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ineloqueent · 4 years ago

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Starstruck: Part 8

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 8 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 7 / Part 9

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.

Warnings: swearing, slight (?) angst, far too much narration about the beauty of stars/space...

Historical Inaccuracies: once more, n/a. i’m on a roll!

Word Count: 4.3k (again, haha)

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

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

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

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

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

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

“Call who.” It wasn’t a question. You didn’t need to ask who she meant, and she didn’t need to specify.

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

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

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

“Hello, Fred?”

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

“Freddie, it’s—” you glanced at your watch, “eight-thirty at night.”

“Yes, so why do you sound like you’re about to go to bed?”

You sighed. “Why now, Freddie? You must know I’m not in the mood.”

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

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

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

“I’m on my way.”

“That’s the spirit! See you soon, darling!” There was a click.

You poked your head into the bedroom, “Heather, I’m going over to Freddie’s.”

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

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

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Freddie?”

“In the kitchen, dearie!”

You discarded your outerwear by the door and padded on socked feet into the tile-floored room. You were surprised to discover that it was not only Freddie standing there, but Deacy and Roger too.

“Hiya,” you said slowly, in puzzlement. No one was drinking alcohol, unless someone had invented tea bags for gin in the past twenty-four hours and neglected to inform you.

“Y/N, how nice,” Deacy smiled and toasted you with his tea.

“Yes, I think…” you murmured.

Roger was drumming his fingers on his mug. He seemed peculiarly high-strung.

“What’s going on?” you asked when no one spoke.

Freddie was quick to sweep a friendly arm around your shoulders. “Why, a gathering of friends, of course. Are you now also opposed to friendship with the three of us, hm? Not enough to alienate one of four?”

They wanted to talk about Brian. That was why you were here.

You didn’t want to talk about Brian. “I didn’t alienate him,” you said irritatedly. Freddie let his arm fall.

“Just trying to speak your sciency language,” he shrugged.

“You haven’t spoken to Brian for weeks,” Roger supplied, as though you needed to be reminded.

“I’m well aware.”

“But—” began John.

“This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him,” you retorted. “I said something stupid, I apologised. He didn’t accept my apology, and here we are.”

Deacy looked positively crestfallen. He tried so unwaveringly hard to hold everyone together, and the look on his face almost made you take back your harsh assessment of the situation. Almost. Sometimes you had to stand your ground.

“Y/N,” Roger said cautiously, “you should know that he was rather close to his aunt.”

You closed your eyes in anguish. You’d tried not to think about how your words to Brian might have brought him painful memories, brought grief very close to the surface. Ill-willed or not, it was clear you’d hurt him.

But still, a stubbornness fought back within you. He had let you worry, and he had not given you a chance, and that had torn at you.

“He’s as delicate as his music, darling.”

Perhaps Freddie had put it perfectly, because you understood. And you would forgive Brian as soon as he forgave you. Before he forgave you.

“He just needs time,” John placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

You were about to nod when another voice sounded in the hall.

“Freddie?”

“In the kitchen, darling!”

You glanced at Freddie. “Wait a minute.”

Brian’s curly head appeared in the door.

“Oh, you did not do this,” your sympathy dissipated at the sight of Brian, for he roused in you an anger at yourself, a relentless hatred that swathed you in despair and confusion.

He appeared to feel the same way about you. “Freddie,” Brian said sternly.

Freddie threw his hands up. “Why is it that you all seem to think this was my idea?”

“Because it’s usually your idea,” you deadpanned.

“So you can agree on something, yay!” Freddie looked ready to give this fact a standing ovation. “Only, it wasn’t my idea. It was Roger’s.”

You turned to glare at Roger, only to find that he wasn’t where he’d been before.

And nor was Deacy.

There were two doors to the kitchen, and from the one to your left there came the clicking of a lock.

“Time to go, I think,” said Freddie, and before you could register what was going on, he’d pushed Brian into the room with you and slammed the second door shut with himself on the other side.

The second lock clicked.

