Chapter Text
The room smelled faintly of dust, old coffee, and soldering iron—typical of borrowed equipment and makeshift practice spaces. Freddie stood by the amplifier, coat still on, watching the door with theatrical impatience. “Is he late?” he asked, folding his arms dramatically.
“He’s not late,” Brian said, checking the time on his watch. “He said one o’clock. It’s still—”
The door creaked open before he could finish.
A slim, soft-footed figure stepped inside. Brown hair, pale face, clothes a bit too neat for the chaos of a rock band.
Brian straightened. “That’ll be him.”
Freddie smiled, stepping forward. “Hello, dear. You must be—?”
“…John,” the newcomer said, eyes flicking between them.
“Freddie.” A handshake, firm but warm. “This is Roger—”
Roger raised a hand, already slouched over his drum stool. “Hey.”
“And this is—”
“Brian,” the guitarist said with a smile, stepping forward.
The name dropped like a pebble into still water. John’s hand jerked slightly as he reached for the shake. He still did it—quick, a bit cold—but his shoulders stiffened. He gave a faint nod and turned his face slightly away, eyes not quite meeting Brian’s.
Freddie noticed it but didn’t mention it.
“Nice to meet you,” Brian said gently.
“Yeah,” John replied. One syllable. Almost a whisper. Then he looked down, fiddling with the strap on his bass case. He moved like someone trying not to take up space.
Freddie raised an eyebrow. Roger looked bored. Brian blinked once, then looked away politely.
“Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” Freddie said, voice lifting again as if nothing odd had happened. “We’ve had… let’s say a variety of candidates so far. Anyone who can actually play in key will be an improvement.”
That got a tiny twitch at the corner of John’s mouth. Almost a smile. He unpacked his bass with practiced fingers. A Fender Precision—worn, but well-kept. Like him.
Roger told him a song and counted them in. Brian started the riff. Freddie began to hum—not words yet, just sound.
And then—
John played. Clean, grounded, not showy. No ego. Just the sound anchoring them, holding the wild tangle of Freddie’s energy and Roger’s wild fills and Brian’s celestial chords. It didn’t sparkle. It supported.
By the second run-through, Freddie’s grin returned.
By the third, Brian stopped watching the fretboard and just closed his eyes.
They ended with a final crash, letting the note hang.
Roger looked up, eyebrows raised.
Brian exhaled. “That was really good.”
John looked at the floor again. “Thanks.”
“How old are you, love?” The frontman asked, tilting his head.
“Nineteen.”
“You look about fifteen.”
That earned a real smile this time, brief but visible.
“Uni student?” Brian asked.
John nodded. “Electronics. Chelsea.”
“Useful,” Roger muttered, stretching.
There was a beat of silence—comfortable, in its own way.
Freddie broke it. “You know, you’ve got the kind of quiet that works. We don’t need another peacock.”
“Oi,” Roger said, mock-offended.
“I meant you, dear,” Freddie replied with a wink.
John didn’t laugh. But he stayed.
Late January 1971 – A cramped rehearsal room.
The heater rattled like it wanted to quit, causing half the room to be boiling and the other half to be freezing. Freddie had stripped down to just a vest, perched cross-legged on the floor with a mug of tea that was already cold. Brian sat tuning his guitar, long fingers nimble and quiet. Roger was tossing a drumstick from hand to hand like he’d combust if made to wait too long.
John was on the far side of the room, back to the wall, tuning in near silence.
“You alright, John?” Brian asked, soft.
He glanced up and nodded once. “Yeah.” He was always like that—short sentences, soft voice. They were starting to learn that 'Yeah' could mean anything from I’m fine to I don’t want to talk right now. Freddie, naturally, was determined to crack the code.
Roger, not so much. “Right. Can we start before my arse freezes to this stool?”
Freddie rolled his eyes and passed John a few crumpled sheets of music. “Rough draft. The bass line’s just a guide, darling. You’re free to adjust it—interpret, ornament, whatever. As long as it works.”
He accepted the papers gently, holding them like they might crumble. His eyes scanned the notation fast, a flicker of focus transforming his face.
Roger muttered to Brian, “He looks like a bloody schoolboy revising for GCSEs.”
John didn’t react, but his left hand flexed once around the neck of his bass.
“We want him to take it seriously,” Brian said calmly, brushing his curls out of his face.
