seemed like the best option. Her parents would have been ideal, but they were definitely busy in the bakery at this time of day.

Ladybug crawled over to her trapdoor, pulling it open before standing up. She picked him up, adjusting her grip so his head was leaning on her and not bobbing about.

She carefully lowered him onto her bed, gingerly placing his head down first on her pillow. Taking another pillow, she tucked it beneath his legs. They were both dripping water onto her sheets, she'd have to wash them later.

After making sure he looked comfortable enough, she climbed down to grab some clean towels and a warm fluffy blanket that had been sprawled on her chaise.

She set the blanket to the side, unfolding a towel first to tap his face and neck dry before going at his hair. His hair was still damp, but at least it wasn't sopping wet anymore. She then dried off the rest of him, chucking the wet towel to the ground when she was done to pick it up later.

Ladybug dried herself just a bit with the second towel she’d picked up before tossing it along with the other. She picked up the fluffy blanket she had set to the side, tucking him in and pulling her comforter atop him as well.

Letting out a sigh, she let herself lay down beside him, staring at his calm expression. Her hand moved up to brush his bangs away, lingering beside one of his leathery cat ears. She gently scratched right behind it, usually that was enough to get him to purr. It was a little unsettling how he didn't even twitch.

She had to place her hand on his chest just to reassure herself that his heart was beating normally and his breathing was even.

Ladybug closed her eyes, keeping her palm to his chest. There wasn't much else she could do other than to stay by his side until he awoke.

The number of things possibly wrong with him kept flitting through her mind. She wondered how bad it was and if he had family at home worrying about him right now if he was supposed to be resting. In that moment, she couldn’t help but briefly be reminded of Adrien. The extent of his injuries was unknown, but it seemed pretty serious from what she’d heard. Adrien was in a car accident, her only knowledge of the situation was that it seemed intentional and was currently being investigated. If she thought about it, the timing of Chat’s unwell demeanor matched up pretty closely but… Adrien would never sneak out after sustaining such injuries, right? Chat Noir had been out and about for a while as well, she didn’t think it was anything severe.

She was being silly, it was just her concern speaking.

Chat Noir shifted a bit, causing Ladybug to immediately sit up and efficiently end her train of thought. A small noise emitted from his throat before his eyes fluttered open.

“Chat! You’re awake!” Ladybug gasped, throwing her arms around him but in no way hard enough to inflict pain.

Chat Noir looked dazed, shifting his head around to take in his surroundings.

“Are we in Marinette’s room?”

Ladybug felt her face pale, pulling away.

“Oh, right. I uh… I panicked and I asked this girl for help and she was kind enough to let us borrow her room,” she fibbed with a nervous laugh.

“... I see,” Chat replied, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, “Make sure to tell her I said thank you… and that I’m sorry for any trouble I caused.”

“Of course, I’ll bring her ‘thank you’ flowers or something, no worries. She didn’t mind helping out at all,” Ladybug waved off. She hesitated for a moment, pursing her lips, “We were both really worried about you, you know? I was scared half to death… You weren’t any trouble at all, I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, smiling reassuringly and ruffling his hair before pausing and pulling her hand back.

“You are okay, right? Should I be taking you to the hospital now or—”

Chat Noir chuckled a little at her demeanor, finding it endearing, “No, it’s alright. I think I’ll just tell someone I passed out when I go home, then I’ll go if I need to,” he said.

Ladybug nodded along, furrowing her brows, “How are you gonna get back home? You passed out after barely taking a few steps on your way back.”

Chat Noir grimaced at that, “Right. Do you think I could give you an address close to my place where you can drop me off and then I can make the rest of the way back?” he said in a mostly joking manner. But to Ladybug, that didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

“Yeah, I can do that. Just type it in my yo-yo, we can get going right now,” she said as she opened up her yo-yo and handed it over to him, leaving his mouth gaping.

“Wait, really? You don’t have to, I don’t wanna trouble you, you’ve done more than enough. You probably have to go back home now, I can probably make it back on my own,” Chat insisted, sitting up a bit trying to hand the yo-yo back to her.

Ladybug pushed it back towards him and shook her head, “Nope. We’re going. I want you to get any help you need as soon as possible.”

Chat Noir pouted, reluctantly starting to type in an address, handing it back to her when he finished, “There.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Come on, up. I’m picking you up,” she said, already removing the blankets on top of him and tucking her hands under him.

