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domestic-queen-blog · 5 years

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Freddie in 1977 (News Of The World Era) sat in front of the mirror in his flat in London on his own au

Freddie is sat at his dressing table. Wearing nothing but some soft white underwear and an open red and orange silk kimono, he has his elbows rested on the table and he holds his chin in his hands, staring at himself in the mirror. His head is tilted slightly as he twists his mouth in thought, brainstorming the perfect look. Surrounded by endless fancy make up products, he's debating whether he goes for something bold, and clicks his fingers as the idea comes to him.

'I'll just have a play and see what comes to mind' he says quietly to himself. He talks out loud sometimes as he finds it makes decisions easier to make when put in a physical conversation. He stands up from his seat and walks into the kitchen, scruffing up his messy black hair with both hands as he walks. He pours himself a short glass of white wine and walks over to the chopping board, where he cuts a thin slice of lemon cake off from what was left over from John Reid's birthday two days ago. He puts it on a plate and, carrying it along with his glass of wine, returns back to his dressing table. He sits down again and pushes his hair back by wrapping a piece of powder stained material around his head like large hairband, and stares at himself again, this time with consentration.

He's been loving the look of blush lately. That's been his favourite thing. First he squeezes moisturiser onto his hand, no more than a 1p coin, and rubs his hands together. He then places his hands either side of his face and starts to rub it softly into his cheeks. He spreads it evenly everywhere, using his fingers for his eyes and making sure none of it is patchy. He likes to keep his skin in good condition so he'd never test out products without cleansing himself first. He then folds his arms and stares at himself in the mirror again, leaning on the desk. He picks up his fork with his hand and jabs it into the corner of his piece of cake and places it on his tongue. He normally covers his mouth whenever he eats, out of fear he will look rude, particularly due to the formation of his teeth; it can often accidentally look impolite because he chews differently to the average person. When he is alone, however, he doesn't need to hide, and he eats with freedom, his pearly whites on full display to no one, and he is relaxed on his own. He tucks a strand of his frothy black hair behind his ear, a curl that had escaped the restraints of his hairband, and swallows, laying the fork back down onto the plate.

He picks up the blush. He's chosen a bright pink, with warmer tones and a very bold colour if applied with too much force. He then takes one of his brushes between his delicate fingers and dabs it in the palette. He applies it to his cheeks, dusting the brush across his knife like cheekbones, so the colour sits comfortably. He looks in the mirror and scrunches his nose up, it's not enough. He applies some more, smirking, because he knows he's nearing the look of a china doll, but doesn't mind, because he thinks that pink is a lovely compliment colour to his tropical skin.

Once he is finished he licks his lips and looks at himself, his bunny teeth sat puncturing his bottom lip because it's effort for him to keep his teeth in his mouth and they stick out when he is natural. It's just his resting face. He then picks up the brush and repeats the dabbing process, only this time, he dusts himself on the nose. He giggles softly at his reflection, deliberately giving himself the look of someone who has a cold, as his sharp yet soft nose slowly turns from tan to bubblegum. He claps softly, and stabs his cake with the fork again, placing in another mouthful. He looks like an angel, completely tinted pink, a look almost of conscious embarrassment. It's a strange look, but he seems to like it, because he can't take his eyes off himself. He's almost defeated, unsure of whether to add anything to this look because he's concerned he will ruin it's simplicity. He fans himself and takes a sip of his wine, reflecting on what other options he has to add to the work of art that is his face.

He readjusts his mouth and reaches for his nail polish selection. He decides against putting anything else on his face; he plans to take a polaroid of this look once he is finished so he can remember it for a show. Instead he decides to work on his fingers. He chooses a nail file and starts to shape his nails. He enjoys being hygienic and likes to look after himself. He then starts fumbling through the tiny bright coloured bottles, deciding which colour he should try. He normally settles for black, but over the past few years he has picked up various other colours and wishes to experiment with them. He unscrews the lid of a rose coloured bottle, and looks at the brush to determine whether the polish is still in date. It is and he also notices that there are gold sparkles mixed with in it, and he nods to himself, letting himself know this is the colour he wants.

He spends ages perfecting the brush strokes on his nails. First a base layer, then a second coat, and then the final one for clarity. He never makes any mess and has become an expert at precision. He spreads his fingers out on the desk and blows at the drying liquid that sits on his nails, to hurry the process. He doesn't want to risk using his hands just yet because he doesn't want to mess up the paint, but he also wants a sip of his wine.

