Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 32

"Ahh, the hard-hitting question," the new blonde replied, smirking, "Can't we just chat for a bit? Is that too much to ask for?"

Brian dropped his hands to his sides, resting them on his hips. "Well, I was sort of in the middle of something."

"Oh, come on," Sting scoffed, "You and I both know you weren't doing anything."

It seemed impossible, but Brian's cheeks grew redder in embarrassment as he murmured with waning confidence, "I was trying to write a song."

"I can tell." He snatched the notebook up and leafed through the pages of scribbles. "No luck, huh?"

The professor swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. "Please put that down."

"You know, I write songs too," Sting blurted out, blatantly ignoring Brian's plea, "I'm actually starting a band soon with this bloke from the States. We played together a few times while he was over here, and I think we've got some real potential. You should come to one of our shows once we find a guitarist. Maybe you'll get inspired."

Brian stared at Ray's replacement, not knowing what he was trying to get at. He still hadn't revealed why he was there; why he had found him in the basement of all places in the large university. In fact, he was avoiding the question more than the professor was avoiding his true feelings.

"What do you say?" the new blonde asked, slamming the notebook down on the desk and snapping the professor out of the daze he'd fallen into. "Can I count on you taking one night off to live a little? I mean, you can't write songs if you don't live, Brian."

"I-I would, but..." Brian turned away from the newest addition to Imperial College and snatched his guitar off its stand, "I have a daughter to take care of."

Sting laughed as Brian threw the strap over his shoulders and glanced back with furrowed brows. "So? I have a son. Newborn. You don't see that stopping me."

"Well, I'm not you," the professor muttered, hanging his head and plucking the strings of his guitar, finding his way to the melody he'd been dabbling with ever since the conception of his song for Roger.

Ray's replacement heaved a sigh and peeled himself away from the professor's desk, replying, "No, you aren't." He crossed the room, heading for the door. "But maybe if you were, you wouldn't be here avoiding your wife right now."

Brian spun around to face him. "What did you say?"

"You aren't fooling anyone, Brian," Sting answered harshly, turning his head over his shoulder and meeting the professor's offended gaze. "You don't need to sneak off to your place of work to write a song. You can do that at home, but we all know that you're here because there's something going on between you and your wife. I saw it as soon as you two turned the corner. I saw it when you came back from wherever you disappeared this afternoon. You're avoiding her, but you can't avoid her forever. I don't think that weird janitor would be too keen about you sleeping here every night. 'Might interfere with his nightly ritual."

And with that, Sting slipped away, the fading click of his shoes as they echoed off the walls ringing loudly in the professor's ears. Brian's vision began to blur, the new blonde's visit compounding the conflict raging inside of him. Instinctively, he ripped the guitar off of him and set it back down in its stand, rushing over to his desk and hastily gathering his belongings—shoving the notebook into his bag and throwing it over his shoulder.

He left the room with a racing heart, not getting as far as he would've liked to before another unfortunately familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. "Hey, May, what are you doing here?"

The professor looked back over his shoulder, seeing the janitor that Sting was referring to in the middle of the hallway, resting his elbow atop a wet mop handle whose head was submerged in a yellow, rolling bucket of soapy water. He heaved a frustrated sigh and called out, "Leaving. I'll see you in the morning."

Brian returned his attention forward, heading for the stairs when Paul shouted, "Forget anything in that new classroom of yours I need to know about before going in there?" The hesitation in the professor's step was all the janitor needed to prove his facetious theory, a smirk appearing on his face as Brian fled the university—hopping in his car and speeding off through the deserted streets of London.

The screeching of the tires as he whipped into his driveway and the slam of the car door as he got out were loud enough to wake his neighbors, but thankfully not a single complaint was lodged his way, nor was he met with the shrill, instantly recognizable cry of his daughter from the nursery. Even though his heart had calmed down substantially since he left the university, it still weighed heavily in his chest, dragging him up the stairs and into his home where he found Chrissie still awake, standing in the living room—in the dark—with a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other, her gaze once again locked outside. However, the expression she wore on her face—illuminated by the autumn moonlight—resembled that of someone who had just seen a ghost.

"Chrissie?" he asked, cautiously entering the room.

The headmistress slowly turned her head, her wide eyes trailing up to meet his. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara, and the corners of her lips had turned raw from coming in contact with the glass so many times. "When were you going to tell me?" she whispered, the heartache in her voice bringing her husband's fears to reality—the same way Mary had with hers.

"W-What do you mean?" he stammered, refusing to take another step closer to her.

She sniffled, thetears that had subsided resurfacing. "When were you going to tell me that youran away with him?"