Chat Noir didn’t have a second to complain, grumbling in her arms and she carried him out bridal style.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” she said, trying to be as careful as she could. Chat nodded back before tucking his face into her shoulder. Ladybug had to fight down a blush from his close proximity.

They were airborne in mere moments, Ladybug hurried as quickly as she could to the location he’d given her. She didn’t want to waste a moment if he was in need of any medical attention.

Once she reached the rooftop, she gingerly let him down, still holding him up from his arm.

“This is the spot, right?” she asked.

“Yeah… thank you,” he said quietly.

Ladybug couldn’t quite get over this quiet and reserved demeanor of his, it only made her more worried.

She chewed on the inside of her lip in thought before attempting to toss on a cheesy grin, “It was no purr-oblem, kitten.”

Chat Noir was quiet after that, Ladybug's grin was wavering but she tried to keep it up, throwing in a finger gun. The gesture alone probably took years off of her own life.

He eventually snorted softly, followed by a quiet melodious laugh. Ladybug’s heart briefly stuttered at the genuinity of it.

“Thank you…” he said once again after catching his breath, it was filled with much more sincerity.

Ladybug coughed, lightly punching his shoulder, “Yeah, right. Just don’t do anything stupid like that again.” Chat smiled, giving her head a little pat.

“I’ve been really worried about you and you… you just really matter to me, okay? So… get better soon. Please go home and try to rest,” she pleaded, voice wavering, Chat Noir froze in place.

He shifted to pull her to his chest, delicately hugging her.

“I will, I promise,” he whispered into her hair.

Ladybug breathed in shakily and nodded, “Good.”

She pulled away from his embrace, staring up into his eyes. She brought her hand up and cupped his cheek, leaning in and tenderly pecking the other, “Go. Come back to me healthy,” she said as she backed away.

Chat stared at her in awe, his pale complexion tinting pink.

“Ah,” he said after a beat or two of surprise.

He nodded, “Yes, of course.”

Once he seemed to regain his senses, he approached her, brushing her bangs to the side and pressing his lips gently to her forehead, “Till we meet again?”

Ladybug blinked a few times, holding her breath for a second to repress a noise of surprise. She cleared her throat, “Even if it takes weeks or months, take it easy until you’re better. I can handle things.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and spun him around, mostly to hide her red face, “Now shoo.”

Chat Noir chuckled, “As my lady wishes,” he said before steadily taking off.

Ladybug puffed a sigh of relief watching him go off. Though she realized she shouldn’t keep staring since his home was probably nearby. She quickly averted her gaze, spinning around and pulling out her yo-yo to head home.

When she landed in her bed and destransformed, she did so in a plop.

Marinette’s sheets were still damp from earlier, though she felt far too drained and fumbled with her feelings to do anything about it right now.

All she could do was think about him, he was all that was on her mind.

She idly wondered if the kwamis would let them exchange letters, Marinette had a feeling it would be a while before she could see him again. As long as he was bright again once more.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 4: City Of Dreams]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, not really angst but you can FEEL that the angst is coming, pre-angst???

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​  @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

He calls you at home, at the bare-bones flat you share with two Imperial College nursing students; he calls because he knows you want to see the world. He can’t give you the world yet, he can’t quite afford that. But what he can afford are two tickets to the British Museum, which are, incidentally, free.  

Roger shows you the Rosetta Stone, a column from the Temple of Artemis, the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, the River Witham swords, the Benin ivory mask of Queen Idia, Chinese jade, Incan gold, portraits of Anne Boleyn, bronze busts of Hadrian and Claudius, Rembrandts and Da Vincis and Van Goghs. He shows you the treasures of the living and the ruins of the dead, their currency and their gods and their flesh: skeletal mummies of people who walked the earth a millennium and a half before the Mayans, three thousand years before Alexander.

He’s uncharacteristically patient. He takes his time. He studies the maddeningly small words on the displays and asks you which relics you like best, whether they speak to you, what they say. He doesn’t want to leave even when you offer, even when you can see he’s restless for a cigarette, when he drums his fingers against his hip and gnaws his lower lip with those tiny canine teeth. Maybe there’s something else he’s even more ravenous for.

