Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 73

An awkward silence blanketed over the deserted pair, disturbed only by the sounds of distant conversations and the song of cash registers whose melody echoed through the Market in canons. Roger heaved a sigh and stuffed his hands into the jacket pockets, knowing Tim wasn't going to be the first one to speak—despite that being the reason he'd hopped on the next plane to London and flew back home to find him. What he intended to do after that, though, Roger wasn't sure.

"Tim, why the hell are you here?" the blonde finally muttered, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. Where that disappointment came from, he couldn't decide. Was it because his boyfriend had suddenly shown up out of the blue, or was it because things with Brian this morning had taken a catastrophic turn for the worst? Either way, the origins of his frustration mattered not, with Tim basking in the glory of knowing his arrival had unsettled his boyfriend and kick-started what would he believed to be their destined reunion. After all, the two had known each other for ten years; Tim knew just what to do to get Roger back in his arms.

"I came here to fix your little problem," he answered with an arrogance that Roger once found charming. Now it disgusted him, twisting his stomach in knots.

"And what problem is that?" Roger entertained, matching his boyfriend's crossed-arms stance to show that he wasn't going to stand down easily. He meant it when he said that he wasn't worried about what tricks Tim had tucked inside his sleeve, but he also said that when Tim was still in New York. Now that he was here, that bravery required a certain amount of effort from the blonde that wasn't necessary when there was an ocean between them; an effort he tried to conceal with purposeful body language and sarcasm.

"Oh, so we're playing that game, are we," Tim replied, derision lacing his voice as he stalked towards the blonde, his poignant gaze unrelenting. The brunette allowed for no space between him and Roger, standing toe-to-toe with him with their rising and falling chests nearly touching and their breaths intertwined. "Okay, then. You want to know what your problem is?" The lack of alcohol on Tim's breath shocked his boyfriend, but it also scared him, because it meant that he was speaking with a sober mind—something he hadn't done in years. "Your problem is that you've always thought that you're better than me; that...that you can outsmart me and do all these things behind my back because I'm too stupid to know any better. But you're wrong, Roger. I've always known—always."

The blonde chuckled in disbelief. "What are you even talking about?"

"Brian!" he screamed, sending Roger stumbling back into the counter that caught him with a painful nudge to his lower back. "I'm talking about Brian! And Stewart! And Geoff!" He took in a deep breath and pushed his fingers through his hair, blinking away the angry tears that surfaced. He played over this conversation in his head so many times while in the air, crossing the Atlantic that he'd only traveled over once before—when he and Roger moved to America. Not in one iteration of the conversation was he crying. "I know what you're doing with them, Roger, and...and it's not fair."

"It's not fair?" the blonde repeated incredulously.

"You know I need you!" Tim cried, Roger starting to wonder what had happened in the short time they'd been separated. Had he lost his mind? Had he finally cracked?

"I've needed you since the second we met," the brunette murmured, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other before hanging his head and hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants. "And...And I know you don't need me anymore—you've made that very clear—but I'm begging you, Roger." His red eyes glistening with desperation dared to meet the blonde's. "Don't do this."

Roger pressed his lips together tightly, trying his hardest to resist the pull he felt to comfort Tim; to be the problem-solver that he'd always been and draw him into his arms, let him cry into his shoulder, and assure him that everything would be okay—that he'd go back home with him or share his spot on Freddie and Mary's couch until they find another place in London to stay. However, he couldn't ignore the nagging desire he had to make things right with Brian—the stain on the mirror in the dressing room reminding him of what could be if he just learned to let go of his past. It was difficult, though, when his past and his present collided, tugging him in two different directions with no intention of letting up anytime soon.

"Please," the brunette croaked, his eyes red with desperation. "Don't do this."

The blonde scoffed. "Then what do you want me to do, Tim? Go back to America with you and help you run your...your sex business over the phone?" The brunette stared blankly at him, neither nodding nor shaking his head and encouraging Roger to rebut, "Because I don't want that! I never did, and I'm pretty sure you didn't either!"

"No, I just want you!" he screamed, earning the attention of some passersby. The couple didn't seem to care, though, too wrapped up in their own world to acknowledge the one around them. It was as though they were the only two people in the Market; in London; in Europe. Nothing else mattered in that moment except for Tim and Roger and their relationship. Tim heaved a sigh and covered his face with his hands, hiding behind his palms and fingers and explaining, "I just want things to be the way they used to be, before all this happened. We were so happy before Brian...before Timothée."

Roger took a deep breath and moved his hands to his hips, admitting, "That, we were."

Tim dropped his hands to his sides and met his boyfriend's gaze once more, asking defeatedly, "Then why can't we go back to that? Just forget about everything and start over, just the two of us."

"We already tried that, Tim," the blonde reminded him, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not going to work. It just isn't."

Tears wavered in the brunette's eyes for a quick second, but when he sniffled, straightening his posture, the droplets disappeared and were replaced with something else; something that Roger couldn't identify before Tim turned on his heel and stormed out of the shop, grabbing onto one of the racks near the entrance and bringing it to the ground in a fit of suppressed rage. He didn't dare look back as he brushed shoulders with Freddie, the harsh blow nearly spilling the man's cup of tea. The dark-haired man possessed no such willpower and craned his neck to watch the brunette throw open the Market doors and walk out. Unlike Roger, he'd seen what was in Tim's eyes; it was determination, but a determination like he'd never seen before in the brunette, and that worried him.

"What the hell happened while I was gone?" Freddie chided Roger as he entered their stall, taking a casual sip of the hot beverage and standing over the blonde.

Roger glared at him from his hands and knees and threw the handful of clothes he picked up into the center of the toppled rack. "I don't want to talk about it, Fred."

Freddie couldn't hold back the frown that curled his lips downward, hearing those words before and knowing what they meant. "Oh, please don't tell me you're going back to him." He set the paper cup down on the floor and took a seat beside his friend. "You finally got away from him; you can't go running back now."

"I said I don't want to talk about it," the blonde repeated himself, his voice low and stern as he continued tossing the discarded garments into the pile he created—doing nothing to get the rack back up and standing. Freddie wasn't of much help either, opting instead to keep his hurting friend company while sipping his tea and stealing quick glances at him in hopes that one of them might be returned. They weren't, though, and the two went back to Freddie's house in silence that night—the conversation never to be revisited.