Freddie likes to be extravagant, and so he begins to brainstorm ways he can drink his wine without using his hands. He debates sticking his tongue in the top but then discards that idea, realising that would definitely end in a spillage. Finally he has a light bulb, and stands up from his seat, walking into the kitchen with his campy wrists at his sides, fanning himself, attempting further to hurry the drying. He reaches his kitchen drawer and bends down, extending his neck and taking the handle between his teeth, and steps backwards, pulling the drawer open with him. In the drawer are spooks, knives, forks, and also domestic items like pegs, and tooth picks. He grins as he spots what he's looking for, and again bends his neck down into the drawer and picks up a straw with his teeth. He pads bare foot back into his bedroom and returns to the table, placing the straw into his glass and sips his wine, smirking because he's just so inventive.

Once his nails have dried, he starts to check himself out in the mirror again. He removes his hairband and fluffs up his black locks, so they fall perfectly across his face. He then starts posing, sticking his tongue out and pressing his dimples with his decorated fingers. He bites his lip and twirls his hair, and then goes and gets his polaroid. He sits back down and bends his dressing table lamp so that it points into his face, allowing better lighting for the photo, and then holds the polaroid at arms length so his whole face can appear in the photo. He holds his hand to his face too, poking at his cheek, so that his face and nails can be photographed. He stays still and captures the photo, and waits for it to process. Once it's appeared out of the camera, he fans it to speed the development, and when the picture reaches the right exposure, he looks at it. He smirks, sucking in his cheeks. He knows he's beautiful and he really likes his face when he's alone, because no one can point out the aspects of his appearance that aren't ordinary. He leaves the photo on the dresser, and skips into the kitchen to phone and dials his sister's number, leaning on the wall, crossing his legs as he waits for her to answer.

'Hello?' she responds

'Kash, I have just created the most RAVISHING make up look, are you busy? Come over, right now! I want to try it on you! It will look just BEAUTIFUL!'

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domestic-queen-blog · 5 years

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Freddie and Roger in 1973 working on the market selling their old clothes au

'You can't hang that there, it's clearly a tshirt. That's where we hang dresses'

'No I KNOW that but it could soooo be a dress if you put a belt on it like that, see?'

'Freddie, it's a tshirt for men, you can't put that on the same rack as these flowery strappy mini dresses'

'OH, I see! So by Roger's standards, girls can't be eccentric with their style and wear clothes 'made' for the opposite sex? We run a shitty fashion stand, Roger, we are supposed to be PROMOTING the idea of trying something new and being more out there'

'That's not BEING out there, Fred, that's a boring blue tshirt that no girl is going to want to wear'

'I'll be right back'

Freddie grabs the navy blue tshirt and struts off behind the curtains of the open area of their stand. It's 9am and the market is just starting to get busy. They have almost finished setting up for the day, although their stand always looks a bit of a mess. Racks and racks and stacks and stacks of clothes they've found, each item telling a different wacky story, whether it's an ancient headdress accessory from Freddie's childhood in Zanzibar or a skimpy sexy skirt given to Roger by a pretty face on a drunk night out; they had everything there, and the stall had actually became a popular attraction to the high street market shoppers.

'Fucking shit, whe- Roger where are the scissors? The big industrial ones?' Freddie calls from behind the curtains.

Roger slides a cigarette out from the packet in his hand with his thumb then takes it between his teeth before shoving the box back in his pocket. He reaches for the box of matches left on the seat of Freddie's high chair and lights it, sparking a flame.

'In the second drawer of the broken wooden cabinet, the first one doesn't move so don't get the second one jammed trying to open it'

Roger picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip, cigarette still in his hand. He and Freddie have been running this stall for a month in an attempt to make extra money. They had a flat together in London and their rent was demanding lately so they had this on the weekends to make sure they were rarely skint. It was funny, and they met a lot of interesting people, because their stall attracted a lot of interesting people, so it was never dull.

Freddie prances back out from behind the curtain with a big smirk across his face.

