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Apparently Brian’s met this guy at a gig in a tiny London pub once who knew this other guy who is an astrophysics transfer student from Germany. This other guy just happened to be at the same gig and fell in love with their music and when Brian and him started really hitting it off about space dust over a few beers, someone decided that it would be a really great idea to play a concert in this tiny German town during their upcoming tour of Europe.
When Brian told their tour manager about it (”they have an astronomical observatory!“) he shrugged and signed it off without a big fuss, which is how they end up in Heidelberg.
As one of the few German cities that haven’t been blown to smithereens after the Second World War, Heidelberg still sports some pretty old buildings and there’s also this river called ”nickle“ or something running through the town.
”Did you know that the University of Heidelberg is the oldest still teaching university in all of Europe?“ Johannes asks enthusiastically. Johannes’ the German transfer Brian met and being the one who’s sparked the whole Heidelberg idea has immediately volunteered for guiding the band around town during their three-day-stay.
Currently they’re strolling through one of the old auditoriums of the university, while their self-declared tour guide provides historical anecdotes like a walking documentary. Brian of course hangs onto every word, because he’s a nerd like that. Freddie’s providing fitting exclamations of ”ohh“ and ”a-hah“ and John’s always been the grandmaster of the pleasantly interested facial expression. Nobody ever knows if he’s pretending or genuinely listening.
Roger’s stomach hurts. It’s not bad or anything and mostly his own fault to be honest, he didn’t actually have to order that extra large serving of steak yesterday evening and be too proud to leave leftovers. Fact is he did and thus spend the night uncomfortably rolling around bed and unable to fall asleep. And now he’s achy, really tired and pissed off. Not that he's about to tell anyone, the “told-you-so"s would probably make his head explode.
Also he’s not the map guy (Johannes is).
Roger’s always the map guy because contrary to popular beliefs he’s the one with the best sense of orientation. Brian could not read maps (actual maps, not those illegible star charts) if his life depended on it and Freddie tends to get sidetracked so much that they run around in circles for hours on end. Deacy’s pretty orientated, so he gets to help with navigation. This is how they’ve been touring cities ever since they started venturing out of London for gigs and that’s how it’s always worked out before.
And now Johannes is the man with the plan and the other’s follow him like a bunch of ducklings and Roger’s lagging behind and feeling supremely useless, which pisses him off even more.
But the rest of the band plus their volunteering tour guide seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves so there’s no reason for him to ruin their moods with snippy comments.
”That’s about everything I have to tell you about the university, so what do you guys think about grabbing lunch and then visiting the castle?“ he hears Johannes say from the front. Roger really wants to be angry at the guy but how can he when he’s been nothing but nice? He even bought them coffee with his student discount it’s horrible. Roger’s also horrible for trying to be crappy to a nice guy.
”Well, I think that’s a delightful idea“ Freddie remarks and off they go. Roger silently groans because they’re walking insanely fast, the way young men with long legs do and he’s fucking tired. And then Deacy wants to get chips, because unassuming lanky Deacy is a fucking black hole. How that man does not weigh double as much as he does Roger cannot begin to understand. The thought of food alone makes his stomach cramp. Ugh. What he needs are nicotine and coffee, preferably in this order and infinite quantities.
He plants himself on a bench and lights a cigarette while the others get their own bags of oily fast-food. Of course nobody notices. He’s just gonna sit here and pity himself until he’s grown over with moss probably. Or maybe when the band makes the trip up to the castle and is missing their drummer for an inevitable picture?
Existing and looking pretty for pictures sounds like an accurate description of what he’s been doing during this particular tour to be honest. Oh no, he’s been allowed a gracious amount of five horrible outfits and no lead vocals, decreed by Freddie the head Queen and backed by Brian, who gets to go crazy on his Red Special during every fucking song.
That’s probably why he’s especially moody today. If he wasn’t in public he’d be throwing things. Fucking Germany. Fuck Brian who’s been eying him disapprovingly over his puny potato dish all evening. Fuck this whole trip.
Someone sits down next to him and the scent of chips wafts up his nose making him grimace.
”Are you okay?“
It’s Deacy, thank god it’s Deacy, because he would have positively strangled anybody else.
”No“ Roger groans and leans his elbows on his knees. There’s a bit of silence.
