Chapter Text
Nobody ever bothers to ask why Brian May only wears long sleeved shirts. Just like nobody ever bothers to ask why he owns a collection of bracelets which he wears on the rare occasion that he does wear short sleeved shirts. Maybe it's the fact that people often only see what they want to see, or perhaps it's fear of hearing something that they don't want to hear.
All he knows is that it's been a long night, filled with the overwhelming lights of the night club Freddie had dragged them too, and the sinking feeling that filled his chest every time John's boyfriend rolled his eyes at Brian. He didn't really understand why the older man hated him so damn much, all he knows is that Daniel can't stand him. And that he isn't very subtle about it.
The other thing he knows is that Daniel, regardless of having known Brian for, give or take, two months already seems to know more about him than his four friends combined.
They had been dancing, the five of them, having the time of their lives and helping Brian forget about the sinking feeling that passed over him every time he caught Daniel's stare. The alcohol is helping him feel like himself again, lightening his mood and making the tension leak from his muscles. He definitely wants more.
He leaves them in the middle of the dancefloor with the promise of coming back with shots for all of them and misses the way that Daniel walks after him. Brian leans on the bar, bracelets that decorate his arms digging into his skin painfully, but he pays no mind to the sensation. Then someone slots himself beside Brian, pressing their shoulders together.
When he turns, he finds Daniel glaring at him. Brian's heart sinks, "Look, I really don't want to fight you. You seem to make Deaky very happy and I—"
"You know I love John, right?"
Brian frowns, "Yeah, but what does that have to do with—?"
"I don't think he should be hanging out with you."
Brian's frown deepens, "Look, mate if you think that I am in any way going to get in the way of yours and John's relationship you are wrong."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"Then what—?"
Daniel's eyes flicker to Brian's wrists, and the penny drops. He feels his eyes widen and his breath shorten because oh god this can't be happening. He instantly cradles his hand to his chest and wishes that he hadn't worn the ridiculous Rolling Stones t-shirt he is wearing.
"You should be more careful when you play. If the wrong people were to find out..."
Daniel lets the thought linger on the air between them, and Brian's breath hitches, "You haven't told them, have you?"
Daniel shakes his head, his striking blue eyes never leaving Brian's face, "I'm not going too. And I won't tell the press either. I just want you away from John. He is way too precious, way too soft, and that," Daniel points at the hand Brian is holding to his chest, "will kill him."
The worst part is that Daniel's argument is reasonable. He can see the way that it would kill John, the way it could destroy Roger and Freddie. Brian knows that if it were to get out if any of his boys were to find out, it might tear them apart. So he just nods.
He clears his throat, blinks his tears away, and nods at Daniel, "Tell them I wasn't feeling alright."
Daniel nods, and gives Brian a faux smile, "I wish it could be different, Brian. But sadly it isn't."
Brian only notices the numbness that has spread over his body once he is left the bar. The cold air hits him like a truck, and Brian realises that everything he had been feeling that night seems to be locked away. The tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and a sob is clawing it's way up his throat.
He starts walking. Away from the bar. Away from his bandmates. Away from all the damage he has caused.
He finds himself at the banks of the Thames, an hour later. Staring at the water and fiddling with his bracelets. He started collecting them when he had turned fifteen. The first night his parents had found him in the bathtub, with crimson staining his shirt.
He still remembers his mother's tender hands, his father's worried eyes, and the kind words of his psychologist as she handed him his first leather band.
That was the first bracelet to go.
He gently undid the knot and threw the ugly thing as far as he could. He looked down to find three thin lines. All of different lengths, two older than the longest one of them all. He traced a finger over the lines, shivering lightly as the scab of the newest line fell away.
It was like a damn broke then, and Brian couldn't rip his bracelets fast enough. The beads of some of them rolled away as the string snapped, and the leather of others got caught in the fresh wounds, making them sting and bleed again. One by one they fell to the floor or got chucked away into the Thames.
Once his mind came back into focus Brian found that his arm now looked bloody and stung like hell. He had made a mess of himself once again, making the blood from the reopened wounds stain his pants and shirt, and /oh god/ what would they think if they found him right now?
Which of his friends would be the first one to scream at the sight? Which of his friends would be the first to leave him on the banks of the Thames? Which of his friends would ask him never to go back to their apartment? To get a new house and a new band?
He started crying, curled up into a ball and wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.
