Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 97

The band had minutes until they were supposed to go on stage. Roger and Sting stood in the wings, watching as the first act wrapped up their set. They weren't bad, but their guitarist introduced a bit of intimidation in Roger. Sting could tell by the way the blonde's leg shook, and the way he started to bite his nails. He kept quiet, though, maintaining the tense silence that had loomed over them since their chat in the dressing room and hoping that, once Roger got on stage, the embarrassing tremor would stop.

"Hey guys," Stewart greeted, startling Roger as he appeared out of nowhere, zipping up his fly and smoothing out his hair. "Did I miss anything?" he asked.

"Just these blokes making us look bad before we even get on stage," Sting muttered, paying his friend no attention as he watched the band gather around the riser their drummer was perched atop—the song they played dissolving into a cacophony of sustained guitar chords, droning, overpowering bass notes, and the increasingly loud clash of cymbals and rapid pounding of the kick drum.

"Always the positive one, isn't he?" Stewart quipped, smirking at Roger who immediately shifted his gaze to the floor. The drummer's brows furrowed, and just as he was about to ask the blonde what was wrong, the band on stage finished their song and the crowd exploded into a deafening round of applause. The celebrated musicians brushed past the three men with as much gear as they could carry in their hands and wished them luck as the house lights went up.

The blonde pushed aside the heavy curtain hiding him and his other two bandmates and skimmed the crowd for Brian's face, but all he could find were those belonging to that infamous group of five and Chrissie's. The headmistress was all the way in the back, her eyes glistening as she scanned the room as well. Roger wondered if she too was looking for Brian. She had to be, he thought. Who else would she be looking for?

Little did either of them know that the professor had left the building and was walking the dark streets of London with Tim and Geoff, feeling uncomfortable and out of place, like he didn't belong.

He clutched his wife's purse tightly to his chest and never broke his stare with the two men who were practically strangers to him, the high he still rode making him focus on the puffs of breath slipping past their lips instead of the direction in which they were headed. He was so out of it that their hushed conversation failed to register for him, and perhaps if it did, he would've had enough wits to turn on his heel and make a mad dash for the venue, or at least anywhere else than where the pair were planning to take him.

Back at the concert hall, Sting, Stewart, and Roger had finished setting up their instruments and mics and the house lights had gone back down. The crowd buzzed with excitement, anticipating the start of the next act while the band waited for the backstage manager's cue to go on, when suddenly Roger—petrified—murmured, "I can't do this."

"What?" Sting hissed, glaring at him over his shoulder.

He shook his head, his heart racing. "I can't do this."

Stewart scoffed. "What are you talking about? Of course you can do this. I wouldn't have brought you with me if I didn't think you could."

"No, this was a mistake," the blonde groaned. "I should've never left New York. I'm not ready for this. I'm sorry." He pushed past the bassist and drummer and escaped into the shadows. Stewart jerked forward, ready to run after him, when Sting's hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm. The drummer looked back to see his friend shake his head in an admonishing way.

"It's not worth it," Sting told him.

Roger wove his way through the dark hallways, squeezing between band members and storage boxes and nearly tripping over himself before breaking out into the alleyway in the back. He began to pace back and forth, gasping for the cold air that bit at his exposed skin. Tears pricked his eyes and his chest felt full of knots. He sat himself down on the freezing ground and buried his face in his hands.

He couldn't believe what was happening. This was all he'd ever wanted, and he blew it. He blew it, just like he blew his gig at Imperial College, and just like he blew his gig as a prostitute. Tim was right. He should've stuck with what he knew. Instead, he went and made a fool of himself. He'd become someone he didn't recognize; someone he was ashamed to be, so frightened of everything that he lost sight of who he was and what he wanted.

Those two things used to be so clear to him. He was Roger Taylor; he was Liz. He wanted more than the life he and Tim had built together; he wanted to be treated better, and he got that in the university and Brian and Stewart and the band, but now that he had them, it seemed as though what he wanted wasn't what he wanted after all. If it was, he wouldn't be outside sitting in an alleyway, a shivering, sobbing mess.

Suddenly, the door swung open behind Roger and slammed into the dumpster, the clang of the two heavy metals masking the distant, fatal gunshot that cracked through the air. Roger's head snapped up, his bloodshot gaze lifting in the direction of the sharp sound. He stared at the dark, brick wall that towered over him for a bit, waiting to hear it again, but all he heard was the clearing of someone's throat, which startled him just as much.

"What the hell are you doing, Rog?" Steward asked, standing inside the threshold and looking down at him with arms folded over his chest. The question was delivered more gently than the words themselves led on.

"I-I don't know, Stewart," the blonde stammered, dropping his hands into his lap and sniffling. "I don't fucking know."

"Hey." The drummer stepped out into the alleyway and crouched down beside him, gripping his shoulder gently. "Look, Rog, if this is about the show—"

"For fuck's sake, it's not about the bloody show!"