Funny How Love Is (Maylor AU)

Chapter 61

"Ben," Roger muttered in disbelief, "What are you—"

"You left your mascara behind in the bathroom," the blonde who resembled the music instructor to a T nervously interrupted him, entering the room and holding out the long, thin stick. His hand trembled, heart pounding against his rib cage and sweat beading on the back of his neck.

He couldn't—or rather, didn't want to—explain what compelled him to return the mascara to its rightful owner, especially since its owner scared the boy shitless. Yet there he found himself, asking John, who he knew took lessons with him, where his classroom was. He probably won't want to talk to you, the lanky bass player warned him. He seems to be having a pretty bad day. You might want to wait until tomorrow. Obviously, the blonde college student didn't heed John's warning, and he began to regret his decision as his slightly older doppelganger stared him down with an expression he couldn't decipher as resentful or grateful, or perhaps something completely different.

"I'll take that for him," Freddie blurted out, stepping forward and snatching the stick of mascara out of the student's hand.

Roger watched the transaction go down speechlessly, a wave of emotions washing over him as he thought about the blonde and the look on his face as Tim thrust himself into the boy from behind, a look that transformed into sheer horror as Roger walked in on them. That same terror spread across his face when they bumped into each other at the men's bathroom earlier that day, as if the music instructor was the one at fault for what happened.

Tim had a skillful way of doing that, of blaming everything on Roger, so much so that the music instructor believed Ben's fear was justified. The scattered drum kit certainly didn't help his cause, nor did his labored breathing or perpetual, sharpening glare.

"What are you doing here, Ben?" he finally spit out, his voice low.

"I told you, I'm here—"

"No, why are you really here?" Roger clarified his inquiry, knowing there had to be more to this student's drop-in than to just give back his mascara he'd unknowingly left behind.

The other blonde's frantic eyes darted from Roger to Freddie—off in his own world and fiddling with the mascara in his hands—then back to Roger as he divulged, "Look, I-I don't know what happened, but whatever it was, I just needed the money, man. I...I didn't know he was in a relationship. He didn't tell me. If he did, I-I would've...I wouldn't have...done it." His cheeks reddened with embarrassment, the last two words barely above a shameful whisper. "Just please, don't hurt me. I didn't know."

The music instructor fell silent again, hearing what the other blonde had to say but struggling to find a response to it. Usually those words came out of his mouth and were received by an angry girlfriend or boyfriend, one time even a parent. The rehearsed plea and confession never failed to humiliate, but it saved him from several situations he would've otherwise drowned in. People were suckers for a good apology, and they couldn't resist a tear rolling down the cheek or a sniffle of remorse.

He really needs to work on that, Roger thought to himself, though the voice belonging to that thought was not his own. It was Tim's—the words coming from one of the many suggestions he offered the blonde to keep himself in business.

"Roger?" Freddie interjected, pulling the blonde out of his head and nodding towards the college student who still stood before him, waiting for a reply.

"I-I'm sorry," he apologized, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that had the still-burning cigarette pinched between his fingers and taking the makeup stick from Freddie with his other. "Thank you, Ben," he murmured, raising the mascara ever so slightly and giving it a little appreciative shake.

The younger blonde nodded his head in affirmation and turned to leave the room, a thousand demeaning thoughts racing through his head as he headed for the door, mentally berating himself for being so stupid. He should've just left the dumb thing in the bathroom and let the music instructor find it himself, but after their run-in with one another, he couldn't stop thinking about Roger and their interaction, and not just the one in the men's room.

Ben vividly remembered the night Roger walked in on Tim and him and the expression of betrayal that appeared on his face as his eyes fell upon the two of them. He could hear Roger screaming at them and feel Tim slithering his way out of him and over to his boyfriend, where he slyly suggested he stay and watch them as punishment. The urgency that accompanied Roger's request for Ben to leave seemed like a long-lost but well-retained memory, as was Tim's strong hand that wrapped around his upper arm and prevented him from escaping. He could also see the bruises his grip left behind, lasting several days and similar in appearance to the bruises peeking out from underneath Roger's collar.

The student supposed that the true reason he decided to seek out the university's newest professor was because he felt guilty for what he'd done, and for how he treated the other blonde—refusing to admit that he might have been the one in the wrong. He needed to exonerate himself, and the mascara gave him the perfect opportunity to do so. He just didn't expect Roger to be so indifferent about it, acting like it was nothing.

"Wait," the music instructor called out, sparking the withering flame inside the student who stopped in the middle of the doorway and turned his head back over his shoulder. Roger bit his lip and looked down at the mascara, asking timidly, "Can I suggest something?"

"Depends," the younger blonde replied dully, spinning to face him, "You're not going to tell me to get a head start because you're going to kill me, are you?"

"No. What? Why would you—" Roger's voice vanished as the semblance between him and Ben became undeniable to everyone in the room.

He recognized in Ben the same nonchalant approach to the aftermath of a partner walking in on a session, as if he'd dealt with it before and knew there was no use in putting up a fight because you're the intruder, the alien in the home, and the only thing for you to do is to try and leave before they pull out their gun and make you their target.

That's when he noticed the baby face that would be barely recognizable by the time the sun sunk deep below the horizon, the same lips that would be painted red and mesh with pale ones that have graced more mouths than his yet, and the same eyes that would lock onto a spot on the wall or floor—or anywhere else in the room but the mirror across from him and the person kneeling behind them—as he drifted away from himself, waiting for the wad of filthy cash to be shoved into his chest. That cash would bring him back to reality and free him until the next night, and every night after that. It was a vicious cycle that the music instructor knew all too well, and he wanted to advise Ben to stay as far away from it as he could, but he knew he'd never listen to him.

If Ben was anything like himself, he'd laugh at Roger's plea like the blonde didn't know what he was talking about. He'd nod his head and falsely promise that he'll consider it before slinking off to whichever house was expecting him that evening, not a hint of regret in his decision. It's what Roger would've done too, but Ben wouldn't know that. He couldn't know that, and so, out of fear of exposing himself and making his situation at the university even worse, the blonde chose to say with a taut back and a stern, chiding tone, "Just don't do it again, okay?"

"O-Okay," the student stammered, standing there for a little while longer before throwing a thumb over his shoulder and asking, "Can I go now?"

Roger nodded his head in casual permission, averting his gaze to the side as he brought the cigarette back up to his lips and inhaled another long, much-needed breath of nicotine. Ben darted out of the makeshift classroom as quickly as Roger had ran to it earlier, his steps echoing down the corridor and bringing Freddie's narrowed gaze to the blonde who exhaled a steady stream of smoke towards the ground.

"When were you going to tell me about him?" the dark-haired man insisted on knowing, earning a scowl in his direction. "What? I just think, for once, it would be nice for me to find out what's going on with you without having to hear it from someone else!"