#gwyllim lee

[the-girl-from-number-4-blog]

Honesty (Part II)

Roger Taylor x Reader

In which both are very much confused

Word Count: 4,372

(i finally finished part two! thank you to all those who read the last part; i hope this one doesn’t disappoint!)

part one

“Because it’s you.” In the air hangs a static pause as Roger stares blankly at you for a few moments, but the length of time doesn’t register with you because you’re too preoccupied by the litany of thoughts and fears rushing through your overactive brain. His incredible lack of expression scares you; the man you see isn't the one you know with the infectious grin and emotive manner. You’re don’t think you’re prepared to deal with whatever may be going on in his mind behind those apathetic eyes.  You watch his face carefully for any sign, any reaction. You hate fighting with him - especially when you know you’re at fault, as you certainly are now - and each time, you worry that it may be the last; that this was the final straw. Maybe, this time, it is. But you know, when he doesn't respond for several moments, that this has turned into more than a fight. You’ve fought before; Roger would typically launch back with a sometimes witty, sometimes idiotic quip - he was never caught off-guard. This must have really shaken him. His brows furrow slightly, in both anger and confusion. “Are you joking, Y/N? ‘Cause I fucking swear that this is not funny.” You shake your head, and your voice is weak. “I’m not joking.” Tentatively, you look up at him. His eyes are steel; narrowed, guarded, they hold yours steadily, and though your resolve crumbles like the walls of Jericho, you can’t look away.  “Roger?” You ask, because you fear that the silence hurts more than his inevitable rejection. “Please say something.” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I - well, okay,” he says it like a question, and you can tell that the words are just placeholders while he finds the right phrase to express his true reaction.  “I’m sorry,” you look away, at last, finding the counter top suddenly very interesting. What are you apologizing for? Loving him? Would that really be your fault? He’s uncomfortable, now, you think, because he doesn’t feel the same way. He’s just trying to find a way to tell you. Didn’t he never used to watch his words around you? Why is it so hard now? He nods numbly, taking a step back and jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got - I’m going to - I’m gonna go, now.” You close your eyes and turn away from him. He leaves without another word.