Roger wants to show you everything. There are alabaster-white, echoing corridors roped off for renovations, but that doesn’t stop him. He sprints with you down dimly-lit hallways—your fingers interlaced with his, your hair flying—and raises curtains and murky sheets of plastic to reveal marble faces, Anglo-Saxon helmets, Viking blades, fifth-century scrolls. He keeps watch as you look; and when he hears the footsteps of security guards he pulls you into the shadows, presses you flat against the wall, giggles in whispers as he clasps his palm over your mouth and begs you to be quiet. I’m trying, your gleaming eyes tell him, and when he lifts his hand away his burning sapphire gaze drops to your lips, and you think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him. But at the last moment you turn away, pretend you hadn’t noticed, tell him you think the footsteps are gone.

And the words ricochet perilously through your mind like shrapnel: I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

That once felt like a promise; now it feels like a plea.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have a deeply philosophical question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

John is laying across the studio couch on his back, using your maroon-tights-and-golden-sundress-clothed thigh as a pillow, holding his notebook with one hand and a dulling pencil with the other. You’re working through a pile of the band’s outfits that need mending, denim and leather and knits and polyester strewn over your lap; you are excellent at stitching, whether in fabric or flesh. Every once in a while you twirl a lock of John’s feathery hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “If Brian was a superhero, who would he be?”

“Spider-Man,” you reply instantly. “The limbs.”

“Ahhhh, of course! He’s a regular daddy longlegs, isn’t he?” John begins sketching. “I already have Roger as Thor—blond and ragey, likes to throw things—and Freddie as Iron Man. Innovative and unstoppable. Fearless leader. Shamelessly opulent.”

“How about you?”

John smirks, but maybe he winces a little too. “Doctor Strange.”

You frown down at him. “You aren’t strange, John.”

“I am,” he says simply. “But that’s alright. I make do.”

“I don’t find you strange.”  

“Yes, well. You’re accustomed to patching together damaged things.”

Freddie explodes into the room, his tall black boots clopping on the linoleum floor. He waves his arms hysterically and thrusts his notebook towards you. I need your help, he’s written.

“Sure thing. Ask away.”

He scribbles another line and turns the notebook so you can see. Tell Brian he’s a twat.

You sigh. “Freddie, no.”

Behind the soundproof glass, Freddie, Roger, and Brian have been working on In The Lap Of The Gods: first Roger’s falsetto parts, then Freddie’s piano. This has been no easy task. Freddie is on complete vocal rest after being diagnosed with laryngitis, Brian is recovering from a duodenal ulcer (on top of his residual fatigue from hepatitis), and they’re all ready to strangle each other. Freddie opens his mouth to protest.

“Don’t you dare!” you cry, leaping to your feet. You start a fresh pot of tea on the hotplate and grab the flashlight from your bag. You’ve registered with a London-based travel nurse agency and, after heavy lobbying from Freddie and Roger, have officially been signed with the record company as Queen’s tour nurse. Assuming, of course, that the next tour ever happens. “Let me see.”

Freddie reluctantly plops down onto the couch so you can shine the flashlight down his inflamed throat.

“I better not find out you’ve been bitching at people,” you tell him. Freddie winks and flips his hair.

From the other side of the glass, you can see Roger jabbing an index finger at Brian, shouting, swearing, needling until Brian flings his hands into the air and stomps out of the studio.

“Well,” John says. “I’m glad that’s going well.”

You aren’t terribly alarmed; you’ve seen this before. Brian will spend a few minutes outside, pacing and muttering to himself under the sweltering August sky, and eventually he’ll right himself again—like a sailboat gaining traction in a storm—and return for round two or twelve or twenty. You pour Freddie a cup of piping hot tea with honey and slip into the live room, Freddie and John following behind you.

“How are things?” John asks cheerfully.

Roger is wearing a half-unbuttoned leopard print shirt, tight black leather pants, and black sweatbands on both wrists that he tugs at when he’s frustrated. He snorts in reply and rolls his eyes. Then he glances over at Brian’s Red Special. The guitar has been left unattended on its stand, shining and forbidden. Oh no.

“I wouldn’t,” John cautions.

But Roger does: he pulls the Red Special into his lap and begins to pluck away at it. You recognize the mournful intro riff of Stairway To Heaven. John whistles nervously. Freddie crosses his arms over his chest and taps the heels of his boots against the floor in disapproval.

