Roses in December

Two

Home, as it turned out, was something of a masterpiece. Roger had grown up in little places; small apartments and cottages. Lofts that were cramped and basements that were freezing. He never complained — that was a lie. He complained a lot. Especially to Brian, who shared a room with him while in uni. Roger remembered that small place very well, though he blamed that on the memory loss.

When the car pulled into the driveway, he thought it was another prank being pulled onto him. This looked more like a dollhouse that his sister had gotten one Christmas. Like the homes that were featured in all those magazines or on the cover of those dirty novels, his mum used to hide under her bed and read night after night.

It was a bloody mansion! He — Roger fucking Taylor — lived in a mansion. Not even in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined that happening. Sure, he spoke about it. Saying he'd buy one hell of a home that he would never actually live in because all he did was move about while touring, but he'd still do it.

He and Tim used to go on and on about the things they would do once Smile made it big. They'd have dozens of cars and draws filled with designer clothing. He'd have a girl on each arm, always someone pretty to show off whenever he entered a room. He'd have a great big home that would be used on the set of movies because it was just that glamours.

Even talking about that seemed so wild and out of his mind and yet the truth was staring him right in the face. Roger Taylor made it. After years of begging his mum to pay for lessons and putting up with his endless practicing, all the hard work finally paid off and this very house was to show for it.

And it was all his own. Well, to a degree.

To his surprise, it seemed that he shared the home with John. You'd think each member of a band that had multiple number one albums would be able to afford their own homes. It felt strange, knowing he lived with someone he had no memory of, but the house was big enough to distract him from that fact for the time being.

As they entered, John gave him a bit of a tour. They had their own sound room, where Roger's personal drum kit was set up, along with a handful of basses that John liked to keep around. There was a room that was just for John, who explained that he had gone to school for electrical engineering and would sometimes tinker around with different things. Roger had his own room, which he apparently used for writing.

"Have I written a lot of songs?" Roger asked, looking around the room. The walls were covered with pictures that seemed too good to be true.

Them holding up gold discs and photographed with different celebrities, like Elton John and David Bowie. How the fuck could Roger has met David Bowie and not remember it?!

"A few," John answered him, standing off in the open door. "Freddie said he would come over sometime soon. Show you a few albums. I think he's hoping it will jog your memory."

"If all that psychology bullshit didn't wake anything up, I highly doubt the music will," Roger muttered dryly, turning about so he could face John again. "Where to next?"

John showed him the rest of the house. The kitchen, which was fully stocked and the sitting room, which held the largest television Roger had ever seen up close. They had a full stacked wall of different films and over in the corner was the most gorgeous record player he had ever come in contact with. Beside that was a shelf filled with the record, all of which were in alphabetical order, though he didn't recognize all the names or artist.

He took a quick look at them, taking note of the artist he did remember. He saw a name frequently show up and grabbed one of the records to look it over. "Who is ABBA?" He called our curiously to John. "I have their whole collection."