ᵍʳᵒᵘᵖⁱᵉ

˚₊‧꒰ა 🎤 ‧₊˚

[ rockfield farm ]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝. Freddie was twenty minutes late, annoyance hinting their fidgety movements. Roger glanced back at you and all you could do was shrug, offering an empathetic wince. 

The room was silent as Ray Foster sighed, and Jim Beach, the band's lawyer, and the man you had been assisting for the past three years, looked around the room. He was a kind man, taking you in when no other law firm would, and offering you guidance and real work experience in a mostly male dominated workforce. You had recommended him to the band, stating that he wasn't like other blood-sucking lawyers, and both parties were eager to work together, upon your request. 

The office door suddenly opened, and in walked Freddie with a flourish. "Hello," he greeted, shutting the door. 

"You're late," John stated the obvious. 

"Am I?"

"We saved you a seat," Paul said. 

"Lovely."

"Okay, so, now that we're all here, Jim, this is Ray Foster. Ray, this is the band's lawyer, Jim Beach."

"And the girl?" Ray questioned, eyes focusing on you. 

"She's my assistant," Jim smiled. 

"And an important figure to the band," Freddie added. 

"Very important," Roger emphasized. 

"Oh, but we must stop calling him that." You looked over at Freddie, finding him lighting a cigarette and glancing over towards Jim. 

"That's his name," John exasperated. 

"No, we cannot keep calling him 'Jim Beach'. No, that's absurd, not to mention unspeakably boring." Your jaw dropped a little, and you softly rubbed Jim's arm, mouthing an apology, to which he smiled thankfully. "Miami," Freddie suddenly suggested, and Brian let out a chuckle. "From now on, I dub thee 'Miami Beach.'"

The boys laughed a little, and Jim nodded, "The sun always sets behind you, doesn't it? On Miami Beach."

You pursed your lips, slightly embarrassed at his 'joke', which went noticed and not-laughed-at by the others in the room. "Hmm. Right," Ray hummed. "Now that everybody's got an acceptable name, let's get to it. Look, we just really need something special. More hits. Like 'Killer Queen', only bigger."

As Freddie stood up, slowly wandering towards Ray's record player, Roger huffed, "It's not bloody widgets we're making. We can't just reproduce 'Killer Queen'."

"No," Freddie voiced, and everyone looked over to him as he placed the stylus down on a vinyl he had picked. "We can do better."

The music began tuning, and soon, the high-tone voice of an opera singer filled the room. "It's opera," Ray deadpanned. You and Roger smiled, whilst Brian and Deacy chuckled.

"Opera!" John nodded. 

"Opera!" Paul repeated.

"Ah, there seems to be an echo in here," Deacy mocked, causing you to laugh. Paul glanced over with annoyance, and you barely hid it with a wobbly grin.

With each percussion of beats, the boys would bang their finger to it, stifling their snickers as Ray silently fumed. Freddie swayed his hand for another moment, before lowering the volume so that it was like background music to their conversation. 

"See, we don't want to repeat ourselves. The same formula over and over," Brian said.

"Formulas are a complete and utter waste of time," Freddie stated.

"Formulas work. Let's stick with the formulas," Ray half-begged. "I like formulas."

Freddie completely ignored him as he brainstormed. "We'll call the album...'A Night at the Opera.'"

Ray sighed, "Are you aware that no one actually likes opera?"

"I like opera," Jim spoke up. 

"Do you?"

"I do," John added, raising his hand.

"No, don't misunderstand, darling. It's a rock and roll record with the scale of opera, the pathos of Greek tragedy, the wit of Shakespeare, the unbridled joy of musical theatre," Freddie remarked. "It's a musical experience."

"Yeah," Ray nodded absentmindedly. 

"Rather than just another record. Something for everyone, something...Hmm. Something that will make people feel belongs to them. We'll mix genres, we'll cross boundaries, we'll- we'll speak in bloody tongues if we want to."

