Funny How Love Is (Maylor AU)

Chapter 67

"Look at what you did," Tim chastised Roger as they stared at their wrecked car, smoking beside the poor tree that absorbed most of the damage from the accident. The vehicle had violently swerved off the street, missing the oncoming driver by just a hair and clipping the fire hydrant—which spewed like a geyser behind the miraculously unscathed couple, save a few minor cuts and scrapes—before smashing into the tree at the corner of the intersection.

The blonde glared over at his boyfriend, responding with a laugh that bordered delirium, "Look at what I did? You're the one who couldn't keep your fucking hands to yourself!"

"Well it's not my fault," the brunette huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "I wasn't the one driving."

Roger brought a frustrated hand to his forehead and muttered, "What the hell are we going to do?" He shrugged his shoulders and threw a defeated hand in the direction of their car. "We're fucked. I'm fucked!"

"Not necessarily," Tim mumbled, attracting the music instructor's apprehensive gaze. He slowly met his dark blue eyes and elaborated quietly, "We can always call Nana."

"No," the blonde snapped, shaking his head in stern refusal of the idea, "No, we are not—"

"Come on, Rog. She's the only one who didn't completely disown us, and she loves you!"

Roger scoffed. "Yeah, because she thinks I'm a girl."

Tim stared at his boyfriend blankly. "And?" The blonde smacked him on the arm, eliciting a pained gasp from the brunette as he instinctively gripped the stinging area. "Ouch! What was that for?"

"For being a fucking prick, that's what," Roger growled, turning away from the unpleasant scene and plopping himself down on the curb. He drew his knees into his chest and buried his face in his hands, trying to keep himself from bursting into tears.

Tim hung his head in shame and brought a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it awkwardly as he circled the car, a lilt to his drunken waltz as he surveyed the damage and tried to determine how much time and money it would take to repair it. With the alcohol coursing through his warm veins and fuzzing his overworked brain, he figured he could get it back on the road in a day or two, thus seeing no issues with his proposal. "You know, you'd only have to do it until I get the car fixed..." he mumbled, running a hand across the bent hood.

"I'm not dressing up as a girl just so that your grandma can drive me around!" Roger cried, turning his head over his shoulder to meet Tim's narrowed gaze. "I told you I don't want to do that anymore!"

"Well then how else are you going to get to your stupid job?" the brunette sneered, dragging himself over to where Roger was perched on the curb and asking, "What are you gonna do? Walk? Take the bus?" He gasped, dropping down beside him and leaning in close so that he could finger the blonde's collar. "Or better yet, maybe you could carpool with that fuckbuddy of yours. You'd like that, wouldn't you? The two of you...getting in a few quick ones before you need to rush out of the house, helping clean each other up before you walk out the door...of course, that's if you can resist getting another fuck in before that..."

Roger shoved Tim away from him in disgust and stood up. "You're sick."

"Oh, like you're not," he grumbled, a darkness cast over his eyes that scaled the blonde's body up to his face, "You dress up as a girl to get guys' rocks off, for fuck's sake!"

"Yeah, and I didn't choose to do that! You made me!"

"You seem pretty into it, though, Rog. I mean, come on. You can't get enough of yourself in a skirt and tights. You'd stare at yourself in the mirror for hours, if you could."

A stranger passed by just then, having heard the last bit of their conversation and eyeing the two men suspiciously. Tim flipped them off before they could notice the car wreck behind them, leaving Roger to blush in embarrassment as the stranger scurried away.

The blonde waited until the intimidated passerby rounded the corner to turn back towards his boyfriend and raise his clenched fists in frustration, shouting as quietly as he could, "What is wrong with you? Seriously, Tim, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Roger spun away from the brunette and ran shaky hands through his disheveled hair, pacing back and forth while tears wavered in his eyes "You're exhausting, Tim, you know that? You're fucking exhausting. When are you going to grow up and realize we can't keep doing this shit?"

"'This shit' is what keeps a roof over—"

"Our heads, I know!" Roger screamed, turning viciously on the heels of his feet to face his boyfriend again, seething in anger, "You tell me all the goddamn time! Just like how you tell me that you're the one who gets me the gigs; that no one would know about me if it wasn't for you; that I couldn't leave you even if I wanted to. Well guess what, Tim? I could leave your sorry arse any time I fucking want, and you know why? Because I don't need you like you need me. I never needed you!"

"THEN LEAVE!" the brunette yelled, jumping up from the curb and nearly losing his balance as he staggered to the blonde, "FUCKING LEAVE AND SEE IF I CARE!"

The two men stared at each other, chests rising and falling rapidly and their cheeks burning a bright shade of red as they caught their breaths in the cold of the night. Tears glistened in both their eyes, their gazes directed everywhere but the person across from them—to their feet, to the phone box sitting at the opposite corner, to the street light that shifted from green to yellow, from yellow to red, and then after that, back to green, where the cycle would start over again.

Roger was the first to dare return his gaze to Tim, the drunken man crumbling to pieces before his very eyes—his arms wrapped tightly around his trembling body, streams of tears trickling down his cheeks, and his lips—glossy with dribble—quivering, all in self-loathing. It proved an ugly sight, worse than the car to Roger's left and Tim's right, but it managed to make the blonde regret everything he'd said. I was mad, he convinced himself, I didn't mean it. However, he couldn't bring himself to express those sentiments verbally. So, instead, he shortened the distance between them and slipped his hands underneath Tim's wet jawline, leaning in and pressing his lips softly against the brunette's.

"What are you doing?" the older of the two asked when the blonde pulled away, keeping his hands where they sat. "Why aren't you leaving?"

A weary grin appeared on Roger's face, his fingers playing with the ends of Tim's hair as a distraction while he answered, "We've both had a long day, don't you think?"

Tim's eyebrows knit together. "But, Roger...w-what about the car?" He tried to turn his head to look at the wreck when Roger tightened his hold, keeping the brunette's head in place and looking straight into his eyes as he brought a finger to his lips.

"Shh," he whispered, removing his finger once Tim settled down. "Don't worry about it. We'll deal with that later, okay?" He plucked his hand from underneath Tim's cheek and shoved it into his coat pocket, rummaging around for some loose change. "Just call Nana and tell her to come to the flat tomorrow morning." He pulled out a few coins and tucked them into the palm of Tim's hand. "While you do that, I'll get our things, and then we start walking home."

The brunette frowned. "But Rog—"

"I love you," he cut him short, giving him one more peck on the lips and a quick pat on the arm before returning to the car and retrieving their belongings.