PRETTY LOVER BOY - ROGER TAYLOR

XXXVII.

♛ ♛ ♛

It was a wonderful kind of reunion. Everything went well. We all get on the same way we used to, with our witty remarks and playful jabs. Almost as if nothing has really changed at all. 

The kids have all fallen asleep in various places across the living room, so while the wives relocate them to a bedroom we've moved our conversation to the kitchen.

"Can I ask you all something?" I set my now empty glass down on the counter and the boys almost seem to wince, as if they know what's coming. "What happened with Freddie?"

There's a shift in the room. A mix of anger and sorrow.

"He left us," Brian says simply.

"But why? He loves you guys. You're all supposed to be family," I say, furrowing my brows.

"Oh, he made it very clear that was not the case," Roger takes a generous gulp of his drink. 

"He couldn't have made the decision to leave all by himself, someone or something must've influenced him," I begin to chew on my lip.

"Like what, four million dollars?" Deaky offers.

"Or that fucking prick Paul," Roger mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

"God why didn't I get Freddie to fire him while I had the chance," I drop my head into my hands, "when was the last time you all talked to him?"

There's silence and I look up, finding the boys all sharing glances.

"Well?"

"I can't remember."

"So he could be dying or dead and you all would have no idea? You guys are family..." I trail off.

"We hardly saw him aside from rehearsals and recording after you left," Brian informs me. "I think you may have been the only thing keeping Pretner's at a distance."

"Fuck." I lean back against the sink, "I should've guessed."

"I think everything kind of started a slow decline when you left," Roger says. The boys all nod in agreeance.

"Oh god, where is he? I need to talk to him. I need to see him."

♛ ♛ ♛

The house is surrounded by trees. It almost seems to be made for hiding, and I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case for those using it. I sit in my car, my second time of the day, in front of the large structure, hesitant to knock on the door, though, not for the same reason.

If Paul's here, I'm positive I'll have a difficult time getting inside. What's not helpful is I'm not sure how I'll be certain he's not here. No use sitting around, analyzing it, however, it won't make him go away if he is in there.

I slide out of the car, speeding up a bit as it begins to drizzle, a rumble of thunder sounding from off in the distance. Mother Nature sure does know how to pick the time to rain.

I ring the doorbell twice before getting impatient. I back away from the front door, slipping past an overgrown fern tree to look into the large windows. What I find is the living room littered with glasses, unfinished plates of food, and half empty bottles of every type of alcohol under the sun. Centered in it all is none other than Freddie Mercury, asleep on the couch in a position that looks everything but comfortable. I knock harshly on the window and he stirs a bit. The second time, he lifts his head, looking in my direction. When he sees me, he perks up, seemingly waking up in a snap, standing up. I quickly make my way back to the door.