“Don’t worry,” Freddie said smoothly, leaning back against the amp. “We’ll still reject it if it sounds like shit.”
John’s head dipped—and for a heartbeat, they thought maybe he was offended. But then he muttered, “That’s fair.”
The singer's grin widened. “God, I like you.”
John adjusted his strap and gave a short nod. “Ready.”
Roger started them off. The song was a moody, mid-tempo thing—still forming, still unsure of itself. John’s fingers slid into the rhythm easily, but he didn’t play the line exactly as written. A few notes down an octave, a subtle change in the phrasing, one syncopated fill that wasn’t on the page but worked.
Freddie’s ears perked up mid-line. He didn’t stop singing, but he glanced at Brian and lifted an eyebrow.
Brian just smiled.
They finished the run-through. Roger looked over his shoulder. “Deaks. You changed some stuff.”
John hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to get in trouble.
Freddie beat him to it. “Yes, and thank God. That descending slide into the chorus? Gorgeous. Moody. Dirty. Keep it.”
He blinked, visibly startled by the praise.
“It’s better than what we had,” Brian added. “We just want to understand your choices so we can build around them.”
John nodded slowly. “I… I can explain. Or I can mark it on the sheet.”
“No need to explain now,” Freddie said, already standing. “Just don’t make it boring.”
He gave the tiniest smirk. “Trying not to.”
Brian leaned toward Roger. “Told you.”
“Told me what?”
“That he’d surprise you.”
Roger grunted, noncommittal.
Freddie wandered over to John’s side of the room, eyeing the marked-up sheet in his hand. “Tell me something, love.”
John looked up.
“Did you always hear it like that? The alternate line?”
A long pause. Then he shrugged. “Didn’t think about it. It just… made sense."
Freddie tilted his head. “Do you know how fucking rare that is?”
He looked away, ears pink. “I don’t know. I just play what fits.”
Freddie handed the sheet back with a nod of approval, softer than before. “Well, what you fit might just be what we’ve been missing.”
Freddie clapped his hands together dramatically. “Alright, darlings, I’m off to rescue what’s left of my voice before it flakes off like an old croissant. My throat is dying in this godforsaken cold.”
“You’re the one wearing a bloody vest,” Roger shot back, without even looking up.
He paused at the door, striking a pose. “Beauty must suffer.”
“Beauty’s gonna get bloody pneumonia,” Roger muttered under his breath.
Brian, still quietly sorting through a tangle of cables on the floor, added without looking up, “Coffee might make it worse.”
“Sacrifices,” Freddie said solemnly, before sweeping out of the room like a dramatic Victorian ghost.
The door clicked shut.
And silence fell.
The room, without Freddie, immediately felt colder. Not just in temperature—but in energy. The air wasn’t hostile, but it was quieter, flatter. Without Freddie’s presence filling every corner, there was suddenly room to think. Or worry.
John adjusted the strap of his bass absently, then set it down with careful hands. His fingers hesitated at the tuning pegs. He wasn’t actually tuning. Just… doing something with his hands.
Roger was fiddling with his snare, tapping the edge with a knuckle. Brian’s amp hummed softly, a low presence in the background.
John stood for a few more seconds, then took a slow breath and crossed the room. It felt like stepping into unknown territory—leaving the safe edge to move closer to the middle, closer to the noise. He stopped a couple feet from Roger, who looked up, slightly surprised.
“…You called me ‘Deaks.’” He said it quietly. Not accusing, not pleased, just trying to understand.
Roger raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. What about it?”
John shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly hyper-aware of how stiff his arms felt. “It’s not my name.”
Roger’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “It is. Sort of.”
He looked down. “It’s just… I haven’t heard that before.”
“Nickname,” the drummer said simply. “Deacon. Deaky. Deaks. It’s quicker.”
“But why?”
Roger blinked. “What d’you mean, ‘why’? People shorten names all the time. It’s what mates do.”
Fingers fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “You don’t even know me.”
Roger tilted his head, considering him. “We will. You’re in the band now. That means you’re part of the group. We give everyone a nickname. Freddie gets called Fred sometimes. Brian’s Bri—”
John flinched. It was small, but it was there. Barely a tick of movement in his shoulder, but his face changed. Just slightly. Like someone had dropped ice down his collar.