”What’s the matter?“ Deacy asks then, ever patient.
”I’m fucking tired“ Roger murmurs after being strangely torn between remaining stubbornly tight lipped and complaining to anybody who’ll listen.
”Bad night?“
”It’s fine“
It’s not fine, but he’s okay, he doesn’t have to listen to anymore complaining about him being a pussy and being too impulsive with a hair-trigger temper (he knows that he’s got horrendous self-control but it’s not that knowing this gives him magical powers over his emotions).
Ah, there he goes, working himself into a temper tantrum again. He tries to breath slower, think of something else, not wanting to project his frustrations on Deacy or let the others see how he’s losing it in the middle of a busy pedestrian walk.
”Oi, Deaks! Rog! You coming or what?“ Freddie calls „we’re gonna go down to the river to eat, alright dears?“
That’s it. He’s not emotionally prepared enough to deal with this sightseeing-shit.
”I’m going back to the hotel and take a nap!“ Roger yells while getting of the bench ”get me when we start preparing for the gig“
”Jesus, he’s in a mood today“ he hears someone (Brian) mutter from behind him, but he’s already walking off.
~*~
The bed inside the hotel room he shares with their stuffy guitarist is blissfully soft and clean and empty. Throwing himself on the white duvet, not bothering to change into pyjamas, he can already feel his horrible mood turning into guilt for basically acting like a conceited arsehole the whole afternoon. God, it must suck to be at the receiving end of one of his moods.
But he can’t help it when Freddie and Brian have been riding on their high-horses for days, complaining non-stop about Roger’s behavior and his drinking habits, the food he eats and the night hours he keeps. And everything else too of course. He’s not a child. It’s not his fault that he rarely gets a chance to relax now that Queen has started to take off outside of Britain.
Sometimes he wonders wether it is a good thing that they’re getting famous at all.
~*~
He sleeps until five in the afternoon when he is shaken awake by Brian to start preparing for their gig. Actually feeling sufficiently more rested he lets himself be ushered through the obligatory wardrobe and makeup steps Freddie traditionally forces upon them before climbing inside the car that has been arranged to take them to the venue.
The outside world is painted by the mellow sun of summer as they crawl along the traffic. Their driver is conversing with the event coordinators in rapid-fire German, so Roger has no problems tuning him out. Deacy’s wedged between him and Freddie, both of whom are wearing almost sinfully short shorts. At least Roger’s decked out in acceptable silver pants and a t-shirt this time. He can still remember the drama about the wedding dress tops. Never again.
They arrive fifteen minutes later, pulling into the wide gravel driveway after the truck holding their instruments and in the adrenalin-fueled pre-gig rush he forgets all about his worries.
~*~
The crowd is small compared to some venues back in Britain but the mood is amazing. It makes them feel bold.
“We’re gonna play a little game“ Freddie announces after they finish “Seven Seas of Rhye“ and Brian, John and Roger are doing the thing where they’re basically creating ambient background music while Freddie engages with the audience.
“We’re gonna play ’Keep Yourself Alive’“ Freddie says and the crowd roars at this “and our dear Deacy here“ the bassist stops his steady thrumming of the bass line for a second to give a little wave which again makes the audience scream louder “is gonna jump from the stage“ a collective gasp “and you guys are gonna catch him, alright? Don’t you dare let him fall!“
Indignant yelling fills the hall. Of course nobody is going to let him fall.
“That’s what I want to hear“ Freddie laughs and crouches down on a speaker, mic pole splayed across his knees “so after you catch him you’re gonna surf him over to the bar, alright. And you over there, yes, you!“ he points at the bar keeper, a young lady with glasses and unassuming blond hair tied up in a ponytail “You’re gonna give him a shot of Jaegermeister. Just pour it straight into his mouth, he doesn’t bite“
Laughter ripples through the hall.
“And then you’re gonna surf him back here and he’s gonna get back up and he is not. Going. To miss. A single note. Are you, Deacy-dear?“
And John, small unassuming John, who’s shy in interviews and likes to stay in the background doing his thing, just smiles mysteriously and the crowd goes absolutely wild.
Roger’s heart beats faster in anticipation, strong and steady. They have never done this before, creativity ending with the length of their connecting cables, but the bar isn’t far away and he know’s their Deacy, he could pull this off in his sleep.