“Roger, please,” you say. “Don’t stress the man out, you’ll give him another ulcer. You realize if he sees this he’s going to murder you. Hack you into tiny bits. We’ll never find all the pieces.”

Roger laughs. “Calm down, nothing’s gonna happen—” And then, as soon as he begins to adjust it, a tuning key pops off the head and rolls away. Freddie’s teacup shatters as it tumbles out of his grasp. Roger gapes at you and John and Freddie, horrified. “Oh no.”

“Roger!” you yelp, palms cupping your flushing cheeks.

John scoops the tuning key off the floor and rushes to Roger’s side. “Give it to me.”

Roger shoves the Red Special into John’s outstretched arms and begins hyperventilating, yanking at blond hair that you’ve learned is the product of cheap boxed dye. “Oh my god, Brian’s gonna...he’s...he’s...he’s gonna...”

Freddie bolts through the door and disappears outside, still clutching his notebook; he’ll try to delay Brian as long as he can. You wonder if you should join him, if that would make Brian even more suspicious, if there’s anything you can do. Roger paces like a lion behind iron bars.

John says softly as he works: “If I can’t fix it before Brian comes back, I’ll tell him I did it. He already hates me.” That’s not exactly true, and you all know it; but Brian and John clash better and connect worse than any of the rest of them. You marvel, momentarily, at how it can be possible for you to care so consumingly for four men who are so astronomically different. Ah, but perhaps you don’t care for them all in the same way.

“I can’t let you do that, Deaks,” Rog replies. Beads of perspiration are springing up along his temples, his collarbones, his neck. Don’t look, you tell yourself, feeling something scalding and hungry rippling through your skin like goosebumps.

“What can I do?” you ask desperately. “John, can I help...?”

“Almost there.” John is twisting the tuning key. You hear thumping against the door.

“Freddie, move!” Brian is shouting outside. “Move! What are you doing? What are they up to in there?!”

There’s a frantic commotion as John and Roger rush for the guitar stand. You spin to watch the door as it opens. Brian steps inside, his hawkish eyes narrowed. A frazzled Freddie materializes behind him. Your gaze darts back to the Red Special. It’s resting on the guitar stand where Brian left it, orderly and fully intact. Roger and John are chatting nonchalantly by the drum kit and trying to conceal the fact that they’re gasping for air. Oh thank GOD.

Brian peers back at Freddie. Freddie flashes an innocent grin. Brian props his hands on his waist and examines the room, taking long determined strides, fidgeting with the beaded choker around his neck. “Roger,” he says at last.

Roger bats his long eyelashes and casts you a knowing smile. “Hmm?”

“Why is there tea all over the floor?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Summer bleeds out, and autumn floods in like the tide. With dying leaves and cutting evening gales come other eventualities as well: a release date for Sheer Heart Attack, Killer Queen’s roaring reception as the album’s lead single, radio play and fanfare and the announcement that Queen’s first world tour will begin on the day before Halloween. So I might finally see some return on investment, you teased Freddie when he told you. He shot back: Just keep my vocal chords humming, bitch.

Tonight you’re at Top of the Pops with the rest of Queen’s usual entourage: Chrissie and Mary, Josephine and Veronica, assorted representatives and assistants from the record company Trident. The show has laid out a spread of fruit and meats and cheeses and cookies—biscuits, you remind yourself, you have to call them biscuits now—and alcohol...including Moët & Chandon, of course. You circle the table with Chrissie, piling free food onto your plate and sipping champagne, chattering mindlessly to distract yourselves from how petrified you all are. Freddie and Brian are still in hair and makeup; Roger is berating the producers for forcing Queen to perform to playback; John is compulsively snacking in some shadowy corner somewhere and avoiding the crowds, presumably with Veronica. You don’t dislike Veronica. She’s polite and gentle and undemanding, if a bit reticent around the band. You don’t think she would ever try to exploit John for the novelty of being with a musician, nor for the possibility of money and fame. But you sometimes wonder how much of John she really sees.

“Is this white cheddar?” Josephine asks as she stabs a cheese cube with a pink foil-tipped toothpick. “Or maybe gruyere? Monterey jack...?”

“I think it’s halloumi,” Chrissie offers.

“Ohhh, exotic!” Jo takes a bite. “It’s good, whatever it is.”

