Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

44. Will Not Let You Go

H.G
London, England
February, 1985

I woke up to the sensation of Freddie's lips at my shoulder, his arms tight around my waist, and his chest pressed firmly against my back. From the lazy trace of his thumb over my ribs, I assumed he was awake.

"Morning." I mumbled into the pillow, with a lazy smile no doubt stretched across my face.

It would appear that Freddie had been wide awake for a while, and was preparing to ambush me whenever I stirred. A fine strategy really. Not a fair one, but an effective one. Ever since the messy wedding that brought Freddie and I closer together, I had still managed to dodge any conversations that may drag up the past or allude to the future. I could tell it was driving Freddie crazy as the weeks went on, but he was in Munich most of the time, and would be off to Oceania next month, so it was easy to dodge him and his questions. It also helped that we weren't able to keep our hands off of each other for more than a few minutes at a time. No room for  serious conversations, not if I could help it.

"So they want you at New Music Express?"

I simply groaned in response, "Let me wake up first before you start badgering me."

"You seem rather awake to me." Freddie declared cheekily before he snaked his hand down low to confirm it. I sucked a sharp breath through my teeth as he teased his fingers up and down along me, "That's not the best indicator."

Freddie retracted his hand, only to rest it against my stomach once again. It would seem that he was going to try and stay on track this time for once. "And it's a definite no?" He asked, his hand slow and deliberate as it swept up and down my abdomen. "To NME?"

I blinked slowly in an attempt to adjust to the light streaming through a gap in the curtains. "Well, I have told them I'll think about it, hoping they'll find someone else in the mean time."

"And?"

"There's no way I would work for NME again, it's a joke."

Freddie seemed surprised by my words. I suppose I had never expressed any grievances about New Music Express before. "You really think that?"

I nodded, "The only way I would ever work there was if I could take it over, and change the whole formula. They're nothing more than a glorified tabloid, they may as well be the Daily Mail."

"I don't much care for the magazine." Freddie agreed, but of course he would, New Music Express were always awful towards Queen.

"I can't blame you." I rolled my eyes, "Tony Stewart is a prick."

The infamous "Is This Man a Prat?" article flashed in my mind. Internally and externally I felt myself bristle. Before I knew Freddie it rubbed me up wrong, but knowing Freddie, it pissed me off to no extent. I slowly turned over to glance at Freddie who had a small scowl stretched across his face now that he was thinking of the journalist in question. I reached over to tangle my fingers in his dark hair and he immediately smiled at the gesture.

"Anyone with a brain could see Tony's personal biases saturated the article." I grumbled, "Some journalists even change their own words after an interview in an attempt to appear clever. Not me, of course, I'm just naturally brilliant."

"Of course."

Journalists have the benefit of choosing how to interpret people's words. We control the narrative, and the context. A celebrity has given up their words and we can either produce sour milk with those words or go with the fresh cream they've provided. Most choose to do the former because it makes for a better read.