Archive of Our Own ^beta

He felt guilty, embarrassed, and angry. Angry with himself. How could he have let a fight with Bill get so out of hand that he’d tanked their show in the States. It was shameful. On national television he’d gone and dragged Queen’s name through the mud. The other three had been fabulous, John dancing his heart out, Brian sending him encouraging nods and smiles as he played and Roger, he had backed him up with the vocals. God knows he’s had to do that enough. He was so grateful for his little family, and Phoebe. Phoebe had helped him get his voice back to some degree that made it possible for him to sing. How could he ever repay them?

Brian had to go and change his lyrics each time? Hadn’t he had enough when it came to having his way while writing an album. Guitar solos in most songs, his songs becoming singles, his style of music had been the driving force behind every album they’d done. Was it so difficult for him to try and adapt to a different sound? He’d never been able to compose as much as Brian had been, it had only been in the recent years that he’d gained some confidence when it came to song writing.

John had replaced him with a drum machine. A machine. Were his contributions to the band so insignificant that he could be substituted with such ease? Sure, he hated the sound, but he would still play it. Queen was so important to him. He’d complain, yes, but he’d still help John and Freddie get their sound right. It was humiliating to have to come into the studio, only to see the two of them, working on a track with a drum sound he didn’t remember working on. and then they’d told him that they’d set down a drum fill with the machine. He’d stormed out.

Why? Why were they all fighting? Was it the atmosphere of Munich? Was this the end of Queen? Was this the last time the four of them would make music? He wasn’t needed, that had been made very clear when Deaky had played all the instruments on Cool Cat. He shuddered at the thought. Disco. They were a rock band. Not disco. The new shift in the direction they’d taken had left him back in the dust. He couldn’t write like this. Whatever he’d come up with had sounded like absolute shit. He hated the horn on Staying Power, the guitar would’ve sounded much better. They didn’t need him. They were better off without him.

The atmosphere was exhilarating. The roar of the crowd, the cheers from the audience, the cause. All of it. They’d risen from the ashes, like the phoenix that decorated their crest. They’d put the whole debacle of Sun City and Hot Space behind them, and emerged victorious. Sure, the sound on the stage had been shit. But when they’d gotten off the stage, Elton had told them they’d stolen the show. Gone were the shards of doubt that pierced them, gone were the toxic boyfriends, gone were the divides in the group. They were back, together, as a whole. And so, in the middle of all the hustle-bustle of the backstage at Wembley, Brian opened his arms to wrap his bandmates in a hug. The crab on the top of the crest, with his feelers over everything? Well, that was him. His two lions and his dear sweet, Fairy King. They’d be alright.