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

46. The Syntax of Things

Some people like the rain. They find it soothing, peaceful, perhaps even inspirational. Power to them. Rain's good for the ground, and it's good for the air, and it's good for the fish. Perhaps it is. But rain always comes at the behest of clouds, which hide the sun and darken a sky that looks much better in blue than gray. Clouds are lonely things, and since misery loves company, clouds love to make the people trapped underneath them feel sad and lonely as well. It's not the most convenient set-up. To me, if it's going to take up so much room, the sky ought to be bright at least half the time.

Not that the night I was splashing through was bright; the only lights were the lit lamp posts, shining blearily through the sheets of water. My backpack and I were soaked, the gentle breeze blowing the rain into my face, the glowing red tracker thumping softly against my chest with every step. I hated the rain. I wasn't refreshed, I wasn't soothed. I was just plowing through a bigger, colder version of the tears still falling from my eyes.

And a huge part of me still couldn't understand why I was weeping so bitterly- or why my heart was so broken. Freddie was a snake. A beast. An odious, nasty man who needed professional help. I had apologized sincerely, from the very bottom of my heart, and he kicked my words aside.

How had I let such a callous creature hurt me so horribly? What had I ever found so fascinating about him? Freddie was talented- so what? He had a beautiful voice and a beautiful face- big deal. And he was terribly mysterious- whoopee doo. But these qualities did not a worthy obsession make. Damn that natural charisma, that strange allure he had which charmed so many without them even knowing why they were charmed.

Seven years I'd admired him, studied him, aware of his torments and faults but untouched by them. Ten wonderful days, all relatively balanced as far as good and bad experiences went, suddenly paled before this one night of Freddie's utter self-exposure- literally. After eleven days, I knew too much, was in too deep. I had come too close to the fire and was running away charred and permanently scarred, pining for the days when I had the luxury to wonder about him, but receive no definite answer.

Ignorance is bliss.

I stopped running a moment and leaned forward against the light on the corner, pressing my forehead against it and seizing it with one hand. I would have used both, but my ring finger still stung from when I slapped Freddie. The cold metal felt solid and real against my palm; its concreteness grounded me somewhat. Not much, but I would take anything.

There was no place for me here. I would find a taxi or a bus or something and just go. Forget plans. Plans never worked, especially mine. I'd find out where I was meant to stop once I stopped. What a wonderful surprise it would be. Just peachy.

However, I had to get out of the Kensington borough first. That was my primary goal right now. The further away from him, the sooner I could get away, the better.

A set of headlights appeared and rounded the corner, moving toward Freddie's flat. I could tell by the headlight shape that it wasn't Rudy and his Rolls-Royce, and even through the rain the car looked dark-colored, and shaped like a taxi. Now was my chance. I ran across the street waving my arms around. The car slowed and halted by the roadside.

I pulled the backseat door open, and slid in. "Drive."

The driver turned around and squinted at me. "Huh?"

"Please, now, go," I murmured in shaky monosyllables.

He lifted a hand and turned on the cabin light. "Julia, what are you doing?"

My eyes bulged, and my sludgy brain bit by bit registered the situation: Oh, okay. I'm not sitting in a taxi, and how does he know my real name, too- and, crap, I'm getting the inside of John Deacon's car all wet.