Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

3. I Can Never Win.

H.G
London, England.
3rd, June.

I have been back in London a grand total of three times since I left for New York six years ago. Once was because I missed my mother... somewhat. The second was because my brother George asked me to be a godfather to his child, and the third was to introduce my parents to, Angela.

As I watched my father march up and down his office as if he were in the Queen's guard, it became abundantly clear why I didn't come home that much.

"I can't believe these are the sort of people you are associating yourself with Hayes."

Open on his desk, was the article regarding Freddie and I in the Daily Telegraph. I was furious at his exaggerations, but I held my tongue. He did not even ring to ask if I was alright, or to ask what really happened. It seemed he just read a few tabloids and wanted to cash in on the story. Make himself look like a concerned father.

"Go easy on him Al," my mother tutted softly. She had attached herself to me the second I walked through the daunting black doors of the St. Albans mansion.

"This is me going easy on him Judith!" My father growled. He then continued wearing a path in the carpet of his study.

"Hayes hasn't been home in a two years," my treasure of a mother sighed, "Let's not spend his visit arguing."

"For us to argue, I would have to speak too." I murmured causing my father's chilling gaze to land on me.

"Judith, be a dear and make us a pot of tea." He said tightly.

"Please." I added.

"Yes." From the look on my father's face, it was clear that if I was a few years younger I would have gotten a right good clip around the ear. "Please."

My mother proceeded to squeeze me into another hug, shoot my father a warning glare, and then slip out of the room. I tried to give off the vibe that I was a grown man, not to be trifled with. I casually leant against the ornate marble mantelpiece. My elbow missed the mark and I knocked a silver candlestick over, I fumbled to catch it yet it still hit the ground.

"Hayes, sit down."

"I will," I declared as I sunk down into the burgundy leather seat across from my father, "But only because I was going to sit anyway."

My father's icy blue eyes flicked to the candlestick still in my hands. I smiled sheepishly and placed it on the table. "It was the journalist, in the study, with a candlestick."

"What?" He asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You know, Cluedo?"

"Are you an idiot?"

"I mean," I blinked, "I don't think so."

"I meant it in a medical sense, it would explain so much."

"I don't think you can use that term anymore-"

"I'll use whatever bloody term I want."

I looked up from my intertwined hands, and found that I was now nose to nose with a taxidermy fox. "No- no please don't start."

"You never went fox hunting with me as a boy, that's when I knew there was something off."

"Oliver shot and killed this fox on his first try, he was ten." My father said proudly, stroking the lifeless fox that my eldest brother took down. I itched to wash my hands at the sight.

"George," my father gestured to the the large antlers that had been mounted on the crimson red wall behind him, "Shot one of the last red deer in Ireland at fifteen, you know before those bloody conservation laws."