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It was one of those nights when the air felt too still, too dense to sleep through. The house was dark except for the faint orange glow spilling from the windows of the music room — someone had forgotten to turn off the lamps. A moth tapped against the glass, stubborn, and somewhere down the hall the pipes gave a little sigh.
Freddie noticed it again, that sound. The faint click of the front door opening and closing. Not loud enough to wake anyone else — Brian’s soft snore still came from down the hall, and Roger was dead to the world upstairs — but Freddie was a light sleeper. Always had been. Especially lately, with the tension in the air, the endless days of recording, the worry that everything might crumble if they didn’t get it right this time.
He sat up, blinking against the darkness, and knew immediately what it meant. John.
It had been happening for nights now — the quiet creak of the door, the slow return hours later, the unspoken fatigue in John’s face the next morning. Freddie had mentioned it to him once, half-jokingly over tea, and John had brushed it off with a small shrug, eyes darting elsewhere. “Couldn’t sleep,” he’d said simply, and that was that.
But tonight, Freddie didn’t feel like pretending he hadn’t heard.
He pulled on his robe, grabbed one of the heavy wool blankets draped over the armchair, and padded downstairs. The old wooden steps gave a protesting groan under his feet, and he winced at the sound, but the rest of the house stayed still. In the kitchen, he poured hot water into the flask he’d filled earlier that evening — habit, really, because he always liked to have tea ready — and slipped out the door into the night.
The chill hit him instantly. It was cold, the kind of damp country cold that clung to the skin. Mist pooled low over the fields, silvering the hedges under the moonlight.
John was easy to find. He wasn’t far — just a pale figure moving slowly near the treeline, shoulders hunched in that familiar way, like he was trying to fold himself smaller against the world.
“John,” Freddie called softly.
John turned, startled, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His jumper looked thin against the night. “What are you doing up?” he asked, voice low, wary.
Freddie gave a faint smile and came closer. “That’s what I might ask you, darling. You’ve been haunting these fields for nearly a week. I thought I’d join you this time... if you don’t mind the company.”
John hesitated, then looked down. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Freddie said. “The house did. You know I can’t sleep through Roger’s snoring.”
That earned a small twitch of a smile from John. Freddie took that as permission enough to come closer, and without a word, he draped the blanket over John’s shoulders.
John froze. He always did when someone tried to comfort him too directly, like it startled him out of whatever quiet place he hid inside himself. But Freddie didn’t say anything — just smoothed the edge of the blanket along his arm and pressed the warm flask into his hands.
“Tea,” he said. “Properly sweet. Don’t argue, you need it.”
John looked at the flask for a moment, then took it. His fingers brushed Freddie’s, cold to the touch.
They walked in silence for a while after that. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel underfoot, the distant sigh of wind through the trees, and the occasional slosh of tea when John took a sip. The warmth had brought some colour back to his face, faint though it was in the moonlight.
“You don’t have to—” John began after a while, voice uncertain.
Freddie interrupted gently. “Yes, I do. Because if I don’t, you’ll keep wandering about like some lost ghost until you catch your death. And I can’t have that, can I?”
John huffed a quiet, almost-laugh. “I’m fine, Freddie.”
Freddie glanced at him sidelong. “No, you’re not. But that’s all right. None of us are, half the time.”
They stopped near the fence overlooking the wide stretch of field. The farmhouse lights were a faint speck behind them now. John leaned his elbows on the wooden post, staring into the mist.
“It’s quiet out here,” he said softly. “Can think better. Or… not think at all.”
Freddie nodded, his voice low. “I know that feeling.” He wrapped the edge of the blanket tighter around John’s shoulders and leaned beside him, their elbows brushing. “What is it tonight, hm? The songs? The noise? Or just… everything?”
John shrugged, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. “Don’t know. Just restless, I suppose. Can’t switch off.”
Freddie looked at him — really looked. The faint shadows under his eyes, the tired line of his mouth, the quiet strain that John always carried like a secret. “I think,” he said finally, “that your mind works harder than you let on. You keep all your storms inside. That’s dangerous business.”
John’s mouth twitched again, but the corners of his eyes softened. “You talk like you’re not the same.”
“Ah, but I’ve got the advantage of being loud about it,” Freddie said with a smile. “You, on the other hand, are far too polite to fall apart in public. So you come out here and let the wind do it for you.”
