Funny How Love Is (Maylor AU)

Chapter 58

Roger found himself behind his drum kit, alone, his only company now that Freddie left him for cigarettes being the weight of the truth in the words that still rang in his ears. But he did, darling. He did. He held his drumsticks close to his chest, his knuckles white as his foot grazed the bass pedal, tears blurring his vision. He had no desire to play, but perched on that stool, protected by the setup, he felt a sense of comfort unlike anything else, a kind of comfort that no person could provide. It was his safe haven; a place that so many of his memories formed around.

It was a devilishly hot summer day, and Tim's dad was out of the house. The two teenage boys were holed up in Tim's bedroom, lying on his bed and reveling in the warm feeling the ceiling fan above them couldn't cool. Beer bottles were scattered about, the alcohol they contained coursing through the underaged boyfriends' bloodstreams and lingering on their breaths.

"I'm bored," Roger whined, pouting his lips and turning his head to meet Tim's languid gaze.

"You're always bored," Tim replied, his words slurred as he turned over on his side and began tracing his finger atop Roger's flat, exposed stomach. The corner of his lip mischievously perked up as an idea formed in his mind. "I know what we can do."

Roger's eyes popped wide open, a gasp emanating from the back of his throat as he shot up from the bed and got on his knees, facing his boyfriend and suggesting, "Let's work on that new song you've been writing. 'Doing Okay,' yeah?"

The brunette's eyebrows kit together. "It's not...It's called 'Doing All Right,' Roger."

"Oh, same bloody difference!" the blonde exclaimed, dismissing Tim with a lazy wave of his hand and jumping off the bed. He stumbled across the room, nearly tripping over their discarded shirts along the way, and situated himself at the five-piece drum kit tucked away in the corner. He latched onto the hard stool to keep himself from falling off and bit his lip, staring at his boyfriend with eyes that begged him to join him, knowing he couldn't resist the temptation.

Tim heaved an annoyed but obliging sigh and rolled off the bed, dragging himself over to his bass and throwing the strap over his bare shoulders. He grabbed the instrument's neck with one hand and placed the other over the thick strings, plucking out a few notes before scoffing and throwing his hands up in defeat. "No, I can't work on it like this."

"What, all hot and bothered?" Roger guessed teasingly, a smirk crawling onto his face.

"No, I just..." The brunette's voice trailed off as his gaze wandered over to the door. Without giving his boyfriend any indication as to what he was thinking about, he placed his guitar in its stand and walked out of the room. Roger staggered after him like a lost puppy, grabbing one of the unopened cans of beer from the floor and following Tim to his dad's bedroom.

"I thought we're not allowed in here," the blonde stated bluntly, leaning against the threshold and popping open the tab of the beer that sizzled with carbonation.

He glanced back at Roger with lips curved into a devious grin. "We aren't."

"Then what are we doing in here?" the younger of the two wondered, an indifference to his question as he brought the room-temperature beverage to his lips and watched his boyfriend rip open the closet doors and fall to his knees, taking no time at all to start rummaging through the clutter that consumed the bottom of the small space.

"Looking for inspiration," he answered, pushing aside some old shoes and wrinkled shirts in search of his father's hidden stash. The boy had seen and smelled the old man smoking it after he'd call it a night, sitting in the dark with The Generation Game on the telly. For years, Tim had observed his dad's late-night ritual, so it wasn't a matter of whether the dad had it or not—it was a matter of finding where he put it.

Having cleared most of the clutter, Tim revealed a large, cardboard box whose lid was only folded together, not sealed. He tore into it with an enthusiasm that was fueled by alcohol and destroyed by the discovery of a collection of women's clothes—clothes that belonged to his runaway mother. He wasn't aware of this at the time, though, and—concerned only with locating his father's dope and certain that it was buried at the bottom of the box—began to toss the garments over his shoulder.

Roger peeled himself from the doorway, taking a courageous sip of beer before daring to enter the room and plucking one of the pieces from the floor—a purple vinyl jacket that doubled the size of his eyes. Awestruck, he set the can down and turned towards the tall mirror resting against the wall beside the door. He held the jacket up to his chest and stared at the reversed image of himself, distorted slightly by the crack in the reflective glass that stretched its entire length. He couldn't bring himself to look away from the sight, curious about how good it would look if he slipped into it.

He dropped the outfit upon Tim's excited outburst, the brunette extracting the coveted box containing everything the two would need and shouting, "I found it!" He jumped to his feet and spun around to see Roger, staring back at him with guilty eyes and the jacket draped across his feet. "What are you—"

"Nothing," the blonde blurted out, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red.

Tim laughed. "You sure, mate? It looks like you were—"

"Let me see that," Roger insisted, desperate to shift the conversation as he eliminated the distance between the two of them and snatched the box out of Tim's hand. The brunette gave the blonde a strange look and tried to piece together the obscure puzzle presented to him, but before he had the chance, Roger returned to Tim's bedroom with a newfound sense of urgency and plopped himself down at his desk with cheeks burning in embarrassment.

Tim sauntered into his room shortly after, Roger sealing the blunt with the lick of his tongue and gentle press of his fingers. He turned towards his boyfriend and asked tersely, "You got a light?"