“What the hell, Freddie!” Brian shouted as you flew at the door to uselessly rattle its handle.

“Roger. It was Roger’s idea,” you heard Freddie sigh.

“Bloody good one too,” said Roger from the opposite side.

“This is ridiculous,” you declared.

“Let us out,” Brian shook the other door’s handle, and his eyes flashed angrily when you caught them.

“No.” That was Deacy. “Not until the two of you talk. Or jump each other’s bones. Either one works, but it’s got to be one of them.”

“John Richard Deacon!” you bellowed, a flush flaring across your cheeks. A twin flush coloured Brian’s features, and you stared. Even in anger he bore his serene beauty, soft-lipped and deathly still, though his eyes burned like dying stars.

No voices answered your shout this time. They’d bloody well left.

“Stop looking at me,” Brian snapped, and your eyes immediately fell away from him.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

“You say that too often.”

“You don’t say it enough!” you cried. “You and your bloody pride.”

He scoffed. “Yes, Y/N, pretend you understand.”

You groaned. “Not like you’ve given me a chance to.”

“Well, god, it’s a wonder when you’re so—”

“You know what, Brian,” you whirled to face him, “shut up for a bloody second.”

His lips pressed closed, more in surprise than in obedience, but it would have to do.

“I have not spoken to you for weeks, and I don’t even fucking know why.”

He sputtered. “Because— because you’re being impossible!”

“I’m being impossible? How can I be, when you haven’t let me?”

“Well—”

But you’d had enough. You could be gentle, but what was gentleness if not offset by honesty?

“What is it that you want me to say? Honestly, tell me, because I’d like to know.”

He carded a hand through his hair. “I don’t—”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“No, alright, I don’t! Happy?”

“Not even close.”

“Excellent. What a fine pair we make,” Brian grumbled dramatically, throwing up his hands before letting them fall to his sides. He looked defeated, he looked tired. You were tired. Tired of arguing with a person who was supposed to be your friend.

You heaved a sigh. “But I do know one thing.” You approached him carefully. He didn’t step away. “I need you,” you said, “and quite frankly, you need me. I’m sorry that I was so insensitive. But if you won’t talk to me about this, then we’ve got to carry on as we did before.” His gaze was intense when he peered at you beneath his eyelashes, but you did not blink.

“You’re my friend, Brian,” you took his hands in yours, “my wonderful friend, who lends me beautiful scarves without a second thought and talks about the superiority of short-period comets, and I don’t want to see you failing Carmichael’s class because some idiot didn’t help you with your derivatives.”

He didn’t pull his hands back toward him, he let you hold them. The unbearable heat of his anger had turned to warmth, and it flooded through his hands and enveloped your own.

A smile ghosted his mouth. Your heart skipped dangerously.

“That was surprisingly touching, Y/N.”

You could have laughed in relief, in elation.

“Charming, Bri,” you opted for apathy instead. “You could’ve left out the surprising bit, you know.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured. “Can’t let you get too confident, love.”

You were all too aware that his hands still rested with yours, all too aware of the almost imperceptible pout that his lips always bore, all too aware of the way the light fell across his face and cast his eyes in a shadow that made them all the more lovely to behold. Tantalising.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved,” Brian said softly. “It was unforgivably childish.”

“And yet you are forgiven,” you spared him a small smile.

“Thank you.”

He squeezed your hands tightly and you hung on to the feeling even as he let go.

“Now,” he raised his voice, “would you let us out, please?”

You heard Roger laugh, and the door unlocked.

You followed Brian through the opened door and into the living room, where you found Deacy and Freddie handing Roger crumpled pound notes, the second looking decidedly more peeved than the first.

Roger’s expression was smug as he tapped ash from his cigarette into a flower-patterned ashtray. “We had a little bet…”

You glanced at John and Freddie. “You two. You know he’s going to hold this over you forever, right?”

Deacy nodded, closing his eyes. “Worst decision I’ve made in my life.”

Roger snorted in laughter. “And that’s saying something.”