'Look at what I'VE made' he exclaims, unable to even attempt to be humble because he's so proud of himself. Using the dull blue tshirt that he and Roger had been arguing pointlessly about for an hour, he had reverted the entire thing into the strangest yet classiest dress Roger had seen in a long time. He'd cut the sleeves off and sewn them inwards so his messy cutting wasn't visible, and pulled the waist of the shirt in to create a curve, synching the middle to fit the figure of a woman better, and sliced the bottom of the shirt so it was tight and asymmetrical. It looked like a new piece of clothing. He was so smug.

'Impressive' said Roger, playing it off like he was unbothered but Freddie's natural eye for style was something he envied overwhelmingly 'NOW you can hang it with the dresses'

'Too right I can' spat Freddie, and he skips over to the rack of dresses and places the blue dress at the front so it's the first to be seen by customers. Flicking his long black messy hair behind his shoulder, he walks over to his high chair and sits down. He crossed his legs and grips the side of the chair with his hands, and swings his legs back and fourth softly, whilst Roger continues to smoke his cigarette, leaning back on the rack of coats.

Time goes on throughout the day and their sales are going well. It's getting really hot though. It's only May but for some reason it feels like Summer and Freddie starts fanning himself with his hand.

'This is unbearable' he whines dramatically, and Roger rolls his eyes

'Take your jacket off then' suggests Roger, who lifts off his Hendrix tshirt so he is now stood bare chested. He's shameless and has girls to impress. Freddie shakes his head in a very matter of fact way. It's a beautiful jacket. It's a cropped velvet blazer the colour of red wine, embroidered with extravagant flowers of gold and crimson and green. His sister got it for him, and it's one of his favourite items of clothing in the whole world. Only thing is, it's not suitable for hot days.

'I can't risk taking this jacket off. What if it gets put down amongst the stuff we are selling and then you accidentally let some girl buy it because you're too busy thinking about getting in her knickers to notice that it's NOT for sale' says Freddie, folding his arms and frowning at Roger, but he can't help but feel very uncomfortable in the heat. Roger starts laughing.

'Freddie, I won't let that happen, just take it off and put it behind those shoes, no one ever looks down there' says Roger, pointing to the area of unpopular clogs that for some strange reason never make any sales. Freddie groans.

'Fine, but if you sell it I am suing you' he snarls, taking off the jacket to reveal a tight white tshirt with a wide neck, revealing his sharp collarbones and the top of his chest hair, and very short sleeves, and folding it, before laying it down next to a rather horrid looking pair of white shoes, and Freddie makes a face of disgust as he sets the jacket down, wondering where on earth Roger got them because they certainly didn't belong to him. He walks back to Roger, folding his arms again, and looks at Roger with a face of disproval.

'Who the hell are you trying to impress looking like that?' Freddie questions, looking Roger up and down as he stands there with his hands on his bare hips wearing nothing but a pair of sparkly blue flip flops and some black trousers; coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, and a pair of huge sunglasses buried in his blonde locks.

People wander in and out of the stall, browsing for items with intrigued looks on their faces, and Freddie and Roger flash them the occasional smile, and will talk to them if they are called for.

'Ladies, my friend, ladies love a drummer, and if I dress like this, they'll get drummer vibes' says Roger, winking at Freddie, to which Freddie rolls his eyes, turning around to face away from the open area and squatting down in a crouch position with his legs open to get a bottle of water from the crate they keep on the floor. His tshirt is too small so his lower back can be seen as the shirt rides up. He is visible to the people who pass by the stall despite being on the floor; they can see over the stand.

Whilst Freddie is on the floor unscrewing the lid of the water, he hears a whistle, followed by Roger laughing, and Freddie frowns. He stands up and looks at Roger, who is giggling, which doesn't amuse Freddie, and then turns to face the culprit of the whistle, which is what is causing Roger's outburst. In front of Freddie stands the most gorgeous man Freddie has ever seen in his life. He's got short blonde hair and a five o clock shadow of stubble. He looks strong and wears a white blazer and has one of his ears pierced. Freddie looks him up and down and goes bright red, readjusting his mouth to his teeth as his bambi eyes meet directly with the stranger who stands before him.

'I like your top, are you guys selling anything like that here?' the stranger says with ease, pointing at Freddie's tshirt.

'What, HA! This old thing? Pfttt' Freddie says, high pitched and very flustered. He laughs nervously, covering his teeth with his campy hand, flawed by this man's sex appeal and angry at how quickly he lost his cool.

