Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 20

"She'll be back soon," Stewart's low, soothing voice hit Roger's ear, his grip tightening ever so slightly as if he was trying to massage a knot out of the blonde's shoulder, "She just needs a smoke break."

"O—" He uncomfortably wiggled his way out of the owner's grasp and clutched onto the worn-out rag he was using, holding it tight to his chest. "Okay." The two of them stood there awkwardly, wanting to say something to the other person but not knowing what. Just as Stewart brought his hand to the back of his neck, ready to announce that he should be getting on his way, Roger blurted out, "So, uh, I couldn't help but overhear that you're leaving for London."

"Yeah!" the owner exclaimed, lighting up, "Yeah, I was there a little while ago on tour and I met this guy at a show. We got talking, and we're thinking about starting a band. I've already solved the problem of the distance between us, you know, by moving there, so now all we need to do is find a guitarist."

"I play guitar," Roger replied instantly, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he realized how off-putting his eagerness must have seemed. He didn't know exactly what he was doing—sharing that bit of information about himself. It wasn't like he could just up and leave New York to go back to London—that is, if the bloke would even have him. After all, they had just met, and not on the best terms.

However, Stewart did all but shatter the blonde's hope, responding with a curious and interested, "You do?"

The blush in Roger's cheeks intensified, and his grip on the rag tightened. "Y-Yeah. I mean, I haven't played in a while, but I still know how. I can play other instruments too. Drums, mostly. I...I was even a music instructor at one point."

Stewart chuckled in disbelief. "Wow, really?" The blonde nodded his head. "That's awesome. How come you're working in a coffee shop, then, instead of teaching music?"

"Oh, you know..." Roger muttered, moving to a nearby vacant table and beginning to wipe it down, hoping to buy himself some time to come up with an answer that wouldn't scare the owner off. It was as simple as telling him that things at the last gig didn't work out, but he felt as though that vague explanation would only warrant further interrogation.

Why didn't it work out? Did something happen? Was it your fault? Could you do anything to try to get it back?

It pained Roger to think about the answers to those questions, all leading back to the one person he blamed for putting him in a place like this. The worst part of all was that it wasn't even Brian's fault. The poor guy was just doing what was right; making up for his mistakes. He didn't make Roger move to America, that was all on Roger. Brian wanted him to stay, and he said no.

I said no.

"...it didn't really pay much, and it's expensive to live out here."

"Tell me about it," Stewart agreed, shoving his hands into his pocket and sauntering over to the table Roger had fixated on, working at an old, dried coffee stain that wouldn't let up. He stood there patiently, waiting for Roger to meet his gaze, and when he didn't—the blonde wishing he had kept quiet—Stewart cleared his throat and suggested, "Well, if you're up for it, I'd love to hear you play sometime. Maybe we could get together and jam before I leave?"

The shorter blonde's head snapped up.

"Just for fun," the owner tacked on with a small grin, hoping to sway his decision. When Roger remained quiet—wide eyes locked on his—the corners of Stewart's lips curled downward, and he asked with an uncharacteristic seriousness, "You do know what fun is, right?"

Roger straightened his posture, the ghost of the stain lingering on the table. "Yes."

"Then let's do it," Stewart declared, taking Roger's arm in one hand and pulling a marker out of his back pocket with the other. He bit the cap off and rolled Roger's sleeve up, smirking at the tense blonde before bringing the marker to his pale skin. Roger's eyes doubled in size as the black ink spelled out Stewart's phone number. "Call me when you're ready." He capped the marker and smiled proudly. "I leave next Sunday."

With that, the café owner walked out, the bell above the door ringing and breaking Roger out of the daze he'd slipped into staring at the numbers sprawled across his forearm. After scanning the coffee shop, only a few patrons still there, he retreated behind the counter and searched for a pen and pad, hastily scribbling down the seven digits from his arm once he found them. He quickly tore the sheet off and shoved it into his pocket, escaping to the back and into the bathroom where he turned on the faucets of the sink—water gushing from the spout and reminding him of the night before.

Roger blinked away the painful memory and began scrubbing at the number, knowing that if he returned home that night with it, Tim would catch on to him—stopping him before he could even realize what he wanted to do.