Roses in December

Eight

"Hey, hey, hey. It's all right." The voice speaking was not his own. It was too light, too particular. It filled Roger's sense, calming him even in the most straining of situations. Roger wasn't okay, he wasn't all right. His heart was beating out his chest and his head was pounding. He didn't know what was wrong, he just felt awful.

Arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him back into a tight hold. Roger didn't have attacks like this often, but when they came, they were harsh and raw and left Roger feeling absolutely destroyed. He didn't really know what had happened, what caused him to go off the way he did.

Maybe it was the stress of the tour or maybe it was the way the American people were looking at him. Roger always kept his cool, kept his composure. Touring was always the same. You play your songs and smile for the cameras. You do the interviews and go to the parties. Roger followed the beat easily enough.

He always believed he was made for this. Made for the limelight, but sometimes even a star could find itself falling too quickly.

"Breathe, Roge. Just breathe." Roger leaned back against the body that was holding him closely. He closed his eyes, closed his mouth, and inhaled deeply through his nose. They breathed together slowly, chest rising and falling together. "I'm here. It's all right."

Roger wasn't relaxing, wasn't calming, but he felt better. There were lips by his ear, whispering to him. There was a hand holding his own, rubbing his chest comfortingly. "I love you," The voice whispered again and again.

"I know," Roger spoke, squeezing the hand tightly. "I know."

Roger woke with a beating chest and a pounding head. There was yelling somewhere; the sound was muffled but just loud enough to pry Roger from his slumber. Freddie and Brian were going back and forth, probably shouting between their rooms.

Roger groaned, pressing the ends of the pillows against his ears, trying to silence the sound. He wanted to crawl back to sleep, to find that dream once again. It wasn't a good moment, a great scene, but he felt so cared for, so loved. Roger hadn't felt like that in . . . ever. Or maybe he had and it was just lost on him.

He tried and failed to fall back into that moment and found himself reluctantly waking up. His head and heart were heavy and all Roger wanted to do was escape the harsh reality that was his current life. Every time he woke up, he felt like he was losing another part of himself. He began to wonder how many more days would have to wake up until there was nothing left of himself.

Pulling his clothes on, Roger made the small journey down the stairs. Freddie and Brian were still going at it, making comments on this or that. Roger didn't have to listen for long to realize that they were arguing over a song. About the flow of it and how Freddie wanted to speed it up just a bit, how Brian said that just wouldn't work without messing up the sequence of instruments.

John was nowhere to be seen. Roger moved past the kitchen to head down to the basement, but the room was empty. Heading up the stairs, he looked out, finding the three set of cars still parked outside. John hadn't left the farm at least.

"Roger! Please, help me out here." Brian called out, turning the blond's attention onto something other than their bassist.

The three of them went back and forth on the sounds. Roger had very little idea to which one they were even debating over, but he sided with them both. They had to play it both ways to decide how it should be recorded. Whether it be a bit speedier or keep with the usual tempo.

Freddie agreed and hurried off out a fight. Brian led Roger down to where their instruments were and when Freddie joined them, he had John in tow. The man didn't say a word, didn't look over to where Roger was sitting behind his kit. He just picked up his guitar and waited for Freddie to give them the go.