Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 102

"Did you hear me?" Roger asked, spinning around to face Tim and crossing his arms. "I said I need to leave for a bit."

The brunette shook his head, snapping himself out of the daze he'd fallen into, and replied, "And go where?"

The blonde shrugged. "I don't know. Anywhere but here."

A chuckle slipped past Tim's lips. "Figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know what you're doing," he muttered, rolling over to the side of the bed that Roger previously occupied and sticking his hand into the nightstand drawer.

"And what is that?"

"You're trying to run away from me and convince yourself that you still don't want to be with me." He pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes—either ones that he smuggled in or ones that his grandmother had tucked away for herself—and picked one out. "But it's obvious you do. I mean, for god's sake, Rog, you spent last night with me. Not him. Me." He struggled to create a flame with the Zippo, but once he did, he brought it up to the end of the white stick and breathed in deep, exhaling a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. He tipped his head back down and met Roger's teary-eyed gaze. "When are you going to stop running from the truth?"

The blonde shot his trembling index finger in his boyfriend's direction. "Never."

"Fine." The brunette took another drag. "Keep lying to yourself. It's not going to change anything. You and I both know you'll be back here by the end of the day, and guess what?" He blew smoke in the blonde's direction and smirked. "I'll be right here waiting for you, just like always."

Gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into fists—so tight that he nearly drew blood—Roger darted out of the room and ran downstairs. His fast and heavy footsteps echoed throughout the vast, empty home in search of the garage. Pushing in nearly every door on the first level, he finally came across the extension that housed three cars in pristine condition, cars that Roger could only dream of driving, let alone owning. At the far end sat a fourth car, one that the blonde was more familiar with—the one that Nana drove him to the university in, and the one she pulled up to their old flat in countless times.

With his heart pounding in his ears, Roger reached out and grabbed one of the four sets of keys hanging on the wall, sticking it into each of the locks until he found success with the Aston Martin parked next to the old beater. He ripped open the door and slid into the driver's seat, letting out a shaky sigh and sinking back into the leather seat that felt like it hadn't ever been sat in before. He ran his hands over the glossy steering wheel and pressed his lips together, contemplating if he should just go back inside and apologize for overreacting to something he should've known was going to happen sooner or later. Tim told him he would back, and that's exactly what happened. He came back.

Not this time, he told himself, stepping out of the vehicle and grabbing the rope tied to the garage door. He tugged it back and the door rode its track into the ceiling, flooding the garage with the brisk sunlight that shone down on all of London. Roger's heavy breaths manifested into the cold air as he broke out into the blinding glare, making his way to the front. He hugged himself for warmth and stared at the gate that closed Nana's house off from the rest of the world, trying to remember how he got through it the night before.

Of course, he couldn't, and so decided to strap himself in, throw on the pair of sunglasses that were perched atop the dashboard, and slam his foot down on the gas pedal, busting the luxury car out of its cage and plowing it straight through the gate. The iron doors burst open, hitting the brick walls with a loud clang and luring Tim out of bed—the bare-assed brunette rushing up to the window and watching as the Aston Martin sped away, its driver buzzing with adrenaline.

A trip that normally took half an hour only lasted fifteen minutes as Roger wove in and out of lanes of traffic and whipped carelessly around corners, flying up to the curb outside of Freddie and Mary's place. The screech of the brakes as he came to an abrupt stop echoed through the neighborhood. Checking himself once more in the rear-view mirror, the blonde ran a hand through his messy hair and took a deep breath before getting out of the car.

Roger slammed the door shut and looked at the house in front of him, a terrible feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know if it was because he wasn't ready for what lay behind that front door, or because he hadn't had something to eat since before the concert last night. Maybe the adrenaline had worn off, the spontaneity in his actions suddenly less exciting. Whatever it was, he pushed through it, approaching the front door with a growing sense of unease he couldn't ignore. By the time he'd wrapped his hand around the doorknob, he'd gotten himself so worked up, he couldn't turn it. He only stood there, staring at the door in front of him, terrified of what was on the other side.

Just then, the door swung in, pulling Roger in with it. The blonde stumbled over the threshold and looked up over the clear rim of the brown-tinted sunglasses he'd borrowed to see Freddie towering over him. He had no time to respond before his friend took him in his arms and gave him a tight squeeze.

"Is...Is everything okay, Fred?" the blonde stammered, his gaze traveling to the kitchen where Mary stood in the doorway, dressed in one of the robes Roger swore was Freddie's and holding a saucer and hot cup of tea in her hands. There was a look in her eyes that the blonde had never seen before—pity, genuine pity, but why?

Freddie leaned back and cupped Roger's cheeks in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Rog."

"What for?" he asked, not understanding what his friend was talking about.

"Chrissie called," Mary chimed in softly, bringing the cup up to her lips and drinking from it so that she didn't have to elaborate, or really, be the bearer of bad news.

"W-Why?" Roger shifted his worried attention back to the dark-haired man who still hadn't let go of him, afraid that if he did, the blonde would crumble to pieces.

Freddie pulled the blonde back in for another bone-crushing hug before whispering in his ear, "Brian's gone, Roger."

This was it. This was what Roger was afraid of; what caused the knot in his stomach.

"What do you mean he's gone?" he whispered back, staring at Mary and matching her glistening eyes.

"He's dead."