all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

33- Roger Taylor

The flashing lights didn't bother me as much as the thumping bass right beside me, the heavy music causing little vibrations to echo under my elbow that rested on the glazed countertop.

It's not like the counter served much; all the bartender had to offer were shots and glasses that were far too strong for my flavor that I even doubted I could down them at all. However, I grudgingly admitted, it seemed that Roger had zero problems drinking up 4 glasses of their sharpest, clearest vodka.

Resting my head on hand, I tried to spot him on the dance floor but to no avail. The numerous sweaty bodies compressed against each other with zero understanding of the concept of personal space were the very reason why I voted out on dancing, and made it impossible to look for my husband.

I didn't mind much, however; I trusted him and knew it was unlikely for any woman to spot him with how sloshed everyone was. It was like drunken wave after drunken wave moving to the beat of every song.

Currently, it was Letting Go by Wings that was booming through the large speakers that were so inconveniently set up behind me, causing the minimal tequila shot I held in my free hand to shiver with the bass vibrations. The song, though quite amazing when heard in the comfort of our home, wasn't exactly my favorite at the moment.

"God, I am in no fit state to party," I groaned, planting my face into the polished marble, setting down my shot as a warm, gentle hand rubbed my back in a friendly manner.

"Don't worry darling," came Freddie's cheerful voice from beside me, "With the rate Roger's going at, he won't be able to party for much longer."

Stifling a laugh, I leant into his embrace, thankful for having such a sweet friend who listened to me grouch about parties and my missing husband who was ironically the definition of the life of the party.

"It's a given that I'm the one who's driving," I chortled, lifting up my head to look at Freddie's grin that was currently bathed in bright red light, "He deserves to party as hard as he works, even if I'm not a fan of that myself."

"Oh, trust me, he parties harder than he works!" Freddie chuckled merrily, taking a sip of his own rather posh-looking martini from beside me, "Speak of the devil, I think I can see the blonde coming over."

Indeed, I turned my face to see an absolutely trashed Roger practically launching himself at me.

A barely-contained giggle escaped his heart-shaped lips, as we became a tangle of limbs on the high leather bar stool.

"Hi, beautiful," he sloppily grinned as he tried to heave his arm around my shoulder, failing miserably and causing me to help him with a sympathetic smile, though my blush fought its way on my face.

"Hi, drunken husband," came my reply, watching as he uncharacteristically climbed onto my lap.

"'M I hurting you?" he half-whispered, half-slurred, awaiting the shake of my head before settling onto my thighs, "Pretty," he cooed like a child, as calloused hands began to squeeze fondly at my reddened cheeks.

This (though I would never admit it out loud) was exactly the reason why I enjoyed watching him party. As strenuous as it was for me to tolerate the deafeningly loud music and the club lights that caused dots to dance around my vision, it was always a thrill to have him become overly loving and putty in my hands.

"So are you, Rog," I breathed out as he began to pepper lazy kisses all over my face, sloppy but sweet in their attempt nonetheless, "You missed my lips."

He threw his blonde hair back, letting loose another one of his beautiful laughs, "Oh, how careless of me."

And again, he proved that his drunken kisses were the best, as his lips were soft from the drinks and his mouth tasted dizzyingly like traces of vodka. Though his walk and talk were struggling, he found no difficulty whatsoever to kiss me with incomparable fervor, his hands cupping my face as his azure eyes shut, an almost painful expression on his face as he poured all his emotions into the one thing he'd taken no time at all to master: kissing.

My hands clung onto his waist, responding with just as much passion and unadulterated hunger, though it was only fueled by my absolute adoration for the man who lay in my arms. All the air in the room thinned, as his pulsing kisses left me breathless, the skin-on-skin contact purely sinful.

"I love you," was all I could manage to utter between short gasps, the sheer force of the kisses leaving me unable to speak much more.

Roger, who'd previously had issues speaking with his drunkenness, could only mumble lovesick words against the skin of my neck, his long locks tickling me and causing me to almost lose grip on his thighs---but no worries, I couldn't ever let him go anyways.

Once again, a loud song began to surround us with its bass, but we paid it no notice, not even to the barfing sounds Brian was producing from beside Freddie, now emerging in the red scene. We were in our own little cocoon, cradling each other as tight as we could, regardless of when we would be heading home.

"Love you more, sw'theart," he finally managed to say in the softest of tones against my jaw, leaving a fluttering kiss against my skin that had my heart beating in a frenzy---but really, where was the surprise in that?

It always did around him.

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