Roses in December

Eleven

The days to finish the album came and went and before they knew it, it was out of their hands. They played every note they could play and sing every lyric that could be sung. All that was left was for them to was let the people behind the scenes tweak what needed to be tweaked and push all the buttons that needed to be pushed.

Brian and Freddie were happy to return home after being away for so long. Touring was one thing, but being left on a farm for nearly three weeks just seemed so cruel. Roger felt terrible, as the whole reason for the extra week was so they could help rattle his brain around.

It worked a little bit, with pieces coming back to him in little bits, but in the end, there was still so much missing. However, they couldn't very well stay there forever. Brian had a wife to return to and Freddie had his cats.

Roger and John returned to their far too large home, the place practically echoing as they settled their luggage down. The first few days back was strange, though Roger blamed that on himself. The last time they had been at the mansion, Roger thought they were glorified roommates. Now it seems they did, in fact, share a room, though that was another added on the thing that John chose to keep from him.

He tried to explain himself, insist that he didn't want to just thrust the truth onto the man, especially since he needed so much time to take it all in. John cleared out all in his things from the master bedroom, moving down the hall to one of the spare rooms to give Roger the chance to adjust it the house.

Now as Roger sat in that bed that was far too large for just one person and placed his newly washed clothing into a half-empty closet, it was making a bit more sense to him now.

He had crept into John's apparent bedroom, hoping to find him for a bit of a chat, but it came up empty. Unable to stop the curiosity, he took a look around. The room was small but comfortable. John had obviously made do with what he had, though he had to admit, it didn't look like a bedroom, but rather a hotel room that one has been staying in for an extended amount of time.

The bed was neatly made and his clothes were folded ever so carefully. John liked to have order and it showed and Roger couldn't help but smile at the idea of him taking his time to make sure each and every jumper was carefully pressed when it returned from the cleaners.

He returned to look into the bathroom; the image of John lay bleeding on the ground haunting his mind. In the days after his accident, Roger pestered John endlessly, refusing to allow him to do anything on his own. John, who apparently wasn't used to others doing things for him, fought Roger every step of the way, but the blond refused.

Memory loss or not, Roger was his boyfriend and there was no way he was going to allow John to raise a single figure if Roger was there to do it for him. And any time John tried to stop him, Roger would remind him of all the time they had lost and how Roger was merely trying to make up for it all.

Roger knew he was playing dirty and didn't give a single damn about it.

Roger pulled open one of the draws curiously, finding a small collection of framed photographs. All of which contained pictures of himself and John at various times of their lives. Some when they were younger and their hair was longer. Others that seemed more recent, though they looked just as handsome.