Freddie only drank his tea cooly, took a drag from his own cigarette.

“Funny,” Roger reclined lazily on the sofa, “that’s the second time that trick has worked.”

“You’ve locked arguing friends into a kitchen before?” said Brian.

“Well, not a kitchen, but a room, yes,” Roger grinned and blew smoke into the air. Deacy waved it away, scrunching up his nose. “Actually,” he amended, “it was more of a cupboard, but yeah.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure why you’re surprised,” you responded to Brian.

John sighed. “Please stop encouraging him. He’ll never let it go.”

Freddie hummed in agreement, pursuing a staring contest with Roger. “Yes, don’t give him any good ideas.”

“Far too late for that.”

“I think I need a stronger tea,” said Freddie.

And just like that, everything was back to normal. Or, more or less normal, anyway.

You doubted you would ever be able to look at Brian in the same way as you had before.

Something had changed.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

March became April, and April turned to May.

May. Funny that to some people, it was only the name of a month.

But to you— to Freddie, to John, to Roger— May was Brian May. Soft-spoken but passionate, controlling, caring, motherly, silly, stubborn, and pensive was Brian May.

Opulent but direly shy Freddie, goofy and sweet-hearted Deacy, rebellious yet thoughtful Roger. The four of them together were magic.

It brightened your day when you went to their rehearsals, where John threw peanuts into Brian’s hair during his guitar solos, and Freddie struck up random chords on the piano to pen a parody, and Roger twirled his drumsticks in elaborate arrangements between fills, and Brian— well. Brian. Your breath hitched when he smiled at you.

Queen was the camaraderie and escapism you didn’t know you needed.

They treated you like family, like a part of their family, and there was never a band meeting without you to weigh in your opinion, never a rehearsal without you to make suggestions for this, that, or the other to make Queen just a touch better.

They had now begun writing for the new album, and it was an extensive process. It was untitled and contained a handful of half-written songs. Or so they all claimed. You’d only heard snippets of two songs.

The main issue lay in that Queen was attempting to juggle studies, part-time jobs, home life (in Deacy’s case), and the band. To add to this, there was the fact that they had only an empty lecture hall in which to practice. The space was simply not designed for the creative experimentation of four usually-squabbling musicians. Thus, rehearsal location became the main topic of discussion during the band “meetings”, which involved the five of you, as well as Queen’s new manager, John Reid, and normally descended into chatter over tea and biscuits after someone started off on a tangent and the others too forgot the world around them.

But when the world really fell away for you was every Thursday night, when Brian turned up at your place to learn derivatives and to teach guitar.

His improvement was incredible— not that you thought he was so terrible at maths that you found it incredible that he could improve, but rather, it impressed you how quickly he improved. It was like a wave, building, building, building, and then suddenly, understanding. And his understanding was brilliant.

When maths and science were involved, Brian spoke another language. He spoke it so fluently, it was like he’d invented it. His eyes lit up, and he just talked. God, he gushed. He was immersed, he lost himself in it entirely, in the numbers and theories and photographs and diagrams.

He loved the stars as much as you.

You’d never been able to explain to anyone what it was like, to feel your breath being taken away by the world above, even when there was little to be seen during daylight. The sky was wide and open and forever, a hopefulness in the unknown— night after night, the stars would be there to welcome you home.

You had never felt like a person; you had always felt like a star. Distant, cold at first sight, but white hot to the touch. The days were your bane, but night brought you glory.

And when Brian spoke of the universe, he was the night.

He also seemed impressed with your progress, in guitar, and if you were being honest, you were proud of yourself too.

It was getting far easier to move between difficult chords, now that your fingers were accustomed to the movements and strengthened by stretching. You were getting the hang of vibrato and of using your wrist to help you create certain sounds, rather than relying on your fingers alone.

And you were enjoying yourself.

Brian could see it too.

“Amazing,” he said one day, shaking his head. “Look at you!”

You laughed in delight, because there was a certain euphoria in hitting the right notes at the right times, melding them together to create melodies, and not only that, but you were the one creating the melodies, the music. It was the purest rush of power.

