Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 36

After Freddie's fit of rage that ensued upon his discovery of the marred sequin vest—in which he cursed me out for ruining one of his favorite pieces of clothing and ripped my ego to shreds—I found myself in the common room with Brian. The two of us couldn't take Fred seriously as he went off, throwing his arms everywhere and getting all red in the face, and our nonchalant amusement in his theatrics only made things worse. So, having pushed him past his breaking point, he left us with the slam of his bedroom door and a big "GO TO HELL, YOU FUCKING WANKERS!"

"LOVE YOU TOO, FRED!" Brian shouted after him, shaking his head with his lips curled up into a smirk as he stood up from the table he was still sitting at and stretched his arms above his head, tickling the ceiling before dropping them to his sides and meeting my gaze. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. He even raised a finger in my direction and squinted his eyes, as if he had something really important or thoughtful to tell me, but after resting his hands on his hips, all he managed to get out was a simple "So, you and John."

I took a long drag from the cigarette that had shortened significantly since it was first lit and let the smoke slowly seep from between my parted lips. "What about us?"

The guitarist stared at me for a long time, still struggling to say what he wanted to with his lasting but gradually dissolving impairment preventing him from doing so. He heaved a frustrated sigh and hung his head, finally blurting out, "Just be careful, Rog, okay? I don't think I can handle seeing you get hurt again."

I chuckled at his sentiment and crossed my arms over my chest, trying to dissuade him from his concern, "I don't think you know what you're talking about, Bri."

"Roger, I'm not an idiot." He threw his hand in the direction of the door that John had escaped out of during Freddie's meltdown. "I see the way you two act around each other, and I've witnessed and heard some things I really wish I didn't. Now, I don't care if you guys are together or whatnot—"

"And who the hell said we're together?" I interrupted him, growing defensive.

He shot a disappointed frown at me. "How many times do we have to have this conversation, Rog? We've known each other for too long to keep playing this game. Hell, I probably know you better than you know yourself." I laughed and shook my head in disbelief. "Oh, come on. Don't get like that."

"Like what?" I snapped childishly.

"Like that!" he cried, bringing a hand up to his head and explaining in aggravated defeat, "I'm just trying to look out for you, is that so wrong?"

I scoffed. "Well, I didn't ask you to."

Brian groaned and brought his other hand up, clutching his hair tightly and his eyebrows furrowing together in pain as he began to curl into himself. "Roger, I don't have the energy to fight you on this. Just be careful, okay?"

"Careful of what?" I screamed at him as he disappeared into the bedroom hallway like everyone else had this morning, leaving me to stand alone in the small apartment which had grown silent like it typically did at night—except the sky wasn't dark, and no one was asleep. I raised the cigarette to my lips one last time and inhaled as much nicotine as I could, trying to ignore the fact that I knew exactly what he was talking about. I angrily smashed the butt into the dish on the table, unwilling to accept the fact of the matter, and headed towards the door. I didn't get far, though, stopping at the top of the stairs and quickly turning back around.

I reentered the apartment and snatched the pack of cigarettes and lighter up from the table, catching a glimpse of Brian as he peered his head around the corner. "What?" I muttered, pocketing the two items and holding my hands up in innocence, "I'm just going out, Brian. It's not like I haven't done it before."

He stepped out from behind the wall and approached me, holding out one of my many pairs of sunglasses and pleading softly, "Please be careful."

"Okay, Mom," I sneered as I snatched the tinted lenses out of his possession and slipped them on my face, brushing past him without saying anything else and ignoring his "I'm serious, Roger!" as I made my second attempt at leaving the apartment that morning, this time without turning back.

I made my way down into town, the aching in my feet growing more intense with each determined step I took. I didn't care, though. I wanted to see John, and I needed to find out who he was seeing. There was no way in hell he was just meeting up with someone to talk about playing bass. Who even does that?

The pain emanating from my feet became unbearable at one point, and even though I didn't want to stop walking until I found John, I had no choice but to sit down at one of the tables outside a random café. I hissed at the discomfort and reached down, rubbing my feet through the worn-out sneakers—one of which was starting to fall apart at the seams.

"Roger?"