The drummer saw it. And to his credit, he didn’t laugh. Or tease. He just paused. “You ok?” he asked, more gently than usual.
John shrugged. “Yes. I just—never been called that before. Deaks. I don’t know. It sounded like someone else.”
Roger tapped the edge of his snare again. Then leaned back a little, stretching his legs out. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” He glanced at him briefly. “I just didn’t expect it.”
Roger was quiet a moment. Then said, “You’re hard to read, you know.”
“I know.”
“Don’t talk much.”
“I know.”
Roger smirked a little. “Do you know any full sentences?”
John actually smiled. Just a little. “Working on it.”
There was a pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just… uncertain.
Roger let it hang for a few moments, then added, more seriously, “Look. If you don’t like it, I won’t call you that.”
John didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his shoes. The laces were uneven. He didn’t remember when they got like that. Or why he was even noticing. “…No, it’s alright,” he said at last. “You can call me that.”
Roger’s eyebrow lifted again. “Sure?”
John hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. It’s better than ‘kid’ or ‘schoolboy.’”
He grinned. “You do look like you’ve just come out of a bloody secondary school, though.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“That’s still practically a fetus.”
John gave him a look. Dry. Amused. “You’re not that much older.”
“Old enough to drink legally in America,” Roger shot back as though it mattered, when it really didn't as they were in England.
Brian finally looked up from the amp, having clearly been listening the entire time. “You’re the only one who brags about that.”
“Because it’s important,” Roger said, smug. Then added toward John, “Alright, Deaks. Welcome to the madhouse.”
John breathed out slowly. The tension in his shoulders didn’t quite leave—but it shifted. Like something small and silent had settled a bit deeper inside his chest. Not comfort, exactly. But permission. Permission to be here. He nodded once. “Thanks."
Roger grabbed a drumstick and pointed it at him. “Just don’t make anything boring. I’ll take the nickname back.”
“I’ll try,” John said, very dryly.
Brian smiled faintly from across the room. “He’s got bite after all."
And in the hallway beyond the thin door, Freddie’s voice echoed faintly—talking to someone about milk, sugar, and whether he could seduce the barista for a free biscuit.
John’s lips twitched again. Just slightly.
Rehearsals tended to fly by.
Once they started playing, time stopped obeying the clock. Ideas bounced, lyrics shifted mid-line, riffs looped over and over again until someone hit on something just right. Most of the time it was chaotic and loud and a bit ridiculous—Freddie flinging his arms mid-note, Roger drumming like a storm, Brian lost in his chords.
And somewhere in that whirlwind… John.
John would arrive exactly on time. Not early. Never late. Always the same expression: neutral, calm, like he’d stepped out of another world and wasn’t sure how long he’d stay. He’d unpack his bass in silence, nod to whoever noticed him first, and sit on the edge of the room until someone called him over.
He didn’t rush to leave—but he never lingered. He always left after the first person did, like he was quietly waiting to make sure the space was empty before he let himself vanish.
He was polite. In a stiff, quiet, uncomfortable sort of way. Never rude. But never friendly, either. His voice stayed soft, almost cautious. He rarely spoke without being spoken to. And when he did, his sentences were short. Like he was rationing them.
But every so often…
A sarcastic comment would slip out. Dry as dust, unexpected as thunder on a sunny day. Delivered deadpan, eyes low, like he wasn’t even trying to be funny.
Freddie lived for those moments. Roger, once, burst out laughing so hard he choked on tea. Brian… wasn’t sure what to make of them. He was still trying to figure John out. They all were. But whatever John wasn’t saying, he was playing. And it was working.
The changes he made to the basslines were always subtle—barely more than grace notes, rhythmic tweaks, tone shifts. But every time, they changed the feel of a song. Rooted it. Made it mean something.
Even Freddie admitted, “He makes things make sense.”
It wasn’t just good bass. It was smart bass. And it never drew attention to itself. John made the music better and never asked for credit.
So it came as a surprise when he actually said something.
They were halfway through a slow, dramatic number Brian had been shaping for weeks. He had a particular note he loved—a high, shivering bend on the electric guitar just before the bridge. It was technically difficult and had a certain theatrical sting, which of course, Brian was fond of.