Then there came the day when you could play all of ‘The Width of a Circle’. Not perfectly, not without a few mishaps and mistakes, but play the whole eight-minute song you could, nonetheless. And you had no doubt that the amount your skill had improved by was thanks to Brian.

“Want to play it together?”

You glanced up at him.

His chin was inclined ever-so-slightly, and his eyes twinkled.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“Lead us in, then,” he nodded to you, and you began the opening riff.

Brian joined in easily, and you almost lost your concentration in awe of the way he had harmonised his playing to yours.

You were tapping your foot to keep the beat, and he was leaning back and nodding his head to the music. He grinned and you smiled, and he moved to lean his shoulder against yours as he played.

You laughed through a chord progression and leaned so that you were playing back to back.

You could feel the shift of his shoulders against your back, and the warmth that emanated from his skin, and you closed your eyes as you played, because never before had you felt your soul so intertwined with that of another person. It was bliss.

The song was over far sooner than an eight-minute song should have seemed, and when the last notes rang out from the guitars, you turned around.

His expression was one of pure joy, and you imagined that your face bore a similar mien.

“That was— that was fantastic.” You had searched in vain for a word and finally settled on fantastic, because nothing would do the moment justice anyhow.

“We should do this more often,” Brian said, pushing his curls back from his face with another smile. He was always smiling these days. And how much like a star he looked when he smiled.

“You think you could handle being in my presence more than just every Thursday?”

“On top of every time we have rehearsals or meetings for the band,” he reminded you.

You nodded. “See, I don’t think you could handle it.”

Really, he would probably be okay, assuming he didn’t secretly hate you. But you, on the other hand, would probably not survive seeing him with his sunlit eyes and half-buttoned shirts more often than you already did.

He bit his lip, and of this you were painfully aware.

“No,” he murmured, “I don’t think I could handle it.”

You sucked in a breath.

You both jumped at the sound of Big Ben chiming, and the staticky feel of the air around you was relieved.

“Better go,” said Bri apologetically. “Fred’s wants us up early tomorrow, to discuss concepts for the album, but I guess you’ll be coming to that..?”

“Oh, yeah,” you remembered. “Nearly forgot about that.”

“Good thing you have me here,” he winked, then set to gathering up his things.

He didn’t see how you pressed your lips together, wrapped your arms around your yourself. It was starting to annoy you, how you behaved around him. You had no reason to feel so… so… so strangely. It was just Brian. Stupidly beautiful astrophysicist Brian.

Oh.

Despite Bri’s comment about not giving you “the wrong idea” all those weeks ago, when you’d made the mistake of inquiring about his disappearance, you found yourself thinking about him more often than not, and longing for his touch upon your skin.

Oh god.

You would not go down that path. It would ruin you, become your undoing.

The sooner he left tonight, the better.

The sooner he left, the better.

You could only hope that Queen would be scheduling their next tour for the near future.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Good morning, darling!” said Freddie the following day when you arrived at his place for the meeting.

“Hiya Freddie, everyone.” Polite greetings chorused back to you.

Freddie, Deacy, Bri, and Reid were already assembled around Freddie’s coffee table in the sitting room, but it appeared Roger was running late, as per usual.

Atop your list of problems for the time being, however, was the fact that there was barely any room to sit down.

Sitting room my arse.

Reid and Deacy, immersed in conversation, each occupied an armchair on one side of the table, and Freddie and Brian were squeezed onto a loveseat that already looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Brian stood up and walked over to you. “Let me take that,” he said, easing the weight of your messenger bag from your shoulder. His fingertips skimmed your shoulder and your skin tingled.

“Thank you,” you smiled at him gratefully as he set down your bag.

Then Roger arrived, big sunglasses barely obscuring the bags beneath his eyes. He’d obviously been out partying the previous night. Likely he’d been out with Heather, who had arrived home in the wee hours of the morning, waking you in the process.