You pop a sliver of pineapple into your mouth. “My goal is to eat at least three of everything. And wrap extras in napkins to smuggle home. It’s a hard life, you know. Roping one’s fortunes to an almost-famous rock band.”

Jo smirks and shakes out her hair: dark, full, freshly trimmed. “I’ll have to live vicariously through you. I’m watching my figure.” She glances pensively down at her svelte body, which is sheathed in a silvery mini-dress.

“Love, you look amazing,” Chrissie says, somewhat pained. You’ve learned that when anyone suffers, Chrissie aches right along with them.

Jo just wrinkles her nose and shrugs. Jo is wilder than Veronica, edgier than Chrissie, less saccharine than Mary, more glamorous than you. She’s the only match you could imagine for Roger; and this brings you down some days, drags you low, sinks you into indigo melancholy. But lately Josephine has been the blue one, the quiet one. And you suddenly find yourself wondering if perhaps there is no match for Roger at all, no perfect counterbalance, no one soul that could tame his anywhere in the world.

“You’re flawless, Jo,” you tell her, but it feels hollow and anemic.

Mary appears, stroking her large gold earrings restlessly. “Fred’s almost done. They want to start in twenty minutes.”

You toss your empty plate into the garbage—rubbish, you amend mentally—and shake the crumbs from your dress. “I’ll go get John.”

You scuttle around the set, checking gloomy forgotten spots and the dressing rooms and broom closets. As you search, Roger finds you.

“Hey,” he says, mostly confidently, a dash apprehensively, his hands buried in his pockets.

“Hi. I’m trying to locate your bassist so you can pretend to perform in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s kind of you. I just passed him, though. He’s with Freddie. Everything is as it should be. Can I talk to you?”

“Um.” You stare at him, confused. “We’re already talking, aren’t we?”

“Yes, alright, true, but I have something important to say.”

“Okay.” You study him warily. Roger clears his throat and glimpses around. The two of you are standing in the shadow of a monstrosity of a lighting rig and are very much alone.

“I just...I wanted to inform you that...um...I’ll be...ah...well, you see...” He shakes his head and forces it out. “I’ll be breaking up with Jo soon. And I just wanted you to know. For you to be the first to know.”

You recoil, stunned. “Why would you break up with her?”

He smiles. “So I can take you out, of course.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. A furious barrage of images cascades through your mind: touching him, being touched by him, whispers in the darkness, rings, chapels, children, and then: Josephine. What it must feel like to be Jo, what the beginning looked like for her, what the end will: scorched earth and desolation. “I’m not interested,” you say, pleasantly surprised by the steadiness in your voice.

“Sure you are,” Roger replies, undeterred. “We’re going to be travelling all over. It’ll be museums and monuments and libraries and natural wonders galore. I can show you the world.”

“I’m really not.”

“Why wouldn’t you be interested?”

“Because I’m not looking to get played. And you seem like someone who might play me.”

Now he’s wounded; those massive pale eyes are glossy. “I most certainly would not.”

“Roger, I’m completely enchanted by you. You’re brilliant and fun and caring and so much smarter than people assume you are—”

“Thanks...?”

“—And you’re a fantastic friend. But if we do this and it doesn’t last...which, let’s be real, it probably won’t...I’ll lose you forever. And the band. And my job. The math just doesn’t work for me.” But, oh god, I’d do anything to rearrange those numbers.

Roger mulls that over, shuffles his feet, lights a cigarette. “I have a list, you know. Not a written list. It’s just in me, a part of me. Here.” He points at his chest. “It’s not long. It’s only things I can’t live without, or things I wouldn’t want to. There’s becoming a musician. There’s leaving Cornwall. There’s finding a band worthy of me. Check check check.” He takes a drag and exhales smoke into the air. “Next there’s becoming a famous rock star, seeing the world, providing for my family. That’s all coming together presently.” His eyes find yours. “You’re on that list now. And once something’s made the list, it never comes off.”

“Not until you’ve had it.”

That knocks Roger back, makes his brow furrow, makes him blink as it rolls through him; because maybe that cuts just a bit too close to the bone. Then his face clears like a cloudless sky and he smiles, brightly, blissfully, as he always does. “I’ll just have to change your mind.”

“You can try.”

He takes your left hand, skates his teeth lightly over your knuckles, grins mischievously. “I’m going to need one last toast for good luck.”