But something about the bridge kept clashing. The transition felt wrong. Slippery. Brian couldn’t figure out why. He was mid-riff when John, sitting on his amp, quietly said: “…What if you shift the bend down to A-flat instead?”
The room stopped. Roger blinked. Freddie raised an eyebrow mid-harmony. Brian turned around, frowning slightly. “What?”
John, still seated, looked up. “That bend. It clashes with the bass root when the bridge kicks in. If you drop it a semitone, it’ll resolve cleaner.”
It was the most John had said in one go all week.
Brian’s jaw stiffened. He crossed his arms. “That bend’s the point of the whole transition.”
John didn’t argue. Didn’t blink. Just stared back with a tired sort of calm. Then stood, unplugged his bass quietly, and walked to the far side of the room. He didn’t storm, nor did he slam anything like Roger might've, he just walked away like a curtain falling.
Brian’s mouth fell open slightly, he hadn’t expected that. He’d expected pushback, an argument, or some sarcastic jab.
Not…
That silence.
Even Freddie looked surprised. He set his cup down slowly, watching Brian with a half-grin. “Well, darling. I believe that was a graceful exit.”
Brian’s face coloured faintly. “He’s suggesting I rewrite the entire—”
“—note. Just one note,” Roger cut in. “And he’s right. It does clash a bit.”
The guitarist opened his mouth, then closed it. Looked across the room where John now sat, back against the wall, idly rewinding his cable with slow, clean loops.
Brian glanced at his guitar, sighed, and played the transition again. This time, he bent the note down. Just as John had suggested.
The shift was immediate. The bridge opened like a door instead of a stumble. The melody swelled into it instead of skidding off. It flowed.
Even Brian heard it. “…Bloody hell.”
Freddie clapped once. “Oh, Deaky. He’s going to write you a thank-you note.”
Brian turned to John. “Why didn’t you fight me on it?”
He just shrugged, eyes fixed on the cable in his lap. “Didn’t need to.”
Roger laughed under his breath. “Jesus. Cold.”
Freddie beamed. “Effortless.”
The guitarist took another breath, quieter this time. “You were right.”
John looked up. Gave the faintest of nods. “Thanks.”
And that was that.
He plugged his bass back in, sat down again like nothing happened, and didn’t speak for the rest of the hour.
But the song worked now.
At the end of rehearsal, Freddie had declared he was starving and dramatically threatened to die unless fed immediately. Roger had already thrown on his jacket and was halfway to the door, calling over his shoulder something about meeting them at the pub in ten.
John, as usual, followed behind without a word. Same quiet rhythm, same packed-up case, same untucked jumper slightly bunched at the sleeves.
He was just one step behind Roger, hand brushing the doorknob, when Brian’s voice cut across the room. “John—wait.”
Both Roger and John paused.
Brian stood with his guitar still slung over his shoulder, coiled lead dangling at his side. His brows were furrowed, but not in annoyance. More like puzzlement. “How long have you been playing bass?”
John blinked, just once. “Three years.”
Roger let out a low whistle, arms crossed. “Three? Bloody hell.”
Brian looked surprised too. “Only three?”
He shifted on his feet, then said, “I played electric guitar before that.”
Brian tilted his head. “Since when?”
There was a pause. It was tiny, barely half a second. But it was the kind of pause that stretched wider the longer it lingered. Something passed over John’s face—just a flicker. His fingers tensed on the handle of his case.
Then, slower now, he said, “Since… I was…” The words stuck. Just slightly. He looked down. “…Eleven.”
Roger leaned back slightly on his heels, glancing sideways at him. He didn’t say anything, but there was a flicker of something like interest. Or suspicion.
Brian’s expression softened. “That’s impressive.”
John shrugged. “I had a lot of time.” The words were flat, not modest, not even proud.
Brian nodded slowly. He was watching John more carefully now. “Guitar first, then bass. That explains a lot.”
He tilted his head. “How?”
Long fingers tapped the side of his guitar as he thought. “You don’t play bass like a traditional bassist. It’s melodic. Rhythmic, yeah—but it moves. You treat the line like a voice. That’s more of a guitarist’s instinct.”
Another shrug but softer this time. “I just play what fits.”
Roger frowned slightly. “You started playing at eleven? That’s pretty young.”
John nodded once. “Yeah.”
Brian glanced toward Roger, then back at John. “What made you switch to bass?”
That pause came again.