Roger Taylor never advertises himself as an emotional man.  On stage, he's the energetic drummer who never tires. In the studio, he whines, but he really does want to make better music, and does his best to give multiple perspectives of each track; to him, that's logical. And in bed, he's a fervent lover; all parties walk away satisfied. But he's never emotional.  Once, Freddie asked him how he felt about a particular piano riff. Does it feel like it fits? Roger only told him how their typical audience might react to such a dramatic shift in musical tone, and Freddie dismissed him, saying his opinion (or lack thereof) wasn't worth shit. He supposes he does feel something about the music they produce - he’s got his favorites and his regrets, of course - but not nearly to the level of the others.  He doesn't really mind. Fred and Bri are emotional enough for the four of them; Deacy usually handles the reasoning and Roger handles the blind contradiction, just to keep them all in check, get them really thinking about it. He feels that they all provide just the right balance.  And whenever he bids a hasty goodbye to whoever shared his bed the previous night, there's a little part of him that fears an attempt at conversation. For some women, 'Last night was fun' simply wasn't enough. And that just wasn't what he was looking for; if he wanted pillow talk, he'd get himself an actual girlfriend.  Oh, wait, I did that, didn't I? he asks himself silently as he storms down the brightly lit streets that night. Dom. She's a proper girlfriend, right? But even with her, he doesn't share what anyone could call an emotional connection. The truth is, he never bothers getting to know a girl before taking her to bed; he never saw the use in doing so, since he was always moving around with the band, touring and doing gigs at odd places here and there. No woman wants a man who's only there maybe once a month, does she? Even Roger knows that it's a sad excuse. He lives life easy, taking advantage of his looks to have a good time. He's not proud of it, but not ashamed, either. It's just the way it is.  And he was fine with that - he was so perfectly fine with that.  Until Y/N came around, that is.  Of course, you'd always been there. He fondly remembered meeting you at a Smile gig; he felt an instant connection unlike any he'd ever had before, especially not with women. You were probably the first girl he could see as being more than just another example of her sex, aside from, perhaps, his mother. You became fast friends, and the rest was history - or so he thought.  When this whole 'Ben' business came up, Roger didn't believe you for a second. Your eyes would shoot down, and your speech became slurred - it was a barely perceptible change, but he heard it, sure signs that you were lying. He really did assume you liked John. He really thought you'd be a perfect match for each other; you're both more on the introverted side with the same dry sense of humor, both so calm and composed.  It still didn't sit well with him, the thought of you and John. He told himself that it was because John had a serious girlfriend, and that Roger had at least some moral compass to recognize the wrong in disrupting such a relationship. Even when he entertained the possibility that 'Ben' was real, however, the uncomfortable feeling lingered. He didn't want to think it was jealousy.  He's mad at you now. You lied to him, you played him for a fool for an entire year. But more than the lie - he could handle the lie, really, because he always knew it to be so - he was angry at your feelings. That was the real surprise. You had a nice thing going. It was pretty cool to be actual friends with a girl, you know, without having to remember this or that about how she was in bed, or what she really looked like underneath her clothes, every time he saw her. Y/N was just one of the guys, until feelings got in the way. Roger stops at a hole-in-the-wall pub and eyes its sketchy sign, flickering dully, on its last legs. It looked to him like a place no respectable man would find himself at midnight, and he was right; upon entering, he could tell that nobody there was clean of drugs or (judging by the putrid smell) in easy access to a shower.  He orders their strongest, cheapest stuff and downs it, leaning his arms against the bar. Perhaps the barkeep tries to make conversation; he doesn't listen. His gaze is straight ahead, but far off, and he feels a bit like Freddie when he had the sudden inspiration for a song, and can't be bothered until he's plucked it out on the piano.  His first, almost instinctive thought is, How do I reject a girl without hurting her feelings? As he tries to come up with an answer, he wonders why he wants to reject her in the first place. Knowing you, you'd want a reason. He can't find one.  He thinks about your smile when you see him for the first time every day. How it's even wider when he's been out of town for a tour, and how your eyes are so bright on his. Perhaps your affection shouldn't have caught him so off-guard.  He thinks of your hair, which you wear so modestly. He likes to make it messy, because it's so soft between his fingers, and it pleases him to know that you like it, too. He likes that he could make you relax with such a simple touch.  He thinks about the most bizarre things: the curve of your shoulders when you wear a particular blouse; the charming asymmetry of your grin when you're up to mischief; the particular way you cross your legs when you lean against the sofa.  Perhaps he's thought of you too much. This was quite a revelation, wasn't it, your not-so-hidden feelings? He really should have a clear mind, unobstructed by thoughts and images of you.  Like the wise man he is, he replaces thoughts of your silhouette against a bright streetlight on a late night with the buzz of alcohol, and that's the last he can recall of that night. 

