Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 94

I wanted to post this and the next two chapters on Christmas, but I didn't have enough time. Hope you like them and that you had a good holiday!

"For fuck's sake!" Roger shouted as he threw his hands in the air, letting the guitar he'd been playing hang from his shoulder. He wove his fingers into his hair and began to pace back and forth, Sting rolling his eyes and Stewart sighing in polite frustration. "I'm never going to get it," he mumbled.

"Hey, you almost had it that time," the drummer tried to encourage him, twirling his drumstick around in his fingers.

"And the fifty times before that," Sting muttered sarcastically under his breath, shooting a glare in Roger's direction and toying with the strings on his bass—a low hum resonating from the small speaker he'd brought from home. The three men had taken up shop in the small room in the basement of Imperial College that the blonde almost didn't recognize upon entering.

There was a tidy, straightness to it now that Roger could never have achieved in his short time there—not that order and organization were ever his strong suits. The desk was clean, with not a loose sheet or pencil in sight. The three guitars Brian had brought in for lessons—one acoustic, one electric, and one twelve-string—were neatly arranged in a straight line against the wall—the stands they rested against equally distant from each other—and the piano was neatly situated in the far corner, its bench tucked snugly beneath its keys.

Roger could tell that it wasn't the same piano he brought down last winter, though. The ivory keys that the blonde fell against as the professor rushed him for a kiss were too shiny and untouched for it to be the same. He must've gotten her to buy a new one, he figured, same as with the collection of sheet music that was sorted alphabetically by cubby. Roger didn't have any of that when he was the music instructor. He had to use the piano that was in the staff room and whipped up everything by hand (not that there was much for him to transcribe; after all, he did only have one student).

The arrangement sparked a bit of jealousy in the blonde, who wished that things could go back to the way they were a year ago. He resented the position he put himself in, working two jobs in a country he thought he would like but turned out to hate and then leaving those jobs to pursue a gig he thought would give him the opportunity he'd always wanted, and for the most part it had, but he couldn't enjoy it with Tim and Brian constantly on his mind.

"Can we just try it one more time?" Roger pleaded with crimson red cheeks.

"You know, why don't we take ten?" Stewart suggested, standing up from the stool he'd been perched on for the better part of the last five hours.

"Okay, but the show's in three hours," the bassist snapped. "You're all aware of this, right? If we don't get this set down, we're never going to be able to show our faces around London ever again. Is that what you want?"

The drummer scoffed, joining his friend's side. "Oh, stop being so dramatic." He dropped his hand on Sting's shoulder and gave it a slight, reassuring squeeze. "He's gonna get it." His gaze shifted over to Roger, causing a blush to instantly rise in the blonde's cheeks. "I know he will."

Sting threw his hands up in surrender. "Fine. Let's take ten." Roger started to set his guitar down, only to be stopped before the instrument could touch its stand—Sting throwing a finger in his direction and saying, "Except you. You're going to stay here and learn your parts."

"But—"

"Learn your parts, blondie," he repeated, a distinctive sternness to his voice.

Roger met Stewart's pitying gaze, hoping the drummer would convince the bassist to let him take a break too, but all he did was give him a helpless shrug and followed his friend out into the hallway. When the door closed behind the pair, the blonde heaved a sigh and draped the guitar back over his shoulders.

He began strumming the first few chords of the song they'd been working on and quietly sung Sting's vocals that played in his ears like a broken record. As he did so, he wandered over to the desk and leaned against it, allowing his attention to drift to the photograph tucked beneath the mug holding the professor's pens and pencils. His fingers fell off the guitar strings and grabbed the photo, bringing it closer to see that it was the picture he had sent Brian before returning to London.

Roger remembered the night he snapped the photo. Tim was fast asleep, sprawled out across the whole mattress, and the blonde had just come home from a long night at the bar. Seeing that there was no place for him in bed, Roger thought he'd kill some time in the bathroom, figuring that by the time he came out, Tim would have repositioned himself and freed up one side of the bed.

In the bathroom, he stood in front of the sink, staring into the mirror like he was trying to see into another world. Part of him believed he was, since it had only been a few days with his new haircut and he was still getting used to the reflection looking back at him. It didn't seem as foreign to him as it did when he was first introduced to it, but it still seemed like a completely different man.

He wondered what Brian would think if he saw him like this and played through all the reactions the professor would have to his new appearance in his head: I love it. I hate it. As long as you like it, I like it. I wish you would've done something different. It looks fine. Why would you do something like that? Are you crazy?

There was only one way Roger would find out, so he left the room to retrieve the polaroid camera that he and Tim had sitting on the coffee table. As the blonde checked the film, his boyfriend stirred in the bedroom—causing him to tense up, as if he were an intruder in their home—but didn't wake up. Holding his breath, Roger returned to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and dared to take the picture. The self-developed photograph captured the lights hung on each side of the mirror, the half-closed shower curtain behind him, the very top of the sink faucet, and, of course, Roger himself—the reflection donning his new, shorter locks and the solid, white t-shirt he wore almost every night.

The blonde waited to send the photograph until the day he left for London, which explained why Brian reacted the way he did when he first saw him. He probably hadn't received the photograph until after Roger arrived. Thinking about the blush that rose in Brian's cheeks upon opening the envelope brought a smile to the blonde's face, a smile that didn't last very long—wiped away by the slam of the door as it flew into the room and the return of his two band members.

"You ready, blondie?" Sting asked, a bitter tinge to the harshly delivered question.

"Yeah," Roger lied, tucking the photograph of himself back underneath the mug and peeling himself away from the desk. He and Stewart met one another's gazes, and the latter flashed him a small, supportive grin before taking his seat behind his drum kit. The bassist grabbed his instrument and threw the strap over his shoulders, plucking a few notes before instructing the other two to start from the top of the set.