Even Roger felt it.
John’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the handle of his bass case. His eyes flicked to the floor, then to the door, then back again. “I liked… supporting the song more than leading it,” he said.
A breath. Then—
“And my band’s bassist was rubbish.”
Roger barked a laugh. “No way. That’s why?”
John just raised an eyebrow. “Someone had to fix it.”
Brian actually smiled, surprised. The shift from vulnerability to dry sarcasm was so abrupt it felt like watching clouds part mid-storm. “Well,” he said, amused now, “that makes sense too.”
John didn’t smile, exactly. But something in his face eased, like the words landed somewhere they were needed. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
Roger shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Come on, Deaks. If we don’t leave now, Freddie’ll order food without us and pretend he thought we were right behind him.”
He gave a small nod and turned again toward the door.
Brian stayed where he was, watching them go. Just before the door closed behind them, he said, almost absently, “Eleven’s an early age to start. Something must’ve made you pick it up.” Like Roger...
But by then, John was already in the hallway, following Roger’s chatter into the stairwell.
He didn’t answer and Brian didn’t repeat the question but the silence after stuck with him longer than any riff they’d rehearsed that day.
Later that night – A dimly lit pub, back table, two pints between them and music humming low in the background Brian sat back with a thoughtful look on his face, the rim of his pint glass resting against his chin but untouched. Freddie was sipping something darker, one leg crossed over the other, relaxed as ever, though his eyes—when he chose to focus—were sharp.
“You’re brooding,” Freddie said, not looking up from his drink. “That usually means you’re thinking about harmonics or feelings. Both dangerous.”
Brian sighed. “It’s John.”
The frontman raised an eyebrow. “Already?”
“I just… I asked how long he’s played. He said three years on bass, but he’s been on guitar since he was eleven.”
Freddie swirled his drink slowly, then glanced over. “So?”
Brian frowned slightly. “He’s… good. Really good. The way he handles transitions, phrasing, feel—he’s intuitive. Like he hears things before they’re written. You don’t get that in just three years.”
“Well,” he said, casually leaning back, “you made your first guitar at fourteen, didn’t you?”
Brian blinked. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Oh, come off it, Brian,” Freddie said, smirking. “You were melting fireplace tiles to make tremolo arms before your voice even dropped. If you had been a quiet little scrap with perfect rhythm and bags under your eyes, some older boy would’ve been sitting in a pub saying the exact same thing about you.”
He flushed faintly. “It’s not the skill I’m confused by.”
“No?”
“It’s…” Brian ran a hand through his hair. “There’s something strange about the way he talks about it. Like it’s not his. Like he doesn’t quite want to claim it.”
Freddie tapped a finger against the rim of his glass. “Mm.”
“And when I asked why he picked up bass, he said he liked supporting the song instead of leading. Then—completely deadpan—‘and my band’s bassist was rubbish.’ Just dropped that in.”
Freddie laughed. “Dry little thing, isn’t he? You’d miss it if you blinked.”
“But when he said he started at eleven… there was a pause. Not a normal pause. Like—something got stuck.”
Freddie’s smile faded just a touch. “Something happened when he was eleven?” he asked, softer now.
Brian nodded slowly. “Feels like it. I didn’t push.”
He studied him for a moment. Then gently said, “Good.”
They sat with that for a while. The low hum of pub conversation filled in the gaps.
“Roger’s already calling him Deaky,” Brian murmured after a time.
Freddie chuckled. “Of course he is. That’s Roger’s love language—mild bullying.”
“He lets it happen. John, I mean. I think he likes it.”
“Mm. Quiet people still like to be known, dear. They just don’t shout about it.”
Brian glanced out toward the window, watching the cars trail past in streaks of orange. “I just want to understand him better.”
Freddie tipped his glass forward in a toast. “Then listen more than you talk. He’ll tell you what matters. Not always in words.”
The guitarist clinked his pint against Freddie’s gently. “You’re wise tonight.”
“I’m always wise. You’re just finally paying attention.”
Brian smiled. And for the rest of the night, he let the conversation drift away from John. But the thoughts didn’t. Not really. Because something about that boy—with his too-careful silences, and the way he watched everything while saying so little—stuck to the edges of Brian’s mind like static.
Something happened when he was eleven.
And Brian, without even meaning to, was starting to care.