“Alright!“ Freddie yells and jumps down from the speaker, strutting to the middle of the stage “here we go!“
Immediately the signature sound of Brian’s guitar rips out of the amplifiers kicking off the song and Roger soon joins in, picking up its rhythm and heartbeat while John calmly slides into the bass line, keeping the beat without an effort.
From behind his kit and with all the light shining in his myopic eyes Roger can’t clearly make out what is happening, but he sees and hears when Deacy throws himself offstage back first and the crowd welcomes him into their many arms with an uproar of noise.
To the soundtrack of Freddie Mercury’s voice the bassist is carried to the bar on a sea of gentle hands and Rock’n Roll, nimble fingers never missing their place on the fat strings of his trusty instrument. The barkeeper has climbed onto the counter, armed with a bottle of Jaegermeister, pourer screwed firmly on top. And as if having a mind of its own the crowd moves in total alignment, holding Deacy steady as the alcohol is poured and only when they feel the warm thrumming of the bass unchanging everybody, including the band members on stage, lets out a deafening yell of triumph, making the very ground vibrate with intensity.
Eventually Deacy makes it back upstage, serene smile and bass firmly in place. They make it through the song and transition straight into another heavy rock number. The atmosphere is mind-blowing. Roger can feel the heartbeat of their music in his bones and he knows that the others must feel the same intoxicating dose of undiluted excitement rushing through their veins. He can’t help but grin madly at his bandmates.
It is in moments like these that they feel invincible.
~*~
Roger doesn’t remember the name of the bar they’re sat in at the moment. It doesn’t help that he’s forgotten to bring his shades so he literally cannot read anything further than a meter away. Johannes said that this alley full of bars close to the river is the perfect place to unwind after their gig so here the are. It’s pretty nice actually, to be surrounded by students (not that he’s old, but being in university had its perks) and not be a rockstar for a while.
Roger’s a bit buzzed from the celebratory drinks they already had back at the venue while packing up their instruments, but it’s a nice kind of drowsiness that doesn’t make him tired or anything.
“To the finale of a fucking fantastic tour!“ Freddie shouts and they raise their pints around the table they’re sitting at.
“To another year of Queen!“ John says to a row of cheers.
“To a bright und hopefully successful future!“ Brian yells, uncharacteristically enthusiastic.
“To living the best we make out of our lives“ Roger says when they clink their beers together, getting a shoulder-pat from Freddie in the process.
“Oddly philosophical, but true anyway“ the singer laughs and earns a grave nod from John “to life, Liz!“
The smiles they share are infectious. After all there’s nothing quite like the bond you share with the people you chose to spend most of your adult life with.
~*~
At some point they split up to mingle amongst the crew that has accompanied them to the bar and chatting up random Germans when they’re feeling particularly bold.
It is of course then that Roger gets abandoned in lieu of some rowdy Americans who think it’s a great idea to relocate to the dance floor. Any other day he probably would have joined them but general exhaustion has crept up on him again like a persistent shadow so he’s now sat at the bar nursing a Southern Comfort and trying his hardest not to mope.
“You should buy me a drink“ Anna says and rearranges her legs on the barstool she’s perched upon.
“And why should I do that exactly?“ Roger questions, raising an eyebrow. Anna is a medstudent who happens to be Johannes’ girlfriend, which is why she’s been to their concert and has decided it to be her personal mission to make all of them buy her a drink. He’s just her latest victim.
The women waggles her eyebrows. “Because I’m a broke student and have a nice ass“ she says. No shame.
“What will Miss ’nice ass’ be having then?“ he sighs in mock exasperation while running a hand through his hair.
“A virgin Mojito“ says Anna and snorts at his mortified expression.
“I have classes tomorrow, I’m not suicidal“ she chortles and eagerly sips her disgusting virgin mojito when Roger actually gives and orders the abomination. She glances backwards “not to be insensitive, but your dudes are partying in the back and you’re sitting here with little ol’ me, is everything okay?“
Right in the feels, woman, what is wrong with people nowadays. Roger sighs and lights yet another cigarette to soon join the small armada in the ashtray.
“I’m just not feeling it, I guess“ he says and has a a quiet row with himself about how much of his melodrama should be shared with a stranger.