You had hoped that telling Roger about your long-running lie would get the guilt off of your shoulders, but just as you cast aside that albatross, you take on Atlas’ weight of the world when he doesn’t speak to you again for days.  He was wrong, nearly a year ago, when he said that a true friend wouldn’t let something like this ruin a relationship. You ruined things with the two of you, didn't you? If only you had kept your mouth shut about everything. If only you hadn't told him about your silly crush like he would have cared - and if only you hadn't let that crush blossom into love. Had you now lost Roger forever? You don’t want to think of Roger as a hypocrite. The soft side of you wants to see good in everybody, so you blame yourself. Perhaps it was largely the lying that made him react so . . . adversely? You really couldn’t tell, because it’s how he didn’t react that makes the situation so confusing. He’s also never had to reject someone so close to him. The women he goes with are mostly fans, or they're just walking sex appeal - not unlike Roger himself, of course. It’s easy to make excuses to girls in bars or groupies at gigs. He doesn’t know their names, their character; he doesn’t care for them in any capacity. You hope that he cares for you as a friend, at least, and that’s what makes it difficult for him.  These thoughts send you into a downward spiral with no end. You convince yourself, contrary to your prior wishful thinking, that you made up the intimacy of your friendship - all of your bonds and connections were just fabrications of a lonely, desperate mind. Roger Taylor wouldn’t want you, as a friend or as a lover. This spiral has no end; it tightens and tightens until you feel faint. Then, it tightens some more.  You sit in front of your television, watching some program with a blank stare. For the life of you, you can’t remember what it is, though you’ve stared at it for a few hours now. You’re on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, because it feels right like this. You try not to think about when Roger sat on the sofa behind you. A bent paper clip between your fingers gives you a mechanical distraction from such mental spirals; idle fingers means your mind wanders, inevitably to the worst of places.  It’s one in the afternoon, and you really shouldn’t be in your flat on such a perfectly nice day as this. The few clouds in the sky, you can tell from your window, are wispy and fleeting. Today would be an opportune time to run some errands and visit the guys.  Ah, there’s the rub. The guys: specifically, Roger. You can’t face him. The thought of your ruined friendship hurts you enough; actually seeing the wreckage can only be worse. He lives right next door to you, and you’ve avoided him like the plague. Every time you go down to check the post, it’s a rush, early in the morning when you’re sure he isn’t awake. When you run down to the laundry, you check both ways to make sure he can't run into you. Each time, you feel so pathetic that, now, you haven't left your flat all day, and have no intention to do so. If you were in your right mind, you’d probably notice how quiet his flat was, as though he weren’t home at all, but you are far to preoccupied with not thinking about him.  You are a mess. You wear your dressing gown, even though you woke up hours ago, and haven’t properly brushed your hair in a couple of days. You ate cereal out of a measuring cup because it was in the wash and you hadn’t put away the clean dishes yet. You didn't even bother going to bed last night; you just curled up on the couch into a dreamless but restless sleep. A knock sounds at your door. You don’t even entertain the possibility that it’s Roger, because there’s no way he would show up now. He’s the sort who puts things off and puts things off until he just doesn’t do them. You'd probably end up the same way to him.  You don't immediately get up to answer until you hear a call. “Y/N! Open your door, darling, before I call John in to break it down.” Freddie. You push aside your blanket and tie your gown about your waist, running a hand through your hair. As you approach your door, you catch a glimpse of your disheveled frame in the mirror, with your baggy eyes and melancholy expression. You're a peach.  