ACT 3 - DAWN
"It's the moment night time seems weaker and everything seems easier to figure out"
Chapter 17
London, 1977
Roger was moving out.
He spent the last months considering moving out of his flat - he had the money, but he liked the flat. He liked the way the white kitchen would turn yellow in the end of a summer afternoon, when the sunlight hit it just right.
He liked the way the house always smelled like lavender - he couldn't really remember if there was ever a time it didn't smell like it.
He liked the unmatching furniture and the old carpets, and he liked the cat that roamed around the neighbourhood - he always left clean water and tuna outside when he was home.
But it was a simple house, one that didn't really fit his name now - he was a famous drummer with an expressive amount of money on his bank account, and it was weird for the women he brought home to find out that he lived in a pretty ordinary flat.
Also, since they filmed a few videos for News Of The World in his backyard, he knew it would get easier for fans to find out where he lived, so it was better if he just moved out.
So he started looking for a nice, fancy, modern apartment, with window glasses from floor to ceiling and a bunch of space between the all-white furniture. It would fit better with him now.
Now he was finally moving out - putting everything in boxes, organizing what he would keep.
It was easy at first - his clothes, instruments, and movies would all go to his new house.
But a few other things were harder - which books should he take? He hasn't read Dracula, ever - he just thought the cover art was cool. Should it go to his new place? And he didn't remember buying a copy of Wuthering Heights, but there it was. Should it go, too? He should probably try reading it.
And he started to move all of the records inside the box - Beatles, Sex Pistols, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, they were all coming. But he didn't remember getting a Simon & Garfunkel album.
It was only when he found a Fleetwood Mac record that he realized he never threw your stuff out.
Roger never really thought about it - you didn't break up in a fight, you were still in good terms, even though you never talk to each other, so it's easier for the both of you to let go of the other.
He kind of always expected you to come back and pick your stuff up - you had your life in London. You couldn't just turn your back to it and never return - but you did it anyway. But he still thought that maybe you were just busy, or you couldn't get in touch with him, and you were still planning on taking it back - it wouldn't be nice if he just threw it away.
And he felt attached to it, too.
This - the albums and the book - was the easier stuff, things that didn't scream they belonged to you.
That was separate from the rest. He sighed, and dropped the album on the box - he was taking Fleetwood Mac to his new place.
He walked upstairs, to the bedroom he once shared with you, and on a straw chest close to the window, under layers of duvets and bed linens, was a small box. He opened it.
The box was filled with things that unequivocally belonged to you - there was a copy of On The Road that was filled with your handwriting, your comments and thoughts all over the pages, and a rose quartz broken in half, too painful to look at.
And among some lost pieces of your jewelry he found around the house in the months after you moved, there was the heart.
He got it fixed - the jeweler looked at him, confused. "It will never look the same, sir", he told Roger, who nodded. "I know. Can you glue the pieces together, though?", he asked, and the jeweler agreed, but the look on his face made Roger sure that the jeweler thought he was crazy.
It was one of the many stupid things he did after you left, in 1975. He tried to avoid spending time at the house, at first - in his mind, you were still all over the couch, reading, a cigarette hanging from your lips, waiting for him to get home. But once he got there, the house was cold and empty, almost as if it was haunted by the lack of your presence.
So he spent his nights in bars, going out with women that had pieces of you - this one had your round, pink lips, and this other one had a waist like yours, and this girl right here, her eyes are almost the same colour as yours.
But he couldn't bring them home, to your bed, so he got to the closer hotel and rented a suite so he could fuck pieces of you on other women.
After that, he became an even heavier drinker, trying to function properly when he switched the morning tea for whiskey on the rocks.
His bandmates were careful enough not to address his mood or your absence right away, but when you were gone for two months and Roger kept missing his tempo, they had to talk to him.
"Roger, we're giving you space to deal with whatever happened, darling, but if you keep messing up the songs in the rehearsals, I don't even want to imagine what you'll do on tour", Freddie said, putting his hand on Rog's shoulder.
"It doesn't help that you're arriving an hour and a half late and drunk", Deacy said.
"None of you are ever on time", Roger said, muffled, just so he wouldn't have to listen to everything in silence.