Hours later, when the cold had made his fingers numb and his legs practically useless, Brian decided that he needed to face the music. He needed to find the closest Underground station, clean up his arms and go home. He would put on a fake smile, tell his bandmates that his parents wanted him back for the weekend, and then disappear from their lives.
Maybe Daniel was right, if John, if any of them, were to find out it would kill them. It would kill them just like it had killed his parents years ago. He couldn't do that to them. They didn't deserve it.
The trip went as expected. He washed under the fluorescent lights of the Underground bathroom, he avoided the stares from everyone in the cart who wondered why a man was wearing a bloody Rolling Stones t-shirt. Then begged to every deity known to man that their newfound fame, regardless of how small, wouldn't come to bite him in the ass.
When he got home and looked at his watch, he realised that his bandmates were probably inside already. Three in the morning was usually past their bedtime.
Brian stuck his key into the lock and turned the thing around, trying to be as silent as possible. He was glad that he had changed the squeaky lock a few days prior. He did everything as softly as possible, kicking his shoes off, and locking the door behind him. He was so cautious that he completely missed the fact that the house was unusually quiet.
He couldn't hear Freddie's snores or the mumbling sounds that Roger made in his sleep. Brian frowned and stepped inside the living room only to find that John and Freddie's room was empty.
He flicked the lights on, "Guys?"
There was a loud crash from inside his and Roger's room, the sound was so loud that for a second Brian was worried Roger had actually harmed himself. But then the door was thrown open, and a flurry of blonde and white threw himself into Brian's arms.
Roger was sobbing, clinging to Brian like he hadn't seen him in a couple of years when in reality it had barely been a few hours. Ice trickled into Brian's veins, and he pried Roger away from his chest to look into his red-rimmed eyes, "Roggie, is everything alright? Where are Fred and Deaky?"
More tears flooded Roger's eyes, and he shook his head, "I have called every single fucking hospital in the region. Every single one of them. And none of them had anyone matching your description."
"Roger, what are you talking about? Why did you call the hospital?"
There is a moment in which Roger tenses, then his hands are on Brian's arms, trailing lightly down his biceps, his forearm, and finally coming to rest on his wrist. His cut up, cursed, wrist.
He has never had someone touch his scars before, and the reaction he has is visceral. He feels like throwing up and crying at the same time. Shame burns all the way from the base of his neck to the tip of his ears, and the sound that leaves his throat is one of a wounded animal.
"We were worried you had done something stupid," Roger whispered, then pressed a kiss to his temple, "the bartender overheard your conversation with Daniel and decided to tell us."
There is a second of silence, and then a sob escapes Roger, "God fucking damn it, we were so scared, Brimi. We thought we had lost you."
Brian feels painfully aware of everything around him, "Daniel told you about—?"
He can't bring himself to say it, and something deep inside him chastises him for it. You are such a coward. First, you can't stop yourself, then you can't say what you did out loud.
Roger's hands are on his face, cradling Brian like he is something precious, "No, Brimi. Lord no, he didn't have to say anything. We've known for ages, darling."
Brian feels as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs.
"We've known for years, Brimi. Why do you think we never let you come home alone? Or why we have the no locked doors rule? Or why there literally is only one razor in this house?
Love, we have known for so long, we were just waiting for you to tell us. To ask for help. And lord was that a mistake. We were so worried about driving you away from us that we never once stopped to think that maybe we were making a mistake."
Brian is left speechless, hands trembling slightly, and dizzy as hell, but it feels like a knot inside his chest untangles itself. He can deal with the feelings of betrayal in the morning. Deal with the fact that they knew and didn't do anything about it.
But for now, he just feels his legs give out in relief because they knew. They knew, and they didn't think Brian was less because of it. Didn't want him gone. Didn't feel the need to take him to a hospital and stuff him in the psychiatric ward. They knew and had decided to stay by Brian's side regardless.
His knees hit the floor just as a sob escapes his mouth, and Roger is there to comfort him. He wraps his arms around the smaller man and weeps in relief because oh god they know and they don't care. They know, and they won't stop being by his side. They know, and they decided to stay.
He doesn't know how long passes between his arrival and the moment where Freddie and John burst through the door. All he knows is that suddenly there isn't only one set of arms wrapped around him, but three.
He doesn't know which one of them is the one rocking back and forth. Which one of them is the one repeating the phrase 'you're here' over and over and over, and which one of them is sobbing uncontrollably. All he knows is that, yes, he is in their living room, encased in the warmth of his boy's hug. Yes, he didn't do anything stupid. And yes, maybe the world isn't as bleak as it had seemed a few hours before.