John looked away, but he didn’t argue. He just took another sip of tea, the steam ghosting in the cold air.
They stayed there like that for a long time. The mist shifted and thinned, and the faintest hint of dawn began to touch the sky, pale and tentative.
When John finally spoke again, it was almost to himself. “Sometimes I think… if I stop moving, it’ll all catch up. Everything.”
Freddie nodded slowly. “Then we’ll keep walking a little longer, darling. But you don’t have to do it alone.”
He reached out, quietly, and let his hand rest against John’s back, a soft, grounding weight through the blanket. John didn’t flinch this time. He breathed out — not quite a sigh, more like something uncoiling.
“You’re barefoot, darling.”
John’s head flicked up, just enough to glance at Freddie, eyes wide in the dim moonlight. His toes were pressed into the cold grass, tiny blades sticking between them, and the chill made them pale purple.
“I—” John started, then stopped. His voice trailed into nothing.
Freddie didn’t rush him. Instead, he bent slightly, tugging at the edge of the blanket to wrap it tighter around John’s shoulders, then gently nudged him toward the farmhouse path. “Come on. Let’s get some warmth under you before you freeze entirely.”
“No, Freddie. I wander till my brain stops,” John said, voice low but firm, a tremor hiding beneath the calm. “If you want to go back then I’m okay with that… but I’m staying out.”
Freddie paused, letting the words sink in, but he didn’t move away. He stayed close, his hand still resting gently on John’s back. “I don’t want to go back,” he said quietly. “Not without you. And I’m not asking you to stop walking. I just… want to be with you while you do.”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed on the dark field ahead. He wanted to protest, to push Freddie away with a sharp word or a shrug, but the weight of Freddie’s presence, steady and patient, was like a tether keeping him from drifting too far into the night.
“I’m… not very good company when I’m like this,” John muttered, almost to himself, voice muffled by the blanket.
Freddie let out a soft laugh, careful, low, not teasing — gentle, the kind that warmed the bones. “I like your company no matter what shape you’re in. Besides,” he added, brushing a hand down the side of John’s arm, “I think this is when you need company the most.”
John swallowed hard, but he didn’t speak. He just let Freddie walk with him, close enough that the warmth from the blanket pooled around them both, and the quiet weight of being seen — truly seen — eased something taut in his chest.
The fields stretched endlessly, silvered in mist and moonlight, but with Freddie at his side, it didn’t feel quite so vast, quite so lonely. The crunch of grass and gravel beneath their feet became a steady rhythm, a heartbeat shared between them.
“You know,” Freddie said softly after a while, “you don’t have to wander to make your thoughts stop. You can talk to me. Even if it’s just nonsense. Even if it’s scary or messy. I’ll still walk with you.”
John’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket. “I don’t… I don’t know how to open up,” he admitted, voice barely more than a whisper.
“Ok, you don’t have to,” Freddie replied immediately. “Just walking together is enough for me.”
For the first time in a long time, John let himself pause, feeling the weight of Freddie’s hand steadying him. Not judging, not urging, just there. He let the fog of thought around his head unravel, slowly, without pressure.
And so they walked — side by side, wrapped in the same blanket, the silence between them full of safety rather than emptiness. The night felt less like an enemy and more like a quiet companion, and John didn’t pull away.
Freddie smiled to himself under the moonlight, tugging the blanket snugly around John once more.
“Roger said I—” John’s voice cracked slightly, cutting off as he stumbled over the words, unsure if he wanted to finish.
“Shh… you don’t have to say anything. Not yet. We’ll take it slow.”
John exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound somewhere between frustration and relief. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until Freddie’s presence reminded him he didn’t have to carry it all alone. “He said I’m... useless in the studio,” John muttered finally, voice low and bitter, like the words themselves were ashes on his tongue. “Like I slow everything down, like I don’t belong…”
Freddie’s hand pressed lightly against his back. “That’s rubbish,” he said firmly, not harshly, just steady. “You belong everywhere you want to, John. And in the studio, you bring more than anyone can measure. Don’t let him — or anyone — tell you otherwise.”
John’s lips pressed together. He wanted to argue, wanted to snap, but instead he let his shoulders slump slightly under the weight of Freddie’s hand. The night air clung to his skin, damp and cold, but the blanket, and Freddie beside him, made it bearable.