"I know it's been hard for you since she left you, Roger. But we need our drummer", Brian completed.
Roger tried to stop drinking, at least before 5pm., but it was hard. Some days, he still couldn't cope with the fact that you were gone yet still all around him, your marks and smell and furniture all around the house, even in the cup he was drinking coffee from - it was the one you used to drink on.
So he felt a burst of anger hit him - you were the one to leave, the one who took initiative in breaking up with him, and yet he was the one spending too much money on whiskey so he could handle being without you. He felt the anger through him like a buzz, itching his fingers to break something, and he threw your cup against the wall.
And immediately regret it - he walked closer to it and saw too many pieces of porcelain, and his big, crude hands wouldn't be able to glue them together. Maybe you could. But if you were here, the cup wouldn't be broken.
He had to leave the house.
So he drove around, and decided the best place to apologize to the memory of you for the broken cup would be the place that brought you here. The British Museum.
You took him there many times, and you always started the tour with the Rosetta Stone, admiring it as he admired you.
He'd always be turned on by the sight of you, serious yet excited, teaching him about old civilizations and how you always felt conflicted that those artifacts were there, in the middle on London, when they should've stayed in the places they were first located unless it wasn't safe for them anymore, but how you anyway loved the British Museum.
You were so smart - it always amazed Roger how much you knew that he could only imagine.
And it turned him on, him always holding you close, your back pressed against him as you looked at the expositions, walking slowly from an exhibit to other, and you'd stop talking as much, cause you knew Roger's attention was now on your body, not your words. You were just teasing him, moving even slower, taking more time in places where there was too many people for him to take initiative. He knew what you were doing - it was a game for the two of you.
He'd kiss your neck - one of his favourite things to do, the feeling of your soft skin on his lips, watching you react to him with goosebumps - as you tried to keep focused on the artifacts, and if the room now was empty enough, Roger would slowly turn you to face him, a smirk on his lips as he got closer to you and kissed him.
"You're so hot when you get all historic with me", he'd say, between kisses. "Let's go to the bathroom", he'd ask, and you'd smirk back, pretending to consider his offer. You followed him to the bathroom many times.
But now he was there, alone, watching the Rosetta Stone instead of you, and he felt like in a dream - those things were so old, so special, and yet the only thing that made them interesting for him was the memories he had of them associated with you.
Now he could really pay attention to them, and he felt calmer when the thought hit him - these things are so old, travelled through land and sea, unsafe, stolen, and yet were still there, right in front of his eyes, almost daring him to complain about his own troubles. Tell me about what makes you feel like you could disappear and I'll show you how to resist. I'll show you how to last, they promised him.
And then it clicked. The feeling of permanence you always said you had when you were around these things, how they calmed you down. Roger understood it, now.
So he got back home and picked all the things that made him think of you too intensely, and put it in the small wooden box in front of him now. He stopped drinking before noon.
He started to enjoy museums, too. He'd wake up a few hours earlier now, when they were visiting a new place, and go to any museum they had - even if it was a weird, transit museum, he'd spend 15 minutes there and try to enjoy it.
The boys enjoyed this new habit of his, especially Brian and Freddie, fans of natural history and art museums, respectively.
But it was Deacy who went with him to the Met last year, in 1976, when they were all in New York. He always felt uncomfortable visiting New York, knowing he was in the same city as you and wondering if he should try finding you, but it was hard - you decided to take your name off the phone book, since some Queen fans knew you once dated Roger, and could be less than nice out of jealousy.
So he went to the Met the last time he was there, and Deacy followed him. Roger told himself that he was just trying to continue his tradition of visiting a museum in each city, and the Met was one of the biggest museums in New York.
But deep down, he was hoping to see you. He walked around, not looking at the artifacts as much as he looked at the visitants, trying to find a familiar face. Deacy noticed that.
"You're always weird when we're in New York, but now you look crazy. Is this where Y/N works? Are you stalking her?", he asked, and Roger frowned.
"No, Deacon. I'm just trying to keep my tradition", but he knew Deacy was right. He kept imagining you walking around, your hair up on a ponytail as you checked the expositions, the statues and the jewelry, your clinical eye looking for something to be repaired, strands of your hair falling off the ponytail.
