May You Imagine || Brian May

Call On Me (Part 1)

A/N: Hey all here is a new, few-part story. I've actually thought about this one for a long time, ever since I found the picture of Bri above. The beginning is short, as I am quite overwhelmed with work right now but I hope you enjoy it. I actually plan on this one to be a happy one: I know, shocker for me! Leave me a comment and or a vote if you like, it always means a lot x
..........
Where beams of your lovelight chase
Don't move, don't speak, don't feel no pain
With the rain running down my face

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"God, you can be such a pain in the ass sometimes, Brian!" Roger grumbles from behind his drum set. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, missing the glare I shoot in his direction. Freddie mumbles Amen to that softly, but it doesn't escape my notice.

"Well excuse me for wanting my song done my damn way!" I blurt out, dropping the Red Special to my knees.  I want to throw something, but of course not my beloved guitar. If I did, it would be at Roger's head anyways.  

"How hard is it to just follow my lead, Bri?" Rog asks, now puffing the smoke out in big ethereal circles over our heads.

"No, you don't get it Rog!" I run my hands through my hair, exasperated. "I want it to sound on-beat, but once I hit D major, I want this echo that will be off-beat. It will sound as if I am on beat, but once Fred harmonizes here" I play a chord to show him. "We go around-round-round and fall off beat."

Roger stares at the guitar tabs I've written out, somewhat confused.

"Like this?" He asks and drums the crescendo beats, humming the melody. I pick up my guitar and play the riff we are arguing over, subtly slowing down while he adds on some bluesy quarter beats.

It's not quite there but we are getting closer.  I play the end of the phrase as Freddie sings "Don't I love you so? Go, go, go..."

"Happy now, Brian?" John asks with a little smirk, unhooking his bass's strap from around his neck.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." I grumble, setting my guitar back on my knees to rub out some of the knots in my shoulders. God, all the stress with recording and polishing this album has been taking a toll on me. I remember reading that chronic anxiety tends to manifest itself as back pain and soreness. Not a big surprise with me, seeing as I've been hunched over the guitar for what seems like the past week. 

"Alrightie, I've just about had enough of Brian's tantrums for tonight." Roger says from the back, setting his drumsticks aside. "Reconvene tomorrow?"

"Sure thing." Fred agrees and John lets out a sigh of relief. He usually doesn't mind the quarrels and is in fact, an active participant himself. But with his wife being alone at home with their month-old newborn, lately we have been testing him. He looks like he can use some sleep anyway. I don't blame him.

Deaky sets his bass down and grabs his jacket, giving us a little finger salute before heading outside. Roger wipes off his face onto his shirt, setting his cig down before he puts his sweater on. This brown fuzzy sweater is not a thing of beauty, but the man loves it. Once dressed, he gives my shoulder a friendly (or is it?) pat on the shoulder, grabs his car keys and wishes us goodnight. After our bandmates have left, Fred's eyes meet mine:

"Brian, dear, I need to make a suggestion."

"What kind of suggestion?" I ask skeptically, not in the mood for more critique of my songwriting. They have all been up my throat today.

"Don't worry, I am done bashing on your track." Freddie flashes me his toothy grin. "I actually love it, but don't get too full of yourself. I just think you are trying to pack too much in it."

"Too much? You are the king of excess, Fred."

"I think you mean queen of excess, darling." Freddie corrects me. I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time tonight.

"Sure. Well, what is your suggestion then?"

"I think you need some Francesca to help you with some of your...shall we say anger management issues?" Freddie says mysteriously.

"God, Fred, I don't have anger management issues." I protest. "Who is Francesca anyway?" I am dreading Fred's answer, honestly. I bet she's either a stripper or a hooker.

"She's Mary's friend, calm down. It's nothing scandalous, Jesus." He clarifies, seemingly having read my thoughts. "You know why I thought of her? I remember you really liked it when Dave gave you little massages before gigs on tour."

Dave was one of our American roadies. A phenomenal guy, through and through. Watched my guitars like a hawk, was a great drinking buddy, cleaned up our mess in the cheap motels where we stayed on our tour with Mott the Hoople. Best part of it all? I was always very tense before we opened the shows and only Dave took notice. He offered to give me a light massage to ease off some of the pent-up soreness in my muscles. He worked wonders! I still remember how much better I felt once he worked all these awful knots all around my spine. God, I could use that right now, couldn't I?

"Francesca is a masseuse?" I ask hopefully. Fred shakes his head.

"No, she is a yoga instructor." I gasp, ready to object, but Freddie is quicker than me. "She teaches an afternoon class that's tailored to help with stress and frustration on...on the job." He stammers a bit.

"Fred, you're bonkers, I am not going to a yoga class." I retort, clutching on the Red Special for moral support. All these late-night recording sessions are clearly messing with Fred's sanity. Yoga! What am I, a middle-aged housewife?

"Except you're going." Freddie interrupts and throws a form in my lap. "We, as a band, paid for your first session. For the greater good." He adds authoritatively.

"But- ", I manage, reading the form, dumbfounded. They have signed me up for tomorrow.

"No buts." Freddie brushes me off. "Just go. Take care of your mind and your body. You'll thank me later."

He has no idea how right he is.