In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

28. You're Certifiable, Freddie

I brushed past the handsome blond as I entered the kitchen.  Roger asked me for a light, which I gave to him. 

"He should be down in about five minutes," I made myself say.  "So, what are you guys doing in the studio today?"

Roger took a drag on his cigarette.  "Basically same stuff.  We may work on one of my songs this time around."

"Oh, what a shame."

Roger's brows furrowed.  "Huh?"

"Er, I mean, what a shame I won't be there to see it."

"Will you not be coming back this morning?"

I shook my head.  "The cats need me.  Speaking of which, I ought to feed them, I bet they're starving.  Oh, and tea.  We need tea.  Very important."

That was the best excuse I could come up with for turning away from him and facing the wall.  With trembling hands I gripped the counter top.  I was already losing control.  Blindly I fumbled around for the teapot, hot salty tears threatening to surface.  My nose began to cramp, and my throat to tighten.  Only two intelligible, coarse thoughts were swimming in my brain now: Damn your eyes, Freddie, and Only one hundred frickin' pounds! 

It never occurred to me to think I might be reacting a little too violently for the way I claimed to feel.  For someone who supposedly only wanted Freddie for his unique looks and slight build (I never was one for the Schwarzenegger types), I certainly took it hard.  But in my daze, I forgot to notice that maybe, just maybe, something sweeter, stronger, and a whole lot messier was beginning to bloom.  Perhaps if I'd paid attention, things might have turned out differently- and I might have saved myself a great deal of heartache.

But now, I prayed for strength.  I couldn't let Freddie see how this affected me.  I set the full teapot on the stove and turned on the heat underneath it.  In the back of my head I told myself I needed to keep busy, what with idle hands being the devil's plaything and all that.  Thirsting for distraction, I flicked on the radio. 

And what should I hear but Rod Stewart urging his sweetie: "Tonight's the night/ It's gonna be alright-"

I adjusted the dial, found another clear signal: "-Touching you, so warm and tender/ Lord, I feel such a sweet surrender-"

My jaw tensed.  Not helping, Andy.  "Why do there have to be so many frickin' songs about sex?" I asked aloud.

Roger took a puff.  "Do you want me to answer that, or...?"

"No, actually," I muttered.  I made one last station change and heard the worst song that could possibly have played:

"Paper roses, paper roses,

Oh, how real those roses seem to be.

But they're only imitation,

Like your imitation love fo-"

Click.

Screw you, Marie Osmond.

"So Okoy," Roger teased.  "Where'd you get those love-bites?"

"Love-bites?" I managed.  "What are you talking about?"

The blond came close to me.  "There," he said, pointing at various places on my neck, "there, there, and there.  Love-bites."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah.  Where'd you get them?"

"I don't know," I lied.

"Are you sure of that?" Roger was smiling. 

"As sure as anything.  Why?"

"So it wasn't your husband?"