“Can’t help it then?“
“Nope“
Anna pats his head like he’s some kind of kid. “Well, I’m gonna go find my boyfriend because I’m pretty sure he got lost on his way to the back of this place. Hope you guys come back here someday!“
She vanishes in the blink of an eye. Maybe he should join the party.
Roger finishes his cigarette and takes to wandering around the joint to look for his wayward bandmates in an attempt to socialize after being old and boring for the first half of the evening.
He catches a glimpse of John discoing across the dance floor while being cheered on by a group of guys in matching baseball tees. Freddie is forcing Brian to inappropriately slow dance to unfitting music, but they’re both laughing their arse off.
Maybe all he needs is a little bit more encouragement to get in the mood, Roger thinks.
He finds his spot at the bar reoccupied by four guys doing shots and decides to be an impulsive little shit. Smoothly sliding himself onto the only free seat available, he catches the stares of the assembled group.
“Hello, I’m Roger, mind if I join?“ he smiles disarmingly.
The guy he’s wedged himself next to amicably extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Mark. Shots?“
“Shots.“
~*~
Roger Meddows Taylor is a bloody idiot, but at least he’s proven that he can hold his liquor thank you very much.
“You’re a monster, man!“ Mark’s friend slurs over his latest empty glass as he clumsily attempts to hit Roger’s shoulder “I give up, you win. We have a winner“
Mark stares at him with wide eyes as if he’s a little bit in love. “Congrats, my man“ he says slowly, also drunk off his rockers “you Brits are no joke“
Roger just grins and leans in close to his new drinking buddies. “Bet you, I can take another“
He doesn’t know where the sudden need to prove his competence in getting pissed has come from, it certainly hasn’t raised its ugly head since he was in his first year of dentistry. His brain is definitely trying to tell him to stop, but his brain hasn’t been in control of his body ever since the fifth shot, so it can go mope in the corner while Roger fucking enjoys himself.
Mark’s other buddy guffaws incredulously. “No way“
“Yes way“ Roger says and basks in the attention “you get me another one, I’ll fucking show ya“
Mark orders another round. Roger drinks.
And all too soon he’s alone again, because his new friend leave even faster than his old ones do. Proving himself doesn’t mean anything when you’re only looking for excuses and pride is useless when there’s nothing to be proud of.
The world really is starting to spin a bit uncomfortably now.
“Ugh fuck“ he mumbles and pools his head in his arms on the bar. Sadly this only makes the spinning worse.
Someone grabs his shoulder and he blinks up blearily. It’s a poodle! (It’s Brian, his subconscious says).
“For god’s sake, I do not look like a poodle“ he can hear Brian say, but it doesn’t sound like he’s angry, which is nice because angry Brian turns into sad Brian and Roger doesn’t want Brian to be sad. Being sad is not nice, nu-uh. He shakes his head in emphasis and poodle Brian turns into three before slowly merging again.
“Okay, Rog, how much did you have already?“ the guitarist laughs and Roger pouts.
“Don’t make fun of me“ he says “I don’t like it when people make fun of me“
“I’m not making fun of you“ Brian assures him, giving his shoulder a squeeze, before taking a sip of his drink
“Oh, good. Thanks“ Roger says, finding his own glass of something.
“Don’t sweat it. Look, Freddie’s found some Americans who want to play a drinking game with beer and a table and god knows what. So I need a partner, you up for that?“
“Sounds fun“ he finishes his drink and slides from the bar stool and that’s when everything goes a bit sideways and he has to hold the counter in a death grip in order to not hit the tiles face first. There are spots in his vision and for a short moment he feels like he isn’t in his own body at all, before being pulled back in all at once.
It takes a while to get the world to right itself again and even longer to focus on the goddamn noise that is in his ears.
“-e, Rog? Roger? You hear me?“
Jesus fuck, he’s drunk. As in, completely shitfaced. Huh.
“I think“ he says, after carefully leaning back on the counter not bothering to pry Brian’s hand from his arm. “I think I drank too much“
“Obviously“ his friend’s face looks a tad bit concerned. Oh right, he’s definitely not playing any game any time soon.
“Ah shit, sorry Bri. I’m just gonna go get some air“ yes, fresh air sounds good.
Brian hand is still glued to his arm. “You want me to come with you?“
Now he sounds really worried.
