MAYLOR || Call me when it's over

Part 3

Brian's POV
𝚃𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

It's Mental Health week at Imperial College. Otherwise known as the most dreaded week of the year for Brian May.

The psychologist had decided six months into Brian's course that there needed to be some sort of education on Mental Illnesses and that a bunch of, not quite yet mature, young adults will actually take the week seriously. It's the 70's, the world isn't open-minded enough for people to take Mental Illnesses seriously. Hence why Brian shouldn't be surprised about the comments some of his classmates make.

He can see it in slow motion, the way that the biggest asshole in his class raises his hand once they start discussing the reasons for people self-harming. The way he smirks at his friends, and they all snicker, knowing they are about to make the poor teacher upfront mad as hell. He gets called on, and the words he says leave Brian's ears ringing, "Aren't people who self harm practically useless? I mean, what kind of freak even does that?"

The world around the guitarist freezes.

His brain becomes basically useless after that. He can't hear the teacher's answer. Can't listen to the comments of his classmates who are a little less stupid. He can only hear the phrase on a loop. That mixed with the thoughts that had been growing ever since the incident at the bar about being a burden to his bandmates, a something easier left behind than taken care off.

He honestly doesn't know how he gets to their flat. It feels more like a blur of colours and sounds than actual memories, he only knows that when he opens the door, there is already someone inside. Roger peeks out from the kitchen and gives Brian a smile. The guitarist stuffs the box of razor blades deeper into his pocket and smiles back.

The younger man walks over, swinging his hips and making a show of walking while wearing the 'Kiss the Cook' apron. He grabs Brian's face and starts peppering him with kisses until Brian is blushing a cute shade of red. He doesn't laugh, which was what Roger was aiming for, but the sweet smile is enough for him to stop. He gives him one last kiss on his nose, and then looks into his eyes, "How was your day, Brimi?"

"Tiring," he doesn't need to lie, "I feel like I could sleep for the rest of my life."

Roger hums, giving him another kiss on his cheekbone and reaching for his school bag, "Go get a shower, when you come out there will be food waiting for you, sounds good?"

"Okay," Brian mumbles, "But I have to wash my hair, so it will probably take longer."

Roger smiles at him, telling him he will be waiting anxiously for Brian to get out, and the voice in the back of his mind reminds him that those are just lies. It's almost eerie how said voice sounds exactly like him. Almost as if it was just himself making up these incredibly complex scenarios in which everyone hates him. He shakes his head, trying to clear his head, he has enough problems as it is now.

He gets a pair of oversized pyjamas, something that wouldn't raise Roger's alarms, and an oversized sweater. The bandages are under the sink, the antiseptic in Brian's corner of the bathroom cabinets, and the box is tucked safely on the pocket of his hoodie. He turns on the shower, gets undressed and gathers everything he needs before stepping into the shower.

His urges didn't get the memo that he no longer owns his collection of bracelets, because his first cut is clean across his wrist and he feels the familiar haziness take over his brain. It's like all logical thoughts are instantly thrown out the window. All the images of Roger covering his face in kisses, John curled around him like a cat, and Freddie singing soft love songs are forgotten. Replaced entirely by hurtful words said to him and around him. Even those fabricated by his own mind.

He can't escape it at that moment, and he only notices he has been saying those words to himself when one of the words cuts of into a groan of pain as he goes a little too deep. A little too long. Then the world comes into focus again.

He can hear the sounds of Roger's soft singing and pans clanking as he finished their dinner. He can feel the fact that the water has grown cold by then, and that his skin is aching from the scalding water that had been rolling down his spine. But most importantly, he notices the blood. It's trickling slowly down his arm and into the bathroom floor, but god it so much.

He feels the tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and panic rising from the pit of his stomach because he has never had this amount. Especially not after such a long time clean. It had been well over a month without the lightest scratch on his skin, and now he has gone an done this. And then all of the things that should have been in the front of his mind before he even picked up the box from the store come rushing through.

Memories of the last month in which Roger is running ice up and down his arms to calm Brian down, or Freddie is drawing beautiful patterns in his thighs while he wills himself to calm down, or John driving him out to the middle of nowhere and making him scream as loud as possible. It's all for nothing, all their efforts, all their hours spent on Brian, wasted in a shower.

He is calling Roger's name before he can register it. The younger man comes running into the bathroom and gets into the shower as fast as possible. He is pressing a towel to Brian's wounds, comforting the guitarist as he mumbles incoherently about being sorry. About letting them down. Roger is pressing the cuts down, applying as much pressure as he can with one hand while running the other through Brian's curly hair.

"It's okay, baby," he whispers, the words so soft he can barely hear them over the sound of the shower, "we knew this might happen eventually, darling. You don't need to feel sorry for anything."

Brian doesn't miss the tears on Roger's eyes.