"There's no musical ghetto that can contain us," Roger stated.

"That's it!"

"No one knows that Queen means because it doesn't mean one thing," Deacon expressed.

Ray pondered for a moment, before looking over at his trusted adviser. "What do you think, John?"

"I... agree with the band."

"Of course, you do. How about you, uh..."

"Miami," Jim reminded, and Freddie hummed with a smirk. "Fortune favors the bold."

"And you, miss?"

Simultaneously, the band turned their heads to you, waiting for your response. "This band is different. Their music is different. And people love it. Let them work their magic, Mr. Foster."

The boys sent you grateful smiles, and you returned them with your own, winking at Roger who smirked. Freddie placed his hands on his desk, leaning forward. "Surely, a man of your... unique taste isn't afraid of a little risk?"

Ray sighed, shaking his head before looking at the singer with furrowed brows. "Please don't make me regret this."

"You're fun."

📍𝚁𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝚁𝙼, 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟻

"Recording studio?" Roger questioned again as he looked around the dump, as he described it. 

"Well, the idea was to get away from all distractions," Paul explained, taking two of your suitcases. 

"Well, I guess we shouldn't have brought you," the drummer smirked your way. You rolled your eyes, handing him your luggage. He grunted, looking down at the leather bag with furrowed brows. "Jesus, did you pack your entire wardrobe in here or something?"

"Well, aren't you perceptive? Come on," you ordered, and he followed after you and the boys.

As you made it inside, Paul dashed up the stairs. "Right, I know it's not the Ritz. Not even close. Roger, Y/N, you're in here," he said, pointing to the first room. 

You nodded in thanks, going inside with Roger. "Big bed," he observed. 

"Perfect," you grinned, and he matched it with his own sultry smirk, reeling you into his arms as he peppered kisses over your cheeks, soon going downwards to your neck. 

"Freddie, this is you," Paul smiled. "Biggest room. Brian, that's you. John, you're downstairs."

Brian sat down on the bed, sighing as it squeaked between his weight. "Does your bed squeak?" he called out loudly to you, and you entered the room, glancing around it. 

"Eh, you'll find out tonight," you shrugged. 

"Actually, within the hour if I get my way," Roger exclaimed. 

"Great," the guitarist deadpanned, really wishing he didn't know the couple's sex schedule as much as he did. 

Paul led John downstairs, and his face slowly dropped with each step. "And this is all yours, John. Smaller rooms don't get nearly as cold."

"Okay," John grimaced. 

Upstairs, in his room, Freddie sat in one of the armchairs, notebook and pen in hand. Thousands of words and harmonies swirled throughout his brain, trying to find a perfect set of lyrics for a song. He leaned back with a small smile, his front teeth naturally biting into his bottom lip as he hummed, "Hmm." He sniffled as he continued writing down a rough draft, before looking up, "Oh, that's really good."

It was late at night when Freddie found himself at the piano beside the kitchen, Paul accompanying him as he tested out the new song he had written. "Love of my life,

You've hurt me.

You've broken my heart,

And now you leave me.

Love of my life,

Can't you see?

Bring it back,

Bring it back,

Bring it back,

Bring it back.

Don't take it away from me,

Because you don't know,

What it means to me.

Freddie let out a small gasp as he finished the song, and Paul, who was sitting in the chair across from the piano hummed, "Hmm. It's beautiful." The singer didn't respond, too caught up in writing musical correspondents to certain words or adding new lyrics all together. Paul chuckled, standing up and making his way over to him. "What's it called?"

 Freddie looked up before answering, "'Love of My Life'. I wrote it for Mary."

"If you say so."

Freddie, again, did not reply to the jab, instead continuing to write down little notes in his notebook. Paul moved around the piano, leaning across Freddie to put out his cigarette. He gazed down at Freddie, and the singer found himself growing slightly uncomfortable under his unwavering stare. Freddie glanced up, before moving to grab his glass of whiskey, and suddenly, Paul moved into his space, pressing his lips to the black-haired man. He was appalled to say that he nearly sank into the kiss, but the thought of Mary had him pulling away. 