“Morning everyone,” Roger said drowsily, neither bothering to acknowledge replies nor his surroundings as he took the spot Brian had previously tenanted.

“Rog, that was my seat.”

Roger scoffed airily. “Was. And now it has a new owner.” He shuffled farther to Freddie’s side of the sofa. “Go on, squeeze in. There’s room for your spindly limbs yet.”

Brian crossed his arms. “And leave nowhere for the lady to sit?” he gestured to you and you pulled your cardigan more tightly around your shoulders, slightly flustered at being addressed a lady.

Freddie sighed laboriously. “Oh, hurry up and work something out, darlings, we’ve got work to do!”

“Yes,” John interjected, raising his teacup from its saucer. “We’ve got to sort out those finances Sheffield duped us out of.”

You didn’t want to be a bother. “It’s fine, I’ll just stand.”

“For the whole meeting?” asked Brian.

You shrugged. “Can’t be that long, can it?”

“Nonsense— you know how Fred goes on. You sit down. I’ll stand,” Bri insisted.

“Really, no, it was your spot first.”

He shook his head. “I won’t—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Roger yanked on Brian’s arm and Brian fell onto the sofa with an oof. Then the drummer snatched your sleeve and pushed you into Brian’s lap.

Upon reflex, Brian’s arms wrapped around your middle to catch you, and your hands went straight to his.

Deacy’s cup clinked against its porcelain dish. Reid smiled faintly in confusion, but Roger looked smug and Freddie folded his hands neatly.

You blushed. Brian’s fingers were warm on your stomach. But you wouldn’t let any of it faze you— no need to make any more of a scene than you already had.

Brian started, beginning to pull away, “I’m so sorry—”

You cut him off, patting his hands. “So what’s on the agenda for today, Deacy?”

John blinked. Then his features broadened into a smile, which he tried to hide.

“What?” you said with the fabricated nonchalance of an Oscar-winning actress. “Can friends not sit together these days? Will you be scandalised if I show my ankle?” You tugged on your trouser leg and wriggled your foot.

“Aha, no,” Deacy said carefully. He was making the face he made when he was trying not to say whatever innuendo had just formed on his tongue. The others looked on in silence, rapt with attention.

“Hm?” You touched Brian’s knee with light fingers. You could’ve sworn that his breath caught; he went very still behind you, beneath you.

Freddie broke the awkward silence. “We haven’t got all day, you know. What’ve we got to talk about, John?”

“You first. You called the meeting, Fred.”

“Oh. Yes. Well. I had an idea for costumes,” Freddie began.

“Costumes?” said Reid. “Fred, you’ve yet to write the music for the next album. I can book you a tour without costumes, but I can’t bloody well book you a tour without music to play on it.”

Freddie waved his hand. “Music comes to us like breathing, dearie. Don’t you worry about that. We’ll have an album and more in no time, but image, image takes time.”

“Time and effort,” agreed Roger, who adored the glamour aspect of performance no less than Freddie.

Reid sighed. “Alright. So, costumes. Budget, John?”

Deacy put down his tea and flipped through a notebook. “We’re alright for a couple hundred pounds,” he said.

Reid raised his eyebrows. “A couple hundred? Where’d you get that kind of money? You’re not peddlin’ drugs, are you?”

Deacy shook his head placidly. “Pays not to have a studio to rehearse in.”

“What’ve you got in mind, Fred?” Brian made his first point of conversation, and you felt his soft breath on your ear. You quickly pushed the thought from your mind— focus, costumes.

Freddie grinned. “Zandra Rhodes.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: this is absolutely one of the chapters i’m most proud of writing. i think i put a bit too much of myself into my stories sometimes, though. let me know you get tired of me talking about the ethereality of starlight ;)

taglist: @melting-obelisks @hgmercury39 @stardust-killer-queen @topsecretdeacon

Masterpost / Part 7 / Part 9

#tina’s writing #starstruck #brian may #brian may x reader #brian may x y/n #brian may x you #queen #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #queen fanfiction #1975 #1970s #fic

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