Funny How Love Is (Maylor AU)

Chapter 45

"Oh my god," Debbie whispered as her eyes followed the blonde dragging himself down the hall. Shades sat on the bridge of his nose, masking the dark blue, almost purplish ring that circled his left eye. The loose, wrinkled button-down he wore was unusually buttoned all the way, disguising the otherwise noticeable scratch that ran up his side, from his hip to his ribs, and the scarf he'd thrown on last minute hung loosely around his neck, hiding the small, oval bruises that stained his skin. His feet scuffed the floor with every step he took, a noticeable limp in his walk as he pushed his way through the corridor, keeping his head low in avoidance of any and all confrontation.

"Is he okay?" Anita wondered under her breath, her head turning as she watched him disappear into the crowd of students.

The pretentious student scoffed at her classmate's remark, the two girls returning their focus to one another. "Of course, he's not okay, Ani. I mean, did you see him? He looks worse than Richie did after Dominique's party."

"Wait, Dominique had a party and didn't invite me?" the curly-haired girl retorted, offended by the news she just received.

"What's going on?" the girl in question asked as she joined the popular pair, clutching her books to her chest and shifting her gaze between the two. Anita rolled her eyes as Debbie stifled an amused giggle.

Meanwhile, Roger had made his way into the basement, grunting with each strained step he took towards his classroom. The pain in his leg was near unbearable, and tears wavered in his swollen eyes. He disregarded the strange looks he received from the few students wandering down there, ignoring their whispers as he pushed forward, trying to convince himself that all of this was better than staying at home another day.

As he approached his room, he couldn't hold back the annoyed sigh that slipped past his lips, his gaze falling upon his one and only student sitting on the floor next to the makeshift classroom, his bass in his lap and his head resting against the wall behind him. His eyes were closed, and his one hand slid up and down the instrument's neck while the other plucked at the strings, working on the scales like Roger had asked him to.

"What are you doing here, John," the blonde grumbled, stealing the student's attention with a question that came out more like a statement than an inquiry.

The lanky boy set his bass aside and scrambled to his feet, brushing the dirt off the back of his pants to make himself more presentable. "Well, I've been practicing those scales like you told me, and—"

"I thought your lessons are on Tuesdays," Roger interrupted him, bringing up a hand to his head where a sharp pain had formed.

"Oh, they are," John assured him, nodding his head eagerly and nervously tucking his hands underneath his arms, "I just thought I'd show you what I'd done so far, and you could tell me if there's anything I still need to improve upon."

The music instructor exhaled slowly and dropped his hand back down to his side, meeting the student's gaze through the dark shades and saying dismally, "Now's not really a good time, John. From what I heard, though, you sound great. So, just keep working on what you have been, and I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

The frizzy-haired bassist stared at the blonde blankly, creating doubt in him that his student hadn't understood what he'd just said. However, John understood him perfectly. His concern lied within the fact that his lesson teacher seemed spacey and had started to almost, but not quite, unnoticeably sway side to side. "Is everything okay, Mr. Taylor?" he inquired, "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine, John," Roger lied, feigning a grin that wasn't very convincing. It was evident that he wasn't fine—the sunglasses not doing as much justice as the blonde would've liked. Luckily, the shiner around his eye was all his peers could see, and they were all too shy and polite to ask him where he'd gotten it. So, for now, it remained a mystery.

Where he got it was no mystery to Roger, though, the blonde remembering his traumatic weekend in vivid flashes and snippets. He remembered the fists being thrown at him without pause, the infuriated shouts that continuously rung in his ears, and the blood that dripped from his mouth onto the floor in a seemingly never-ending stream of crimson, but he couldn't remember feeling any pain, or passing out like he had.

What he did remember was waking up to his clothes being torn off his body, Tim claiming they needed to be cleaned and ironed, and being left alone on the floor or the bed—that, he couldn't remember. He remembered the cold of the room biting at his bare skin as silent tears trickled down his cheeks, the pain from the previous night finally catching up to him. He remembered his arms and legs being tugged at—the clothes that were stolen from him being put back on—and the fresh face of makeup looking back at him through the mirror, but he couldn't remember how he ended up in the car, or at the house he dreaded going to ever since his first visit.

He remembered his neglected resistance as Tim relentlessly pushed him up the walkway, throwing him into the client's arms like he was nothing. He remembered being taken up the stairs to a private room, where Sid locked the door behind them and tied a gag around his quivering lips so he wouldn't be so loud. He remembered being grabbed at and slammed down onto a surface which he didn't have time to determine was soft or hard, because that's when everything went black, and when he came to, he was back at his and Tim's flat, the pain that consumed his body ten times more excruciating than before.

What bothered the blonde the most, though, was that he couldn't remember what he did in the first place to land him in such a situation, or to deserve this kind of punishment. He'd racked his brain all yesterday, and all this morning, but he couldn't come up with an answer to save his life.

"Are you sure?" John questioned, wary of leaving the blonde alone. It didn't seem safe.

"Yes, John," Roger murmured, sticking his hand out and leaning against the wall for support as the world tilted a little more to the right. He hung his head and groaned in pain, gritting his teeth and choking out, "Don't you have a class to be getting to?"