#but i get super stressed writing freddie hgnngntnh

[roger1na]

careful ch7 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and fall in love with the sweetest man on the planet.

word count: 2.4k+

warnings: swearing, some angst(tm)

author’s note: back at it again! honestly again, if you do dance ballet, sorry! my experience is minimal and taken mostly from my friends. as far as i understand, it can go overboard v fast but *shrug emoji*. also i’m p sure queen did not play on john’s birthday but y’know. it’s for the drama. (19.8.1974 really was on a monday thgh 👀)

chapter seven

Morning dawned with a cranky mood, a sweet dream of slightly crooked smiles and barky laughs dissipating as you got up.

Saturday was forecasted to be rainy and grey, as were your spirits as you opted for a cup of black coffee instead of your usual morning tea. The paper was filled with disappointing news and everything seemed bleak. The studio wasn't open on saturdays and you didn't want to work overtime. You finally had a free day.

You opened your leatherbound diary and took out your favourite pen, an expensive looking fountain pen, painted a lovely maroon with gold lettering on the side, pointing to the brand.

August 10th 1974

I finally kissed him yesterday. It feels like something was broken? A pact? A deal? Is there something happening here? What happens next?

There was a weird moment, last night. We were making out and he was there and we were against the apartment building door and it was already opening but I just couldn't have him inside. I'd break my poor little sixteen-year-old-self's heart. To have him stand there would just break the bubble. Don't know what I'm going to do now.

But… I do have feelings for him. I know I've been agonizing over it for the past few weeks but really, he's fantastic. I'm just silly for not being able to Use My Goddamn Mouth And Say It.

You stomped the last period to your sentence rather aggressively and the ink bled through the page. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, dabbing at the ink with your pinkie, though you weren't quite sure how that would help.

You blew on the page gently to make sure the ink was dry before closing the notebook. It had a button on the front and a leather string on the back, which you could wrap around the button to keep the book closed. When buying it, you had scoffed slightly, but eventually, as you filled it with pictures and articles, the notebook became so thick it wouldn't stay shut without you pulling it close tightly.

You had filled it with so many memories. Polaroids of you in your costumes for your recitals, lunches with Rose and Pamela, cute flowers, poetry, lonesome calls for love you clipped out from the morning paper. Around mid-July, it started filling with heart stickers and lyrics from Queen, a flyer from their London show, pictures from the show you had developed with spare cash. You were fondly reminded of that saturday afternoon when you looked at the polaroid of John, grinning stupidly, staring into the camera lenses, but of course it felt like he was staring at you.

Look at you, your thoughts echoed, all sappy on a Saturday morning. But it didn't feel so bad anymore.

The radio filled the house with chatter as you cleaned thoroughly. Saturday was a day for organisation. Setting your calendar straight, doing your meal plans. Y/N Y/L/N was not a woman to be meddled with, not a woman to be messed with, you reminded yourself.

As you were setting up your vacuum cleaner the phone rang. You were huffing, trying to get the damn thing out of the closet, when it pierced the radio sound. But you were so tangled up in vacuum chords that you let it ring, hoping that if it was urgent, the caller would leave a message.

"This is Y/N Y/L/N. I'm probably out and about right now, so leave a message!" Your answering machine beeped.

"Hey, Y/N."

Your breath caught in your throat. It was John.

"Just calling to say, I had a nice time yesterday." Muddled voices in the background made him shush them. "Freddie, I know what to say, you can shut up," you heard him grumble.

"Your dance was… Fuck, I have no cool words to describe it. But it was, y'know, enchanting. Fantastic. I've never seen a recital before but I'm sure that's how it's done." There was a dramatic gasp in the background. "Oh Freddie, shut the fuck up you know I've never seen a ballet show."

"Anyway," he continued. "I hope we can see each other soon. We have a show, in like, uh, a week. Monday 19th. It'd be really great if you could come. Bye then."

The line clicked, and left you in silence. You were standing around, a bit lost in your apartment, until your grip loosened from the vacuum and it cluttered to the floor. You winced at the sound, before dusting yourself off. I'll call him back when I have an answer, you told yourself, although you knew well enough that Monday 19th was empty on your calendar, save for rehearsals until five.

