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It has been exactly 6 days, 13 hours, 47 minutes and perhaps 39 seconds since Brian had collapsed in New York an ocean and a lifetime away.
2 days, 3 hours, 42 minutes since they had made their way through JFK, dragging their friend with them like a petulant child refusing to move. (Only in this case the resistance didn’t stem from any ill will but from the lead in in Brian’s limbs and the simmering coal burning his abdomen from the inside out.)
How they had made it through security was anyone’s guess and they were not about to look a gifted horse into the mouth. Whatever sort of individuals the personal in NYC had dealt with that made them overlook a tall, curly haired Englishman currently looking like he had been sent from the dark ages to spread plague over the new century, they thanked them quietly.
They flight in itself had been a new kind of torture. The one that came with the complete and utter helplessness stemming from being locked in a metal device 35,000 feet in the air, knowing that no help would come should things turn for the worse. They had placed Brian in the window seat, where he had immediately slumped against the window, pressing his forehead against the cool plexiglass with a pained whimper. Roger, who had been sat next to him had kept feeling his forehead, biting his lip each time he felt the damp heat of his friend’s skin, trying to desperately recall his faded medical knowledge that would allow him to decide if he could risk giving his friend paracetamol for the pain without damaging his liver further.
Maybe he was wrong about the side effects, maybe he was only mixing it up, maybe he was being paranoid. But, God, what if he wasn’t and he would only be making it worse?
For the first time in his life Roger had been wishing he hadn’t quit medical school. God, he would not only have completed dentistry, he would have sat through a General Medicine degree AND a hepatology specialisation if it only meant knowing how to help his friend.
Freddie had had the aisle seat and had flagged down a stewardess for a bottle of water, a pillow and a blanket the minute they had entered the plane, anything to make his ailing friend more comfortable. His voice had been a bit too loud for the cramped space and the old lady in front of him had shot him an irritated look, which he had failed to notice.
Brian would have noticed. He had always been the most polite out of all of them.
John had been sat across the aisle from them, spending most of the flight repeatedly checking the documents EMI had so casually given them before the tour and which they they had so eagerly signed. The health proxy with his name on it had seemed to burn a hole in his bag.
As soon as the seatbelt signs had faded Roger and Freddie had carefully positioned Brian’s long legs on their laps, trying to give their friend any comfort they could manage. He had hardly seemed to notice, though with his eyes half closed and his usually so eloquent replies reduced to slurred one word answers. He had fallen into an fitful sleep not long after and neither of his friends had known whether to feel relieved he would not be in pain this way or worried about him becoming nearly unresponsive for hours.
(“He can sleep, right?”, Roger had kept asking himself. “It’s not a head injury, we don’t have to keep him awake, there’s no risk he won’t wake up…Right?”)
An ambulance had already been waiting for them upon their arrival and Roger didn’t think he’d ever been more relieved to see a medical professional. John, clutching tightly onto his bag, had ridden in the ambulance, while Freddie and Roger had jumped into the first cab they had seen, cutting in front of a middle-aged business woman waiting at the taxi stand with a hurried apology.
It has been 1 day, 19 hours, 51 minutes since Brian had been wheeled away on a gurney and returned triumphant. Bedrest and strong antivirals, they had said. Unpleasant but not live threatening. And they had breathed for what felt like the first time since their concert had ended at the Uris Theatre.
But as these things go, the relief lifting one weight from their chests had only made them more vulnerable to being crushed by another. One that, instead of bruises, would leave noting but dust and shattered hearts in its wake.
Their demise came in the form of a black spot, curling and steadily spreading around their guitarists arm like death’s long fingers slowly taking hold of their newest victim.
“It’s too early to tell for certain, but he seems to be responding to the medication. We are however worried about the cut on his arm.”
“I’m afraid to say the gangrene is spreading. We will try a surgical debridement and if we are lucky that will be enough. There is however the possibility we will need to use more drastic measures to stop the bacteria from entering his blood stream, which would prove fatal for Mr. May. Since he isn’t currently able to consent to such steps however, we will need your approval, Mr. Deacon.”
“What- I’m sorry- what measures are we talking about exactly?”
“You canNOT let them do that!”
“And what am I supposed to do?! Tell them to let him die, instead?”
“The guitar is his life!”
