I still love you | Maylor fanfiction

20

Roger's P.O.V.

I panted heavily, gasping for air between spitting out his saliva when he finally pulled away, though still holding my face in hands. My heart was beating fast and legs shaking as clear disgust made me want to vomit by just looking at this guy. I couldn't stand just the sight of his, nor the touch of his greasy skin, his wet kiss. I was nauseous, desperately wanting to wipe my mouth, but I was still held so I couldn't move a single bit.
I began to feel nervous as a warn thought rushed through my mind. What are they planning on doing to me?

"What? You didn't like it?" He asked, giggling as a madman.
"What the fuck?! Are you high?!"
I yelled in his face. He cut me off by another kiss, licking my lips, making my stomach make a loop.
"You're not gonna like a lot of what I will do to you," he whispered silently, making his way of kisses and hickeys down my neck.

At this point, through my confused, drunken mind, I realized what he's gonna do. I didn't want to believe it. I don't want to see what he is capable of. But it was true. And it filled me with terror.
I screamed and kicked around me, trying to get out of the grasp of the men behind me when they reached in my pocket for my keys and got in my apartment. The three servants left and I was left alone with that crazy guy locked in my own bedroom.
"Leave now. This is my flat. I'm calling the police," I warned him, my voice shaking.
"You're such a pretty boy," he stepped towards me without any sight of fear, pushing me against the wall, brushing my hair of my face. I didn't even resist. I was a nervous wreck, tears started to fall down my cheeks. I wished for nothing else than him to disappear.
"Aw, are you crying?" He frowned, suddenly leaning in, licking the tear of my face. With my greatest will I prevented myself from throwing up all over him.
"No one likes a boy who's crying," he mumbled, opening my shirt, making a trail of wet kisses down slowly, all the way to my belt line.

—————-

They were gone when I woke up.
The sun was shining though the window curtains, spilling warmth all over my weak damaged body. I couldn't move. I had bruises everywhere, green and purple, swollen, accompanied by hickeys. I could still feel his touch on me, his lips, his saliva in my mouth. With sudden wave of nausea, I forced myself to roll over, finally puking over the edge of the bed.
I didn't bother to clean after myself, instead, I shifted back, cowering in the blankets, as I was naked and freezing. I was shaking uncontrollably, jaws clenching. Tears started to make their way down my face. I couldn't stop. I felt betrayed, disgusted, ashamed.
What have become of me?

Brian's P.O.V.

What if something happened to him?" I asked into the silence, sitting on the couch in the recording studio, playing with my hands nervously.
"Bri, dear, it's Roger," Fred smiled from the other side of the room. "He's always late."

It was the third day of our recording. Today, I didn't bring Esther with me because of Freddie's complains and because she was feeling ill as well. Despite coming to the studio still paused off this morning, Fred apologized for yesterday, and in a snap of fingers, everything was fine again. But instead of happily continuing on recording, we were still waiting for Roger.

"Yeah, but not hour-twenty-minutes late," I commented.
"He's fine, Bri," John spoke from his seat, studying whatever book he brought with him.
"Isn't he drunk or something?" I jumped out of my seat and started to wander around the room. "Where were you yesterday? In what state did you leave him?"
"Gosh, Bri, everything's fine. He even drove home yesterday!" The singer rolled his eyes.
"What?!" I turned towards him, freaked out. "You let him drive drunk?! You didn't have a drive?!"
"He wasn't so drunk," Deaky muttered.
"God, I can't leave you for one evening alone!" I exclaimed, frowning, stomping angrily around the room, fists against hips. I was worried about what might have happened to our drummer. I knew how drunk he could get, and I knew his hangovers very well as I often was the sober drive for our group, and helped him with his nausea, even despite him always sending me away. What if this time he just drank too much? What if he's passed out somewhere in the streets? What if he got in a fight again?
"I'll at least call him," I couldn't wait anymore, rushing to the phone on the wall. "Maybe he's still home."
The phone was ringing for dreadfully too long. I waited and waited, for minutes, covered in cold sweat, twisting the wire between my fingers nervously. He just wasn't picking up. The usual time for the receiver to pick up passed a long while ago, but I wasn't willing to hang up. Not just yet. Something was telling me he hadn't left home yet, and hanging up on him, heating the silence after I did, be left with no reply, was freaking me out.
Out of the blue, the phone clicked as he finally picked up. My knees nearly gave up under me.
"Yes?" His small, tired, cracking voice sounded.
"Roger!" I couldn't help but laugh in relief that he's alive. But he sure didn't sound well.

Roger's P.O.V.

The phone rang. I opened my heavy eyes lazily. I must have fallen asleep again.
The phone was ringing and ringing, as if it was never willing to stop. I was in no mood to talk to someone right now. I didn't want to even move, I didn't know if I was able to move, if I had the strength.
But the annoying sound of the phone kept on going. With a groan and enormous pain I forced myself to crawl at the edge of the bed, stretching my hand out to the phone, picking it up, and bringing it up to my ear.
"Yes?" I said, terrified of my own voice.
"Roger!" Brian's positive voice surprised me from the other side. "Are you alright? Where are you? Is something wrong?" He shot me with immediate questions.
I held my head in hand. Everything was going too quickly. I hardly understood the meaning of his words.
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, fine," I mumbled.
"You sure don't sound like that. Where are you?"
"I'm home," I scowled in confusion. Why was he calling? Why was he worried so much? How could he know something may not be right? Panic waved over me as the thought of him seeing those guys coming into my flat yesterday ran into my brain. No. That couldn't be true. He would stop them.
"I'm just a bit sick, that all."
"God, are you really okay? Do you think you will be able to arrive today?"
"What?" My voice jumped. "Arrive where?"
"The studio. We're already waiting here."
Oh. Shit.
"Fuck, I completely forgot," I apologized, throwing the blankets off me, starting to get up as soon as I realized what was going on. That was why he was calling. The studio. We were supposed to record today again. "I'm coming."
"No, wait," he stopped me strictly. "Don't go. Just stay at home and get better. Well record without you today."
"What? No, I'm fine, I'm going," I opposed stubbornly.
"Roger. Shut your ass. Don't make me go there."
I couldn't help but chuckle at his parent-like warning.
"Alright, alright," I backed up. "I'm staying home."
"Good. Get well, and see you tomorrow, okay?"
"See ya."

Freddie's P.O.V.

Smile spread across my lips, as I listened to Brian talking over the phone to Roger. The way he cared about Roger so much- how he was freaking out, and was really stressed. Roger was often late, I nearly wouldn't even no to be. Brian also wouldn't of it was anyone else. But whenever it came to our blonde drummer, his attention was fully on.
His voice was so soft, and caring, it was adorable.

I felt Deaky's gaze on me as I turned towards him and we exchanged looks with smiles and raised eyebrows just before Brian's call ended.
"He's not coming today," the tall skinny lad announced with a sigh. "He's sick."
"Oh. Okay," I shrugged my shoulders, feeling a bit sorry for Rog. "Well, lets just try to record something without him."

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