Roger leads you back to the snack table and pours three flutes of champagne: one for you, one for him, and one for Chrissie, who’s waited for you. John, Freddie, and Brian are testing their equipment on stage; Mary, Veronica, and Jo have commandeered spots with the best view and refuse to abandon them. The three of you toast, drain your champagne, and watch the preparations from afar. John is bopping around the stage as he strums his bass, lost in the music in his head.

“Such a strange man,” Chrissie murmurs, although not unkindly.

Roger immediately bristles. “He’s only strange if you don’t bother to try to understand him.”

“Oh hell, Rog, come on, I didn’t mean it like—”

But Roger pushes by her and breezes away. He swipes a pint of beer and a bunch of grapes off the snack table, saunters over to where John is playing, and gnaws the grapes messily as he points and asks John questions.

Chrissie sighs and turns to you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know I adore John.”

“I know it.” And of course, you adore him too. But you have something else on your mind. You tilt your champagne flute towards Roger. “What was he like when he and Jo first got together?”

“Why?” Chrissie asks, eyebrows raised. “You mean...was he the same way he is with you?”

You twirl your empty glass morosely. “Sure. If I am in fact that transparent.”

Chrissie chuckles and rubs your shoulder reassuringly. “Now now, don’t be grumpy.” She lights a cigarette and thinks. “Honestly, no. He’s different with you. More himself, less dramatic. Less always trying to be the dashing playboy. Just pure energy, that enthusiasm he has that’s almost childish. He’s happy. Really happy.”

You nod. “So you think I should give him a chance if he asks for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

You startle and whirl to her, not understanding.

Chrissie smiles tenderly, sadly, wishing she could change it. “He’ll ruin you. He ruins everyone. Now if he asked you in ten years? Fifteen years? Maybe. But if you say yes now, he’ll burn through you like battery acid. He’ll love you until you can’t imagine a world without him, until everything you were before is quarried from your bones. And then he’ll move on. He can’t help it, that’s just who he is. Reckless and wonderful and insatiable. And good luck trying to find anything on this whole fucking planet that can replace Roger Taylor.”

“I understand,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

You watch Queen up on the stage as they count down the minutes until showtime, how Freddie fluffs his hair and checks his eyeliner, how Brian meticulously rehearses his notes on the Red Special, how John and Roger exchange comments and jokes. And it occurs to you how symbiotic they are: Roger bringing passion and dauntlessness and fire, John tempering that when necessary and contributing something so dissimilar and yet vital, something steady and pragmatic and immutable. Brian’s a willow tree, Fred’s a lightning storm, Roger’s wildfire...but what is John?

You can’t decide. Roger is tapping away at the hi-hat and it sounds like a metronome, like something hypnotic, like a spell older than the pyramids.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

[walktalldontcha]

Art trade for @jailhouserokk / @aquaburry! They requested that wonderfully agonizing angst - I hope it hits the spot! And I can’t thank you enough for wanting to do this with me ♥

Pairing: Johnny/Vance Rating: T (M at a push) Synopsis: There’s a savage, irreversible thunderstorm brewing inside Johnny in torrential bullets, licking momentous at the crackled bedrock of his aching sternum as he attempts to sellotape his own bestial thoughts back together into something which an be reasonably translated. Doubts corrode impressionable mind with titanium band suddenly feeling far too weighted -- restrictive, cuts off all circulation and has him reacting feverishly to everything he swore he once wanted. Vance has vivid sunlight in peridot eyes that burns so bright that, for a moment, Johnny begs for a savage hailstorm to rain down on them both and put an end to this ongoing moment of falsified clarity.