“No Freddie, his LIFE is his life.”
“What if he doesn’t wake up?”
“And since when are you such a pessimist?”
“Cut the crap, I’m serious. You’ve seen the state he is in, to put him under anesthesia now-“
“The doctor’s are only trying to do what’s best for him.”
“I KNOW that but it doesn’t change the fact that… FUCK. I can’t lose him, Fred.”
“None of us can, darling. And we won’t, you’ll see.”
“Brimi, do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Hm…”
“They told us you are not well enough to decide this right now, so they asked us and-“
“Fred?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Promise….the special- I mean…. promise me they won’t….”
“Bri-“
“Promise.”
“I promise you’ll be alright.”
“I will not lie to you, the surgery took its toll on Mr May but he has made it through.”
“Did you have to-“
“I am afraid there was no other way.”
It has been 47 minutes since Brian had emerged from surgery.
When they finally get to see their friend again, Roger takes one look at the bandaged stump, before he runs to find a bathroom to empty his stomach of its contents in.
Freddie comes to Brian’s bedside almost hesitantly, his hands hovering over what is left of his friend’s arm. He is unsure of what to do, now that the little gesture of holding his hand has turned from something comforting to something to be feared.
Freddie has always had a hang for dramatics, for tragic tales and epics and so he cannot help but thinks of Icarus and if they, too had striven for too much too fast and if Brian was now paying the price for it. He thinks that maybe he should not have changed their name, should have been less arrogant, less driven to accomplish his dreams, less set on pushing the rest of the band with him. Then Brian would be Dr. May PhD, astrophysicist and brilliant guitar player and not Brian May, failed rockstar and amputee.
Then maybe he could have brought humanity closer to the sun, and not have been burned by it.
It is a cruel thought, but once it enters his mind he cannot seem to forget it.
What he currently is forgetting however, is how much Brian May loves the spotlight. How he, too wants to create, to be something more than others, to be known and admired and to leave something behind to be remembered by. A career man and a perfectionist not just in astrophysics. Ambitious, maybe to the edge of arrogance sometimes.
He had always striven for the sun, whether it be through a telescope or a guitar.
It is then that Brian begins to stir. It takes minutes, ages, eons until the small movements and quiet noises culminate into something large enough to drag him out from under the thick blanket of medication he is currently on. He opens his eyes two times, three, before he is finally able to keep them that way. It takes another lifetime until he is alert enough to form words.
“Fred?” Freddie wants to cry at how small and confused his friend sounds.
“I’m here, Bri. You’re alright.”
Brian hums, his eyes fluttering shut again and for a second Freddie thinks he is just going to fall back into blissful unawareness and he thanks every God there might be for sparing his friend for a few more minutes or hours.
His relief does not last long however, as Brian frowns and forces his eyes open again. They are unfocused as he tries to take in his surrounding and the frown on his forehead intensifies as he starts to fidget on the bed. Freddie knows it can only be a matter of seconds, minutes maybe, before the coin drops and he wishes desperately he could do something, anything, to spare his ailing friend, to make it easier somehow. But there is nothing to be done, so he only stands frozen, watching, as Brian’s movements slow and finally stop and his gaze locks onto Freddie’s.
“Fred, I-“ His voice breaks a bit and the singer rushes forward with a cup of water that he carefully lifts to his friend’s lips. The drink in his shaking hand buys them both a few more seconds, as Brian focuses all his strength and attention on carefully taking a few sips to relieve his dry throat. When he looks back up, his eyes are nearly fully alert and when he opens his mouth to speak Freddie knows that time is up and that the curly haired’s sharp mind will grasp the extent of his tragedy any second now.
“I feel strange, Fred. Like…something’s not right, but I don’t know-“
He notices and will never forget the exact moment something clicks behind his friend’s eyes, and his features morph from confusion into disbelief and finally into wild panic.
“No- they said- my arm, they didn’t, did they, the didn’t-?”
His gaze drops to his right side and the loud wail that escapes him at the sight of the bandages makes Freddie flinch violently.
“No. No! You promised they wouldn’t! You promised!” Brian is trashing violently in his bed now, his shouts becoming more and more hysterical and Freddie doesn’t know what to do. Seeing his perpetually calm and collected friend like this, makes his brain short circuit.
