Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 21

None of us had spoken to one another since leaving the studio. The ride back to the flat was saturated in awkward, unrequited glances, quiet hums, and indecipherable murmurs. It was as if everyone was at fault for something, but none of us knew exactly what or were willing to play the fool and simply ask. Brian wasn't speaking to Freddie, Freddie wasn't speaking to John, and John wasn't speaking to me. The only two who seemed to be able to tolerate another band member's presence were Brian and me.

Sitting at opposite ends of the couch, Brian flicked through his newest astronomy book—his reading glasses balancing on the tip of his nose—and I tapped my pencil against the notebook I'd taken from the coffee table. To whom the notebook belonged to was the least of my worries, with what happened at the studio earlier today taking precedence. I glanced over at Brian and audibly sighed, hoping to pull his attention out of the pages he was entranced in. Unlike John, he was acutely aware of his surroundings, and before I even sighed—right at the moment I opened my mouth to heave the heavy breath—his eyes peered over the rims of his glasses.

"Yes, Rog?" he asked.

"I-I just wanted to say congrats on getting Freddie to change the song," I muttered, glancing back down at the blank piece of lined paper and scratching the eraser of the pencil behind my ear. Out of the corner of my eye, the guitarist closed his book and set it down on the cushion in between us, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for me to shed the vague, irrelevant veil I'd hid my true intentions behind and tell him what was really on my mind.

I began to scribble in the notebook, using it as a distraction to avoid meeting his gaze as I went on to say, "It's a shame Freddie made us leave so early. I would've liked to see what you had in mind."

Brian exhaled slowly and slid the glasses off his face, folding the temples inward and setting them down on the coffee table. "Roger, I want you to be honest with me." He clasped his hands together in front of him and looked over at me, asking, "What really happened while Fred and I were out in the hall?"

I kept my lips sealed shut and my eyes locked on the notebook, digging the pointed graphite tip deeper into the paper.

The guitarist shook his head, his curly hair following suit. "You are aware that I already know the answer to the question, right? I just want to hear it from you."

"And what do you think the answer is, Brian?" I retorted, snapping the pencil and tossing the two halves—along with the notebook—to the floor. I crossed one arm over my chest and rested my head in the palm of my other hand, finally meeting Brian's humble gaze. I hated his constant levelheadedness and calm approach to every situation, mostly because I envied it. If I was more like him, maybe I wouldn't feel so torn about John. It was like every step I made in the right direction led to two more steps in the wrong direction.

He took in a deep breath. "Well, I'm only going off of what Freddie told me—"

"Freddie?" I repeated, jumping up from the couch and turning towards him, "I hope you're joking."

Brian sat further into the couch and rested his arm over the top of it, saying solemnly, "I wish I was, Rog, but after Freddie and I decided to change the song, he went to go back in and...and there you two were. N-Now, I haven't told him anything—"

I grabbed at my messy hair and turned my back to him, taking a few steps back and forth before spinning around and throwing my finger in his direction. "Tell me what he told you." The guitarist moved his lips like a fish out of water, the immediate stress of being put on the spot stealing the words right from his mouth. "Tell me what he told you!" I screamed, rushing up to him and grabbing him by the shirt, nearly lifting him off the couch.

"Let go of me," he growled lowly, his fiery eyes boring right into mine. I kept my hold on him for just a moment longer before relinquishing it and stumbling away from him. He straightened his now crinkled shirt and continued calmly, "Look, all he said was that he saw you and John in a...compromising position—"

"Bloody hell," I muttered as I covered my reddening face with my hands and plopped back down on the couch, taking the seat right next to him—but not before giving the coffee table one good kick out of frustration, pushing one of its ends farther away from the sofa.

I felt a hand land on my shoulder shortly afterwards, and before I knew it, I was being pulled into a warm, comforting embrace. My hands remained glued to my face as I listened to Brian's slow breaths and heartbeat, the two of us sitting in silence; allowing the situation to really settle in.

He and I didn't need to speak to have the conversation that would've prevailed otherwise, and maybe it was for the best that it didn't. Had it been verbalized, there was the possibility that no resolution would've come about. Nothing good ever emerged from screaming matches. Ask any one of us.

So, instead, I wordlessly confessed that I didn't know what to do; that I'd never felt this strongly about someone before and I didn't know how to handle it. I'd been in plenty of relationships before—relationships of all types, varying in length and intensity—but this one was entirely new to me. There was no prior experience that I could recall upon for guidance; no one I could turn to for advice, seeing as what we were doing was forbidden and discouraged. Yet, at the same time, that's what made it all the more enticing.

After Brian nodded his head in understanding—all without actually moving, of course—I silently asked him, do you think John feels the same way? It was so hard to tell. One moment he was telling me he wants to be with me, and the next he was acting like the electricity between us didn't exist. This back and forth game he had us playing was exhausting, and I didn't know how much longer I could put up with it. I was losing focus; I couldn't control myself.

Taking a second or two to voicelessly contemplate what he should say and deciding that this was something I'd have to figure out on my own—but also making sure to let me know that he'd be there for me whatever the outcome was—Brian patted me on the shoulder and separated the two of us, rising up from his spot on the couch and attracting my attention as he held his hand out.

"You're sitting on my book," was all he said, the corner of his lip twitching upward almost unnoticeably.

I looked down and noticed that I was indeed sitting on his book, quickly retrieving it and extending it out to him. He wrapped his fingers around the opposite edge mine were curled around and looked me dead in the eyes, an inevitable frown appearing on his face as he thought about what else to say. When words failed him, he took the book fully into his possession and clapped his hand against it, tilting his head down and turning on his heel, sinking into the shadows that consumed the bedroom hallway.

I sat on the couch for a while, my leg bouncing nervously and my mind crackling like a radio receiving too many transmissions. I closed my eyes and tried to center myself; to filter all the static messages into one, and once I did, my eyes popped wide open, full of inspiration.

I slunk to the floor and snatched the notebook and the pointed half of the snapped pencil up, quickly jotting down my flowing thoughts. Tears began to waver in my eyes as my feelings poured out onto the page in a messy, near illegible compilation of lyrics. Pages were torn and crumpled, words were disguised in heavy smears of graphite, and time had started to slip away from me. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier with each phrase that manifested from the stubby pencil's dull tip, and it wasn't until I felt a slight pain emanate from my backside that I realized I'd fallen asleep—right there on the living room floor.