A Man For All Seasons (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

1. Just Like Heaven

John

I can't open my eyes.

I'm not speaking figuratively, either. In a very literal sense, I cannot push my lids apart right now. My chest feels sore, lungs aching each time I take a breath. All of me seems rather stiff, in fact, as though my limbs have been stretched out as far as they could go and then kept there for a terribly long period of time. I know I'm lying down- that much is certain- but apart from that, I have practically no idea what's going on around me.

Am I dead? I wonder. Is that what this is?

The very fact that I'm breathing at all of course says otherwise- but that doesn't mean I won't entertain the thought. I try to think back to what had happened last night, before I turned into a vegetable. Of course, I don't have to work too hard at it, even if there isn't much coming to mind at the moment; what does resurface is enough to make me forget how to breathe altogether.

It all just happened so fast. One minute I was sitting on Julia's sofa, reeling from an assumed defeat and trying desperately not to burst into tears in front of her; in the next, I found myself staring straight into a pair of dark brown eyes that I believed I would never again in real life see open and shining above that same old smile.

And then? What happened next?

As disappointing an answer as this may be, I'm not sure. I saw his face, and then for the next few minutes I guess I just shut down. Mind you, I was still awake, I knew they were there before me, speaking, looking into my face, but as far as what exactly was spoken, and the expressions themselves, I can't remember. A certain haziness envelops the memories, a haziness that's eating away bit by bit at things I can genuinely recall, much like what happens with most dreams after one wakes up.

Wakes up? I say to myself. Who said anything about waking up?

With what energy I have, I fight back the idea that suddenly attacks my brain. Last night couldn't have been a dream. After all, everything leading up to it had been real enough: the flight, Brian, Roger, New York, Charles, the drive into New Jersey, Home Alone 2- all of these, I remember as clearly as if I was experiencing them all over again. But after that, the recollection wasn't nearly so cut and dry.

Could it be I only imagined I had run out in the dead of a winter night, burst into Julia's home, and spoken with a chap I said goodbye to for the last time thirty-six years before? Had I never left her neighbor's house at all?

Somehow that thought gives me the strength to open my eyes. It's dark where I am, but not too dark, thanks to the light seeping in through slight cracks in the drawn window blinds and the door across the room. With effort I shift my arms a bit, feeling the weight of sheets and a duvet give a little as I move. Well, at least I'm not still dozing in a comfy chair; I'm in a bed now. That's improvement I suppose.

As my eyes adjust to the half-light, I recognize the decor of the room as belonging to the one and only Julia Samuels. The vanity, the prints, the photos- nothing has changed since the last time my wife and I came to visit them a few years ago. So far, so good. Buoyed somewhat by familiarity, I manage to prop myself up on my elbows, inching my way upright until I'm sitting straight, my back pressed against the headboard.

Just outside the door I hear the soft hum of music. Not piano music exactly, although that is what I'm somewhat hoping to hear; it's just the radio or an album or something. Aside of that, things are pretty quiet. Curiosity finally getting the better of me, I start to ease myself out of the bed. Even through my socks, the floor feels freezing, but it's not enough to be distracting. Carefully I shift my weight to my feet, and stand up, shuffling slowly to the window to open the blinds as I do every morning. Such a creature of habit I am. All the madness that is going on even in this very moment, all the raging emotions of the past week or so, but I still let the sunshine in.