“No, no, you go back to Fred, I’m just gonna…“ he moves to release the counter from his unthankful fingers but finds that his legs feel more gooey than Bri’s weird breakfast gloop. God, he really should’ve paced himself. Maybe if he just waits a bit he’ll actually be able to make it out the door by himself.
“… stay here“ he finishes unspectacularly.
Brian sighs and asks the bartender for a bottle of water. Roger stares uncomprehendingly as his friend thanks the guy and tucks the received bottle into the pocket of his jacket (when did he put that on?).
“Wait here“ Brian tells him and leans him back against the counter “I’m going to tell the others that we’re outside“
And then he’s gone.
Roger sits and stares at the scene before him. There are people everywhere, mostly students. He doesn’t know anyone and nobody seems to know him, which is good, because he won’t have to be too embarrassed about getting pissed like a fifteen-year-old. Then again it’s kinda sad that he knows nobody. They’re somewhere in Germany, not very far but also not that close to home and he misses home. He misses the worn-out couch in their living room and the faulty heating and the lazy mornings spend lounging around the flat in nothing but boxers and a bathrobe, Brian’s cooking filling the rooms with the delicious flavor of meatless crap. Freddie’s virtuous singing under the shower. The quiet scratching of John’s pen while studying. Gosh, he even misses the exasperated arguments about smoking inside instead of out on the tiny balcony.
Not that there’s anything like that to come back to, they don’t even live together anymore.
He’s brought back to the present when somebody plonks down on the barstool next to him.
“Hey, you’re the drummer right? Of the band that played in the club tonight?“ it’s a lanky blond guy with a heavy German accent.
Roger nods slowly, not sure if it’s a good thing to be recognized in this inopportune of times.
The guy smiles broadly and suddenly there’s a glass being pressed into his hand.
“I LOVED your music! Hope you guys play in Germany soon again, you are AWESOME!“
Roger can’t help but grin stupidly at the compliment. It’s always nice to know that people enjoy their gigs, especially outside of London.
“Thanks, you guys were swell too“ he says and the guy clinks their glasses together, spilling a bit of whatever’s in there.
“I’ll drink to that“ he says and downs the shot. Roger’s not really thinking at this point, so he automatically does the same. The taste of something fruity burns down his throat. The guy claps him on the shoulder and gets up and vanishes into the crowd, taking the empty glasses with him. And then he’s replaced by Brian.
“Come on“ the guitarist says and slings an arm around Roger’s waist “let’s get out of here“
Somehow the wonky tilting of the room has intensified over the last minute. Roger doesn’t quite know which way is down anymore so he’s pretty glad that Brian’s arm is there to steady him, as he almost falls again the second he pushes off the counter.
It’s nothing compared to the actual act of walking. His legs are so wobbly and his vision is spinning badly enough that Brian basically has to carry him out of the joint. He can feel the liquid contents of his stomach sloshing around uncomfortably. That last shot probably did it. He really should’ve said no to that last shot. Stupid drunk brain. Stupid Roger.
“Stop“ he says quietly because he really needs to slow down or else he’ll fucking puke.
“Bri, stop“ a little louder when his friends doesn’t hear him over the acoustic level of muffled German.
Brian, bless his soul, complies and they stop in the alley next to the bar. Roger dangerously sways on the spot and feels very sick so he presses a fist to his mouth.
“If you need to throw up, you probably should“ Brian sounds concerned “No need to be embarrassed, I bet no one can see us behind these trash cans.“
Roger knows he’s lying but judging from the way everything is going wonky he should heed the guitarist’s advice because he might be well on his way to die from alcohol poisoning.
The next minutes are a bit of a blur, but he thinks he made a pretty accurate impression of a human waterfall. Disgusting.
When his body’s finally decides that there’s nothing more to throw up and the dry-heaving stops he finds himself in the awkward position of halfway squeezed between the trash can and Brian, who has one of Roger’s arms slung around his neck, because he’s a bloody noodle.
“You okay?“ Brian asks, rubbing his back.
