It Can't Get Any Worse

Us Men Should Stick Together

Roger shifted and gave a forced smile at the elderly, balding man, while anxiously trying to pull the hem of his dress down. "So, Taylor... What can I get you to drink?" The man pulled his stool closer towards Roger, putting a daring hand on the blond's shaved leg. "I'm fine." He stated, trying to subtly push the unwanted hand off of his leg. 

"Ah no, please, I won't be having any of that. A gorgeous woman like you deserves a nice little treat every now and again. I can afford it, trust me." The man smiled, showing off yellowing teeth, which were sticking out like coffins. "I'm not taking no for an answer, so make up your pretty mind."

"Alright, I'll have the most expensive drink there is. I'm a high class woman, y'know." The man chuckled. 

"Two Armand de Brignac Champagnes, please. One for me and one for the lady." 

"Yeah, please." Muttered Roger, absentmindedly. He twiddled his fingers together, boredly looking around the bar. It was a dimly lit room, with dark wooden floorboards, dark purple barstools, dark coffee tables with black armchairs were located throughout the room and there was a scent of alcohol, tobacco and leather creeping around the bar. Couples were standing close together, sharing breathy laughs and smoky cigarettes. For a split second, Roger had the horrendous image of him and Freddie standing close together, laughing and sharing items as such. "How fucking disgusting." He mused.

The elderly man glanced down at the daydreaming Roger, a disgruntled look papered over his grooved face. "I always make sure that my lady friends are positively living in the lap of luxury. I am a hard earner, of course. Not a penny goes by me, and I do, obviously, spend it all on my deep company." 

The blond's head snapped up, visions of him being sent the man's riches, once he passes on flashing through his mind. He would become notouriously known as the widow, the heartbroken, grieveing wife, who is only left with her soulmate's riches and someone who would do anything to have her 'deep company' back.  

Roger grinned, lifting the champagne glass to his lips. "So, tell me." He started, trying to pull off a seductive whisper, "what might your name be?"

"Stupid, arrogant, idiotic git. Goes prancing off to the bloody bar, and leaves me to deal with all the luggage. I hope all of his internal organs are erupting right now." Freddie hissed, angrily slamming the blue leather suitcase shut. His furious mutterings were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. "What do you want now, you blond wanker?" Freddie yelled, throwing one of Roger's shirts at the opening door. A young, bewildered suited man emerged, lightly stepping out of attacking distance of the shirt. 

"Hello sir. I was just wondering whether you needed any help with your room? But it appears that you are making yourself comfortable already..."

Freddie whipped round, a strangled yelp poking through his throat. "Oh no, yes, of course, you would be at help, it's fine." He flapped, gesturing his hands around. 

"Ah okay." The man awkwardly walked into the minefield, trying a business like air towards the seeming hysteric customer, who was baring his crooked teeth with a lopsided grin. 

"What's your name?" Freddie asked, walking around the unsure worker, and closing the suite's door quietly. "My name's Frederick. But you can call me Freddie, if you like." Freddie glided to the large bed and sat down, striking his thought of a seductive stare. Still holding the perverted smirk at the apprehensive man. 

"George. Anyway, Sir-"

"Freddie."

George cleared his throat, in obvious unease, before regaining his serious act again. "Yes, Freddie, isn't your girlfriend the pretty, blonde thing in the spotted dress?" 

Freddie's smile faltered slightly, as he raked a hand through his dark hair and gritted his teeth in annoyance. "Yes. That's her." He muttered, disdainfully.

"Well, I'm not too sure whether I should be telling you this, or how to tell you..." 

Freddie jumped up, his brown eyes gleaming. "Come on. Sit on the bed next to me, you'll be more rested. Easier to tell me, you see." He said, grabbing hold of George's hand and dragging the helpless worker to the neat, white bed. "So? Darling, you don't need to look so worried, I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

George wrung his fingers around, looking at the door, wistfully. Willing for somebody, anybody, to walk in and take him back to his shifts. Nobody decided to come to the poor man's rescue. "It's about the lady you're courting. She was accompanying an older man - a much older man - to his room."

Freddie blinked, in pure shock. "What? You mean Rog- Taylor? I never knew that they were her type..."  Freddie narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. "You sure that it was her?"

"Positive. I'm very sorry that I was the one who had to tell you, but I thought that it was best you were informed."

The Persian bit his lip, thoughts racing through his mind. He knew for a fact that Roger wasn't gay, he had never given a man a second glance throughout Freddie's seven years of knowing him. Maybe he was getting a little bit too settled with the whole female act. But he's only been acting as a woman for a few bloody hours. "You mean he, excuse me, she was actually going into a man's room? An actual man? Not some tart dressed up?" 

"I am certain, Freddie. I understand that this will be a lot to take in, especially since you are here for a wedding, am I correct?" 

"Yes, yes, yes." Freddie draggd himself to stand up and began to pace around the ornate room. "A real man. Cock, bollocks and all." He muttered, frown lines wrinkling on his forehead. "Now that's very odd behaviour, isn't it?" Freddie asked, snapping out of his trance to look at George, in an addressing manner. 

"With the given situation, I assume so." 

Amidst the perplexion and uncertainty, a suggestve thought pierced through the Persian's mind. "Y'know, I always thought that us men should stick together. Maybe without the annoying garments which we call 'clothes'." 

"Excuse me?"

Freddie winked and glanced at the white door, a chuffed expression forming. "Now then darling, you don't need to sound so adamant..."