In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

20. Heart-to-Heart

The door bell rang. I licked my lips and ran over, fingers crossed. I'd been praying and praying for him to at last arrive. I couldn't take it anymore. To be absolutely certain, I closed one eye and peeked through the hole. My heart sang with joy. He was here! Flinging open the door, I found him standing there, an enormous smile on his face.

"At last!" I cried. "I've been waiting for this moment all day."

"Large pizza for Eve?" the delivery boy honked.

"Half pepperoni, and half black olives, green bell peppers, and mushrooms?" I said.

"That's it!" he announced. I slapped the money into his hand, said "Keep the change," and pulled my dinner into the flat. My mouth watered in anticipation. Keep your Starbucks, your Chipotle, and your MacDonalds. My heart belongs to pizza.

I lifted the box lid, peered in at this perfect culinary creation. It wasn't exactly Papa John's, but this English variation certainly beat having no pizza at all. I dipped in and munched on a slice.

It had been an unusually quiet day. I didn't see Freddie before he left; when I had had enough of lying in bed, wide awake, I rose, got dressed and went for a walk outside. By the time I came back, he was gone. In the middle of the day, I took a nice long nap, which made up for what I lost the night before.

What with such a weird sleep schedule, however, my immune system was down. Mix that with living in a still very real allergy attack zone, and I caught myself a little cold. Most of this sixth day rang of sneezes and nose-blowing enough to get Tom restless and for Mrs. Cottage (for she came in that morning) to suggest several no-fail homeopathic remedies. At least Freddie didn't see most of that.

What I did in between time is really rather inconsequential, mostly I just puttered around the flat feeling droopy. I could go into detail, but unless you think the amount of food I gave the cats for breakfast matters, I won't.

In spite of how freaky things had become this morning, I got over it fairly quickly. After all, Freddie was high as a kite. What did I really expect? He wasn't himself. And there was no telling how I'd act if I was in his shoes. However, should he march into the flat that evening, without his pupils dilated, without looking like he'd just run a marathon, and pull the same stunt, I would not be so forgiving.

Still, I wondered when he would come back. I'd missed my official Freddie fix, that special morning kickoff. He was likely out with his friends again (using the word 'friend' very loosely, of course), but that was his business in which I had no right to meddle. I just pray he's in a good humor when he returns. I don't feel well, so I hope he at least acts like a human being.

I made my plate of pizza and sat down in front of the television. As I ate, I zapped around for something worth watching on the five channels available (that's right, kids, no Netflix!). I snatched the last three minutes of a Benny Hill rerun, which lasted only about as long as my dinner. There was some kind of BBC soap opera on one of the other channels; the rest I found was either news or just indescribably dull. I switched the TV off. Funny, how even forty years and two thousand channels later, there's never anything on.

Another clear summer night was falling upon London, this one even prettier than the last. I couldn't let it go to waste. I grabbed a scrap of paper and scrawled a quick note: If you need me, I'm on the balcony. Don't worry, I won't jump. I don't think I will anyway.

Putting the pizza box in the oven to keep warm, I hustled upstairs and barged into Freddie's room. Mercifully, it was empty. I opened the balcony doors, letting the fresh air invade Freddie's flat and soothe my susceptible sinuses.