They continued walking, slowly, their feet crunching over wet grass. The moonlight traced silver lines along the hedgerows, and the faint scent of autumn leaves and earth filled the air. Freddie kept silent for a while, letting the sounds of the night and the rhythm of their walking fill the space between words.
“You know,” Freddie said finally, voice soft and almost conversational, “you don’t have to be perfect. You never did. You just… are. And that’s enough for me. That’s enough for everyone who really matters.”
John swallowed, staring at the ground. “I don’t even know who matters anymore,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “Sometimes it feels like I’m… invisible.”
Freddie reached out then, brushing a hand lightly over John’s knuckles that clutched the blanket. “You’re not invisible. You’re… everything, John. Every little thing you do matters, even the things you don’t notice yourself.”
He let Freddie’s hand linger on his, the warmth of it seeping through the cold. The flask of tea, now half empty, rested between them as a silent anchor.
They paused at a small rise in the field, the mist curling low over the grass like smoke. Freddie wrapped the blanket tighter around both of them, leaning slightly closer, offering quiet reassurance. “Sit with me for a moment,” he suggested. “We don’t have to move yet. Just breathe. Listen. Feel the night.”
John hesitated, then sank down onto the damp grass, letting Freddie settle beside him. The blanket pooled around them both, a soft cocoon against the chill. They were silent for a long stretch, the night heavy with stillness and sound all at once — the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of trees, their own quiet breaths mingling in the cold air.
“Veronica’s father struck me round the face for getting his dear daughter pregnant before marriage,” John’s voice was low, trembling, each word heavy, brittle. “I wanted a family. You know I lost most of my own. And hers… hers were so welcoming. But now… now they’re not.”
Freddie’s hand, still resting on John’s back, squeezed gently. He didn’t rush, didn’t try to fill the silence with words that might be too much, too soon. Instead, he leaned closer so his shoulder brushed John’s, warm through the blanket. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered. “I… I can’t even imagine how that feels.”
John’s head tilted down, shoving his hands into the damp grass, hiding his face. “I thought… I thought I could do it, you know? Be part of something… real. But now, I don’t even know where I belong. Everyone’s angry. Everyone’s disappointed. I’m alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Freddie said firmly. “Not while I can walk with you through the mist and the dark.”
John’s breath hitched. “I keep… I keep thinking I should be able to handle it. That I should be stronger, smarter, less…” His voice cracked, and he trailed off.
Freddie’s hand moved from John’s back to gently cup his shoulder, thumb brushing soothingly over tense muscles. “Less what?” he prompted softly.
“Less… fragile,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Less… scared all the time.”
“You’re scared?”
“I don’t remember a time I wasn’t scared.”
“Why are you scared?”
“Everything can slip through your hands like sand if you don't hold it tight enough. And if you hold it too tight, it is pushed through your fingers all the same.”
“Oh, my little poet,” Freddie sighed, the sound soft against the night air.
“A poetaster,” John corrected, voice faintly bitter, yet almost playful.
“You’d have to tell me what that means.”
“A person who writes inferior poetry,” he murmured.
Freddie exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I rather deem thee a self-saboteur,” he said, deliberately adopting the old-fashioned cadence, letting the words linger in the cool night.
“One hath never spoken such truer words,” John replied in self-deprecation, letting a bitter humor slip into the line, though the ache beneath remained.
Freddie chuckled, shaking his head softly. “Can we cease this weird Shakespearean folly we have started?”
John’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Aye,” he whispered, voice lighter now, the tension loosening slightly. “Let us speak in mortal tongue once more.”
Freddie’s hand returned to John’s back, squeezing gently. “Good,” he murmured. “Because mortal tongues are far better for comforting, I think. Now… tell me how we make the fear less heavy, if thou wilt.”
John glanced up at him, eyes glimmering faintly in the moonlight. “I… don’t know yet. But it helps, having thee beside me.”
“That it does,” Freddie said softly. “And we shall keep walking, keep talking, keep laughing, keep breathing… together. Always together.”
John exhaled, the tight coil in his chest loosening a fraction. “Then… I suppose even a poetaster can be comforted.”
Freddie smiled, brushing the hair from John’s damp forehead. “Even a poetaster. Even thou.” He tilted his head, eyes catching the faint shimmer of starlight in John’s hair. “You do realize, my dear, that you’re rather good at this?”
John gave a small, startled laugh, rubbing the back of his neck beneath the blanket. “What, sounding like a ghost from the Globe?”
