Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 88

Roger was struck by the genuineness to her response. It had to be the wine, he thought, for he and Mary rarely had conversations just the two of them. On the off chance that they found themselves engaging in small talk, it was only in Freddie's presence. The two couldn't stand each other otherwise, yet there Roger was, alone in the foyer with Mary, who'd ask him point blank how he knew he was gay when, really, she wanted to ask him: What are the signs?

"Oh," the blonde muttered.

"Yeah." She tilted her head down, hoping to hide the shame that spread across her face.

Roger bit his lip as silence fell over the house, all but the sound of the television upstairs. The blonde knew what that meant—that he and Brian hadn't been as quiet as they'd hoped to be. With blushing cheeks, he finally found the courage to reply, "Um...I-I don't know how. I just...I found myself..." He couldn't find the words to answer her question honestly, and so he stopped himself short and asked instead, "Why do you want to know?"

Mary took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, her tired eyes flickering up to meet Roger's as she gravely revealed, "I think Freddie's gay, Roger."

He couldn't hold back the laughter that emanated from the back of his throat, his hands flying up from his groin to his mouth. Mary's stare narrowed, wordlessly urging the blonde to search the foyer for something he could temporarily cover himself up with. His eyes locked on a bright yellow jacket with black strips that had been hanging from the coat rack, and before he knew it, his hands were leaving his body and reaching out for the garment, hastily tying it around his waist. He flashed his host a timid grin, hoping it would lessen the intensity of her glare. It did not, but her eye roll was a nice, brief alternative.

Roger felt very awkward standing in the foyer with Mary and couldn't find a comfortable way to carry on the chat. He settled on resting his hands on his hips, and the words that had escaped him earlier returned. "You don't say."

"Oh, forget it," she grumbled, throwing her hands up in defeat.

"Mary, wait!" the blonde called out to her as she slipped into the kitchen and popped open the refrigerator. He stopped in the doorway and sighed. "What makes you think he's gay? Did something happen? Did someone say something?"

"I said forget it, Roger." Mary closed the fridge with so much force the two could hear the items on the shelves built into the door rattle. The blonde watched as the hostess fell back against the counter. He hoped she would break down and give him a better answer, even though he already had a pretty good idea of what could've caused her to finally jump to her conclusion: his clothes, his attitude, his affairs with men, his initial eagerness to plan this wedding that's never going to happen. Any answer would do, really, but Roger was interested in seeing what finally changed that made Mary see for herself what everyone else had already been seeing for years.

She wouldn't give him that answer, though, opting instead to yank the cork out from the spout and bring the bottle right to her lips. Without stopping for air, Mary swallowed every last bit of wine that it contained, wiping her stained lips with the back of her wrist and setting the bottle down on the counter.

Freddie's fiancé made it clear that she wasn't going to say another word on the matter as she brushed shoulders with Roger and retreated to hers and Freddie's bedroom. However, before she walked past the blonde entirely, she stopped beside him and grabbed onto his arm, whispering in his ear, "I don't care what you have to do to get it—dress as a fucking girl or pose as a stupid music instructor—but you're buying me a new couch."

Roger chuckled and sarcastically replied, "Okay, Mary," though he knew she wasn't joking. How? He caught the muttered "filthy bastard" under her breath as she trudged upstairs, having caught a quick glimpse of her desecrated living room.

The blonde, abandoned for the second time that night, hung his head. He looked back in hopes that Freddie maybe had come down, but he heard no footsteps and saw no one. He truly was alone, and the decision Brian had left him with returned with full force.

Roger didn't know which felt worse, wanting to leave Tim himself or being told that he had to. He felt guilty, wanting to leave his boyfriend on his own accord, but a great sense of anger overcame him at the thought of someone else imploring him to do it. He knew things were bad between him and Tim, god knows he did, but he hated that someone—everyone else knew, and he hated even more that everyone expected him to accept the solution as easily as they did. No matter how much they knew about Tim and Roger's relationship, they thought that the blonde could just leave the brunette behind. Roger began to wonder if Tim had started to feel the same way, thinking that he'd be able to just walk out and not look back.

Maybe that's why he was so cold to him at Nana's, not wanting to hear him out when he tried to tell him he didn't mean it when he said he didn't want to pretend to be with him anymore. The old Tim would've never done that. The old Tim's face would've dropped, and instead of taking the blonde's words to heart, he would've laughed and said, Yeah, I know you didn't mean it, and you're going to make it up to me by getting on your knees and sucking me off like the sorry fag you are. That's not what happened, though.

What happened was something Roger didn't understand, partially because he couldn't comprehend the exchange that the two of them had shared and partially because he drank the better part of his day away promptly afterwards. He was left with bits and fragments, pieces that didn't fit together, and to add to the unsolvable puzzle was everything that happened with Brian—the request that he not go to the show, the song he'd written about him, the sex they had not once but twice, and the sudden rescindment of that first request. His head was spinning and all he could do was hope that, come tomorrow, this mess would sort itself out—whatever the outcome may be.