“Sort of“ Roger groans because his head pounds, his heart is racing and he’s clammy and shaky but at least he’s not on the verge of passing out anymore. “can I… I need to sit down“
Brian eyes the dirty alley and the puddle of sick on the ground disapprovingly “Not on the ground, you won’t. There’s a bench down by the river, it’s not far, you think we can make it there?“
Roger’s blurry gaze follows Brian’s outstretched arm pointing to the (blissfully empty) piece of river bank with the wooden bench.
About 50 meters some part of his brain helpfully estimates, he can make 50 meters.
“Mh-mh“ he says eloquently and wipes his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.
They must look very funny as they make their way down to the river because Roger’s legs are jelly and he keeps stumbling over puny blades of grass and poor Brian has to hold him close like a very heavy rubber doll. But make it they do.
The balmy air of a dry summer night has left the bench quite warm to the touch which is a nice surprise when he ungracefully sits down, wheezing and sweating as if he’s a hundred and three. Brian’s kept his arm around Roger’s waist and makes him lean onto his shoulder.
“How do you feel?“ he asks.
“I’m alright“ Roger breathes and watches the world spin in lazy circles “bit dizzy“
Brian makes him drink some water. He has to stop after a few sips because his stomach protests but he manages to keep it down and his mouth doesn’t taste quite as much like vomit anymore. He feels stupid.
“Sorry“ he mumbles into Brian’s shoulder while his friend gently wipes his clammy forehead and neck with a dry cloth tissue he’s produced from somewhere. He’s sorry for being an idiot and ignoring his limits. He’s sorry for getting vomit on Bri’s shoes and he’s sorry for being an attention-demanding arse for the whole trip. He doesn’t put all of this into words but he hopes Brian understands.
“It’s okay“ the guitarist says quietly “let’s focus on getting some more water in you first, alright?“
He nods carefully and obediently takes small sips from the bottle until it’s half empty and his head is throbbing less. It is then that he hears the distinctive voice of Freddie Mercury drawing nearer.
“Brian, darling? There you are! John and I have been looking for you, is Roger with you?“
Freddie rounds the bench, Deaky in tow, and gasps.
“Oh dear, Rog, what happened, are you okay?“
“Rog here decided to drink his own body weight in alcohol“ Brian says, though with a humorous note and Roger can’t honestly be angry with him because it’s the truth, really.
He smiles weakly up at the singer from where he’s still draped against Brian’s tall form.
“I’m good, come sit with us“ he acknowledges and drinks some more water because he’s done being irresponsible for the night.
“You’re looking awfully pale, dear, we should probably lay you down“ Freddie fusses.
“He’s pale because it’s dark and he has the natural complexion of the moon“ Deaky deadpans, but settles on the bench anyway pulling Freddie with him so that Brian and him can maneuver Roger so that his head rests in Brian’s lap and his legs are propped up on John’s and Freddie’s thighs. It actually makes him want to puke less and he chuckles a bit at their bassist’s dry humor.
“You’re a real piece of work, darling“ Freddie says while petting his calves “though I must admit that we’re probably all less sober than we should be given that we’re gonna get on a plane in less than five hours“
“Ugh fuck, don’t remind me“ Roger groans. Flying’s gonna be a nightmare. But at least they’ll be going home and this weirdly horrendous tour will be over. Well, as much of a home London still is, what with the new solo-lifestyle everyone seems to have adopted lately.
Freddie was the first one to move out, claiming the need for more creative space, as if creativity was to be measured in square meters. Roger had at this point been rooming with Freddie for so long that for a few weeks he kept waiting for the singer to rudely play the piano in the middle of the night, only to be unable to fall asleep.
Brian was the next one to leave, having found a suitable flat near a park that catered to his inexplicable need to periodically isolate himself from humanity and write depressing songs about the self-destruction of society or whatever.
For a while it was just John and Roger sharing a now too empty flat (the old piano was missing from the living room, the increasingly exotic tea blends were missing from the shelf, nothing was really in the right place anymore).
Then John told him that he’d found a nice place to live with his girlfriend Veronica and two weeks later even the half-finished amps where missing from the corner.
(Roger’s been living in this bachelor pad with a great view of the city for a few weeks now. He still hasn’t bothered to empty all the moving boxes.)
Maybe he’s been hating this tour so much because it makes him realize how lonely he’s been all along. He’s not like Brian who needs and wants his space and is content with mingling when he feels like it. And he’s not like John, already planning to start a family.
