Chapter Text
No one had told John Freddie’s birthday.
By that point, it was almost a test. A quiet, unspoken question of whether John truly listened—really noticed—the small details of the lives of the people around him. The band sometimes wondered if John was more aware than he let on, that beneath the shy, reserved surface, he catalogued everything like a careful librarian.
September 4th was the day John chose.
He found Freddie alone in the cramped corner of their shared rehearsal space, where the afternoon light spilled unevenly through the dusty windowpanes. Freddie was leaning against the wall, half-absorbed in scribbling down ideas for new melodies in his battered notebook. His hair fell in loose waves around his face, catching the sunlight in hints of copper and gold.
John’s hands were tucked deep in the pockets of his jacket. He swallowed a few times, then pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. The paper was a deep midnight blue, dusted with tiny specks of silver glitter that caught the light like distant stars. A silver ribbon was tied neatly around it, its tails curling like little waves.
He cleared his throat softly. “Happy birthday for tomorrow,” John said, voice quiet but steady. “I wanted to give it today… just in case I don’t see you tomorrow. You might be busy.”
Freddie looked up, startled—eyes wide with surprise, but warm. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a soft smile. “John… you remembered?”
John nodded, cheeks tinting a faint rose. “I pay attention.”
Freddie carefully untied the ribbon, his fingers gentle but eager, revealing what was inside.
It was a leather-bound journal, small and elegant, in a rich deep burgundy color. The cover was soft but sturdy, with a delicate embossed pattern of lilies curling along the edges. Inside, the pages were thick and creamy, perfect for sketching or writing lyrics. On the first page, John had painstakingly written in neat, careful handwriting:
To Freddie, whose voice colors the world with light and fire. For your dreams, your stories, and every note yet to be sung.
Freddie’s eyes glistened as he traced the words with his finger. “John…” he breathed, looking up again, suddenly vulnerable.
John shrugged awkwardly. “I thought… maybe you’d like a place for all the things you think about. All the music and stories and plans.”
Freddie’s smile deepened, and he pulled John into a brief, unexpected hug—something rare and unspoken between them, but full of affection.
“You really are my little Peter Rabbit, aren’t you?” He whispered, voice thick.
John’s grin was shy but bright. “Maybe.”
They stayed like that a moment longer, the noise of the world outside fading away, until Freddie pulled back and gave John a teasing nudge. “Well, I’m glad I’m getting this early. That way, I get to keep you around for at least one more day before the big party.”
John blinked, surprised.
“The party,” Freddie said, eyes sparkling. “We’re celebrating tomorrow. And this time, you’re coming. No excuses.”
John bit his lip, unsure, but nodded slowly.
It all made John feel something unexpected—something tender and long-since buried.
He’d never had an older brother in the traditional sense.
But with Freddie, something inside him stirred. He felt that same sort of protective awe—a quiet orbit around someone bright and bold, someone who filled up space in the most unapologetic way and somehow still made room for John. Freddie was loud and unafraid and dazzling, but more than that, he was kind in ways that mattered. Not just to crowds, but to John—quiet John, strange John, who avoided touch but would lean in when hugged, who made offhanded remarks that cut deeper than he meant, who never once asked for affection but soaked it up like a dry sponge the moment it was offered.
And that birthday moment… Freddie’s face when he opened the journal, how he touched the words like they were something sacred… it connected John to him like a thread tied round his chest.
It made him feel, in some strange way, like he belonged to someone again. Not in a possessive sense. More like… he was held in someone’s awareness. Remembered. Watched over.
Like a younger brother.
And really, that’s what Freddie had become. What all of them had.
Roger, who still called him “bunny” with a teasing smirk but punched anyone outside the band who dared speak down to him.
Brian, who sometimes left books by John’s bed with no explanation, but always bookmarked chapters with a note: “Thought of you here.”
And Freddie, who called him his baby and always checked whether John had eaten, or slept, or was just “being odd again” and needed someone to sit nearby.
John thought of them all now as his brothers.
He hadn’t known he needed that.
He hadn’t even realised he was missing it.
But even so—despite that bond, despite the growing thread of familiarity and care that wove through their daily lives—John still felt, on the edges, a bit removed. Like he was sitting just outside the circle. Included, but not fully inside.
It wasn’t their fault. They tried, god, they tried. But there were years—a lifetime—of silence in John that no one could bridge in only a few months. There were missing pieces of him even he didn’t understand.
He suspected it would take years to really belong.
But he was patient.
And for now, knowing he loved them like brothers—that he wanted to belong—was enough.
John never really talked on the phone much. Julie always said he sounded distracted when he did—like he was half in the room and half a hundred miles away, orbiting somewhere you couldn’t quite follow.
