Killer Queen | Ben Hardy

5. the invisible man

Getting him up and moving is a battle. Until Roger's on his feet—more or less—I don't realize how truly incapacitated he is. Despite him attesting that he can walk on his own, I force him to lean against me for support. I know that he most certainly cannot walk on his own.
    I'm unstable enough in my four inches too tall heels—Roger's weight against my shoulders makes it so I'm the one stumbling around. It's a mess, but at least I have him out the door. Only a couple of blocks to go.
    "Hey, watch your hands!" I say as I yank his arm upwards. Once again, it inches painfully close to my behind.
    There's no doubt in my mind that he's milking this. With one arm carelessly thrown over my shoulder and the other wrapped around the front of my waist, you'd think we were conjoined at the hip. He's clearly trying to make as much contact as he can get away with; he's holding onto me in an awkward side hug as we hobble down the street. Ridiculous.
    "My bad, I can't see anything." He lies as his hand grips my waist. "It's too dark!"
    I can't help but roll my eyes. The street lamps light up the sidewalk like a Christmas tree. "You can see."
    He pauses for a moment, mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath. "I'm—I'm drunk!" He shouts suddenly. As if that's an excuse for everything.
    "I know, silly," I say quietly to him, trying to calm his sudden outburst. "It's about time you admit it." I don't mind his playful antics, instead I find them rather amusing.
    As we approach the supposed apartment complex, I heedfully allow him to lead us through the halls, not fully trusting in his ability to get us there in one piece. The building is rundown: lights flicker in the hallways, while other bulbs are out completely. Ugly checkered-patterned wallpaper peels on the sides of the walls, while mud and grime litter the floors. And there is this awful odor of mold or maybe rotten wood.
    Despite the circumstances, we make it to room 14C. Roger unlocks the door and stumbles ahead of me, collapsing on top of the mattress on the floor.
    I take a few hesitant steps inside, surprised by what I see. The entire apartment floor-plan is laid out in one room: there is a small kitchen to the left, then roughly 10 square meters of open space to the right. Hiding in a small alcove is a door, presumably leading to the washroom, since I don't notice a toilet lazing about in the open. Thank God for that. The only furnishing in the space is a twin-sized mattress and a couch that looks like it's been pulled straight out of a dumpster—it probably has been. Clothes rest in garbage bags along the sides of the walls while empty pizza boxes and beer bottles litter the floor. The little open space left in the room is occupied by papers and notebooks filled with scrawled out song lyrics. It's a mess.

    However, Roger isn't bothered by the clutter, now flipping himself over so he's resting on his back. He props himself up slightly, using his jacket as a makeshift pillow.

    There's no place to sit—and no, the shabby couch is not an option—so I shuffle my way over toward Roger. I wedge myself in next to him, sitting adjacent to his outstretched legs so I can face him. "Home sweet home," I joke as my eyes wander around the space once more. And I thought Daisy and I had it rough.
    My legs are angled toward Roger with my arms extended behind my frame. My knees gently poke into his side, on account of there being no room on the small mattress. But I doubt he minds.
    He chuckles in response to my comment as his arm slowly extends out to his side and finds contact with my knee. His fingers drum out a silent beat on my leg as he stares up at the sky. He doesn't speak for a moment, then "It won't be for long." His words are hollow, his smile long gone.
    I notice it again: he has that far off look in his eyes, the same look from earlier that night.
    "What are you thinking?"
    His hand stops moving and his eyes flicker back toward my own. He seems to gauge his next words carefully, not speaking for a moment. But he evidently gives up and mutters, "Tim's a prick," before going back to drumming.
    "Is that what you're upset over?" I feel like he wants to say more, like he's only brushing the surface of his worries.
    Roger slightly nods his head, the thoughtfulness in his expression replaced with anger. "He ruined the band."
    I press my lips together into a firm line, holding my tongue; Roger and I both know he's being over-dramatic. The band is not ruined. I understand his frustration with one of his member's up and quitting, but I pensively remind him of Freddie's commitment to join.
    "I know he's joining," Roger begins, as if convincing himself of something. "It's just—everything's changing." His eyes betray his worry for the future: I can see that these thoughts are eating him alive. His life is his band, and if it doesn't work out—then what?
    "Maybe it's changing for the better." I delicately take his hand that has been incessantly thrumming against my leg, and squeeze.
    He seems to calm, his eyes fluttering shut while his body noticeably relaxes. I quietly tell him of my belief in his abilities. With the way Smile played tonight, I know they're going places. With a talent like theirs, it's unimaginable to believe they'll fail.
    What I don't tell him, is my own fears. I fear that while he's off living amazing adventures, I'll be stuck in the same drab town with the same dead-end job. I only hope he won't forget about me.
    I focus my eyes back on Roger who's breathing has slowed to a shallow, rhythmic pace. He's asleep. I sigh and gently release his hand, placing it over his chest. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps that I almost feel bad for leaving him. But duty calls, and I know I have work in the morning.
    Before I slip out the door, I scribble a few numbers on a scrap piece of paper from the floor. Knowing full well that I misplaced the phone number he gave me last week, I want to give him a way to contact me in the future. Gently, I crouch down and place the folded sheet of paper in his palm.
    As I face level with his sleeping frame, I recall my fears from moments earlier. How can I already feel so attached to this boy after only one night? In an almost inaudible voice, I whisper, "Don't forget about me," before placing a delicate kiss on his forehead.
    He doesn't stir, and I look at him once more before slipping out the door. I can't wait to see him again.

~•~

author's note:
hope you enjoyed!
btw even i'm cringing at how melodramatic dani is. she's already catching the feels...