'Yeah we got loads of stuff like this'. He clears his throat softly, then licks his lips, and gathers himself together, feeling much more under pressure than usual because Roger is staring him down waiting to see how this pans out.

'What sort of thing are you looking for?' Freddie asks, a bit more bounce restored in his voice, and he sucks his cheeks in and readjusts his mouth again, something he does all the time due to his sad insecurities surrounding his beautiful teeth. The man smirks.

'I'm looking for a pair of white flares, but now that I'm here I may as well get your number as well' the stranger says, grinning as he can tell Freddie is melting for him. Freddie's jaw drops open with a massive gasp and a smirk. Just as this is happening, John and Brian come round the corner for their daily visit. They stop by all the time.

'Perfect timing' says Roger sarcastically, 'Freddie's about to get married'

'Shut up, Roger' says Freddie exasperated, hitting Roger lightly on the arm with the back of his hand before turning back to the angel stood in front of him and starts to twirl a strand of his fluffy black hair. John and Brian realise what's happening.

'How about I take you round the back, we have flares round there' says Freddie, and before the man can answer, Freddie has him by the hand and pulls him to the storage area of the stand, biting his lip.

'Ridiculous, isn't it? I'm stood here with no shirt on looking like a rock star, and girls just give me weird looks, but he can get a boyfriend in the time it takes for him to bend down to get a drink' Roger moans, lighting another cigarette.

'Maybe selling clothes isn't the money maker for you, you should be washing girl's cars or offering lifts on motorbikes' jokes Brian, bored already of Roger's sob story.

'Whatever, sales have been good today at least, we got a lot done' Roger inhales a drag of his cigarette and blows it directly into John's face. 'What have you been up to?'

'Absolutely nothing' responds John. 'I only woke up an hour ago, Bri dragged me out of bed with the promise that we'd get breakfast which still hasn't happened yet' he looks at Brian with dissatisfaction.

'It will, it will! I just can't go too far from this area until my guitar is fixed. I handed it in to the repair shop an hour ago and they said it should be done by 1 which is in 20 minutes so we just have to wait' Brian runs his hands through his crazy curls 'Jesus christ it's hot'.

'Yeah I know, that's why I took off my shirt!' Roger says, raising his voice.

'Good to know that's the reason' Brian says with sarcasm. 'You guys working till 5 or 6 today? Because there's a rock show happening later a few blocks down and we were wondering if you and Fred wanted to join us once you're done?'

A man in his thirties comes by and starts to look through the clothing. He's stylish, with glasses and wavy hair, has a slight John Lennon look to him, but less extra, and he makes his way over to the shoes. He then picks up the jacket that Freddie had left there for safe keeping, and nods.

'Yeah, man, that sounds gear, we wrap up at 5 but packing all this shit down takes about an hour so we'll be finished around 6, where shall we meet you?' is Roger's response, not yet noticing their latest customer. Freddie is out of sight.

The man approaches Roger.

'Sorry to interrupt mate, but how much does this cost?' he asks politely. Roger is distracted by the possible plan for this evening that he has completely forgotten about Freddie's strict instructions to protect that jacket with his life.

'No, not at all man, uhh, you can have that for a tenner' says Roger, smiling wide. The man's eyes widen.

'Really? Just ten quid? Surely it's more than that, I saw this going in Biba for about fifty the other week?' the man says generously. Roger has a lightbulb moment and nods.

'Yeah, you're right, sorry, I thought it was a different piece of clothing, you can have that half price so twenty five quid please' says Roger, thinking he's being smart. The man beams and nods his head.

'Sure thing!' he gets his money out and hands it to Roger, 'thanks so much! Have a great day!'

'No worries, mate, you too!' Roger calls out after him, before placing the notes in the till and turning back to Brian and John, leaning back on the rack of trousers. 'If you guys just meet us here after our shift then we can pack this shit into your car and drive up. I might bring Crystal, actually, should probably give her a ring later, see if she's about'

As Brian and John are nodding at that, half of Freddie appears from behind the curtain. He's waving his love-at-first-sight off.

'I'll be around this evening for you to call me, darling!' he giggles, 'oh stop it, you're so naughty'

Freddie re-enters the main area of the stall and stands to face his friends. He puts his hands on his heart and he spins round on his feet, swooning.