But he couldn't find you - the museum was interesting, but he couldn't enjoy it, always nervous when he saw someone with the same hair color as yours, only to feel disappointed after he saw that they were not you. So Deacy and him left after walking around all of the historical exhibits. The only proof he had that you were still there was your name on the Staff Wall close to the exit, under Curator of Metal Age Collections. He had to stop himself from going back to those collections and spending more time in the room - Deacy would be suspicious.
But it warmed Roger's heart to see your name there - as if it got him closer to you. After years, he could even remember your fruity smell - fresh, peaches and cherries. Good enough to eat, he laughed at his own bad joke from four years ago. Only four years since you first skipped class together and kissed on a pub. It felt like a past life - easier, happier.
It seemed even further away now that he was moving out of the flat, alone, looking at the most heartbreaking memories of you.
All of the polaroids that once covered one of the walls in the living room were all in the box, too. Roger picked one of them, and smiled when he recognized it. You were looking happy on his family's backyard, smiling with his mother by your side.
It was 1973 and he took you to meet his family. You were dating for a year, and he loved taking you on road trips around England - not only when they had shows to perform. He liked to see your reaction to the fields and fresh air. "My family never liked to leave New York, unless it was to visit another big city", you told him once.
And one time he was on the phone with his mom, and she heard you singing as you cooked dinner. "Roggie, what is this?", she asked, and he laughed. "Y/N, mum. My girl", he answered. "The american? Did she kept you around? After all this time?" she joked, and Roger scoffed. "Yeah, mum. I can't believe you expect me to just keep fucking around forever", he said to annoy her, and she nearly screamed.
"Roger, watch your fucking language!" and he laughed. "I want to meet her, Roggie", she said, and he thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, sure. I'll talk to her", he answered.
You were pretty nervous at first, but you agreed on going. Roger loved driving with you by his side, putting your bare feet on the dashboard (the only person who could do it in his car and get away with it) as you sang to whatever song it was playing - even if you don't know the lyrics, you'd just improvise something as the song continued, getting Roger to laugh a few times.
You stopped for lunch, getting chips and a coke to share on the hours left on the road. You stopped the music for a while, and read to Roger. You were both reading A Clockwork Orange, just because it was one of your favourite movies.
And once you arrived to his family's house, everyone was instantly nice with you. You remember to compliment Roger's mom's cooking at lunch, which earned you her instant liking, and then you went into Roger's old room, now the guest room you'd both be staying, and left your duffel bag and A Clockwork Orange.
After that, you wanted to walk around, exploring the city. Roger wasn't excited.
"We could just use my car and drive around", he said, tired.
"Rog, you know I like walking around. C'mon, don't be so lazy", you asked, pouting.
"Fine", he said, and kissed your pout. "I swear, you can get me to do anything if you pout", he told you, and you laughed.
"That's some useful information. What else? Where should we go in Truro?", you asked, and he thought for a few seconds before answering.
"Well, I haven't been here in years. And I spent most of my time on parking lots, drinking, if I wasn't playing an instrument", he told you, and it was your turn to kiss him.
"Such a bad boy", you said, and he smirked.
You ended up walking around the center, a bunch of shops on your way, but you barely paid attention to them as Roger told you some more specific stories about his teenage years, his first time drinking, his first time smoking weed - small things he never told you before.
He was telling you about the first time he ever drove a car once it started to rain. You both went running back to his house, getting soaked as you tried to run without slipping, Roger complaining that you should've went out driving.
Once you got to his family's house, his mom pushed two towels on Roger's arms and told you two to shower.
As you went inside the bathroom, you looked at your messy makeup in the mirror, the eyeliner and mascara completely ruined after the rain. You cleaned your face on the sink as Roger explained.
"So as far as I remember, the shower is tricky. The hot is cold and the cold is hot, and you need to open one up completely before the other. And if someone flushes a toilet in Falmouth, you're gonna feel it, cause the hot water will be gone for a few moments", he told you, getting the shower ready, and you admired his figure through the mirror. He noticed that.