On the surface he’s probably most similar to Freddie. Outgoing. Good with crowds. In the heart of the party. Then again, Roger’s always thought that Freddie’s had this grand vision of success and self-fulfillment and knows exactly who and where he is and what he has to do.
And while Freddie is planting his feet firmly into the paved walk of his own story, Roger’s still drifting through life as if the hazy uncertainty of youth hasn’t let him go yet.
He doesn’t know what or who he wants to be five years from now. He knows that he’s not ready to settle down yet and that he likes living this life of a rockstar, making and playing music for everybody to enjoy, losing himself in the high of performing. But other than that he doesn’t know anything, really.
It’s as if he’s stuck inside a limbo of existing today and then tomorrow, neither leaving yesterday behind or truly moving forward and the only proof of certainty he has is his connection to his bandmates, stretched thin and all across London. Almost see-through.
Of course his intoxicated brain is trying to work itself into an existential crisis at the most perfect of times. He feels like crying.
“Oi, Rog, are you alright?“
Fuck, he’s actually crying, but he can’t find the energy to rub at his eyes or pretend to be fine. So he says nothing. Someone (it must be Brian) cards their spindly fingers through his sweaty hair and that gentle touch somehow makes him cry even more, because it’s just like the old times when the four of them would crash on the couch after a gig and just share space within close vicinity. When it didn’t matter that tomorrow they’d have to worry about paying the rent on time again or how to scrounge up enough small change to afford more than cheese on dry toast in the mornings.
Now they have money, but Roger’s never been more alone.
John pulls him up and captures him in a hug. Roger almost blacks out for a moment because he’s so dizzy, but manages to wrap his arms around the bassist and bury his heavy head in his neck. He’s sobbing too hard to be aware of anything but the warm hand calmly rubbing circles across his back and the soft mutters of reassurance above the ringing in his ears.
Isn’t it sad that he’s so close to his friends and still feels as though he’s being left behind?
He doesn’t know how long he needs to finally put an end to the ugly tears and stop ruining Deacy’s pretty shirt, but his friends seem to have developed the patience of angels.
He carefully extricates himself from John’s embrace and slumps back onto the bench, head lolling backwards until he can stare up into the night sky. There might be stars but he can’t really tell. The night is muted.
“You’re all gonna leave me“ he says, quietly.
“What are you talking about, we aren’t going to leave you!“ Freddie exclaims immediately as if dealing with a major offense to his pride.
“But you are“ Roger says, rubbing at his eyes, as if that would help him see the stars better, but the view remains blurry. He knows that the stars are there just as much as the presence of his three bandmates but they’re so far away all the same. “you’re already leaving“
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to tell us“ Brian says softly.
“You’re all moving on“ Roger explains without turning to look at them “Fred, you finally have room for your baby grand. Bri’s got a bloody front porch and Deaks, you and Ronnie are having a bloody kid! You’ve been looking forward to having your own homes for so long.“
He’s met with silence, so he continues. “You know I really liked it back when we were making a living in this shithole of a flat in Kensington. I mean, yeah, it was a shithole, but it was home. And now you’ve all moved on and I’m…“
He fumbles for words, because all of a sudden, he’s choking up again.
“… I’m just… God, I feel like I’m missing something. Since you’ve all gone and moved yourselves out I’ve been trying to follow but it’s like you’re all fine with splitting up and not telling me what the hell is going on. This whole bloody tour it’s been like I’m not even a part of this band anymore. It’s… we used to know so much about each other because we fucking lived together and we just clicked and now you’re all just… I dunno, talking about how your lives are so good right now and how I’m being prissy and it’s as if I’m the only whose stuck in the past and I miss everything and…. God, I’m so sorry“
“Roggie, it’s okay“
“No, Fred, it’s not okay. I’ve been a righteous arsehole these days and I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.“
“Rog, I-“
“Stop it, I know I’m being stupid, okay? You guys deserve everything and it doesn’t matter if I’m being an insensitive dickhead about it, you deserve all the good things because you’ve worked so hard for it and-“
“Roger, shut up“
Roger shuts up and stares at Brian. In the moonlight his mop of curls makes the man’s head look thrice as big as it actually is and if this were any other day he might have laughed.