Freddie smiled, soft and teasing. “No, sounding like your soul learned language before your tongue did.”
He blinked, taken aback by the phrasing, and then—almost instinctively—slipped back into that old rhythm. “Nay, fair sir, speak not so kind, lest I take thee for a flatterer.”
Freddie let out a quiet, melodic laugh, and then, with mock solemnity: “By my troth, I am no flatterer. I speak but what the night compels, for when the moon hangs low, the truth grows brave.”
John stared at him, something between disbelief and wonder flickering in his eyes. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound… real. Like we’ve both stepped out of time.”
Freddie smiled faintly, his breath misting in the cold. “Perhaps we have. For what is the night but a theatre for souls too restless to sleep?”
He looked away, the line settling into him like an ache he didn’t mind feeling. He spoke softly, almost reverently: “Then let us play our parts, friend o' mine, until the dawn doth strike the stage anew.”
Freddie stilled. For a long moment, he only looked at John — really looked — and the words hung between them, fragile and infinite.
“Thou speakest true,” he said finally, voice low. “And thou speakest beautifully, though thou wilt deny it.”
John’s mouth curved, slow and rueful. “Beauty sits uneasy on me, Frederick. It fits not.”
“Then thou shalt borrow mine,” Freddie murmured, a faint grin ghosting over his lips. “For I have enough to spare.”
John huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he didn’t look away. “We sound like fools.”
“Then fools let us be,” Freddie said, “for fools speak truer than kings when hearts are heavy.”
The words silenced them both. The mist around them seemed to thicken, curling close, and the night grew impossibly still. They were half-draped in shadow, half-bathed in silver, two silhouettes bound not by touch but by the gentle gravity of shared solitude.
John’s voice, when it came again, was softer — hesitant, but steady. "If this be folly, it is gentle folly. The sort that warms instead of burns.”
Freddie smiled faintly, his tone quieter still. “Then we are well-matched, for I too am a gentle fool tonight.”
They fell into silence again — not awkward, not empty. The kind of silence that poetry leaves behind when it has done its work. The air carried the faint scent of damp soil and faraway woodsmoke, and the first shy hints of dawn began to brush the world in gray.
At last John murmured, almost sheepish, “Do you think we’ve gone mad?”
“Utterly,” Freddie said at once, with quiet joy. “And yet, I have never felt so sane.”
John laughed, startled, real. “We’re really good at this, you know.”
Freddie looked out over the faint line of light climbing behind the trees and nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. “Too good, perhaps. There’s something in the air tonight — something that makes even grief speak in metre.”
John hummed, thoughtful, and whispered the last line more to himself than to Freddie: “Then let it speak. Let it say what I cannot.”
The singer reached out, not to take his hand, but to rest his palm lightly against John’s arm through the blanket, a grounding, wordless thank-you.
They watched the dawn together in silence, the language between them slipping back into plain words, but the rhythm — that soft, Shakespearean heartbeat of understanding — lingered long after the sun rose.
They stayed out until the sun had properly taken hold, until the fields shifted from silver to pale gold, until the mist began to thin into ribbons that clung lazily to the hedges. John’s breath had grown steadier, his shoulders less tense beneath the blanket. Freddie hadn’t said much after their last exchange — he didn’t need to. The silence between them had become its own kind of speech.
When the farmhouse roof finally caught the first glint of sunlight, Freddie stretched, joints creaking, and murmured, “Come, sweet prince. The night is spent, and I’d rather not be devoured by the morning dew.”
John, who was still watching the fog dissolve, let out a quiet huff of laughter. “You’ve kept the Shakespeare up all night, haven’t you?”
Freddie grinned, eyes soft. “A curse and a gift, darling. It won’t be rid of me so easily.”
“Then let’s away before thou start’st soliloquizing at the chickens,” John said dryly.
He barked a laugh that echoed down the empty field. “Oh, Deaky, you do have a poet’s heart. You can’t deny it now.”
John rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it — only warmth. “If thou insist, bard of Kensington.”
Together, they made their slow way back to the house. The grass clung wetly to John’s bare feet, but he no longer seemed to notice. The farmhouse came into view, sleepy and golden, smoke beginning to curl from the kitchen chimney.
They slipped through the door as quietly as they could, but the old hinges betrayed them with a groan. Inside, the air smelled of toast and tea — the unmistakable sign that someone had already risen.