"Everything okay?" he asked, and you nodded. "More than okay", you said, turning around and facing him, a smile forming on your lips. "It's just that I like you a lot. You know I love you. But I also like you a lot", you told him, and he started moving closer to you. "Walking around your city and listening to you for hours made me realize that. I don't think there's anyone I like more in the world than you", you completed, as he stopped mere inches away from your face.
"And I like everything about this house... It's so happy and full of people. I love the noise, the smells...", you told him, looking down. "Even the smells?", he joked, and you laughed, but continued.
"And when your mom hugged me today... She really hugged me", you said, looking back at him, into his eyes. He smiled at you.
"I really like you, too", he told you, and you felt like you were about to cry. You were emotional ever since he invited you to meet his family, because it meant compromise. And you were scared they wouldn't like you, but now they did, especially his mom, and it made you emotional. For the first time, you could really see a future with him - with your own noisy house in a peaceful neighbourhood, full of people, a real family.
"And that's why I don't want to see you like this. Smile for me, babe. C'mon", he said, tickling your waist, and you held a smile. "C'mon. Give me a big smile", he told you, and you gave him a big, fake smile, and the two of you laughed. "That's better", he said, moving his hands so they could cup your face, bringing it closer to his own.
He started kissing you slowly, carefully, as if he wanted to comfort you, to make you feel safe in his arms, caressing you as he kissed you. And it worked.
But you wanted more, so when you both broke the kiss to get some air, you lifted your arms up, inviting him to take your dress off as you smirked. He laughed, but did it anyway. You moved your hands to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up. He laughed again, and said "Teenager me would be so proud", and it was your turn to laugh.
"And why is that?", you asked, knowing the answer. "Cause I'm about to shag a beautiful foreigner in my shower", he told you, a devilish smirk on his lips, snaking his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to him, kissing you again.
You smiled against his lips as your hands unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, pulling them down, at the same time he unclasped your bra, moving his hands so he could cup your breasts.
You moaned when his thumbs rubbed against your nipples, and that made him move one of his hands to your lips. "You're gonna have to be quiet, my love", he said, still brushing his thumb over your nipple with one of his hands, as the one that was covering your mouth roamed through your body before pulling your lingerie down.
Now that you're both undressed, you start to walk to the shower as you kiss him again, and he walks along. Once you're inside, he presses you against the humid wall, moving one of your legs up to his waist as the warm water hits your skin.
"You're so beautiful", he whispers, breaking away from the kiss so he can look at you, your chest moving along your heavy breathing, your body glistening as the water wet your skin.
Then he moved his hand to your core, massaging it, and you had to bite your lip not to moan. You kept biting your lip, hard, as he slid a finger into you, pumping it in and out.
Your legs were shaking, and the one that was holding you on your foot was getting weaker by the second as Roger's fingers pleasured you.
"Roger, please..." you whispered, and he started to slow down his movements. "What do you want, babe?", he asked, and you whimpered at the loss of friction. "I want you", you told him, but he was teasing you. "I'm already here. What do you want me to do? This?" he asked, as he slid another finger into you, and you felt the blood on your mouth as you bit your lips the hardest to keep quiet.
"I want more. I want you to fuck me, Roger", you told him, and he looked serious - the sigh of you asking for him to fuck you on his shower, hell, the shower where he jerked off for the first time, made his pupils dilate. You watched as his eyes turned darker.
Then he moved the leg that was already on his waist even further up, and he stroked his cock for a moment before sliding it into your core, the taste of blood filling your mouth again as you bit your lips.
His hands moved to your waist as he started to move inside you, and you looked for his lips to help keeping you from moaning. He moved his hands up and down your thighs, and finally moved your other leg up to your waist, giving him even more access to you, making him go even deeper.
But now Roger was alone, four years later, getting hard at the thought of you.
This is fucking depressing, he thought to himself.
And he spent the rest of the day packing, and slept on the couch you had sex and watched TV on so many times before - the memory of you haunted him again in his last night at the flat.
And the next day, after he helped the moving team take the boxes and furniture to the truck, as he put fresh water and tuna outside for the cat for the last time, he said goodbye to most of the memories of you that would stay inside the house.
From the box of memories, he was only taking the polaroids and the heart - he couldn't get himself to throw these things out.
As he locked the front door to the flat for the last time, he said something to himself he hasn't said in years.
"Goodbye, Y/N."