Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

34. The Night Comes Down...

A/N- What a funny picture of Freddie!!
Anyway, happy holidays and hope you all enjoy! 🤍

Munich
February 16th

The rather unimaginatively yet aptly named 'Jeans' was bustling with activity when I slipped through its front door. It was a rather narrow space, one could barely move through it without being pressed up against somebody else, which I suppose was all part of the appeal. Everything was wooden from the floors to the panelling on the walls which created quite the rustic environment. Even the music was stripped back to basics with Elvis rattling away on a jukebox in the corner.

Jeans was rough and ready, and so was its clientele. Which is exactly what I needed.

I craved all things unrefined, primitive and simple right now: the exact opposite of the Right fucking Honourable Hayes Griffith.

I rang up the chirpy Patrick the second I had got away from the hotel suite. He informed me that he was on his way out to meet Polder, and I shoved my way into the couple's plans. I should have been at home, with my own other half, but the twat didn't turn up. I didn't explain that of course, because I didn't want to bloody talk about it. What I needed was a drink, and people around who actually appeared to like spending time with me.

Patrick had made a purposefully awful joke about how difficult it was to get into Jeans when we shuffled our way up to my reliable crew of friends. I forced a laugh his way, because I was going to fake a good mood until it became the reality. I currently felt like trodden on dirt, so I needed to remedy that.

"Freddie! What an unpleasant surprise."

Polder furrowed his fair brows my way. Keeping with the unspoken dress code, he was wearing a matching set of frayed denim jeans and an open denim jacket which revealed his slim physique beneath. He pressed a friendly kiss to my cheek and pulled away only to give me a stern stare.

"What sort of greeting is that Betty?" I gave a soft mocking gasp, "I haven't seen you all week dear." I often called Polder- Betty, after Betty Grable, because I swear he copied her hairstyle from 'How to Marry A Millionaire'.

Patrick chuckled and unlinked himself from me, "I'm sure he meant pleasant."

"No," Polder said firmly as he wrapped an arm around his boyfriend," Unpleasant. You're not meant to be out here. Where's Hayes?"

Fucked if I know. I merely waved a dismissive hand his way, "I'll start a tab, who's going to get me a drink?"

I had left my hotel suite a mere five minutes after I discovered Hayes had flaked. I had to wait for Phoebe to leave me alone for a moment so I could slip out without a babysitter or a lecture of logic. It's quite irritating when I require at least some semblance of security every night. Especially with all the paparazzi who magically knew where I was lately. Peter had suggested that Barbara was tipping them off so that her photo would be in the paper along with me everyday, but I brushed off that theory quickly.

For a brief second I wondered whether being out in such a poor mood would be a good idea if it all gets back to Hayes. Bloody Alex Moore has his nose to the fucking pavement in regards gossip and tabloids, that's the only reason Hayes knows about my popularity in the German press. Hayes wouldn't even know where to bloody pick up a tabloid. Alex Moore remember? The man Hayes called up to help him on Boxing Day when he wouldn't dream of seeing me? Yes him.