So when she found out from their mother that John had rung home, had spoken on the phone and had held an actual conversation, she blinked in surprise. “He called you?”
Their mother nodded softly.
Julie’s brow furrowed. “Did he… ask for me?”
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that was thick with all the things unsaid.
Then their mother spoke carefully, gently, the way she did when talking to someone who’d been badly bruised. “Julie… he’s just starting to remember your father and Robert.”
Julie stared. Her stomach dropped. “Oh. Oh—yes. He forgot, didn’t he?”
She didn’t say it to be cruel. It was just the shock, the shame, the awkward guilt of it all coming back. The story she’d been told her whole life. She hadn’t been born yet when Robert died. Their brother—John’s brother—had passed at six years old. John had been just under three.
And when their father died—Julie had been eight. She remembered the funeral. The black clothes. The crying. The way the house grew quiet for weeks. She remembered being there.
But John? John became… weird.
That’s the word her child-brain had used at the time.
He got quiet. Stopped speaking much. Didn’t play like the other kids anymore. He’d stare at nothing, or talk to himself, or fall asleep in the hallway. He used to scream when woken too suddenly. She never really understood why. She hadn’t thought to ask.
She hadn’t known he’d forgotten everything before their dad died. Not really. She thought he just… didn’t like talking about it.
But now it hit her—like a slow drop of cold water into her gut—that her brother had lost not just people, but years. His whole childhood before eleven. The only people who’d been there for it… were gone. And the ones left—Julie included—didn’t know how to speak to the boy he’d been. Didn’t know how to help.
No wonder he was strange.
No wonder he didn’t call.
She bit her lip. “I… I just thought he didn’t want to talk to me.”
“He does,” her mother said softly. “He just doesn’t know how to be anyone’s brother right now.”
Julie was 17 now. No longer the gawky, quiet kid with chipped nail polish and hand-me-down jumpers, but an almost-woman—sharp-edged with a mouth on her, stubborn as anything. Their mum said she’d got that from their father. Julie figured she’d earned it all on her own.
And after nine months of nothing but the occasional letter and the soft, distant “Oh, John’s doing well” from their mother, she’d had enough.
She’d caught the train down to London with a battered overnight bag, a warm jumper she’d borrowed without asking, and a fistful of nerves. She hadn’t seen John since Christmas. Nine months.
“That’s long enough to have a baby,” she joked to her friends. “He could have a kid by now. Or a wife. Or a cult.”
They laughed, of course. But it made her stomach twist a bit. Because the truth was, she had no idea what kind of life John was living now. He didn’t call much. Didn’t write about feelings or people. He just sent a few dry updates—Band’s going well. Got a small flat. Hope school’s fine.
Julie wanted more than that. She wanted to know him again.
John met her at the station. He was thinner than she remembered, like he hadn’t been eating properly, but his hair had grown out nicely. Floppy, soft, like in the pictures she’d seen. He was wearing a plain shirt and those jeans he always wore down to threads.
He smiled when he saw her, small and quiet, like something inside him was relieved but also startled. “You came,” he said.
“Well yeah,” Julie scoffed. “What, did you think I was bluffing?”
John shrugged. “Bit, yeah.”
“Idiot.”
But she hugged him anyway, even if he stood stiff for a second before returning it, arms looping around her loosely like he still wasn’t sure how to hold people.
His flat was small. Barely fit two people, really. Bed in the corner. Piles of records. A cracked kettle. The smell of coffee that had long since burned into the wallpaper.
Julie plopped onto the floor dramatically. “This is tragic.”
“It’s fine,” John muttered.
“You need a plant. Or a chair that’s not from a charity bin.”
“I like the chair.”
“You would.”
But then she got quiet. Because sitting there in the space John had built for himself, she could see it wasn’t neglect. It was his. Careful. Clean. Sparse, but personal. And she suddenly felt like a guest in a place that had grown up while she wasn’t looking.
“So,” she said eventually, kicking at the leg of the table. “Am I meeting them or not?”
John blinked. “The band?”
“No, your imaginary friends. Yes, the band. You said they were nice.”
“They are.”
“Well?” She leaned forward. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“You’ll probably hate them.”
“That’s fine. I hate most people.”
John scoffed, and something loosened in his shoulders.
Julie followed John through a narrow stairwell that smelled like smoke and takeaway grease, trailing behind him as he muttered something about “they might be in, might not, don't know.” It was the same tone he used when trying to brush things off, but she could tell he was nervous.
“John,” she said sharply.
“What?”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re rubbing your thumb raw on your jeans.”
He glanced down, then shoved both hands in his pockets. “Whatever. Just… don’t be weird, alright?”
“You’re saying that to me?” she snorted. “Mr. Doesn’t-Even-Own-A-Kettle?”