It should be raining, that’s the only clarified thought Johnny can successfully focus on at this particular moment of suspended mummification. It should be absolutely fucking thundering, those huge fat raindrops that hibernate on upturned lashes and crash on fallible glass with such brute force that the surrounding walls seem to creak in a decibel which would indicate impending collapse; there should be saturated cobwebs and their creator struggling to cling on to sloppy, rotting panes as the world around them simply screams monsoon season. Only then could his sudden state of dire melancholy and villainous imagery make even a single fucking modicum of sense. Perched on shallow hips knots an ethereal being who truly defied royalty, blood once undoubtedly stippled in cobalt along convoluted pathways now coated in multicolored oil; that aqua-blue vibrancy has transferred onto the collar of he, his father, and his ancestors before him. Vance has an enrapturing illumination to him, iridescent translucence that leaves Johnny’s worn fingertips aching as though covered in one thousand minuscule cuts; one day he’s certain to contaminate his boy, he certain of it, plague him with the same unnecessary darkness that likes to flood his own head and can only be silenced with the chalky influence of vile-tasting pills and a chase of aged whiskey. Butterfly kisses flounce across taut jaw, prettily freckled lips melting over unshaven speckle until those beautiful winged delights threaten to contort into moths; for even in instances of dewy intimacy, lingering touches and pecks designed to be chaste, Vance has a natural possessiveness to him he likes to pretend is well-hidden. When Johnny does not immediately respond - not even to roll tired eyes nor shrug him off with a scorned sigh of him being ‘annoying’ as is sometimes the custom - Vance views this as a open invitation to bring more of his kinetic energy. It’s rare for Johnny so be quite so visually numb. “Hi!” Vance shrieks as though they hadn’t been sitting together, engaging in something of a pickled silence, for well over an hour now. “Is there anybody in there?” Soft hands raise, ring finger extended, to click titanium band across Johnny’s all too familiar earring. The sound pings! far too violently, makes all acid tucked away within churning stomach formulate a cannonball of unspoken anxieties to crash down within his organs once more. Johnny leaps with it, swipes his own ear the very moment that Vance makes an unceremonious tumble into (thankfully carpeted) flooring; he hears the creak of ill-prepared patella skidding through loose fibers a minute later. “Don’t fuckin’ do that!” It’s all acid. Acid and mold and rust and his throat feels clawed raw every time his mind manipulates him into talking to Vance this way; scrapes him off his boots and leaves him crippled on baked asphalt. Vance doesn’t have to say anything. There’s incinerated welts in his vision that speaks absolute volumes, an inflamed braille wordlessly seeking out answers and spluttering apologies and suddenly - fuck - Vance feels two feet nothing. “Sorry.” He eventually splutters. Switchblade apologies. A carotid artery shattering word when uttered in that broken squeal. It should be raining. When he practiced this exact moment within his crippled mind over and over and over again, words and phrases clicking together like cheap plastic bricks to form something akin to logical sense, it was raining. Pouring. An apocalypse was dawning on the horizon. The tears which burst from Vance, corroding silvery tendrils on cheeks of garnet, fall in such robust torrential waves that they look like that hailstorm he had been promised; every droplet leaves his soul just as frostbitten. Johnny wants to choke. There’s a dusty little dish full of decorative pebbles tucked away in the corner and he’s certain that if he were to swallow them all his throat would close up and he’d hack hack wheeze his way to an immediate universe where Vance can’t look at him like he’s such a fucking criminal. “Stop that.” He whispers, as though such a command would somehow locate his fiance’s - boyfriend’s - off switch, sever all cables. Power out - time to do damage control, sweep their mistakes under heaped rug and try, in vain, to move on. Vance is in-fucking-consolable, presses strawberry welts into his temples beneath murky fingers and blunt nails, tries to scrub his tears clean but they coagulate and form anew. There’s a fist around his throat that’s coated in thistles, that squeezes his essence from rickety lungs, tries to remove every last molecule of happiness he once had stacked within him like daisy chains and loose dandelion seeds. Such revelations would always be inevitable; he swore he could hide behind ebony lashes and talks of matching tuxedos, that if they focused on how many rhinestones they wanted their Elvis impersonator to wear they could somehow make this high school romance something absolutely timeless. He’s a fucking idiot. Stupid, selfish, reckless little disaster held together by his own amplified psychosis. And he knows that he should let Johnny slither away like he so desires, press silver halo into wide-set palm and allow his love to taste freedom once again; let him taste purified oxygen in ways he hasn’t been able to for far too