The door opens. "Y/N!" Freddie rushes in to envelope you in one of his familiarly warm hugs. You're so used to this greeting that it doesn't strike you as odd, but you must wonder.  "What's gotten you here, Fred?" He pulls away, hands on your shoulders, examining you. "I refuse to believe you're that dim. You haven't stopped by the studio in days, or even returned our calls; we're all right worried about you, of course." "All of you?"  He blanches, knowing exactly who you meant. "I do wish you'd told me about your little crush." It didn't escape your notice how he avoided answering, but it's all you need to know the truth. Roger doesn't care.  You turn away and beckon him inside, ignoring that last remark. "Apologies for the mess," you say, kicking your dirty jumper out of his path to the couch. "I wasn't expecting company." "Evidently," he sneers in distaste at your displayed wardrobe. He never did approve of your taste in clothes.  He sits beside you on the couch. At first, you're a good distance away, as though this is just a friendly chat over tea, but without the tea. Or the friendly chat. Apparently, neither of you are sure what this is, because you both sit for a moment of frankly awkward silence, before Freddie sighs. "Oh, come here, you goose." He pulls you into another embrace. "I'm guessing you heard about Roger and me?" you ask, nuzzled into his shoulder. Your voice is muffled but he understands well enough.  "Did I ever," he chuckles dryly. "We all saw it, you know. Something was never quite right with you two. If you didn't both have such glass faces, I'd have thought you were having a secret affair." You laugh humorlessly, as if to say, I wish. "And here I thought I hid it well." "Only from him. But for what it's worth, he only gets the message if a girl flashes him." He pets your hair, and you suspect another grimace comes from how tangled it is, but he doesn't mention it. "You shouldn't be too hard on yourself, you know. Love happens to the best of us." You look up at him. "But I've lost him, haven't I?" "Well, I wouldn't assume -" "Things were fine the way they were. I don't care that I loved him; he was better as a friend, however I could have him, than he is now that he's gone." You shake your head. "I was ridiculous to think that he would feel the same way. We're not fucking atoms; opposites don't attract." He silences you with a finger to your lips. "Y/N, listen to me. Nobody's wrong to express their feelings. Where you've gone wrong is to assume Roger's. Did he tell you that he didn't love you?" "Well, no." "Did he tell you that the friendship was over?" "No! Who just announces, 'Well, we're done here. Our friendship has expired!'?" Freddie slows his words down, as if addressing a petulant child. "You must understand that Roger gets all the girls because he's a pretty face and a loose tongue. He doesn't get them because he understands how they think. If he can't wake up the morning after and have a real conversation with the girl he's laid, what makes you think he'll know how to respond to a profession of love? He's just a man, after all. He needed time." You pretend to check the watch on your wrist, not minding that you aren't actually wearing one. "Well, he's had a few days. Isn't that time enough?" "God, you're just as hopeless as he is." Freddie withdraws his arms from around you to cross them in front of his chest. "We were set to record Monday, you know? But Roger comes in, two hours late, and he can't keep a beat to save his life, and all it takes is one question from Brian to get him to give us the whole sob story." Your breath catches. "How did he seem?" "Just as torn up as you are, dear. We could all see it from miles away, the two of you. If my intuition's worth anything, he loves you, too. He's just afraid to say it." You look away. "You're only saying that." He scoffs. "Because it's true! Look. I want you out of this flat - after you tidy up a bit - and out to find Roger, instead of wallowing in this depressing mess. Don't you waste this." You find it hard to believe him. Freddie's always there to pick you up; he's charismatic and charming, but that doesn't mean that he's entirely right. He has the bad habit of telling you what you want to hear, instead of the truth. Sometimes, he can make that the reality, but even he can't fix the impossible.  "Trust me." You want to. You really do. But can you handle it if he's wrong?