Before he could retort, he stopped in front of a door and knocked twice, then again after a pause.
There was a shuffle, a muffled voice—“Hold on, darling, I’m indecent”—and then the door swung open.
Julie had expected something unusual. She had not expected a man in a plum silk robe with a dramatic slit up the thigh, bare chest out, black eyeliner smudged like he’d slept in it, and a smirk like he owned the bloody building.
He blinked once. Tilted his head. His eyes flicked from John to her. Then he gave her a once-over so theatrical it could’ve been scored with violins.
“Oh,” he said airily. “You’re the sister.”
Julie blinked back. “You’re wearing a dressing gown and eyeliner at three in the afternoon.”
Freddie gasped. “John, she’s divine. Come in, duchess.”
“Don’t call me that,” she muttered—but stepped inside all the same.
The flat was warmer than John’s. Cluttered, lived-in, with clothes draped over chairs and half-empty wine glasses on the coffee table. Somewhere in the distance, music was playing—Etta James or something like her—and a cat Freddie didn’t own darted out from under the sofa like it had squatters’ rights.
Freddie moved like a host at a cocktail party, sweeping into the kitchen, putting the kettle on, asking if she wanted lemon or sugar or “a biscuit, darling, though they may be from the war.”
Julie took the seat furthest from the window, watching him like one might observe a glittering insect. Beautiful, confusing, fascinating. “You’re very pink,” she said at last.
Freddie turned over his shoulder, his mouth twitching. “It’s a warm tone, I’ll have you know. Enhances the skin.”
“It’s a robe.”
“It’s couture.”
Julie stared. Freddie smiled sweetly. They were locked in a silent battle, and John just sighed and sank into the armchair like he’d had this exact experience before.
“You look like a villain’s wife,” Julie added.
“Why thank you,” Freddie said. “At least I’m not the villain himself. That’s usually Roger.”
Freddie set down tea with a flourish, using a chipped mug that said World’s Best Aunt. Julie took it and gave him a look. "Right, so,” she said after a sip. “You’re the singer?”
“I am the voice, the face, and the very soul of this little operation, yes.”
Julie raised an eyebrow.
John mumbled, “Freddie’s good.”
“Of course I’m good,” Freddie huffed. “But more importantly, I’m fabulous.”
Julie smiled, reluctantly. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Oh? And what did you expect?”
“Some rock bloke with acne and worse manners.”
Freddie gasped, scandalised. “You wound me.”
Julie leaned back. “John didn’t tell me much about any of you.”
Freddie’s eyes softened a little at that. “He wouldn’t. He’s a private little bunny.”
Julie paused. “You call him bunny?”
He glanced at John. “It suits him.”
Julie looked down into her tea and murmured, “Yeah. It really does.”
The room felt still for a moment. Gentle. Like they’d all agreed, silently, not to talk about the heaviness behind that nickname. Not to mention childhoods lost or brothers buried or how hard it must’ve been to raise someone like John when you were just a child yourself.
Freddie broke the silence with a clap of his hands. “Well! You’re here, so we might as well feed you.”
“Roger’s not in yet,” John said, almost warily.
“Perfect,” Freddie purred. “Less chance of her being hit in the crossfire of his testosterone.”
Julie glanced at him. “You don’t like Roger?”
“Oh, I adore him. But in very small doses, and always with a helmet.”
As the afternoon wore on, Julie slowly warmed up to Freddie. He teased with precision but never cruelty. He spoke with his hands. He called her darling and meant it. He complimented her boots and swore she had excellent instincts and refused to let her do the washing up.
John didn’t say much. But he kept watching—quiet, eyes alert, fiddling with the edge of the cushion on his lap. Julie caught him staring more than once, like he was trying to decide if this was real.
She wanted to tell him, They’re good to you. Let them be.
Eventually, Freddie sat beside her on the couch, curling his legs under himself like a cat. He offered her one of his rings to try on. “John’s mentioned you,” he said.
“Has he?” Julie asked, slipping it over her thumb.
“Not in words, darling. But in the way he looks sad when birthdays are brought up. Or how he watches siblings in cafés. Or the time he knew what perfume I wore because it reminded him of home.”
Julie blinked, throat catching. “He never told me.”
“He wouldn’t. But it’s there.”
Freddie leaned back, elbow resting on the back cushion, eyes flicking sideways toward her as she took a sip of tea. “You know,” he said, voice laced with a kind of affectionate mischief, “you’re like John—but the sarcasm is amplified by a thousand.”
Julie choked slightly. “Excuse me?”
He gave her a slow, theatrical nod, like a wine critic delivering a verdict. “Yes. All the deadpan charm, but turned up loud enough to be heard in the next county. If he’s quiet doom, you’re theatrical snark. The Deacon genes are terrifying.”
