Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 37

"Isn't it beautiful?" Stewart asked Roger while lighting the blonde's cigarette, the two of them sitting on the studio's fire escape—the sweat beaded on their moist skin glistening in the brisk sunlight that now hung slightly higher above the waking city. Their blonde hair was similarly disheveled, and the only articles of clothing keeping them warm were the boxers and trousers they had to think twice about adorning themselves with, battling the laziness that tempted them to venture outside just as they were after their drunken romp in the sheets. However, sensibility overcame desire, leading them to where they found themselves—watching the sunrise and sharing a smoke.

Roger breathed in the calming nicotine and sunk back into the iron fence surrounding the small terrace, turning his head to look at the city and answering, "Yeah. I-I've never actually seen it before."

"Why is that?" the café owner wondered, bringing the small flame to the white stick protruding from the corner of his own lips.

The shorter of the two blondes plucked the cigarette from his lips and dropped it into his lap, letting out the last of the smoke he'd been holding in. "Well, I work almost every day, morning and night, and I'm usually so tired by the time I get home that I sleep right through it."

"What about when you were teaching music?" Stewart inquired, exhaling slowly and looking out into the glow of the sun.

Roger chuckled. "No, not really. Besides, that was just a one-time thing. I mean, I didn't even really get the chance to get into it."

"Well, hopefully that's not the case with us," the café owner retorted, earning a wide-eyed glance from the man sitting across from him. When he realized the concern that had been directed his way, he sat up a little straighter and elaborated after clearing his throat, "The band, I mean. You and I, though..." he smirked and flicked the burned-up end of his cigarette over the ledge, "...that was just for fun, but it's up to you whether it's a one-time thing or a more-time thing. I'm just here to have a good time."

The calm way Stewart spoke about what had happened that night and early morning oddly put Roger at ease, encouraging him to say, "Me too," and actually mean it. The blonde couldn't remember the last time he felt this good about something. Even with Brian, he never felt this good.

Maybe this time will be different, he thought to himself, bringing the white stick back up to his lips and breathing in. Stewart doesn't plan on coming back, and maybe I should too. It's not too often that people are given a second chance to their second chance.

A comfortable silence fell over the pair after the exchange, disrupted only by the dramatic gasp that slipped past Stewart's lips as he remembered, "Shit, I gotta call Sting." He smashed his cigarette into the metal grating beneath them and flashed a quick smile at his new bandmate, explaining, "I gotta let him know I found us a guitarist."

Roger couldn't help the blush that rose in his cheeks as Stewart slipped through the opened window. The blonde sat forward, peering inside and watching as the café owner dug the phone out from the mound of clothes that had piled on top of it and plopped down on the couch, dialing the long-distance number and sitting back. With the phone held up to his ear, the café owner's attention wandered back to his house guest who instinctively ducked behind the wall outside and bit his lip, his heart pounding against his chest.

Thankfully, Stewart was chained down by the phone, unable to return to the fire escape and use the last of his buzz to engage Roger in what he knew would be one last, beautifully disastrous fling. Tim had become a distant memory to the blonde, and so had his responsibilities downstairs. It was only when he heard someone shouting his name that he was ripped out of the bliss he lost himself in, standing up and looking over the fire escape's edge to see Cheryl standing outside the café—her head tipped back with one hand on her hip and the other pressed against her forehead, blocking the reflected sunlight from her narrowed eyes.

"Roger, what the hell are you doing up there?" she called out, her tone surprisingly lacking the animosity he'd expected coming from her.

The blonde parted his lips to respond when his attention was stolen by Stewart's voice from inside the apartment. "Hey buddy, it's me. I've got some good news, so give me a call back as soon as you get this." He set the phone back down on the receiver and noticed Roger's gaze on him, explaining with a sigh, "Went to voicemail."

"Hey, blondie, I was talking to you!" Cheryl shouted, stomping her foot as though it would help her cause.

Stewart laughed, making his way to rejoin the blonde barista on the fire escape. "Oh my god, is that Cheryl?" He stood beside Roger and leaned over the railing, grinning widely when he saw the manager staring back at him with an expression that morphed from curiosity to annoyance. "I thought that was you I heard, Cheryl!"

"Hi, Stewart," she grumbled, her clearly unamused voice still carrying up to the second-floor terrace.

"See, this is why I like her," the café owner muttered loud enough for Cheryl to hear, nudging Roger in the arm, "I can always count on her to be here on time to open up."

"Speaking of being on time," Cheryl interjected, earning both men's attention and crossing her arms over her chest, "I better see you down here at 7:30, Roger. Not a minute later, you hear me? You have no excuse today."

Stewart dropped his hand on the blonde's shoulder—his repressed memories still causing him to flinch every time someone grabbed him by the shoulders—and replied, "Actually, Cheryl, I'm giving him the day off."

She scoffed. "What? No, you can't do that!" she cried, "He's my best barista, Stewart! The customers love him!"

"Not for long," he announced, looking at Roger with a growing smile and giving him a slight shake. "He's coming with me on Sunday."

Cheryl's hands fell to her hips as she clicked her tongue in disbelief. "You're joking."

"Nope!" Stewart exclaimed, lifting both the physical and metaphorical weight off Roger's shoulders as he clung to the rusted railing once more and leaned over. "He's all mine, Cheryl. Looks like you'll have to find someone new to fuck on the clock!"

"Fucking unbelievable," the manager muttered under her breath, pushing forward and disappearing into the café—the sound of her undoing the locks drowned out by Stewart's laughter. He glanced over at Roger, hoping to get him to join in, but the blonde appeared distracted; consumed by his thoughts once again.

Roger struggled to believe that this all wasn't some fever dream he was having, induced by the intoxicating haze that filled Geoff's room at the bar. For all the blonde knew, he could have been passed out on the floor, slumped against the wall while Geoff babysat him and his boyfriend as whatever drugs he introduced them to ran through their systems. It would certainly explain the unusual bliss Roger found himself swimming in and the shockingly nonexplosive reaction Cheryl had to seeing him with Stewart. Yet, the more the café owner mentioned their plans, the harder it became to deny their realness.

This is actually happening—my second chance to my second chance.