He has nearly forgotten about John being in the room with them, until he is suddenly gently but firmly shoved out of the way as the bassist takes his place at the bedside. John doesn’t hesitate to put his steady hands on Brian’s shoulders, keeping him in place while providing the comfort of touch without bringing attention to the missing limb.
“Brian. Brian listen to me.”
His voice is calm but commanding and it reminds Freddie strangely of his father, back in the days when he had felt the love and care behind his stern reprimands.
(Suddenly Freddie sees Deaky in a few years. A few more wrinkles adorning his face, surrounded by his children, smiling at them with love in his eyes, the perfect picture of domestic bliss and he wonders if he had ever asked John, if he wanted this life. The touring, the days and nights in studios, the parties, the excess. Would John’s happiness be another victim of Freddie’s selfish want for fame?)
“I need you to listen, can you do that for me?” John waits a bit until the trashing stops and Brian’s distraught eyes are focused on his face.
“You are alive, Brian. You are alive, which means that this is not the end do you hear me? You still have us, no matter what happened or were we go from here and we will figure this out together. I know- I know it doesn’t seem like it at the moment but I promise you that you still have a long, happy life to look forward to, if you just allow yourself to live it.”
Brian stares at him quietly for a moment more before a sob rips through his whole body and he shakes his head again.
“Why did you let them do this to me?” he asks and the sheer desperation and betrayal in his voice cuts cleanly through both mens’ already bruised hearts.
“You would have died, Brian.” John answers him sadly, the earlier urgency in his tone now replaced with bone-deep exhaustion.
“Maybe I would have preferred that.”
“Don’t say that!” comes a shrill voice from the door.
Roger has returned from the bathroom and is now glaring at his best friend from the doorway, his blue eyes filled with tears. Brian barely glances at the newcomer.
“Why not? It’s true. I decided to go for broke when I made the guitar my life, and now that that’s gone…what’s there for me to do now?”
He glances at John, before adding a quiet “Even if there’ll be a long live for me, it will hardly be a happy one.” and turns his eyes to the ceiling.
And if Freddie had thought seeing Brian hysterical or scared or betrayed had been unbearable, it was nothing compared to the emptiness now occupying his friend’s eyes and voice.
He exchanges a concerned look with John, whose hand is still resting on Brian’s shoulder.
Roger has crossed the room now and is standing on Brian’s other side, gently moving away some curls from his friend’s face with shaky hands. When he speaks, his voice is choked.
“What’s there for you to do? Brian, what isn’t there for you to do? Two hands or not, you are still the most infuriatingly widely talented bloke I’ve ever met!
You write half of our songs and fight Freddie for singing lead on them, I know that won’t change! And you are still a brilliant scientist, who knows way too much about stars and dust and black holes and whatnot. Remember how you love to point out all the constellations to us? Well, I’m pretty sure I’ve already forgotten all of them again, so you’ll need to remind me, soon. And what - what about the badgers, Brian? They still need saving. So do the foxes and hedgehogs and all the animals in the shelters you volunteer at! They need you and we- WE need you. You are our friend, Bri. We won’t leave you, band or not. And anyway, do you know how fast prosthetics are improving? You might even be able to play the guitar again one day! We’ll figure it out, you’ll see, like we always do. I promise, everything is gonna be just fine!”
Roger’s voice is tinged with desperation towards the end and he would have gone on rambling, trying to recount everything his friend would have to live for, but he stops when Brian’s only reaction is a minuscule shake of the head, his eyes never leaving the blank ceiling above him.
“You know that’s not true.” he says and there is such a finality in his voice that it makes them all shiver.
“I’d like you all to leave now, I’m quite tired. And I - I think I’ve had enough of your promises for a while.”
“Bri…”
“Go.”
Freddie wants to interject, to refuse to leave his friend’s side, but John catches his eye and shakes his head wordlessly, patting Brian’s shoulder before gently pushing Freddie out of the room. Roger hesitates for a second longer but eventually follows them, calling a miserable “We’ll be right outside in case you need anything, Bri.” to the quiet room.
He doesn’t receive an answer and when he turns to the door, Freddie can see he is trying his hardest not to burst into tears again.
There is an infinite number of universes the theory says. This means, that in some of them Freddie Mercury is still alive. It also means, that in others Brian May is not.
