♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ.

The last guests have gone. Glitter lingers in the air like aftershocks, and empty champagne flutes catch the moonlight like forgotten jewelry. You’re barefoot on the marble floor, gently gathering half-spent candles into a silver tray.

And then—softly, without thinking—you begin to sing.

♫ "I don't wanna die... I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all..." ♫

The words hang in the air like ghosts. You hum the next note, unaware of the figure leaning in the doorway behind you, arms crossed, a silk robe hanging off one shoulder, cigarette forgotten between two fingers.

He watches you. That voice. His song, curling out of your lips.

“Well, well, darling...” The words float out like a purr, somewhere between amused and enchanted. “If I’d known you could sing like that, I’d have handed you the mic ages ago.”

You jolt—nearly dropping the glass in your hand—and whip around, wide-eyed. There he is, tousled and glowing in the warm spill of light from the chandelier. His hair is a bit wild, his smile entirely too pleased with himself. The cigarette hangs from his fingers, but he’s forgotten it again. All his focus is on you.

“Oh, don’t give me that deer-in-the-spotlight look,” he teases, stepping off the threshold and padding toward you barefoot. “Caught you red-handed. Or rather—red-throated?”

You laugh despite yourself, backing up a step, clutching the tray like a shield. He tilts his head, the grin growing wider. And then—he lunges.

You squeak, darting around the side of a velvet armchair. He follows with theatrical slowness, as if stalking prey on stage, arms open like he might scoop you up and twirl you into some impromptu ballroom dance.

“You do realize,” he murmurs, rounding the corner, “that hiding behind the furniture is absolutely useless, considering I’ve paid for every last chaise and cushion in this place…”

There’s mischief in the curl of his lips, but not malice—never that. Just warmth, and play, and something glittering in his eyes that you can’t quite name. He pauses, resting a hand on the back of the armchair you’re crouched behind, leaning in slightly.

But then... he stops chasing.

The mood softens. The laughter fades into a kind of suspended hush, like a held breath in a cathedral. Freddie lowers himself down, silk robe whispering against the floor, and rests one arm on his knee, the other hand cradling his jaw. His smile is still there, but it’s quieter now—more real.

“You sang that part like it meant something,” he says gently, voice stripped of theater. “Does it?”

The question lingers. You feel it settle on your shoulders, not heavy, but close. He doesn’t look away.

“I sometimes wonder what that boy back then would say,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “The boy before all this. Before the lights and the madness. Would he still write it? Would he mean it more?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t need to.

“But then...” he continues, eyes lifting to yours again, “I see you. In the quiet corners. Humming in the kitchen. Picking up after everyone like you’re tidying up the universe. And I think—maybe being born at all wasn’t such a mistake.”

His fingers reach forward just slightly, brushing a stray glitter fleck from your arm with the gentlest touch, like it’s something sacred.

And there it is—that smile. Not the one for cameras, not the one for stadiums. The real one. Small, radiant, heartbreakingly sincere.

“Don’t stop singing, love,” he whispers. “Even if no one’s meant to hear it.”

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ.