Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

46. Skylar

For well over a year, I've been having the exact same dream every few months. That in itself is irritating, but the worst part is that I always wake up before it ends.

"It'll be okay," dream-Roger assures me each time. "Trust me."

And I want it all to be okay. More than anything, I want to trust Roger. But all I can manage is: "I..."

That's it. That's all that comes out. And then I wake up, cursing my brain for refusing to reveal what I was supposed to say.

So imagine my horror tonight when, faced with the real-life Roger, the same thing happened. We'd been having the best conversation in a long time, half of which was unspoken: an undercurrent of glances and a swirl of shared emotions. I wanted to bare my soul to him at that moment, but I just couldn't get the words out.

Laying in bed an hour later, I replay the evening in my head, and then once more just for kicks. What did it all mean? And where does this leave me, aside from half-asleep, half-drunk, laying on a pillow wet with tears? And why didn't I listen to my gut so many years ago when it said that this thing with Roger would only lead to heartache?

My alarm is set for five hours from now, and I'm going to be a disaster tomorrow. Turning onto my side, I bunch the pillow under my cheek and force myself to close my eyes. I toss and turn for what feels like forever and, finally, drift off to sleep.

Except I don't quite make it til tomorrow before the banging on the door wakes me up. I open one eye groggily before my mum instinct kicks in, and I realize that Jesus Christ, it's half-three, and the noise will wake up Cadie.

Leaping out of bed, I run down the hallway to wrestle open the front door. Cold air rushes in, and I blink at the glare from the streetlight. Then, slowly, I register the blonde drummer standing in front of me. He's nervously tapping his thigh, his hair sticking up as if he's run his hand through it one too many times. He appears vaguely tormented and, at this very moment, looks so fucking hot.

We stand in silence, me in disbelief that he's here, and him apparently in shock that... well, that he's here.

"Could I come in?" he asks quietly.

"Uh, yeah, of course." I nod, opening the door wider so he can walk inside. I pause a moment before shutting the door firmly, and, as soon as I turn around, I bump into him.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize--

"I've been walking for hours," he interrupts, sounding a bit dazed.

His face is just barely visible in the dark, and I've no idea what's going on. I'm reasonably confident that this is just another dream, so I decide that there's no harm in asking.

"Is this real?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I groan internally. Even if this is a dream, who asks that!?

"Is this...?" Roger replies, sounding confused.

"Nothing," I mumble, wiping a hand over my face in exasperation. "It's these dreams I keep having."

"You have dreams about me?" I can hear the smirk that's most assuredly on his face.

"What?! No! That's now what I said."

Roger takes a step towards me, then hesitates. "Could I...?

Without waiting for me to answer, he wraps his arms around me. My arms automatically encircle him, and his head rests familiarly on the top of mine. We stand like that for a long while, our breathing eventually synchronizing.

"Why were you wandering around in the cold?" I finally ask.

"Just thinking." Roger's voice is raspy, as if something is caught in his throat.