And then, being the foolish girl in love, filled with nerves and sappy thoughts, you didn't call him back.

When your chores were done, the phone just loomed at you ominously. What were you supposed to say? 'Oh yes I heard your message I just didn't pick up, because I'm a big idiot?' 'Oh no, it's not you, it's me and my fear to commit?' You felt like a total mess.

Sunday rolled around, bringing work and training, exhausting hours in the studio. And you still couldn't call him back.

Monday came with a screeching of your alarm and sore muscles. You made the effort to pick up the phone but set it down fast afterward, as if forgetting his number, nerves tingling every where.

Tuesday was filled with appointments and meetings and lunches with friends and training which left you dizzy in the head, slightly insecure about your dance abilities. But anxiety coiled in your stomach as soon as you even looked at the bright red phone.

Wednesday was a nightmare.

It started off with a wake up at 4am, when not even the birds had begun their obnoxious singing. Trudging through the grey streets of London when the morning was chilly made you question a lot of the choices you'd taken to get yourself into this position.

The biggest question on your mind was that you had only been picked as an understudy, so what was wrong with your way of dancing the program? Frances, you didn't see her as inherently better than you. She wasn't chosen because of her skill, to you, she was chosen because of your lack of skill. And it made you sick. You were the second choice. Something was off.

Wednesday was a free training day. Coaches didn't come and fix postures, you were supposed to practice your own routine independently. With exhausting precision, you danced through all your individual parts in the dance. And with every misstep, you felt worse about it, accrediting your failures to your lack of talent, not your lack of sleep or the other million thoughts that swirled in your head.

Lunchtime was drawing near and the other girls tapped out with their obligations, wiping glistening faces on ratty towels they all kept lying around.

"Y/N! D'you want to grab lunch with me or can I go with Pam?" Rose called out to you, and then took a swig from her water bottle, waiting for you to answer.

You straightened your back and stretched, afraid you were losing time and then shook your head. "It's okay, I'll still be here for a bit, no point in waiting on me." A brief expression of concern passed in Rose's eyes but she said nothing.

"Mmkay. See you tomorrow, I guess," she waved before setting off behind Pam, glancing behind her shoulder before the dooor swung closed.

You went back to the beginning of the set and started again. And again. And again. You were losing all sense of time and direction as you jumped and pranced and posed and twirled and it wasn't until you saw the darkening of the sky outside that you realised you were in too deep.

Out of breath, you stopped to take a sip of your water. Your stomach felt empty and the water tasted bad in your mouth. Too metallic, and no longer cold after sitting around all day.

You took a deep breath and shrugged off the slightly increasing nausea and tiredness. "One more time, Y/N," you whispered to an empty studio. And Tchaikovsky's notes filled the room and you set off.

If anybody had been there to see, they would've been entranced with the way you moved, letting the rhythm carry you. But if they'd looked closer, they'd also see the tiredness in your eyes and the barely noticeable sluggishness of your steps.

You leapt gracefully and suddenly your focus was broken. Your head changed positions and you had to look down at your feet, flying in the air and as you saw your feet hit the ground, you knew you had made a mistake.

The shock wave wasn't instant, but the pain came as soon as you were aware that you were on the floor, after figuratively eating dirt. Your ankle throbbed and you felt miserable and alone on the hard floor of a cold dance studio on a sad wednesday night.

The tears came softly and silently, spilling over your cheeks and dripping to the ground. You still couldn't call John back, you still couldn't dance well enough and after five years of control you still couldn't balance your life. So there you sat, feeling sorry for yourself. That you could do very well.

The studio door creaked open softly.

"Y/N?" A soft voice broke the air.

What was he doing here? You quickly wiped your face and straightened your legs, wincing at the pain of your twisted ankle.

"Shit, are you okay?" He rushed to you and skidded on the floor slightly as he sat down, not graceful at all, eyes trying to analyse the damage.

"'M fine," you snapped, angrier than intended.

John flinched back in shock and you instantly regretted your sharp choice of words. He looked at his hands timidly.

