𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙯𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 ┆[r.t.]

v. you and i

↳˳ੈ;; ❝ we'll go walking in the moonlight
walking in the moonlight
laughter ringing in the darkness
people drinking for days gone by
time don't mean a thing
when you're by my side
please stay awhile ೫˚∗:

"Come on!" Roger yelled as the car in front of them stopped. "Where'd you learn to drive, middle school? Wanker!"

Christine chuckled softly at the indignated drummer, who was eager to get out of traffic with his loaned car. It was around twelve thirty when they got out of the hotel, and the downtown streets were unusually crowded for a sunday morning. They'd walked out, both with a cap and sunglasses on, because, Roger had told her, she'd probably find her face on the local new if she didn't cover it. "Who's this mystery woman the Queen drummer is driving?" he'd mocked.

And it made her think a bit, because if she kept in contact with Roger, she'd have to hide or focus on being secretive all the time, because Queen were big and popular worldwide... She didn't feel like being criticized by local newspapers.

But at the same time... Nothing guaranteed Roger would want to stay in touch.

Because he'd go back to England, work on yet another killer album and forget all about the little girl he'd met in Montreal.

That thought alone made her eyes burn, for some reason, so she tried to avoid it, but now, as she was sitting in his car, so casually, and he acted like it was nothing big, and he was so beautiful and caring and sweet...

She couldn't stop the tears when they started welling in her eyes.

He was going to leave her soon, and she wasn't ready for it. Because as much as she wouldn't mean a thing to him in a few weeks, downgraded to a simple fling in his mind, she'd stay here, thinking about him day and night, the musician that noticed the average girl.

Unintentionally, she sniffled and Roger looked at her. She turned away, but too slow, and he had noticed the silent tears staining her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" he asked, and the genuine concern in his voice made her want to sob.

"Nothing," she answered, too quickly, and her voice sounded so little and broken and pathetic she wanted to smack herself.

In answer, Roger stayed silent. Even though she was grateful she didn't have to explain, she had to admit she was a wee bit hurt by how quickly he'd let it go.

But he surprised her, again, when he pulled off the crowded street and stopped in a narrow alley between two buildings. He cut off the contact and stared at her.

"Christine. I'm not going to ask thrice. Why are you crying? Who do I have to fight?"

She sniffed and shook her head, a smile creeping on her face at the last sentence. Such a Roger thing to say.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's perfectly fine. Just tell me who made you sad so I can shove my fist up their ass."

She snorted. "I'm... It's not someone you can fight."

"Is it me? If it is, I'm so sorry. You know I could shove my fist up my own ass if I hurt you unintentionally."

"Oh, god, Roger, I can't be sad with you around..." Christine laughed, but tears were still spilling out of her eyes.

"That's a good thing. Don't be sad," he said softly. He reached a hand toward her face, cupping her cheek in his palm and lightly wiping away the water with his thumb.

But that gentleness only broke her heart more because... because— "I'm not ready for you to leave, Roger," she whispered, looking away.

"Oh."