'Wasn't he just a DREAM?' he says with an airy tone in his voice like he's out of breath. He looks a little more disheveled than he was when he left, his shirt riding up a little to reveal his hairy little stomach and his midnight black hair is sticking up a little.

'Someone's had fun, you know you are at WORK, Freddie', Roger's tone is moody.

'You're just in a sulk because you thought you were going to get some because you took your top off and then I happened to be the-' Freddie stops speaking mid sentence, as his eyes have noticed something.

'Roger...' he says, with deep deep seriousness.

'Yeah, what?' Roger asks, in a daze.

'Where is my jacket...?' Freddie's jacket is not where he left it, nor is it anywhere else as Freddie's eyes scan the surface of the stall. Brian and John appear confused, they weren't aware of the conversation earlier on in the day. Roger, on the other hand, looks like he's seen a ghost. All the colour drains from his face, and Freddie clenches his fists and grits his teeth, slowly stepping closer to Roger. Roger backs up against the racks of jeans and flares.

'Freddie, I'm so sorry'

'Who was he'

'Freddie I don't kn-'

'What did he look like'

'Uhh he h-had long hair a-and glasses, looked a bit l-like John Lennon'

'How much did he give you'

'Twenty five quid'

'YOU LET HIM GIVE YOU TWENTY FIVE STUPID POUNDS FOR MY FUCKING ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO POUND JACKET??'

'He told me he saw it in Biba the other day going for fifty!'

'The stupid cow was LYING! Which way did he go?'

Brian is trying not to laugh, clearly he and John missed a lot of the previous events in the day because this whole situation has escalated fairly fast. One minute Freddie was getting physical with a cute guy behind the curtains, and now he looks like he's actually going to KILL Roger. It's amusing to them from an outside perspective. Brian points left.

'He went that way'

Without any warning, Freddie storms over to the till and takes out fifty quid, and before the others know it he's gone. Running as fast as his skinny little legs will go in black clogs, stumbling like a baby dear, he hurtles down the street screaming 'WHO HAS MY FUCKING JACKET!' as people stare in disbelief. He stops every now and again to scan the perimeter to see if he can spot anyone who matches Roger's weak description, before bolting off again, in and out of market stalls. Then, across the road, is the fifth Beatle looking man, and as Freddie's eyes go into superzoom, he is carrying what Freddie recognises as his pride and joy piece of clothing. He dashes across the road as he is beeped by taxis and cars for not adhering to red lights, and finally catches up to the man, grabbing him by the shoulders. The man freaks out and turns around really fast, staring at the crazy looking mass of black hair stood before him with an expression of horror.

'What the fuck are you doing?' he questions, clearly alarmed by this whole thing because he's not quite sure what he's done wrong.

Freddie is out of breath but won't show it, and he puts his hands on his little feminine hips and gestures to the jacket in the mans hand.

'That's my jacket'

'No it's not, I bought it 10 minutes ago'

'I know you did, you bought it from my clothing stall. My idiot friend sold it to you by mistake, it wasn't for sale, I want it back'

'Well, you can't have it back! I bought it for twenty five pounds!'

'Listen to me, you ridiculous tart. I bought that jacket for £152, and you know that, because my friend told me you mugged him off with the prices. Now, I don't need to worry about money, because I'm going to be famous one day, but you, I don't see you doing anything interesting anytime soon. so I will give you double the refund price, but I am taking my jacket back'

Freddie hands him the fifty quid and before the guy can really do anything, snatches back his jacket and struts away, his thick black hair bouncing as he walks with a slight skip in his step, happy because he has won.

Brian and John are still there when Freddie returns, and they all stare at him as he walks past them, looking exhausted.

'See? You got it back, panic over' says Roger, trying to take the attention off the fact that he is the one who fucked up.

'Roger, you're a fucking idiot, and I am never trusting you with anything of mine again' Freddie says as he wraps the sleeves of the jacket around his tiny waist.

'That's harsh, come on, it was an easy mistake. Blame these two for coming over and distracting me' Roger exclaims, pointing at Brian and John who just roll their eyes. Freddie frowns, readjusting his mouth, and takes a cigarette from Roger's box. He doesn't like to smoke much, he's just doing this to get on Roger's nerves. He lights it and takes a drag, crossing his arms and flicking his hair behind his shoulder.

'I'm still suing you'

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