"You don't look fine to me," he mumbled.

"I am. Really. It's just been a long day, and-" a sudden sob gurgled to your throat as you tried talking and you had to stop talking to let it pass, involuntary tears falling down your cheeks once again, leaving your face a red mess.

"Oh you daft thing," he muttered and pulled you into a hug. His cologne filled your nose and you breathed in and let the sadness and the frustration wash over you.

You felt stupid, because now, although you had ignored his calls and acted like a total prick, he was there comforting you again. "Stop being so nice to me," you mumbled into his tear stained shirt. It was a red checkered button up that was maybe two sizes too small. Sometimes you wondered about the last time he'd visited a clothes shop.

He pulled away slightly, to tilt your chin up to look into his eyes. "Why? You're acting so silly," he smiled gently and wiped your face slightly, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ears.

"Because I'm so stupid! I can't call you back, I say stupid things and I get nervous about kissing and I'm just so fucking…" you trailed off looking for the right word. "Not enough."

John snorted a little bit, trying to hide his giggling. You frowned at him. "'M serious! How're you getting anything but frustrated when you spend time with me!" This resulted in John laughing more.

"Stop, stop, I'll explode," his eyes were crinkling and his smile was wide. You had crossed your arms and were pouting now. He looked at you and his expression softened a little. "You think I don't enjoy spending time with you? Seeing you caught up in dance and loving it? Y/N it's part of all in. Dance is part of all in."

More tears came and you just couldn't stop them. "You're making me cry," you sniffled and wiped your eyes.

"Y/N…" He pursed his lips and smiled gently.

"I'm just not good enough in anything. Second best in dancing. Second best in working. Second best in a relationship."

"Shh," he hushed you gently. "It's not a competition. I know I'm lovely," he teased slightly.

"John!" You grumbled.

"I know, I know." He took hold of your hands. "Y/N, listen." He paused and then kissed your forehead.

"You're enough right here," and then he kissed your nose, "and here," and he continued kissing your face, your cheekbones, the corners of your mouth, your dimples, before landing in the center of your lips. "And everywhere. Just enough for me."

You blinked, the tears finally deciding to stop flowing. "But, I'm really useless at answering calls. I get nervous. And I haven't been in a relationship. Ever. And-"

"Listen," John grabbed your hands and pressed them to his face, his cheeks burning slightly. "That's life. Be careful with all that talk about not being enough. Nobody but you believes it."

"You don't know that."

"Well I don't believe it."

"Oh," you paused. "Thanks."

John burst into fits of giggles. "Hey!" You scolded him.

"I'm sorry, I'll stop, I promise," he grinned mischievously. "But who says thanks to like, a confession of affection?"

"I do." You pinched his cheeks. "Shut up, old man. When are you turning twenty-three again?"

John's eyes lit up. "Of course! That's the special show we're performing on monday 19th. My twenty-third birthday!"

"John that's so great! Of course I'll come."

"Thought so," he smiled.

"Old man," you teased. He booped your nose and pretended to be offended.

"Not all of us can be spry and young anymore," he whined.

"Oh sorry, Mr. Old Man."

John rolled his eyes. "Okay, time to take a look at that ankle. Are you going to be okay?"

He inspected carefully, but the pain had already begun to subside. "It was just a misstep. I'll be fine with a little ice and a tight gauge."

"Mm, if you say so."

"I'm serious! This happens to dancers all the time."

"Okay…" He trailed off then started trying to get up along with you, letting you lean onto him for support, though you didn't really need it. "Have you eaten today?"

"Mm, not really," you replied nonchalantly.

"Jesus, Y/N."

"What? It's been a busy day."

He shook his head, brown hair bouncing about slightly. ”I wish you’d take better care of yourself.���

”Usually I do!”

"I hope so. I like you in one piece.”

”How’d you know to come here?”

”Where else would you be, after going practically MIA for five days?”

”Oh,” you laughed slightly. ”Of course. You're kind of great, John.”

"Thanks." He replied, grinning.

You shoved his shoulder slightly, but felt your heartbeat slow down as you relaxed, wondering how you got to be so lucky.

***

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