Paul kept his hand on his shoulder as he chuckled breathily, shaking his head. "Don't... Don't misunderstand, Paul. Mary knows me in a way that no one else ever will."

Paul raised the singer's chin up with a sigh, "I know you, Freddie Mercury."

"Is that what you think? Oh no, you don't know me. You just see what you want to see." Freddie moved Paul's hand from his chin, instead using it to bop his chin. "We work together. That's all."

"Am I interrupting something?" The two looked up, finding you on the juncture of the stairs, staring directly at Pual with beady eyes. 

"Just writing a song, my dear," Freddie answered. "But I am quite tired. I wish to go to bed." He gathered his notebook and supplies, shooting Paul a goodnight before joining you in the kitchen. 

You filled up a glass with water, turning around and leaning on the sink as Freddie stood directly in front of you. "What did that leech want?"

"Nothing I wouldn't give," he joked, and you chuckled, shaking your head as you drained the glass. "So, I suppose Brian knows if your bed squeaks now?"

You choked on the water, patting your chest as Freddie laughed, covering his mouth. "Dickhead," you muttered. "Yes, I do suppose dear Brian knows. And if he didn't, I think the three reminders afterwards were enough."

"Oh, you nasty girl." You laughed again, and together, you and your best friend made your way upstairs to your rooms.

"I put my heart and soul into this song," Roger huffed as he continued to make breakfast for you and the band, whilst you nursed a nice cup of coffee, leaning against the countertop. 

"No one is disputing that," Deacon assured. 

"And you don't like it," the blonde continued, "because you want your songs on the album!"

"It's not that, Roger."

"Then what is it?"

Brian sighed, looking at the drummer with raised brows. "'I'm in Love with My Car.'" Him and Deacon held out their hands with a shrug in unison. "Maybe it's not strong enough?"

"What does that even mean, 'not strong enough'?"

"I know I'm late," Freddie addressed as he walked into the kitchen. "What did I miss?"

"Discussing Roger's car song," you answered.

"Is it strong enough?" Brian asked. "That's all I'm asking. If I'm on my own here, then I apologize."

"How does your new song go, then, hmm?" Roger questioned, pointing his finger at the guitarist. He grabbed hold of the paper near Brian, beginning to read out the lyrics, "'You call me sweet like I'm some kind of cheese.'"

"It's good."

"Wow!"

"Is that- You know, "'When my hands on your grease gun'?" That's very subtle, isn't it?"

"It's a metaphor, Brian!"

"It's just a bit weird, Roger. What exactly are you doing with that car?" Deacy asked with a smirk. 

"Children, please," Freddie calmed. "We could all murder each other but then who would be left to record this album?"

"Statistically speaking, most bands don't fail, they break up."

"Why the hell would you say something like that? Roger, there's only room in this band for one hysterical queen."

"You know why you're angry, Roger." Brian said. 

"Why?"

Brian looked over at you with a barely contained smirk and you squinted your eyes at him in confusion. "Cause you know that Y/N agrees with us."

Wordlessly, Roger slowly turned to you, and you opened your mouth to respond, but no words came to your aid. Instead, you opted to weakly whistle, looking around the shack, admiring the woodwork. 

Roger let out a short sigh, before grabbing a handful of bacon and tossing it at Brian's face. As the pork slipped off of his face, Roger began yelling in anger. "Is that strong enough?! What about that?"

"Settle the fuck down!" you berated.

"Listen to your girlfriend, Rog! Come on now, mate!"

In his rage, he had picked up the coffee machine, and this immediately set off high red alerts in all three of you as you grasped his arm, halting his movements as Brian and Deacon held up their pointer fingers. 

"Not the coffee machine!" you warned in unison.