John muttered from the armchair, “Can’t believe I took you here.”
“Oh shut up,” Julie said. “You love me.”
“Questionable.”
Freddie grinned. “He does. He’s just overwhelmed. Poor boy’s brain might overheat.”
Julie snorted. “Not much to overheat.”
John threw a cushion at her without looking. She caught it easily.
“I don’t know how you’ve survived with him this long,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Freddie.
Freddie tilted his head, the grin softening into something far more genuine. “Because he’s lovely, underneath it all. In his odd, quiet way. Like a cat you’ve coaxed out from under the bed.”
Julie glanced sideways at her brother. He was studying the label on a bottle of fizzy water like it held the meaning of life, cheeks ever so slightly pink. She murmured, more gently, “Yeah. He’s always been like that.”
Freddie looked at her. “Was he really always this quiet?”
Julie nodded. “Always. But he used to smile more, I think. Before…” She trailed off. She didn’t need to say it. Before Dad. Before everything changed.
Freddie didn’t press. He simply said, with a kind of reverent honesty, “I like his smile. He’s got that little gap, you know? It’s very him.”
Her brow lifted. “You noticed that?”
He blinked innocently. “Darling, I notice everything.”
And then—
The front door banged open like a scene change in a play.
“Who’s this, then?” came Roger’s voice, all ruffled hair, bare chest, and booming presence.
Julie sighed dramatically. “Please tell me this one owns a shirt.”
Freddie laughed so hard he nearly spilled the tea.
Roger stopped mid-step in the doorway, one brow shooting up, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "Oh, she’s got a mouth on her,” he said. “Who’s this, then?”
Julie stood slowly, arms folded, entirely unimpressed by his dramatic entrance or the fact that he was clearly still in pajama bottoms and nothing else. “The sister,” she replied dryly. “You must be the drummer. I heard you hit things for a living.”
Freddie choked on his tea.
Roger grinned wider. “Deacon genes, my god. So you are real.”
Her narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Roger flopped down onto the arm of the sofa beside Freddie, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl like he lived there. “John never bloody talks about his family. I was half convinced he just sprang out of a hedge one day fully formed.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed him,” Julie said, tone flicking somewhere between sarcastic and self-deprecating. “Our family’s a bit of a mess. He got out early.”
John, still planted in his armchair like a permanent fixture, mumbled, “Can I go now?”
“No,” Freddie and Julie said in unison.
Roger grinned between them. “You two are terrifying together.”
Freddie added, “Delightfully terrifying.”
Her tilted her head at Roger. “So. You’re the loud one.”
“That I am.”
“You always this shirtless?”
Roger looked down at himself, mock-confused. “What, this old thing?” He gestured vaguely at his bare chest.
Julie deadpanned, “Right. And people say I’m the inappropriate one.”
“Only because it’s true,” John muttered, though his lips had twitched upward the slightest bit.
Freddie leaned forward, pouring Julie a fresh cup of tea with dramatic elegance. “I quite like her. I think we should keep her.”
“I’m not a stray cat,” Julie said, grabbing the cup anyway.
Roger raised his brows. “John’s the stray. You’re the angry cat that comes with him.”
That finally made John chuckle.
Julie sipped the tea, then looked to Freddie. “Are you always this theatrical?”
“Oh yes,” Roger answered for him. “He’s the reason we all have personality disorders now.”
Freddie gave an exaggerated bow. “Guilty.”
Julie smiled for real this time—just a little. “I get it now. Why John likes you lot. You’re… weird.”
“Thank you,” Freddie said sweetly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said all week.”
“And you like John,” she added, more seriously now. “I can tell.”
“We do,” Freddie said softly. “We really do.”
Julie glanced toward her brother again. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but he was looking at them—all of them—and the expression on his face was something quieter. Safer. That kind of soft-tension that looked like it might one day, someday, relax.
“I think he finally landed somewhere he can stay,” Julie said under her breath.
And this time, when John caught her looking, he didn’t look away.
Julie was settling in surprisingly well, perched on the edge of the battered sofa like she owned the place, eyes darting around as if memorizing the chaos.
Freddie, never one to waste an opportunity, flashed his best mischievous grin. “So, Julie… you’re John’s sister. Surely you’ve got some scandalous stories about him. You know, embarrassing moments we can use for future blackmail?”
Roger leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes gleaming like a predator. “Yeah, c’mon. Everyone’s got at least one. A disaster on stage, a crush on someone embarrassing, some weird childhood habit.”
Julie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but amused. “Embarrassing stories? Hm. I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. John was… kind of perfect.”
