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I.
After months of battling, and good days, and bad days, and worse days, Freddie died. Surrounded by soft, bright colored clothing, and equally soft, warm sheets. Surrounded by his cats, and Jim.
Switzerland had been great, but he had said he needed to come back home, so Jim had complied. And every night he whispered to Jim that tomorrow would be the day he came back to the studio . I need to do those backing vocals with Rog. For old time’s sake . Jim nodded and tucked him in tighter.
Always, every single night, Jim read to him and to their cats. Years ago, Freddie would spread out books over the bed and ask the cats what they wanted to read, then laugh at their silly choices. These last few months, Jim read whatever Freddie wanted, but mainly poetry. Lately, both of them had discovered the beauty in Borges. He would read until Freddie’s labored breaths calmed somehow, and he knew he had fallen into a restless sleep. Then, he would read some more.
Last night, he read Limits while Freddie whispered the words. When dawn came, his tears had dried in his cheeks, and he felt numb with exhaustion. He dialed Miami, because it was time for them to know. The boys came, along with a lot of people from the record house, people Jim knew the names of, but couldn’t be bothered to recall.
They all came upstairs and cried, but Jim couldn’t find it in him to cry anymore. He looked at Freddie and simply couldn’t believe it.
People say you look smaller when you die. Freddie didn't. Jim thought Freddie looked like Freddie, only eerily still. The cats were still around, trying to poke Freddie into action, or walking between the visitors’ legs. They didn’t know, they couldn’t understand yet.
The cold of winter was starting to fall over London, and through the window, he could see their garden. Nothing would grow there for a while yet.
II.
The cats were angry. Jim could see that. Angry at the world at large.
Last week, the boys had come over. To talk, John had said over the phone. He didn’t want to let them in, it was his house, his and Freddie’s. But of course, when the three of them got there, Jim opened the door and poured them some tea. At the sight of their guests, the cats had whipped their tails in annoyance.
They talked for a bit. At least Brian talked. John stood by the window and looked outside. Roger just sunk in his seat sipping his drink and trying to pet one of the cats. But the cats didn’t want to be pet. At the approaching hand, Dorothy had hissed threateningly. Roger had frowned but stepped back. Jim almost smiled.
“What happened to the garden?” asked John, like he couldn’t see it for himself. It’s dead , wanted to answer Jim. Instead, he just shrugged.
The sun was shining again over London. The earth was awakening, ready to be worked. Nothing was being planted, though. He didn’t want anyone in this house, he didn’t want them here. He rolled his eyes at whatever Brian was saying.
“Why are you here?” he spat out with Goliath in his arms. He was done with this polite foreplay.
They had come to collect some of Freddie’s clothing. No, some of the outfits . And something about that wording just rubbed Jim the wrong way. It was like he had said costumes, like they were making fun of him.
Jim tried to remain calm. Why did they need those? He knew for a fact Freddie kept some in the studio, in each of their houses. Why did they need anything else?
Promotional work . Jim saw red. He all but kicked them out. No, you can’t have any of his clothing. This is our house, this is our life.
He feared the cats were going feral, but so was he.
III.
The weather had been awful these last few weeks. Humid heat, the kind Freddie always whined and complained about. It was the time of the year he would try to convince the others to go record abroad or to have some weeks off they would spend somewhere nicer .
He couldn’t help thinking he should have done more for Fred. For their house, for their relationship. He should have done more for their cats.
Jim remembered, quite vividly in fact, the number of times he had complained about cat hair in their brushes. They had cat brushes, why would Freddie use human ones.
Now, he didn’t have cat hair mixed with his. And he missed it.
If only he had shut his mouth those times.
Maybe .
IV.
No matter what he did, no matter what he gave them, they just wouldn’t eat. If had been able to muster the energy, Jim probably would have been a lot more worried. Their cats were losing weight. But, most importantly, they were losing will.
A part of Jim missed the frantic energy, the constant whining, the loud meowing, the cats everywhere . Now, it was as if Jim was living among ghosts.
Miami called, sometimes. Mary did, too. She would even invite him over for lunch, or dinner, or just to have a talk. They could open a bottle of wine, if he wanted to?
Jim thanked her, and every time he told her he would consider it. He told her he was very sorry, he had already made plans. Maybe next time, Mary. But thanks so much. He told her he couldn’t leave the cats right now, Romeo wasn’t feeling all that well. You know how they get, Mary.
He would spend the days in bed. He didn’t die, the cats needed him. So he got up, poured them water. Tried to feed them. He didn’t know why, but they refused to eat .
Jim had always thought their cats were a lot like Freddie, but maybe they were like him. Weak, dumb, frail. He felt like an empty shell. He would climb in the closet and lie atop Freddie’s clothes just to try and soak in the faint smell that was left.
He was so tired, all the time. Jim always thought he would feel better once he woke up, but he didn’t. He took showers, he looked out the window. The leaves were starting to fall, a chill setting over the city.
Jim would go out tomorrow morning, if he was feeling rested.
V.
Jim stopped expecting to see him laughing every time he turned a corner in the house. He stopped straining his ear to listen to Freddie singing in the morning, right before he opened his eyes. He stopped inadvertently making dinner for two.
He missed Freddie, terribly. He didn’t think he would ever be able to stop missing him.
Jim remembered the wrinkles that would appear around Freddie’s eyes when he smiled. He remembered the deep voice, the endless conversations he would hold with the cats. He remembered his kind hands and his soft steps. Every time he turned on the TV, Jim would go first through the channels that repeated old musicals and rather mediocre soap operas. He would still buy yellow bubble bath and eat food with maybe a bit too much spice.
Months passed, and somehow, Jim survived. And so did the cats.
They didn’t wait for Freddie outside the piano room, meowing in misery. They allowed being petted by family again. Roger came over for tea, bringing beers instead. He had declined, and there had been no hissing at all. Jim was very proud.
This was still their house, his and Freddie’s, and it would always be. Even if nothing smelled like him anymore.
The cold that had swept London was starting to recede. Assessing, Jim looked out the window and saw his once beautiful garden. Every year since they had met, Freddie had chosen the flowers that would be planted. Now, it was time to start seeding again.
It was alright, for a long time now he had known when the time came, he would sow yellow zinnias.