Roger approached the café, having successfully evaded the lurkers in the alleys. Had he accepted the smoke from the girl who sat on her porch steps and offered him the blunt in exchange for a quickie, the dark café might not have unsettled him so much. He'd only ever been there when it was already open, with a line of customers crammed inside and the smell of coffee wafting through the air. He'd never been there when it was locked up, lights off, no signs of life whatsoever. It almost didn't seem right.
Like Stewart had promised, his door was open—propped open with a brick. Roger took in a deep breath and pushed the door in, entering the narrow stairwell and being greeted with the faint sound of an intense drumbeat, reminding him of the late nights he and Tim used to share when they both were younger, insomnia keeping them up. They probably could have found better pastimes, especially since Tim's father was almost always in earshot and at risk of going off like a bomb at the slightest disturbance, but those nights meant everything to the boys—their minds becoming one, exploring a passion that could have taken them far had they not given up on it.
Roger smirked at the pleasant memory—one of few—and ascended the stairs, entering the apartment to reveal the café owner sitting behind his kit. Sweat dripped down his face and from his disheveled hair as his expertly handled sticks navigated the drumheads, landing on the floor tom together as the player noticed his guest.
"Hey," the drummer greeted, short of breath. He rose up from the stool he was on and wiped the glistening beads from his forehead with the back of his forearm. "Sorry I didn't hear you. I was just working on this new piece of mine."
"It sounded good," the blonde assured him, the corner of his lips pricking up into a small grin. "Really good."
"Thanks." Stewart tossed his drumsticks into a nearby armchair—one of the few pieces of furniture in the small studio, along with a matching couch, a small television propped up on an large amp, an unmade bed without a frame, and a rolling clothes rack that had garments thrown on hangers and draped over the rail. The apartment overall exuded a sense of impermanence that aligned with the café owner's habitual absence. The only things that mattered to him were his instruments; he didn't care about his bed, or his TV, or his sitting arrangements. If he needed to leave tomorrow morning, he could without having to worry about anything, and chances were he was going to leave everything behind on Sunday when he departed for London, because there was nothing to hold him back; no one to hold him back.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" Stewart offered, snatching a discarded t-shirt from the back of the couch and using it to wipe his face as he walked over to the kitchen area, snapping Roger out of the envious daze he had fallen into.
The blonde's attention followed the hose as he opened the fridge and glanced over his shoulder, meeting his gaze in anticipation of an answer. "Y-Yeah, that would be great," he stammered.
"'Hope you're okay with beer," the drummer chuckled, snatching two amber bottles out of the icebox and closing it with his foot as he spun around to face his guest. "It's the only thing I really have since the last time I went shopping was..." he approached Roger and extended the drink out to him, "...probably before I left for London."
Roger twisted the cap off with Stewart, tossing it aside the same way the latter had. "How long ago was that?" he asked, the taller of the two taking a swig that emptied nearly half the bottle.
"Oh, about a few weeks or so," the café owner answered, brushing past him and walking over to the couch. He pushed aside the assortment of empty beer bottles and plopped down in the space he had created. He leaned into the cushions and rested his arms on the back of the couch, elaborating, "I go there every now and then to visit a...good friend of mine." He smirked and swirled the alcohol inside the bottle distractedly. "We're both really busy people, so it's hard to find time to get together, but we've made it work for a long time now."
Roger took a quick sip of his drink and—not understanding what Stewart truly meant but still answering honestly—replied, "I have a good friend out there too."
Stewart met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, do you now?" The blonde nodded his head, eliciting an under-the-breath chuckle from the café owner who finished his beer in one chug and added the bottle to the others beside him. He stood up and clapped his hands together. "Well, how about we get playing? You on guitar and me on drums. Sound good?"
"Y-Yeah," Roger stuttered, scanning the room for a place to set down his drink before awkwardly deciding to leave it on the floor. He crossed the room and picked the Fender up from its stand. It was the same Fender that Roger's client had gifted him back in London, and the same one that he used when he taught at Imperial College for that short yet memorable semester. With his hand wrapped around the neck, a wave of emotions washed over him—freezing him in place.
"You good?" Stewart wondered aloud, snatching hissticks up from the armchair.
YOU ARE READING
Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)
Fanfiction==COMPLETED== "Together took us nearly there, the rest may not be sung." A year has passed since Roger first burst into Brian's classroom, asking for directions. Now he's but a distant memory, his presence forgotten by all but one-the professor whos...
