Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 58

My eyebrows furrowed together, freaked out that they both knew this story so well, quoting it by heart. I could barely remember the lyrics to our songs, even my songs, and there the two were, reciting this unheard-of story like they'd written it themselves.

Brian glanced down at me and chuckled at the bewildered expression drawn across my face. "Oh, don't give me that look. I'm trying to cheer you up."

"And how the hell was that supposed to cheer me up?" I sneered, meeting his gaze as my brows inched closer to one another, this time out of irritation. The curly-haired weirdo refrained from answering my question, staring at me and continuing to mindlessly card his fingers through my blonde locks. I scoffed and folded my arms over my chest, looking back up at the ceiling and mumbling, "What kind of stupid story even was that?"

"Oh, don't be so oblivious, darling. You're smarter than that," Freddie muttered, earning himself a glare in his direction from me.

I felt the embarrassed warmth fill my cheeks as I gradually and regretfully understood the parallels between their dumb story and mine and John's, and I could only hope that he wouldn't notice and exploit it. I wasn't in the mood to completely fall apart again. I just wanted to forget this all ever happened, put out the stupid album, and be done with it. And by it, I meant John.

The singer leaned over my legs and snatched the half-empty pack of cigarettes up from the table. He pulled one out and pinched it between his lips, going to grab the lighter that was sitting beside it when I stuck my hand out, wordlessly asking for one too. Brian rolled his eyes as Freddie did too, extracting another white stick from the flimsy cardboard box and placing it in my hand. I brought it up to my mouth and had it sticking up in the air, side to side, front and back, and in circles with my lips as I impatiently waited for Freddie to light his then mine.

While the singer struggled to spark a flame for himself, he asked with the cigarette tucked inside the corner of his lips, "Do you think he enjoyed working with us?"

A brief moment of silence passed over the both of us before Brian answered, "I think so."

Freddie finally succeeded in his endeavor and took a deep, relaxing breath, reaching over and using the still burning flame to light my cigarette as well, commenting casually, "You and he sure were close, Rog."

I blew out a cloud of smoke into the air, the nicotine providing just the right amount of numbing I needed to get through the rest of this never-ending day. A displeased expression appeared on Brian's face as he sat further back, away from me and the scent he should've grown used to by now, while I replied despondently to Fred, "Yeah, we were."

"Brian, dear, why don't you go make us some more tea?" the singer abruptly suggested, looking over at the guitarist who gave him a baffled look. "I want to talk to Rog alone, and it wouldn't be fair for two of us to leave the room when only one could leave, would it?"

My eyes widened in sudden fear as Brian heaved an annoyed sigh and, without so much as the highly expected push-back, pulled himself up from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen, where he turned on the water and did his best to give Freddie and me the privacy the singer had asked for. Freddie looked down at me, the smile he tried adorning himself with faltering as he contemplated about what he wanted to say, or rather, how he wanted to say it. He and I both knew I was a ticking time bomb, even more so than I usually was, and so he had to phrase his remark just right so as to not send me off the deep end.

He pressed his lips together tightly and turned his attention to the arm of the couch, playing with the fraying fabric. I thought about following through with his and my escape plan the longer he didn't say anything, but at the last minute—just as I was about to roll off of him and leave the room, perhaps even the apartment—he blurted out, "What you and John had...it was rare, special, you know that, right?"

I heaved a sigh. Here we go. "John was John."

Freddie chuckled, unable to hide the smirk that crawled onto his face as he murmured, "Yeah. As they say, parce que c'était lui; parce que c'était moi."

"What?"

He laughed once again, meeting my flustered gaze and translating, "Because it was him; because it was me. It's this old French saying I remember someone telling me way back when. 'Something about if you ask me why I loved him, I can only say it's because he was he, and I was I. It just made me think of...you know."

I shook my head and brought the cigarette back up into my lips, taking a long drag and letting it out slowly as I dropped my head to the side and stared at the threshold separating the living room from the kitchen, where Brian was keeping himself occupied. I could see from where I lied the teapot on the stove, and the blue flames underneath it. I could hear the crackling of the fire as it heated the kettle, accompanied by the clinking of dishes as Brian tackled the porcelain mountain that developed in our sink while John and I were gone. I began to lose myself in the white noise, much like I had the night before in the hotel room, when Freddie brought me back to earth with the comment of, "He was good. John, I mean. And you are too, whether you think so or not."

I kept quiet for a moment or two, letting his words sink in before retorting sullenly, "I think he was better than me."

Fred chuckled, taking another drag of his own cigarette and replying, "I'm sure he would've said the same thing about you."

I scoffed.