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Brian’s afternoon has been spent sitting at his little desk by the window composing or at least trying to compose. Everything that he comes up with sounds off. It was like he was somehow out of beat with every single verse, or he just plain hated everything he was writing. It was quite unusual for him to be this uninspired. Most of the time he has to go to Freddie’s house to spend hours on end trying to decide which of their songs were more worth being on the album than the others.
Usually, he would tear through an entire notebook in less than a month, and has to spend another two or three weeks trying to chose which of his lyrics were less than perfect. Now It seems like he is just grasping for whatever mediocre idea runs through his head. Nothing like the usual masterpieces he is so proud of producing.
Another half-formed, half-finished idea leaves Brian with a bitter taste in his mouth, and a perfectly good page of his notebook wasted. It makes his blood boil with something akin to rage and annoyance, and he reads over the scribbled words and guitar riffs twice before deciding that he hates it too much to leave it there for anyone to see his idiotic work.
Once the page is ripped out, he finishes it off by crumpling the wretched piece of paper and then throwing it out towards the trash without a second of hesitation. It bounces off the edge of the bin and lands somewhere in the middle of the room, which only serves to increase Brian’s frustration with himself. He seems to be horrible at even chucking out terrible ideas. He runs a hand through his hair and then sighs, wondering if it’s any good to try and keep writing or if he should just quit Queen altogether.
“Aren’t you melodramatic?” His husband’s voice startles Brian out of his thoughts; he turns to look at John as he holds the piece of paper in his hands. It must be hard to read since half of the ink is probably smeared off, but John holds the piece of paper as if it were something precious, “This isn’t half bad, Bri.”
The guitarist scoffs.“It’s terrible.”
“Could use a little work,” John agrees, “But so does everything we ever write. Nothing will turn out perfectly on the first try.”
John walks over, placing the paper on Brian’s desk and smoothing it out until his handwriting is legible. Then he turns towards the older man. “You won’t get anything done if you work yourself to the bone. In fact, it might only get worse.”
Brian groans turns, to face John and then leans forward until his forehead is resting on his husband's tummy. The bassist tangles his hands into the guitarist’s curly hair and starts scratching his scalp, trying to soothe him.
Brian sighs in contempt. “You and your magic hands.”
John chuckles, “Are they making you feel better?”
The guitarist brings his hands up and wraps them around his husband’s waist, holding him close to him. The fabric of John’s shirt muffles his next words. “You always make me feel better.”
John smiles as he reads the words of Brian’s discarded song once again. Dragon Attack is not half bad. In fact, John can practically hear the funky bassline that he had come up with. Maybe a tweak or two could make it really catchy, maybe even album worthy. But for the moment he is not preoccupied with whatever masterpiece Brian had nearly thrown out.
He leans down to press a kiss to the top of his husband’s head. “What about a break? We can put on a movie, order some of that wonderful Thai takeout from the place on Canal Street.”
Brian nods. “Maybe a break will do me good.”
“Maybe?” John scratches the place right behind Brian’s ear, which causes him to melt into his arms. “I think a break is mandatory at this point.”
It takes a couple of minutes to get him away from the desk and into their sitting room, And then and then another few before he lets John get up from the place that he had deposited Brian on the couch and into their kitchen to make the call. All the while, Brian is staring at him from over the couch, eyes practically heart-shaped as John twirls the phone cord between his fingers and talks to the lovely old lady that always takes their orders.
John then starts making them tea. He knows Brian is probably going to complain about his music choice, but he tunes in to the old Jazz Radio station as he prepares their drinks, and walks around the house getting their blankets and fuzzy socks ready for their cuddling session. Every time he gets close to the couch, he makes sure to drop a kiss into his husband’s cheek or forehead to avoid making him grumpy.
The teapot shrieks at the same time that Brian starts whining for John’s attention, and he has to hurry to tend to both of them . Once everything is ready, the tea made just how Brian likes it, the blankets all piled up on the arm of the couch, and their fluffy socks sufficiently warmed up from the heater, John heads back to the living room.
Brian has to be in a special mood for him to allow John to baby him, which he seems to find himself in. He allows the bassist to help him put his socks on, even going as far as extending his foot out so that John would get the hint. His only complaint comes when John doesn’t immediately cuddle up to him, and even those are easily taken care of with a kiss on the tip of his nose.
John finishes putting on the socks and placing all of their blankets on top of him, and then leans back into the arm of the couch. He opens his arms up, beckoning Brian over, and the older man goes without hesitation. He buries his nose into the crook of John’s neck, nuzzling into the spot where John always sprays his cologne in and going practically boneless at the warmth of his cuddles. The bassist tightens his arms around Brian, and wraps his legs around his waist so that they are as close together as humanly possible, then turns his head so that he can press his lips to the guitarist’s temple. “Feel better?”
“Impossibly so,” Brian replies.
They have barely cuddled for a minute, and Brian already sounds drowsy and relaxed. His head lolls to the side, pressing his forehead to John’s clavicle, breathing almost evened out.
“It’s good to give that brain of yours a rest every once in a while.” John runs his hand up and down his back, scratching lightly every few seconds. With the guitarist practically purring, John considers this little off time a job well done. They can song write in the morning, once Brian’s frustration is nonexistent, and his perfectionist urges have calmed. But for now, John is happy just to cuddle with him under an excessive amount of blankets and tap out a rhythm for Brian’s song on his back, hoping it will at least help the guitarist’s mind rest.