Freddie laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh come off it. Nobody’s perfect. Especially him.”
Her shook her head slowly. “Nope. Not one. No pants-down-in-public incidents, no awkward crushes, no stolen candy or disastrous band camp tales.”
The drummer groaned dramatically. “Damn. You’re making us look bad here.”
“Maybe she’s got the saintly sister gene.”
John gave a rare smirk, eyes on Julie. “She’s good at keeping a straight face. That’s the real story.”
Freddie reached over and nudged John. “Look at that! A smile. Progress.”
Julie’s lips twitched but she held her ground. “I guess… if there were embarrassing moments, I’d be the last to know. I’m sure my parents made sure everything was perfect for him. Even if he made life weird for everyone else.”
Roger gave her a teasing smile. “So you’re saying John’s secret weapon is being too well behaved?”
Julie shrugged. “Something like that.”
Freddie winked at John. “And here we thought you were the wild one.”
John just shook his head with a laugh, the sound light and easy in the room for once. “Oh, I’m not that well behaved,” he said suddenly, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes. “I used to sneak out of the house.”
She scoffed, folding her arms. “To buy me chocolate, right?”
John gave a small, reluctant smile. “Yeah… well, there were other reasons.”
Julie raised a sharp eyebrow, clearly not convinced.
John grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine, I got caught. I was trying to sneak out to play with my band at a pub.”
Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Mm, what a rebel. Did drink alcohol before 18, I’ll give him that.”
John pointed at her with mock indignation, like he was saying, See? You can’t deny it.
Roger and Freddie burst out laughing, the sound warm and full of affection. It was so innocent, really—the kind of small rebellion that made John seem all the more human, more like the brother they all wanted to protect.
Freddie wiped a tear of laughter from his eye and said, “Imagine that—John Deacon, the pub crawler.”
Roger shook his head with a grin. “Yeah, and probably the only one who showed up with a bag full of homemade sandwiches.”
John rolled his eyes but the smile never left his face. “Don’t make me sound like a charity case.”
Brian arrived just as Roger was sprawled out on the sofa, shirtless and grinning like he owned the place. The moment Brian stepped inside, his eyes landed on Julie sitting comfortably beside John. He blinked in surprise.
“Who’s this?” Brian asked, eyebrows knitting together in genuine curiosity.
Roger didn’t miss a beat, stretching lazily as he grinned wider. “Julie—John’s awesome sister.”
Brian groaned, glancing pointedly at Roger’s bare chest. “Don’t even try to hit on his sister, Rog.”
Roger threw up his hands in mock innocence. “Hey! Hasn’t happened yet.” Then he shot Julie a cheeky wink.
Julie rolled her eyes but said nothing, clearly unimpressed with Roger’s antics.
Brian smirked, shaking his head. “At least she’s immune to your charm, unlike Fred’s sister.”
“Oh yeah,” Freddie muttered, trying to hide his laughter by burying his face into John’s shoulder.
Roger, meanwhile, rolled onto his side, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Julie sized Brian up thoughtfully. “Gosh, you’re tall.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave a mock-offended look. “Can’t help that, can I?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, “didn’t mean it in a bad way. I mean—can you see over supermarket shelves?”
Freddie stifled another laugh, this time almost snorting, and John gave a small smile, amused by the lightheartedness filling the room.
Brian’s expression went blank for a moment. “I actually can’t.”
“Shame,” Julie said with a grin. “Maybe if you stopped slouching, you could.”
He looked mock-hurt. “Fucking hell, you’re sarcastic, aren’t you?”
“Grew up with John and trauma,” Julie said with a shrug. “I had to be.”
Brian laughed, shaking his head. “Yet you’re strangely the opposite of his personality.”
Julie shrugged again. “Maybe someone’s got to balance out the quiet one. Besides, John might be quiet, but his sarcasm is subtle — you just have to listen closely.”
Roger grinned, “She’s got a point. John’s the master of the dry burn.”
John blushed faintly but didn’t deny it.
Freddie leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “So, Julie, you think you can keep up with us?”
She smirked and crossed her arms. “I’ve been handling John for years. How hard can you lot be?”
Brian raised his glass. “Challenge accepted.”
“Mum would have a heart attack if she saw you,” Julie said to Freddie, eyeing his vibrant patterned shirt, layers of jewellery, and the dramatic way he carried himself as he poured a bit of tea with a flourish.
Freddie blinked. “Oh?”
“Very Christian,” Julie said, gesturing vaguely. “If you can’t tell by John’s name.”
“Better than Zoroastrian,” Freddie muttered, a little wryly as he passed the teapot back to the table.
Julie tilted her head. “Isn’t that… an old religion? Almost died out, hasn’t it?”