long. Sever the noose that he forcefully knotted against crushed jugular, allow him to genuinely l o v e again. But he’s nothing if not dedicated to embossed leather, ripped jeans, stale cologne and the way Johnny holds him, pushes all his pieces together until they click without once hesitating nor making him feel less remarkable for doing so. They maintained balance through that stark crimson thread the poets always wrote stances about. He should have known Johnny’s would fray if it was gnawed at often enough. One word. One decibel. One future impossibly snuffed. “Oh.” Johnny’s vision fades to onyx, severed vessels in his eyes making everything as horrifically dark as the shallow emptiness ricocheting inside compact skull; all those mistakes he has made - will continue to make - stacked together into heavy cement bricks. There’s blood in his mouth that he can’t spit up. Justification (or lack thereof)  would only tear freshly inflicted wounds, would gouge his fingertips directly within sunken holes to p u l l flesh and tissue apart; spit salt over sensitive nerves. There would be no recovery. But maybe he isn’t quite so far gone as to leave Vance dangling like that, trying to scoop his heart back into broken chest - sand licking the open junctures of his fingertips despite how Johnny promised to keep him safe; he hadn’t indicated protection from the agony he himself would have undoubtedly inflicted. “Don’t fuckin’ say ‘oh’ like that. Like yous surprised!” Johnny’s hands are pressed into fists, bladed lock, pressed spine-first into cemented doorway. He cannot remember when he stumbled toward the nearest escape route, when his natural instincts to flee over force had suddenly kicked into overdrive, but if Vance keeps looking at him like he’s a steel blooded criminal finally unmasked he’s going to go running for the hills til his ankles crack clean off, broken chips of flecked marble. “You ain’t really think marryin’ me, bein’ my... my husband was gonna work, did you? Did y’really think I’d be able t’jus’ whisk y’away t’fuckin’ never-land like yous deservin’?” There’s a pain in his throat, the very stones he was too afraid to swallow bubbling back up, and when he looks at Vance all he can see is moonlight wilted by frost; rain. “You ain’t get it Vance. I’s gonna ruin you. I can’t keep y’tied t’me forever. Yous talented n’fuckin’ gorgeous n’I’s gonna be nothin’ but some joke who thinks with his fists firsts. I love you too much t’let you be known as the fool who married Johnny Vincent. I ain’t gonna let you be the man whose husband ran out on ‘im.” Bones scraped raw, mandible cracking, Vance’s sobs playing like broken records on the back of his mind. If he could find that articulated crevice of skin located inside his joints he could peel it clean from bone. If you squint, count shadows and effectively decoupage silhouettes together, add a sprinkle of decades spent suffocating under collegiate weights, painting cartoon smiles on Vance’s face until he can pretend to taste ambrosia when in actuality he settled for a fucking loser, Johnny is cookie cutter carbon copy of his own father. He’ll break, decimate, then flake. Leave Vance incomplete, bleeding and disemboweled during a volatile windstorm. And it’ll be raining. “You won’t,” Vance speak so quietly, cotton lungs, that he almost doesn’t realize the vocabulary comes from his own sleek lips all chapped up from his own trauma; from shaking quite so viciously. “You won’t be a joke. You won’t walk out on me. You won’t.” “How the fuck d’you know? I’m fuckin’ poison Vance. I fuck up everything. I’m a fuckin’ deadbeat like him.” There’s an unknown adrenaline that shoots Vance full of confetti and freshly lit dynamite, implosive, scattered prisms of fractured light throughout his joints until he’s skidding to a halt in front of his... Johnny. His fingertips are coated is tears, salt, pressing loose pebbles on either side of honeyed cheeks; waterlogged visions uniting until suddenly there’s a clash. a boom. a collapse. "You ain’t gonna leave me because I need you. An’ you need me.” Like blood coiling crimson hot betwixt copper veins, carrying explicit oxygen and patchwork endorphins through overgrown foliage that threatens to paint vessels mahogany with doubt; they truly n e e d each other. Their own prepackaged medication sealed within cushioned lips and wandering tongue, freshly prescribed antidotes for their own crippling mental paralysis. Johnny isn’t crying but he’s stumbling toward the very precipice of an unknown abyss, crystallized bedrock and an inflamed agony prodding across spiderweb lashes. Spacious palms holding onto Vance’s hips for ear fucking life, licking away those crisp tears continuing to tumble in a forceful shower down Vance’s heavily freckled features - through spiced nutmeg and rose - and he kisses his apologies on bowed lips. Their teeth clack. Chests rattle. Cool metal swallows exposed skin as the shudder into one and other, attempt to thaw through Johnny’s anxiety and remind Vance that fuck does he matter. They can do this produce wedding bells and exchange vows and borrow names from one and other in pleasant greeting. And on their wedding day, when futures glisten leather and lace with an entire army of supporters lodged beside them, it absolutely will not be raining.