#ill probably get over this in a while and start reblogging pictures of snakes with hats and dumb vines

[girlafraidinacoma]

In The Lap of the Gods: Chapter Three -  ‘Don’t Forget to Smile!’

Summary: What do you get when you mix a tight-knit art community, young, hot-blooded twenty-something university students and good old-fashioned British Rock & Roll? Probably the next best hope for art and music that generation has to offer. With her friends’ band skyrocketing to fame, what exactly does a girl do when she suddenly finds herself sitting in the lap of the gods? The answer: do the only thing she can do, rise to the occasion of course!

Pairing: Gwilym Lee!Brian May x Original Female Character [chill guys, this WILL be a Bri fic…eventually].

Warnings: ummm mentions alcohol??? That’s it.

Words: 1.7k+

Author’s Note: They finally meet!!!! So I made cover art for the fic, I really hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did making it. As always, feel free to comment, reblog or leave a like it if you want.

Kind of AU, contains both elements from real life and the Bo Rhap universe, so imagine whoever you prefer whether they be the real thing or the Bo Rhap Boys–be free.

[Link to the Ao3 fic!]

Chapter Playlist:

1. Ramble On - Led Zeppelin 2. Hello, I love You - The Doors

Chapter Three - 'Don't Forget To Smile!'

London, 1969.

It all started with a couple of drawings. Pencil or charcoal drawings, quick studies of hands, profiles of people and renders of the view of the street from the flat Roger and Freddie shared. They sat in a small pile in their living room, under a couple of magazines that Brian had been perusing to pass the time. What had caught his eye however was a detailed portrait of Jimi Hendrix with his Stratocaster. It wasn’t just on some scrap bit of paper either, it was made on thick stock, the kind that artists used, and it had rough edges as if it were originally a larger piece of parchment that was carefully divided into several A4 pages.

Jimi was dressed in an open flowy shirt and had his eyes closed in concentration, the light from above him casted deep shadows upon his face. It didn’t look like Fred’s handiwork, and he had seen numerous other ones he had done before. There was a distinct impression on the bottom right hand corner of the page, the artist’s initial he would have guessed; it was a long and swooping line like the body of a snake and formed a slanted capital 'W'. Brian didn’t really know much about art, and was more comfortable measuring the distance between stars, or better, fluffing about on his guitar, but he decided he liked it very much.

“Rog,” he said, calling the attention of the man currently buttering a piece of toast in the kitchen.

“Yeah?”

Brian sidled up to his friend, showing what he had in his hand, “Is this yours?”

“Hm?” Roger turned his gaze at the drawing, swallowing the bread he was chewing he said, “No, a friend of mine drew that.”

“Do you think-- Could I have it?” Brian asked sheepishly, his eyes still admiring the pencil work.

“Good isn’t it? I’ve got one of Jane Fonda in my room,” he grinned with a wiggle of his brows, “Yeah, don’t think she’d mind, she leaves loads round here.” His friend had turned back to his meal, slathering more jam on his toast.

“Thanks.” Brian said, pleased.

Weeks later, after he’s hung his favorite new picture up on his bedroom wall at home, Brian was back at Fred and Roger’s place, hoping to talk to the blonde about their upcoming gig that week. The door to their flat was unsurprisingly not locked, still he gave a short knock at the door to warn people of his entrance. He had made the mistake twice or three times before of walking in on Roger with a lady friend. Why he hadn’t taken them to his room or at least locked the door, was beyond Brian’s comprehension. He suddenly felt a great sympathy for Freddie whom had to live with Roger’s antics on the daily.

What he was met with inside however was a lulling pitter-patter of percussion, and the warm strum of an electric guitar over Robert Plant’s familiar vocals. Neither Fred nor Roger was anywhere to be seen, but someone had left the record player on. The music of Zeppelin was like a balm to Brian’s ears as Page’s guitar played the quick rise and fall of notes on the fretboard. He made a beeline to the player in the living room, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He was so engrossed in his study of the vinyl jacket that he failed to notice the other person in the room.

“Can I help you?” a voice from the armchair asked.

Brian whipped around so fast he had dropped the empty vinyl sleeve. He had a hand to his chest and he felt his hammering pulse beneath his shirt. “Sorry,” he said, going for the item he had dropped. “I didn’t see you there.”

The person smiled at him from where she sat, eyes dancing at his priceless expression having been so caught off-guard. It was a woman, close to his age, and she had a purple scarf tied around her wavy brown hair which cascaded down her shoulder. She sat sideways in her seat and her lean legs were draped over one arm of the chair while her back was supported by the other. Her feet were angled towards the end table with the stack of magazines. Despite the way she had so casually perched on Freddie’s armchair, she was holding herself so easily and so regally that she could have been Cleopatra on her throne.

