Chapter Text
John doesn't mind having to carry Brian out of the building. He doesn't mind that the guitarist's feet are digging into the small of his back or that his tears are staining his shirt. It doesn't matter, because at least he's got Brian's arms wrapped around him like a vice. He doesn't want to think about the other possibility, the one in which he would be the one holding on to Brian's corpse, begging him to come back.
Freddie and Roger, in an uncharacteristic matter, stay in the shadows. Carefully watching as the events unfold, ready to spring into action if anything terrible were to happen, but not keen on breaking up the pair. John loves them for this. It would be so easy to deny John of something that he should no longer be allowed to have. So easy to pry Brian's hands from around his neck and unhook his legs from his waist, then carry him away to help him heal what John had damaged.
They don't do that. Not when Brian starts letting out this pitiful whimpers that sound strangely like I'm sorry. Not when Brian literally started begging for John's forgiveness. Not when Brian tried to tell John that the bassist had been right.
It's only when he sees Roger's cold stare that he realises that this apparent mercy isn't mercy at all, but rather his punishment.
John takes it in stride. It's the least he deserves, for being such an asshole, for letting his venomous mouth run. They get into their car, and Brian doesn't let go, they get home, and Brian doesn't let go, he falls back into the bed and Brian still doesn't let go. John hears as Roger and Freddie close the door as they exit the room, giving the pair some privacy, and the younger man is immensely grateful. That is until Bian tries to start apologising again.
"You were— are— right," the guitarist whispers, "I guilt-trip you. I try to shine my tear-filled eyes your way to get what I want and then almost got myself killed because I couldn't handle a reality check."
Brian's large hazel eyes were staring at him like he was the moon and the stars, and John broke. He had nearly killed the love of his life; he and his venomous words had curled around Brian's mind and had driven him to the edge of the building. All because the guitarist had ignored his annotations.
The bassist bit his lip and shook his head, trying to hold back his tears. He reached over, combing Brian's hair back with his fingers, "No baby, that's not true. That's not true at all."
Brian sniffled, "Except it is. For the past few years everything we do I have to agree with."
"That's the least we can do," John whispered, "As a group, as a family, as lovers. Everyone has to like what we are doing. The last time we didn't—"
The last time they didn't, it had nearly killed not only Brian but the rest of them too. After all, it had taken three giant catastrophes to make them realise that, and none of them had involved Brian directly. He had been left to deal with three messes of boyfriends, one overdosed, the other dying from alcohol poisoning, and the last dealing with rising post-traumatic stress. And back then he had been nothing but patient.
Even when John, in his drunken stupor, had written a fucking diss track about him.
Hot Space had nearly killed them, and now John had nearly killed Brian, and Brian was apologising.
John cleaned his hands on the sheets, not wanting to touch Brian with something dirty, and then cupping his face. He brought their foreheads together, letting their breaths mingle in the middle, and enjoying the warmth that radiated from his boyfriend's skin, "You don't have to be the one apologising — not tonight.
"We both said things we didn't mean, we both got angry beyond what we should have, but the one to blame for this is me. And God, baby, I hope one day you forgive me for what I said, especially because I know that it will bounce around that Pretty head of yours for a while. I know they will. They will make you second guess yourself and shut yourself off from us, and I will never forgive myself for that. Especially not since they drove you to that edge."
"But I am a burden, John. Just when we are having a good time, my bullshit comes back to bite us in the ass and drag us down."
John pressed a chaste kiss to Brian's parted lips, "I'd rather have your bullshit come back over and over for the rest of our lives than not have you at all."
Brian shook his head, minutely, "You don't mean that."
"I do," another kiss, "with every inch of my life, Brian Harold May. I mean that more than I have ever meant anything in my life."
In the morning, when they wake up tangled in between the bedsheets and two other pairs of limbs, they are going to have a serious conversation. It will hurt, it will probably result in more tears than necessary, and will extend for a few weeks, if not months. A time period in which they will have to learn to brian Brian back from his self-hatred and melancholy. But for the time being, for the remainder of the night, John is content to press his boyfriend to his chest and whisper sweet nothings into his hair.
The time to grieve about the fact that he had nearly killed Brian will come later.