Freddie gave a stiff little nod. “Yeah, well. Not when your parents are Persian.”
“Oh, I see.” Julie’s tone softened. “Can’t be very accepting of your lifestyle then?”
Freddie’s smile faltered. His eyes narrowed just slightly, a defensive flicker behind them. “Did John—? John, did you tell her I was bi?”
John, who’d been quietly sipping his tea on the floor with his knees pulled up, looked up with a frown. “What? No.”
Julie was already shaking her head, alarmed by the shift. “God no. He barely writes anything to me about you guys. Just mentions gigs and rehearsals and that Roger doesn’t like vegetables.”
Roger, who had been half-dozing on the couch nearby, opened one eye. “Rude.”
Julie ignored him and continued. “It’s not about your sexuality. It’s more like… the way you dress, how you talk, how you live—freely. You seem… brave. That’s all I meant. Not judging. Just guessing. Or assuming, maybe.”
The singer's lips pressed into a line for a moment, but his shoulders dropped. “Oh,” he said more quietly. “Right.”
There was a brief pause. Julie glanced down at her hands, fidgeting with a bracelet. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I can tell you looked uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. I do love it—how you are. I just… don’t really know how to say that without sounding like a dick.”
Freddie let out a breath, then chuckled. “Well, you’re like John in that sense.”
Julie perked up slightly. “What, awkward?"
Freddie grinned. “No—well, yes—but also… sincere, in a strange, sideways sort of way.”
John grumbled faintly, “Cheers.”
Roger, now more awake, added, “Honestly, she’s like a louder John. With more eye contact.”
Julie smirked. “And better hair.”
Freddie gasped. “Oh, she’s got claws. I like her.”
Julie pointed at John. “Told you they’d like me.”
John rolled his eyes, but a soft smile crept across his face. He didn’t say it out loud, but the relief in his shoulders said enough: she was fitting in just fine.
“He always likes the floor,” Julie muttered as she passed the tea tray and reached for her brother’s arm. John had slouched his way down from the sofa at some point during the conversation, knees pulled up, back resting against the fabric, cup half-balanced on the floor beside him like he was in some school common room. Julie tugged him up by the wrist.
“I’m fine,” John muttered, reluctantly letting her haul him upward.
“Come on,” she said, “you’re not in uni halls anymore, sit on furniture like a real person.”
“The floor’s comfy,” he defended, resettling onto the couch with visible resistance, curling one leg up.
“It’s flat.”
“So are most beds.”
“Doesn’t make them comfy by default,” Julie said pointedly, elbowing him as she plopped down beside him.
Roger grinned from his perch near the armrest. “I thought you said she’s not annoying?”
Julie turned to him sharply. “He said I’m not annoying?”
John sipped his tea. “You’re not.”
She blinked at him. “Well, then I’m not trying hard enough.”
John squinted at her. “You’re really not, Julie.”
“Yeah, well, you saying that is annoying.”
John cocked his head. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve won then.”
Julie narrowed her eyes like a sibling plotting slow revenge. “Alright. You want annoying?” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s talk about the time you sang ABBA to the neighbours through a cardboard tube.”
John blinked, blank as a dry wipe board. “What?”
“You were six. You had one of those wrapping paper tubes? And you stood in the back garden bellowing Fernando like you were headlining Wembley.”
Roger nearly choked on his tea.
“I don’t remember that.”
Julie leaned forward, warming to her task. “What about when you tried to iron your tie while wearing it?”
“I…” John looked utterly nonplussed. “Did I?”
“Oh my god.” Julie threw her head back. “You’re like a ghost! I swear, you’re an empty cardboard box left out in the rain.”
Roger cackled. “That’s the most poetic insult I’ve ever heard.”
Freddie leaned forward, watching them closely, a small smile on his face.
Julie wasn’t finished. “Or when you were five and insisted on eating only orange food for a whole week. Mum thought you were possessed.”
“Did I?”
“You turned orange, John. From the inside out.”
John just shook his head faintly, not even smiling. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Julie sighed. “Seriously, nothing? You don’t remember the Easter you hid under the table and wouldn’t come out unless Mum gave you ten quid and a toffee apple?”
John looked sideways, expression unreadable. “You got that one from Mother. That was Robert. Not me.”
Everything stopped for a second.
The air changed.
Julie froze mid-sentence. Her mouth still half-open, breath caught.
The band stared. Not because he’d corrected her.
But because—
That was the first time John had said his brother’s name. Not just “my brother.” Not just “him.” Not his middle name.
But Robert.
The name hung there, soft and unexpected, like a dropped photograph in the middle of the room.
John blinked, seeming to realise the weight of it just as the silence settled. But he didn’t take it back.
“Oh,” Julie said finally, quietly. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. That was Robert.”