“Er, I was looking for Rog?” Brian answered in reply to her initial question.

“He’s still asleep.”  

“Right, right.” Brian nodded, his gaze flickering over to the door of Roger’s room. Of course he’d still be asleep, it was only half past twelve after all. He took the seat across from her on the sofa. “I’m --”

“You’re Brian, aren’t you?” she finished for him.

“Sorry,” he said, apologising once more. “Have we met? I thought I’m usually better at remembering these things.” Brian was scratching his curly head trying to put her face to a name.

“No, no. Only Roger mentioned he was in a band and that he had a friend called Brian who played guitar. Dark curly hair, tall, lacks fashion sense, lost puppy-dog eyes.”

“Rog said I looked like a... puppy ?”

The girl chuckled, “Just my observation.” Her tone was cheeky, but not unkind.

“Oh,” he said with a blush.

“I’m only playing,” she laughed, there was a rosy tinge to her cheeks. “I like your eyes, they’re very nice; and I don’t think you’ve got terrible taste in clothes.”

“Um, thanks.” He said, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. He didn’t think that she was lying; though looking down at his simple pinstripe button down and dark trousers ensemble, and knowing his eyes to be a rather plain blue, Brian thought himself to be rather unremarkable.

“Could afford to pop open a few buttons though,” she mused, “And maybe roll up the sleeves?” Her brown eyes, a shade or two deeper than her hair, sparkled in the early afternoon light. He might have blamed Led Zeppelin, or maybe the way her hair fell around her like a halo, it may have been due to the fact that her eyes had never left his during their entire interaction thus far, or perhaps it was a combination of all of these things, but Brian was utterly smitten.

“I um, appreciate the pointers.”

“Sometimes all it takes is a fresh perspective.” The girl said with warmth.

Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air 'Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair But Gollum, and the evil one Crept up and slipped away with her, her, her, yeah Ah, there's nothing I can do now I guess I'll keep on

They spend the next minute or so in relative quiet, happy to let the song speak for them. That was...until Brian next chose to open his mouth, “So, you're...here for Rog?” It was more of a statement than a question at this point.

“Hmm?” The girl raised her eyebrows.

“You and Rog, you’re-- here f-for him -- with - with him?” Put one beautiful girl in front of him and the astrophysics major is reduced to a stuttering idiot. His fingers tapped on his knees anxiously, he sees her lips press into a thin line and her eyes grow stormy.

“Right, because men and women can’t ever just be friends?” Her accusation was followed with his dumbfounded silence. She felt mortified and her chest burned. “D’you go around assuming every woman that’s ever stepped foot in this flat has slept with your mate, or am I just special?”

“I didn’t really er-- that is, I know that sounds…” he struggled for the words.

“No, no, it’s fine. It was just your observation.” she said, having lost the humour in her voice. It seemed as though their conversation had officially ended. It was then that Brian noticed the sketchbook in her lap, and the charcoal held between her fingers. But before he could peek at what she had been doing, she had closed the book shut and reached for her satchel propped against her chair.

The door to Freddie’s bedroom opened unceremoniously and the man came out fully dressed, keys jangling in hand. “Sorry to make you wait, I couldn’t find my other bloody shoe.” Freddie was surprised to find Brian there that afternoon, and especially so, finding the taller man looking quite ill and confused. “I see you’ve met Brian.”

“Yep.” the girl said, putting her things into her bag.

Fred might have guessed as to what led to this uncomfortable situation: one, Roger had never been the type who was short of female companions; two, for someone normally so articulate, Brian had probably one of the worst cases of foot in mouth syndrome Freddie’s ever been witness to; and three, his poor new friend has entirely no idea of the effect she had on the opposite sex. This scenario appeared to make the most sense to him. Seeking to relieve the tension, Fred had thought a speedy escape would be their best course of action. Collecting their coats in a calm fashion, he beckoned to her, “Coming, darling?”

“Born ready, Freddie.” she replied, her face was an impassive mask as she spared one last look to Brian before walking out the door with Fred.

Brian, rooted in his spot on the sofa, released a long suffering groan into his hand. He had gone and done it now, alright. He really had no luck with women, and he felt like a true dolt. He somehow managed to insult a mutual friend of both his best mate as well as that of that best mate’s flatmate all in one fell swoop. And he didn't even know the poor girl’s name.

Standing up, he walked over to where she had just been. Her seat was still warm, and by the end table was another set of fresh drawings. It appeared she been working on a flyer for their upcoming gig; ironic, given the circumstance, in large bold letters it mocked him saying, ‘DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!’.

Sure enough, on the bottom right-hand corner was a single initial, a pristine, looping 'W'.

I can't find my bluebird I listen to my bluebird sing I can't find my bluebird I keep rambling, baby I keep rambling, baby