“You’re not being stupid“ the guitarist says and now that’s something Roger can snort at. Throwing a tantrum and trying to get alcohol poisoning over irrelevant relationship blues is about the textbook definition of being stupid.
“Please believe me, when I say that I know how you feel. God knows how much I miss having all of you wrecking havoc while I’m trying to work. The silence is disconcerting, so to speak. And I do often wish for simpler times and sometimes I even miss our Kensington shithole, as you’ve so aptly called it. I do regularly expect to trip over a cat or find disgusting underwear in the closet and I do miss our binge-songwriting evenings. I’ve been so caught up with myself, I never even realized that you might be dealing with these kind of thoughts as well, Rog. So yes, I’m sorry too.“
“We didn’t mean to make you feel excluded!“ Freddie buts in, eyes shining “Please know, that we would never intentionally try to leave you out of anything, dear. You’ll always be an equal part of Queen and no amount of living space will change that!“
“I’m sorry too“ says John after a while “for being ignorant. I guess my head’s been solely occupied with Ronnie and the baby lately, so I might have been sidelining the band a bit too much. I’ll try to do better“
“We’ll all try to do better“ Freddie decrees, throwing his arms up in a grand gesture.
“We’re so disgustingly human most of these days, so all we can do, is try to do better. And we will, won’t we darlings? Thank Roger of all people, to pull our heads out of our arses for a change!“
Roger swallows around the lump in his throat. His brain hurts from all these emotions that are waging war inside his head. He never expected to blurt out his thought like that and he never ever expected to be able to talk about his (frankly he still thinks they’re pretty void) insecurities with his bandmates and now that it’s happened and they seem to accept that while nobody’s even remotely angry at him he’s at a loss. He’s not good at these kind of talks, usually preferring to let his actions speak for him.
“I’m still sorry for being a tosser about this and taking my frustrations out on you though“ he mutters and clenches his clammy hands.
“Will you stop apologizing now!“ Brian says firmly but is waved off by Freddie who shushes him.
“No, let him apologize. We’ve all been a bit shitty the past few months, so let’s take this lovely evening to move on and emerge in a distinctly less shitty fashion“
John chuckles at the crude expression.
“I have a suggestion“ the bassist throws in “I agree with Roger, that moving out of Kensington might have been less than ideal for some of us. And while I do think that having our own places is important for us to grow as individuals and will, in the end, turn out to be the right decision, I don’t want us to drift apart as friends and bandmates. So I suggest, we set up weekly… let’s call it ’date nights’ for now, where we just meet at say, Brian’s place because we can be as loud as we want next to that forest. And we’ll just meet up, have dinner, spend time together, maybe stay the night. Because that’s what I’ve been missing the most lately. Spending time together as friends. And let’s face it, it’s not like we have any ’real’ jobs that could stop us from hanging out“
“I like the sound of ’date night’“ Freddie muses, a hand contemplatively stroking his chin “if Brimi’s ready to give up his sanctuary for these three Queens once in a while“
“Are you kidding? I’ve been going out of my mind with non of your messes to clean up“ Brian laughs, dark eyes crinkling “what do you think, Roger?“
Roger blinks at the three of them and suddenly feels more in tune with his little group of rockstars than ever. He’s unravelled in a way that makes his heart want to beat right out of his chest and at the same time a warm kind of calmness has settled over his frazzled thoughts. Who knew that doing the adult talk can be so simple once you get over yourself.
“I’d like that“ he says and is almost knocked over by the impulse of the impromptu group hug that is forced upon him by everybody. And he would have gladly revelled in the warmth of their bodies if his head didn’t decide to spin particularly vicious from being pulled forward so suddenly.
“Guys, lemme go, I’m gonna hurl“ he moans and is immediately released to a chorus of sheepish “sorry“’s.
Brian, being the overgrown mother-hen that he is, helps him put his throbbing head between his knees and tells him to keep breathing.
“Better?“ he asks.
Roger groans pitifully. John returns to gently rubbing his back.
“I am not equipped appropriately for this, so I am going to get more water“ Freddie says and jogs off.
It is strange, Roger thinks, how even though his body’s betraying him and making him feel awful, he couldn’t be more content with life right now.
And a week later when they’re all sprawled on Brian’s living room rug, giggling around mugs of tea like madmen, he decides that sometimes the utter strangeness of life doesn’t matter at all.