Roses in December

Six

A sense of relief came over the blond as he walked into the house. It had only been a week since they moved in, but being able to say that he had a home — a mansion — a place that wasn't a loft or basement or tiny little apartment he shared with four other men brought a swell of pride to him.

He was still getting used to owning something so big. Of course, the name on the house was not his own — they had a long talk about that and decided that the other was just a tad bit more responsible and had a better record when it came to showing interest in buying.

The land was long and gated. Roger's cars looked absolutely wonderful parked out front. He had bought most of them cheap, hoping to spruce them up a bit and show off. Brian had mentioned that it was a bit too early to be buying such showy things, but the blond just told him of fuck off.

They worked hard and deserved to have something to call his own. So when it came time to decide that he wanted to settle down somewhere in between touring and press released, Roger couldn't think of anywhere else he'd rather do it.

Roger walked through the door, shouting out to make his presence known. In his hand was a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, cut fresh just for his beloved. He kicked off his shoes in the corner and hanging his coat up on the hook, he let out another yell.

"Come on, sweetheart. Hiding from me already?" He laughed through his words.

The place was big enough for the two of them. Large rooms and halls that echoed. Roger spent a good time using it for vocal practice while they were still debating whether or not to take it and it was that echo that carried his voice so nicely was what convinced him.

Hopping up the stairs, he paused, leaning against the banister. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

"I'm not hiding!" The fair voice called out from down the hall. Roger knew the direction all too well — their bedroom.

Practically skipping along the way, Roger swung the door open with so much excitement and flair, his smile absolutely beaming as he spotted his love, waiting for him on the bed. "Hello, sweetheart."

Roger woke with a groan, his eyes blurry as he forced himself to sit up. His head was fuzzy and he felt like he had been woken from something more than a dream. Everything about it seemed so familiar, incredibly the home that he had been staying in as well as the uniquely sweet voice that Roger just couldn't seem to place.

He chalked it up like a dream, choosing to get up off the bed and begin his day. He groaned, rubbing his heads as he searched around for the small dresser his clothes had been shoved into.

He continued to tell himself that he had to start wearing his glasses when he wasn't on stage but always found that it was hard to persuade himself to do so, especially since he absolutely hated the way he looked in them. He wasn't like Elton John who made the eyewear apart of his specific style.

Roger knew he packed them along the way, but told himself he'd find them somewhere at a later time. Dressing, Roger made his way downstairs, following the smell of cooked sausage and coffee that filled the farmhouse.

"Well, good morning sunshine!" Freddie called out from where he stood in front of the small stove.

Roger had always been the designated cook of the group back when they lived in their little shack of a home. Mostly because he had been taught by his mother and if you were the one cooking, then you weren't the one who had to clean up.

John and Brian were already seated, their plates half empty as they skimmed through the morning paper.

"Sleep well, Roger?" Freddie asked, turning to press a cup into his hand.