Freddie, who’d been sitting forward, rested a hand gently on the cushion beside John’s leg but didn’t touch him.
Roger didn’t laugh. His smile faded.
Brian, watching from the doorway, came further into the room but stayed silent.
John didn’t say anything else. Just set his mug down on the table and glanced toward the window like he was thinking of something he couldn’t quite place. His shoulders were a little tenser now. But his face was calm.
Julie reached for the blanket behind her and gently tossed it over both their laps, no comment, like it was nothing.
“Please don’t go silent just because of what I said,” John muttered suddenly, voice low and tight like a guitar string pulled a little too far. “It’s worse when it goes quiet. Makes it feel like I said something wrong.”
Freddie, already close beside him, didn’t hesitate—he reached out and hooked an arm gently around John’s shoulders. John leaned immediately into the hold, as though he’d just been waiting for permission. His head tucked onto Freddie’s shoulder, the same way it always did when he was tired or overwhelmed. Familiar. Automatic.
Still, the room said nothing.
Not Roger, who stared with his arms folded now, mouth slightly parted like he didn’t dare speak.
Not Julie, who was watching her brother like she was seeing a new layer of him peel back in real time—something she hadn’t known was buried underneath.
Not Brian, who stood near the door, his tall frame unusually still, not even swaying the way he sometimes did.
John exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed himself up straighter, but didn’t leave Freddie’s arm. “Oh, come on,” he said, sharper now. “Is this silence not going to end?” His voice cracked halfway through, but he barrelled on. “Fine,” he snapped. “You want to know?”
He looked directly at Roger first—like he expected him to break the silence—and then at Brian, who didn’t.
“My brother’s name was Robert Bryan Deacon,” John said flatly, carefully, like reading from a file he’d locked away. “He had darker hair than me. More curly. Brighter green eyes. But they were pale—”
He stopped, jaw twitching.
“—They were pale like mine when Daddy brought him back from the pond.”
Freddie’s arm around him stiffened slightly, but didn’t move. Julie didn’t even blink.
“He had pneumonia,” John continued, now forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Took him three days to die. He was six.” A long breath. “My daddy died when I was eleven. Right in front of me. Heart attack.” He stared at the table now. No one spoke. “I don’t remember anything before that. Not a single thing. Gone. It’s like my life began the day he died. And I didn’t speak for months after. Not properly.”
The room had shrunk around his voice. Even the distant city noise outside the window seemed dulled.
“My first memory of Julie is her crying,” he said, and his voice dropped then—faint, soft. “She was eight. I remember her crying, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t know who she was. But she cried for him, and I cried because she cried.”
Julie was frozen, hands clasped in her lap. Her knuckles were white.
“Mother bought me a guitar,” John went on, looking up for the first time. His face was unreadable—calm, but not really calm. More like resignation wearing a calm mask. “Because it was the only thing I paid attention to. I just stared at it, plucked the strings. She said I didn’t even blink. That’s how she knew I wasn’t gone completely.”
He took another breath. A small one. Like the room had no air.
“So there,” he finished. “Happy?”
Nobody moved. No one dared.
It wasn’t the kind of thing you responded to with “I’m sorry,” or “that must’ve been hard.” It wasn’t meant for pity. It was just fact—cracked open and laid flat across the coffee table like an old childhood drawing someone had folded away for twenty years.
John sat back, still pressed into Freddie’s side. His face didn’t crumple, didn’t shift. He was just there, open now, and brittle in the way glass is brittle when it’s held too tightly.
Freddie slowly pulled his hand across John’s far shoulder and brought him in tighter. No words. Just warmth and weight. Roger, whose foot had been bouncing against the floor earlier, was perfectly still now, elbows on his knees, jaw locked, eyes glassy.
Julie looked down. “I remember the guitar,” she said softly. “It was red.”
John blinked.
“Mum said you’d stopped eating. Said you wouldn’t go outside. And she came home with it in that weird fake-leather case and put it next to your bed. You just sat up and touched it like it was a living thing. Then you cried.”
John gave the faintest nod.
Brian finally sat down across from them, slowly, like he was worried he’d break something in the air. His expression was unreadable, but not detached—he looked like a man who’d just realised he’d known someone for years and never really met them until that moment.
Julie rubbed her hands together absently. “I always wondered what you remembered.”
“I didn’t,” John said. “Not until Queen. Bits of it only started coming back after I joined. Just feelings, at first. Then pictures. Then names.” He looked sideways at Freddie. “Then people.”
Freddie’s grip didn’t waver. His eyes were full now, but he kept them steady on John’s face.
“I didn’t mean to upset anyone,” John added quietly.