Freddie set the empty flask on the counter and murmured, “Come along, dear. Let’s catch a few hours before the others descend like vultures.”
John nodded, exhaustion settling over him now that the restlessness had ebbed. He dropped onto the couch in the sitting room, blanket still wrapped around him, and Freddie draped himself beside him with an exaggerated sigh, half leaning against the armrest.
“Comfortable?” Freddie asked softly.
“Mmm,” John hummed, already half-asleep.
He smiled faintly, reaching over to brush a damp lock of hair from John’s forehead. “Rest then, my poetaster. We’ll face the world anon.”
John mumbled something that might have been a protest or an agreement, and within moments, he was asleep — soft, even breaths, head tucked against the arm of the sofa.
Freddie closed his eyes too, content to let the early morning light wash over them both.
By the time Brian and Roger came downstairs, the kettle was whistling and the smell of burnt toast hung thick in the air.
Roger, hair a mess and shirt half-buttoned, groaned and dropped into a chair. “Who left the bloody windows open last night? It’s freezing.”
Brian was rummaging for jam, muttering about creative blocks and lost guitar strings. “Probably John. He’s been wandering again.”
Just then, John and Freddie appeared in the doorway — or rather, glided, still wrapped in their shared blanket like two weary pilgrims returning from a quest.
Roger blinked. “Christ, you two look like ghosts. What happened to you?”
Freddie lifted his chin, eyes twinkling. “We walked beneath the moon, fair sir, and spoke with the wind. Thou wouldst not understand.”
The drummer squinted. “What the hell?”
John, deadpan, added, “Forsooth, good Roger, the air was brisk and the fields vast. We did confer with nature till dawn’s own blush did grace the sky.”
Brian froze, toast halfway to his mouth. “…What?”
Freddie collapsed into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “He speaks truth, noble Brian. We are but humble travellers returned from poetic exile.”
Roger blinked again. “Oh, for—” He gestured helplessly. “You’ve gone completely mad. Both of you.”
The youngest gave a small shrug, pouring himself some tea with deliberate gravity. “Madness, dear Roger, is but the tax genius must pay.”
Brian groaned, rubbing his temples. “Please don’t start quoting sonnets before I’ve had coffee.”
Freddie ignored him entirely, turning to John with mock solemnity. “Tell me, my companion in verse, dost thou repent our moonlit musings?”
John sipped his tea. “Nay. For in the night’s cold grace I found… peace, of a kind.”
He smiled, that rare, quiet smile that came from somewhere deeper than mischief. “Then I too am content.”
Roger threw a piece of toast at them. “You two are insufferable.”
Freddie caught it midair, took a delicate bite, and said, “Ah, sustenance fit for jesters.”
“Speak for thyself, bard. I am a philosopher.” John responds.
Brian, who had been watching all this in mild horror, muttered under his breath, “They’ve lost it.”
Freddie turned to him suddenly, eyes bright. “Fear not, gentle Brian! The fever shall pass once the muse departs.”
“Or,” Roger said dryly, “once I hit you both over the head with the frying pan.”
John snorted tea up his nose trying not to laugh. Freddie patted his back and said, “Careful, dear heart. ‘Tis unseemly for a philosopher to choke upon his morning brew.”
That did it — Roger burst out laughing, Brian shook his head in defeat, and Freddie and John exchanged a quiet glance that said everything words couldn’t.
There was still heaviness beneath John’s eyes, still the ghosts of the night clinging to him — but he looked lighter. Not fixed, not healed, but lighter. And Freddie’s grin, though playful, held that same soft steadiness as it had out in the mist.
They ate breakfast together, laughter chasing away the last of the morning chill. Every so often, John and Freddie slipped again into mock-Shakespearean replies — “Prithee pass the sugar, kind sir,” or “Thou hast scorched the toast beyond redemption, Roger” — until Brian finally declared he was leaving the table before they started quoting Macbeth.
When the laughter finally died down, and Roger went off muttering about maniacs, Freddie leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. “You know, dear,” he said quietly so only John could hear, “we may jest, but there’s truth in what we said last night.”
John nodded, gazing into his mug. “Aye,” he murmured. “Even fools speak truer by moonlight.”
Freddie smiled at that, eyes soft. “Then we’ll be fools together, my poetaster.”
He huffed a little laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Till dawn doth strike again?”
“Till dawn doth strike again.”