Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 7

Roger pushed his way through the crowded sidewalks of New York City, bumping shoulders with nearly every person he passed and too in his own head to even consider apologizing. All he could think about was the clock he ran against, his late night spent hearing all about this new fad that Tim claimed was "catching on" bleeding into daybreak and making him incredibly late for his morning shift at the coffee shop in the opposite direction of the bar, farther away. The blonde couldn't blame his boyfriend for his lack of punctuality, though, because he hadn't shown up on time for a single consecutive shift since he was hired there, and the only reason he still had the job was because the manager had a particular affinity for him.

"You're late, Roger," she muttered as he brushed past her around the counter, so quick that some of the long strands of platinum gold hair draped over her shoulder were picked up in the draft he created. The acknowledgement she expected in return went unsaid as he haphazardly punched his timecard and tossed on the black waist apron his boss required him to wear, bursting back out into the shop and confronting the woman who glared at him out of the corner of her eye. "An entire hour. You're an entire hour late."

The blonde chuckled nervously, slipping his hands into the apron's pockets. "Yeah, I-I'm sorry about that. I—"

"Nuh-uh. Sorry's not gonna cut it this time, blondie." She straightened her posture, taking her sacred notebook with her, and escaped from behind the counter, continuing with her back to him as she crossed the café, "You know what you have to do."

Roger pouted. "Can we please do it tomorrow? Or later this week? I-I've got back-to-back shifts today and—"

"Nope." She tucked her notebook underneath her arm and snatched up two abandoned coffee mugs from one of the newly available tables by the windows. "You were late, and you're going to make up for it."

"But, Cheryl—"

"If it bothers you so much, maybe you should try being on time for once," the stubborn manager with a slight Australian accent sneered, weaving her way through the small but crowded gathering place and into the back.

"I'm not a Swiss train conductor, you know!" he answered, sighing when his comeback wasn't reciprocated. The blonde dropped his head back and closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.

The things Roger did while in New York were no less degrading than what he did in London. It was true that he no longer adorned himself with feminine clothes and makeup, but old habits die hard, and despite the efforts the blonde made to live his life more honorably, the Big Apple couldn't care less.

About a month or so after coming over, Roger and Tim's fridge had been empty for almost a week, and the day their rent was due loomed over their heads like a heavy storm cloud. Tim fell in too deep a slump to find a solution to their problem—not that he ever had before—which left Roger to figure things out himself. With his brand-new job on the line, he asked Cheryl if there was anything he could do to earn some extra cash, extra shifts he could take or extra work he could do while he was there. She came up with the perfect idea—an idea that really only benefitted her instead of the company and kept the blonde employed.

As he approached his unofficial one-year anniversary at the café, it seemed wild how long their arrangement had been going on, and how uncomfortable he still was with it. Thinking about it, he didn't know which situation he felt worse walking away from—the appointments with his English clients, dressed as a woman, or his "punishments" from Cheryl, dressed as himself. They weren't all that different, but the little nuances shamed him enough to keep his deal with his manager a secret. Tim had no clue about how, without it, the blonde would only have his job at the bar, and how—if that were the case—there was a good chance they would be on the streets.

"Get to work!" she shouted from the back, popping the blonde's eyes wide open and attracting his attention over his shoulder. His eyebrows furrowed and, like a child, he stuck his tongue out at her in defiance, snatching a rag from the counter and wandering off into the café to wipe down some tables.

Similar to Brian, Roger's days seemed to drag, but he marveled at how fast the year had flown by. Only a year ago was he in London, sneaking around with his favorite professor and acting out in ways he knew were wrong but felt so right. Sometimes he would think about him, going so far as to imagine him as the one pounding into him from behind—though the illusion only worked for so long, the blonde knowing that his hands would never be as rough as the ones actually digging into his hips. He best reminisced about the professor when he was alone—door locked, lights low, a cheap bottle of vodka by his feet. Those moments never seemed to last long enough.

When the end of his shift at the café came about, the blonde tried to slip out unnoticed, hoping he could escape his punishment for being late and get to his other, more tolerable job sooner. However, he didn't make it more than one step out the door before a strong hand with red lacquered nails dropped on his shoulder.

"And where do you think you're going?" his manager's indistinguishable voice, dropped only a little bit, tickled his ear.