“You didn’t,” Roger said finally, and his voice cracked. “You didn’t, mate. You just… told us. That’s all.”
John nodded again, this time smaller.
Then Julie exhaled a long, shaking breath and reached out to ruffle his hair—more habit than anything—and said, “Well. Explains why you were such a little freak.”
It broke the silence like a bubble.
Roger laughed first—just one sharp bark—but then let his head drop into his hands, laughing harder.
John huffed a soundless, grateful laugh too, and Freddie let out a quiet snort as he wiped at his eyes.
“Fucking hell,” Brian muttered, leaning back and wiping his glasses. “I don’t know what I was expecting from this afternoon.”
“I was expecting tea and embarrassment,” Julie said brightly, folding her arms. “And I will return to that.”
“I’ll be ready,” John murmured, just audible. He wasn’t smiling, not really. But his expression had softened—like the ache had shifted into something tolerable.
Like saying it had let him breathe again.
The small flat was quieter now. The faint hum of the city night filtered in through the cracked window, but inside, the three of them sat close together in the dim light—Brian on the armrest of the sofa, Freddie curled into the corner, and Roger sprawled lazily on the floor.
John and Julie had just left, the door clicking softly behind them. The sudden stillness felt heavy, as if the words John had spoken were still hanging in the air, thick and unspoken but impossible to ignore.
Brian rubbed his temples, exhaling deeply. “We’ve known him nearly ten months,” he started quietly, voice rough with something like awe. “And I thought I understood John… but all this—” He gestured vaguely toward the door they had just closed. “It’s a whole other layer.”
Freddie nodded, his eyes distant but thoughtful. “Yeah. We knew his brother was dead. We knew his dad died young. The names, the facts. But it was always… distant. Like shadows in a photo. Blurred edges.”
Roger, still sitting on the floor, looked up and shook his head, voice soft. “I thought I knew what those things meant for him. Losing family, forgetting his childhood. But hearing it from him? It’s different. Real. Raw.”
Brian’s gaze fixed on a spot on the floor as if searching for the right words. “It’s like we had the pieces—his dad’s name, Robert’s middle name, the gaps in John’s memory—but not the picture they make together. I always felt there was something there, something big, but until now, it was just this silent weight. He never talked about it. And honestly, I never pushed.”
Freddie leaned forward, voice gentle. “Because we didn’t know how. And maybe John wasn’t ready. He carries so much, and sometimes it’s like he’s holding himself apart from all of us.”
Roger gave a small, almost sad smile. “But he doesn’t have to anymore. Not with us. When he shared all that today… it was like a door opening. And I felt it. Like I could breathe in the room again.”
Brian rubbed his hands together, then looked up at his two bandmates. “I keep thinking about that image he painted—the pond, Robert so sick, the silence after the heart attack, the guitar that pulled him back.”
Brown eyes softened. “It’s the kind of pain you don’t forget. Even if you try. And it’s why he’s John Deacon. Why he’s so quiet sometimes. Why he hums, why he clings to things that feel safe.”
Roger nodded. “It explains a lot. His calm. His distance. The way he connects with us like brothers, but still sometimes feels like he’s watching from outside.”
Brian swallowed hard. “And here we are, thinking about all the other bandmates and musicians we know who had ‘rough’ childhoods, and realizing John’s pain isn’t just background noise. It’s a foundation. The very ground he walks on.”
Freddie smiled gently, brushing a hand through his hair. “It makes me want to be better. To make sure he doesn’t feel alone with it anymore. That whatever the past was, we’re his family now.”
The drummer stretched his arms over his head, then grinned. “And that means embarrassing stories, teasing, and a whole lot of noise until he can’t help but laugh.”
Brian laughed softly, the weight in his chest easing a bit. “Yeah. Because family isn’t just about blood. It’s about showing up. Staying. Sharing the silence and the noise.”
They sat together for a long moment, the night wrapping around them like a quiet promise.
Outside the door, the city lights blinked and shimmered, unaware of the small revelations inside.
Brian’s voice was quieter now, as if the thought had been sitting with him for a while. “I keep thinking about how he calls his dad ‘daddy,’” he said slowly, “and his mum ‘mother’… sometimes ‘mum,’ but not often. It’s like—even though he doesn’t remember his dad—he’s still closer to him in his heard.”
Freddie’s brow furrowed, his voice soft. “Mm. Maybe because the loss of his father… it’s frozen in time. Untouched. He never grew old enough to see the flaws, to have the arguments, to… fall out of love with him, the way people sometimes do when they grow up.”
Roger nodded, fiddling with a loose thread on his cuff. “And his mum’s still there. Still human. Still able to get on his nerves.” He gave a little half-smile. “But ‘daddy’—that’s like a relic. Untouched. Pure.”