Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 34

The blonde glanced back at the café owner, watching as he perched himself atop the stool and got himself comfortable. Then, within the blink of a teary eye, Roger saw himself at the stool—young, ambitious, unknowing of what his future held. He saw big blue eyes that were still bright; still hopeful, untarnished by the harsh realities he would soon come to face. He saw a teenager who still believed in second chances; who wouldn't let his older self ruin this opportunity because he forgot about who he used to be; who he wanted to be.

"Roger?" Stewart asked, startling him out of the morose trance he'd slipped into. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, let's play," the blonde replied with an unintentional terseness that luckily passed right over the drummer's head, slipping the guitar strap over his shoulders and plugging the instrument into the nearest amp. Stewart smirked and clicked his sticks together, establishing the rhythm that would take the pair into hours of improvisation.

Despite the rocky start, with Roger's nerves getting the best of him and Stewart reminding him that it wasn't an audition—an official one, at least—the two eventually found their groove and wound up playing all night—the Sun starting to creep above the skyline etched out by the tall New York City buildings as the last chord that rung out from the amp, accompanied by the din of cymbals as Stewart hit them as fast and as hard as he could with no regard to the slowly rousing street below. With one final clash and one final strum, followed by silence disturbed only by the hum of the amplifier, the two broke out into a fit of drunken laughter—proud of what they'd done.

"Holy shit, man!" Stewart exclaimed, nearly tripping over his drums and the beer bottles newly scattered across the floor as he stumbled his way over to Roger who wove his fingers into his hair. "That was fucking incredible!"

"I haven't played like that in years!" the other blonde chuckled in disbelief, unable to wipe away the wide grin plastered on his face as he dropped his hands back down to his sides.

"Aren't you glad I made you come over now..." Stewart teased, clutching onto Roger's upper arms for support, "...and reminded you what fun was?"

"So glad," he agreed, his cheeks reddening as he realized just how close Stewart had made the two of them—the latter staring into the former's eyes with a look that appeared as though he was working on finding the words to say something else. However, instead of speaking, he dipped down and connected their lips. The sudden and intimate action surprised the blonde, but when Stewart persisted, wordlessly trying to get him to follow his lead by tightening his grip and pressing up against him, Roger surrendered and kissed him back, tasting the alcohol on Stewart's breath—the same that was on his.

Before the inebriated and passionate moment could progress, with the two staggering towards the couch, Roger gathered enough wits to separate himself from the café owner and blurt out, "Wait."

"Wait what?" the breathless drummer muttered, his chest rising and falling impatiently.

The blonde swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. "I-I have a..." His voice trailed off, not knowing how much Stewart knew about him but being aware that, sometimes, if people found out about him—about who he liked, about what he did—it could change their whole perspective of him. He thought he'd played it well so far, and he wasn't about to ruin it, no matter how much alcohol was coursing through his veins. So, he started over, deciding instead to reveal, "I'm with someone."

"Yeah? So am I." Stewart bit his lip and dared to tuck a short piece of Roger's hair behind his ear, the corners of his lips pricking up deviously. "I won't tell if you won't."

"No, Stewart, I—" He took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting the drummer's lustful gaze. Roger heaved a sigh and tilted his head down, admitting, "Look, Stewart, I...I'm probably overstepping when I say this, but I really want to be in your band. I don't even know if you want me—you know, seeing as this is the only time we've played together and I've got absolutely nothing to offer but myself—but if you do, I...I don't want to do it this way. I've gotten things this way for far too long and—"

"What are you talking about?" Stewart laughed, shortening the distance between them once more and playfully punching him on the arm, "Dude, you had the gig the second you called me."

"Really?"

"Yes!" the taller of the two exclaimed, dropping his hands on Roger's shoulders and giving him a slight shake, "Look, man. I saw the look in your eyes in that bathroom with Cheryl. It was the look of a man who needed to get away, and I know because I've been there." He dragged his hands over Roger's shoulders, feeling the blonde's beating heart underneath his right one, and turned to the side, waltzing over to the mattress on the floor and plopping down on its edge. "People like you and me, Rog, we find ourselves in situations we don't want to be in. Let me tell you, though, all it takes is a bit of courage and maybe a little help from your friends to set you free." He slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. "Once you have that, everything changes. I mean, just look at me." He gestured to himself and smiled. "I'm living the fucking dream, and you can too. Now, maybe it's not exactly what you're looking for, but—"

"No, it's perfect," Roger cut him short.

Stewart scoffed. "But I didn't even—"

"It's perfect," the blonde repeated himself, rushing over and swooping down to bring Stewart into another kiss. He straddled the shirtless café owner, wrapping his arms around the back of his neck to deepen the kiss that was accepted with an enthusiasm Roger hadn't experienced in what felt like years.

Slowly, the two fell back on the mattress together, Stewart flipping them over after a while so that he was on top. The move could have been more graceful, but in that moment, neither of them really seemed to care. The only concern in that room that night—or rather, early morning—was getting the rest of their clothes off as quickly as they could, in addition to Stewart's mention that, "We just can't tell Sting about this, okay?"

"Who's Sting?" the blonde questioned with furrowed brows, adding his shirt to the haphazardly constructed pile.

"He's the guy I met in London," the café owner answered, diving back in and whispering just before their soft lips reconnected and their hips rolled against one another's, "He's the one I'm starting the band with."