Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 38

After slipping back into yesterday's clothes, Roger reluctantly parted ways with Stewart. It wasn't that he particularly wanted to stay; in fact, he felt as though he overstayed his welcome because, usually, he was out of his clients' houses long before dawn, knowing that if he stayed any longer, trouble would ensue. What the blonde didn't seem to realize, though, was that Stewart wasn't a client. There was no appointment scheduled; there was no payment to be shamefully accepted. This was just two men getting together, late at night, to play some music and get to know one another.

Nevertheless, it came time for Roger to go back home. In his drunken state of mind, the blonde had all but forgotten about his boyfriend aside from his attempt to ward off Stewart's advance. It was only when the effects of the alcohol had fully worn off that he remembered that he left Tim in Geoff's care, and he had no way of knowing if the bartender followed through with his safe return home other than by checking himself.

"Thanks again for inviting me over," Roger said as he trailed behind Stewart down the apartment's narrow stairwell, headed for the street below. A dissatisfied expression appeared on the blonde's face, thinking about what he had said for a moment and realizing that it was just the invite he was grateful for. He was grateful for the night they shared, for the day off he'd been given, and most of all, for the second second chance he'd been offered. So, reaching the last step, he summed up his immense gratitude by simply tacking on to his previous statement, "For everything, really."

"Well thank you for making my decision easy," the taller of the two blondes retorted, throwing the door open and stepping outside. He spun around on the mildly congested sidewalk, turning to face Roger, and smirked. "Not everyone is talented like you, and I'm not just talking about the drums."

Roger couldn't count how many times he'd blushed that morning, but Stewart's multifaceted compliment added another one to the list. "I'll see you around, then?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

He winked. "You know where to find me."

With that, the café owner entered his shop—the bell above the door ringing and earning him a harsh scolding from Cheryl who thought he was a customer trying to sneak in early—and flipped the CLOSED sign hanging on the door to OPEN, smiling at the blonde before disappearing into the shadows of the café.

Roger heaved a sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets, joining the crowd of metropolitans and finding his way back home. His arrival was greeted by a quiet "humph" from the landlord as he passed by, pleased that Roger had kept his word. The blonde rolled his eyes at this, reminding himself that, after Sunday, he would no longer have to tolerate Tim's friend's unsettling remarks and habits. He would no longer have to live in constant fear, not only of the ever-increasing dangerous city, but of Tim, because he wasn't going to let him come with him this time. This time, it was just going to be him.

He wrapped his hand around the cold doorknob and twisted it, pushing in the door to reveal Tim sitting at the table—back hunched and fingers woven into his disheveled hair. An eerie silence consumed the apartment, disturbed only by the soft scratch of the record as it spun freely on the turntable in their room—the needle weaving toward and away from the spindle—and Roger's steps as he dared to approach his boyfriend seemingly frozen in time.

"Tim?" he asked worriedly.

"Shh," the brunette hushed him without moving, so much so that he could almost pass for a statue. "I have a massive headache, and I don't need you screaming at me right now."

"I wasn't scream—"

"What did I just say?" Tim snapped, pounding his hands—now balled up into fists—down on the table and turning his head to shoot daggers at Roger.

"I'm sorry," the blonde whispered, walking forward and taking the seat across from the brunette. With each step Roger took, Tim flinched—the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath the blonde's feet and the scraping of the chair as he pulled it out to sit down sending sharp pains through the brunette's head. Tim groaned and buried himself in his arms, the sight tugging the corner of Roger's lips down. "How are you feeling?" he questioned, keeping his voice low.

"How do you think I'm fucking feeling?" the brunette answered harshly, his response muffled by the cluttered tabletop. He forced himself to lift his head and look his boyfriend dead in the eyes, sharing, "I don't remember anything that happened last night. The last hazy memory I have is being dragged away by that stupid friend of yours."

"He has a name, Tim," Roger murmured.

"I don't care what his name is, Rog! He gave me something last night that could've killed me. I'm lucky to have woken up in my own bed!"

The blonde heaved a sigh, knowing that if he picked this battle to fight; if he told him that he was being a bit overdramatic—for Roger knew that Tim's experienced way worse nights than the last one—he'd instantly lose. There was no changing the latter's perspective, especially when he was like this. So, with the ear-piercing screech of the chair's feet as the blonde stood up, he replied, "And I'm glad you did." Roger forced a small, reassuring grin on his face before escaping to the bathroom, where he ripped open the mirrored medicine cabinet and began rifling through the disorganized shelves in search of some painkillers. After all, Tim wasn't going to cure his ailments on his own.

"I already looked there," the brunette groaned from the table, tilting his head back in hopes it would help his voice project better. With how small the New York City apartment was, though, the two men could hear each other just fine no matter where they were—even out on the balcony, that is, when they weren't on the phone.

"Well clearly you didn't look long enough," the blonde retorted, snatching the orange bottle from the middle shelf of the cabinet and slamming it shut. He popped open the cap with one hand and shook two pills out into the palm of the other, walking out of the small room and over to the table where Tim reluctantly accepted the remedy—bending the fingers of his other hand like a child for the nearby bottle of beer to wash the pills down with. Roger couldn't help but roll his eyes before submitting to the request, watching his boyfriend take the drugs and ask for more.

Roger heaved a sigh and poured more pills out into his hand, taking the time to reveal, "So I have some good news."

"Is it that you're going to stop talking to me and leave me be?" Tim guessed sarcastically, the wide grin that crawled onto his face masking the bit of truth behind his response.

"Sort of," the blonde answered, biting his lip and handing over the second dose of painkillers. "I-I'm leaving for London on Sunday."

Tim's eyebrows knit together. "What for?" he muttered, popping the next set of pills and downing them with another swig of room-temperature, almost stale beer.

A red hue surfaced in Roger's cheeks—his boyfriend's reaction not at all what he expected it to be. The entire subway ride home, Roger played out the scenario in his head, but not in one iteration did he expect to get past that point in the conversation where he revealed that he was going back home, their real home. He just imagined the different ways Tim would lash out at him. However, now that he hadn't, Roger didn't know what to anticipate.

"Well?" Tim urged, snapping the blonde out of the daze he had unknowingly fallen into. "Did something happen?"

"Yes," he murmured, looking into his boyfriend's suspicious eyes and sharing, "I got a gig."

"You got a gig?"

Roger nodded his head excitedly.

"With who? Doing what?"

The blonde slipped back into the seat across from the brunette and placed his hands on the table, leaning forward and whispering excitedly, "I'm going to be in a band."