You look at your reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Freddie's helped you do your hair. You washed it and scrubbed your face, so that you don't look as rough as you had before. You must admit, though your appearance is hardly the most of your concerns, that it is a marked improvement. You aren't wearing makeup today, because makeup isn't an every day thing for you, and you don't want to give the impression that today is a special occasion.  Just for insurance purposes, you must present yourself as a friend, making a supplication to continue a friendship; to assume or hope for anything more would just be uncouth. If Roger doesn't feel as Freddie suspects he may, you must take his rejection with grace; the excuse that you were prepared to remain friends is just perfect for such a scenario. Not that you didn't hope for more, that is. Just that you didn't expect it. Fred left about an hour ago; since then, you've tidied up your flat, put in a load of laundry, and any other domestic task you could think of. Since he left, you've tried to muster the courage to follow his order, but so far, you've come up with nothing, preferring to busy yourself with chores. Now, you can think of nothing more to do that wouldn't break a sweat. Of course, you could always sort through your records - you've been meaning to do that - but it would take several hours to do thoroughly, and you actually do plan to find Roger eventually.  As you stare at your reflection, you convince yourself that, whatever Roger says once you find him, you won't betray any sadness in your eyes. You won't tear up or cry; the best you can do is resigned humility, because that would prove to him that you can handle rejection. Above all, when you see him, you want to walk away with the same level of friendship that you had before this fiasco. His friendship matters more to you than any romantic inclinations ever could.  This thought gives you comfort. You can handle rejection because, even if he rejects your love, he wouldn't have to reject your friendship. You hope. He's a bigger man than that, isn't he? He wouldn't let a crush get in the way of such a strong friendship.  Again, you hope.  You take several deep breaths and head to your door. As your heart beats faster than it probably ever has before, you fiddle with your keys for a second, and you notice that your fingers are unsteady.  Okay, Y/N, you just have to do this, you tell yourself. Rip off the band-aid.  Much easier said than done.  Closing your eyes, you open your door, and mechanically turn to lock it. You use slow, deliberate movements, partly because your hands shake so badly, and partly because you want to have as long as possible to compose your thoughts.  Fate isn't on your side, it seems.  "I guess I caught you as you were leaving." Spinning around to meet the familiar voice, your eyes fly open.  Roger stands there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket. It's the same one he wore that night. It looks like he hasn't been home in days; his eyes are even baggier than yours, and his clothes are old.  You swallow. "I was going to find you, actually." The corner of his lip quirks up so slightly that it must be involuntary. "Yeah?" "I haven't seen you in days." He shrugs. "I've been at John's," he excuses. His eyes avoid yours.  You lean against your door as he walks forward. Unsure of what to say, you can only ask, "How have you been?" He looks at you, then, in the eye, and he looks so tired. You hate to think that your confession had done that to him. "Well," he says lowly, "these past few days haven't exactly been an easy ride." "I'm so sorry." Roger releases a sharp exhale and shakes his head. "You need to stop apologizing like it’s your fault." By his voice, you can tell his temper is short. "I really don't get you, Y/N. You've kept this secret for a whole year, but I can't understand why. We tell each other everything, you know? Why not this?" You look down to compose your answer. You don't speak your mind as he does; he hardly has a filter, while yours is made of lead. "It isn't as easy as that," you say. "You don't know how it feels to love someone who doesn't love you back. It's not fun, Roger, it hurts. But I knew that if you told me, if I actually had to hear you say it, it would hurt even more." Your voice breaks.  His eyes soften. "No, no, Y/N," his hands find your shoulders. He doesn't just rest them there, he holds them, and it feels so warm, so comforting. He's not just holding you; he's holding you together. You know that you won't cry in front of him. "Maybe I'm not the best with this type of thing." He tilts his head. "All right, maybe I'm one of the worst. But it hurts me to know that you didn't even let me decide for myself how I felt about you." Through your slightly cloudy eyes, you give him an exasperated look. "You can't say that you would have done anything different." You cross your arms, but a part of you stops you from moving too much, because you're afraid to jostle his hands off of your shoulders. "I know you, Roger, and I know the type of girls you go with. I'm not like them." "No, you're not," he says. "Look, when you first mentioned your feelings, way back at Freddie's Christmas party, I think I hoped, just for a second, that you'd say it was me. Just for a second. Then, when I thought it was John, I was jealous. Fucking jealous!" He shakes his head, as if in disbelief at himself. "I don't get jealous. Not unless it's over you." Your brain isn't working. "I don't understand." "Here, I'll spell it out. When you said that you felt for me, I freaked. Nobody'd ever done that before, so it caught me off guard. And I panicked; wouldn't you?" His hand rises to cup your cheek. "But it got me thinking. If you hadn't said anything, that hope and that jealousy would have just been pushed somewhere out of mind, because that's what I do with things I can't understand. So when you said that it was me. . ." He closes his eyes and leans forward. Not close enough to kiss - though more than part of you wishes it was - but close enough that you feel his breath against your skin, and it sends shivers down your spine.  "When you said it was me, I - I put it all together. I'm an idiot, Y/N, and it took me a while, but I see it now." He opened his eyes and looked at you. "I think I love you.” You open your mouth to reply, but the words don't even leave your brain before your heart stops beating. You honestly think you may be dreaming when he closes the space between you and presses his lips to yours. 

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