Show me the stars that live in your eyes (A Maycury Story)

Chapter 4: Midnight Talks

He doesn't even have the courage to look at Brian, so he stays with his back to him, tense all over, breaths short and insufficient. He doesn't want to risk colliding a limb with Brian, just in case, he doesn't want to seem like a creep, trying advances on Brian in the middle of the night, taking advantage of his kindness. He really doesn't want Brian—Brian—to think that of him.

There's a deep ache, just below his sternum, sharp and horrible: it intensifies when Freddie thinks of tonight, of Tim's mocking laugh, of Brian, of all people, laughing with him. He tried, so hard, to ask Brian if they truly were laughing about him. He almost did, the words almost left him. Before he realised that he doesn't want to know, that he has a good idea of what they were saying and he knows he wouldn't be able to handle the truth, especially out of Brian's mouth. He's been scared of Brian answering, as mocking as earlier, with no apology, just with a "you can't take a joke, can you?". He's too weak to handle that sort of thing, he wouldn't have been able to keep the repressed tears in.

Sleep never comes, like every other night. He tries to concentrate his thinking on one thing—a story maybe, or a song—but it doesn't help, because he ends up thinking about other things in the end, about the habitual things: work, school, his family, Brian, Brian, Brian. He turns himself on his back when staring at the patterns of the wallpaper doesn't make him any more tired. At least, now there's the slightly chipped paint of the ceiling to look at. He can't help himself, even though he's trying hard not to. He turns his head sideways and Freddie's heart jumps out of his chest when he sees Brian's face turned to him. There's a curly strand of hair across his face and Freddie has to force himself not to put it behind his ear.

He's just as beautiful when he sleeps; relaxed, soft features, lips barely parted, letting out tranquil breaths. At that moment—or at any moment, really—Freddie doesn't want to be angry at him for what he's done, or maybe what he hasn't done. Freddie just desperately wants to have the right to lay closer to Brian, especially in his arms, in the crook of his neck, against his probably very warm chest. Theoretically, Freddie could do it, but only if he definitely wants to ruin the slight friendship—if there's even a friendship—he has with Brian.

He only knows craving, needing, barely knows what true affection feels like, like what being loved unconditionally feels like. He has loved, he loves, he loves everything—from midnight snores to midnight kisses—he's always loved people's mannerisms, loved character flaws. He loves everything, everything but what he truly needs to love first: he doesn't love himself. He loves fashion, beautiful clothes; he doesn't like them on him. He loves unconventional smiles, crooked teeth; he hates his own. He loves people that find happiness in the simplest things, he hates how much he loves everything that surrounds him. He hates hating himself.

He, eventually, gets up from the bed, as comfortable as it is. He's been staring at Brian for too long, Brian would be horrified to know he's looking at him while he sleeps. He opens and closes the door of the bedroom as quietly as possible, wincing when it makes a horrible strident noise. Thankfully, Brian doesn't wake up.

The flat is chilly, the kind of chilly that can only make someone miserable, especially after feeling warmth radiating off someone else, even without any contact. Freddie assumes Roger is asleep, Tim too, and he doesn't want to make noises, to wake them up, make them despise him even further. He decides—even though he doesn't truly want to—he takes his coat, the only thing that could keep him warm, and he goes out the front door, already regretting his decision when cold hits him. It won't help him sleep, but maybe freezing himself to the core will keep him awake, make the bags under his eyes lessen. He can only dream. Dreams, that's what his life is made of. Dreams that never actually turn out to be reality. Dreams and hopes crushed under someone's foot casually, between someone's hands, sometimes by his own hands, controlled by the fear of failure or discouragement when he realises he isn't good enough to fulfil any of this.