In the end it is not the hepatitis that takes the young guitarist from this world but the same infection the doctors had hoped to prevent with their drastic measure.
It starts slowly with the boy’s temperature and leukocyte count rising. No one worries too much, he has been through a major trauma after all, this was to be expected.
Then his creatinine and urea levels increase suddenly and he is not letting enough water. The doctors know what that means but they do not tell yet. Instead they just give him more antibiotics hoping to purge the bacteria from his bloodstream, aware that even by succeeding they probably won’t be able to save him. He is getting more and more confused and his friends start to worry. His liver is starting to fail next and the doctors cannot deny the truth any longer when their patient starts to look as yellow as the day he was brought in. They give him more medication but it is mostly to ease the pain and make him coherent enough to say his goodbyes now.
His friends don’t leave his side and soon they look nearly as worn down as he.
His oxygen levels are starting to drop rapidly and he is having trouble breathing more often than not. He does not try to fight. If anything he seems relieved and maybe that is what breaks everyones heart the most. A 27-year old should be terrified of dying.
His friends are. They are still sitting at his bedside every day, speaking to him in quiet, broken voices, still hoping for a miracle but slowly understanding they are fighting a losing battle.
They sit closer to him than they normally would, a hand in his unruly hair, another one on his healthy arm or the long, thin legs beneath the blanket. They try to memorise the gentle tone of his voice and the thoughtful, so often melancholic glance of those same eyes that longed to see the stars so long ago.
Sometimes one of them catches himself wishing that they had at least been granted a quick parting. A way to keep joy tied to life and grief bound to death. That way they’d at least have to grieve their friend only once and not every minute of every day while he is still breathing.
They don’t want to say goodbye, never that, but seeing what they will lose right in front of them might be even worse.
Sometimes his heart skips a beat, before starting up again at an irregular rhythm. The blonde boy at his bedside sobs every time this happens.
He seems to be nearly happy now, a slight smile on his lips while he is gazing at his friends surrounding him. Were one to look closer however, one might see something akin to regret in his eyes. He is more lucid that day than he has been in a long time and his friends are afraid of the weak glimmer of hope kindling in their chests.
He dies the next day.
It is the early morning hours and the sound of the monitor flatlining wakes them from their fitful sleep. The emergency team who rushes in tries to half-heartedly revive him for a few minutes before finally pronouncing him dead at 3:39 a.m.
They disconnect him from the various tubes and monitors and then leave, to give the three heart-broken figures in the room some privacy.
The beautiful blond is sobbing so violently it looks like the sheer force of each sob might rip him apart, if it wasn’t for the arm slung around his shoulders, belonging to the dark haired boy sitting next to him. While it might look like a gesture of comfort, in reality the other is holding on for dear life, trying to ground himself with his death grip on the blond’s shoulder, afraid to lose grip on sanity itself and simply go mad with grief should he let go.
The third boy of the group doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reach out to anyone. He only sits in his chair and stares at the lifeless form before him, as if trying to comprehend how it could be possible for anyone, let alone his friend, to be so completely still. He looks very young.
They stay like this for a long time until the dark haired boy is the first to move.
“Oh darling…”, Freddie sighs softly, his melodious voice breaking, choked by shed and unshed tears as he gently smoothes some of the dark, too lively curls away in a comforting gesture meant only for himself now. His blond friend is soon by his side again, seeking the closeness of another warm, breathing body to give him the strength to bear the sight of the cold one in front of him.
He isn’t cold yet though, he realises as he shakily takes a limp hand into his own. It is still warm and he cannot help but press it against his cheek, because it still feels like Brian and if he closes his eyes he can pretend, just for a moment- but he cannot, not really. Because the hand is too heavy in his, now that the muscles are not being controlled by his friend’s brilliant brain and there is no pulse on the thin wrist and no reaction when he presses a gentle kiss to its back.
Roger whimpers.
The last boy suddenly shoots up from his chair, a gesture so sudden he startles the other two from their grief for a moment. He takes half a step forward but then stops, his gaze fixed intently on the body in front of him, before he turns around and quickly walks towards the door. In the doorway he pauses, before reaching out to switch off the lights. The room is lit only by moonlight now, and as John takes one last look at his friend’s softly illuminated face, he almost feels like they are out star gazing again.
He flees before the illusion can shatter.